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The kitchen counter glowed in the yellow light of the morning. The sun rose above the mountains east of the caravan, casting a soft glow through the rusted windows facing the dripping faucet. The countertops were once a beautiful maple, Will said so, but Tommy’s only seen the baby-food-stained, cracking, cluttered counter that now resides within the cramped kitchenette. Right above the toddler-sized step stool, which was nestled between the under-the-sink-cupboard and the old wooden highchair, Henry The Cow sat slumped.
Henry The Cow is an old stuffed animal that Father had given Tommy when he was only a few days old. Tommy thinks it’s hard to believe he was ever that little. In his opinion, babies are hardly people. He’s a person though, because, clearly, he’s a big boy. Will said so, and Will knows everything, so he must be right. Will also said that Tommy used to be just as small as Henry The Cow though, and that doesn’t make sense. There’s no way that Tommy was ever that small, since he’s so big now, and he’s only four! He’s got four whole years to his name, which is a whole lot. Nothing compared to Will though. Will’s nineteen, which is really old. Sometimes, he wondered when Will was going to die, but that made him sad, so he stopped thinking about it, and played with Henry the Cow instead.
The stuffed Holstein rested atop Will’s notebook, filled with indiscernible scribbles and scratches of his rushed writing—he always wrote too fast for his thoughts, rushing to catch up with his own head, filling the space between the lines quickly and effortlessly. Yesterday, Will tried to make a berry pie. The stained paper, lit by the yellow light, was filled top to bottom with his scrawled baking instructions. Will had used the best recipe in town, given to him by the baker's daughter, Niki, who told him how to make a pie exactly the way that her father makes it. Tommy had even picked the freshest berries from the bushes behind the caravan. He even had the best little helper he could ask for (Will said so himself and Will knows everything), but in the end the pie was cold on the inside and burnt on the bottom. Tommy still thought it was the sweetest, best treat he’s had in his whole life, but he also thought that everything Will did was great, so Will said he’s not a good judge. Said he was biased, whatever that meant.
As the sun rose, the yellow light filtered through the rusted windows and flickered against the cream colored walls of the narrow hallway. The sunlight made the wax mosaic of crayon scratches glimmer and gleam. When Tommy was three, he was left home alone for the first time, which resulted in a massacre of colors and patterns against the previously clean hallway wall. In the middle of the dramatic swirls and violent lines drawn in harsh bumpy crayon was Tommy’s magnum opus: a crudely drawn portrait of him and his brother standing side by side. The taller one, obviously made to be the elder, drawn in royal blue wax, was depicted wearing a simple pair of box-jeans and a messy picture of his old, worn jacket. The blue man was holding the hand of the smaller red figure. The rough strokes making up the fiery red boy-like figure were drawn in a blocky shirt and similarly rectangular shorts. Although endearing, it had not bode well for Tommy when Will came home that evening. Will was really tired, and Tommy was being bad. He yelled. He apologized. The drawing stayed on the wall.
The yellow light slowly poked its rays through the sagging curtains, tickling at a small blonde head of curls pillowed atop a lanky arm. The room is only barely big enough to fit the large bed centered within it. Pillows and blankets litter the floor and the bed (which is more of a large nest than a tidied bed), covering the two lumps under the old quilt. Blankets that were previously covering the boys had been thrown off and moved in the night, during the several different trips to the kitchen and the bathroom the two made. Tommy’s been in the habit of not sleeping through the night as of recently, getting up to play in the living room, getting a snack, or going to the bathroom, anything to keep himself up and out of bed during odd hours of the night. Every time, Will had to get up and bring him back to the room, each trip more exhausted and exasperated than the last he had made. Finally, the older had settled on holding the blonde, using his arm as a bar against Tommy getting up yet again, pulling his younger brother close to his chest in order to keep him still. Eventually, they ended up in their current position, Tommy curled around Will’s arm, cushioning his head onto his guardian’s bicep, drooling slightly onto tanned skin. Will was spread out on the whole of the bed, long, thin limbs starfishing to each corner of the mattress.
Both brothers were painfully exhausted, deep bags making homes under the soft pads of their eyes, twin dark crescents finding a place to settle on the pair’s faces every morning. The sleeplessness in Tommy’s face was much newer, however, only now showing up since he had decided that sleep is for babies, not big boys like him. Nonetheless, despite the deep exhaustion that had made home in their bones, the sun rose through the gap in the dark burgundy curtains, and the yellow light flashed against the outside of Will’s eyes, which, without a doubt, woke him for the final time that morning.
