Chapter Text
When Wilbur pulled over by the glamorous Logsted Grand Hotel, it was raining — pouring, actually. The weather only made Wilbur’s already miserable existence worse. The car they stole wasn’t the best-insulated hunk of metal and the rain only served to make it colder. Seemed like the universe loved its dramatics as much as Wilbur loved his.
Tommy was curled up on the passenger seat, sleeping. The position couldn’t have been comfortable —and the chill almost definitely did not help — but Tommy seemed to have made due. His younger brother was sleeping, but his expression was anything but peaceful. His face was scrunched up; even asleep, his brother was clearly worried.
Wilbur didn’t fault him really, the uncertainty and fear that had been hounding them for the past couple of weeks made it hard to relax. The feeling of fear never really left them; it didn’t matter if they were awake or not.
Wilbur bit his lip, he should wake Tommy up. They were, after all, wasting precious time, but this was the first time Tommy’s gotten to sleep in a long time even if it was in the world's shittiest car.
A part of him wished he had stolen something better. If he had to force Tommy to sleep in the damn thing, he should have at least found a better, more comfortable model.
It’s fine, Wilbur reassured himself, if things go to plan, Tommy can rest somewhere nicer than this stupid car.
He gently shook his younger brother awake, and had to fight back a laugh when Tommy predictably groaned, begging for five more minutes.
“Wake up, gremlin. We're Here.”
Tommy didn’t dignify him with a response and only glared at him. It was a glare without any heat and yet Wilbur was suddenly struck with just how tired his younger brother looked.
Tommy was a mess; his hair was like a crow’s nest — which is what anyone’s hair would look like if it hadn’t been combed in days. The bags under his eyes were deep; it looked like bruises against his pale skin.
They were both on their last legs. To say those past few days had been rough on them was a huge understatement. Wilbur had been through rough times — anyone who’s been on the wrong side of the law has been — but that must have been the most stressed he’d felt in a long long time. Wilbur was cold, miserable, and exhausted, and he didn’t need to be a genius to tell that his younger brother felt the same, maybe even worse than he did.
Tommy was only 15 after all. God, he was so young.
Wilbur felt the reoccurring guilt find home in his chest. What had been plaguing him the entire time they'd been on the run. What was he thinking putting Tommy in that much danger, maybe it was smarter if they’d stayed with-
“Let’s play a game, shall we? A little Russian roulette?”
A revolver. Tommy looking more scared than Wilbur has ever seen him. That damn smug smile.
Wilbur shook his head to clear his thoughts; the alleyway near the stupid hotel they were meant to scam was not the place to relive that memory.
They made the right choice leaving, Wilbur firmly reminded himself. It was the right choice.
“Uhh, Big dubs.” Tommy had creased his brow — Tommy had been creasing his brow a lot more recently, “You okay there?”
“Yeah.” He smiled with what was hopefully a reassuring smile, “Let’s go scam some bourgeois fuckers, shall we?”
“But that’s soooo much work,” Tommy whined, “I don’t know why we can’t just sneak into the damn thing, we’ve got Mum’s bell don’t we?”
Wilbur closed his eyes. He was not a religious man but he couldn’t help but ask the lord above for just a smidge of patience. His younger brother was a lot.
“Tommy,” he started, only to find his younger brother digging through their luggage, carelessly throwing their clothes everywhere, looking for something.
Tommy let out a triumphant “Aha!” when he found what he was looking for. He held up what seemed to be just a simple wooden box to an outsider, but to the two boys, it carried their greatest treasure.
“Tommy,” Wilbur tried, but was once again ignored by that little shit. Instead, he gently opened the box and freed the very fragile glass bell their mother left them.
“I don’t see why we can’t just-“ Tommy rang the bell and immediately disappeared from Wilbur’s sight, “and just sneak in! It’s easier an’ foolproof!”
Apparently the universe wanted to spite Tommy because just as he said the last word, he became visible again even if he was still ringing Mother’s bell.
Wilbur leveled an unimpressed glare at him. “You know the thing barely works, I doubt we share even a 16th of the blood with whoever it was enchanted for. It’s far from foolproof and you know it. You’re just being a lazy prick.”
“But Wimblurrrrrr...”
Wilbur resisted the urge to groan. His younger brother was such a fucking piece of shit.
“I’m cold and tired,” Tommy pouted, and was that fucker actually going to give- oh God Tommy was busting out his fucking puppy eyes, “Acting an’ scamming is a lot of work. Can’t we just use dear old mum’s magical blood bell and call it a day?”
“No we can’t,” Wilbur thwacked his younger brother’s forehead, “Besides, you know our forgeries are the best in the area, these fuckers are much more reliable than that old bell.”
