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When Tommy met Wilbur, he was shocked by his wings first, and status second.
They’re great things, jet black laced with a gold the colour of ichor, and Wilbur wears them with a pride that’s more than likely hereditary. They cut through air with ease, slicing like a sword that Wilbur would never pick up.
Tommy recognised the face second, and choked back a cry of “ Holy shit. Wilbur Soot, son of fucking Philza is directly in front of me ” from clawing its way out of his mouth.
Instead, Tommy straightened his tie and made it his personal goal to kick the prince of the Antarctic Empire in the shins and form a business relationship with him.
Well, as much of a business relationship a 13 year old and a 19 year old can have. Tommy doesn’t need to know that 9/10 times, he’s being humored. No, of course not.
“You’re a ridiculous child.” Wilbur says, standing from where he was tucked into a corner, reading some old dusty book about whatever the fuck. Tommy drops the pebble he was holding, kicking it away with the tip of his foot as Wilbur casts disapproving glances to the 5 other pebbles dotted around him. “You try to do some reading, relax a bit, pretend to not know your father so you can avoid your responsibilities, and you get relentlessly bullied by some fucking 10 year old.”
“You know how old I am,” says Tommy, reaching back for the pebble and throwing it directly to Wilbur’s forehead. It bounces off his wing instead as Wilbur raises it to shield himself, and Tommy pouts, “I’m 13. You know I’m 13.”
“I know that you're a ridiculous child and that whoever let you be a part of Business Bay is an idiot.”
“Shut up! You’re so stupid, I don't understand where your brain is.”
“Shut up yourself,” Wilbur says, and he obviously fights a smile as he stretches out his wings, letting out a little trill at the back of his throat as he tucks his hands into the pockets of his brown dress-trousers. “Are we gonna head out, or what? We’ve gotta find Charlie, and Sally’s sent me a message, too-”
Tommy grins, straightening his back and crossing his arms. “Ooooooooh, you’ve got a girlfriend, you do. I’m Wilbur and I have a girlfriend heehoo -'' Tommy mocks, sticking out his tongue. He quickly changes his tune though, letting out a shriek as Wilbur whacks him over the head with a black wing, his hands flying up to push them away. “Fuck off, bitch! I have a knife! Fuck you!” Tommy leaps away, pointing an accusatory finger directly at Wilbur, who guffaws, clapping his hands together and leaning over, wings stretching wide.
“Oh, you’re such a stupid child,” Wilbur sighs fondly, chest heaving with the force of his laughs, “Literally, such a stupid child.”
“Go away. Die. Fuck off.”
“You love me.”
“I’d never. Now, are we gonna go to Charlie’s or not?”
Wilbur’s wings are so easy to fall into, Tommy thinks. They’re soft and beautiful and uniquely Wilbur in every way.
They protect from the crisp night air just right, and they may as well be shields with the safe feeling they bring. Wilbur helps with that too, of course. Nights like these, it's so easy. Tommy’s head leaning back against Wilbur’s chest, wings splayed around them both, leaning against the turrets of their beloved walls. The blackstone and yellow concrete are solid beneath them, sturdy, and nowhere works better to feel the biting chill. The stars hum a soundless lullaby in the sky, dotted as if a painter has run a practiced hand over a white-dipped brush.
His white shirt and red cravat alone do little to protect from the chill of the later hours, navy coat easily discarded, but Wilbur’s arms don't lack warmth, and the beautiful feathers themselves don't either. Beautiful, truly. They look jet black in the moon’s light, but the colour can't compare to their hues in daylight: gold and white and black, absolutely perfect in every way that matters. The night doesn't know the beauty it hides, but it does so all the same; a dreadful curtain, unwillingly black and silken, an injustice. Stupid poetic shit that Wilbur would spout unironically. Tommy grazes a sleepy hand over Wilbur’s plumage, his primaries, and Wilbur clicks in the back of his throat appreciatively. Tommy copies him in kind, and soon they’re repeating each other, falling into an easy and familiar pattern, familial pattern, and it has Tommy huffing out his mouth in content and Wilbur burying his face into blonde curls. Tommy trills again, and Wilbur does the same, and he can feel his brother’s smile against his head and he can’t help the fond grin that splits his face, too. They don't say anything to each other beyond the trills, but they say enough all on their own.
Wilbur taught him the sounds, told him Phil taught him them like a lullaby when he was only a child. A family song, or simple little noises that manage to be so unmistakably Wilbur that everytime he makes a noise his chest fills with that stupid warmth which he wouldn't trade the world for. Wilbur’s wings are at place, where they should be, around him, Wilbur’s arms circled around his front, and Tommy’s head against his chest. Something he wouldn't trade the world for. Don’t tell Wilbur.
Tomorrow they’ll be concerned with the pressures of a new nation, but not tonight. For now, wings and trills and body heat is enough comfort. Sleeping is more than enough comfort. And the stupid poetic shit Wilbur unironically spouts.
Tomorrow comes far faster than it should.
In one moment, they’re firing arrows down as a battalion - the fifth battalion - and cheering their success, and the next Tommy is dead with the slide of a sword through the stomach.
Of course, nothing compares to the sight Tommy’s greeted with on respawn. Wilbur's scream, pulled, ripped from his throat will ring in Tommy’s head every time he tries to summon sleep to himself, and it will be all he can do to clutch his own pillow to his chest and yell every derogatory term under the sun (within reason) in his head.
