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Tommy’s eyes trailed the man like a hawk. Back slightly damp from where it rested against the cold cave wall, moisture easily seeping through the thin fabric of his tee-shirt. He silently observed as the brunet paced all day, empty eyes scrunched closed in concentration as he gnawed on his barely existing nails, continuing the motion long after Tommy had resigned to sleep. The sound of his worn out shoes travelling across the floor followed the blonde into his dreams.
That was the routine that they followed. Tommy awakens to the smell of rain and mildew, repetitive dripping from the ceiling following the rhythm of Wilbur’s footsteps. The only words that were uttered from Wilbur’s mouth stemmed from his own steadily growing madness, thoughts of paranoia and self doubt leading him to lose himself. Indulging in the ideals his mind had created and the villain he thought he was.
At first, it terrified Tommy. To be a bystander in his own brother’s psychotic break. Watching as everything Wilbur had worked towards, everything he revolved around, crumbled before his eyes. Including the person Wilbur had adjusted to. Sitting beside the brunet as days spent mourning the loss of L’manburg, something they had created and sacrificed so much for, morphed into days spent conspiring. Days where Wilbur ignored the world around him in order to focus on his manic plans. Leaving apples on his desk for him to eat, only for them to go mouldy and untouched.
At first, it terrified Tommy.
Lately, he’s found himself too tired to care. Allowing himself to grieve the person who might as well be dead, despite his physical body still lingering. He’s already experienced the first stages.
The initial denial he felt when he noticed his brother slipping away. All the nights he lay awake, swearing to himself that everything will be okay whilst Wilbur scribbled letters from across the room.
The plummeting guilt that plagued him all hours of the day. Desperately trying to amend every stupid mistake he had ever made, strings of apologies falling from his lips only to be dismissed by the annoyed adult who was ‘trying to concentrate’.
The anger he felt towards everyone. The nights where he helped Wilbur conspire, vowing to murder anyone who gets in their way because morals be damned. He just wants everything to be how it was.
Now, numbly listening to the continuous footsteps echoing throughout the room as he peeled the skin from his fingers, he wonders if this is acceptance.