He held up the set of passports that declared them as “William” and “Thomas Craft” — the two sons of Philza Craft, the same Philza Craft who owned the Logsted Grand Hotel they planned to stay in for a few nights.
“And if the passports aren’t enough,” Wilbur added, hefting up the silver pocket watch that had what looked very much like the Craft Crest, “this would definitely convince them.”
“But Wilbahhhhhh-“
Wil shushed him before he could continue whining. “Tommy, the quicker we get this over with, the closer we are to sleeping on actual beds that are nice and comfortable and warm. Stop whining and try to look presentable. We’re posing as the sons of a rich fucker; we need to look the part.”
The keyword was try, there was only so much they could do with such limited supplies. They freshened up to the best of their ability, trying to hide their eye bags with powder, adding a light blush on their cheeks to liven up their pale skin. They combed their hair and tried to change into more appropriate clothes but well — their clothing situation was hopeless, ratty coats, fraying sleeves, ill-fitting shirts. Their clothes couldn’t be helped — they were going to have to bank on their charisma. Thankfully, the brothers had that in spades.
It was only when they were about to leave for the actual hotel when Wilbur realized it was still raining buckets.
“Did we happen to bring an umbrella?” Wilbur asked.
Tommy looked around before shaking his head, “Nope.”
“Well fuck.”
There goes any and all prep they did for the past 30 minutes. It’s not like they could drive to the actual hotel entrance. The shitty clothes might be brushed aside with enough charisma but the old beat-up car they stole would definitely sell them out.
Wilbur sighed. “Guess we have to run through the pouring rain.”
“Race you there big man?” Tommy challenged. There was a competitive glint in his younger brother’s eyes which irritated Wilbur. Maybe enough to forget about the slight despair the setback in their plans caused him.
“You fucking bet,” Wilbur responded, ready to humble that smug motherfucker.
Tommy was ready to bolt but Wilbur stopped him just before he left the car. “Remember, we’re the sons of a bourgeois dickhead, act like it, yeah?”
Tommy rolled his eyes. “Stop acting like that’s a hard role to play, Wil. I’ll just act like a self-entitled prick who’s up his own ass.”
“Tommy, you're just describing yourself.”
“Oh fuck off!”
Wilbur couldn’t help but cackle at his brother’s reaction.
“No swearing, dipshit, it’s not proper,” Wil reached over to the other side of the car to ruffle Tommy’s carefully combed hair — it’s not like it would have survived the rain anyway.
“I’ll fucking show you proper you motherfucking-“
Tommy would have probably reached over to strangle him but Wilbur already opened the door and bolted with his bag in hand.
“Last one to the hotel is a-” He taunted, before slipping on nothing at all. He quickly righted himself, praying to a god he didn’t believe in that Tommy didn’t see.
The sky never really got black, the city made sure of that. Everything gilded and reflecting electric lights— even well into the night, Logsted was bustling. Full of fast cars, flowing drinks, and shining jewels. Although calling that city alive was maybe a step too far, or maybe it was just Wilbur who lacked the city's nighttime enthusiasm. It was hard to be hooting and hollering, let alone smiling when he was soaked to the bone with his feet half freezing off. The rain came down in sheets, waylaying the marble building in front of them. The Logsted Grand Hotel, 24 stories tall with golden light spilling from every window. The tower, perfectly symmetrical, shot into the hazy dark sky, its top fading from view.
Wilbur craned his neck to see just a smidge more as they walked under the awning. The Sung brothers immediately caught the attention of the doorman. All clad in green and gold, a soldier on the frontlines of 'good society' sorting the riff-raff from those worthy to take a step into paradise. Of course, he wasn't letting the two of them anywhere near the glass doors. They were stretched out drowned rats, in cheap rags with even cheaper smiles. Wilbur felt like the nail about to be hammered, but he grinned and tipped his hat — water spilling off the brim.
"Nice night," Tommy said, his chest puffed and hands out. Not like the kid had a gun to brandish anyway, but best not to give the doorman another reason to keep them out.
"Y’all aware there is something of dress code roundabout here." The doorman gestured to the other patrons with their silks and velvets.
"I'm sure you can make an exception." Wilbur's voice dropped an octave, he didn't have to try hard to sound the part. To sound like his voice would leave someone sugar sick after a single bite. The doorman was not impressed.
To be expected.
Wil pulled the silver watch from his coat pocket, it too being slightly damp, and sighed. "I've had nothing short of an awful night — what's your name, sir?" He didn't wait for a reply. "This is just awful service, don't you think?"
"Oh, just dreadful," Tommy said with an equal air of arrogance about him. "Well, I suppose we'll have to call down the manager… for some helpful feedback.”
“Now, now, I’m sure the manager is quite busy — we wouldn’t want to trouble them with something so trivial, it must just be a mistake.” Wilbur looked down on the man. “A mistake, is it not?”
