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Tommy is sitting on the couch with Wilbur in front of him. In the man’s lap is a warm bowl of porridge that Tommy eyes uneasily. “Don’t blame me, Tommy,” Wilbur chides, “You brought this upon yourself.”Tommy is most certainly blaming Wilbur. If bringing it upon himself meant fleeing from a psychopath, then sure, it was his fault that said psychopath had broken his leg to stop him from running.“My leg is broken because of you,” Tommy explains and Wilbur frowns. “Not my arms.”With a bowl of porridge in Wilbur’s hand, the other holding a spoon, Wilbur’s typically wild gestures are minimized to belligerent spoon pointing. “I did what had to be done- and I’m trying to take care of you.”“Does taking care of me mean breaking my bones?” Tommy snaps back. Wilbur sneers. “One day, you’re going to appreciate all this.”“Uh huh, yeah, one day when I get rich off a fuckin’ Netflix special and my own ‘I Survived’ series-“Mid sentence, Wilbur tries to jab the spoonful of porridge into Tommy’s mouth, but Tommy swiftly evades. “Will you please be good?” Wilbur stresses. Tommy scowls, refraining from retorting, less Wilbur tries that move again. Wilbur sighs in frustration, and in only a second, Wilbur puts the bowl down, and now one hand is holding Tommy’s jaw, forcing it open while the other aims the spoon. Tommy squirms and tries to shove Wilbur away, but the man doesn’t hesitate to stuff the spoon in Tommy’s mouth, closing it for him and removing the utensil. “Don’t spit it out,” Wilbur warns, “I still have medication if you’d like to go through that again.”Tommy’s eyes widen, and he swallows the porridge. Wilbur’s demeanor shifts in an instant, a soft smile appearing on his face. “I knew you could do it. It’s a shame, though- you’re really quite a lot nicer when you’re drugged.”Tommy’s heart skips a beat, but he tries to not let it show. Last time Tommy admitted to being scared, he was coddled like a child… and then that very fear was used as a motivator. So, when Wilbur raises the spoon to Tommy’s mouth again, the sloppy porridge overflowing, Tommy takes it with not an ounce of dignity left. Maybe one day, when he escapes, it’ll be the details like this that make his Netflix special a hit. “You’re doing great, Toms, another big bite-“Tommy’s face twists at the childlike language. But, he’s not a baby in Wilbur’s eyes- he’s helpless. Similar, but not the same. All babies are helpless, but not all who are helpless are children.Still, Wilbur seems to think him as helpless as a baby. Without autonomy, without a respectable opinion, just a living doll for Wilbur to dote on. “Last one, sunshine,” Wilbur praises, and when Tommy has finished the bowl, Wilbur beams at the boy. “See! How hard was that, hm?”Tommy could laugh. Instead he slumps, trying not to move his leg in the cast. A cast which Wilbur’s already signed against Tommy’s gentle disagreement. Wilbur places the bowl on the coffee table before scooting up to Tommy, throwing an arm over the kid’s shoulder and pulling him close. “Your big brother is always gonna take care of you, okay?”“Sure,” Tommy murmurs, far from agreement. Taking care of Tommy looked like forcing him into locked rooms and breaking his legs. Wilbur’s care isn’t care at all, it’s control.
