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Wilbur, unknowing of the future to be created by his actions, walks into the sitting room, intending to safely make his way around the coffee table (one with exceptionally sharp edges, for reference) and have a lay-down on the couch.
But no.
Instead, he jams his toes into the side of the wood, wincing before the pain even hits.
God, does it hit.
Wilbur howls and collapses onto the couch, clutching his foot in his hands as he tries to breathe, but it hurts so bad he thinks he might cry.
It doesn’t hurt that much, it doesn’t hurt that much, is a constant mantra in his head, but it’s a lie. It’s such a lie. It hurts like a bitch. A painful bitch. This feels worse than stepping on Tommy’s LEGOs. So much worse than stepping on Tommy’s LEGOs.
“Fuck! Fuck, fuck, fuck!”
From somewhere to his right, he hears a high-pitched voice echo his own words back to him. “Fuck, fuck, fuck!”
Wilbur jolts, startled and still hurting, but manages to bring his misty eyes up to look at his little brother who’s got the biggest shit-eating grin on his face.
But then Tommy steps closer, brow furrowing in concern as his smile drops away. “Are you okay, Wilbur?”
“I’m fine,” He grits out.
Tommy seems appeased by that. “Okay. What does ‘fuck’ mean?”
“What does- Tommy! Don’t say that word,” Wilbur whisper-yells, frantically looking around in hopes that Phil isn’t standing nearby. He’d be so pissed if he knew Tommy had learnt how to curse by four.
It was an accident! He hadn’t meant to stub his toe! Blame the table!
Tommy looks confused now. “Why? What does it mean?”
“It- it doesn’t mean anything,” Wilbur lies, still rubbing his sore foot. “But it’s bad, so don’t say it.”
And, oh god, apparently that was the wrong thing to say because Tommy’s face starts to scrunch up and that means only one thing—he’s about to cry.
“B-but I wanna!” Tommy whines, bottom lip trembling dangerously.
Wilbur gulps, pushing his own pain to the back of his head before scooping the four-year-old up into his arms and sitting him on his lap. “Please don’t cry, Toms. You just have to wait until you’re a bit older to say that word, alright? You’re too little right now, that’s all.”
Tommy doesn’t look like he’s about to cry anymore, but his little eyebrows are still furrowed like he doesn’t understand. “I have to be older?”
“Yes! That’s right.”
Just like that, the problem is solved.
Except it isn’t.
Only a little over a month later, Wilbur has just managed to get Tommy to bed and is ready for a night of videogaming fun. He logs on, sets up the game, and clicks into discord on a separate tab, entering a VC his friends are already waiting in.
He’s greeted loudly by the group of four, so many people talking each over at once that the audio glitches a bit. Wilbur giggles and waits them out.
When they’re quiet, he speaks.
“Sorry, Tommy took a bit longer to fall asleep tonight.” Wilbur says, feeling a bit bad about being so late.
“Don’t worry about it,” Niki’s voice filters through his headphones. “But we’re already in a game, so you’ll have to wait a second.”
“Sounds good.”
They finish the round, and then Wilbur is able to join.
About thirty minutes in, Wilbur is in the zone and has started to get a little frustrated because he keeps dying for stupid reasons. Must be one of his off days, he supposes, but it’s dragging down the team.
He’s fixated on the screen, oblivious to the creaking sound a door down the hall makes as it opens.
Wilbur leans forward as the match progresses, tension rising, and just when he thinks his team might win, the opposition ambushes them and takes a massive lead.
They lose.
“Shit!”
From behind, a tiny voice repeats the phrase. “Shit!”
Wilbur jumps about a foot in the air, whipping his head around to see Tommy standing by the door in his dino pjs, tiredly rubbing his eyes.
“One sec, guys.” Wilbur says into his mic before muting and removing his headphones.
He turns to Tommy and places a hand in his hair, ruffling the yellow curls. “Hey, bubs. Whatcha doing up?”
“I can’t sleep. Wilby, what does ‘shit’ mean?”
Wilbur resists the urge to scream. Phil is going to kill him. “It’s like the other word I told you about a little while ago, you can’t say it. It’s bad.”
“Like ‘fuck’?”
“Yes! Shh, you’ll wake dad.” Wilbur rushes out, picking Tommy up by his armpits and placing him on his hip. “Don’t repeat those words, Toms.”
Tommy seems too tired to argue, instead electing to rest his head on Wilbur’s shoulder as his eyes begin to drift shut. “Okay.”
Once again, the day is saved.
Wrong.
Phil is out working at the daycare he manages when Tommy and Wilbur are playing outside a week before the littlest’s birthday.