“Father wouldn't stand for it, so why should I? This sort of behavior must be sorted out.”
The doorman tried to speak, but Wilbur didn’t let him.
“But my dearest brother, I’m sure the poor doorman is just confused.”
“This is the first thing guests see! Confusion isn’t acceptable. All employees must meet a certain standard. I could catch my death out here, and for what? Father would have to go through all the trouble of planning a funeral!”
“That is simply a horrid thought.”
“Oh, the girls from school would be in mourning for the next decade — imagine, Linda in black and bombazine.”
“A tragedy.”
“It would be a tragedy.” Tommy looked Wilbur directly in the eyes. ”And pardon my french- God, imagine the headlines!”
Wilbur wanted to strangle him.
“No, Wil, really think about it, ‘Thomas Craft frozen to death on the steps of the Logsted Grand Hotel!’ on the front page of the Empire Times. Oh, and if I die, please make sure they use a good picture of me.”
“You shouldn’t say such things, they might just happen.” His voice was syrupy, dripping with false concern.
Tommy let out a gasp and shot a look at Wilbur. Back at it again with the big innocent eyes, “Wil, I can’t feel my fingers! Am I going to die?”
“Pardon… Craft?” the doorman stammered out, the cogs finally turning. “I didn’t know the boss had kids…”
“Father is a very private man,” Wilbur glared.
He checked the watch once more.
“Are you waiting on an invitation?” Tommy tapped his foot impatiently.
The doorman pushed the glass doors open.
One foot in the door, and they were already halfway there, right? He wanted to take a glance at Tommy, to make sure he was alright. But they had to look like they owned the place, looking down their noses as their shoes squelched with every step.
The lobby really was like walking into Elysium. Wallpaper patterned in green and gold glittered much like the massive chandelier which dangled in the center of the vaulted ceiling. Electric lighting twinkled off what had to be real crystal. A part of him thought it might have been diamond. Despite his better judgment, he wanted to get a closer look. Just to be sure. He wouldn’t put it past “good ol’ pops”.
The rain was deafened but the windows still rattled with the wind. It was so much quieter than the street. Quiet conversation and soft piano floated in the overly perfumed air. In the middle of the room, there was a fountain surrounded by ancient vases containing massive bouquets. Although calling it a ‘room’ didn’t quite feel right. There wasn’t a word grand enough to describe the lobby.
Wilbur knew he’d been gawking at it all. In the back of his head, he knew places like this existed, the rich had to hide away somewhere. Scurry like cockroaches into skyscrapers and country houses. He just didn’t expect it to be like this. It was like a mouthful of animal fat. He wanted to spit it out before it made him sick.
The clerk at the front desk didn't notice the two of them until they were towering over the counter. Even then, the clerk made a great effort in not humoring them. No proper eye contact, just the occasional glance of oh god why are you still there, which was always returned with a matching pair of Cheshire grins.
Tommy set his wet hat down and rang the bell, several times. “Awful service,” he mumbled.
“Do you have a reservation?” the clerk said with practiced cordiality.
“Well, I’d hope so.” Wilbur didn’t bother looking the man in the eyes. He leaned with his back on the counter, watching the patrons mill about in the lobby. They watched him back, confused looks, a few intrigued, like they were sideshow attractions.
“What name might you be under sir?”
“Craft,” Wilbur spoke, as though the name held no weight.
The clerk made a show of flipping through the logbook. “We don’t have a reservation under that name,” he said, fidgeting. “All the rooms are called for at the moment but I’m sure I could pencil you in for a later date.”
“All the rooms? Really?” Tommy rang the bell with every word.
“What does it matter? They’ll make room for us.” He clicked open the watch he hoped no one had noticed was broken, took a long exasperated sigh, and clicked it close. “They best do it quickly, we’ve already waited far too long.”
“I’m, sorry but-”
“You know, one day-” Wilbur took a peek at the man before beginning to pace, “this whole place will be mine. I was practically born for it.” Maybe he was laying it on thick, but he was exhausted. “To bring this place to even higher heights, to cement my father’s legacy. Do you want to be a part of that? Be a part of the future? Or would you like to leave? You have an awful attitude. How long did it take you to serve us? Or even say a little hello? Dreadful.”
“Excuse me?”
“My father owns this hotel. One day, praise the lord, far away, he’ll eventually pass, and this place will be mine, but for now, I have a little bit of sway over how things are run.” He paused for dramatic effect. “Perks of being the eldest.”
“Mr. Craft has a son?”
“Two!” Tommy said with another ring.
The man bit back laughter. “You’re serious?”
