Work Text:
—
Chained in place, is the best way Tommy can describe it. There are chains on his ankles holding him in place and he cannot move until someone frees him. It is something he has never spoken aloud—for the sole reason that he thinks it embarrassing. At seventeen, he still can’t go on with his day if he takes his leave, says ‘goodbye’, and isn’t given back the same. Isn’t that absolutely fucking stupid.
He needs to be told goodbye or he feels unfinished; like whatever he was doing is still open-ended and he can’t go on until it’s firmly shut. He needs closure—on a very miniscule scale, that’s what it feels like.
1:
He walks into the living room, drops his backpack beside the sofa and throws himself on the soft cushions. “I can’t even think and you want me to find out if I’m free Saturday?”
Wilbur sighs. “If you want to come over, then yes, do that.”
Scoffing, Tommy struggles to turn onto his back, putting Wilbur on speakerphone, “Hold on, bitch.” He ignores Wilbur’s huff and opens up his calendar. “I can do Saturday, yeah.”
“Good, now double check with your parents.”
“Ugh, they already agreed, Wilbur.”
Wilbur mocks his high tone, “But I don’t care, Tommy. Ask them again.”
“Fine.” He rolls his eyes.
There’s a beat of comfortable silence, and Tommy toes off his shoes, throwing them off the side of the sofa, knowing the call was about to end—he’s going to take a nap where he was, and his mother’s going to scold him later, but he’s too tired to get up.
When he doesn’t say anything more, Wilbur huffs out a laugh. “Is that all, child?”
Tommy turns to his side, burying his face into the cushion, his words coming out muffled, “Yes, that is all, adult. Bye, Wil.”
With a giggle, Wilbur hangs up.
Tommy stiffens. His brows scrunch down into a confused, and uncomfortable, furrow. He slowly turns on his back, then sits up when that feels off as well. His chest feels oddly tight—he gently rubs it, but his heart is still constricting. Wilbur just hung up without saying goodbye.
The exhaustion he was feeling evaporates against the deep confusion and distress his body and mind are in.
He tries, for a few minutes, to ‘get over it’; maybe this can be his healing moment. Yet, even as he puts his phone to the side, lays back down, and tries to get some rest, he feels tightly wound—too tense and on edge. It’s almost like when someone says ‘hey, guess what?’ and when you expectantly respond with ‘what?’, they walk away, leaving you hanging—but multiplied by a million.
The curling in his stomach—the first-hand knowledge that he absolutely won’t be able to go on with his day normally—drives him to sit up again. He shakes his head at his own stupid brain, and grabs his phone. He pulls his knees to his chest, and, with a deep breath, calls Wilbur back.
It rings for a second before Wilbur picks up, sounding a little perplexed. “Tommy?”
Tommy can’t let on that he’s mentally fucked, so he huffs—puts on a big, theatrical tone, and demands, “I said goodbye, Wilbur Fucking Soot.”
“What? Yeah, I heard you.” Wilbur responds, baffled.
“And?” Tommy presses, heart pounding. “What do you say? Come on, Wil, I know you’re a big boy.”
Wilbur barks a laugh. “What is wrong with you? Oh god. Alright, goodbye, TommyInnit. I’ll see you this Saturday- talk to you probably later tonight.”
His whole being loosens—emancipated from the tension holding it hostage. He leans fully back, resting his head on the back of the sofa, eyes closed. Thank you, he wants to say. “Bye, Wil.”
Probably thinking it’s another bit, Wilbur sighs long-sufferingly, and hangs up.
Tommy rests.
2:
He wasn’t planning on joining the stream, and Wilbur definitely didn’t know he was going to either—but hearing Wilbur call him Lovejoy’s ‘quality control’, saying he values Tommy’s opinion so much he trusts to him with his band, is a bit much for even Tommy to handle. So, he joins, jokes around, and has fun.