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Wilbur’s always been an asshole, Tommy just never realized how severe Wilbur’s condition was until yesterday. Give the weirdo a chance, they said, he might be a wonderful guy, a good friend, they said. What they don’t say, is that weirdo emos are rarely psychopaths, which, really, is an important distinction for someone as fucking lucky as Tommy is. So, the diamond in the rough that weirdo Wilbur is, is the reason that Tommy’s hands are tied behind his back, his legs to the chair, and another rope around his torso. Yeah, be nice to one weird coworker and suddenly the guy thinks you’ve got some weird, soulmate-y family bond. What does Wilbur call this? Destiny? Tommy wonders if destiny is directed by your own hands, or the vehement rejection of a refusal to stay the night. Tommy had gone over for dinner, and dessert, then juice, then a movie, then at two in the morning had insisted he needed to leave. Wilbur, slamming Tommy to the ground and knocking him out, had insisted he stayed. Provided food, shelter, water and a decent restroom, Tommy is given everything but a life outside of being tied to a chair. “Don’t mope about it so much when it’s your own damn fault,” Wilbur grumbles, tying the knots at Tommy’s ankles.Tommy, smirking, kicks his restrained foot and Wilbur jumps back in surprise. Looking up at Tommy, Wilbur glares as he ties the rope especially tight. “Don’t mope about it so much when it’s your own damn fault,” Tommy smugly retorts. It’s night, but in the basement, there’s never any light besides the blinding, yellow lamp above. When Wilbur leans forward, his hands wrapped around Tommy’s arms, his faintly beer tinted breath in Tommy's face, Wilbur doesn’t look anything like a man. His face looks inhuman, careless and cold, selfish and sharp. Wilbur, an inch away from Tommy’s face, stares down at him with dark eyes and a foul expression. “I’m only doing what it takes to make you realize we’re brothers.”Tommy scrunches his nose, jutting his chin forward and peering at Wilbur. “Now? We’re nothing more than characters in a serial killer documentary.”Wilbur scoffs, leaning back and crossing his arms. “I’m not a murderer, I’m not fucking insane!”Tommy rolls his eyes, theatrically saying, “Oh, yeah, sorry, you’re only crazy enough to kidnap teens, not kill them.”Wilbur scowls at Tommy in utter disgust. When he slowly grabs Tommy’s chin, tilting it up so Tommy is facing him, he knows that Wilbur’s relishing every moment Tommy can’t look away. Every aching second spent held in place by Wilbur, tilting his head against his will, and Wilbur, despite the frown, the disapproval, loves it. “I love you, Tommy,” Wilbur says, but anything but love is behind those words.No, I love you is anything but. I love you is a command. “I hate you more than I hate mosquitoes,” Tommy snaps. Wilbur’s lip ticks up, and his grip tightens.Tommy’s jaw is suddenly released, and he exhales, stretching his mouth. Then, he lets out a yelp when he’s yanked forward. An iron grip on Tommy’s collar drags the chair along as the boy is yanked forward to face Wilbur. Wilbur growls, “That’s not what I want to hear.”“Okay,” Tommy whispers. “I,” Wilbur hesitates, fingers flexing, “Love you.”“I love you too,” Tommy murmurs, eyes darting like a rabbit’s, his heart thumping like one, too. Pausing, Wilbur studies Tommy’s face, and Tommy wonders if Wilbur’s considering being ‘that fucking insane.’Tommy is dropped, and the chair falls back, wobbling before balancing upright. “You’re my brother. Act like it.”“Okay,” Tommy whispers, eyes locked on the cement floor. They’re just words, Tommy tells himself.
Just words.
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Tommy hates empty houses, their tall ceilings and echoing rooms. There’s cold air where his brothers, his dad should be, but Tommy chooses to look past it. He can turn away from the chill, wrap his wings around his shoulders, and enjoy his own company like a normal sixteen year old. Tommy perks up at every creak and ache of the walls and floor, breakthroughs in the silence. The air conditioning kicking on, the refrigerator buzz, the static sound the television makes before the screen turns to color. In the hour that Tommy is left alone, he waits for his family, sitting on the couch, curled in a tight ball. Tommy would rather forget his day at school, favor anticipating dinner tonight. Not every dinner in Tommy’s life has been with his brothers and dad. His miserable mother used to house him, while his brothers were kept safe at their dad’s. She won Tommy in the court battle, and lost him just as swiftly only a few years ago after grounding Tommy as she always