Wilbur smirked and whispered like it was their secret. “Deathly.” He chuckled, pulling himself back to his full height. “Now that the matter of our identities has been sorted, we’ll be needing a key.”
“I’m going to have to see some identification. For the, uh, booking process.”
The brothers glared at him, and Tommy started up again, “Are you bloody---”
“For the booking process, of course, of course.” Wilbur sighed, and gestured for his brother. God forbid the heir have to rifle through his bags. Tommy snapped open Wil’s carpet bag, and pulled the passports out. They were wrapped in a shirt and managed to stay dry through their rain-encouraged race. He slapped their passports onto the counter all the while continuing to glare at the clerk.
“Is that all your luggage?”
“We like to travel light.”
“Uh huh…”
The man flipped through the booklets, looking back and forth between their photos and the “Craft” Brothers in the flesh. Wil hoped that he wouldn’t have noticed that the two of them were wearing the same suit jacket in both of the photos.
“You seem to be well-traveled… Mr. Craft.” He scratched at the ink and picked at the photographs. How long could someone look at passports for?
“Father always said worldliness is second to godliness.”
“Uh-huh.” He picked up Wilbur’s passport and shook it by the binding. Was he expecting a goddamn test? With all the studying he was doing they could quiz him on paper types and stamp inks.
“Can we go up yet? I’m tired,” Tommy whined, hunched over the front desk. There was a faraway look in his eye. Reality and the lie mixing together in a way that made Wilbur half-ready to reach behind the desk and just take a key, consequences be damned. It clawed at him. The cracks were beginning to form in both their masks. He just wanted Tommy to sleep in an actual fucking bed, was that too much to ask for?
“If the staff can do their jobs, sooner rather than later,” Wilbur said directly at the clerk.
“I don’t want to wait! We shouldn’t have had to deal with this anyways!” Tommy was right back into gear, whining, and grumbling. “I should have you fired for this.”
“If you really are Mr. Craft’s sons, you wouldn’t mind me calling my manager to confirm your identities?” The clerk was seriously getting on Wilbur’s nerves. Those passports were flawless, god damn it; that fucker had no reason to doubt them.
Wilbur tried to hide his mounting fatigue and irritation with a cocksure grin, trying his best to channel the arrogant heir he was claiming to be. “Go ahead!” he challenged, sounding more confident than he felt. “It would be the perfect opportunity to file a complaint about your downright dreadful attitude and god-awful service!”
“Father will not be pleased to find out you were the reason his precious boys were denied of the respect we deserve-” Tommy yawned before haughtily adding, “but I suppose getting to see you proven wrong will be entertaining enough to make up for this annoying setback.”
The clerk paid no mind to their taunts as he sauntered over to a door that led to what Wilbur presumed was a staff-only area. That shit was actually bothering his manager for this.
Tommy looked over at him and shrugged.
What can you do about it, Tommy seemed to ask.
Wilbur almost rolled his eyes. He would have probably continued the wordless conversation they had going on but then the manager arrived.
Any bit of Wilbur Sung that resurfaced during that brief lull in the scam immediately disappeared, instead there stood William Craft, soaking wet, bone-tired, and absolutely miffed that the staff of his father’s hotel would deny him and his brother of their god-given right to be served. The William Craft who was ready to be the pompous, privileged asshole he was born to be. Wilbur's cover may have begun to slip due to his exhaustion, but he picked himself up. There was a scam to accomplish and he'd be damned if he was the reason it failed, if he was the reason Tommy had to sleep in that cold uncomfortable hunk of metal instead of the 5 star bedroom he deserved. Wilbur was, after all, a bonafide professional – or so he claimed.
“Ms.-“ Wilbur’s gaze briefly flickered over to the manager’s name tag as he held out his hand, “Ms. Sanford, pleased to make your acquaintance.”
Wilbur gave the manager what he hoped was a charming grin and a firm handshake. “It’s really a shame that we had to meet through such unfortunate circumstances. You see, Ms. Sanford, I am William Craft, the son of the owner of this fine establishment we are in! It’s also the very same establishment you and that little clerk work for, and Father certainly would not be glad to find out that you were denying us a room in the hotel we own!”
“My older brother and I have been through a downright awful day!” Tommy complained, sounding the perfect mix between hurt and outraged. “Our car was stolen, our wallets were pickpocketed, we had to walk through the pouring rain to get to our father’s hotel, which was the closest place we knew was safe only to get stopped at the entrance and be humiliated because your staff doubts our parentage? Shame on all of you!”
Tommy was heaving by the end of the rant, and if you looked closer, you could see that there were tears collecting on his lashes.
“Look at what you horrid people have done! You’ve made Thomas cry!”
