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Another clap of thunder lands outside Tommy’s window as he’s folding up the last shirt to pack; a thin blue sweater, light enough to sway with the fan turning overhead. He distractedly picks off a piece of lint from the front, then sets it down among the rest.
Wilbur is sitting cross-legged on his bed in front of him, knees bumping the duffle that Tommy’s packing his clothes in. His hair shifts back and forth across his brow as he lightly strums on his guitar, body swaying gently in rhythm. He hums occasionally against the fan whirr and the quiet patter of the rain, notes steeped in melancholy and the sweet, imitant tune of morning birds.
They haven’t talked very much since waking up two hours ago, but they haven’t really needed to. Last night was full of planning, and worrying, and cracking giddy, nervous jokes, but this morning they flow around together peacefully, like fish swimming together in a fishbowl.
Once they had exhausted all of their nerves before bed- “I can’t believe we’re doing this”, “What if this all goes horribly wrong?”- all that remained when they woke was acceptance alongside calm preparation. The regretful dread shifted to reassurance- shifted to “We’re in this together, no matter what ”- and now the pounding in their chests at the very thought of leaving has settled into a deep, steady beat.
One hour from now, they’ll be leaving, and they’ll have plenty of time to talk then.
For now, they take turns collecting any wanted items from Tommy’s room and the connected bathroom down the hall, keeping in mind their footsteps padding against the carpet above his sleeping mother’s bedroom. Tommy packs the more practical things: clothing, and toiletries, and food, while Wilbur collects the sentimental: postcards from family, some of their favourite action figures as kids, a stuffed teddy named Gregly, and a box of music CD’s from their childhood that they listened to on this very floor- playing games, or voicing new comic book characters they liked, or talking about anything and everything in the world while drinking soda, and eating pizza, and growing up throughout the years.
Tommy’s going to miss his room, and the memories he and Wilbur made here, but he supposes his home isn’t really going anywhere.
(“Sap,” Wilbur had teased, when Tommy first admitted it. “Are you sure you’re the real Tommy? Are you positive?”)
Tommy takes a break from packing thirty minutes later to sink down into his chair, lay his feet up on the leather seat, and gaze out of his fogged-over window; fiddling with the rubix cube in his lap. Wilbur plays scattered melodies throughout the span of it, stuttering on the chords, not too focused on trying. Tommy eventually recognizes a snippet as Somewhere Over the Rainbow. He smiles once he realizes, looking over to Wilbur, and Wilbur’s already grinning back at him, head nodding slowly to the sound. The CD they have of this song features their own silly, kid-drawn crayon cover art, depicting a rainbow behind a tree.
Wilbur moves on from the tune eventually, and Tommy stands to finish the last of the packing, only the miscellaneous items remaining. Chargers, blanket, water bottle. Rubix cube, pens, metal straw.
Wilbur plucks wrong on a string, and he laughs at the weird twine it makes. He restarts it, and it’s steadier, and Tommy lingers on the sudden thought he has, stampeding over all the others, as he organizes his computer bag. There’s no one else in the world I’d want to do this with.
Wilbur feels more like home than any place Tommy’s ever lived. Sappy or not, he’d never be leaving if it meant Wilbur had to stay behind.
Wilbur is cheap generic cologne, and clean laundry, and loud giggles in public. He’s hands holding books, hands holding guitars, holding a toothbrush in Tommy’s bathroom, and the doorknob to his front door. His baggy shirts hang alongside Tommy’s in his wardrobe, and the air smells like him whenever he opens it.
Tommy’s imagined them living together many times before; pillow tucked to his chest as he and Wilbur Facetime, imagining his smell lingering in every stray corner and dishcloth of their home. One day, he used to think, and now, they really are off to live together, no less than five years later.
The fear may be intimidating, sure, but the relief and joy he feels when met with the reality of me and him, together, facing the world is unparalleled to any worry.
“I’m taking you with me.”
“Well, lead the way, then.”
There’s a resolute lull in packing after Tommy places his laptop bag next to the duffle on the floor, air stiffening with the finality, and Wibur stops his strumming to look up at him, sensing the stillness. He scans the room quickly for any last remnants, on the shelves and over the desk, then returns to raise his eyebrows in silent question. Are you ready?
