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Tommy stares up at the house, in the middle of the richest neighbourhood he’s ever set foot in, and swallows harshly.
“Warm enough?” Wilbur asks from beside him, gesturing to the fact that Tommy is just in a t-shirt and jeans. The night air is frigid, but Tommy’s used to that. He nods.
“Yeah, I’m good big man.” His gaze runs over the house nervously. “How many people are gonna be here?”
Wilbur shrugs. “Dunno. I’m not too close to anyone who’s coming.”
Tommy breathes out slowly, his breath misting in the air. He kicks at the ground, dislodging a stray stone. “I hate this already.”
“You’ll be fine,” Wilbur assures him. “You’re a likeable guy; you’ll fit right in.”
Tommy shifts a little, side-eying Wilbur’s car. “I can’t believe you talked me into this.”
Wilbur laughs, bright and loud. “Come on. We’re already later than most people. Let’s head in.”
Tommy’s got no choice but to follow Wilbur. He feels out of his depth treading the stone path, and crystalline glass windows in the door speak of richness and vanity. Tommy hates it here- everything already feels fancy and formal, and he’s far too underdressed. Wilbur, in a dress shirt and more formal pants, at least blends in somewhat.
Inside is no different. They’re greeted by people wearing clothing that costs more than Tommy’s parents’ house, and shake the hands of people whose names Tommy forgets the second they’ve passed their lips. Wilbur looks at ease, at home in the midst of the party and the people who greet him with smiles.
When they’re offered drinks, Tommy declines as politely as he can. Wilbur cracks some joke and ends up taking two (“Since you don’t want any, I’ll drink your share”). Tommy feels miserable .
The music cranks up louder. Wilbur speaks to more people. Tommy trails behind him, overwhelmed and just wishing he was home.
******************
At half eleven, Wilbur’s had enough to drink that he starts getting flirty. Importantly, he garners the attention of about five girls so quickly Tommy blinks and suddenly they’re there.
A server passes by, and Tommy finally takes a drink. He downs the whole thing as one of the girls puts her hand on Wilbur’s arm. Fuck, he’s too sober for this shit, and too alone in the crowd. Tommy hates this, hates it, hates it, hates it.
“You done, Wil?” he butts in finally after a moment. The girls send him a scathing glare, and Wilbur seems not to notice.
“Got something to do, Tommy?” Wilbur’s tone makes it clear he’s being mocking, but in that gentle and light way he always uses for Tommy. He steps away from the girls, who seem to decide that Wilbur’s not worth their focus anymore. Tommy feels strangely vindicated.
“No. Just sick of you talking to them.”
“What, jealous?” Wilbur teases, and Tommy scowls in response.
“You’re not leaving any women for me,” he complains, playing up the whiny voice in a way he knows will make Wilbur smile and chuckle in that fond way he always does. Instead, Wilbur claps him on the back.
“Well, go on then, Casanova. There’s plenty of women here- shoot your shot.”
Suddenly, Tommy’s aware of the choice he has here. Do as Wilbur says, maybe score a date- or something more- or back out and risk Wilbur working it out? The idea of trying to approach a stranger left a sour taste in his mouth, though, so he shook his head.
“They’d be too intimidated by me.”
Wilbur gives him a slightly questioning glance, but appears to give it no second thought. “More for me, then. Don’t get all…” Wilbur makes a vague gesture in the direction of Tommy, “If you aren’t going to do anything about it.”
Wilbur then moves in the direction of the food tables, leaving Tommy to stand alone and wonder exactly what would happen if he did do something about it. He comes to the conclusion that it wouldn’t be anything good, and snatches up another drink. It’s going to be a long night.
***************
They leave at two in the morning. Wilbur’s not fit to drive by any means, but he does regardless (“It’s barely ten minutes, Toms, it’ll be fine”). The rain starts a few moments later, pattering lightly down onto the window. Tommy’s got the taste of alcohol on his tongue, and wishes he didn’t.
A minute before they’re back at Wilbur’s, he turns the radio down and finally speaks. “You hated it.”
Tommy laughs humourlessly. “I said I would.”
“The booze was good.”
“It was the worst part.”
Wilbur pulls into his driveway and parks, but doesn’t get out. Neither does Tommy. Quiet tension fills the air.
“You could have tried speaking to some of the people. They were nice.”
“Oh, like the girls you had all over you?” Tommy scowls, turning to stare out the window into the rain with a huff. “No fucking thanks.”
“Why’re you so pissy?” Wilbur’s voice is slightly raised, louder than before. Tommy wants to vanish into thin air. “I didn’t do shit to you.”
“Except go eye-fuck every goddamn girl you saw?”
“What the hell is your problem?”
“I like you!” Tommy bursts out in frustration.
There’s quiet. Rain on the car windows. Music turned so low it’s almost obsolete. The sound of Tommy’s breathing.
There’s the slight crinkle of leather as Wilbur grips the steering wheel tighter, his knuckles going white and nails digging into the material. Tommy doesn’t have the guts to lift his gaze, to see Wilbur’s expression, and just keeps it trained on his hands, on the way they dig into the steering wheel and hold it entirely too tight. If the car was a living thing, Wilbur would surely be choking it.
“Say that again.” Wilbur’s voice is unsteady, shaky, and yet so careful and light. Always careful, always light, the way he is around Tommy every second that they spend together. The familiarity of it is somehow comforting and horrible all at once, distressing and beautiful and choking and calm.
Tommy stares down at his own lap, his own hands balling the material of his pants, pulling it painfully tight around his thighs and calves, barely avoiding digging his nails into his own skin. “I like you,” he repeats, far quieter this time.
A heartbeat. Silence. Rain. Wilbur breathes out, slow and audible.
“That’s why you got all jealous?”
It’s not the response Tommy expected. He looks up, catches Wilbur’s gaze, and sees no hostility there. No hatred.
Tommy nods, barely able to breathe. Wilbur leans back, his seat making a soft noise of protest as the joints and inner mechanisms shift of it under his weight.
“If it helps, I didn’t care much for those girls anyway.” Wilbur takes a second, like he’s calculating his next words (Tommy did always believe Wilbur thinks too much. Now is no different), before continuing to speak. “And I… Well, I brought you with me because I wanted to spend that time with you . Because…”
Another pause. More rain on the windows, the dull shriek of the windscreen wipers clearing it away. The radio crackles, some host talking about meaningless nonsense.
“I like you, too.”
Tommy feels like he can finally catch his breath. “You do?”
In response, Wilbur reaches over and takes Tommy’s hand in his own. It’s not the first time they’ve held hands (Tommy’s latched into Wilbur more times than he could count, swinging their joined hands just to get a rise out of Wilbur, and Wilbur’s grabbed him to lead him through crowds or to places before) but it’s the first time it’s meant something more . Tommy carefully shifts to intertwine their fingers; Wilbur lets it happen with no resistance.
“What now?” Tommy asks, barely daring to speak above a whisper. Wilbur runs his thumb over the back of Tommy’s hand gently, almost idly, like he doesn’t realise he’s doing it.
“We see how things go. Try… Try us .”
Tommy stares down at their hands, linked together, and smiles. “I like the sound of that.”