Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Wilbur pulled the coat wrapped around his arms closer to his body, cold, biting wind roaring around him and Techno. Seemingly, the storm decided to pick up as soon as he showed any sign of being slightly uncomfortable.

His fucking luck.

It was fair, honestly. If his phone hadn’t died several hours before, Wilbur might have acted a bit more surprised at the sudden storm, but alas, it had died and if there was a warning sent out at all–which he was sure there was–he clearly missed it.

Techno shuffled closer and pressed up against Wilbur’s side as close as possible.

The moon was almost a full one, working as the only source of light illuminating their line of sight in the dark, cold alleyway behind some kind of department store. Neither were really sure where they were, they ducked into the first place they could find to escape the storm that had quickly turned from a sprinkle to a fucking tsunami. Okay, not actually, but it felt like it. What was obvious, however, was the small awning just above them that cut off right at the edge of the building, meaning it kept them dry and safe from the rain for a decent amount of time, but as the rain poured harder and harder, the awning worked as nothing but a harsh waterfall being blown directly into their faces.

Another thing about this alleyway was that it wasn’t well hidden at all. They were in the heart of New York City and there were definitely police officers roaming that would kick them out if they were seen, but it was pouring so hard that Wilbur didn’t think any law enforcement would care enough to check down each corner of this city.

Fine by him, he thought. They’d just have to be out of there before the storm started to fully let up—which, by the looks of it, wouldn’t be anytime soon.

So now, here they were, pressed up against the opposite brick wall, cold stone on their backs and clothes clinging to their bodies from an effort of the downpour, hugging each other like a couple of children left to freeze alone in the night.

Which- partly, that was true. The left alone to freeze in the night thing, not that they were a couple of children. They were nearly 20, far from being children.

Luckily, Wilbur had managed to keep the bag his guitar laid in almost perfectly dry, aside from the few droplets that were nearly dry from when it had just begun to drizzle, not pour. He kept a careful eye on the bag just across the way and leaned up against the side of a dumpster blocking the only fully covered spot.

He adored his guitar; Simone. Wilbur had named it the moment he laid his eyes on the smooth, light brown instrument that seemed to be calling his name. That summer–his seventeenth birthday–he spent each day locked in his room for at least an hour teaching himself how to play the thing. It was hard at first, made his fingers bleed and blister, but once they had calloused and he got the hang of it, he loved playing the guitar.

It had been one of the only things he managed to grab on their way out of Phil’s home–their childhood home. A handful of cash, somewhere close to 100 dollars, his guitar, and Techno’s hand. They were 19.

Taking his guitar, however, came quickly into play living on the streets. At first, they had managed to couch surf at some friend’s houses; Niki, Jack, Scott. But as time went on and the excuse of “It was just a fight, nothing else” died on their tongues, they were left to survive on their own. That was four months ago. Four months of setting up his guitar in the subway, playing in front of an open case for hours on end, and counting the bills and coins at the end of the day. On a good day, he would make fifty dollars and immediately use it to buy food or a random essential they needed. On a bad day, he would make ten dollars, have it stolen straight from the case, and end his day with a pointless chase across the platform and out into the streets of fuck-all New York.

Maybe, just maybe, they should’ve stuck with Phil a bit longer. Sure, he was an asshole. Sure, he became far less of a father and much more of a monster they shared a last name with, but he kept a roof over their heads and food in their stomachs. That was more than Wilbur could say now.

Wilbur straightened his posture, pressing further against the wall and sighing tiredly. He removed a single hand from its grip on Techno’s arm and brushed the hair dripping with water in front of his eyes, to the side and out of his face.

Technically, he and Techno were only seconds apart. Wilbur was born three minutes before his brother, but that still made him older, even if by mere minutes. Wilbur blamed that—the way he was, by law, older—on his fierce protectiveness of Techno. He watched as another wave of shivers wracked Techno’s body and he inched further into Wilbur’s hold, pressed together to preserve body heat. It wasn’t like they were a group of teenagers who could stay in the back of some shop or ask a kind old lady to stay for the night, they were adults. No one took pity on homeless adults, that just made them less of a charity case and more of an intense victim blaming scenario, sadly.

No one knew their story because no one cared enough to know.

As Techno continued to shiver, Wilbur squeezed tighter and looked around desperately for any sign of help. At this point, he would take the judged stares and awkward drives back to the homeless shelter, over sitting in the rain during a storm worse than they had seen in ages.

Since they lived with Phil.

But there was no one. Of course. Wilbur expected that, he didn’t know why it shocked him as much as it did, though.

Instead, Wilbur shut his eyes, huffed a puff of air out his nose, and prayed for the storm to be over by morning. If he tried enough, he could bargain a pharmacy worker into dropping the price of a bottle of cold medicine down to a more affordable price, because it wasn’t a question whether at least Techno would be sick by morning. He always had a shit immune system, and sitting in the cold, soaking wet, probably didn’t help his case.

Wilbur ignored the way his arms shook scarily hard. Just until morning, he thought. Just until morning.

Today, the subway was noticeably far busier than usual.

Instead of the typical morning rush of school children and office workers, there were dozens of easily recognisable British people. Wilbur didn’t have anything against Brits in particular—he was one himself for god’s sake—but it was still slightly jarring to have such an odd switch up in his regular routine.

Not that he was complaining in any way. More tourists meant more bright-eyed, obliviously happy families huddling around him and cheering as he played another Disney song after the other. He knew his crowd and he knew how to put on a show and a fake smile if it meant getting him money. It didn’t matter how he got it or where he got it from, it was money and that was all that mattered.

Today also just so happened to be a shit day already. It was only 9 AM and he was already counting the hours until he could go to sleep and restart.

First, he hadn’t slept. Then, he stole a monster from a gas station nearby and only got five sips in before he dropped it and spilled the rest all over his shoes–karma, probably. And finally, his train card had been declined and he was forced to buy a new one, leaving him with three dollars to his name and a still empty stomach.

Wilbur lowered his bag onto the floor, crouching down to unzip it and pull his guitar out, leaving the bag wide open and leaned against the bottom of a stone pillar. In one of the pockets was a messy cardboard sign with the words Tips Appreciated! scribbled on the front in permanent marker. It was, very notably, ugly, but Techno had made it the night they were figuring out how they would survive alone on the streets. four months ago, Wilbur didn’t like to remember that time. He wasn’t well in those first few months.

He hoisted himself up and settled onto the same ledge of the pillar he sat on each day in the centre of one of the platforms, pulling his legs up to sit criss-cross applesauce. The base of his guitar laid against one of his thighs and he began to fiddle with a few of the tuning pegs at the top. Then, he would strum against the strings and continue to adjust the tuning until it was to his liking.

The good thing about holing yourself up in your room for nine months straight with a guitar and a lack of a will to live, was coming out on the other side knowing more songs off the back of your hand than any other subject in the world.