Wilbur hid a smile, burrowing his head on Tommy’s hair as he brought his little brother into a hug, “comforting” him by rubbing his hand reassuringly on his back. The manager’s practiced smile was looking more like a wince, seemingly believing their story. He could always count on Tommy to sell their cover; Wilbur would loathe to admit it aloud but his brother was unfortunately good at acting.
The manager cleared her throat, “Mr. uh-“
“William,” Wilbur supplied, not bothering to hide the irritation in his voice. “Honestly, how many times do I have to tell you miserable lot my name?!”
“Pardon me Mr. William,” Sanford sounded genuinely apologetic. “We were only following protocol! We can’t just believe everyone claiming to be Mr. Craft’s children. We would prefer to not be scammed, I’m sure you both understand.”
“So you’re calling us scammers?” Tommy scoffed, breaking free from the hug to hold up their passports. “Is this not good enough proof? Do you really want our birth certificates? Do you want me to recite the entire family tree starting from dear old great-grandpa Watson?”
Tommy took a deep breath, seemingly preparing to list down the Craft family in excruciating detail. The manager, as if sensing another incoming Tommy rant, immediately spoke up. “Mr. Timmy. I’m sure you know your forefathers very well but there is really no need! Just hand me your passports and that would be enough to confirm your identities.”
Tommy would deny it but Wilbur swore his younger brother let out an annoyed squawk, “Timmy?! Do I look like someone as spineless as someone named Little Timmy?!” Wilbur almost broke character right then and there, the sheer vitriol and disgust Tommy’s tone had was almost impressive. ”I am massive you hear me?! Absolutely massive! My name is Thomas, Big T to Linda but Sir Thomas to you!”
“Calm down, Tommy,” Wil soothed as he plucked the passports from his younger brother’s grip, ignoring the pointed glare he secretly shot him.
“Here you go.” Wilbur gave the passports to poor Sanford who was not paid enough to deal with Tommy at all. “I’m sure that will be good enough for you?”
Wil knew that he and Tommy did good work on those passports, so they were not surprised at all when Sanford couldn’t seem to find any faults or any tells that they were anything but legitimate.
Poor Sanford seemed to age years within minutes once she realized that their claims might just be true.
“Well?” Wilbur couldn’t help but up the smugness in his tone. “Does there seem to be any problems, Ms. Sanford? Are we scammers trying to leech off your lovely hotel?”
“Nonononono!” Sanford was quick to reply.
“Hubert?” she called, and out came the clerk from earlier. “We are being graced with the presence of Mr. Craft’s two sons, so go tell the staff to prep the free suite on the 23rd floor and fetch me the key.”
When Hubert returned with a room key, Sanford then turned to the two brothers and handed it to them, saying, “I’m truly sorry for doubting you both, unfortunately, the penthouse suite has been booked but I hope one of the presidential suites will be enough to satisfy your needs.”
“Finally!” Tommy exclaimed as he snatched the room key. “Took you buffoons long enough!”
Bellhops came over to assist them with their luggage – through luggage was a generous term for the two ratty bags the boys had in their possession, but who was Wilbur to deny them of their jobs.
Wilbur was about to turn to follow the bellhops to the elevators but stopped when he remembered something.
"Ms. Sanford?" Wilbur called, enjoying the way the poor manager seemed to flinch. "I'm sure it wouldn't be too much of a hassle for your staff to deliver us dinner, would it?"
"Of course it wouldn't, Mr. William, dinner will be delivered to your room within an hour or so."
“Thank you, Ms. Sanford,” Wilbur sweetly smiled. “Truly! Thank you for everything. Perhaps Father won’t hear of this incident thanks to your quick work.”
If Sanford let out a sigh of relief, Wil certainly didn't hear because he was too busy walking over to the elevators that would lead them to paradise on earth. He strode with purpose, his gait confident and head held high — making sure he was always looking down on everyone passing by. Tommy followed suit. After all, they were still pretending to be pretentious assholes.
Wilbur and Tommy didn’t dare break character until the elevator doors shut behind them. The elevator operator didn’t ask questions, but the lad wore the same look as the rest of the staff. Finally, they stood in front of a room that normally cost $52 a night — a small fortune no one but the richest could afford to waste — but was free of any charge thanks to some well-done forgeries and their bottomless charisma.
“Soooo-” Tommy wiggled his eyebrows, “presidential suite, ay?”
He swung open the double doors of the hotel room, threw down his wet coat, and rushed off. Giddy laughter and pounding footsteps their downstairs neighbors most certainly did not appreciate. Wilbur was speechless, he clicked the lock behind them and marveled at it all.
The room was fucking massive. The same size as their flat back home. Well, home was a strong word — their flat back in Greatborough. And the room they had just walked into was just the parlor — there was a parlor in the hotel room. The only way Wilbur figured that was that there wasn't a bed in sight. Instead, there were sofas and a bar fully stocked with the legal approximations of liquors and cordials. He was sure they came with the room, and he was just as sure they would sell rather well.