It’s some of the most fun he’s had recently on stream—and that’s saying a lot; he’s been having a really good time streaming lately. It’s just, Wilbur calling him his brother, calling himself the original big brother, being protective of him—it’s a lot.
When Wilbur starts going on one of his hyperfocused tangets about the fucking name Clive, Tommy shakes his head. He does have to get ready for tomorrow, so he interjects, “Okay, I’m gonna go. Bye!”
He thinks he hears someone call out a farewell and, without thinking about it, leaves the VC. Immediately, he realizes Wilbur hadn’t said anything. He sits upright in his chair, and realizes his body won’t cooperate with him; he can’t get up and go on with his night.
He could, in theory, join back and bother Wilbur for a goodbye—might be a funny bit, but he feels timid, self-conscious. He can’t.
Taking a deep breath, he opens his and Wilbur’s DM’s. The key is to make it come across as a joke.
Tommy: not even a goodbye for your little brother? knew you hated me :(
Wilbur: didn’t want you to find out like this :(
Tommy: wilbur.
Wilbur: hm?
Tommy: im going to bed. goodbye.
Wilbur: you’re such a fan, oh my god. GOODBYE, tommy
Tommy: ty ily :D
Wilbur: love you
3:
Tommy decides he hates streams. From now on, he will not be joining anybody’s VCs. It is now in his DNI, and anyone who asks him to join one will be cancelled for breaking his boundaries.
It fucking sucks.
All he’d done was fuck around on Wilbur’s stream—had a blast of a time—and then remembered he needed to do the dishes, and it was already late. So, like a responsible and good son, he told Wilbur he needed to go.
“Have a terrible stream, Wil.” He says flatly, smile playing at his lips. “Chat, I’m sorry you’re stuck with Wilbur alone, but I must go.”
Wilbur rolls his eyes, still enamoured by the Wikipedia page he was ranting about. “Go, bro, we’re doing important things here.”
Exercising a lot of self-control, Tommy doesn’t start an argument that’ll definitely take a minimum of ten minutes to get through. “I’m sure the lifespan of a fucking sunflower is important business. Bye, chat! Bye, Wil!”
Wilbur hums, eyes firmly locked on the page. Tommy waits for a second—but knows he can’t wait for too long or it would be too weird to pass off as a bit.
“Wil?”
“Hm?” Wilbur quickly glances at Discord, then right back to Wikipedia. “Why are you still here? Go away, child.”
Panic at the thought of being caught, Tommy doesn’t linger; he disconnects. And, as per usual, can’t move on. All Wilbur had to do was echo the goodbye, that’s it. But he didn’t.
Tommy needs to sleep—has an early start tomorrow, and, more importantly, he’s tired. But he can’t do that until Wilbur says goodbye. His eyes sting with hot tears; why can’t he be normal?
He stays in his seat, Discord status on Online, for three hours. All throughout the rest of Wilbur’s stream, and then while Wilbur joined Phil’s stream and stayed on for a couple of hours. Three hours. Three hours Tommy feels stuck in place. He doesn’t touch his phone, doesn’t click off Discord—just stays in his chair, waiting.
He’s unsure what he’s even waiting for—he knows it’s a goodbye, but Wilbur doesn’t even know he needs one, so what is he expecting to happen?
Three hours is what it takes for Wilbur to leave all VCs. For a moment, Tommy’s heart seizes, terrified that he’d miscalculated, and that Wilbur was going to just go offline and Tommy would be grounded forever.
But—and Tommy imagines it like this: Wilbur goes to close out of Discord, sees Tommy’s green status, and hesitates—Wilbur suddenly calls him.
He answers the fastest he’s ever answered a call in his fucking life. But then, he can’t speak. What does he even say? Does he pretend he’s just sitting there chilling? He can’t pretend he left the room and forgot to set his status to offline—not with the lightning speed with which he picked up the call.
“Why are you still online, Toms?” Wilbur asks. “You sounded really tired on stream.”
I am. He presses his palms tightly onto the armrests—pushing down with all his force to center himself somewhat. “I- you didn’t say goodbye.”