Against the roof, the rain is slowing down.
Tommy nods. If you are.
WIlbur uncrosses his legs, standing and placing his guitar and pic in its shoulder case on the floor as Tommy zips up their duffle bags and backpacks- two of each- and lifts them onto the bed, into the dip where Wilbur was sitting, landing with a whump.
Tommy notices Wilbur reach into his back pocket for his phone. “What time is it?” he asks.
Wilbur swipes down. “Six-oh-eight”
Tommy breathes out through his mouth, hands resting on his hips, and nods.
They decided last night to leave at 6:12 exactly, giving them eight minutes to walk to the train station, and five minutes to wait for it’s arrival. There’s another train scheduled for 8:10, but Tommy knows his mother will be awake by then, and he doesn’t want to risk waking her.
It ends up being a peaceful departure. Grabbing and adjusting their bags and clicking Tommy’s bedroom door shut behind them, they pad down the familiar stairway and living room, marking a path through the ground floor, checking for anything they may be forgetting in each room. As they pass through the kitchen, Wilbur quietly gasps, setting his bags down carefully on the kitchen tile before opening the cupboard and grabbing the Cookie Monster mug he always chooses whenever he’s over. He actually used it last night for hot chocolate and then placed it in the sink, and Tommy feels relieved that they don’t have to wash it now. His mum must’ve done the dishes.
They make their way to the front door, resting shoulder to arm, and take in the expanse of the house while they can. The stains on the carpet, the twitching ceiling fan. The trees outside the window across from them, and the old couch sunken-in with use. The muddy floor mat, the messy coat rack. . . .Tommy sighs.
There’s a shuffling sound that comes from the kitchen, and then they both startle, wide eyed; Wilbur abruptly moving to open the door with Tommy pressing at his back- we can’t get caught now, God- scrambling for the locks before Tommy suddenly loosens his grip, whispering a soft “Oh,” and Wilbur turns back to see why.
Tommy’s dog Betsy wags over to them, nails clicking against the floor, tongue lolling out as she looks up at them both, panting. Tommy kneels down immediately, and she snuffles into his hand before letting him pet her.
“God,” he whispers, eyebrows creasing. He pets along her back, and she presses her nose into his knee.“I’m gonna miss you the most, girlie.”
She looks up at him, licking his palm twice, before turning and moving to bump her nose against Wilbur’s pant leg, prompting affection. He kneels down as well, setting the cup aside to scratch under her chin and around her ears. She whines quietly and buries into his palms.
“She knows,” Wilbur says. “Smart puppy. She doesn’t want us to go.”
“I don’t want to leave her either,” Tommy whispers, twisting his mouth. He rubs her tummy soothingly. “I really don’t wanna leave you, Betsy.”
She looks up at him, allowing them a few more seconds of affection, and then she cranes her neck to lick at both their chins before turning, tail swishing slightly, to head towards her bed by the couch. I understand, she seems to say.
They stand, collecting their things once again, and Wilbur sighs. They both watch her lay down. “We should get going.”
“Let’s go, then.” Tommy looks back at Betsy as Wilbur turns the doorknob, making sure not to click the latch too fast. “I love you, Bets-oo. I’ll come back sometime to say hello, I promise.”
Wilbur gently coos at her, too. “You always were my favourite dog.”
Betsy laps at her nose, blinks, then settles her chin on her rested paws. As the breeze blows in from outside, rustling Tommy’s hair, she closes her eyes.
They stand still. The clock above the TV reads 6:14.
“Let’s go, Toms.”
Tommy turns and sees Wilbur reluctantly looking at Betsy, his breath forming puffs against the chilly air. He takes mercy on him. “Alright.”
Once they’re both through, checking their pockets and fishing out the crumpled, hurried list they made naming essential things to pack, Wilbur sets the mug down once again to click the handle quietly closed.
Hands on the doorknob to my front door.
They walk down the neighbourhood, bumping shoulders in time with their steps. The morning birds sing to them as they pass.
I’m taking my home with me, Tommy thinks at them. They chirp in congratulations.
--
Boarding the subway this early in the day means the people surrounding are quieter than usual, sleepily sipping their coffees and preparing for their morning ahead. Tommy supposes he and Wilbur aren’t very different.
