Prompt: #36 – Tight
Warnings: Fluff, fluff, and more fluff. Twincesty hints.
Disclaimer: Standard disclaimer applies.
Summary: “I could have claustrophobia, you know,” he suddenly says, and yeah, he’s pulling that one right out of his ass, but oh well.
Comments: Well, since the whole Fluff Friday thing is a craze now, I figured I’d have a go at it. XD Posting for two separate challenge-thingies FTW. This is pure fluff, guys. Rot-your-teeth-out kind. Beware. Enjoy~. Written for 100_prompts.
“I don’t know why I’m doing this,” Tom grumbles even as he climbs into Bill’s too-small bunk. It’s a lie: he knows exactly why he’s doing this. He’s doing this because it’s impossible to resist Bill’s stupid pout. One would think that, after all of these years, one would be immune to it. Sadly, that is not the case.
“Because you love me~,” Bill answers, even though an answer isn’t required.
(And, yeah, that particular statement goes without saying—not that Tom’s going to tell Bill that right now.)
Tom huffs quietly. “This isn’t going to work, you know,” he says as he tries to get comfortable, which is nearly impossible in the limited amount of space available. He feels cramped and not anywhere near comfortable at all.
“Will so,” Bill retorts childishly, like they’re six again and he just has to be right. Hell, growing up hasn’t changed that at all—he still has to be right, and if he isn’t, heaven help the poor soul who honestly tries to contradict him. “It’s working right now.”
Tom isn’t just any ordinary person, though. As Bill’s twin (and older brother, thank you very much), he feels that he has the right to challenge him, and to make him see reality when he is blind to it. “There’s not enough room.”
“There’s plenty of room.” Bill wriggles a little as if to demonstrate, his knee bumping against Tom’s, and then he looks a tiny bit sheepish as he (very, very softly, because he never likes to say that he’s wrong) admits that maybe their bunks are just a ‘tiny bit’ cramped.
“’Tiny bit’, my ass.” Tom rolls his eyes. “When we can’t move without part of me bumping into part of you, or vice versa, ‘a tiny bit cramped’ is really stretching it, Bill.”
They argue in hushed whispers, not wanting to wake Georg and Gustav, who are softly snoring in the bunks opposite them. Of course, each is in his own individual bunk, and that means that at least those two can sleep peacefully. Tom has no such luck.
Their arguing takes them in circles and doesn’t really get them anywhere. Tom glares and Bill sulks, and when Tom threatens (it’s an empty threat, but that doesn’t stop him from making it) to go back to his own bunk, Bill makes a small sound of protest and reaches out, curling gentle fingers around a loose fistful of Tom’s oversized T-shirt.
Tom relaxes a little, but doesn’t give up the argument-that-isn’t-really-an-argument-b
Bill, nose nearly bumping against Tom’s now, just looks at him. “I know everything about you – everything – and you do not have claustrophobia, you dummy.”
Tom heaves a sigh, trying to think of some other angle he can attack from. At the moment, he’s pretty much drawing a blank.
“We’ve been together in tighter spaces, if you recall,” Bill says then, and it gives Tom something to work with.
“Yeah,” Tom snorts. “And obviously, nine months of that was all I could take. Probably got sick of you elbowing me in the eye and kneeing me in the spleen.”
Now, Bill huffs. “You know it wasn’t like that. We were as close as we could possibly get, back then.”
Tom semi-panics, because now his twin is getting all sappy-schmoopy, and that doesn’t exactly make for a great (non)-argument, does it?
Tom grasps at straws. “I could fall off of the bunk and break something!”
Bill’s eyes twinkle in the sliver of moonlight that’s shining in through one of the bus’ windows—he seems totally unconcerned. “I won’t let you fall,” he says matter-of-factly (oh no. More sap), moving impossibly closer. He slides an arm around Tom and hooks one leg over both of his. “I’ve got you.”
They’re sharing the same space, the same air, and with Bill’s proximity, Tom is suddenly reminded of all things home: Where he is always safe and has somewhere to belong and is never alone.
He always has that, though, because he always has Bill.
His lips quirk and he inhales the scent of his twin’s ridiculous hairspray (this, too, is home), and it doesn’t really seem to matter anymore what limited space is available in the bunk. They don’t need the space, not really. They have this.
He remembers this—their closeness… not that he could ever or would ever forget it. He remembers how they held each other as children. He even thinks that there is some untapped part of his brain (humans never use their minds to the fullest capability, right?) that remembers this even before they were introduced to the world—back when it was really just the two of them.
It’s a good feeling.
“Maybe this isn’t so bad,” Tom remarks after a moment, eyes closed.
“But you might fall,” Bill retorts teasingly, and Tom can hear the smile in his voice.
“You won’t let me.” Now, Tom is the one full of assurance. He snickers. “And on the off-chance that you do, I’ll be taking you down with me.”
“How generous of you,” Bill murmurs sarcastically, tilting his head so that his nose bumps Tom’s chin. “Share and share alike, huh?”
“Always,” Tom replies cheerfully, now fully relaxed and a little sleepy, too. “Now go to sleep.”
“Yes, mom.” And if there were no danger of falling off of the bunk in the process, Tom would possibly (lightly) kick Bill for that remark, but as is, he doesn’t want to risk it, and so he simply squeezes Bill tightly (not because he’s being sappy, honest! It’s to squeeze the breath out of him! Really. Really) instead.
He’s half-asleep when he mumbles, “Bill?”
“Yeah?” Bill asks, and Tom can tell that he’s half-asleep, too.
“What’s the opposite of claustrophobia?”
Any other person would have called him a lunatic for asking such a weird question. Those more polite would have just smiled and stared at him like he was a lunatic.
But not Bill.
It doesn’t take his twin long to reply: “I think maybe this is. The opposite of claustrophobia, I mean.”
There is no scientific term for it—no fancy, eloquent word that great poets would write of.
It is just this: them, together, close, and they don’t really need a name for it.
“Yeah,” Tom agrees, grinning broadly. “I think so, too.”
The fluff never ends with these two. Never, ever, ever. I’m not sure I even ever want it to. *LOL* I’ve gotten so used to the fluff that I don’t know how to write anything else. How sad is that? XD
I hope you guys like cuteness, because writing it when it comes to these two is far too easy. <3