Wilbur’s quiet. “I didn’t, did I?” He sounds considering, careful. “I’m sorry about that, my brain was so focused on the fucking flowers.” He chuckles and it’s fake. “Have you been- Tommy, have you been in your office this whole time?”
Tommy presses down on the armrests harder. He squeezes his shut against the onslaught of tears he knows will rush down his cheeks. He doesn’t answer.
“That’s- that’s alright.” Wilbur quietly says. “You should get some sleep, Toms, okay? Get some rest. Goodbye, Tommy. Goodnight.” His words are slow, deliberate, knowing, and Tommy can’t stop the tears anymore.
He nods, though Wilbur can’t see him. “Bye.” He waits for Wilbur to hang up, because if he moves his hands—if he stops the grounding pressure—he thinks he’ll break.
Wilbur waits a second, though—breathes. “I love you, Tommy. Brothers, right?”
“Brothers.” He whispers back.
Appeased, Wilbur ends the call. As soon as he’s disconnected, Tommy crumbles—collapses like a deflated balloon.
4:
Tommy thinks he should just ask Wilbur to turn his audio up in Discord; the man almost never hears his goodbyes if there are other people in the VC. Either that or Wilbur is intentionally ignoring him—and even though Tommy can be insecure at times, he knows Wilbur wouldn’t do that. Not anymore anyway.
There are multiple people in the call—too many people, in Tommy’s personal opinion; it was supposed to be a relaxed, just Tommy, Phil, and Wilbur, stream. When Tommy says “bye”, Wilbur doesn’t hear him.
There are three conversations happening at once, so no one notices when Tommy freezes and can’t leave the VC. And then, it’s been a minute-two minutes-ten minutes, and he can’t leave now, or they’ll hear and it’ll be awkward and weird and embarrassing and he can’t explain it to them, so he stays. Not even muted, just deathly silent—rooted in place. With each passing second, the panic progressively rises; if they catch him, he’ll cease to exist—for sure will die.
He’s hardly breathing, terrified at any moment of an outside noise reaching the hearing of anyone in the VC. Terrified that one of his parents could walk in and expose him. Terrified that his barely held together composure will break and he’ll break and they’ll all hear him. His mind is putting on a rapid, high definition slideshow of every possible horrible outcome—and he doesn’t know how his heart doesn’t simply give out.
He’s a mess.
It takes Wilbur a bit—thirty minutes, to be exact—to notice Tommy still there. Tommy knows the moment Wilbur realizes, because his brows knit in confusion with his head tilted ever so slightly. Tommy’s heart starts pounding to the point he fears it ripping through his ribcage. His hands curl over where his heart is, ready to catch it should it burst out. He’s so scared Wilbur’s about to call him out.
Wilbur doesn’t; instead, he says, “Oh, shit, guys, I’m gonna mute for a second.” And smiles apologetically at the camera. And then, to the VC, says, “Gonna be a minute, guys.”
All the while, Tommy’s fixed in place, waiting. He only blinks when Wilbur drags him to another VC. Tommy hopes the others just hadn’t noticed him, or if they did, had chalked it up to him forgetting and being away from his PC. Anything but the truth would be nice.
“Hey, Tommy. You there, love?” Wilbur softly asks.
Tommy nods, a hum all he can give—he’s so ashamed.
“That’s a loud VC, isn’t it?” Wilbur sighs. “I think you said you were leaving a bit ago. Did you- did I miss you saying goodbye?”
Fucking hell, how does he know without Tommy telling him? No one else knows—those who have some idea only do so because they think he’s just clingy. Which isn’t false, but even they hadn’t caught on to this specific idiosyncrasy—the pathetic oddity he calls a ‘trait’ of his. But Wilbur has, somehow. Tommy wants to know just how much Wilbur understands, or if it's just another instance of him vaguely knowing something but going along with it for Tommy’s sake.
