Chapter Text
There’s been this customer lately — Wilbur. His eyes are always kind, but his smile wobbles into something sympathetic when he looks at Tommy. It pisses him off how he always tips too much money or speaks like an edgy Pinterest board and how he smiles kindly.
It pisses him off that he always waits for Wilbur to stop — to pause the nice act and deliver harsh slaps across his cheek. Even worse, he hates how he fears Wilbur will stop everything and leave him.
Tommy doesn’t want to be alone.
Tommy doesn’t want to be left alone.
Most of all, Tommy doesn’t want Wilbur to prove that everyone is like his parents.
(“Where are you going?” Tommy asks, eyes narrowing at the plethora of suitcases his parents have tossed across the floor. He stares at his parents’ cars outside — he doesn’t want it to be true. They can’t leave yet. They’re all he has — all he knows. “Hotel stay?”
“Shush, Tom!” His mother scolds, “you’ll give me a headache!”
“We’re leaving,” his father answers, plain and simple. “You’re a nuisance. We’ve been nice enough to lend you rent money for a couple of months.”
Tommy’s heart stutters — they can’t be leaving.
He’s sure his face is pale as he asks, “how long are you going for?”
“Forever.”
“A–and then? What happens after the money finishes?”
“Well, that ain’t our issue, innit?” Mum asks as if it were obvious. “You ain’t my son no more.”
“I– I understand,” Tommy mutters — defeated. He doesn’t want to respond; he doesn’t even know how to. The realisation crushes him; it grabs his weak bones and snaps them in two before turning them into poorly brewed slush in its palms. He reiterates, “I get it.”
He knows what he is. He’s a nuisance — a mess. He doesn’t want to stick around himself — it’s no wonder his parents wouldn’t want to stick around either.
“Well, be good,” his father says, “maybe get that lazy ass off our couch and get a job.”
“R–right. Thank you for the advice.”
“Bye, Tom,” his mother says as she picks up floral bags and a green suitcase. Her tight grip holds the handle atop her fingertips; she pauses for a moment and looks at him.
For a single second, he hopes. He hopes his mother will say ‘I love you’ and come crashing into his arms, pulling him into her chest in a swoop. She’ll say it was all a joke, and they’d never leave.
But that doesn’t happen.
Instead — “I bet you won’t make it past three weeks.”
And she leaves through the front door.)
Yet, he hasn’t been like Tommy’s parents.
Instead, he visits the café daily; he gives Tommy these silly, lovely grins. He orders an iced latté, peppermint hot chocolate with honey and marshmallows, and plain black coffee. Then, Tommy calls him an emo freak for liking black coffee, and Wilbur rolls his eyes at the insult. Wilbur treats him to dinner after his shift, and they butt heads until they arrive at the restaurant.
Tommy loves him — loves his stupid fringe and the depressing lyrics he types furiously on his notes app. He loves him even though Wilbur doesn’t love him back — even though Wilbur will never love him back.
Tommy narrates his day to Wilbur as they sit at a coffee table, hands flailing as he complains about a little bitch who ordered lemon tea during his shift.
Then, out of nowhere, Wilbur sighs fondly and mutters, “you’re so lucky I love you.”
What .
Tommy’s stomach drops, a tornado building in his throat. Liar, liar, liar, liar—
Tommy falters, his eyes widening — “ah– sir, sorry?”
Wilbur seems to find this sudden formality hilarious , judging by how he bursts into laughter and pounds his hands against his thighs. His back folds, hysterical laughs escaping as he sputters words Tommy can’t make out.
“S—sir?” Wilbur exclaims, standing up straight, arms flailing about as he laughs — as if Tommy had just said the funniest shit in the world. “Fucking sir , Tommy? Never thought I’d see the day where the great Tommy Innit would actually be polite! Not in this economy, at the very least — but here we are!”
“Sh–shut up, man,” Tommy mutters. “You took me off guard with that.”
The man laughs for a few more moments, head tipped back and laughter loud and bright, before he gathers himself and sobers. Standing up straight, Wilbur looks at Tommy with a softer smile. A stark contrast to his usual goofy grin. His fingers draw shapes in the dust of the counter (that desperately needs to be cleaned) as he looks at Tommy.
“I mean it, though, Tommy,” Wilbur says softly, “you really are great.”
Tommy feels heat rise to his cheeks. He ducks his head, curls falling over his face and framing his eyes. He kicks his shoe forward, pushing it against the leg of the counter with little shallow breaths pursing through his lips. His fingers fall over the table, tapping in an attempt to calm the erratic beat of his heart.
Wilbur thinks he’s great.
Wilbur thinks he’s worthy.
Wilbur adores him.
For the first time in so long, Tommy feels — loved . He feels like someone cares.
The praise feels nice for once. It doesn’t feel like emptiness — empty words against Tommy’s ears and pats against his back from his manager. It doesn’t feel like an obligation — “you did well today, mate. ” It’s something Wilbur wants to do, something that’s being gifted to Tommy that he can keep . He didn’t have to say it — hell, Tommy wasn’t even expecting it — but the random, fond burst of words…
It feels like warm arms around his chest, wrapping him in a blanket of love and security. Sounds like a fresh pot of coffee brewing, smoke evaporating as the sound of sugar grinds between fingers. Like crunching on a carpet and the creek of an old door. Smells like drying paint and fresh books. It tastes like hot chocolate on his tongue — vinegar spice falling down his throat. He chews sweetness and gulps salt, savouring each feeling, the bumps in his neck as it travels through his throat.
He doesn’t know how to repay it. Doesn’t know how to express the meaning of the words — how far they sink into his gut.
All he can manage —
“...thanks, mate.”