Chapter Text
There are only three interesting things that have happened to Wilbur in his short life: 1) when he was just the ripe age of thirteen, a sham fortune teller that worked outside the back of the mall told him he would die young in a horrible fashion, 2) his dad cheated on his mom with one of his subordinates from work and broke up their marriage, and 3) his mom died of early onset dementia, unable to remember his name and the fact that he was her only son and not some strange angel that she claimed him to be. None of them are particularly happy, but if he gets drunk enough on the watered-down keg that he stole from Sam’s old barn, he will laugh about the first until his sides hurt at the mere idea of the tragic fate he will apparently meet.
(It would need to try harder, even fate would need to somehow break down his guard.)
That list of events was in his head for years, something that a mere reminder of his own mediocrity and a way to cope with the shaking hands and night terrors, until when he turned fifteen, and his dad told him his half-brother was coming to live with them; a child that his father never told him about, a kid who only shares blood on his dad’s side, newly orphaned apparently due to an unchecked aggressive form of Pancreatic cancer. No “Happy Birthday, kiddo,” no “I’m so proud of you, son,” only “Your half-brother is going to live with us from now on, Will.”
His dad didn’t even care about the kid, only taking him in because they shared partial DNA, and it’s better than putting him into the system, but still. He didn’t even fully greet him when he opened the door, the seven-year-old standing on the stoop of their heavyset porch, trembling and crying; a stuffed cow crushed in his thin arms and his backpack almost falling off of his tiny shoulders; the boy’s minimal luggage behind him on the cold concrete. The adult he was probably traveling with just dumping him at their house with little to no care, thinking that this boy is in a good place now. Wilbur wishes he could say it was, but he knows his father, he has lived through his manic episodes and self-destructive behavior, and he knows if he doesn’t do something the child will be eaten alive in this place, the same way it happened to him after his mother passed.
“This is Tommy, Will. Tommy, this is Will,” he had been surprised his father even knew the kid’s fucking name, and then there he went, walking back into the house, leaving the two strangers together, unsure of where to go from here, one sobbing, and one anxious to figure out what to do, to try and fix the problem.
“I can show you your room,” he breaks the silence, trying to give the best smile he can to this scared child, “I’ll get your suitcase, don’t worry.” He inches behind the boy to grab the tiny plastic rectangle, one that is smattered with Legend of Zelda stickers, and it makes him smile to himself, because maybe, just, maybe they can get along. He goes to walk forward when a hand grabs his own, wrapping around his palm desperately, and he looks down at the blond-haired child, seeing his big blue eyes full of tears, it’s when he sees that there is only one trait that the boy got from their father. “You wanna hold my hand, bud?” He soothes, hoping the child doesn’t let go because he thinks Wilbur is angry; he’s not, he just wants to know if he is okay, and if he wants to come inside the warm house.
The boy looks down at the ground, embarrassment most likely the cause, but he nods lightly, as if he doesn’t want to see Wilbur’s rejection. “That’s alright, Tommy, I just wanted to make sure,” he then shifts their hands, intertwining his fingers with his brother’s own, giving him a reassuring squeeze, “Let’s get you set up, yeah?” Tommy nods again, allowing Wilbur to lead him into the house, shutting the door softly behind them, and leading him up the steps, always waiting for him on the step above, as Tommy hesitantly continues up them. It takes a few minutes, but Wilbur is glad that at least nothing fell, and that Tommy gripped his hand tight, finally reaching the landing up to the second floor, ignoring the photos of his mother that still hung, frames askew with glass filled with hairline fractures. “Don’t worry about that,” he speaks, keeping his voice calm, trying to give the boy a semi-convincing grin, and his new brother stares up at the prints, eyes wide and terrified.
It takes Tommy a few seconds to break himself out of the inner dialogue running through his head as he stares up at the destroyed photos of a woman long dead, and they continue down the hall, passing the bathroom and into the small hallway leading to their two rooms, one across from the other, while their father is downstairs, with the kitchen and laundry room. He opens the right door, reaching the back of his heel onto the other side of the door and kicking down the rubber stopper. The boy flinches at the slightly loud noise, he squeezes his hand in apology, beaming at him sheepishly, “Sorry about that, our doors have rubbers legs, I should’ve told you beforehand.” The boy just replies by holding his hand tighter, his frightened exterior melting away for a moment, and he lets out the smallest giggle that Wilbur has ever heard, and for some reason he feels his heart stop.
His brain takes a second to catch up to the situation, but he starts laughing as well, the both of them cackling together in an empty bedroom, only having met ten minutes prior; but for the first time since his mother passed, Wilbur feels hope. It’s a feeling that has long since left his repertoire of emotions, but right now, it finally blooms in his chest like a flower repairing itself after a harsh and cold winter.
It’s like the sun in Greenland, after six months of darkness and bitter weather; the bright warmth finally crosses the horizon, and brings about the turning of spring. The seasons have finally changed, and Wilbur closes his eyes and takes in the sunlight on his cheeks and the hand gripping his own.
A soft and bright future is ahead of them, and this time he wants to see it through.