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He was finally able to get the second shot of the vaccine, and he thought it wouldn’t hit him as hard as it did, but instead he spent the next day writhing in pain, his arm screaming out in searing and sharp tendrils of agony. Don’t get him started on the thirty eight degree Celsius fever that had him bed-ridden and incoherent for the first few hours of the day. His mom was watching over him, sitting in the corner of his room with her work laptop and answering emails, every-so often checking his temperature and making him drink watered-down strawberry-flavored Pedialyte. The drink made his throat feel slightly sticky and he wanted some ginger ale instead, but his mom said he needed water more. So, he huffed and attempted to roll over and face the wall, but the pressure on his arm was too much and he was yet again facing his desk and mother.
Tommy was trying to stay on his phone, but the light was irritating his head even more, and he instead opted to playing the latest episode of Wilbur’s podcast with the speaker right next to his ear. As he listens to Wilbur talk about how he used to role-play with his friends in COD. He was sure it was the only thing keeping him sane, the dulcet and calm tone of his brother talking about whatever came to his head on the topic. If you asked Tommy, lest he would admit it, about if he loved listening to Wilbur talk; he would deny it, sputtering out bullshit about Wilbur being a “bitchboy” and “obnoxious prick”. Tommy was too proud sometimes to admit that he loved listening to Wilbur talk. Most of his friends could call his bluff, considering the times they’ve seen him loop Wilbur’s music in the car, or the acoustic guitar that was just loud enough to hear it through Tommy’s headphones when traveling for long amounts of time. He also would deny where he got the new giant sweatshirt that usually is seen hanging off his scrawny frame on weekends and bad days, when it so obviously was his older brother’s; from the campfire smell that always lingered and the stretched out sleeves that usually swathed Tommy’s hands in very loose sweater paws. They know it’s not bad for Tommy to gain such comfort from someone, yes, they’d tease him about it, but it was obvious from the other side as well. (If Joe found Wilbur asleep on call with Tommy way too many times to count, that’s for him to know.)
There wasn’t anything bad from Tommy craving his older brother’s presence while he was writhing in too much warmth, with sweaty and highly sensitive limbs, and a headache pounding heavily on the inside of his skull. His mother didn’t complain either, just smiling to herself as she watches her son snuggle into his pillow as Wilbur’s voice soothes him more than she would be able to. Definitely, when he is feeling better they should have Wilbur over, and since he had gotten the vaccine a few months before Tommy he’s completely vaccinated. She’d also like to tell him about Tommy wearing his sweatshirt and curling into his pillows while his podcast played in the background. Wilbur, from what her husband had told her, would definitely get a kick out of it, but she knows it would definitely melt his hardened exterior. Her Toms was always like that with others, such a sweet boy that eventually he captured everyone’s hearts. She just knows that he picks favorites from his boundless older sibling figures, and he definitely would not admit it to anyone else; she just knows her son too well to not pick up on his chosen few.
From the numerous times he’s begged them to meet up with Wilbur, and not so subtly suggested he stay for the weekend in their guest room after the travel ban lifted, to the way he will ramble on and on about Wilbur’s new music exploits, and the writing he is doing for Tommy’s group role-play thing, which she will never fully get, but appreciates that a few of them look out for her son where she cannot.
It was so obvious who was his favorite, besides the nice boy named Clay, and Toby, who was always kind to him when she interrupted his and Tommy’s calls. He made a lot of his life now revolve around the tall man, the one with a kind voice who cares deeply enough about her son to send him packages of old clothes and CDs and snacks. (If she saw the custom hoodie he got made for her son being on the constant rotation of his sleep clothes, that wasn’t for her to mention, but it did give her a lot of peace of mind that someone cared enough about her son to give him pieces of themself.) She won’t be able to tell Wilbur how much it means to her that he watches out for her Tom, seeming to preen him like she does, adjusting his hair and jackets, stopping him from crossing the street without looking, and always educating him where he was wrong with a soft voice and kind smile. Hopefully, she’ll be able to one day.
It wasn’t too long before his eyes were closed and he was drifting from conscious as his over-heating body was struggling to cope with the vaccine. He sighs lightly as he finally finds a comfortable position as he shifts one of his pillows into his arms, cuddling his head into it like Wilbur was telling him about this in person. If he tried to, he could feel the way Wilbur’s chest rumbles when his voice went deep with sleep and was rambling until they were asleep. He releases a sub-conscious content sigh, letting his brain slip from awareness.