Vases and potted plants turned the already absinthe green room greener. He lifted up the vase on a coffee table between two of the sofas. It boasted an ornate floral design with what had to be real gold leaf. He’d find a buyer for that. Everything in the room that wasn’t bolted down they could and would grab — what were they going to do, arrest William Craft for stealing from his own hotel? Bullshit. Wilbur was a kid in a candy store.
“Wil! Come ‘ere! I found chocolate!” Tommy called from one of the adjoining rooms. There were multiple rooms in the hotel room. Wilbur came in, wondering how much the doorknobs would go for. He found Tommy sitting smack in the middle of a canopied bed with a crystal bowl of chocolates in one hand and a sheet of paper in the other. He hummed a little tune Wilbur could barely hear. Wilbur forced down a smile and tried to snark. God forbid anyone knew he was happy. He couldn’t actually let himself feel it, it might disappear.
“Are you planning to sleep in a wet bed?” Wilbur said, noting Tommy’s still soaked through trousers and socks.
“Nah — this one’s yours.”
“Is that so-?” He had half forgotten that there was another bed. “Then I'm sure you wouldn’t mind me taking a walk on yours.” Wilbur held his muddy shoe up and turned for the parlor.
“You wouldn’t-”
Wilbur leaned out the bedroom door, looking into the seating area. He narrowed his eyes and began to take the step out.
“Wil-”
He let out a long sigh. “I’ve done enough walking for today.” That much was true, they had spent the past few days on the move. The pier, the ferry, the whirlwind of leaving Greatborough. Even after they had nicked the car, he couldn’t rest; driving in a city, especially such an unfamiliar one, made his head spin. Now it was finally catching up with him. He sat on the edge of the bed and fell back, half ready to fall asleep right there and then. Instead, Tommy flopped back onto Wil’s chest.
Wilbur yelped, curling his legs up. Tommy laughed, awkwardly reaching around to pat Wilbur’s face with his grimy hands. Wilbur made no attempt to stop him.
He missed this.
His brother’s laugh, something soft beneath his back, a warm room. For maybe a moment they were safe. Just for a moment. Maybe he could stew in that, comb through Tommy’s damp hair with his fingers, feel the tension in his back release, let the warmth and exhaustion lull him to sleep. He might have slipped into unconsciousness, because suddenly the rain against the windows had stopped, and Tommy was getting up.
“Getting more chocolate.”
“You’re gonna spoil your appetite.”
“You just want some for yourself.”
“Maybe. But I’m sure I could just ring a bell and get some.”
“You’re really falling into the role of a pompous prick eh, Wil?”
“I’m just being realistic, they should be bringing up dinner soon, you can’t just eat sweets all day.”
“I mean I could, realistically.” Tommy pushed off the bed, and went out to the parlor.
“Hey.”
“What?”
“I’m proud of you.”
“Why, why wouldn’t you be, I am a man to be proud of. I am, in fact, exceptional. You should always be proud of me.”
“I am, I always am.” Wilbur could only do sincerity for so long. “Aside from that time you and Tubbo tried to hotwire the mayor’s car.”
“Okay- that was not my fault that we got caught, it was Tubbo and his tiny legs.”
“I don’t remember either of you having a chance to run. You got caught in the front seat with your hands under the dash. I don’t think Tubbo being small had anything to do with it," Wilbur teased.
“Shut up, you are old and don’t remember anything, I’m sure Tubbo would back me up.”
“I’m sure he would- what was that, rule 3?”
“No rule 3 was-” Tommy’s smile dropped, “Can we see Tubbo soon? He’s not even in Greatborough anymore so it’s okay, right?”
“He’s the first person we’ll see after we get back on our feet.” This was not technically a lie. Snowchester was under complete control of the Greatborough Mob, setting foot there would be the same as waltzing back into their old flat building. The brothers would be at their liberty, deserters wandering back into camp fully expecting not to be hung.
But once they were on their feet again — really on their feet, Greatborough would bend to Wilbur’s will. The world would be at his mercy, and not the other way around. Tommy could go anywhere, speak to anyone whenever he pleased. He’d need Tubbo to make that work — he’d need all of L’Crimeburg.
There was a knock at the door. Wil and Tommy both froze. Wilbur stood from the bed and signaled Tommy to stay out of the parlor. Of course, Tommy didn’t listen and followed on his heels. Wilbur peered through the peephole to see a hotel worker with a cart topped with a shining metal dome.
“Who is it?” Tommy whispered into Wil’s neck.