Tommy should probably say something; the last thing he wants Wilbur to think is he’s mentally ill. Which, while not completely incorrect, isn’t something he wants advertised like this. Wilbur can have his anxiety, his attachment and abandonment issues, his self-esteem issues—-but this is a step too far. This is something not even Tommy can stand about himself.
“Sorry. I don’t think you heard me.” What a stupid thing to say. What does that even mean? How does that answer any of Wilbur’s unasked questions? ‘I am suspended in time and space with only feelings of abandonment to keep me company when I call farewell and no one acknowledges me.’ is what he should say, but he knows he’s nowhere near ready to.
Wilbur’s breathing is steady—good to guide Tommy away from panic. “I definitely didn’t, or I would’ve reciprocated, yeah?”
“I think you’ve turned down my audio too low.”
“Oh?” Wilbur hums. “I probably have. Let me boost you up again. I always forget when I do that.”
He’s suddenly reminded that Wilbur’s live; that just because he’s muted doesn’t mean people can’t see him. Wilbur’s expression isn’t giving anything away beyond fondness, and very faint concern.
Tommy blinks damp eyelashes. “You do. I- yeah, I was gonna go.” but you wouldn’t let me go. Just say goodbye next time, you dickhead, don’t imprison me for no fucking reason.
He watches as Wilbur’s controlled expression falls into pain for a split second—the viewers probably won’t pick up on it; it happened so quickly, but Tommy sees it. He sees it and he aches for both Wilbur knowing him so utterly, and for Wilbur knowing him when he wasn’t ready for him to.
“Do you wanna watch a movie tomorrow, Tommy?” Wilbur asks unprompted.
Off guard, Tommy’s too perplexed to feel anything but. “What? I mean, yeah, but-”
“Cool!” Wilbur beams, eyes darting to the camera for a moment, as if he knows Tommy’s still watching without needing to check. “We’ll have a movie night! Now, I think it’s high time you went to bed, don’t you? You are a growing boy after all.”
“Shut up.” He grumbles, head still spinning. Wilbur’s so good at steadying him.
Giggling, Wilbur nods once. “Alright. Bed now. Goodnight, Toms. Bye.”
His breath catches, head ducking—it’s too much to look at Wilbur’s affectionate expression right now. “Bye, Wil.”
With a final smile, Wilbur repeats, “Bye.” and switches to the other VC.
Tommy doesn’t bother unmuting the stream, he knows Wilbur won’t let anyone bring him up negatively anyway.
5:
Wilbur hasn’t been responding to Tommy’s many messages and texts all day. At first, Tommy just figured the man was busy—it happened occasionally. Nevermind that Wilbur always texted him at least once to let him know he wouldn’t be replying for a little bit. Tommy wasn’t worried—not when they hadn’t gone an hour without speaking just yesterday. It was useless to worry now anyway.
But, in bed, scrolling through the embarrassingly many messages he’d sent the man, Tommy can’t help the anxiety churning in his gut. Wilbur would’ve sent if only a single word to let Tommy know they were alright. There was absolutely no response to, what Tommy’s sure is, around three hundred messages in their DMs alone—let alone regular texts.
He worries at his lip, unsure if he should reach out one more time or not. No matter how close they get, or how often Wilbur reassures him that they are best friends, brothers, he still has the occasional bout of insecurity; he’s done with me, he hates me, he wants nothing to do with me anymore.
Scowling at his own thoughts, Tommy shakes his head—this was dumb, he should just call Wilbur.
He does.
With extreme trepidation, stuttering breaths, and a faltering heartbeat, he calls him.
As if to completely render him speechless, it takes Wilbur longer than usual to pick up, and then he answers with, “What, Tommy?” flatly, blankly, but yet conveying dismissal somehow.
Tommy stops breathing. Never, not even in arguments, has Wilbur used that tone with him. How does he proceed?
“If this is some fucking prank call, Tom, I’m not laughing.”
Oh. Fucking hell, oh. This is bad. This is the kind of bad where Tommy might start crying before he can even get any words out.