He began quietly at first, like he did always, warming up until the volume was loud and clear, along with his voice. Wilbur knew an abundance of songs, mainly indie, underground bands that had no tabs online no matter where he looked, leaving him to figure it out himself by ear. He also knew his own songs, the ones he wrote on napkins and transferred to his notes app later on, the ones he wrote about the worst time in his life (he pointedly avoided the understanding that he was still in that time), and the ones he wrote as an excuse to make a poem into music.

Wilbur learned quickly that he could resort to lyricism as a form of relief. No one questioned if you sang a terribly sad song with lyrics that truly could cut through skin, they just applauded that it sounded nice or gave unwanted criticism. So, he used that to his advantage.

There was something comedic about the way he sang song after song about the station he sang in to afford dinner every night, written by his own hands. He told Techno about this once but was left with nothing but a straight face and tightly pressed together lips.

(“That’s not funny, Wil,” Techno uttered, a look of something akin to horror flashing over his face momentarily.

Wilbur stared at him in confusion, tilting his head and digging through his own brain to try and understand why his brother looked so distressed. So worried.

Suddenly, it hit him. “Oh! No, I didn’t mean I’m gonna do anything, don’t worry. I wouldn’t do that to you, you know that,” he offered a gentle smile.

Techno blinked at him from across the table for a few beats more, looking as if he was turning the words over and over in his head again. Like he was trying to decide whether to believe his brother or not.

“Okay,” Techno nodded eventually. “I trust you. Just- don’t joke about that, I don’t like thinking about it.”

Wilbur nodded quickly, straightening up again. “Of course, got it man. I’m sorry.”

Techno hummed in acceptance and focused back on the library computer in front of him. Another job application, yet again.)

He wasn’t in a mood to sing happy, bubbly songs to a crowd of people probably picturing him as a college student playing in the subway as a fun hobby. That couldn’t be further from the truth.

Sadly, however, his desire to belt songs that were more screamed than sung, slam poetry in the form of a sweet melody, were shattered before him. A family of four–or, what he assumed was a family–made their way towards him and smiled eagerly, their mother whispering something to them that Wilbur couldn’t hear.

He should be grateful that he was more than likely going to get money out of this, but he was running on a less-than-half-drunken energy drink, no sleep, and a still damp coat. Screw him if he wanted to sulk in his misery via song and dance… minus the dance.

Without having to ask, and not waiting another beat, Wilbur forced a bright, practiced smile onto his face and faced the three children huddled around their mother, the oldest standing a good distance away from the rest of the group. He didn’t want to pretend right now but it was better than going to bed hungry again.

“Hi!” He began cheerily. “Now, I can’t help but notice your jacket,” Wilbur gestured to one of the girls’ bright pink princess jacket, “but I’m guessing you like princesses, yeah?”

The mother smiled brightly and the two girls nodded excitedly, so Wilbur continued. If he embarrassed himself by playing up an overly fake act to satisfy whoever was leaving the tip—most likely their mother—then that’s what he would do.

Again, money was money, no matter what he had to do to get it.

“How about… Let It Go?” The two girls cheered loudly, looking between their mother and Wilbur.

In the end, they had only left a two pound tip. Of course, fucking tourists.

At least they actually left a tip, he had dealt with far too many pamphlets about how god could save him or empty wrappers to candy bars in place of some cash.

The second the group was out of earshot, Wilbur leaned his head back against the pillar behind his back, relishing in the cold shock it sent down his neck and spine. Everytime that happened, his reputation was ruined at least ten percent more. If he had been keeping track correctly, that left him in the negative thousands. Life: 16, Wilbur: 0.

A loud, barking laugh sounded in front of him and Wilbur shot his head up just as fast. The kid he swore was a part of that family was standing in front of him still, the train his supposed “family” had gotten onto speeding away and disappearing into a tunnel up ahead.

“Oh my god, you did all of that for two dollars?” The kid said through wheezes, sounding more like a middle aged smoker who just finished their sixth pack of the day than a raggedy child.

Wilbur narrowed his eyes, frowning despite his new-found amusement of this very loud kid. “What’s it to you? Mind your business, asshole.”

The kid stilled at that, locking eyes with the man and for a moment, Wilbur was afraid he had been too harsh. Overstepped some unsaid boundary he had never heard of before, because was swearing at a kid morally okay? But then-

The same laughter that had come before, just louder, somehow, began again. Wilbur found himself resisting the urge to laugh as well just at the sound of someone being so happy. A kid being a kid, stupid and carefree and brash.

“Well I don’t see you leaving a tip either, so…” Wilbur drawled, leaning back and idly plucking at the strings on his guitar again.

“That’s because you sang Let It Go from fucking, what’s it called… Tangled!”

Dumbfounded, Wilbur squinted his eyes and pinched his eyebrows together. “It’s from Frozen, moron. Literally everyone knows that.”

“Why the fuck would I know that?”

“Because it’s Frozen! With Elsa!”

Only after the kid blinked at him in silence for a few seconds did Wilbur realise he was an adult fighting with a 12 year old over Disney princesses. “We pretend this conversation never happened.”

Okay, maybe this kid was older than he thought. Or maybe not, he had never heard a 12 year old use such strong language before but he also hadn’t known many 12 year olds in his life.

“Listen, man, you do what you gotta do,” Wilbur started over with a shrug. He phrased it like the kid would understand personally, because from the looks of him–scrawny, shirt two sizes too big, trousers with rips in one of the knees and a grass stain surrounding it, messy blonde hair that looked like it hadn’t been brushed in weeks–Wilbur assumed he did understand.

Luckily for him, the kid rolled his eyes and plopped down onto the floor right in front of him, straining his neck up to see Wilbur properly. “Yeah, but you gotta have some self respect.”

Wilbur nearly burst out laughing right then and there. Because here he was, talking to some child who probably lost his parents or ran off without them, in the middle of a random New York City subway while he was given advice from said child. Wow, he really had hit rock bottom, hadn’t he?

“Self respect is for pussies, the grind doesn’t stop,” the kid laughed again at that and Wilbur couldn’t stop the growing smile on his face. He probably wasn’t that funny because this kid had laughed three times in the past two minutes, but it still felt nice to pretend that wasn’t the case and that he was hilarious. “Why are you out here anyway? Isn’t it like- way past the time school starts?”

Some part of Wilbur half-expected the kid to take that as a reminder and run off to the nearest bus, but he hadn’t. Instead, he stayed put and placed his crossed hands in his lap like a distinguished businessman.

“Had a train to catch for work at nine but then I got distracted and missed it so I’ll just go in late,” the kid said like it was nothing, pointedly ignoring the question about school.

Wilbur stared at him in confusion. Work? Was he really that bad at telling how old people were? Surely not. This kid looked sixteen at most. So how the fuck did he have a job.

The kid seemed to catch this confusion and started up again like he had explained himself hundreds of times before, perfectly practiced and crafted to perfection. “I’m the CEO, I decide my own schedule. People bow at my mere presence.”