His phone buzzing against his cheek wakes him up, and he blearily stares at it for a moment, the only thing lighting up his room being the LEDs that were on their lowest setting. The ringtone of Wilbur singing playing loudly in his ear, and he tries not to cringe too hard at it. His mom wasn’t in the room anymore, probably on a work call or making dinner, which he understands, but he doesn’t know who’s calling him. He peels his cheek from the screen, ignoring the noise it made and how it made his skin crawl. Tommy squints his eyes as he looks at the phone, it still buzzing in his hand, and he looks who is calling him.
The contact photo is taking up the the screen; a nice photo he took of Wilbur when they met up last, his smile making his heart flip in worry, Wilbur never called him on his phone. Anxiety starts to crawl on his skin like bugs, making him itch all over, wanting to rake his fingernails all of himself. He shakily slides the icon to answer the call, putting the phone next to his ear. Instead of the nice deep voice of his brother he hears Joe, “Tommy, thank god you picked up.” Tommy scrunched up his eyes at hearing Wilbur’s bandmate instead of himself, but it fuels the fear now clawing up his throat. “Wh’t’s g’in’ on Joe?” He asks, voice slightly trembling at why his brother isn’t there, so many scenarios run through his head. “Fuck… how do I say this… mate,” Joe pauses, and Tommy can hear the nerves in his voice, “Will’s not- he’s not- not on, anymore.” Tommy freezes, his muddled brain catching onto what Joe was trying to say, well it was a piss-poor attempt to not set Tommy off. “Are you saying… what happened?” Joe sighs, “I- We don’t know, but Dave found him, and-“ Tommy could hear the emotion thick in his voice, “I wanted to tell you before they told anyone, because you’re his kid brother, and- he- uh… he left you a letter.”
He tries to not show how this conversation had ended his whole world, had destroyed any happiness he had left and left him a desolate husk. His brother was gone, taken his own life without even a fucking goodbye, “When- I- fuck,” Tommy whispers, tears pouring down his face, and he can’t stop shaking, “Can I see him?” He tries to hide the whine in his voice, the right now he is half way to bawling his eyes out, trying to not think about the fact he’s wearing a dead man’s sweatshirt, that his brother is fucking dead. He lost the battle to his own jubilee line, and Tommy hadn’t seen it. “Shit, I have to go, I’ll send you the memorial info when we get it set up with his mum,” and Tommy nods, “Thanks,” he whispers. Joe hangs up and that’s when Tommy breaks, sobbing heavily and wishing that he could die himself. Wilbur was gone, and life didn’t feel worth living anymore.
He can’t even look at his lock-screen, which was a picture of him and Wilbur sitting on the couch at Will’s house, and it’s when he realizes there was a message from Wilbur, it was from a few hours earlier and was an audio message. He tries to unlock his phone multiple times before finally being able to open iMessage, staring at his message thread with Wilbur. The audio message is daunting, but he clicks on it, hearing his brother’s voice, “Hey Toms,” it’s pained and he can hear the life draining from him. “I know I made you a letter, but I had to make this too, because I need to make you understand that this wasn’t your fault. None of it, baby, none of this was your fault,” Wilbur heaves heavily, “I love you, Tommy, so fucking much, so much, you’re everything to me. I’m sorry I won’t be able to see you grow up any further, but I’ll be watching from above, baby, I’m still your number one fan, sweetheart,” Wilbur sniffles, and Tommy can’t stop the sob that rips through him, and then the end of the message plays, “Tommy, please don’t blame yourself, please, you’re my world, but I can’t be yours.” It stops as Wilbur lets out a whine, and he can’t stop sobbing. His body trembles with his cries until he slips from consciousness, the heaviness of guilt and grief sitting upon him.