(When Tommy would panic, Wilbur would always card his fingers through the blonde mess of hair on his head and cover him with his wings like a blanket and breathe, loud and exaggerated. He made himself a presence, and Tommy would whirl around and press himself into Wilbur's shoulder and clutch at the clasps at his back and breathe himself. He’d reach around for the base of Wilbur’s wings, and he’d catch them and Tommy would run his fingers all the way, down and around until he had brushed against every feather and he was calm.)
Every sound Wilbur makes, every shudder of bare shoulders, sends both white hot rage and cold, painful tugs to Tommy’s heart and it’s only Wilbur’s vice-like grip on his hand that has him staying kneeled exactly where he is, carding his hand through matted and sweaty curls. He lets out gentle trills, clicks in the back of his throat, but they don't lessen Wilbur’s heavy breathing, his sobs. They sound like they’re tearing themselves out of his throat, and Tommy startles when Tubbo presses himself closer to Wilbur. Tubbo keeps sending glances to Tommy, eyes wide and he can see the pain there, deep, but also so shallow.
Wilbur’s back is mangled, to say the least. It’s not difficult to tell why every slight movement has him crying out or wincing, and Tommy’s heart hurts with every glance. Fundy lets out a growl at every gasp, and it’s from his chest, his heart. Fundy’s own wings shrink close to his back and every heave Wilbur makes, the wings shudder too.
“Who the fuck does this?” Fundy says lowly, and Tommy’s head turns to him, passing fingers through knots and tangles again. His voice is angry, tinged with every kind of hatred under the sun, and genuine agony along with it. He raises his eyebrows at Wilbur’s son, and he gestures with his head, “That. Who the fuck does that? What kind of- who’d- that motherfucker. His- Prime. Dad…” Fundy’s voice softens, but that fire isn't lost, and Tommy fears (doesn't fear, he’d never fear that , not after this.) that if Dream got too close to Fundy too soon, he’d lose something special of his own.
To tear away someone's being like that. What kind of fucked up asshole were they really facing?
Tommy’s eyes flick to Wilbur again, who breathes shallowly but with less tears backing every inhale. He leans into the touch of Tommy’s hand in his hair, and Prime does his chest hurt. It was never Tommy providing the comfort, never. Wilbur never needed support, he was so strong , he did everything he needed to. Wilbur looks so small now. His wings gave him this air of grace, untouchable. He’s not untouchable anymore, falling apart in front of his brothers and son. No more plumage of black, white and gold. No more sleepy preening, no more comfortable trilling as Tommy nestles into wings carefully.
“I’ll fucking kill him, Wil. For you, I’ll kill him. Even if I don't do it now.” Tommy murmurs, and Wilbur’s only response is a hitched breath.
And they’re all shaky. Of course they are. Losing a life tears something from your core, your soul, and leaves you fragmented. But this? This rips away life, soul, being, far more than losing a life does.
And Tommy would gladly undergo that again so Wilbur wouldn't have to.
Tommy soon realises that Wilbur looks so small without his wings. (This task is difficult, given that Wilbur is freakishly tall anyway.) He looks small, and fragile, and that hereditary pride of wings is gone, lost in his pale face.
Tommy also soon realises that Wilbur’s clothes aren't suited for him to not have wings. The clasps that connect at the back have no use anymore, because there are no wings to protect. The cloaks that leave his shoulders bare have no use anymore, and only serve to show off what he’s lost.
Wilbur hunches in on himself as he tries to pull his cloak up on his shoulders over and over again, leaning his weight on Tommy as they limp and stumble away from the glorifed graveyard of a blackstone room. He winces everytime fabric brushes over his injuries, and Tommy wishes he had a single regeneration potion to splash at him, to let the pink hues heal his fucking brother . He grimaces as navy comes away bloodstained as he finally rips it from his back to put it over his shoulders, and Tommy snaps.
“Put that down- Prime, Wil, c’mere.” Tommy grumbles, shucking his own coat off to drape over Wilbur’s shoulders with far more care than he’d ever admit to having. He’s not ashamed of protecting and taking care of his brother, of course, he’d sacrifice sleep to make sure he was able to recover from what that green bitch did to him, but still. Feral children have a reputation to uphold.
“Tommy-” Wilbur starts, before Tommy silences him with a look that's equal parts concerned and- out of character. Stern. Wilbur has the decency to look sheepish and he grabs the coat over his shoulders by its lapels, tugging it closer to himself. Tommy nods at him as he does so, pressing into his side, with a gentle, quiet encouragement that Wilbur could do the same. And this time he does. Tommy extends a hand, gentle and non judgemental and a promise that you’ll be okay and for once in his life Wilbur can't bring himself to say no. He clasps the hand Tommy extends, and they're brothers.
Wilbur forces himself upright as they attempt to negotiate surrender with Dream, and Tommy can only see the way his brother’s shoulders shake and his fists clench and the way he’d sobbed in Tommy’s arms, under his hands, with his son and other brother pressed against him and-
Soon enough Tommy has a wooden bow pressed into his hand and he’s knocking an arrow as he takes ten paces.
It’s worth it, Tommy thinks as he sinks into the clear waters below. He’ll respawn, and it’s worth it for Dream to know that they won't lose lying down. Soon, he’ll give away his discs for a win, for a sacrifice, for a pipe dream, and he’ll be told he didn't need to, that he’d never be asked to- and Tommy will just shake his head. He’ll shake his head and a tired smile will pull at his own lips and he’ll collapse into weary arms and they won't be okay but they'll be enough .
Enough.