Yeah. This was definitely a child.

“Yep, I believe you,” Wilbur raised his eyebrows in fake amazement, sarcasm rolling off his tongue. The kid must have missed it though because he sat up straighter and smiled, puffing out his chest as he did so.

“Big man things. Biggest man of all, you wouldn’t get it.”

“Hey!” Wilbur squawked in offense, frowning as the kid doubled over in laughter again. Seriously. Was he this funny or was this kid just on drugs.

Honestly, Wilbur wouldn’t doubt the latter.

The thought was supposed to be funny, something to cheer himself up from his horrible night before, but for some reason, he found himself grasping at every strand of hope that this kid wasn’t homeless. Wasn’t like himself, living day to day on park benches or alleyways and barely making ends meet. It confused him, slightly, because he didn’t know this kid. He had just met him minutes ago and yet, he was worried for him.

Almost like a big brothe-

He cut off his thoughts immediately.

“What are you doing here?” The kid asked once his laughing fit had calmed down, still sitting idly and oddly professional for the dirty floor of a public train station. If his trousers hadn’t already looked like they’d been dragged through the mud multiple times, Wilbur might’ve cared enough to tell him to get off the floor and onto a bench instead.

“Fuck does it look like?” Wilbur furrowed his eyebrows together because it should be obvious, but the kid continued to sit watching him terrifyingly patient. From the looks of it, this kid could probably watch paint dry and be fine with it. “Playing guitar and singing for money, which you are distracting me from, so…”

“Play then, I’ll be quiet,” The kid interrupted suddenly, leaning forwards slightly, a hint of eagerness in his expression.

If Wilbur wanted to say no, he couldn’t. He hated kids and puppy dog eyes never worked on him—it was just a face for fuck’s sake—but for some reason, some weird, dark magic type reason, this kid’s puppy dog eyes worked on him.

Silently berating himself for giving in so easily, Wilbur began to strum the tune of The Bear Necessities.

He only made it one word in, however, before the kid was butting in with a grimace on his face.

“I’m not a kid, y’know? You don’t need to play nursery rhymes to keep me quiet.”

“You- what? You look like you’re 12.”

The kid bustled in his spot at this, frowning and puffing up like he was being pumped up by a bike pump slowly and slowly until he could burst, but then, he didn’t. He just sat there and deflated, slumping forwards slightly, leaving his professional posture behind. “I’m not twelve,” he muttered under his breath, just loud enough for Wilbur to catch.

Scrambling to fix his mistake, Wilbur’s eyes widened with panic. “Oh, I’m sorry man, I didn’t know that was such a sensitive subject for you, my bad.”

The kid shrugged, eyes trailing to the floor, “It’s fine, not your fault. I just have trauma with people calling me twelve.”

“Really?” Wilbur asked, horrified.

“No,” the kid sat up straight again, sitting in his previous professional position with perfect posture.

“You-” Wilbur blubbered, stumbling over his words in a mix of anger and confusion. “What the fuck?” He exclaimed, narrowing his eyes again.

The kid didn’t respond or show any change in expression, just continued to stare at Wilbur as if he was the dumb one.

Wilbur sucked in a sharp breath through his nose and breathed out through his mouth, shutting his eyes to regain his composure. This is a child, he told himself, you cannot beat up a child.

“Just keep playing, do something sad or deep, I ‘dunno,” as if he could read Wilbur’s thoughts.

Shaking out his hand, Wilbur nodded. “Okay, I can do that.”

He stretched out his fingers, grasped the neck of the guitar, and strummed a simple E minor to D chord and repeated again. This was what Wilbur loved about music. No matter where he was, what was happening, he could always turn to music. If he wanted to cry out about everything going wrong, a practical cry for help in broad daylight, he could through song. So, that’s what he did now.

In the way his hands glided across the strings effortlessly, like he was born to do this, time and time again he lost himself in the simplicity of it all. Something so domestic and gentle but harsh and loud and angry all at once.

Unknowingly, Wilbur found himself gushing all the hurt, all the fear that came from wondering if the storm the night before would kill him and Techno, into this song. He played loud and rough and misplaced a few fingers onto the wrong strings at some point, but he didn’t care.

The words flew freely and before he knew it, he was strumming the final chords to the song. Last time he had sung here, he played these same chords as the hauntingly familiar, “Please stand behind the yellow line,” that still—no matter how many times he heard it—rang in Wilbur’s ears. It terrified him at first. Now, he just turned his head and played a little louder.

It wouldn’t stop his racing heart or sweaty palms, he knew what those announcements meant, but it would drown out the rumbling and quiet groans of people more worried about their commute to work than a number ticked up by one on the yearly statistics.

Wilbur steered clear of those thoughts, they made him feel sick.

When he opened his eyes again, the kid was still sitting before him, mouth slightly open as he leaned forwards on his elbows and watched with awe. Maybe it was silly, but there was some sort of validation Wilbur felt from that look. From a child who definitely could have left, he still could now, but chose to stay and listen.

“That was awesome!” He cheered loudly, catching the attention of a few passerbyers. Wilbur didn’t have the chance to feel embarrassed before the kid was begging for another song. “Please play another, please please please!”

This time, Wilbur didn’t need the puppy dog eyes to agree, smiling bright and beginning to strum again. He positioned his fingers over the third and fourth fret and continued on from there.

By the time the kid finally had to leave, Wilbur had played six songs, all his own. The kid grumbled and got to his feet, shaking off the new dirt, and Wilbur couldn’t help but feel a little disappointed that he was leaving. It was strange, how easily attached he became to this kid when he had known him for all of half an hour.

Huh, strange.

“Will you be here tomorrow?” The kid asked, rocking back onto the heels of his feet idly.

Wilbur nodded, “Yeah, I’m here every day, usually.”

“Hm. I’ll start taking the train more often, then. You’re ugly, by the way, but I liked those songs,” Wilbur purposefully ignored the insult and instead focused on the fact this kid would go out of his way just to hear him sing. He couldn’t tell if it was because of the copious amounts of trauma he had. “What were they called?”

Wilbur hummed, toying with the tuning pegs at the bridge of his guitar again just so his hands would have something to do. “I wrote them, so they’re not on Spotify or anything, if that’s what you’re asking.”

The kid gaped at this. He looked absolutely, positively, blown away. Maybe like he had seen a murder just take place. Or a pony doing a handstand on a tricycle. Wilbur couldn’t really tell, but he hoped, from the growing smile on the kid’s face, that it was the pony thing.

“Holy shit! Really?” Wilbur nodded. “Oh my- fuckin’ hell, that’s so cool.”

Bristling at the praise, Wilbur smiled wide and real, something he hadn’t done in quite a while. It wasn’t that Techno was bad or anything, he was just caught up in his own head, just like Wilbur was. It was difficult to have fun and joke when they were clinging to each other for warmth each night.

“You should release them, you’ll go famous. I know because I’m me.”

