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“I’m sorry,” Wilbur says. “You want to do what?”
“It’s not that confusing, big man,” Tommy says. “I’m putting all his shoes on the roof.”
“Why, though?”
Tommy blinks at him. “Because it’s funny?”
“No, I don’t— I got that bit,” Wilbur says. “But why Dream?”
“He’s a bastard,” Tommy says easily. “Absolute wrongun. Terrible with the ladies.”
Wilbur groans, pinching the bridge of his nose. “I’m not going to put on a silly hat and play guitar while you put all of Dream’s shoes on the roof. Tubbo plays an instrument, doesn’t he? Make him do it.”
Tommy opens his mouth for the express purpose of telling Wilbur that that will not work, for several reasons that Tommy is simply too poggers and manly to explain to a lowly mortal such as Wilbur, and—
Nah, fuck it. He can’t be arsed.
Wilbur sighs and flops onto his bed, narrowing his eyes. Narrowing them horizontally. What a fuckin’—a fuckin’ horizontalist. Tommy plucks up a stuffie from the floor and throws it at his face.
It bounces off the headboard. Wilbur giggles, all high-pitched like he does when someone does something stupid. (Not Tommy, though. He’s incapable of being stupid. He’s just too incredible.)
Fuck. Tommy sticks his tongue out at Wilbur and is promptly ignored.
What’s he supposed to do? It’s his brother—in other words, the most fucking annoying, stubborn man to ever exist, excluding Technoblade. It’s not like he can just threaten him until he agrees.
But he could …
Tommy is a fucking genius. The most brilliant of men, if you will. He could be the world’s greatest businessman, and sleazily steal the land and money of lots and lots of people, because his brain is just—just massive and shit.
He shifts and hops up onto the bed, his little nose twitching, hind legs all jumpy and shit.
Wilbur pries an eye open, glasses askew on his face. For a moment he frowns, eyes flicking upward. “Tommy? Did you lea—”
His eyes flick downward, to where Tommy, in rabbit form, is perched by his side.
Wilbur immediately gasps and scrambles upward. “Holy fuck,” he says. “Awwww, Tommy!”
He’s beaming, eyes gleaming, heart—heart screaming or fucking whatever, rhyming is not one of Tommy’s million talents. He reaches out, carefully and somewhat gingerly, aiming for Tommy’s fuzzy little ears.
Tommy skitters backward, fighting the urge to laugh. (How does one laugh in rabbit form? By chittering one’s teeth together? Tommy has no idea.)
“Tommy?” Wilbur says, a bit more unsure now. “What’re you doing?”
He moves to pet Tommy once more, hand reaching out to his ears, and Tommy flattens them to his skull and hops to the end of the bed, cackling mentally in a rabbity manner. (He is craving carrots. He disregards that.)
Wilbur’s eyes narrow. “Tommy,” he says, now a bit of a warning. Tommy disregards that, too. “Tommy, I know what you’re fucking doing.”
Tommy blinks innocently, like, Who, me? Scheming? Never! I am merely Cute Rabbit Boy and never have I ever done anything wrong ever!
“I know what you’re doing and it won’t work. You—you can’t trick me like this. Your manipulation does not work on me.” Wilbur points a finger in Tommy’s direction, squinting accusingly. “I will not fall prey to your little rabbit ideals.”
Tommy has no idea what the fuck most of the words falling out of Wilbur’s mouth mean, but hey, whatever.
Suddenly, Wilbur lunges forward, hands outstretched. Tommy’s rabbit instincts come in handy; he freezes first, nose twitching, ears flattening, then fucking books it, leaping clear across the bed to land comfortably on the pillow. Wilbur face-plants on the other side of the bed, knocking the top of his skull into the wall.
He groans a sentence that may or may not insult the god of creation. Tommy chitters with laughter.
“Fuck you,” Wilbur mutters, peeling himself off the bed to stand. “You—you’re the worst. I should never’ve picked you up off the street. That was a joke.” Tommy fights the initial surge of joy from that sentence, the reassurance that Wilbur always somehow manages to include, and ends up failing. He leaps into the air, does a half-twist, and lands right back on the pillow, nose twitching happily.
“Listen,” Wilbur says. “Tommy. Tom. Toms. Please—just—” He makes grabby hands in Tommy’s direction. “You’re so fucking small!”
You’re just too fucking tall, bitch, Tommy wants to say. Unfortunately—and this might come as a surprise—he is currently a rabbit.
“Really,” Wilbur says, and perches on his bed. Tommy allows it for now, hind leg thumping behind him, ready to run for it if necessary. Wilbur’s gotta give in before he gets rabbit cuddles. Tommy will execute this prank, even if it kills him. “You’re like—I swear you’re smaller than a regular rabbit. What—”
Wilbur gasps.
