Chapter Text
Sometimes Tommy wondered what life would be like if he didn’t tell his brother to make a band.
It would certainly be different. Maybe Wilbur would be home more often, or maybe he wouldn’t sing along to as many songs on his playlist. Maybe Wilbur would still be playing depressing music in his room, or making dinner with Tommy to the tune of their favourite song on the radio.
But he did suggest it, and he supposed it was selfish of him to hope otherwise.
Because Wilbur was happy. Tommy could tell this by the way he seemed to radiate happiness whenever he talked about his band, or by the way he hummed their little tunes when he came in the door.
What Tommy wasn’t sure about, was why he wasn’t happy.
He should’ve been. He was clothed, fed, loved, he had a roof over his head, and a pillow under his head as slept.
(Was it because he was pretty much an orphan? Probably not, because he knew orphans who were much happier than he.)
So what was it? Was it his fault? Was it Wilbur’s fault?
A reasonable person might say that it was both of their faults, but Tommy was far from reasonable, so it was his fault.
To properly explain his side of the story, we’d have to go way back, though.
(It starts on a rainy day in October.)
Tommy was twelve when his father and older brother died in a car accident. He was twelve when he’d been told it was his fault. He was twelve when he under stood it was his fault.
Because it was. Phil and Techno had been on their way to pick him up from school, all because Tommy missed the bus goofing off with his friends in an empty classroom.
(After that day, he’d never spoken a word to Tubbo and Ranboo again. If he hadn’t been messing around with them, Phil wouldn’t have needed to pick him up.)
He still saw them, though, glimpses between crowds or a brief moment of eye-contact across the halls. Tommy had felt awful, ignoring their attempts at friendship, but he convinced himself it was worth it. This way, Wilbur couldn’t get hurt as well.
(That was pretty much the reason he had no friends, actually. No one wanted to hang out with the lonely loser orphan who didn’t bring their own lunch to school.
But anyways.
Phil and Techno’s funeral, or at least how Tommy remembered it, was quiet. Wilbur had cried. Tommy had tried to hold his hand, only to have it slapped away.
Which was understandable. Comfort or not, Tommy killed them. He wouldn’t want to hold his hand either.
He had a lot of nightmares after that funeral, vision of death and blood and sorrow. (Wilbur died in most of them.)
He normally spent those nights in Wilbur’s room, curled in a ball on his brother's bed, hoping to seek comfort and shelter.
But you may be asking yourself, why was Tommy wondering what would happen if he hadn’t suggested making a band?
And to that, the answer would be because Tommy was a dumb, selfish, sixteen year old boy who couldn’t hadnle himself seeing his older brother being happy.
Because what else could it be? Why else was he like this, if not blind jealousy?
Maybe that was why he never really acted out on any of these feelings. Because jealousy wasn’t really enough of a reason to crush someone’s happiness, was it?
(What would be a good reason? Life-threatening things, maybe? Was that it? He could only let himself ruin Wilbur’s happiness if his life was in danger?)
Hm. Even that was debatable. Because while it seemed that Tommy didn’t have any friends, (Which was true), that didn’t mean he didn’t do reckless things.
Standing on bridge rails, balancing on high boulders, climbing to the very trops of trees. Things that if not done precisely, could either kill or seriously injure.
But that didn’t mean Tommy had a deathwish. No, he wasn’t suicidal. He never accidentally poured too many pills, or stared at knotted rope, or purposely lost his balance.
(Although, he didn’t mind pain, so if he was suicidal, it’d be good for him.)
That sounded grim, though, didn’t it? It was, kind of, but not that severely.
SO let’s put it this way. When you’re cutting vegetables with a sharp knife, and your mind starts to wonder, what do you think of? Do you think about the knife slipping and cutting you by accident? Do you wonder what would happen if you sliced open your hand?
Well, Tommy did. And because, as he said earlier, he was a dumb sixteen year old boy, he sometimes let the knife slip.
But it wasn’t self-harm. No, more of a morbid curiosity. It hurt, too, a sharp reminder of his ‘mistake’. But he didn’t enjoy the pain, nor did he relish in the biting awareness it brought him.
No, this was just a result of curiosity.
(And it wasn’t like people noticed it. And if they did, like Wilbur, they didn’t mention it. They must’ve thought it was just a little cut, a slight slip up of the hand.)
Which it was. Nothing more, nothing less.
But if it were, then maybe, just maybe, he’d tell Wilbur.
Of course, that was assuming that Wilbur cared, which, in turn, would bring us back to the original question, what if Tommy hadn’t suggested a band?
