ʚ Dovebug ɞ

There was a specific kind of tiredness--bone-deep and heavy--that encouraged soft acquiescence.

Other kinds of tiredness were remarkably less efficient; exhaustion that fell flush against stubbornness, and fatigue that lent itself to harsh words and harsher tears. When Tommy took advantage of the rare moments Wilbur could let him go to think of how tired he's been since Wilbur made Tommy’s home his, he wondered if the weariness he felt was as unique as every other trauma he'd suffered. If it could be so squarely defined within the constraints of human nature that Wilbur outright disregarded.

Introspection didn't suit him. Tommy turned over in his bed, pressing his pillow against his face to muffle the groan that rose in his throat. It was four in the morning, and he was restless. He was sleepy. He was a million things at once, but he wasn't asleep.

It could be anything keeping him awake. It could be the constant thrum of anxiety that lingered under his skin. It could be the guilt he felt for every person he had betrayed and lost. It could have been that Wilbur trained him well; that their night-time adventures had become so regular that Tommy was always waiting for the next move to make.

So maybe that was why he was having trouble sleeping; because Wilbur could steal away in the dead of night without a trace, and Tommy would actually have to live with everything they had been through... everything Wilbur had put him through... instead of piling more pain on top to temporarily ease the constant press of misery that threatened to engulf him.

The floors creaked. Tommy’s door swung open.

Or maybe he was afraid of something different, after all. It was still Wilbur--just like everything in Tommy’s life seemed to revolve around him--but it was different. Maybe it was the suffocating fear and lingering pain and shameful, sickening pride that, of all people, Wilbur’s twisted and uncertain feelings were for Tommy. It wasn't quite like love, not in the way that Tommy understood it, but... it wasn't not love either.

And Wilbur reserved it for him.

Tommy’s curtains were open a sliver, allowing the moonlight to peek through uncertainly. He felt a chill all of a sudden like the door opening had let in a draft; the air was muggy and stale, however, which explained the unbearable warmth of his pillow against his cheek. Wilbur’s shadow extended grotesquely across the soft carpet of Tommy’s room, his socked feet a whisper against Tommy’s rug.

He sat down next to Tommy, who was still facing the wall. Wilbur faced the opposite wall, glaring at his assortment of half finished sewing projects and crumpled up notebook paper on the floor. He didn't say anything, and Tommy ached for some kind of sign--some kind of message from Wilbur so he knew what this was.

So he knew if he should speak, or just shut up the way Wilbur liked him to sometimes, because he knew that begging or crying made Wilbur feel a shadow of guilt, which made him angry. Indescribably angry.

"You're awake," Wilbur didn't sound surprised. He didn't sound mad, but that didn't mean much: he was hot and cold, and it was nearly impossible to determine what Wilbur was feeling just by the way he talked. Wilbur was a liar, and a good one at that--Tommy thought to himself often that he knew Wilbur better than he knew himself, but even he couldn't always keep up.

"Yeah," Tommy murmured into his pillow. Sweat beaded at his nape, and he didn't dare turn around just yet. There was a lot more he wanted to say, but he didn't have the means to tip-toe around how disgusting Wilbur made him feel when his entire body felt like concrete and the world was moving slowly in muted colors. Tommy’s eyes slipped closed, but he blinked them open again when Wilbur shifted as though uncomfortable.

"Should I drug you?" Wilbur asked, voice so uncharacteristically soft that Tommy almost believed that he respected the unspoken boundaries of a quiet bedroom. He didn't slur, either; Wilbur sounded stone-cold sober and, judging by the way he kept his head angled so he could avoid meeting Tommy’s gaze, he was trying to skirt the edges of an apology. Wilbur rarely apologized, and he nearly never meant it when he did. The words were meaningless to him but meant everything to Tommy. "Would that make you..."

He didn't finish his sentence, and Tommy could have spent the rest of his life wondering what he was going to say that was so fragile it couldn't breach the air between them.