“Tommy.” The way Wilbur’s voice hardens—annoyed and impatient, sets Tommy into terrified motion.
He swallows past the lump in his throat. “Hi-” he turns to his side, arm wrapped around his middle, when his voice cracks. “Sorry. Hi, Wil.”
Wilbur takes in a loud, slow breath. “What? Did you need something?”
“You haven’t been responding, and I-” He’s cut off.
Scoffing, Wilbur asks, “Really? One day of no communication and you’re- what- starved for contact? I was busy, Tommy. It’s a thing adults are when they have responsibilities.”
What the fuck.
Even with the ache in his heart, and the tears now staining his pillow, Tommy feels appalled anger. “Why- I haven’t done anything. If you’ve had a bad day, don’t fucking take it out on me!”
“I haven’t had a bad day, I’ve been busy.” Wilbur harshly responds. “All you’ve done today has been blow up my phone with stupid, useless, shit that does nothing but fucking annoy me.”
Wow. Thanks, big bro.
Tommy refuses to sniffle—to whimper like he can feel his body needs to do; he won’t give Wilbur the satisfaction of knowing he’s hurting him. “All it would’ve taken is a simple text to let me know I was bothering you. Since when do we not communicate that shit, Wil?”
“How about you grow up and realize if someone doesn’t respond the first hundred times, that maybe they fucking can’t?” Wilbur explodes.
Breath hitching, Tommy bites his fist—willing himself not to sob. When he was sufficiently sure he wasn’t going to blubber the second he takes his hand away, he says, “And now you scream at me? What did I even do that was so bad, Wilbur?”
Wilbur’s quiet for several long seconds, guilty when he finally speaks. “You didn’t do anything. But I’m not in the mood to talk right now.”
What does that mean? He wants to ask; they’re never ‘not been in the mood to talk’ to each other. It’s not something either of them do. They always make time for each other—it’s one of their rules. “Do you wanna talk about it? I can help you may-”
“Tommy.” Wilbur snaps, cutting him off. “I’m going to hang up before I say something I’ll regret.”
You haven’t already? Tommy lets the words hang there for a second. “Okay.” He’s so fucking scared but musters up the courage to whisper, “Bye.”
Wilbur silently hangs up.
Letting his phone drop somewhere on the bed, he curls up as tight as he can, hands muffling his sobs. He doesn’t sleep well that night.
+1:
The worst way to wake up, in Tommy’s personal experience, is tired from crying—dry tear tracks on your cheeks, pillow damp where they’d dripped down, chest aching from wracking sobs. He feels gross. He hadn’t even noticed falling asleep—but considering it’s seven in the morning, and last he checked the time, it was five; he guesses he hasn’t slept for long anyway. His bruised and swollen eyes seem to support that theory.
His phone is buzzing somewhere on the bed, but he ignores it in place of heaving himself up to stand. If nothing else, he wants to at least wash off the tears.
Tommy and Wilbur do argue—of course they do—but it’s never driven Tommy to tears before; Wilbur never let it. He knows, on some level, that Wilbur must’ve had a really bad day to hang up knowing Tommy was upset and knowing, to some degree, about his thing with saying goodbye. Still, it doesn’t give the man a pass for taking it out on him.
He sighs as he washes up—beyond the physical aches, his heart is a mess. His swollen eyes looking back at him in the mirror nauseate him, he looks away.
Back in his room, his phone is still vibrating, and slight anger flares up in his chest; can he not get a day to wallow in misery? He resoundly continues to ignore it.
So, what does he usually do? He might want to wallow, but spending the day in his room away from his phone is only going to make him feel worse—but what does he even typically do?
Talk to Wilbur. But that’s not possible today; he’s absolutely not letting Wilbur off the hook that easily—not this time.
His phone never stops vibrating. He doesn’t know why he won’t even check—maybe he already knows who it’ll be; knows Wilbur would regret last night.