Wilbur snorted, nearly choking on his own spit. “Yeah, that’s easier said than done. You need money to do that kind of stuff.”

Standing in silence for a moment, looking deep in thought, the kid finally responded, “Well, still. You should find a way,” He beamed. “Because I want you to.”

“I met you thirty minutes ago, why should I care what you want me to do,” Wilbur raised his eyebrows, not even trying to hold back his laughter.

“I’m Tommy, I’m 16 years old, my favourite colour’s teal, and I have a cat named Gravel,” the kid—Tommy—said without a moment of hesitation.

Wilbur blinked at him for one beat, then two, then:

“You named your cat Gravel?” He asked exasperatedly. Because really, who the fuck names a cat gravel? Honestly, Wilbur wouldn’t be shocked if he woke up and this was all one giant, on fire, fever dream. “Also, I’m like- pretty sure you shouldn’t be telling a stranger all of this stuff about yourself. Did no one teach you stranger danger?”

“What’s that?”

Wilbur rubbed his forehead. “My point exactly.”

“Okay, here, what’s your name, how old are you, and what’s your credit card details including the three digits on the back?” Tommy smiled innocently, tilting his head to the side and holding his hands behind his back.

Wilbur was going to go fucking insane.

“Why the fuck would I give you my credit card information?” He exclaimed, probably a bit too loud from the looks he got by other people waiting for the coming train.

Tommy put his hands up in surrender, like he hadn’t just asked a grown man his credit card info as if it was a normal walk in the park conversation starter. Seriously, did this kid even have parents?

The train pulled in speedily behind him and Tommy nearly tripped over his own untied shoelaces when he turned around to look at it. “Well, I’ll be going then, old man.”

“Old man?”

“You aren’t telling me your name, so until next time, old man,” Tommy stood up straight and saluted like a soldier going off to war, doing nothing but adding more to Wilbur’s confusion. “Asta la vista, baby.”

And then, before Wilbur could reach a hand out and figure out how the fuck any of that just happened, Tommy was sprinting onto the train through barely opened doors and crashing into multiple elderly people on the way.

Still, Wilbur was excited to see Tommy again tomorrow. It added something new to his life, considering he and Techno had been living in the same city for almost ten months. He was happy to be out of his hometown though, away from Phil.

He hopped down and off of the concrete ledge, moving towards the bag for his guitar that still was laid open on the floor with that stupid cardboard sign that meant all too much to him. Every hour on the dot he would check how much he made in tips and stash it in his back pockets, both to avoid being robbed and to fuel his anger for the next hour at whoever would request a song and still not tip. And even though technically it wasn’t exactly ten yet, it was close enough.

Wilbur kneeled down, reached into the bag, and came up with 5 bills. One dollar, one dollar, one hundred dollars, one hundred dollars, one hundred dollars.

He swore he could’ve felt his heart stop in that very moment.

Checking the money over again, he shut his eyes and opened them again to make sure he wasn’t seeing things, and gaped. Three hundred dollars.

No one else had come up to watch him play, only the family with two dollars and Tommy who looked right out of a lab (that actually made a concerning amount of sense but Wilbur chose to brush that aside because it was the very least of his concerns at the moment). Not some rich guy with a god complex or need to prove his self worth through helping other people.

Someone must have dropped it on accident or God hand delivered it himself or-

Wilbur pocketed the cash before anyone could notice it was gone. Sure, it was probably the worst, dickiest move he could pull, but he was also homeless. Whoever dropped it probably wouldn’t notice it was gone before they were already too far away.

Today was good. It was barely ten in the morning, he had played for an hour, but he had made three hundred pounds already and from a child at that. A child who complimented his voice and sat in awe watching him play for nearly thirty minutes.

Wilbur hated kids, always had, but he assumed this one would be the one exception.

He was barely able to keep the grin off his face. Tonight, he would be able to afford a motel for him and Techno.

Wilbur hauled himself back onto the stone pillar and sat up straighter than before, settling his guitar back into his lap. Technically, he had made enough to stop playing for the entire day but if his luck had been this good this early on in the morning, he’d be the first to push it to its limit.

Wilbur pushed through the library doors as fast as he could, stumbling over his own two feet to get to his brother faster. When he spotted him, he bolted straight ahead.

“Wil?” Techno whispered, staring up in concern at the way Wilbur had ran inside–and the fact that Techno was usually the one to wait for Wilbur outside of the subway, not the other way around.

“Tech. Tech.” Wilbur repeated breathlessly from the way he had run the entire way here. A good half a mile, if he was guessing. It probably wasn’t the smartest idea to sprint full speed through the city on an empty stomach and no sleep, but he did it anyway and he made it here alive, so he couldn’t complain.

“Are you okay?”

Wordlessly, Wilbur pulled the three crumpled 100 dollar bills out of his jacket’s pocket and stuffed it into Techno’s open hands, palms facing up. Techno stared at his hands with wide eyes, darting back and forth between his brother and the money. “You- what? Someone tipped you three hundred dollars?” His voice lifted dangerously and almost teetered the edge of not whispering anymore.

Still attempting to catch his breath, Wilbur nodded quickly, smiling wide and sitting in the empty chair beside him.

“Holy crap,” Techno breathed, folding the money back up carefully and handing it to Wilbur again. Wilbur stuffed it back in his jacket pocket just as fast. “You didn’t steal this, right?”

“No, no, not at all. I don’t even know where it came from. One second I was talking to this kid–Tommy, I’m pretty sure–and the next I was packing up to leave and then I found this in my bag.”

Saying it out loud, honestly, made the whole situation sound a lot more suspicious than it had before. But that kid was sixteen, there was no way he could’ve slipped three hundred fucking dollars into Wilbur’s bag without him noticing. He was pretty sure Tommy was–if not homeless–dirt poor as well.

Maybe it should’ve been a bit more obvious with the way Wilbur had to convince himself that this wasn’t Tommy’s doing. Either way, he and Techno had a promised roof over their heads for at least one night, which meant that if Tommy had been the one to accidentally drop this money, he could live with that guilt and never mention it to the kid again.

It meant keeping his brother safe, and that was all Wilbur cared about.

“Huh, weird,” Techno hummed, eyes still bright with excitement. “Luck must’ve been on your side today, I guess.”

Wilbur didn’t tell him about his morning. How he had nearly snapped at an old lady walking too slow, ruined his only pair of shoes, waited in an hour-long line to use the toilet, because that would do nothing but worry Techno, and that was the last thing Wilbur wanted to do.

Techno was kind like that. He didn’t show it often and only ever really got emotional around Wilbur, but Wilbur had seen that side of his brother more times than he’d ever wish for in the past months,

So, instead, he kept it to himself.

“Yeah,” he nodded. “Must’ve been.”

Chapter Text

Okay. Alright. Maybe today wasn’t the shittiest day ever. Just maybe.

