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Adoration, one of the oldest seeds that had been planted into him, into the soil of the womb, nutured by the placenta and fed by the umbilical cord from a heart that pumped it constantly into the bloodstream.
Tommy has inherited quite a bit from his parents, as he’s been told on countless occassions over the years, from bruised knees and bandaged shins in cold floors playing with dusty toy cars to rubber-band wounded teeth and bowl cut hair and beyond, about how he has his mother’s blonde hair and his father’s blue eyes and their stubborn, spitfire nature.
They neglect to mention the adoration, the sheer constant adoration that he has also inherited from them, that bubbles up in his chest like champange and spreads through his wrists and ankles and smiles, until they’ve looped twice over.
They neglect to mention it, but Tommy is aware of it, has been aware ever since he first opened his bleary, sticky eyes into the bright white of the hospital room and had been blessed with his brother’s soft smile as his first sight.
Tommy may have inherited his mother’s dimples and his father’s veins, but their adoration — especially for Wilbur — he has inherited in spades. Far more, than what should be allowed.
It had been impossible to not idolize his brother, to not put him on a pedestal, to not crane his head back to stare at him, revered. Wilbur was the fruit hanging heavy and ripe on a golden vine, talent seeping from him constantly, dripping like ichor from the mouth of gods. He was silver-tongued and as sharp as a blade; heaven in his eyes, like old greek tragedies, and asphodel in his bones. He was beautiful as the sea and twice as consuming, the sly curve of his lips haunting Tommy even in his dreams.
Godlike, is what Tommy thinks of when he thinks of him. Divine, is also what he thinks of, when he thinks of him. Yours, has also been what he’s thought of, time and time again, and all of them are true, one perhaps more so than the others.
Mine, Wilbur had whispered when Tommy was five, and Wilbur eight, and Tommy had wanted to play with the seagulls on the coast and the other boys that chased after them, only to be wrenched back the shore into his brothers arms.
Mine, he had continued at fourteen, ditching his fall formal and cradling Tommy in a soaked suit filled with dried out flowers, all to prevent Tommy from doing something he can’t even remember.
Mine, and it is a constant that holds all these years later, growing in the abyss it had bloomed in, until it is one and the same, mine to keep, and mine to hold.
Tommy is Wilbur’s before he is anyone else’s, has always been so, as Wilbur would and has declared ever since he has known the meaning of belonging, has known ever since the space between his ribs has been filled with endless, all-consuming possesion, though that part, Tommy does not know.
Tommy is Wilbur’s darling to press against the rickety back door of the house, smile pressed into his collarbones and hands pressed into his heart, lips parted in a gasp.
Tommy is Wilbur’s baby to lift onto the countertop in the outline of a bleeding sunset, teeth at his soft chest and half-peeled oranges near inches away from where Wilbur’s pressing him down onto the slowly warming marble.
Tommy is Wilbur’s love to enfold into his bed, kisses candy cocaine and cigarette tasting, wrapped in Wilbur’s crewneck and his arms, until all he knows is immortality, in the way he’s been granted with clever fingers and cleverer ambitions.
Tommy is Wilbur’s something right now, too, as he turns his head to shoot a confused look at his brother as a large, warm hand slips into his, squeezing softly, mommentarily taking him away from the circumstances they’ve found themselves stuck in.
Their grandfather was celebrating his 78th birthday in his pretty, posh house that his children would never inherit, and that his current wife — who was twice as young and twice as vile — would no doubt murder him for. It was as horrible as Tommy had imagined, relatives eroding the last bits of his sanity, until they were frail, deadening threads.
Wilbur had, apparently, decided to make that worse. His brother has revolution embedded into his lungs and reckless inscribed into his veins. Adrenaline is one of his many lovers, and impulse his many habits. Tommy has never regretted it more than today.
The dining table could fit thirty people barely, and currently, it held fifty-three snobby nosed relatives, wooden chairs collected from many garage sales shoved into each other jaggedly like a wobbly Jenga tower, knees knocking into each other and elbows bruised, unable to leave until their grandfather gave his permission, and so, they were all stuck in their glazed haze as started his third — and hopefully, final — recount of the biggest fish he’d ever caught.
