#davetober

It’s been five days the brothers have been stuck inside their hotel room. (And thank god it’s a hotel room with meals in the building, otherwise things would be a lot worse). The snow won’t stop falling and the wind won’t quit howling. Wilbur had thought it’d be great to spend a week or two in Sweden, but he failed to realize just how different the weather is here than in England or even the rest of Europe.

Tommy groans for the millionth time, “When the fuck is the weather gonna stop?”

It’s now far past the time they’d normally conk out but neither of them can sleep, despite the exhaustion tugging at their lids. Evidently, being stuck inside for so long can really activate a weird form of feverish insomnia.

“No clue,” Wilbur sighs, irritated the repeated question. He checks his computer, which he’d gladly been able to charge for a short time when the snow had eased in the early morning. “If I knew, I’d tell you.”

The blond rolls over and frees his face from smushing into the bed’s pillows. He doesn’t say anything, only yawns through an equally annoyed sigh and rubs his eyes.

Wilbur loads up one of the downloaded Mister Rogers’ Neighborhood episodes he has. He walks over to the bed and plonks himself down next to Tommy. Silently, the younger sees the screen, catching on to what’s going on, and moves to snuggle into his brother’s side. One of his arm loops around the older’s waist while his leg on the same side tangles with one of the brunette’s legs. He sinks comfortably into Wilbur’s fuzzy tan and white-striped jumper.

“Mr. Rogers? Again?”

“Don’t give me that shit,” the hickory-haired boy retorts with a weak smile. “I know you love Mr. Rogers.”

Tommy snorts but lets Wilbur snake his own arm around him and pull him closer as he hits ‘play’.

As expected, the golden blonde doesn’t get ten minutes in without being slowly lulled to sleep by the soft, caring voice. Wilbur’s gentle rubbing on his scalp pauses––only for a quick moment––when he hears evened out breathing.

“Ah,” he whispers, not meaning to say that out loud.

He smiles softly, squeezing the teen closer to his chest when a flare of protection fizzes in his chest. Tommy’s hand grabs his jumper tighter and he mumbles something slurred that his counterpart cant’ make out. In the waxy glow of the lamp and the dim light of the computer, he looks like he did seven years ago––a little kid, lost and alone but finally finding someone to return the smile on his face.