Wilbur hated being wrong, it made him feel weak and vulnerable, but he and Techno had a room to themselves, a roof over their head with a sink to wash their faces in, for at least four days. That was longer than Wilbur could remember staying anywhere in the past four months.

He made a mental note to ask Tommy if he was the one to drop the money, and if he said yes, Wilbur would find a way to pay him back or something. Yeah, he would figure it out then, not now.

Now, he was more focused on the uncomfortable, stuffy warmth that poured through the door the second he and his brother stepped inside. He kicked off his shoes, Techno following suit, and dropped the room key onto a table by the door.

The warmth should have been unbearable, but Wilbur was used to cold nights on the streets, not sleeping in fear of his or Techno’s bags being stolen right from them. So, he was grateful for anything he could get.

Techno, almost immediately, dropped his bag to the floor and shuffled towards the bed furthest from the door, falling face-first onto the probably stiff surface. Wilbur winced as he fell and instead of a gentle huff, something closer to a smack came from the bed.

“Ow,” Techno groaned, rolling onto his back. Wilbur watched on, quirking an eyebrow as he shut the door behind them.

“You’re so dramatic.” Rolling his eyes, Wilbur made his way to the bed beside Techno’s—it was small and the sheets didn’t even look washed, but it was a real bed. Honestly, he didn’t even know they made beds this small in the first place.

Like, seriously, how the fuck were these beds smaller than twin size beds. Literally why did those exist?

He didn’t mind though, because he couldn’t even remember the last time he had slept in a proper bed. Even when he and Techno were couch surfing at friends’ houses, they had been given the living room couch or a bedroom floor. Of course, Wilbur was grateful anyone had even let them stay in the first place; none of his friends were rich or even really well off. They all stuck together because they barely made enough to scrape by.

Obviously, things changed when Wilbur and Techno decided to leave.

Wilbur dropped onto the foot of the bed, lowering his weight to sit down all at once, and yelped in pain.

“Told you,” Techno said.

“Fuck off,” this time, Wilbur groaned. It felt as if he had just fallen right onto the concrete floor, not a hotel bed. He wouldn’t be surprised if it turned out that instead of a mattress, these beds had cement blocks covered in an odd shade of purple sheets.

Techno, probably to escape Wilbur’s soon-to-be surge of complaints, pulled himself back off the bed and picked his bag up. “I’m gonna go shower.”

“Don’t use all the hot water please.”

“I’ll do it just to spite you now.”

Wilbur flipped him off with both hands before watching him retreat into the bathroom and shut the door behind him, a quiet click signifying it being locked.

Yeah, okay. This was weird.

The twins had spent their days in the same place every day for the past four months, and suddenly, they had a change in their routine. A good one, of course, but still a sudden change. They were used to libraries and declined job applications, homeless shelters and train stations, not hotel rooms for a handful of days with running water.

Maybe the water gushed out in a murky stream that probably had way-too-high to be legal PH levels, but it was water nonetheless.

Wilbur would take that as a win.

He shuffled around in the bed, moving to lean back against the headboard and prop his legs out in front of him. Now that he could take the place in, he realised how fucking hideous it was.

Who let a fourth grader decorate a hotel room with complete free reign? It seriously looked like Barney and a Barbie doll decided to explode in here.

To his amazement, the walls were light green, there were fancy picture frames nailed to the walls without a picture inside, leaving the sheet of paper that it had come with at the store of a random family in its place. The blankets were beige, the carpet looked like an arcade floor with grease stains scattered in various places. All in all, it strained his eyes to look at.

When he lived with Phil, at least he had some form of style. His bedroom walls were lined with maps of places he had never been before, movie posters of niche films, notes and cards his friends had written. In his opinion, it was pretty cool.

Everyone he knew had their own aesthetic or vibe that fit them best, but he could never seem to find one that fit him. Niki was all daggers and tattoos and dark, Jack was all about aquariums and the ocean, Scott loved anything green; plants, wildlife, forests, you name it. Even Techno had his thing. And still, Wilbur didn’t, so he stuck to whatever made him happy at the time and slapped that on his walls. It didn’t have to look pretty, necessarily, but it was all things that made him happy.

Wilbur ran a hand through his hair and grimaced at the obvious feeling of grease built up from the past week. He hadn’t gotten the chance to wash it in a park restroom so he was left to deal with the disgusting weight added to his head.

He was thankful he could even manage to keep up with haircuts. Thanks to Techno, at least. Wilbur wasn’t really sure where or when Techno had learned how to cut hair so nicely, but he was definitely grateful for it, because every other week, Techno would trim the sides of Wilbur’s hair and shorten the bangs in the front just slightly.

He could feel himself getting too in his own head about… everything, so he picked up his phone to scroll through some social media or old texts for what felt like the tenth time that day. If he scrolled back far enough, he could still see the family group chat between himself, Techno, and Phil. They never bothered removing their mother because they stopped using it all together after she-

Again, Wilbur didn’t like to think about that time.

When he and Techno first left, it was the middle of the night, probably somewhere around two in the morning if he had to guess. Phil called them over a hundred times each when he finally woke up and realised they were gone. It was noon by then, and they were already halfway across the state on a bus they spontaneously boarded along the way.

He called every day for three months, and eventually, he gave up. It went from fifty calls a day, to twenty, then ten, then one, and finally, none at all. Wilbur would be lying if he said a part of him didn’t wish that Phil would at least try calling again, because maybe, just maybe, he would answer it this time and ask his dad to come pick him up.

Okay, no. That was a lie. He wouldn’t ask Phil to do that, because that would be admitting defeat and if Wilbur knew anything, it was how to be stubborn until everyone knew he could take on the world by himself. Even if that wasn’t true, no one else needed to know.

Because, really, who was Wilbur if he couldn’t handle the weight of the world?

He opened Twitter and scrolled for ten seconds before closing out of it again. That was enough of that app for the rest of the week, healthy doses. Like drugs without the withdrawals or something.

Techno took fifteen minutes in the shower, shocking Wilbur considering Techno could and would go out of his way to annoy Wilbur whenever given the chance. He assumed Techno was too tired to attempt it tonight.

He watched as his brother stumbled back to his bed, dropped his bag back down onto the floor again, and laid down much slower this time, purposely avoiding any other bruises from an accidental body slam into a brick wall.

“All yours,” he mumbled, face down in one of the pillows.

“Did you use up all the hot water?” Techno didn’t respond.

Believing he was just too out of it to think properly, Wilbur nodded to himself and made his way to the bathroom as quiet as he possibly could. Then, he shut the door behind him and locked it as well.

This motel wasn’t all that bad, he assumed, because there were complimentary soap bottles. They were the size of his thumb, sure, but considering he had been living off of hand soap for the past week, he was pretty happy.

Wilbur pulled a towel off the hanger and set it onto the toilet lid, moving to fiddle with the handle of the shower head until it decided to work. Thankfully, it didn’t give him that much trouble and the water poured out of the faucet quickly. He dipped a finger under the water to test the temperature, frowned, and-

“I’M GONNA KILL YOU, TECHNO!”