Wilbur squeezes his hand yet again, ignoring Tommy’s skeptical look in lieu of sending him a fond smile, one that widens when Tommy relaxes and squeezes his hand back, an endeared and loopy smile of his own creeping up on his face, like a vine, one that would no doubt grow in strength if not bitten back.
However, the warmth of Wilbur’s palms — far more langer than his and far more experienced — and this lovely, little moment was too much to stop it, and Tommy couldn’t help but hope that he could coax Wilbur into taking an afternoon nap with him after lunch, stomachs half full but hearts filled to the brim with love that would stave off the hunger.
The fondness had not lasted, however, and the thrill of fear — and excitement, though he would acknowledge that, far and far more later — slithered down his spine, whispering lies that tasted as sweet as cough syrup into his reddening ears as Wilbur tugged their clasped hands into his lap, and incrementaly brought them closer under he rubbed the back of Tommy’s hand over the bulge in his pants.
(For a second, Tommy considers slipping his hand out from Wilbur’s and wrapping them around his stupid throat and squeezing. For a second, Tommy thinks of strangling Wilbur with the necklace he’d gotten him with his three week’s worth of paychecks at 14 and Wilbur had never taken it off, since. For a second, Tommy thinks of slapping the smug smile off of Wilbur’s face.)
(He doesn’t, for he knows that knowing his reckless addict of a big brother, Wilbur would probably like it, and that is a can of worms Tommy does not want to open today.)
Tommy shoots Wilbur a glare, trying to convey the sheer incredulous feeling thats welled up in him, and which is fading by the minute as the haze of arousal wraps around him like a fog. Wilbur gives him a lopsided smile as a response, untangling their hands and pushing Tommy’s against the bulge, letting him feel how hard he was.
His hips buck instinctively into Tommy’s touch, dick twitching even under the rough layer of washed out jeans, and Tommy can’t help but feel proud, so ashamedly proud and wanted, at the effect he has on his brother. It’s addicting, being shoved into empty closets under the stairs and against the bathroom tiles simply because his brother could not bear to be apart from him.
Wilbur has always been patient, he is a predator of some sort, Tommy knows. He has no problem lying in wait, eyes calm and unbothered as his prety inches closer and closer. He has no trouble inching slowly and slowly up the tree, careful to let them come to him.
But with Tommy, the patience seems to be lost to the wind, and Wilbur seems to consider even a second of temptation far too great to wait. His hunger is vast and boundless and must be satiated, and Tommy knows he is loved when he sees the blown out hunger in his brother’s eyes, a heart that must be fed.
His hesistance must’ve bled over his face like watercolor, because Wilbur’s hunger subsides a bit and he angles his chair closer and his mouth closer still until it is nearly pressed against Tommy’s ear, his voice is soft as sin as he speaks, wrapping around Tommy the way he imagines flames must wrap around the devil.
“I know, love,” Wilbur says and though his voice is teasing, his eyes are serious. He lets go of Tommy’s hands to thread their fingers together again. “But, you’re just so pretty and lovely and I’m only human and god, Tommy, I’d love to kiss you until your mouth is bruised forever, until all it knows is the shape of me, I want your hand in mine always, I want to fuck you until you know nothing but ny name at all times, I want to love you and make love to you — you don’t, you don’t have to finish me off, Tommy, you don’t have to do anything you don’t want to, I just —”
Despite Wilbur’s mouth being a breath away from his ear, the rest of his words become a muffled hum due to the sheer rush of blood rushing into Tommy’s ears, the sheer power of this moment. It is Adam, being offered enlightment on a silver tree, it is rich and grand in splendor.
Wilbur, with his foxheart and pretty smiles, could have everything and anything he wanted, he could use his smiles to coax money from stiff wallets and favors from rigid spines, and yet, he uses his words to ask for Tommy, as though Tommy is all he ever wants and needs. A mortal, being plead to by a god, an imbalance the universe has allowed.