The only thing that moves him from his spot in his chair—staring off into space—is the doorbell ringing. Even then, he wouldn’t have been phased if his parents were home. Alas, they’re not, so the responsibility of answering falls on him.
With a tired sigh, he drags his feet to the door.
Wilbur.
Wilbur is at the door, shifting his weight from side to side, hands twitching forward as if to reach for Tommy. Tommy can tell he’s trying to keep it together, but his brother’s expression is faltering; slipping into the devastation he so clearly feels.
Opposite him, Tommy stands still—looking at his best friend’s face, Tommy’s defenses break down. He’s upset, of course he is, but this is Wilbur; the man who has been there for him always; the man who, right now, looks like he’s close to being sick. Tommy sighs.
“Do you want to come in?” An olive branch; letting Wilbur know their relationship isn’t completely wrecked.
Wilbur nods so faintly it’s almost imperceptible.
It’s not even awkward, Tommy doesn’t think, it’s mostly unpleasant; there should never be uncomfortable silences with them—never them.
Watching Wilbur look so unsure in Tommy’s house rubs him the wrong way. Wilbur Soot will always have a place in Tom Simons’ life—so, this will not do.
Shoulders drawn up, Tommy pulls himself a seat from the dining table, nudging the one next to him. “Sit. We should talk.”
“I’m sorry.” Wilbur rushes to say before he’s fully sitting down. “I’m sorry. I have no idea what came over me, and I’m so fucking sorry.”
Tommy observes him silently, takes in his sharp, anxious eyes, his fidgeting hands, and feels bad. “I know you are. But you really fucking hurt me. Not just- Wil, I-” fuck it, if not now then when? His eyes dart to the floor between their feet. “You know I don’t deal well with being ignored, yeah? You know I need you to acknowledge me when I leave a call, and I know that’s stupid but it’s how my brain works, and I can’t control it. And I feel like you know that- so hanging up like that…”
Wilbur always wore his heart on his sleeve; was always so easy to read just by looking at his eyes—shining with tears Tommy knows he won’t let shed.
“I didn’t know, exactly, but I did suspect.” Wilbur admits, breath hitching as he meets Tommy’s betrayed gaze. “I shouldn’t have- How do I make it up to you? You have to know I didn’t mean any of it. You have to know I want to unlock my phone to hundreds- thousands of messages from you, no matter how silly or nonsensical. You have to know it’s- you’re the most important. Toms, baby, you’re my favorite.”
His favorite. Wilbur’s favorite. The most important. His.
He knows this—has known it for so long; for what feels like forever, because how could he have existed without Wilbur? How could he have lived for fifteen years without knowing his brother? It makes no sense and therefore Tommy can’t process it; Wilbur is, was, and always will be part of his life.
Though his heart still wants to be disappointed—is disappointed—so much of Tommy longs to be past this. He does, as pathetic as it may sound, forgive Wilbur. How could he not?
“I know all that, Wil. I’m just- it’s not even anything else other than you really fucking hurt me. And it felt deliberate; like you wanted me to hurt. And I just,” he traces shapes on his thigh, “I didn’t think you’d ever do that.”
A choked sound slips past Wilbur’s defenses. “Tom- baby, I have never wanted to hurt you. Last night- okay, I got some bad news from my mother, and then, right after, everything we tried to record for the EP came out so shit, and- I’m not saying it excuses it, Toms, but it felt like everything was against me. It felt like every word I said was misconstrued, every thought self-destructive, and every force in the universe wanted me to suffer. And then,” his eyes track the movements of Tommy’s tracing, frowning, “you called. Well, at first you texted, and I was not in the right state of mind to want reassurances. Plus, I felt like if I let you in yesterday, you’d be another thing that I fucked up.”
“I wouldn’t have let that happen.” Tommy argues defensively. He softens almost immediately after. “But- and maybe I shouldn’t- but I forgive you. I just want to know why you’d say that.” He doesn’t have to explain, he knows Wilbur will understand.