did. The only difference was that last time, someone found him crying, locked in that shed outside, barely twelve, his body shivering and teeth clattering. Tommy doesn’t like being alone, and he doesn’t like the cold. The hour is nearly up, and he hears the doorknob to the front door turn. “I’m home!” Wilbur shouts, and Tommy hears shuffling and soft thuds in the foyer. Tommy smiles. “So I smell.”Wilbur strolls into the living room, scoffing at Tommy with his hands on his hips. His wide, brown spotted wings are not half as big as their dad’s, but twice as big Tommy’s. Wilbur’s primary feathers fall down to his knee in a resting position, and Tommy’s… don’t make it far past his waist. “I showered this morning, I’ll have you know,” Wilbur asserts, ruffling his feathers. Tommy shakes his head with an uncertain, raised brow. “Maybe another go will do the job.” Wilbur grimaces. “You’d bathe in mud if no one stopped you.”Tommy waves his hand, turning away. “You just don’t understand its healing properties, Wil.” Wilbur moves around the back of the couch, plopping down beside Tommy and settling in. “Oh yeah? Elaborate.”Tommy’s heart jumps, and he wonders if Wilbur would mind Tommy leaning into Wilbur’s space. Tommy’s wings give him away, a little fidgeting movement and an uneasy stretch say just what’s on his mind. Wilbur, who’s laid his arms on the back of the couch, his wings spread beneath him, notices the subtle movements. Avians are instinctual, even removed from nature and generations of descendants later, they still speak a language of nervous jitters and happy clicks, communicating everything they need to in the simplest way. Even more, they say what’s not just on their mind, but in their heart- and the young chicks aren’t all that versed in controlling their instincts. Wilbur sits up slightly, extending an arm to Tommy. “You could’ve asked.”Tommy hesitates, deliberating whether or not he needs this. When so many things seem to exist to make Tommy forget himself, should he really waste these precious moments over a nervous wing twitch? The world seems to be built against Tommy most days, and when he can grapple with the fact, he knows he’s been raised against the world. What is a boy to do when a loving arm reaches his way, and as much as he wants to grasp at this tenderness, he knows love is limited. Comfort has a cap, and it’s Tommy’s responsibility to know himself, and to know when he needs it, and right now, he can survive without-A gentle croon meets Tommy’s ears, and like he’s been knocked out cold, Tommy falls to his side and into Wilbur’s waiting arms. Tommy chirps in long, slow trills, responding to that croon, that affectionate come closer. Wilbur pulls Tommy to his side, letting the boy cling with his arms and wings wrapped around Wilbur, while brown dotted feathers hide Tommy like he’s just for Wilbur to have. Wilbur sneaks an arm below Tommy’s wings, and another lays in the boy's hair. While Tommy’s face is smushed into Wilbur’s side, Wilbur’s hand cups Tommy’s head, holding him like he’s a precious thing. “You think too much,” Wilbur criticizes. “It’s just a hug, baby, I know you need it.”“Mm,” Tommy hums, and he contently clucks without meaning to. “Today sucked.”“Yeah?” Wilbur whispers. “Yeah.” Tommy sighs, his eyes closed and his body finally feeling a sense of relief after being tense all day. Relaxed and leaning into Wilbur, Tommy can hardly have the energy to worry about falling asleep. Tommy’s instincts crave this kind of physical security, being held and watched over by an elder of sorts, feeling protected. (Tommy doesn’t think about all the nightmares he wakes from, wanting just that, because his instincts aren’t only avian.)“It’s cold when you’re gone,” Tommy admits, squeezing Wilbur. “Oh,” Wilbur exhales like he’s been hurt. “You know exactly what to say, don’t you?” Wilbur asks. Tommy doesn’t say he’s only being honest. Wilbur’s hands find Tommy’s head, scratching gently at his scalp and twirling his hair. Tommy, in turn, tries not to drool too much on Wilbur as he falls asleep. “Wha’s f’r dinner tonigh’?” Tommy mumbles, half asleep.Wilbur waits a moment to reply. “Sunshine, I will buy you anything you want if you ask me for a hug next time.” “Deal.”That was the fastest decision Tommy’s ever made in his life. Wilbur gives Tommy a gentle squeeze. “Promise?”“Mhm. Promise.” Tommy looks up at Wilbur, big blue eyes begging his brother. “Ice cream?” Wilbur sighs. “I suppose.”“Hell yeah.”If Tommy stays awake, fights the allure of sappy snuggles, he can drain Wilbur’s wallet dry with hot fudge sundaes. (Unfortunately for Tommy, Wilbur knows it’s a waiting game, and it’s only minutes before Tommy is out cold.)