And so, he spends a breath glancing at the adults on the table who were either drunk or gossiping or both, far too wrapped in their own maze of problems to bother sparing a glance for the two lanky boys at the corner of the table. Tommy sighs, and ignoring Wilbur’s searching look, untangles their hands yet again and reaches over to squeeze Wilbur’s clothed cock.
Lovesick — that’s the only way to describe the grin that unfurls across Wilbur’s lips as his hips buck up gratefuly, he looks like a fool with that sappy smile on his face, one that sharpens as though he would like to devour Tommy whole, but he generously holds back, biting his lip so hard, Tommy knows its going to bleed.
He eases down the zipper of Wilbur’s jeans, thankful that Wilbur never liked buttoning them, often complaining that they were too tight, and felt him through his boxers, teasing slightly, before forgoing any foreplay and simply slipping a hand under the waistband of the boxers themselves and grabbing Wilbur’s cock.
It is warm in his hand and leaking, he squeezes it gently, almost fondly in a way that makes Wilbur let out a quiet curse, leaning back into his seat with a sucked breath. Tommy pauses for a second, choosing to stare at the soft flush of pink that travels up his brother’s face, he starts stroking, slowly at first, before picking up speed.
His fingers graze Wilbur’s tip, drawing small circles into the head, the way he knows Wilbur likes. He keeps his eyes on Wilbur, who is similarly looking back at him, as though no one else exists in the world, but them.
He startles slightly, when Wilbur’s large hand covers his thigh, he shoots Wilbur a look and shakes his head and Wilbur pouts, dissapointed but obliges, keeping the hand where it is, an anchor to the tide that is bubbling inside of Tommy.
He does, however, lean even closer into his sider, laying his head on Tommy’s shoulder innocently, eyes closed, looking for all the world as though he simply wants to doze, if not for the filthy things spewing from his mouth.
It is a stream of compliments and praise and desires, making him squirm and wriggle like a fish on a hook as Wilbur’s voice drops deeper, still, telling him how pretty he is and how perfect and all mine, Toms, aren’t you, baby and how Wilbur has been dreaming about this since morning, about how he’d love to split Tommy over and bury himself into Tommy until Tommy feels him in his lungs, about how he’d like to stay there forever, in the only home he’s ever known.
Tommy wriggles and writhes as much as he can in his chair, Wilbur’s hand tightening on his thigh until he’s sure that if he were to peel off his own jeans, he would find bruises that match Wilbur’s palms. He bites back the whines that tuck themselves behind his teeth, resting on the bed of his tongue, desperate to escape, and simply uses his other hand to drink a desperate glass of water, hoping to calm himself down, even as his other hand picks up in speed, much to Wilbur’s delight.
Just as Wilbur is about to reach his peak, however, and Tommy can tell by the way his grip of Tommy’s thigh becomes the tightest its ever been and the way he knocks his head into Tommy’s blond curls, an I love you on his tongue, no doubt, their grandfather stands up abruptly, dismissing them all with a careless wave, and Tommy shoots Wilbur an apologetic look and with one last squeeze slips his sticky hand out of Wilbur’s sweat stained jeans, wiping them clean on a napkin, crumpling it into a ball and shoving it into his own tight jeans. It would do no good to leave evidence of any kind.
Wilbur looks furious, glaring at their grandfather under the curls that fall into his face with a look that could kill, but he tucks himself in, and tugs Tommy up the long set of stairs, wanting to be surrounded by the crowd of people for the lesser chances of someone noticing his unkempt state.
When they get to their room, the one on the farthest side of the hall which is both conveninent and irritating, Wilbur nearly breaks out in a run, his grip tight around Tommy’s wrist as though afraid that Tommy would be stolen away from him, and he promptly locks the door. Tommy barely has a moment to take a gasping breath when Wilbur is shoving him against the sound proofed walls and kissing him as though he wants to steal the last of Tommy’s breath through his lungs.
He nips at Tommy’s lips and licks at the blood that spills immediately, soothing it and bruising it with more kisses and Tommy gasps and keeps on gasping as Wilbur’s clever tongue slips through his mouth, exploring all the small gaps between his teeth, hands enveloping his waist entirely and brusing it all the same.