Tommy opens his eyes, tears falling from his face and his mind fuzzy, and he can’t tell if it was real or not, and right now he needsto check because the poisonous affect of denial burning hot in his chest. His room was still empty, taking over his brain in fear that it was real, that Wilbur was dead. He opens his phone and goes into his messages with Wilbur, not seeing the audio message, but he can’t hide the small hitch in his throat. He types shakily,
Tom: wilbu
Tom: wilbeu
Tom: wilk
Tom: wlil pese aswrt
Tom: pls pks plwas
Tom: vrfo
Tom: bdeotger
Tom: lcal ne oleasw
Tom: wuilbhr olease
Tom: cakl nw
Tom: ivnredrto hewryoi olewsr
His phone starts to buzz, Wilbur’s contact picture taking over his lock-screen again, and he answers the quickest he could with shaking hands, “Will?” He cries, trying keep himself from sobbing into the phone. “Toms, are you okay?” His brother asks, concern flooding his voice and Tommy takes a breath, “You’re alive,” he whispers to himself, not realizing that Wilbur could hear him. “Tommy, what does that mean?” His voice is soft, like he isn’t trying to upset Tommy any further, but it sets Tommy over the edge, he cries into the phone, unable to breathe, “Y-You were dead, Will, I- you left me a message and Joe told me and David found you, and I-“ he hiccups, snot running down his face as he tries to rub the tears from his eyes. Wilbur makes a choked noise, not expecting that answer, and he hushes Tommy kindly, “Shh, hey, Toms, bubby, I promise you I don’t have any plans to leave you anytime soon, you’re stuck with me as long as you’ll have me,” Wilbur tries to soothe him but Tommy’s brain is still stuck on the message, it looping in his head, “Will, please, I-”
“Hey, hey, it’s okay, shh, it’s okay, can you breathe for me okay? In for five, out for five, okay, can you do that for me, baby?” Wilbur tries to help him, and Tommy tries, his chest shakes with his breaths, but he doesn’t know if this is just another trick of his brain, trying to help him grieve the death of his brother. “I miss you,” Tommy mumbles, “I- I don’t know if this is real, Will, are you real or is this just another sick joke?”
“Toms, Toms, hey, hey, hey, this is real, okay, let’s try the countdown I told you about, alright? What are five things you can see, bubby?” Wilbur coos at him, and Tommy wants to believe that it’s him, his kind brother with his big smile and curly hair, but he isn’t sure. “I- I see my lights, and the paper Henry, and my closet, uhm- my Zelda backpack, and- and- the YouTooz on my shelf,” he murmurs, trying to calm his breathing, but ultimately failing. “Good job, Tommy, now four things you can hear,” Wilbur ushers hims, and Tommy can just about see the kind expression on his face as he does so. “You, and uhm- my voice, and the weird background stuff on your end, and- I can hear the dogs nails against the floor downstairs,” he says, trying hard to concentrate, and slowly coming down from his panic. “Alright, now three things you can feel,” his brother suggests, and he doesn’t need to think as hard to answer this time, the fog on his brain slowly receding. “My blankets, uhm- the sweatshirt you gave me, and- and my pillow,” he speaks, voice shaking less. “You’re doing so good, baby, so good, I promise, now, two things you can smell,” and the background noise of Wilbur’s call gets louder as he seems to have been outside, and a part of himself feels guilty for taking up Wilbur’s time.
“I can smell my BO, I guess, I’m super sweaty, and uh- I can smell the wet grass outside my window,” Tommy finishes, wiping his hands on his blankets, “You’re doing so good, now one thing you can taste, can be anything, bubby,” he hears his older brother get up from somewhere, his footsteps as he’s doing something. “I can taste the shitty electrolyte thing my mum was making me drink to keep me hydrated,” he answers quietly, his brain calming down slightly, his room feeling more real than the nightmare he had. “You did so good, baby, are you feeling any better?” His brother asks, and he nods, “A little, thanks Will, sorry for bothering you with this.” He hears Wilbur scoff, “You’re not bothering me, Tommy, I want to help you when you feel like shit, you’re my brother, Toms.”
“You’re gonna make me cry, you bitch,” he whines, tears growing in his tear ducts again, but he can feel a small amount of contentedness build in his chest, that Wilbur is still alive, and he cares, and he wants to help him and be there. “Thank you.”
“No need to thank me, just need you to open the front door for me,” Wilbur says, noises sounding from his end and he can hear the heavy footsteps again. “You did not cross fucking England just because I called you, bitch,” he snarks, unfurling himself from his gross sheets and swaying slightly as he stands up, he hobbles down the stairs as he hears the dogs bark at the door, in which his brother just rang the doorbell. “Dramatic bitch,” he says, hanging up the phone and unlocking the front door. Wilbur is stood there, definitely worse for wear than the last time they saw each other. He’s just in sweatpants and one of his sweatshirts, glasses askew on his face, but he smiles and Tommy can feel all of it fall into place. “Hey,” Wilbur smirks, and that’s when Tommy throws himself at him, wrapping himself around his brother like a koala. He hums into Wilbur’s chest and ignores the multiple chuckles he hears from inside his house, one even coming from the man he is wrapped around, who closes the front door, clicking the lock and ushering his shoes off, looping one of his arms under Tommy’s legs and placing his other hand lightly on Tommy’s shoulder and carrying him over to the couch and sitting down, placing his chin above Tommy’s head. “I love you,” Wilbur speaks into his hair, placing a kiss on the crown of his head. “You don’t need to say it back, by the way,” his brother tries to hide the affection in his tone, but Tommy just sighs.
“I love you too, bitchboy.”