As he always did, Wilbur left for the subway at eight AM sharp. For some reason, his body never got adjusted back to not waking up at six in the morning for school every day, even though it had been almost two years since he dropped out. But this played out well for him—-he could wake up on time each day, not worry about sleeping in too late, and in turn, never get caught by the police.

Today, however, was different. He woke up on time and instead of the tell-tale sound of horns honking and the early morning rush from miserable office workers’ commute to work, he was met with the quiet rumbling of the heater in the corner of the room.

The vast difference was nice and Wilbur welcomed it with open arms, pretending he didn’t have to get out of bed and leave the comfort. He was almost tempted to sleep in and take the day off, but Tommy had asked if he would be there today and he had said yes, so lying about that and crushing the kid’s hopes was definitely off the table.

He didn’t know why he was maneuvering his schedule around a random sixteen-year-old boy who just so happened to like his music, but he was, and that was that.

Unlike himself, Techno was nearly impossible to wake up. Wilbur resisted dumping a cup of water on his head to get him up multiple times, and only didn’t because he understood Techno’s current comfort.

But, once Techno did finally get up and Wilbur was sure he wouldn’t fall back asleep, he shoved his phone into his jacket pocket and slipped the cord of his headphones in and out his shirt.

Sure, spending every day homeless in New York City of all places sucked more than anything, but the view he got every morning made it just a hair more bearable.

As some random indie song blasted into his ears, he trudged forwards, hands gripping the straps of his guitar bag that sat around his shoulders.

The traffic and pollution and terrifyingly rude pedestrians sucked ass, but this… This was something he never thought he would experience.

Wilbur grazed his hand across the cold metal railing trailing to the side of the stairs into the subway, snapping it away and back into his pockets when he felt the still wet raindrops from the night before.

Scanning his train card, Wilbur shuffled through an electric gateway and made a beeline to the spot he always sat in. As usual, it was open. Wilbur set up his empty bag, settled onto the ledge of the concrete pillar, and began to fine tune his guitar.

He played one song all the way through, unable to stop himself from looking down at his watch every few seconds and throwing himself off key.

And then, the only thing he had been looking forward to waltzed down the stairs and through another electric gate just beside the one Wilbur had gone through. At 9:14 AM exactly, the same time as the day before, Tommy arrived.

There was a small part of him—the one that he would refuse to admit—that perked up as soon as he saw the bright golden curls pop up from the crowd and stroll towards him. The kid was still in the same baggy shirt and trousers with a hole in the knee, but this time, there was another rip just below it and mud soaking through multiple spots of the denim.

“Wilbur, my man!” Tommy shouted once he was within earshot. A few heads turned to see where the noise had come from and Wilbur had to use everything in himself to not turn red and duck his head to hide from embarrassment.

“Hello child,” he set down his guitar onto his lap and smiled as Tommy bristled in his spot, huffing and puffing about how he was everything but a child. “You look like a car ran you over on the way here, like, even worse than yesterday.”

Tommy frowned and crossed his arms over his chest, standing up straight to seem as intimidating as he could—or, as much as a scrawny sixteen year old could. Wilbur bit back a laugh at the sight.

“I’ll have you know, I look so damn good all the time. Trust me, I would know, women love me and fish fear me.”

“Why the fuck would fish fear you?”

Tommy stared back at Wilbur and didn’t answer.

Then, as if on cue from some terribly written sitcom, a woman who looked early into her thirties walked past them and smiled at Tommy, “Hey boss!”

“Morning Linda,” Tommy twisted around to nod at her before turning back.

Wilbur’s jaw dropped as the woman continued past, making her way to a train that’s doors had just opened. Tommy, unbeknownst to how fucking insane that was, just tilted his head at the man and let his arms fall back to his side.

“You’re gonna swallow a fly if you keep your mouth open like that.”

He snapped his mouth closed.

“What the actual fuck.”

“What?” Tommy frowned and lowered himself to the ground in front of Wilbur, obviously impatiently waiting for him to begin playing another song like he had yesterday.

Wilbur shook his head and pinched the bridge of his nose tightly, forcing out a small smile as if he was telling himself and the world around him, I’m going fucking insane! Watch out!

Tommy stayed put.

“I’m not even going to ask.”

“So, are you gonna play a song or…” Tommy clicked his tongue on the roof of his mouth and rocked back and forth on the palms of his hands. It probably wasn’t the smartest idea to let a kid sit on the subway floor when there was a perfectly clean and open spot next to him—-not that he cared about Tommy, he was a kid that he had just met the day before, but he didn’t want to be the one responsible if he was to get sick or a disease or something.

It was probably overdramatic but Wilbur had literally never known a child in his life. He didn’t know what was right and wrong for them to do.

So, he scooted to the side and patted the spot beside him, waiting for Tommy to get the memo and haul himself onto the pillar. Tommy didn’t give much hassle, just rolled his eyes and pulled himself up, sitting next to Wilbur so their shoulders were just barely touching.

“Don’t make me lose business. Stay put and be quiet.”

“Business? Wilbur, big dubs-”

“Big dubs?” Wilbur interjected suddenly, face contorted with confusion.

Tommy leaned further into the cool stone pole behind them, setting his hands in his laps. He was way too annoying to be a businessman or whatever he had said he was yesterday, so Wilbur assumed it had to do with being taught proper manners. Minus the actual manners, just a good posture.

“Yeah, big dubs. Like double-u, dubs,” he looked to Wilbur for a moment and pointedly ignored the pained expression on his face. Whether that be from cringe or disbelief, Tommy didn’t care to know. “Anyways, as I was saying, you sing in the underground for money, that’s not business.”

Wilbur quirked an eyebrow, fiddling with the tuning pegs on his guitar. “It pays my bills so it’s business in my eyes.”

“No, no. Business is when you sit at a computer and they hand you those yellow folders with numbers in them,” Tommy nodded, sounding sure of himself.

“A manila folder?”

“Yeah, a vanilla folder.”

“Manila, not vanilla.”

He smiled wide. “Same thing.”

This time, Wilbur didn’t bother fighting Tommy on it. He simply pursed his lips and went back to tuning his guitar 2 keys down.

For a moment, it was quiet. Or, as quiet as a New York subway could be at nine in the morning.

“You said this pays your bills, does that mean you live alone?” Tommy asked, interrupting the brief seconds of peace Wilbur was graced with.

“No, I live with my brother.”

That seemed to pipe Tommy up again because he leaned forwards again, the heels of his palms pressed against the platform below them. There was an obvious excitement glistening in his eyes, a spark of interest that Wilbur did not find endearing, mind you.

“You have a brother? What’s his name? How old is he? Is he my age? Does he play any instruments?” Tommy rattled off question after question, shaking Wilbur by the shoulders—-figuratively, at least.