They kiss for what feels like an eternity, Wilbur simply chasing him whenever Tommy parted for air, and his lungs felt like a firecracker and Wilbur’s mouth a matchstick and he couldn’t help but burn, he feels a bit as though he is being reborn, a phoneix pinned and adored against clear white walls, spotlighted by the steadily dying sun and Wilbur’s eyes.
Wilbur breaks apart with in a plea in those same, endless pools of eyes and Tommy has only ever known how to answer, he drops to his knees easily, preening at the way Wilbur’s hand slips into his hair instinctively, twirling star bright curls around his fingers.
Tommy unzips him hesitatingly, the same way he had the very first time they had done this, tugging down Wilbur’s jeans and boxers together and letting them pool around his ankles, just the way he knows that Wilbur likes. He feels heat pool between his legs like lava as he stares at the angry, red cock infront of him, leaking at the tip, begging to be touched in a way that Tommy had seen countless times before, but none more so than today.
“You alright there, baby?” Wilbur asks, tugging his hair gently, smiling at the whine Tommy gave as a response. “Good, go on then.”
Tommy wraps a hand around the cock, giggling softly as it twitched eagerly and Wilbur’s grip on his hair tightened immediately, he strokes him gently for a bit, building up pace, smearing the precum at the tip, using his other hand to massage his balls, he speeds up a bit, until he gets Wilbur onto the same desperate, drowning need that had consumed him before, before stopping entirely.
“Can I?” Tommy asks softly, looking up at his brother with wet eyes, smile twitching at the fondly exasperated look he gets in turn and the impatient nod.
Tommy presses a quiet, barely there kiss to the tip and the head, wishing he was wearing lipstick to leave a stain on it, before parting his mouth and swallowing him whole.
It is is bliss, pure and simple, it feels euphoric and fills up his mouth in a way that he adores, until his head becomes a bit fuzzy and he feels like a rocking boat at sea, the waves lapping at him, Wilbur’s hand in his hair, forcing Tommy up and down in sync with the rhythimic waves in his head, praising him gently and gently and gently, knowing exactly what he needed.
“You’re so perfect, Tommy,” Wilbur’s voice is raw and breathy as he gasps, but he sounds so adoring, singing love songs into Tommy’s ears and all Tommy can do is take it. “You’re so fucking perfect and good, so good for me.” And here, his voices drops in a lower, darker tone. “God, you look so happy like this, wish I could keep you like this always — fuck, Tommy, I dream of you beneath me whenever we’re apart, I want to be tied to you always, you’re always running through my mind at all moments of the day. I want to — want to, god, I want to marry you.”
Tommy startles a little at that, a blaring siren cutting through the lullaby of the ways, but Wilbur’s eyes are tender and open and truthful, his smile is so soft that Tommy wants to taste it, he bet it would feel as though he’s stitched the stars in them with how gentle they shine.
“I would, Tommy, and one day I will. I’m gonna — one way or another, I’m gonna put a ring on your finger and kiss you at the aisle, and I’m going to be able to call you mine forever.” There is a golden ball in Tommy’s chest, one that seems to grow with every word. “Till death do us part, Tommy, god, you make me so happy. You’re so smart and pretty and lovely, Tommy. I love your laugh and I love your smile and I wish I could keep you tucked in my ribcage, forever, nestled right next to my heart where you belong.”
Tommy whines and traces patterns with his tongue and Wilbur chokes off onto a low moan that Tommy swears he feels deep in his sternum as though something in him has shifted. Wilbur’s thrusting grows frantic, then, the crecendo building and building until it collapses on one final note.
“I love you, baby,” Wilbur says as he comes undone into Tommy’s mouth, eyes wide and adoring and in awe as Tommy swallows it all. “I love you so much, sweetheart, thank you for being mine.”
His voice sounds wrecked as he says it, but not from the orgasm, there’s something lurking in his eyes that Tommy cannot pin down, not the way Wilbur can with his, but it looks alight and happy, and so Tommy pulls back to breathe softly, and shoots him a besotted smile.
