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Wilbur didn’t feel the freezing rain, even as it soaked into his brown greatcoat. No, he was too flushed with the victory of a successful con. Or performance, as he liked to think of it. He couldn’t help humming a few bars of 'Singing in the Rain' as he walked down the littered sidewalk, skipping over puddles like a child.
Tonight, the city felt as though it belonged to him, baptized by the rain in his name.
But it doesn't belong to him, and when blue and red lights began to bounce off dark windows, he casually ducked into an alley before the squad car could round the corner.
His recent stunt shouldn't have garnered any attention from law enforcement, but he still felt it prudent to sidle behind a dumpster until they pass. He's not the only one, it seemed, since he tripped on a small something, someone, hunched in the shadows.
It's a boy, no older than--actually Wilbur had no concept for the ages of children, but he was certainly a child; a soaking wet, shivering child.
He looked up at Wilbur, wild eyed, and held a finger to his lips with a desperate, "Shh shh shh!"
Wilbur could’ve thrown the kid out of his hiding spot, given the cops something to focus on other than himself, but it's too likely the officers would have come flooding into the alley, easily able to spot Wilbur in the powerful beams of their flashlights. Instead, he knelt down and dramatically threw out his greatcoat, shielding the boy's garish red and white shirt with the muted brown as though he was a vampire and the police lights were sun rays.
Neither of them moved, or even breathed, until the low rumble of the engine faded completely, then the boy pushed him back with an ungrateful shove that almost sent Wilbur into a puddle on his backside.
"You're welcome," Wil sassed, getting to his feet and brushing off the grime.
The kid peered cautiously around the dumpster, checking for stragglers. "Yeah, whatever."
Little shit.
"You know," Wilbur said. "It's not the end of the world if they catch you. You'll probably get some dry clothes and a meal out of it."
The boy looked at Wilbur, and if looks could say 'you are so stupid', Wilbur would’ve been extremely offended. "What, you think they're going to slap my wrist and send me to a happy family with a farm and a dog?"
Ah.
Wilbur spent enough time in foster care to recognize the bitterness.
"Being some loser's meal ticket has to be better than sleeping in the rain, yeah?" Now the adrenaline was fading, Wilbur was starting to register the numbness in his fingers. He could only imagine how cold the boy was.
"Maybe. But that's not what's going to happen," the kid grumbled. Wilbur shrugged. This kid wasn’t his problem. It was time for Wilbur to return to his little rooftop apartment and celebrate with a hypothetically-legal bottle of synthetic regeneration. Time to dump the foundling.
Who was still talking.
"...stupid Officer Punz is on Dream's payroll."
"Well, it was a pleasure meeting yo--wait, Dream? The 'I own everything the light touches', crime boss, Dream?" The 'biggest obstacle to Wilbur's success' Dream?
"What other Dream would it be, dipshit? He has half the force in his corner, even the Captain. Helped her son out of a sticky situation a while back, so now she turns a blind eye to his dealings."
Wilbur took a second look at the kid. He may have been shivering, wet, and clearly underfed, but there was determination in the set of his shoulders, bruises on his knuckles from where he recently landed a punch. Clearly there was more to him than Wilbur originally cared to see. "How do you know this, exactly?"
He shrugged. "Adults say all sorts of things in front of kids. They think we're too dumb to listen."
Interesting.
Perhaps Wilbur had been overlooking a useful resource. "What's your name, if you have one?"
He gave the kid a moment to come up with a convincing alias.
"Clarencio."
Or not.
"Alright, Clarencio, are you ready to get out of this rain?"
"What?"
Wilbur gave his most winning smile. "What kind of man would I be, if I didn't help a fellow runaway in need?"
Clarencio looked doubtful, as he should have.
"You don't have to, far be it from me to imply a big man can't take care of himself, but there's a warm living room and a meal if you want it." If half a box of leftover noodles counted as a meal.
Wilbur didn’t wait. He didn’t need to. The boy would be dead of hypothermia by morning if he stayed out in this weather, and he knew it.
Sure enough, footsteps caught up and the boy matched pace with his long stride. "How far away is this crappy living room of yours anyway?"
Wilbur smiled and wrapped an arm around his shoulders, pulling him in to share the warmth of his coat.
"Not far, little brother, not far."
Years later…
Wilbur hadn’t been to a carnival for a very long time, but he found he liked the atmosphere of cheerful music as he strolled through the booths, occasionally stopping to throw darts or spin a wheel. He always did so at the edge of a group, casually joining strangers as though he belonged. To anyone walking by he'd look like a big brother, perhaps forced on this outing for quality family time, but more interested in his phone than his siblings.
Checking his phone wasn’t an act. He didn’t dare miss an S.O.S message from Tommy.
Wilbur's current relatives moved on, but he hung back, attention snagged on a colorful stall advertising cotton candy.
Jesus, the last time he'd been to a carnival was ages ago, when he came up to his dad's elbow and the lights and sounds were still enough to dazzle him.
That time, like this time, was not about fun--at least for Phil. He'd kept a tight hold on Wil's hand, like a leash that kept him close, and made promises about going on rides that never panned out. Wil had barely grasped the tension in his grip. He'd been too distracted by all the trash food advertised in bright paint, and he'd begged and begged to have some all while his pleas had fallen on deaf ears.
The crowd flowed past him while he stood stock still in the center of it.
He was doing the exact same thing to Tommy. He'd brought him along to add more blackmail to those discs of his, sent him off into the crowd and told him under no circumstances could he get distracted by the rides.
As if he wasn't a kid.
Wilbur felt sick.
He turned on his heel and returned to the cotton candy stall.
"Two, please," he said, pointing to their largest size, great puffy balls of candy bigger than his head on fragile paper sticks. He held both in one hand, so they melted together and mixed, and texted Tommyinnit their SOS signal and his location.
Tommy showed up in record time.
"Hey, mate," he said, for the benefit of the crowd, fake smile unable to hide how his eyes darted around.
"It's nothing," Wil told him, holding out the cotton candy. "The deal's off. No job for us. We're just having fun, now."
Tommy took the candy, eyes narrow.
"Why'd they call the deal off?" he asked, suspiciously--and he just held the cotton candy in one hand, not relaxing at all.
"Who cares? I want to go on the ferris wheel. Come on, Tommy, stop being boring."
"Wh--hey! I'm not boring! And I'm not going on a ferris wheel. That's for dates."
Wilbur rolled his eyes.
"It's not just for couples. Come on, let's go, we'll rock the basket when we get to the top, you'll love it."