“Dinner-”
Tommy didn’t let him finish, throwing the doors wide open. Wilbur wanted to yank him away; a lot of things could be hiding in that cart. Although his paranoid thoughts were dashed away when he smelt whatever was there. He didn’t even know what they were serving that night. Didn’t matter much though — free food was free food.
When he asked for dinner, Wilbur knew he was getting a meal, but he sure didn't expect a meal this size. There were 5 large plates, one was a large hill of mashed potatoes, another had a fish that must have cost a lot considering its size. There was a bowl of some kind of thick soup that smelled positively divine, as well as a huge tray just lined with different pastries and delicacies. The boys had only ever seen those treats on the glass displays of those expensive bakeries they would regularly walk past back in Greatborough. There was even steak!
Wilbur was almost queasy with the sheer volume of everything. This was one meal for the rich? This could have kept him and Tommy fed for weeks — a month even, if they rationed it right!
Wil plastered a smile on his face and thanked the staff member who brought up their food.
"Put it on dear old dad's tab, won't you?" He winked before shutting the door.
Tommy dug straight into the meal, any table manners almost forgotten in the face of so much food and an empty stomach. Wilbur's stomach was rumbling, basically begging him to join him. He made his way to the table, grabbing one of the plates and only grabbing small portions from every tray.
"You should really pace yourself," he told his brother. "You might end up throwing everything up if you eat too fast."
Tommy seemed to heed Wilbur's advice, slowing down and actually chewing the food instead of inhaling it.
However, despite the boys’ best efforts, the food refused to settle down in their stomachs. It didn’t matter if it was the best tasting meal they have ever had in their entire lives, Wilbur and Tommy’s stomachs were simply unused to the luscious steaks, the delectable pastries, the tasty seafood, and the disgusting excess of it all. There was a certain taste their dinner had that their stomachs didn’t agree with, or maybe it was just that they weren’t used to eating actually good food. It didn’t help that their stomachs were trained to be empty, that being hungry was the rule rather than the exception.
They both ended up laying down on the carpeted floor of the parlor in an attempt to prevent themselves from hurling out their very expensive dinner.
“You know,” Tommy pondered out loud, “the last time I was this full was that dinner with…”
He trailed off, not wanting to complete the thought. The atmosphere immediately got a lot tenser, a lot less lighthearted; both brothers remembering a time they would much rather forget.
Wilbur forced a chuckle out. It sounded strained. “Yeah, me too. But we don’t need him anymore, yeah? We got all this by ourselves.”
“Yeah.” Tommy smiled. “All of this shit-" he spread his arms to gesture at everything around them, "by ourselves.”
The brothers laid there, soaking in each other’s presence, both enjoying the moment. Even before they ran away, they rarely got moments like these where they got to unwind and simply be. They always had to be doing something — casing their next victim to rob, scouting the location for their next heist, forging the next bunch of documents their clients ordered, doing whatever they needed to do to survive. The life of crime was exciting and fast-paced, risky and demanding; it left them little to no time to stop and relax.
“How much do you think these are worth?” Tommy broke the comfortable silence that had settled on the both of them, extending his hand to gesture at the ceiling lamp — or more specifically the lampshades — that hung above them, “I reckon I could sell these for what? 7 bucks? 8 bucks a pop?”
“That,” Wilbur answered matter-of-factly, “would be highway robbery.”
“Really?” Tommy turned to face him, raising his eyebrows. “And how much would you sell them for then, big man? Hmmmm?”
“3 bucks maybe? 4 if I want to push it. The shades are high quality but anyone who could afford them for their actual price wouldn’t buy it from fuckers like us, they’d buy it from the actual craftsmen who make ‘em. Would undervalue it just enough to appeal to the poorer fucks but not too much that I can’t make a profit.”
“Huh.” Tommy turned to face the ceiling once before sitting straight up and looking at him again. “And the lightbulbs? How much do you think they’d sell for?”
Wilbur followed suit and sat up, cocking his head. “What’s with all the questions, Toms? Careful there, someone might get the wrong idea.” Wilbur had a shit-eating grin on his face.
“Get what idea? The idea that we definitely plan to steal everything that isn’t bolted down?” Tommy replied with a matching smirk.
“We?” Wilbur let out a scandalized gasp, even going so far as to dramatically place his hand on his chest. “How dare you, you lowly street rat- how dare you bring me into your nefarious schemes?! I’ll have you know that William Craft would never stoop so low as to steal from his own hotel!”
“You motherfucking bitch!” Tommy grabbed the nearest pillow and whacked him. “Fine then! It’s not like I need you to rob this fucker. I bet I could steal more than you ever could!”
“Oh really now?”
“Definitely.”
“30 minutes?” Wilbur suggested.
“30? Those are rookie numbers,” Tommy scoffed, “15 minutes.”
“15 minutes and whoever wins gets the last bit of chocolate.” Wil offered his hand out.