Would Wilbur have spent more time with him? Would he put more effort into mending their relationship?
Would he notice the things that Tommy did and read into them?
It was almost like a loop, the way it brought us back to the thought of ‘if Wilbur noticed but just didn’t act on it.’
It was entirely possible. And likely, now that he thought about it.
Because Wilbur was perceptive. He noticed a lot of things, like how their neighbours planted hydrangeas instead of their usual tulips, or how the person who jogged around their neighbourhood took a different route.
So why didn’t he notice Tommy being quiet? Why didn’t he notice when Tommy would go days without looking him in the eye? Why didn’t Wilbur say something, anything, when his jokes didn’t seem to land by Tommy quite the same as they used to?
And to that, the answer was quite simple.
Wilbur loved his band more than he loved Tommy.
This was a fact that was fairly obvious. Wilbur worried about his band, about their future. (He didn’t with Tommy.)
Wilbur talked about his band to friends when they came over. (He didn’t about Tommy, and this was proven by an ear pressed against the wall, listening in to conversations not meant for him.)
Wilbur cared about his band. He loved his band.
And in all honesty, it didn’t seem like he loved Tommy.
But hey, who knew, maybe he did. So let’s consult our dictionary, shall we?
Love: a strong affection for another arising out of kinship or personal ties.
Hm. Tommy wasn’t sure if it was strong affection, but it was definitely out of kinship. They were family. Wilbur was obligated to look after him. There was no way it was out of real love, or at the very least strong love.
Tommy knew this because Wilbur strongly loved his band.
He seemed to be saying that a lot, didn’t he?
(Maybe he was trying to convince himself of that.)
Which was dumb. Why was he trying to convince himself that his only brother didn’t love him?
So it would hurt less to say goodbye?
But why would he say goodbye? Wilbur wasn’t dying. He wasn’t dying.
(Not physically, at least, by any means.)
Mentally, though, maybe.
But again, that sounded like he was struggling. Like he was in need of help.
He didn’t need help, though. He was fine by himself. He didn’t need Wilbur, or Phil, or Techno, not Tubbo or Ranboo, the two friend’s he’d cut off four years ago.
(Sometimes he wondered what they were thinking, though. Did they hate him for pushing them away? Did they pity him for the death of his parents?)
If he wanted to, would they let him back in the group?
Not that he’d ask. Having friends was a distraction. It killed Phil and Techno, and it would kill Wilbur as well.
And no matter how much he didn’t need Wilbur, or how much Wilbur didn’t love him, he couldn’t let Wilbur die.
Because he was all he had left.
(If Wilbur died, he’d try to find what caused it. With Phil and Techno, it was having friends. But with Wilbur, it couldn’t have been having friends, because he had none.)
And whether or not he knew this didn’t matter, but if Wilbur died, his brain would jump to conclusions like it always had, whispering to him that it was him that was the cause. That his life, his sole existence, was the reason Wilbur died.
So he’d try to fix it. He’d correct his mistake, a mistake that no one else had the guts to erase.
Because, after all, you can’t lose people you care about if there is no you, right?
(Hm. So maybe he was suicidal.)
Which would probably explain why he was so reckless, why he didn’t seem to care if he missed the boulder under his feet as he jumped, or if he lost his balance on the bridge rail, or if the brache broken beneath him.
Not that he tried to fall, you know? It was more just that he didn't care if he fell.
Which he wasn’t quite sure could be classified as suicidal. Because didn’t being suicidal mean that you were actively trying to kill yourself? And since Tommy wasn’t actively trying to kill himself, he wouldn’t really be classified as suicidal?
And if he wasn’t suicidal, did that mean he didn’t need help?
So, see? He didn’t need help, which meant he didn’t need Wilbur. He was fine with Wilbur loving his band more than Tommy. He was fine with Wilbur not asking how his day was, or not noticing the bandaid on Tommy’s raw, blistered, fingers, or the bruise on his cheek, or the limp in his step. He was fine with Wilbur not noticing the way he nodded mutely to any sentence Wilbur made.
He was fine.
He was fine.
(He didn’t need Wilbur’s love, anyway. His band could take it. He was sixteen, for god’s sake. Almost an adult. Adults didn’t need to be cared for. They didn’t cry when someone didn’t like them. They didn’t try to see how many nights they could go without sleeping until someone noticed. They didn’t need anyone.)
And neither did Tommy, because he was sixteen, and he was a big man.
Big men don’t cry, he told himself.
So neither did he.