It’s a fun time, and they roll around in the grass, collecting sticks and leaves on their shirts and trousers, but neither has a care in the world. Wilbur laughs at Tommy when he screeches and runs away from a fly, booking it across the yard as he tries to escape the small insect.
He’s rather fast for a four-year-old, to be fair, and Wilbur’s stuck on thinking about how much the boy has grown and how surreal the concept of that is when his phone rings.
“Hello? This is Wilbur Soot-Watson.”
“Ayup, Wilbur! Man, um,” Jack Manifold’s greeting booms through the receiver. Wilbur has to pull the phone away from his ear to protect his hearing. “I need some help, I’m not gonna lie to you.”
Wilbur sighs and runs a hand down his face. Tommy’s continued screeching can be heard from the other side of the yard. “What did you do?”
“I, well- is that- is someone screaming?”
“My little brother. Bugs. Whatever. What did you do?” He repeats.
“It’s a funny story, actually, this morning, Josh left for work—”
“Get to the point.”
“Let me tell the story! Sheesh, someone’s cranky, eh? Anyway, earlier on, Josh and mum left for work and yaknow, it’s Friday, right? Laundry day. Mum told me I ought to do it. Well, funny thing is, I haven’t actually got a clue of how to work the damn machine, so I figured, fuck it.”
Wilbur bites a knuckle to hold himself back from groaning. He doesn't like where this is going.
“I, um, I flooded the washing room, Wilbur. I don’t know what to do. Me mum’s gonna kill me.”
Wilbur pinches the bridge of his nose in frustration. “Why on Earth would you call me for something like this?”
He can hear Jack huff loudly on the other side of the line. “Because? I don’t know! Aren’t you a responsible adult? Offer me guidance or something.”
“You’re supposed to be a responsible adult, too! What kind of guy over the age of eighteen doesn’t know how to work a washing machine?!”
“Look, I didn’t call to get bullied, alright? Stop being so mean!”
“Bitch, please—”
“Wilbur?”
“Agh, shit!” Wilbur shrieks, startled. Tommy giggles at the reaction, bouncing on the heels of his feet as he stares down at his older brother.
“Wilbur? Y’alright, mate? You there?”
“I’m here,” Wilbur grunts. “I’m also hanging up.”
Before Jack can protest, Wilbur’s ended the call and stuffs the phone into his hoodie pocket.
“Are you okay, Wilbur? You seem mad.” Tommy says, blue eyes wide as saucers.
Wilbur softens, smiling a bit. “I’m okay. I’m not mad, Toms. Don’t worry.”
Tommy smiles brightly and launches himself into his older brother’s arms, situating himself comfortably on his lap. “I have a question.”
“Go ahead and ask, bubs.”
“What does ‘bitch’ mean?”
Wilbur exhales brokenly. It takes every ounce of composure he has left not to punch himself in the head. “It’s another bad word. You can’t say that one either.”
Tommy pouts a bit. “But what if I want to?”
“I already told you, you’re too little.” Wilbur says before kissing the top of his head. “Wanna head in for lunch?”
“Yes!”
This is the last time this happens, surely.
Not.
It’s the day of Tommy’s fifth birthday, and Wilbur is in the kitchen washing the dishes used during their pancake breakfast, humming peacefully to himself.
“Wilbur.”
That tone never means anything good.
Wilbur swallows thickly and clears his throat, turning slowly to face his father who stands menacingly in the doorway. “What’s up, pops?” He asks awkwardly.
Phil narrows his eyes, arms crossed over his chest. “Care to explain why Tommy has taken to cursing at everything that moves? I can’t imagine where he might have learned that kind of language.”
The words are sharp and straight to the point. Wilbur is so dead.
“I, uh,” he tugs at the collar of his shirt. For some reason, the room seems much warmer than it was a moment before. “Yeah. Can’t imagine.”
There’s the distant sound of a child screeching in the sitting room.
“Fuck! Shit! Bitch! Fuck! Shit! Bitch!”
Wilbur winces.
Tommy turns the corner, socks sliding on the hardwood until he bumps into Phil’s legs, grabbing at the man’s knee to keep himself upright.
“Hey, Toms.” Phil’s voice is still a bit tight. “Wanna tell your brother what you told me? About where you learned those words?”
Oh, god. Oh, god.
Tommy looks confused for a second before he beams brightly up at their father. “Wilbur taught me! He said I had to be older to say the bad words, but I’m five now! I can say them ‘cause I’m old like you, dad.”
Phil meets Wilbur’s eyes with an exasperated glare full of disappointment.
Wilbur tries to smile, but it ends up looking more like a grimace.
Fuck.