“He’s- good god, calm down with the questions,” Tommy shrunk away and his mood seemed to dampen at Wilbur’s tease. He pretended, for the moment, that he didn’t notice it. “His name is Techno, he’s my age, and we’re twins. I’m the only one who can play an instrument. But, I think he played the recorder in elementary school once, so I’m not exactly sure.”

“Oh, that’s nice. I didn’t know twins were real,” Tommy seemed nonchalant about his statement, leaving Wilbur with nothing left to do but stare at him blankly. And considering it had been ten minutes since he arrives and Wilbur still hadn’t played a song—what he came here for in the first place—he tapped the concrete with a gentle, repeating pattern from the tips of his fingers.

So, instead of questioning the kid’s logic like he wanted to do, Wilbur stummed an easy A chord, into an E minor, and continued on until he was at an easy melody for the song Screensaver.

Today wasn’t necessarily a bad day, he could sing some happier songs to brighten the mood, but Tommy was the only one who expressed their excitement over these songs. The ones Wilbur had written in the darkest time of his life, when he had made more boxes ticked on the con side of his list of reasons to stay alive, yet somehow, he stayed. It was purely out of spite, sure, but these songs still had meaning to him. Even if they made him panic or want to curl up and never face the world again, they were pretty.

Wilbur had always had a kick for lyricism and poetry and words of any kind, it was just- no one enjoyed them besides himself. But now, a sixteen year old with an obnoxious personality seemed to enjoy them just as much. He found himself not minding the idea of this kid being his only fan outside of direct bloodline, if it meant he stuck around to listen.

It was probably pathetic to rely on a teenager to indirectly vent to, but Tommy didn’t seem to mind, and any second Wilbur wasn’t singing, Tommy was complaining about it.

Tommy positively beamed at the words, sinking into himself like it was a lullaby, and by the time Wilbur had finished, strumming the last chord, an announcement for the 9:30 service to Times Square 42nd Street was sounding overhead.

An easy frown made its way onto Tommy’s face as he hopped down off the pillar, scuffing the toe of his shoe into the concrete floor. “That’s my train,” he sounded nothing shy of a rejected child—which, technically he was.

Wilbur bit down the disappointment rising on his face and nodded instead. “See you tomorrow?”

“Oh! About that!” The familiar voice announcing the opening of the train doors played again and Wilbur leaned forwards eagerly, not wanting Tommy to miss his train. “I have a meeting in the morning, so can we meet at the cafe down the road instead? 4 PM good for you?”

That was- Wilbur literally had met this kid twice and he was already being invited to hang out at a coffee shop. Plus there were seven cafes on this street and Tommy hadn’t even tried to specify which one.

Weird. He was very fucking weird.

Opening his mouth to decline (because why would Wilbur agree to meet someone’s kid at an overpriced coffee shop), he was interrupted by Tommy smiling brightly, lips upturned from ear to ear as his eyes scrunched up from the force of it. It didn’t seem forced though, and that made Wilbur smile a bit as well, for absolutely no particular reason. He was not amused by this kid. Not in the slightest.

And before Wibur could have the chance to say no and correct the kid on stranger danger—-which he obviously lacked—-Tommy was throwing a thumbs up and a thanks! before scurrying away and into the train.

Wilbur stayed put, frozen in place in silence for a moment, trying to come up with some explanation for whatever the fuck just happened. But to his dismay, a mother and two daughters, the same as yesterday, approached him with two dollars in hand.

“Can you play something from Moana?”

Honestly, he deserved a pat on the back for the way he was able to hold back a groan.

–

Wilbur entered the coffee shop at 4:00 PM on the dot. Well, he would’ve been early but Tommy didn’t tell him what fucking coffee shop they were meant to meet at, so he went to the other six on the same street.

He was a little confused on why there was a need for six coffee shops on the same street, but confusion from Tommy alone had worn him out for the next year, so that was enough thinking for him.

When he stepped foot into the cafe, however, Tommy was already nestled into one of the couches in the back corner with two mugs sitting in front of him. And for a moment, Wilbur was tempted to stay hidden and out of the kid’s line of sight. Tommy looked peaceful and calm, something Wilbur had yet to see from him.

But then, because of course it would, the idle tapping of his fingers against the tabletop and his gaze out the window beside him stopped abruptly, as if he sensed Wilbur’s presence from all the way across the room. He shot his head up, opened his mouth, and Wilbur barely had enough time to run across the room and slap a hand over his mouth.

Tommy squirmed and yelled muffled curses, thankfully quieted by the hand blocking his voice, but it didn’t stop the odd looks he was given from the baristas behind the counter.

“Sorry, this- uh, he’s my little brother,” the lie was painfully obvious, but the baristas must have bought it because he was given a nod and they went back to their work.

Tommy, however, did not. He stopped squirming and yelling, letting Wilbur remove his hand, and as soon as he could talk, Wilbur regretted it.

“Awwww, Wilbur! Did you just call me your brother?”

“I have known you for two days, Tommy. I had no choice because you started yelling,” Wilbur deadpanned.

Tommy stared at him expressionlessly for a moment, blinking twice before his face dropped into a small, hidden frown. If Wilbur knew any better, he would’ve assumed it was disappointment. “I know, I know. I was just kidding.”

Suddenly, Wilbur felt immensely guilty for ruining his fun. It would have been harmless to just go along with it and force a laugh, but Tommy wasn’t his brother. He would never be his brother. Techno was his only sibling, only brother, and again, he barely knew Tommy.

“Plus, it’s been three days if you’re counting today,” Tommy interjected slyly, any sense of sadness leaving his face immediately.

“You’re such a child,” Wilbur fell into the arm chair across from the kid and rolled his eyes, ignoring the way Tommy squawked at that and turned red with embarrassment.

That was helpful, he was embarrassed of being called a child. He didn’t really know why Tommy hated being called what he was. That would be like someone coming up to him or Techno and calling either of them adults.

Either way it gave him blackmail, so he accepted it wholeheartedly.

Tommy picked up one of the mugs, seemingly setting aside his baby rage, and held it out towards Wilbur carefully. “I got you a drink,” he grumbled. Again, childish, but Wilbur had learned better than to bring that up now.

“What is it?” Wilbur quirked an eyebrow at the cup but took it anyway, peering into it to look at the brown, frothy liquid with swirls on top. If he turned his head in the right way, it sort of looked like a lopsided middle finger. Kind of.

“Hot cocoa. You took forever so I ordered for you, but I already drank mine and then ordered two more and a cake pop, so.”

In a way that hurt to accept, that was the least shocking thing Tommy had said and Wilbur had the misfortune of hearing. It was obvious as well, from the way the kid could hardly sit still, bouncing up and down slightly with his hands on the cushions beside him.

“Yeah, I can tell. Thank you though, you didn’t have to.”

Tommy waved a hand around to gesture that it wasn’t a big deal, pointedly ignoring the five dollars Wilbur tried to hand him in return.

“So how have you been, big dubs?”

