Ours poetica

I gave shape to my fears. I varied my velocities, watched myself sleep.

TWs: mentioned drinking, smoking/vaping, jokes about car-crashes, arguing, light-hearted threats, mentions of bombs/explosives (as metaphor)

Wilbur wasn't sure why he had said yes.

Alright, well, that wasn't exactly the truth; he wasn't sure why he had thought it was a good idea to say yes. When Tommy had knocked on his door, blundering through a half-arsed plea to hitch a ride to Kinoko's at 9pm on a Thursday night, Wilbur's immediate impulse was to curtly say 'no' and close the door on his little brother's face. Sure, it would've been a bit bitchy, but Wilbur still hadn't gotten over his jet-lag from the flight over and it was 7am his time (but it was pitch black outside, and Wilbur's internal clock had no idea what to do with that), and he was still on edge from last night's dinner-fiasco.

Subconsciously, Wilbur knew that his reaction to Tommy's avoidant nature was irrational, and he knew that it was probably a confluence of multiple stressors such as the fact he had forgotten to pack his toiletries and needed to scour for a toothbrush an acceptable shampoo (Techno's would not cut it), but he still couldn't help the hurt that had begun to simmer at the thought that Tommy didn't want to talk to him. Once upon a time, Tommy would have given anything to ramble about his latest interest to his older brother, to occupy the teen's time with stories of his escapades half-baked with fibs—this New Tommy was the complete opposite. New Tommy was quiet, secretive, and so angry; it had unsettled both Wilbur and Techno how the youngest's fury was no longer something explosive, now it was burrowed underneath measured glares and words that were pinpricks of poison, the tip of something much sharper and so much more venomous. Techno had admitted that it made him 'nervous', which is to say that his twin was terrified by the seventeen year old—he compared the anger to thunderclouds, to something heavy with rain and lightning, just waiting to strike. He's the calm before the storm now, Techno had said, a wind waiting to change. A tempest, if you will.

You are so fucking pretentious. And dramatic, Wilbur had snarked back, but still he felt dread pool in his stomach, God, English majors—he's just a teenager, Tech. It'll be fine. Yet, even as he said it, he knew the words were nothing more than hollow attempts at reassurance. That palpable anger that lined Tommy's movements, quick as a flash and more bite than bark...

Wilbur thought it was a time bomb.

(And wasn't that even more terrifying? His brother was still an explosive, just not one of firework-bright colors and hissing pops, not something harmless until you got too close—he was something of smoke, of gunpowder, of echoes and foundation-less buildings with blown-out windows. He was a thing of destruction. And he was just like Wilbur—)

Nope. That train of thought would not be leaving the station; there would be no self-deprecation today! (God, his therapist would be proud)

Regardless of detonators or rain clouds, the two twins had come to an unspoken agreement: they needed to figure out what the boy was hiding. Whatever he was being so secretive about, whatever kept him locked in his room, muttering to himself late into the night, it had to do with the reason he was treating his family like broken glass. He was always dancing around them, avoiding the casual touches Wilbur offered his way, dodging Techno's stilted attempts at affection with every hurried exit out of the living room or kitchen. Wilbur didn't have to pretend it didn't hurt, because it did; it was a needle weaseled in-between the slots of his ribcage; it was someone ripping his diaphragm out from under his lungs; it was painful and it hurt.

(And he knew Techno felt the same, even if his brother remained ever-stoic and stubborn, refusing to share more than a hesitant glance with his twin and shrug in feigned indifference. He knew it from the way the Grad student would lean haltingly towards the blonde as if to reach out, as if to swallow him in a hug and never let go. Techno never was good at this whole affection thing—he always loved too little or too much. Him and Wilbur were the same in that way)