"I can't believe you're making me carry around a huge fucking orca, " Wilbur complains, holding it to his side. "-Tommy, you could've bought yourself something."

The two are walking their way out of the arcade, towards the Nevadas brand restaurant.

"He's amazing and you love him. And if you really hate carrying him, I'll hold him." Tommy attempts to compromise.

"No."

Tommy fucking snorts. "Oh yeah, Wil-bur, you hate him so much, don't you?"

Wilbur simply huffs dismissively before placing the two back on track, the restaurant. The arcade, whilst enjoyable, had been incredibly straining, and Wilbur just wanted to sit down and enjoy a meal. The only thing causing Wilbur to hesitate was whether or not Tommy had any sense of table manners, but at the same time, table manners just aren't very Tommy, so he'll look over it, for now.

And , God, Wilbur is hungry.

He sort of always is, being a wanderer takes effort and more importantly, calories, and needless to say you need a lot of them to travel to the extent that Wilbur and, by extension, Tommy does. Wilbur never really did so, however. He was just taking care of himself after all, so he cared marginally less then he does now. Now he has Tommy, Tommy, and he can't let Tommy go without the right amount of food every day for the activity they partake in. And so, he needs to eat a decent amount, so Tommy does too.

(You know. Leading by example.)

It would seem Tommy isn't used to eating a balanced diet either, however. Of course being raised alone with no money to the point he had needed to steal meant he only ever got the right amount of food to barely survive. The two were both steadily working together in that sense to build up how much they eat in a day. And because of this, they've both gradually built up some semblance of an appetite.

The Las Nevadas Restaurant stands above the two. It'd be casting shadows if not for the fact bright neon was plastered all around it, instead casting a bright red and blue glow on the two's faces.

"This seems expensive." Tommy observes, looking at Wilbur.

Internally, Wilbur sobs.

"Great observation, Einstein."

"Just saying."

The two walk in to be immediately greeted with what appears to be the boy they had seen on the train before, purple hoodie being only barely visible behind the Las Nevadas™ brand apron. He wore a hat that almost seemed to float on his head as opposed to resting comfortably- it's as though there's ears or horns sticking upwards from his hat making it incapable of resting properly. The boy turns to stare at the two, providing a quick sigh before walking up to the booking stand. Wilbur notes that this boy seems significantly less enthusiastic when compared to the green man-- Charlie.

"Hello, welcome to the Las Nevadas™ Restaurant. Do you have a reservation? Tables are currently unoccupied if you haven't been able to make a reservation and you'll be served shortly." The boy states, voice flat and undeterred, remarkably uninterested.

"We don't have a reservation, my apologies," Wilbur explains, "We'll take whatever seats are available."

"All right, sir, our waiter, Charlie, will guide you to your table soo-"

" You called?" The green-tinted man is quick to slide in mid conversation upon hearing his name, in the same way a dog is beckoned. "Why hello there, Wilbur from L'manberg and Tommy from nowhere in particular! It's good to see you two! I'll be taking you two to your corresponding table, yes?"

"You know them?" The boy dressed in purple asked.

"Absolutely not!" Charlie smiles, upsettingly genuine. The purple boy sighs in response. Tommy can't help but laugh at their antics.

"Follow me, boys! Your table is just over here."

Everything is so expensive, and Tommy feels like living dirt.

Living dirt that's smudged itself on the iron decorating the floor and walls. Everything from the floor to the ceiling is beautifully covered in gold and diamond accessories and it's just so fancy that Tommy cannot comprehend it. Tommy thinks he's breaking some sort of unspoken law just by sitting on the chair.

Am I allowed to touch the menu? With- what, my filthy little hands? Absolutely not. I'll be arrested for vandalism or something.

Tommy thinks, before having a menu rudely shoved into the palms of his hands anyway. He looks through the menu with squinted eyes, bringing it far too close to his face as he does his best attempt to understand the names of the foods present.

He's embarrassed- because yes, he might be trying, but he's failing all the same.

What the- What the fuck is a Marg-Rit-Dee-Cah-Nard?

Margret De Canard, he tries to read.

Kass-all-Lett-Two-Loo-Sane-Dee-Lah-Mayson? What the fuck?

"Kassulet Toulousain de la Maison," Wilbur reads aloud for the boy upon noticing his struggle. Tommy is impressed and equally confused, wondering how Wilbur can read it all with ease. "A cassoulet isn't something you'd enjoy." Wilbur adds.

"I can like refined foods, Wilbur, I know what a-"

Tommy pauses.

Kass-ool? Kassal? Cast O Let? Huh?

" A cassoulet is a slow cooked casserole with meat and beans in it."

Tommy shivers.

"Uh, definitely not that. Wilbur, what is a- Coat De-- Boof? Boaf?-"

" Côte De Bœuf Pour Deux. Rib-eye."

"That sounds good."

"The price doesn't."

Tommy looks at the prices assigned at a small space next to the aforementioned meal only to see 170 gold ingots for it.

"Well, thank god I'm not paying!"

...

Wilbur's glare informs Tommy that- that maybe he should choose something else.