“Love you too, Wilby,” Tommy says, stumbles really, his voice hoarse, but the way Wilbur melts is worth it. “Thank you for letting me be yours.”
“Always, sunshine,” Wilbur smiles and leans down to leave a kiss to Tommy’s head, straightening up and moving to pick him up but pauses at Tommy’s pout and pleading eyes.
“You and your oral fixation,” Wilbur sighs, though it sounds far more affectionate than anything. He gently wraps his fingers back into Tommy’s hair again, guiding him forward towards what he wants. “Can never say no to you.”
Tommy shoots him a blinding smile and wraps his swollen lips around the softening cock, humming happily as he suckles softly, eyes closed and lost to warm feeling that’s wrapping around him like a hug and Wilbur’s clever fingers playing with his hair, praising him despite his own overstimulated shivers.
He’s not sure how long it’s been, only that it’s not nearly long enough before Wilbur is gently pulling him off, cooing at his whine and chiding him softly, telling him he needs to drink water before scooping him up into his arms.
Wilbur carries him over to the bed, drawing him sideways and settling him onto his lap, one hand immediately wrapping around Tommy’s waist like a creeping vine, whilst the other reaches for the bottle of water.
Tommy gulps it down greedily, he hadn’t noticed how parched he was, and he drains nearly half the bottle, pressing it back into Wilbur’s hands when he’s done, leaning his head onto his brother’s shoulder, catching his breath. He jerks like a rabbit when Wilbur begins to unzip his jeans, pressing down at the erection that Tommy had, in all honesty with sounds deranged, forgotten about.
“You didn’t come?” Wilbur asks, and he sounds confused even as his hands made quick work of Tommy’s jeans and boxers and before Tommy knows it, they’re being flung across the room.
“You didn’t tell me to,” Tommy says, flushing under the heated gaze that Wilbur stares at him with, the way he promply slots their lips together in a kiss that tastes like wildfire, swallowing the moan Tommy lets out as though he does not want it to go anywhere else.
“God, Tommy, you’re so perfect, how are you real?” Wilbur asks, and his smile is as amazed as his voice and Tommy tries to hide his face into the crook of Wilbur’s neck, but his brother tsks. “None of that now, love, I want to see your pretty face while I get you off.”
He swallows Tommy’s protests with his smile, breathing love into his lungs with his kiss, and Tommy groaned as tingles raced down his arms and his thighs, which shook slightly. Wilbur was sucking on his tongue, sending pleasure leaping up into Tommy’s mouth.
He’s so lost in the kiss that he forgets about where Wilbur’s hands are and can only gasp as they wrap around him tightly, just the way he likes, and strokes him to completition. The song has been building up for a while now, the tsunami seconds away from reaching its peak.
And Tommy can see the faint outlines of stars behind his eyes, feels the ache of emptiness inside him that blinks along with it, and that’s what makes him break the kiss and grab Wilbur’s wrist, muttering a soft, but firm stop.
“What’s wrong? Are you alright? Was I too fast?” Wilbur’s voice is thick with concern and his hands are rubbing soothing circles into Tommy’s back. “Do you want a break?”
“No, I —” Tommy swallows, shaking his head slowly. “I was going to cum — and I want, I want to come on your cock, Wilby, please.”
There’s a pause for a moment where Wilbur simply stares at him and Tommy’s worried that he’s asked for too much, if this is the last time he’ll never know happiness so absolute and brilliant before it disintegrates due to his greedy hands, but then Wilbur is scrambling for the lube in his jeans pocket on the floor and Tommy relaxes.
“So fucking polite, good lord, you are absolutely unreal.” Wilbur pants as he furiously tugs Tommy’s shirt off of him, contrasting the gentleness by which he settles him on the bed. “I would give you the world if you asked, my darling.”
“You are my world,” Tommy says and its so unbearably cheesy but so much like those romcoms that Wilbur watches and pretends to hate that its worth the burn of embarassment, for the way that Wilbur goes utterly still for a moment and then melts, like a biscuit dipped into tea.
The kiss that Wilbur presses into him then, feels like as though he is pouring tiny suns into Tommy’s mouth, pressing them so they can warm Tommy forever, when Wilbur’s not there for Tommy to revolve around, a lonely planet bereft of its sun.