Wilbur’s face crumples, he bows his head, wipes at his cheeks softly, looks up again. “No excuses for that one. You called, and I answered when I shouldn’t have, and I panicked. It felt like if I gave you the chance, you’d also- you’re my baby brother, Tommy; my best friend.”
It doesn’t make it okay, not at all, but Tommy does understand. He allows a half-hearted smile. “You’re so damn lucky I’m so great.”
“I am. I know I am.” Wilbur blinks rapidly. His hand twitches towards Tommy again, and this time, Tommy rolls his eyes and reaches for it—allows their fingers to lace together.
“I said goodbye, Wil.”
Wilbur nods softly, so painfully affectionate—so guilty. “I know. Goodbye, Toms. I shouldn’t have let you go without saying it back. I’m sorry.”
Tommy tugs at his hand aimlessly, shrugging. “Couldn’t really sleep last night.”
Blanching, Wilbur pulls Tommy’s chair closer. “Never- I’m never letting that happen again.” He hesitates for a split second before dragging Tommy in for a hug. And Tommy feels something in him shatter.
It should feel tentative, it should feel careful or cautious, and it definitely should not feel completely comfortable. Tommy is wholly content.
“Take me to get ice cream and maybe I’ll forgive you.” He mumbles into Wilbur’s shoulder.
Wilbur giggles shakily. “I thought you already did.”
He pulls back, face screwed up into a glare. “Are you saying you won’t get me ice cream?” He’s still leaning forwards slightly.
“Nuh-uh, that’s not what I’m saying at all.” Wilbur gently rights him, then pushes his chair back to stand up. “Come on.”
His eyes going round, Tommy hurries to follow him out the room. “Are you- now? We just cried, Wil? We just had a moment!”
“And because we had a moment, and cried, I think we deserve some ice cream.” Wilbur easily says, grinning.
Fair enough.
Putting his coat on, Tommy follows his big brother out the door to get ice cream.
—
It’s great, wonderful, lovely, the absolute fucking best—Wilbur sits there the whole time listening to Tommy; asking about his day yesterday, asking about every individual message, and Tommy startles into the realization that Wilbur has read all his messages.
Tommy, in a way that is probably not completely un-codependent, and he should definitely bring up with his therapist, always preens at every reminder that Wilbur loves him.
—
Wilbur, when they get back home, stops Tommy before going inside. He sits them both down on the steps leading up. With a sigh, he wraps his arm around Tommy’s shoulders and draws him close.
“That was fun. You’re fun.”
Tommy wants to grimace, to fake disgust and call Wilbur stupid, but as the arm around him tightens, he leanes his head on Wilbur’s shoulder. “How is it that one day of no contact and I miss you already? That’s not fair. It’s stupid is what it is.”
He’s facing forwards—eyes following a stray cat across the street—but he can tell what Wilbur looks like; eyes twinkling, mouth curved into a smile, cheeks flushed.
“It’s because we’re a duo, Toms. We’re a team. We’re-” Wilbur gently rests his head on Tommy’s, “we’re brothers. Fucking hell, I miss you if we don’t talk for an hour, let alone a whole day. You’ve cemented yourself as part of my life now, and I don’t like change all that much, so you’re stuck with me.”
I don’t wanna be anywhere else. Tommy’s nose wrinkles at the sappy thought. “For how long?”
Wilbur leans back a bit, tipping Tommy’s chin up to look him in the eyes. He squints—eyes gleaming. “Forever, if I have anything to say about it. How sappy can I be right now?”
“I don’t know.” Really sappy—please be sappy. Let me forget about last night. Please just be nice again.