Like every morning: Tommy’s day began with a soft groan. Will, who was chasing any peace and quiet he could afford, rolled over with a low sigh, burying his face into the pillow beside Tommy’s head and trying to plunge himself yet again into the stark darkness of sleep. His whole arm swung over Tommy’s small form and settled itself, draped over Tommy’s body, pulling him closer. Tommy always ran hot, which was fortunate for Will, who was always very cold. Sometimes Tommy wondered how they were even related at all, with his bright golden curls and sapphire blue eyes—he looked nothing like his older brother, because Will was all dark oak hair and deep dirt-colored eyes. Regardless of the stark differences, they shared a bright, toothy smile, thick curls, slim, lanky figures, and matching freckles up and over their noses, scattered around their cheeks. Will often compared Tommy to a perfect slice of sunshine, made just for him. With a bright sunny smile, and a cheerful, exciting demeanor to match, sunshine wouldn’t be an incorrect descriptor for the small boy. Will knew this first hand, that his Tommy was a firecracker, some chemical substance waiting to react, and Will knew all about chemicals. He used to go to fancy science school after all.
A fierce whisper into the serene morning destroyed all of Will’s peace. “Will. Will, it’s up time.”
Will, of course, grumbled inaudibly, groaning and only lifting his chin slightly to rest atop the pillow instead of being stuffed into the cushion. His mouth, now able to breath and speak properly, curls upwards in amusement. “No, no up time. Later.”
“No. It’s morning, Will.” Tommy rubbed the pads under his older brother’s eyes with his small fingers, pressing into his face.
Grabbing at the small hands prodding at his skin, he held both of them in his own callused hand. Opening one eye, he peeks at his brother’s scrunched button nose and big round eyes. “Good for ‘morning,’ I’m sleeping.”
Tommy huffed, giggling quietly, amused by his brother's tired attempt at banter while still not quite understanding the sarcasm and wit dripping from Will’s tone. “You’re awake. If you were sleeping, you couldn’t talk, stupid.”
“Don’t call people stupid, Thomas.” Will chided, closing his eyes again.
"Get up,” Tommy whined, upset that he’d been chastised, and impatient for his brother to finally get out of bed and start their day. Whining again, holding out the ‘r’: “Wilbur.”
Will chuckled dryly, dropping Tommy’s hands and rubbing the base of his palms into his eyes. “Alright, I’m up. I’m getting up, I swear.”
“Quicker.” Tommy used his newfound freedom to crawl up onto his brother’s stomach, bony elbows and knobby knees sticking square into the paunch of Will’s stomach. “Get up faster.”
If a younger, more arrogant Wilbur saw where he was today, he’d be disgusted. A freshly sixteen Wilbur had his sights set on university. His future was completely planned out for him, he’d just gone into sixth form, he’d ace his A-Levels, and he’d be fulfilling whatever definition of success had been injected into his adolescent brain. Slim and charming, young Wilbur had been moody and miserable at best. He spent so much of his time filling himself with teenage angst that he never had a chance to be happy. He knew that if he ever saw himself today, nauseatingly domestic with no degree to his name—he’d only plunge himself further into desperate agony.
However, the Wilbur of the present knew that he’d never have been this happy without his little bottle of sunshine. There was no life for Wilbur Gold without Tommy by his side.
He sighed, groaning, but complying nonetheless: “Yes, of course, Mr. Gold.”
Click. Click. Click.
Yellow flickering light surrounded the crowded bathroom when the stiff electric switch finally turned the overhead light on. It didn’t always take a few tries, but years of water damage and poor maintenance have proven to be more than enough to ruin half of the electric devices within The Caravan. The light shines off the porcelain surface of the vanity top, smudges shining with grease and dirt in the dim yellow-orange light. The basin had long rusted over, toothpaste and infant baths unkind to the neglected sink.
Will once told Tommy that when he was a baby, his favorite place was the bathroom, the cold air and soft sound of the dripping faucet always putting the fussy baby to sleep. He refused to leave the bath even when it became cold. He'd immediately throw a fit as soon as Will took him out of the dirty water. His older brother said that Tommy’s lucky they live right next to a lake; he said Tommy was born to be in the water.
On the countertop, there sat a rusty old mug that Wilbur’s owned since primary school. His dad gave it to him as a late birthday present for his tenth year of existence. The colors of the mug had faded throughout the years, once a bright mustard yellow with compliments of dark purple and bright cyan; now, the mug was nothing more than a blend of pastels. The mug itself was placed there intended to be used as a toothbrush holder; however, it also doubled as a random collection of long and thin objects. Holding not only a small bright blue toothbrush and a larger hunter green one, but also a wide toothed comb, a pencil, and a stray fork. The tube of toothpaste was discarded on the other side of the basin, the cap hastily twisted on despite the minty blue paste crusting on the sides making it virtually impossible to ever close the lid onto the bottle.
Wilbur sluggishly made his way into the tarnished bathroom. Sliding sock covered feet over the cool floor, he held Tommy on his right hip, arm wrapped around the boy’s leg, holding him firmly in place as the pair made their way to the well-used countertop. Lethargically, the older took a look around the cramped space, mentally making a list of what he would have to clean up later in the week—realistically, he knew that he would never get to any of the bulleted items, he hadn’t in the past four years anyways, but sometimes pretending he would fix the mess one day was all he could do.