Eventually the two both decide on their respective meals; with Wilbur choosing a Duck Strozzapreti and Tommy choosing (with Wilbur's assistance) a Grilled Organic Chicken with a side choosing of Parmesan Truffle French Fries. As the two waited for their meals they discussed all sorts of incredibly informative topics- like how Bœuf sounds funny, which Tommy talked about for way too long- Only interrupted by Charlie's warm presence as he delivers the admittedly beautiful food to the two. Of course they chose relatively basic things from the menu, and yet even those pertained to the presentation of food worth millions. It was amazing for Tommy, he wasn't even sure if he was allowed to actually eat it. It was- It was too pretty. Tommy wasn't entirely convinced it wasn't made from plastic or porcelain from how perfect it all looked.

(Meanwhile Wilbur just ate it as though it was nothing.)

Tommy pokes the chicken with his fork and cuts it, in the same way he had seen in comics or fancy posters. He also observed the way Wilbur ate, particularly graceful and mannerly. It was- The food was amazing. Tommy had never eaten something so well done and well prepared in his life. Not to disparage Wilbur's cooking, it's just that the food he makes is clearly meant to be fuel, not an experience to enjoy . The fries were amazing too, and Tommy scarfed them down.

(One by one, of course. Table manners.)

"Say, Wilbur-" Tommy begins to speak, swallowing his food fast so he doesn't speak with his mouth full, hurting his throat a little bit in the process, "I might've misheard, but, did uh- what's his name, uh, Charlie? Did he say you were from-"

Suddenly, a particularly loud bang coming from the door being slammed followed by a booming voice rings throughout the restaurant- the voice's beholder being a slightly shorter man, sporting black hair and a beanie, a button-up shirt and black trousers, held up via suspenders.

"Heyy, man, good to see you, good to see you." The man beamed to someone neither of the two could see yet. "Can I get you anything? On the house , man, anything for L'manberg's number one, aye?"

Tommy recognised the man as the one on the fortune teller machine, and Wilbur quickly understands the man to be Alexis. Oh, what a coincidence for the man to be here the same time as Wilbur and-

"Anything for The Blade, ey?"

Pink hair comes into view.

"Oh, The Blade, I'm pretty sure I've seen him in posters for battles and sh-- Wilbur?"

No response.

"Wil? Wilbur?"

Wilbur can't hear Tommy.

Why is he here? He can't be here, He can't be. This isn't real. This can't be real. Please. Please don't be real.

It's been years, I don't- this can't be real.

What if he sees me? What if he recognises me? No, I can't- I can't do this. I can't.

I shouldn't be here. I need to leave. I need to go. I can't. What if he's here too? I can't. I can't.

"Wilbur."

It's not safe. We're not safe. What if Tommy's not safe?

I can't do this.

I can't do this.

"Wilbur, you're not breathing."

There's suddenly two hands placed on the sides of Wilbur's head. Their half empty plates have been moved aside so Tommy can stretch his arms across the table to reach Wilbur.

Tommy slowly takes his hands away, now placing them on Wilbur's own to combat Wilbur's tremors.

"Just- breathe Wilbur. I- I don't know what's happened- But, just breathe. Everything Is fine."

"It's- It's not, Toms-"

"Wilbur, let's go outside- Does- Would that help? I don't- Yeah. Let's go outside. It's getting cramped in 'ere, and, It's better outside." Tommy stuttered, trying to act like it's not a big deal, for Wilbur's sake. "You've gotten me all attached to the outside and shit, or something, I- Come on, yeah? Let's go outside."

Amidst his trembles and thoughts, Wilbur lets out a light chuckle over the boy's rambles-- with Tommy holding Wilbur's hand tightly as he continues to speak. Carefully, the boy guided the two outside, opting out of the main exit where the commotion was upon having what appears to be a celebrity around, in favour of the separate smaller exit that leads to a more quiet, open area.

Wilbur is quick to lean against the wall and slide down, breathing slowly, no semblance of pattern with each breath. Now, Tommy's no idiot, he knows something's wrong. Wilbur was shaking, he dropped his fork and went completely silent and Tommy meant it when he said that the older man stopped breathing. No air came through his lungs, he- he quite literally stopped functioning. It was abundantly clear that something was seriously wrong. But he doesn't know what that something is, and he doesn't know enough to figure anything out with any degree of certainty. And thus, Tommy decided to do the only and only thing he's confident in.

"Hey- Wilbur."

Wilbur looks up only to receive an Orca being thrown his way.

"Name him."

"I- Wh- Tommy, what the fuck?"

"He needs a name. I bought you a son - Or, or daughter, i don't know- and you didn't even name him. Or her. Or them."

"I'm- I'm not doing that."

"Yes you are- Name the orca."

Wilbur snorts. Past his shakes, and his sporadic breath, he snorts. "Okay- I, I don't know any names."

Tommy sits down right next to Wilbur. "I'd name them Clementine ."

"Didn't you name that dog from- from, uh, Snowchester, Clementine? Why- Where did you even get that name?"

"I had a pet moth called Clementine for a while and she followed me around everywhere and from that point I realized it is the only name ever," Tommy explains, "And, Clementine is a multi-purpose name. It can never go wrong. It's like, perfect, for everything, it's just, a perfect name, Clementine. "

"Sure."

