Snekker's Snippets #1
I swear I still write, just don't finish anything. But what's a tumblr blog if I can't post little bits of upcoming work?
(also Tumblr is throwing a fit with me about formatting so you get asterisks for now)
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He asks Wilbur.
Well- sort of.
They’re sitting on the couch together- also sort of. Tommy’s become painfully aware of how much space he’s given by the Crafts. Wilbur keeps a decent-sized gap between them no matter what, Techno won’t do so much as sit on the bed with Tommy when they’re reading, and Phil has to be asked before he’ll even sit next to him.
It’s very… different.
Which automatically makes it annoying, because it’s different and strange and Tommy has already decided that’s bad.
But anyway,
They’re sitting on the couch together and watching a movie.
Still sort of. Wilbur’s engrossed in his phone and Tommy’s deep in thought under the guise of appreciating being let out of his room for once in his life.
(He made that joke when Wilbur propositioned the living room. Wilbur didn’t… he didn’t react much.)
Tommy’s thinking. Deep in thought. Profound thought. Much more profound than the fancy vase covered with probably expensive drawings on the mantle next to the TV.
And the question just sort of comes out.
“Wilbur?”
“Hmm?”
“I…” Tommy scrambled for a way to approach this. He may not be able to hold out asking any longer but he’s certainly going to be careful.
He catches Wilbur turning his phone off out of the corner of his eye, and he races to just spit it out before the tables turn on him.
“If you had to live in a motel, would you be fine with it?”
It’s absolutely not the best metaphor for the situation, but it does keep Wilbur from getting any more alert to the situation, and fuck it, Tommy was on short notice.
“I don’t know.” is Wilbur’s casual, unsatisfying answer. “Never been in a motel.”
He shrugs, and goes back to watching the movie.
Then he goes back to his phone when it buzzes and Tommy realizes that what his whole answer.
He tries again.
“...how about a hotel then?”
Wilbur shrugs again, “I’ve stayed in a few in my lifetime.”
Tommy waits eagerly. Tapping his fingers against the worn fabric of the couch.
Wilbur goes back to texting.
“And?” Tommy prompts further.
“And?”
“If you had to live in one, would you be fine with it?” Tommy repeats.
Wilbur sort of half-laughs.
“Why would I be living in a hotel?” he grins, eyes still not off the phone.
Tommy finds himself starting to mentally squirm.
“You just... are.” he says.
Wilbur starts scrolling through something.
“Now why would I go live in a hotel when I can stick around here for a hundred a month?” he absently asks in that light, teasing tone he likes to use with Tommy.
“Well, including chores. But it’s still better rates than what Techno’s getting.” he adds.
“This all about beating Techno?” Tommy asks, starting to grin along.
“Always, dear child. Always.” Wilbur responds.
“’m not a child.”
“Of course, dear child, of course.”
Tommy resists the urge to smack Wilbur with any one of the many conveniently-placed throw pillows on the couch with them, and instead goes back for the answer he needs to know.
“But would you be fine with it?” he asks again.
“Fine with what?”
“The hotel.”
“What hotel?”
The urge to throw something at that bespectacled face grows ever stronger.
“You’re a real fucking piece of work to try to hold a fucking conversation with, you know?” Tommy finally groused.
“Well it might be easier to have a conversation with you if I knew what we were talking about.” Wilbur responded, finally looking back up from his phone. “Not really tracking… this.”
Tommy felt himself bristle.
“Can’t you just answer the fucking question?” he snapped, “Would you be fine if you had to live in a hotel, or not?”
Wilbur sighed, an dramatic thing made overly so as he let his head fall back onto the backrest of the couch in exasperation.
“Very well, child,” he groans, “I guess it would depend.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?!” Tommy exclaims, although he feels like screaming.
“Means what it means.” Wilbur shrugged. “Why am I there? For how long do I live there? Is there a functional swimming pool?”
“Like that’s so important.”
“Extremely.” Wilbur says in mock sincerity, looking over at Tommy.
“What’s this all about, anyway?”
Tommy scowls, sinking down more into the couch. “Nothing.”
He thinks Wilbur watches him for a hot second, but when Tommy steals another glance over Wilbur is, once again, busy on his damned phone.
So Tommy and his still aching mind turn back to the movie and his ruminations. Neither comforted or unsettled or really any different from before.
Wilbur is fucking bad at this.
And Tommy is really fucking piss poor at metaphors. He’ll blame his piss-poor life.
****
Expert from the up-and-coming second chapter of Bummerland!
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