Tommy paused, seemingly weighing his choices, before shaking his hand.
Wil glanced at the clock; it had just turned 10:24 when they let go of each other. The moment they broke off the handshake, both brothers immediately bolted straight for the table where they ate dinner. Wilbur let out a curse when Tommy ended up getting most of the silverware.
They made quick work on the parlor —snatching lamp shades, unscrewing lightbulbs, grabbing ash trays, yoinking the bottles that decorated the bar. Years of heisting and thieving shown in the way both brothers worked like clockwork. They were speedy and efficient, pocketing everything and anything that could potentially earn them cash with zero hesitation. Wilbur even removed some door knobs, it might have costed him a few more minutes but their value made it worth it.
The brothers split after ransacking the parlor — Tommy to the bathrooms, Wilbur to the bedrooms. Wilbur was in the middle of stripping the bed of its sheets — it's not like they would have used the beds anyway, the brothers were too unused to the comfort, too accustomed to stiff mattresses and thin sheets— when he heard a loud thud.
He ran back to the parlor to find his younger brother kicking the walls.
"What the fuck are you doing?"
Tommy had the gall to roll his eyes, "I'm tryna take the copper, duh."
"From the wiring?!"
Tommy shrugged, "They're worth it."
Wilbur pinched the bridge of his nose, "Okay this is where we call time."
"Booooo! We have like 3 minutes left," Tommy crossed his arms like the petulant child that he was. "How come you can steal door knobs but I can't steal some of the fuckin' wiring?!"
"The rules were things that weren't bolted down-"
"THE WIRING AIN'T BOLTED DOWN YOU FUCK-!" Tommy interrupted.
"And," Wilbur continued, completely ignoring Tommy's outburst, "the wiring is still live, dumbass. You're gonna get shocked."
Tommy probably made a face but Wilbur was too busy walking over to the two sofas and cataloging his hard work to care.
"Considering the gilded knobs, cotton sheets, and silk brocade pillows, I think I pretty much have this in the bag, Toms." He looked up from his stash of stolen goodies to shoot a cocky grin at his brother.
"Oh shut it! I've got the silverware that might actually be silver, all the fancy toiletries, the crystal ashtrays, and all the stupid lampshades!"
Wilbur stood up to appraise Tommy's own stash, mentally taking note of each of the objects' values and comparing them to his own. "Hmm, I mean you did do pretty well."
Wil did another sweep on both their loot. "Tie?"
Tommy cocked his head, considering his options once again before nodding his head. "Tie."
"Who gets the chocolate though?" he asked, before looking at his older brother and gesturing at the mess they've caused. "First one to keep all his shit?"
"Deal."
They moved with the same efficiency they had while stealing, putting the smaller objects into their bags and the bigger finds into the pillowcases they prepared for this exact reason. To no one's surprise, both brothers ended up tying once again —though Wilbur swore the only reason he lost was because Tommy purposefully knocked over one of his pillowcases and he had to start over. However, instead of starting another competition, they decided to share the last chocolate bar, and if Wilbur made sure that Tommy got the larger chunk of chocolate, it was no one's business other than his own.
There were three short knocks on the doors, and Wilbur froze like a deer in headlights. His hair stood on end and his skin prickled. He reasoned it was probably just the hotel staff again. He gathered himself, heading to greet whoever wanted to speak to ‘Mr. William Craft’.
The lock turned.
It clicked.
The door opened.
Wilbur couldn’t breathe, he couldn’t move. He felt his head fill with cotton, and his heart stop. Not again, not again, not again. He was going to be sick. Everything was moving so fast, like sand falling through his fingers. He couldn’t grasp anything that was going on, let alone act on anything. He couldn’t keep up.
It was happening again, wasn’t it?
No.
No, it wasn't. He couldn’t be here. This was far outside of Greatborough territory, and they were free. He couldn’t touch them here. They were safe. They had to be.
Tommy picked up the vase like a club and got between Wilbur and the door. There were two pale-eyed men with slicked-back hair and pressed suits. The elder of the two led, hair as golden as Tommy’s, although that was where the similarities ended. Tommy was panicking like a cornered animal, whereas the stranger was calm and collected. He held a cane in his left hand, the right in his pocket.
A gun?
The other man followed, both hands behind his back. He was young, maybe even a teenager, but that didn’t mean he carried himself like one. He wore a cocksure grin and a golden circlet. Wilbur hadn’t seen anything like it since his mother was alive, and he certainly had never seen the odd shade of hair the boy had. It was light pink.
“What do you want?!” Tommy hissed.
“I just want to see the ‘Craft brothers’.” the elder man said, as his companion’s expression soured in confusion.
“Who's asking?”
“Philza M. Craft.”