Wilbur holds the orca and takes in the way it feels. The fabric that it's made of is soft, and delicate, it doesn't have that almost wire-like feeling many plushies get- It's comfortable, and pleasing to the touch. It's eyes are sewn in to add to the comfort, and it's nice and big, substantially more huggable .

"I'm- I, I'm stuck here, Toms. I don't know."

"Hmm," Tommy thinks, "I would name it Wilby, also."

"And- and why would you do that, Tommy?" Wilbur chuckles, shaking less than before, his body gradually becoming steady.

"Because," Tommy explains, confident, "Wilby is like Wilbur but it's all soft and shit, and the plushie is like you, all edgy and shit, but softer."

Wilbur laughs. Something about the way Tommy says things and how confidently does it- it's so funny to Wilbur, and it makes him so happy, he could listen to him for hours.

Wilbur's breathing finds itself in a slow pattern, and Wilbur's lungs open up. "Fine. We'll call him Wilby."

"Pog, Wilby."

"Was that you calling the plushie Wilby or calling me Wilby?"

"Wait- I- Oh, fuck off! I'm never going to call you that, dick'ead, you-"

Wilbur can only laugh. "But you do. I told you, when you get tired, you-"

"Fuck off!"

The two decided to leave their meals from the aforementioned restaurant in favour of something much more homely. They stopped by at a much more simple spot, the tables placed outside- trained animals flying and wandering around to amuse those dining there. It was substantially more cheap, whilst still having amazing food in regards to both quality and taste, with much more filled plates, too. Wilbur felt bad, making Tommy leave- he really tried to insist that the two stay at the Las Nevadas restaurant, and that he was just being overdramatic, but Tommy really didn't have any of that. A part of Wilbur wonders why he's letting himself be instructed and quite frankly bossed around, but he notices that by doing so he's easing Tommy's worries at the same time, and thus he's okay with it for the time being.

(He let Tommy buy a dessert, though. He still felt awful, it was the least he could do for the kid.)

"Are we stopping at a hotel again?" Tommy asked, butterscotch chocolate chip cookie dough in his mouth, being much more himself then he was in the restaurant prior. He realizes as the sky dims to an orange hue that it's time they figure out where they should be staying. "I saw one that's run by the same company as this, uh, what's the word- Food place, or whatever."

Wilbur smiles. "Yes Tommy, a food place. We can go there if you want. Don't you wanna go to the Las Nevadas Hotel though?"

Tommy doesn't respond, instead having replaced any and all conversation with his cookie dough.

Wilbur just sips his drink and lets him finish.

The pair entered their hotel room to be greeted with an incredibly different aesthetic in comparison to the hotel back in Snowchester. This hotel pertained the same general feeling as the, quote, " Food Place", that being a much more cosy and welcoming area occupied by warm colors and simple visual design. Despite the much more simplistic and cosy look, it was equally as nice and enjoyable for Tommy as he marvels at the relaxed beauty of the room.

The boy flops himself down sideways on the couch, laying down, enjoying the warmth of the plush sofa.

"You sleep on the bed," Tommy instructs.

Wilbur stops dead in his tracks. "What?- No, Tommy, I am not having you-"

"You need it."

"I- No, No I don't. I'm not making you sleep on the couch."

"Wilbur- I've slept in some of the worst circumstances a person could be in, letting me sleep on the couch will not be the death of me. Please, Wilbur."

"But Tommy-"

"No excuses, bitch-boy, sleep."

Wilbur sighs, knowing full well this boy's perseverance and stubborn attitude won't at all be swayed. Also knowing he's letting this child get away with calling him "Bitch-Boy."

"Okay, fine." Wilbur agrees, feeling awful, and yet, he'd be lying if he said there wasn't a small part of him that doesn't mind being taken care of. Just a little. After all, it's... it's been quite a while since he's had family treat him in this kind of way.

"To be honest, the sofa is actually quite comfortable. I like the pillows," Tommy begins to ramble, holding a neatly knitted dog pillow. "It's cute. I will name them all."

"Spare me from that." Wilbur whines sarcastically, putting himself into bed with the orca in his arms.

"What? You don't want to know about- Uh, Clara the cat pillow? Dara the dog pillow? Hmm? Is that it?" Tommy gasps, completely offended that Wilbur would show disinterest to his passion.

Wilbur just laughs, turning off the light next to the bed.

It's quiet for a beat, before Tommy speaks again, looking up at the ceiling.

His voice becomes something much more hushed and sincere.

"Wilbur, I- I don't know what happened today. But, I want to know- one day, atleast."

The night is cold and his voice remains quiet.

"You're always welcome to talk to me, Wilbur. Even if it's not now."

There's a lot more that Tommy wants to say. And there's so much he wants to ask.

And yet, he doesn't. He simply waits for Wilbur.

All he receives is a small sound of understanding from Wilbur's end before he hears a small shuffle.

Wilbur squeezes the orca a little bit tighter.

"Goodnight, Tommy." Wilbur whispers.

"Night, Wilbur."