Ah, fuck. That’s never a good sign.
Wilbur’s eyes are fucking shining. “Holy shit,” he says. “Holy shit, Tommy, are you a—you’re a fucking kitten!”
What the fuck? He’s a fucking rabbit, not a cat! Does Wilbur have eyes?
Wilbur skitters a hand rapidly toward Tommy, clearly preying on his confusion, and Tommy leaps out of the way, still judging Wilbur with his adorable little rabbit eyes. He attempts to communicate his judgment via telepathy: What the fuck do you mean, I’m a kitten? I’m a fucking rabbit, bitch! Get it right!
Wilbur giggles a bit as Tommy holds eye contact. “You are just so small,” he says. “So tiny. Tiny little boy. Teeny little thing.”
No. Fuck off, Wilbur. Tommy is the biggest fucking man in the goddamn world, and he’ll—he’ll prove it fucking somehow. Shift into a bear, maybe. Threaten to rip off Wilbur’s legs. That’ll teach him, the bitch.
He tunes back into the conversation to hear Wilbur saying, “Baby rabbits are called kittens.” Tommy blinks. Wait, really? “Yeah, they are! And—Tommy, this is so good. This is so fucking good, Tommy. A group of wild rabbits is called a fluffle.”
No. No. That is not fucking adorable, fuck off, go away Trixx-tinn, go away Exx-Dei, go away everyone in the entire gods-damned world. Fuck, that’s the best fucking thing Tommy’s heard all day. He does another twisty-hop thing, and Wilbur coos.
“You are so smol,” he says. Tommy can hear him misspelling the word. “Little rabbit boy. Adorable. Incredible.”
Tommy’s nose twitches. He shoves down the urge, batting at it with his little rabbit paws. He will not get happy over Wilbur’s compliments. A lesser man would, perhaps, but Tommy’s—Tommy’s built different. He’s built like a goddamn rabbit, he is.
“Please,” Wilbur says. “Please, you’re just so small—”
Tommy meets his eyes. You know what you have to do, he tells him, in that explicit way of communication he’s found only family and friends manage. It’s a fuckin’—real fuckin’ experience, he’ll say that much, when it comes to finally having a family.
Wilbur sighs. “Tommy,” he says mournfully. “Please.”
Tommy narrows his little rabbit eyes and twitches his nose.
Wilbur groans and flops onto the bed as if he’s been shot, hands pressed over his side. “Betrayal,” he declares. “Oh, the pain—the agony—”
Tommy bats him on the (big-ass) forehead with a paw. Wilbur groans again.
“Fine,” he says. “I’ll help you with your stupid prank. Now c’mere!”
As soon as Tommy allows it, Wilbur scoops him up, cooing so loudly that Tommy is astonished someone else hasn’t popped in to join the Admire-the-Little-Rabbit party. Wilbur pets his ears. “You’re so fucking soft,” he coos. “Aww, Tommy—”
Fuck this. Tommy hates this. So fucking much.
“Aww, Tommy,” Wilbur says, because he’s a bastard and a jackass and a horrible person in general. “Tommy? Are you flustered?”
Tommy shakes his rabbity little head no desperately.
“Are you sure?” Wilbur wheedles. He scratches behind Tommy’s ears, and Tommy huffs and buries his little rabbit face in the thick wool of Wilbur’s sweater. “You’re sure you’re not feeling embarrassed right now because little ol’ Wilby’s complimenting you? Huh?” Silence. He must maintain silence. He will create an atmosphere of such composure—
“You’re being awfully silent,” Wilbur says, like the smug bitch he is. “Do I need to try harder?” No. No, fuck you, bastard. Die, die, die. “Sweetheart,” Wilbur suggests. “Sunshine. Darling—”
Tommy shifts back and shoves him in the shoulder, hard. Wilbur just giggles, lurching forward to wrap his arms around Tommy’s shoulders and yank him into a hug. Tommy narrowly avoids smacking his head on the headboard. “Tommyyyyy,” Wilbur says.
“Let me go,” Tommy protests, rather weakly. He tries to shove himself upward, but Wilbur grips like a fucking koala, pinning his arms to his sides. “You’re a bitch.”
Wilbur snickers. “You make a cute rabbit.”
“I’ll fucking bite you, bitch—”
Eventually, Tommy gives up and slumps into Wilbur’s hold, grumbling. “Your shoulder’s all bony ‘n’ shit,” he says. “Fuckin’—fuckin’ rude. Fix that.”
“What?” Wilbur says, voice edging on a laugh. “How’ll I do that?”
“I dunno. Just do it. Can’t be that hard.”
“I think it can, though.”
“Well, fuck you. Your opinions don’t matter.”
Wilbur giggles again, high-pitched and happy, and Tommy rolls his eyes but grins anyway.