Wilbur parts his legs open like the red sea and he’s Moses, leading people — Tommy, always Tommy — the salvation that they’ve sought and Tommy closes his eyes as Wilbur opens him up gently, and patiently, despite the growing hunger that had made his pupils blown out wide.
Tommy squirms as he’s opened up further, panting as Wilbur’s clever hands find the bundle of nerves they’ve been looking for, one the that makes Tommy’s breath hitch and his own eyes go wide and open, one that makes him feel as though the pleasure is wrapping around his throat and suffocating him, until it is all he knows.
Wilbur watches him crack and the edges and nearly fall apart, watches him shake and shake with eyes far too fond and far too adoring for something as scorned and sinful as this. He looks as though he has never seen greater beauty, here in the space between Tommy’s bruised knees.
“Don’t — please, Wil, wanna come on your cock, you promised,” and his lip is woblling and his voice cracks and there are tears spilling in chlorinated pools down his cheeks and Wilbur coos.
“Sorry, sunshine,” Wilbur sings, a siren song hooking around Tommy’s ribs once more. Wilbur kisses Tommy’s cheeks and his lips with apologies and Tommy forgives him with a gasp. “Got too greedy, you just looked so pretty.”
“Shut up,” Tommy scowled, though it lost its potency as Wilbur thumbed away the furrow between his brows.
“I won’t,” Wilbur hums, before grabbing Tommy’s thighs and manhandling him like a doll until Tommy’s ass was resting on top of Wilbur’s thighs. “You are gorgeous, Tommy, let me show you how much.”
Tommy bit back a smile and flushed, feeling like a sacridice under Wilbur’s searing stare, it all the more intense, now that he was bare and splayed out like a meal, to do whatever the gods pleased with him.
“Ready, darling?” Wilbur asked softly, punctuating it with a kiss.
“Hm,” Tommy wiggled his fingers from where they were placed on either side of his head and Wilbur immediately entagled them together, just like how this all had started, today and the days before, from the moment they knew they would both be crucified for it. “Ready.”
Wilbur slipped into him and it felt like home, it felt so complete that Tommy could hear it like the toll of a chuch bell, and Tommy felt his heart rocket from where it bumped against his ribs, he felt so entirely and utterly whole that the feeling welled up in his eyes and the back of his throat and before he knew it, they were pouring down his cheeks.
Wilbur’s pace is slow at first, the beginning of a melody, a duet, dragging warm and heavy inside of Tommy until the notes start to spin faster and faster and Tommy is bent in half, thighs pushed against his chest and Wilbur’s own, thrusts brutal and as loving as Tommy’s always wanted.
If somewhere, anywhere out there, if there were angels singing — Tommy hopes they are singing about them. He hopes that they are singing about the way his heart explodes in his chest like a dying star and the way Wilbur gasps out his name like its the only word he wishes to know. He hopes they’re singing about the way their hands stay entwined and the way the bed shakes with the sheer force of love.
He hopes they’re singing about the place where their thighs meet and where their hips collide and where their mouths breathe out I love you as their shivering, aching bodies melt into ruin, a nuclear disaster between the sheets and hearts knocking into each other, the way they always have.
He hopes they’re singing about the way Wilbur presses a loving kiss that tastes of salt and cradles him close under the shadow of the dying sunset and washes him down with a cold wet wipe that smells of aloe vera that soothes the burn of their collapse, praising him all the while in a low, devout voice.
He hopes they sing about the way he doesn’t pull out and instead, stays where he is — home, home, home — and simply tucks Tommy’s head into his neck and sings him to sleep, tracing soft patterns into his back as Tommy’s breathing eases, and soon follows after him, skin pressed to skin, as he’s always done.
He hopes, desperately and with every bit of wanting that he can muster, that they’re staring down from their little pedestals up in clouds and singing in a harmonious choir about the way the adoration grows in his chest, until they are unsperable and all he knows.
I hope they are singing about us, Tommy thinks, even as he sleeps, though he won’t quite remember it, and if they are, I hope they never stop.