Tommy let out a deep breath, the constant anger and frustration that he kept hidden away behind his sternum escaping with the gust of air. "I don't like drugs, Wilbur," he said placidly; not quite soft, but not even nearly reaching the venomous tone Wilbur could take on when his vitriol extended far enough. "You know I don't."

Wilbur shrugged. It was casual but practised, like Wilbur had thought the action through and settled on it for a particular reason. He couldn't begin to understand why Wilbur did what he did during the day, so he didn't even try and just let it slip away. "You don't--there's a lot of things you don't like, Tommy," Wilbur said. His voice sounded rougher in the dark, deeper and darker to match the atmosphere that had been so carefully cultivated. "Doesn't mean they aren't what you need."

"Like I need you?" Tommy wanted to ask scathingly, but he quickly lost his nerve. He didn't hate Wilbur. He didn't want to ruin the calm between them to make a jab that would hurt him more deeply than it would ever hurt Wilbur. "I'm okay, Wil," he said instead. He wasn't sure if it was the truth; he wasn't sure if there was any foundation of truth between them. Wilbur communicated with pretty lies and ugly truths almost equally, but Tommy... Tommy’s entire life was built on the fact that he was okay.

Wilbur hummed, and Tommy knew that his brother didn't believe him with more certainty than he had ever felt in his life. His eyes watered--the cruel evasion of sleep tangling with raw emotion--and he felt flayed open in his bedroom. Tommy’s heart was messy. It had blown out some time ago, the shredded muscle staining his interior, but he welcomed the feeling.

"Would it make you feel better if I said sorry, Tommy?" Wilbur asked. "If I told you it wouldn't happen again, and that it was a dick move?" Tommy shook his head slowly, quiet tears making their way down his cheeks.

Wilbur sighed, pressing his palms against his eyes like he was trying to reset the wiring behind them.

They sat in silence.

Finally, Tommy turned onto his side more fully, his body bracketing Wilbur’s; his knees pressed against one side of Wilbur and his chest pressed to the other. He held his breath, but the touch was neither painful nor pleasurable. It didn't make him feel bad or dirty like he was doing something wrong (a feeling that took over him regularly), but he didn't feel like it was necessarily right either.

It was just...touch. Nerves seeking nerves and skin knowing skin with no intention other than to soothe the need for contact. Sometimes, Tommy felt so starved of everything, so bare of everything, that Wilbur’s fumbling hands and stinging kisses felt like medicine. It was painful to accept it, but the alternative was too; almost equally so.

Wilbur laid his large hand on Tommy’s head--he had the uncanny ability, even as Tommy grew just slightly bigger, to make him feel small and fragile--and brushed his curls back.

Tommy shook under him. More from exhaustion from anything else; that same tiredness meant he didn't protest when Wilbur pushed him over to the side, crawling onto Tommy’s small bed properly and trapping Tommy between him and the wall. One of Wilbur’s hands slipped under Tommy’s shirt, and Tommy’s breath hitched slightly--waiting for the night to be overtaken violently and the time between them to be tainted with self-loathing for just letting it happen.

"Go to sleep, Tommy," Wilbur whispered in his ear. If he thought he had been warm before, Wilbur’s body pressed against his was burning him.

Tommy had the brief and terrifying thought that this might very well have been the first time Wilbur had ever touched him while he was sober. It was difficult to recall through the haze of tears and betrayal and gut-wrenching anguish that took hold of him during the moments where Wilbur touched him in… a wrong way. Now, Wilbur was almost trembling, his fingers shaking with restraint as they pressed firmly against him, pushing him flush against himself. He didn't have the stomach to consider what that meant for him--to deliberate on the ways in which Wilbur could take advantage of Tommy’s fogged mind and his own clear one.

Tommy felt safe and unsafe simultaneously; like Wilbur was neither a danger nor a savior, and could be swayed to an unfavourable position if Tommy made one ill-thought-out move. He didn't know if he could obey Wilbur, not with them in his bed like this when he was so used to that closeness meaning something dark and secret, but his instincts--or hard-won conditioning--combined with the general weariness that hadn't let up since Wilbur came back into his life and made the choice for him.