As they board and wait in line to grab a seat, they both spot a man a few feet away sitting and drinking from a realistic, foot-shaped mug. They turn to each other at the same time, you seeing this?, and then Wilbur raises his own empty mug, taking a fake, over-exaggerated sip while wide eyed. Tommy laughs, and Wilbur grins behind it in response.
They find two uncrowded seats, and as they collapse into them- cushions heaving with their weight- the doors for entry to the train sweep shut, signalling departure. They set their four bags down under the bench behind their legs, and prop the guitar case up against the rail and Wilbur’s shoulder. Tommy sighs, shaking his fist lightly in triumph. Wilbur reaches to grab his notebook and a pen from his duffle side-pocket, and when he straightens back up, Tommy immediately collapses into his shoulder, exhaling again.
“We made it,” Wilbur whispers into his hair.
Tommy hums, turning his cheek into Wilbur’s cold shoulder. “Almost there. Few more hours to go.”
“Are you settled?”
“I’m tired.”
“Not what I asked, but okay.”
Tommy pokes his arm. “Don’t get all snooty.” Tommy makes eye contact with the man across from them, expressionlessly staring at them. Homophobic, Tommy assumes. He stares until the man looks away.
“Okay, sleepyhead.” Wilbur’s been audibly smiling the whole time. He must not have noticed him. “Go to sleep, then, and you won’t have to hear it.”
“Maybe I will.”
“Fine.”
“Good.”
“Great.”
Tommy disregards the man, now flipping through a newspaper, to watch their reflection together in the window. He looks at Wilbur- hair tousled, coat collar crooked, and Wilbur catches him, a small smile on his face.
Tommy smiles back, and his cheek smushes harder against his shoulder. He sing-songs: “We’re off to see the Wizard. . .”
Wilbur huffs out a laugh- inaudible, but Tommy feels it breeze through his hair- and continues quietly. “. . .The wonderful Wizard of Oz.”
When Wilbur breathes out, Tommy feels it zing through his scalp and body like shivers. His spine sings with it, making him want to curl up and squeeze himself, shaking out all the Wilbur-aftershocks. He opts for squeezing his fists and toes into balls instead. He’s so happy right here- in this atmosphere, orbiting Wilbur. He feels like a lit firework, winding up to fire but never releasing.
The train rumbles on, jostling everyone’s bodies in synchrony. Occasionally, Tommy zones in to the various sounds around him- a mother cooing to her baby, or a man talking about a sales pitch on the phone, or a conversation between two friends rising in excited temperature.
Wilbur must sense his brain turning, because he presses a soft kiss to the top of Tommy’s hair, lifting his hand to trace the shell of his ear in a calming gesture. “Go to sleep, Toms. We’ll alternate.”
Tommy nods, feeling Wilbur’s stubble softly scratch through his scalp where his chin rests, and turns his knees inward to face him more. His leg warms where it presses against his calf. Wilbur picks up his journal and pen from his lap, the one he writes poetry in, and opens it to a half scribbled-in page. He clicks, un-clicks, then re-clicks his pen before setting it to paper.
Cute, Tommy thinks. I love him so much. He closes his eyes.
He reaches down blindly to find Wilbur’s sleeve, hooking his fingers into the space between the cuff button and the opening. Wilbur switches his pen to his left hand- the perks of ambidexterity- and Tommy links their fingers together properly. Wilbur lifts them to press a kiss to the base of Tommy’s hand, then to the back of it, and then to the pad of his thumb, before lowering them both to rest on his thigh. They squeeze each other's fingers at the same time.
Exhaustion drags through Tommy’s brain and rests behind his eyelids. The sound of pen scratching through paper serves only to lull him more, his habit of laying on Wilbur’s lap during sleepovers as he works now kicking in. The Pavlov effect.
“Mm,” Tommy mumbles, squeezing again. “I love you, Wil. Wake me when we get halfway, and I’ll. . .” He struggles to form a sentence, already fogging over with hazy sleep. “I’ll write some poetry for you, hrm?”
“I can’t wait to see that.” Another kiss gets pressed to his temple, then another. Chk, chk. Wilbur speaks muffled into his hairline. “I love you too, Toms.”
Tommy sighs, content, and then sleep is upon him.