As if hearing Tommy’s thoughts, Wilbur presses his lips together—regretful. The expression passes after a moment; determination taking its place. “Alright. Here’s the thing, TommyInnit, you’re my best friend- in all the ways that matter, you’re my brother. I physically cannot not love you. It’s impossible; I can try, but I don’t want that, nor do I see me succeeding. You’re- sorry for being sappy- but you’re mine. You’re my best friend, my little brother, my favorite person.” He sighs, the corners of his mouth turned up, and gently knocks their foreheads together—leaving them connected. “I was a dick yesterday. I was fucking awful. I hung up on you and I just- everything felt wrong. If I thought the day was bad before; it was a hundred times worse after. The goddamn atmosphere felt off. God, you really are an intrinsic, indispensable part of my world, love, and I’m so sorry I hurt you.”
Tommy squeezes his eyes shut; he doesn’t want to cry—not now. He shouldn’t think this brings them closer; that an argument that ended with him crying himself to sleep only strengthens their relationship. He shouldn’t, but he does.
“Good. That’s good.”
Wilbur sighs—even with his eyes closed, Tommy can tell it’s fond. “I’m glad you think so.”
Blinking his eyes open, Tommy leans back for a second only to surge forward the next, arms wrapping around Wilbur, face tucked into his neck. “I can’t be sappy or I’ll cry again. But I love you.”
“That’s sappy enough for me, Toms.” Wilbur whispers, kissing the crown of Tommy’s head. Tommy thinks he can hear the smile in his words. “Come on.” He says after a minute. “Go inside; I’m pretty sure if your mum sees you crying while I’m here, she’ll murder me.”
He’s certain his eyes are bright, expression open and relaxed, and his countenance in general is open and content. Tommy doesn’t hide the happiness—gives Wilbur a grin, gives him the reassurance that it’s all worked out.
Beaming, Wilbur takes Tommy’s hands, stands and pulls him up with him. “Thank you for letting me make it up to you.”
Tommy rolls his eyes, schooling his expression into annoyance. “You’re stupid; as if I can ever not have you in my life. Shut up.”
“You are-” Awe transforms Wilbur’s face—he was fond before, but now he looks as if Tommy’s hung the moon and every individual star in the sky. “You are everything.”
His face reddens, so he tugs on Wilbur’s hands and walks the couple of steps to his door. “We’re done with being wholesome. Can we stream together tonight?”
Still endeared, Wilbur just nods. “Sure, if you want.” He glances behind Tommy at the door. “Go on. I’ll talk to you tonight, alright?”
Suddenly, with no warning—though his codependency on Wilbur should’ve been warning in and of itself—Tommy doesn’t want to let go. He can’t ask the man to stay either. “Call me.”
“I know, I just said-”
“No.” Tommy shakes his head, tugging uselessly on Wilbur’s hands still in his. “Call me on the way to the station. On the train. And then all the way to your house.”
Wilbur’s face goes blank, eyes wide as if overwhelmed, then pulls Tommy into another—too-tight, just right—hug. “You are literal sunshine, TommyInnit, what the fuck.” He pulls back, shaking his head in awed disbelief. “Yes, okay, I’ll call you. We can stay on call all day.”
“Good. Yeah. That’s- I want that.” With nothing else to say that isn’t a repetition of everything they’d said already, Tommy reluctantly turns to unlock the door. Mirroring hours earlier, Tommy stands on one side of the entrance, Wilbur on the other. “Call me.” He says again. Then, a quieter, “Goodbye, Wil.”
Eyes glinting with nothing but love, Wilbur nods once, stepping back. “Goodbye, Tommy. I’ll call you in just a second.” He studies Tommy for a silent moment—corners of his mouth quirked up. “Couldn’t have asked for a better brother. Bye.” He says again. Then, “Bye.”
Tommy doesn’t want to speak; if he does, he knows for a fact all that’ll come out is a more pathetic phrasing of: Stay. Please just stay. Forever if you want. If that can even be made to sound more pathetic. He nibbles on his bottom lip, and waves.
Wilbur chuckles, eyes brightly lit. “Bye-bye.” He waves back, and Tommy rolls his eyes at how mocking it is.
In response, he slams the door in Wilbur’s face, pressing a hand to his fast beating heart at Wilbur’s loud, happy, giggling.