Ossified hands grabbed under Tommy’s armpits, bringing him up (where his little brother gracefully touched the ceiling) and back down onto the step stool. It had remained positioned in front of the under-the-sink-cabinets since Tommy learned how to walk, God knows how long it’d been since they’ve opened those cabinets, and honestly, Wilbur’s okay with never finding out what kind of creatures lie in there.
Tommy straightened up when settled on the stool, rolling his tiny shoulders back and lifting his head, trying to reach the uncanny height of his brother. Lifting his chin, he let a cheeky smile slide across his sleep-ridden face as he looked up towards the reflection of his brother’s coffee eyes, and watched a similar smile creep up onto his brother’s. They have the same smile, Will said so.
“What are you smiling about, silly?” Will reached over Tommy’s head and grabbed both toothbrushes, handing the smaller one to Tommy with a genuine grin.
The boy giggled, biting onto the bristles of his toothbrush, “Nothin’.” He looked up at his brother, big blue eyes locking with dark oval ones, both faces scrunching up in similar smiles, smile lines wrinkling around their noses and under their eyes.
“Nothin’, huh?” Will mocked him, raising his eyebrows in playful disbelief. “Well, if nothing is happening, then I guess it’s time to brush our teeth, hm?”
Tommy, who knew what was going to happen next, nodded ecstatically, taking the brush out of his mouth and holding it out shakily over the sink. Will took the half-filled tube and squeezed a pea sized dot of paste onto the wiry bristles, slowly he draped a similarly sized bead of old toothpaste onto his brush, bringing the brush closer to his mouth slowly and carefully, locking eyes with Tommy the whole time. Only once the toothbrush barely reached his mouth did he yell: “GO”
Both brothers raced to clean their teeth, Tommy leaned his head against Wilbur’s chest, lethargy finally taking over his bones after a sleepless night. Despite their hastiness in doing so, they brushed each tooth carefully, watching each other closely in the mirror throughout the process. Wilbur took his left hand, currently free from the brushing race, brushing against Tommy’s forehead, running from the younger’s brow to under the mop of blonde curls, pushing Tommy’s fringe away from his small face, resting his cold hand in the center of his brother’s forehead and pushing the boy even closer to his chest.
A little voice interrupted his thoughts: “You gotta sing the ABC’s Will.”
“I do?” Will grinned, tilting his head slightly in curiosity.
Tommy nodded knowingly. “We gotta know when we’re done.”
“Why don’t you sing the ABC’s today, sunshine?”
Tommy brightened up significantly, puffing up his chest and taking on the challenge. “Okay!”
Only then did Will realize the mistake he had made. “Stop sticking your tongue out, you goblin, you’re getting toothpaste everywhere - Tommy sing normally .”
Tommy shook his head, fully laughing, a loud howl. It only made more of a mess than before, foamy paste splattering over the previously clear mirror, the porcelain tub, and the smooth tile floors. However, throughout the laughter and the mild squawks from his brother, he remained singing, albeit muffled and rushed, he managed to finish the final verse moments after the toothpaste massacre.
As soon as Tommy finished the song, Will was yelling. “GO, GO, GO, SPIT AND RINSE GO!”
Tommy only laughed harder at this, coughing slightly at the rate he was losing air. It was the same routine every morning, and yet, every morning it made him giggle more than ever. Will scooped him up, both having freshly mint-scented breath and now awakened senses. Riding around the house in Will’s arms had always been one of Tommy’s favorite activities. He remembered dancing in the tight living room in Will’s arms. His feet were atop his older brothers’, his little hands in Will’s own scarred palms, they swayed to the beat of a waltz. Tommy had never heard a waltz, but Will said that people danced to one. Instead of using an expensive music player, or seeing a live band out in town, he hummed a simple melody. Tommy loved it when Will sang, it felt like a warm blanket curled around him, cuddling him and cocooning him in love. Even more so, Will always smiled when he sang, so Tommy knew that Will liked to sing too. Will said that Tommy was smart, and Will knows everything, so Tommy must be the smartest four-year-old in the world.
The sun settled in its spot within the sky, casting its yellow rays into the rusted kitchen window facing the leaky faucet. The pockets of shade provided by the chipped blinds lit the room in parallel golden lines.
Clink. Clink. Clink.
Tommy scarfed his breakfast down, scraping the hard plastic bowl with the small silver spoon. The golden light hit off his small frame perfectly to highlight what Wilbur’s always known; his little brother was his own little jewel, with ivory skin, golden locks, and sapphires for eyes, with copper freckles dancing over his shoulders and cheeks.
He looked out the window, eyes roaming over the lush green grass and clear blue lake. The reflection of the water glimmers and gleams in the yellow light, making triangles in the shimmering surface. The lake moved like small ice crystals, bobbing and floating in the water, light reflecting off of their geometric structure. He could see a mother duck wading into the water, her ducklings following not far behind; it was a good day for swimming. Tommy was made for the water.
"Hey Tommy?" Wilbur looked over to his younger brother, who was currently stuffing his face full with off-brand weetabix, his cheeks puffing up with the excessive spoonfuls of his breakfast. Wilbur smiled. Tommy Gold was his world. "Wanna go for a swim?"