Archive of Our Own

Tommy kicked the door open and flung his backpack onto the floor.

"Home sweet home!" he said, beaming over his shoulder at Tubbo.

His red sweater was the brightest thing in the room, fresh off a clearance rack just a week ago when he went shoplifting with Tubbo. The walls and carpet were beige. A TV sat on the floor across from an air mattress. There were only two other doors off the living room, one firmly closed and the other leading to a bathroom with tile cracks visible from the front door.

Tubbo toed his shoes off and beamed back.

This was the first time Tommy invited him to his apartment.

Tubbo was never bothered by that fact; he couldn't exactly invite Tommy back to his house, either, seeing as it was technically a closet repurposed into a bedroom in the back of a tech shop.

Tommy never begrudged him the fact; they hung out in public parks and loitered in stores and it worked perfectly for them. Just like he'd never commented on the fact that Tubbo showered once in a blue moon, or sometimes vanished for a couple days for work.

"I like it!" Tubbo said, impressed.

Tommy beelined for the fridge. There was barely anything; mostly beers that Tommy pushed to the side in the search for more than just condiments.

Tubbo thought of all the money he'd been saving up.

"We should order a pizza," he suggested. "We can make it into a party. Ooh--a sleepover!"

Even though Tommy gave him a judgemental look, what came out of his mouth was,

"I s'pose. Never had a sleepover before."

"It'll be fun," Tubbo promised, and since he was pretty sure the air mattress in the living room was Tommy's, he bounded over to it and sat with a bounce.

Tommy followed and pulled up two slim controllers.

"Check this out," he said, puffing up with pride. "It's Wil's, but he lets me use it." The only profile was Tommyinnit. While Tubbo ordered pizza and parted with some of his money with only a twinge of uncertainty and guilt, Tommy started up an old but classic game Tubbo had heard of a time or two, made entirely out of blocks.

The sleepover was fun. Tommy and Tubbo plowed through two pizzas between rounds of building and fighting (both in game, and out of game over the biggest slices), and then slipped into food comas sprawled across the mattress and floor respectively.

In the morning, Tubbo figured he was about to be kicked out, but instead Tommy said,

"You know, Wilbur's gone off on one of his adventures, so if you wanted to stick around for a while…"

Tubbo was still in the apartment when Wilbur returned.

He looked up from his reheated takeout, cheeks bulging, and stared at Wilbur with round eyes.

"You're not Tommy," Wilbur said. Then he squinted. "Where is Tommy?"

Tubbo pointed to the bathroom where the shower was still running.

He hastily swallowed and said,

"I'm Tubbo. One of his friends from school."

"He's still going to school? Oh thank fuck." He draped his jacket over the counter and fixed his collar. Then he smiled, blindingly charming, and said, "Hi, Tubbo. I'm Wilbur. Nice to meet you."

There was a crash from the bathroom.

"Wilbur?" Tommy shouted. "That you?"

"It's me! You okay while I was gone?" Wilbur shouted back.

"Enjoyed having the place to myself!"

Well, Tubbo knew that was a big, fat lie, but he just smiled into his food and went back to his phone.

Wilbur vanished into his bedroom, and when he came out, he was dressed in a much more comfortable sweater and caught Tommy when he came barreling out, hair dripping wet, for a hug.

"Sorry I was gone so long, buddy," he said.

Tommy squeezed him tightly before stepping back.

"Like I gave a shit," he said.

Wilbur just laughed and yanked the collar of his shirt up over the back of his head. Tommy yelped and kicked him in the shin.

Tubbo laughed at them both.

"You're such a dick," Tommy grumbled, trying to smooth his cowlick down.

Wilbur didn't seem to mind having a second kid in his apartment; he even played a brief game with them, while Tommy and Tubbo tried to work a controller together. It was only as sunset approached that he turned to Tubbo with a furrowed brow and said,

"What's the situation, dude? Is there someone coming to pick you up?"

Tommy went still next to him. Tubbo wondered if he had forgotten that Tubbo had to leave. Tubbo certainly had. He'd gotten used to sharing space, to being in an actual apartment.

"Aw," he said, "nah. I'll probably just walk."

"I can walk you," Tommy said.

Wilbur rolled his eyes.

"I'm not letting you guys gallivant around in the dark, there's been way too many murders," he said. "I'll walk you, Tubbo." Tommy opened his mouth. "Yes, before you ask, could I really stop you from coming along?"

Tommy huffed in satisfaction.

So Tubbo took point, hands shoved deep into his pockets, on the walk to the shop.

Solar street lamps flickered to life. The blinking LEDs embedded into the road lit everything up in magenta and yellow, outlining sidewalks and lanes.

