Work Text:
“Tommy?”
The door slams with more strength Tommy knew he had. Chest rising up and down, Tommy stares at the worn wood in front of him. He presses his forehead against it, relishing in the coolness as he tries to take in what just spawned in front of him.
Wilbur was never supposed to come back. He was supposed to leave and be done forever and ever. That’s what happens when people leave—they stay gone. Maybe it was a trick of Tommy’s mind? He moves his eye up against the peephole, sucking in a harsh breath when the brown, shaggy hair doesn’t transform into something different. When the eyes and nose that they share don’t change.
It’s Wilbur. It’s undeniably Wilbur.
Tommy has two options here: either he leaves his loose ends untied or he risks burning them before even getting the chance.
Two knocks on the door interrupt his line of thought, and a deep, so very familiar voice says, “Tommy, please open the door.” A pause. “Please.” Wilbur sounds two seconds away from breaking down in tears, but Tommy is one second away.
He yanks open the door before he gets the chance to second guess himself. “What the fuck do you want,” Tommy says flatly, clenching his jaw when Wilbur’s mouth drops open. He even surprises himself—he expected more of a wobbly voice and maybe a few tears than unnerving steel.
“Tommy,” Wilbur breathes. “I’m so sorry.” He takes a step forward, Tommy takes two back. Wilbur's face crumples, silver glistening at the corners of his eyes. He has to fight back any sympathy for his older brother.
“No, you’re not,” he spits. Tommy holds onto the doorframe like it’s an anchor holding him above the surface. He’s on a sinking ship and the liferaft is only big enough for one of them. “If you were sorry you never would’ve come back.”
Wilbur lets out a shaky exhale. Tommy has to blink the tears away. He takes in Wilbur’s attire as a distraction: same maroon hat he left with, a new but ratty trench coat, and jeans that have seen better days. Dark circles paint under his eyes, and Tommy knows that if they stood in front of a mirror side by side they would be matching. Plus, it’s not like his own clothes are much better. The sweatpants he’s wearing are a few inches too small and the shirt is most definitely not in style anymore.
“I’m truly sorry, Tommy,” Wilbur sighs. He runs a hand down his face, eyes fixing on the ground in front of Tommy’s torn Adidas. “I had to save myself before I could save you.”
Tommy swallows, bearing his eyes into Wilbur’s face until his older brother looks up. “Then why’d you lie to me? You said five months–hell even fucking a year would’ve been forgivable. But five?”
Chewing on his bottom lip, Wilbur’s dark brown eyes seem to grow even more guilty. “I know, Tommy. I– I wasn’t expecting to be gone so long. I just got caught up. I joined a band–”
“You joined a band? A fucking band?” The familiar and welcome rip current of anger was pulling him out to sea again. Tommy lets it. “I was eleven. And you fucked off to a band.”
Tommy suddenly takes one step forward, close enough to shove two hands into Wilbur’s chest. Wilbur is easily put off balance, stumbling backwards. His foot catches and he almost trips off the porch. It would’ve been deserved.
“I had no one,” Tommy exclaims, throwing his hands up. Wilbur’s curled in himself, protecting his heart from whatever spills out of Tommy’s mouth next. “Because you left me! You left me. Alone.”
“But I promised I would come back! And I’m back!” Wilbur says, bordering on yelling. He’s crying now. Wetness starts to slide down Tommy’s cheeks as well, and he wipes at them as full body sobs start to wrack his body. Wilbur closes the distance between them, wrapping Tommy up in a huge. He can’t see straight, tears coating his vision but he lets his older brother hold him in his arms.
“I love you,” Tommy sobs, burrowing his face into Wilbur’s chest. There’s a faint smell of cigarettes—something he’s used to smelling in the house but never on Wilbur—and an uncomfortable scratchiness to Wilbur’s shirt, but Tommy doesn’t care. Wilbur feels like home, more than that shithole of a father Wilbur ran from ever was.
Wilbur hugs him tighter. “I love you too,” he says. The frayed strings holding Tommy’s heart in his chest tie back together. “I’m sorry.” He pulls away, leaving his hands on Tommy’s shoulders and looking into his eyes. “But I’m back.”
“Hi back. I’m dad.”
Groaning, Wilbur pushes Tommy away from him, grinning. “Shut the fuck up. Don’t even mention that asshole.”
Tommy smirks. “New jacket? It smells like smoke.”
Wilbur’s grin falters. “Well, joining a band… well it influenced me?” He shrugs, both hands up in the air. “Do I need to apologize for that too?”
“Nah,” Tommy says, “just share with me.”
The response is instant. “Never. And don’t ever start or I’ll murder you.”
“Fair.” Tommy takes a deep breath in. “What do we do now?”
“Do you want to come with me?”
“Can I go with you?”
They blurt both questions out at the same, making eye contact and bursting out into laughter simultaneously. Wilbur recovers faster, nodding and wiping at his eyes. Tommy copies him, grimacing at the sticky trail on his cheeks.
“Let me go…” Tommy trails off. He runs into his house and up the stairs. His emergency backpack is underneath his bed—it has everything he needs in it. Tommy only slows his hurried escape (he really isn’t escaping, so to speak, but more running to freedom) to put his ear against his dad’s bedroom door. Heavy, drunken snoring filters through the door, and Tommy can’t find any longing inside of him to consider waking him up.
“Ready?” Wilbur says as Tommy bounces down the stairs.
Tommy’s hands come up to his backpack straps, and he nods, heading straight for Wilbur’s beat up Toyota. “More ready than ever.”