Chapter Text
“We could go forever from up here!” Tommy spread his arms wide and leaned into the wind.
The brothers had found a spot, a cliff, not far from their base, where they’d sat and watched the sunset. The sky was rippled with orange and yellows and reds, and if Wilbur turned his head, he could see blue and night-color behind them.
Wilbur turned his gaze from Tommy to the crescent left of the bright orange sun. “Forever?”
“Pick a direction, any direction.”
“You sound like you’re doing a card trick.”
“Pick a card, then.”
“That way.” Wilbur nodded a bit to the right, keeping both hands firmly on the ground. “Ace of north.”
“We could definitely go forever that way, we wouldn’t even hit…” Tommy trailed off.
“We wouldn’t hit all of them, not until we’d gone all the way around the world.”
“All of them. Yeah.”
All of them. Most of them. Wilbur knew two men who lived to the north, but if Tommy ran off that way, he wouldn’t hit most of them.
The last shining sliver of the sun ducked under the horizon. “Let’s go in,” Wilbur said, still not standing. “It’ll get cold soon.”
Tommy looked down at his older brother and laughed. “You’re the one out here in a trench coat and beanie.”
“You’re the one who can’t be seen without the same red and white shirt, if you’d put on a coat sometime, you could stay out longer.”
“I thought you like red and white; red, white, blue, yellow, and black, bitch.”
“Mm. Let’s go, it’s October.”
Tommy stepped away from the edge of the cliff.
Wilbur picked himself up and headed back home with his brother.
***
Home was a strange word, Wilbur thought, later that night. A really strange word, if you thought about it too much. Home is where the heart is, and all that, but this shack wasn’t home. It had a chest–-two chests, one magic and one mundane–-and a bed, and a door, and no floorspace whatsoever.
Wilbur used his coat as a blanket most nights, and let the teen have the comforter. Tommy was even more of a restless sleeper at age sixteen than when he’d been a little kid. Wilbur already slept quietly, and he hoped Tommy never needed to learn how.
If Tommy could remain as little like Wilbur as he could, that would be best, Wilbur decided, and rubbed his eyes again. He tucked his arms back under the coat and stared up at the ceiling, wondering if a spider would fall on him.
He remembered a conversation he’d had with Tommy.
”Where’d you get that trench coat?”
“Stole it. But it was mine originally, so it’s okay.”
“Who’d you steal it from, though?”
“That doesn’t matter. He wouldn’t have even noticed it was missing.”
He’d stolen it from Dream, but Wilbur would never tell Tommy that. The coat was stained, and stiff, and had sand in the pockets and dirt on the sleeves. Wilbur had sat and sewn up rips for an hour after he’d gotten it back. But it was his, he hadn’t lied. He may have stolen it, but he’d stolen it back.
Tommy kicked him in the side.
Wilbur had to stop himself from poking him back, like he would’ve when they’d been kids. The three brothers would pile in together on cold winter nights, and their father would tell stories, and they’d fall asleep in the wrong room, in the wrong bed. Wilbur would get pummeled by sleeping Tommy, and he’d hit back, but he’d never really minded it.
Tommy rolled over, taking the last of the blanket with him.
They’d been a close family. Maybe they could be close still.
Wilbur thought of the north and fell asleep.