“I’ve been fine- is this supposed to be a hand flipping me off?” Now that Wilbur could see the shape properly, it was very clear that the foam had been shaped into a fist with its middle finger sticking up. Tommy didn’t respond, just put a hand over his mouth in a failed attempt at hiding his giggles. “How the fuck did you manage that?”

Shrugging nonchalantly, Tommy leaned further forwards off the sofa, “I told you the ladies listen to me. And the fish, but the ladies don’t fear me.”

“Do you not have parents or something?” Wilbur blurted, realising too late that it wasn’t something he should ask so casually.

However, Tommy raised an eyebrow in amusement, sitting back on the sofa like it could recline. “Of course I do, you think I'm an orphan or something?”

A sudden weight was let off his shoulders, one that he hadn’t even realized was there in the first place.

Yeah, it didn’t make sense logically for Tommy to not have parents. He was deranged and all over the place and really, really loud, but maybe his parents just worked a lot and didn’t have much time for him.

Like it had never been gone in the first place, that weight was back again.

But, as if he could read Wilbur’s mind, Tommy piped in again. “Let’s stop talking about this.”

The kid didn’t look upset by any means, but Wilbur shut his mouth anyways. He didn’t know the boundaries he could and couldn’t cross and didn’t want to be the one to toe the line too far and actually upset him. He had no idea how to console a crying child.

So, he changed the subject, “How did you even afford all this anyways? Isn’t hot cocoa like… five dollars a cup? And you ordered four.”

“Wilbur, I think you need hearing aids. And a wife… or a husband! I’m an ally! But that’s unrelated.”

“What?” Wilbur coughed out, mid-sip of his steaming hot cocoa.

“What?”

“No, you-“

Tommy rolled his eyes, clicking his tongue on the roof of his mouth. “See what I mean? Hearing aids. You’re old, Wilbur, how old are you? 32? 50?”

“Those aren’t even close in age? And slow down, oh my god. You’re so hyper,” Tommy bristled at that, likely knowing what was coming next, and Wilbur grinned evilly. “Like a child would be.”

But, instead of barking out curses and yelling at him for being a prick, Tommy shrunk into himself, wrapping his arms around his torso and looking away from Wilbur’s direction. Immediately, he felt bad.

“I’m not falling for this again. I may need hearing aids but I wasn’t born yesterday, you already pulled this one on me.”

“Did I actually? Oh, man. I gotta get better at this,” Tommy hummed.

That made Wilbur laugh into his mug, almost spilling his hot cocoa in the process and leaving the cafe with third degree burns. That would be a fun story to explain to his brother. “Better at what? Lying?”

Tommy nodded, “I’m perfect at everything except for lying.”

“Yeah? Why’s that?”

Obviously, he hadn’t learned his lesson previously, because a splash of cocoa fell straight onto Wilbur’s lap. Thankfully it wasn’t scorching hot, but it still didn’t feel nice.

Tommy laughed, as Wilbur rushed to clean the splotch of brown off his jeans before they stained the fabric, taking another bite out of his cake pop. Crumbs and loose sprinkles fell everywhere, dropping down his shirt and onto his lap.

“You still didn’t answer my question,” Wilbur noted after soaking up as much of the liquid as he could.

“Yes I did, you just need to listen better. Take my advice, trust me, I know what I’m doing.”

Fuck getting coffee with a friend, Wilbur felt like he had been inadvertently sent to babysit a toddler without any form of payment besides a cup of hot cocoa.

“You’re very dramatic, Wilbur. Maybe you need therapy.”

Wilbur pointedly ignored that question, instead moving to answer the kid’s previous one. “I’m 19, not a senior citizen.”

“Well how was I supposed to know that?” Tommy raised his eyebrows in question, turning the blame onto Wilbur instead.

“That’s not- oh my god,” Wilbur facepalmed, groaning into his hand loudly. He realised a moment too late that it was probably a bit too loud, alerting half the staff and customers around them, sending a weary look his way.

“Now who’s the loud one?”

Wilbur kicked him harshly from under the table.

When Tommy had eventually talked his own head off, the sugar rush from three fucking hot cocoas wearing off, he slumped into his seat, yawning discreetly and actually listening in this time to what Wilbur had to say.

Well, okay. Tommy wasn’t the worst company ever. He was loud and obnoxious, sure, but he did listen well. And he seemed genuinely intrigued to what Wilbur had to say, which was a first in a long time for him.

Nothing against Techno, of course, he loved his brother, but talking to someone who only listened out of courtesy, versus talking to someone who listened because they were interested was a very big difference.

He probably should have expected it, but Tommy did get up and leave at one point, frowning and dragging himself out the door with Wilbur following close behind. This supposed “meeting” that Tommy so urgently had to be at was an hour away by bus and started at six.

Wilbur’s watch read 6:01 when they made it to the end of the street.

Eventually, they split in different directions and went their separate ways; Tommy turning left and Wilbur turning right.

But, still, despite the utter chaos that Tommy was, Wilbur didn’t regret agreeing to coffee again the next day.

And now, he dealt with the consequences of those actions. Trudging through the front door of his and Techno’s motel, soaked from head to toe from the pouring rain that just had to begin halfway through his walk here, Wilbur was miserable.

Still, he couldn’t help but worry if Tommy had made it home safely or not.

“Wil?” Techno shot off the bed immediately, jumping to his feet and running the few feet to the front door where Wilbur was stood.

Right. He forgot to tell Techno he would be late, let alone that Tommy existed.

“Ew, what happened to you?” He grimaced, stepping back like Wilbur was some kind of wet dog and not his twin brother.

Wilbur, feigning upset, dropped his guitar case at the front door—-very, very carefully. “I was getting coffee with a friend and got caught up in the rain.”

“Niki’s back in town?”

“No,” Techno stared at him still, waiting for an explanation like a parent that had caught their kid sneaking back in in the middle of the night. “His name’s Tommy.” Still, Techno gave him the same stare and Wilbur cringed knowing he would never live this down, “He’s a kid I met in the underground when I was singing. He asked me yesterday to meet at a cafe today and I didn’t have time to tell him no, so… yeah.”

Techno blinked, a deadpan expression on his face. “A kid?”

“Yeah, he’s 16.”

“Bruh,” now Techno just looked over today. “You’re hanging out with a literal child. You’ve fallen off really hard.”

Wilbur blubbered, eyebrows furrowing in offense, “No I haven’t, fuck you! He’s a nice kid, he just liked my music!”

“Yeah, sure, Wil. Whatever you tell yourself. Denial is the first step towards acceptance or however it goes.”

Gritting his teeth, Wilbur grumbled incoherently under his breath, making his way to the bathroom instead and grabbing his bag on the way.

Without another word, he shut the bathroom door behind him and pulled a towel down from the rack, setting it on the toilet lid. He fiddled with the faucet until a roar of water poured out and waited a moment before dipping his pinky underneath.

He waited, and waited and waited and waited for it to turn hot, and then:

“Techno!”