Chapter Text
tommy stands by the window, watching the ash drift slowly down from the sky. it looks like snowflakes, dancing through the air, and if wilbur lets his gaze fall just right, it’s almost- almost- possible to pretend. snow tumbles from the clouds above, whirling their way to the ground, and tommy is six years old, pressing his little face to the glass and begging phil to let him go outside and play.
and phil would tell him no, not yet, wait for the morning, wrap up warm, find your brothers, let me get my coat. and then wilbur would pitch in, equally excited, oh phil, come on, i’m warm enough already, it isn’t that dark.
only the clouds above are growing thicker, heavier, and it is that dark.
wilbur’s chest aches. he’s told tommy that it’s nothing, that he must have eaten lunch too fast, that they have more important things to worry about. he doesn’t know if tommy seriously believes him. his little brother is much too intelligent to be fooled by something so simple, and wilbur has never had the strongest lungs.