He was finally showing Tommy where he lived and worked--it made him nervous and ashamed, which was stupid, because this was Tommy. Even if he hadn't understood, having been homeless for a while just like Tubbo, he wasn't really the judgy type.

Cranky maybe, as evinced by the argument he was having with Wilbur, but he'd never bullied Tubbo about anything that mattered.

The shop was in a more upscale place than Tommy's apartment, near the defunct capitol building, but it still managed to look seedy, set back from the sidewalk with a shadowed entryway.

Tubbo pushed the door open.

Wilbur and Tommy looked around curiously.

"Hello?" Schlatt yelled. "We're not open, but if you have money I'll sell to ya anyway!"

"Just me," Tubbo called back. He squared his shoulders and smiled at Wilbur and Tommy, sweeping his arm out. "This is where I work. I live in the back."

"Pog, man," Tommy said, eyeing up the bright tablet displays. Computers sat gleaming behind locked cases.

Tubbo could point at every single one and tell them what was wrong with it, but Schlatt preferred to sell his junk at full price, so he'd learned to lie. He felt like they could both tell how illegitimate the business was, and it made his face heat up.

"What the hell? Did you bring someone with you?" came Schlatt's voice again, and he popped from behind a shelf, only to stop in surprise.

"Well, shit," said Wilbur, looking amused. "Long time no see."

"Fucking Wilbur? Since when have you been here?"

"Since I started working with Dream." Wilbur grabbed Tommy by the shoulder and dragged him into the conversation. "This is Tommy, he works for him too. We're a great team."

"Dream?" Schlatt pulled a face. "You're not here because of him, are you?"

"Nah. I was making sure Tubbo didn't get shot on his way back."

Schlatt narrowed his eyes.

"You're not trying to poach my best employee, are you?"

Wilbur laughed, but his eyes glittered with calculating curiosity when he glanced at Tubbo.

Tubbo was reminded of his old foster father, and his stomach flipped nervously. Tommy wriggled free of Wilbur's grip and Tubbo grabbed him, towing him to the back corner, where the interesting stuff sat, on shelves easy to swipe from because Schlatt thought they were all pointless.

"I spend a lot of time fixing these things up," Tubbo said, standing on tiptoe to pull one of the novelty gadgets from a high shelf. It was a closed circuit radio without its other half, but he'd found similar systems very useful for hacking chip readers. Schlatt just never appreciated out-of-the-box thinking.

Tubbo made sure to talk loud enough to cover up Wil and Schlatt's shop talk, but not so loud to bring attention. Tommy, after a moment of hesitating and looking over his shoulder at Wilbur, settled in to look over everything.

"I love all your tech bullshit," Tommy admitted. "It's so cool. Makes sense you'd work in a place like this."

Tubbo felt some of that worry in his chest unspool and stop hurting quite so bad.

"I've got so many cool things to show you," he said, grinning from ear to ear.

Wilbur let Tubbo come over without limitation.

Tommy, now that the dam had been broken, often joined him during his shifts at the shop, only slinking out when Schlatt was there.

The problem was, sometimes he brought Wilbur.

Jesus, just thinking it made him feel awful. If Tommy could hear him, he'd probably hate him; everytime he talked about Wilbur, his brother in everything but blood, it was with hero worship dripping from every syllable--like blood after he took a punch on Tubbo's behalf.

Tubbo didn't know how to break it to him that Wilbur reminded him of his first and last foster father.

"How'd you learn all this stuff?" Wil asked, elbows on the counter.

Tubbo, eager to hide the tender spot the question rebruised, ducked his head and said,

"Self taught, big man."

"Really? Dude, you're what, eleven?"

"Almost fourteen," Tubbo corrected.

Tommy, who was only just thirteen, looked keenly jealous where he was trying to break into one of the cabinets. Tubbo stuck his tongue out at him.

"At least I'm taller," Tommy muttered.

"Not as tall as me," Wilbur sang, drawing the last syllable out.

Tommy went back to his heist, more sulky this time, while Wil leaned in closer and tried again,

"You like working here?"

"Yeah," Tubbo said, neglecting to point out that he had to work in the shop to keep a roof over his head. At least, until he saved up enough money to get an apartment of his own. "I really like working with computers. It's one of my favorite things."

Wilbur hummed thoughtfully.

"You know, I know Schlatt, and he can be kind of a dickhead, so if you ever want new opportunities…"

"Thanks, Wil," he said, palms sweating and heart beating a mile a minute. "I'll think about it."

Wilbur backed off, distinctly unsatisfied, but didn't bring it up for the rest of the visit.

Tommy had not been at school for several days.

This, on its own, would not usually worry Tubbo. Both of them had more important shit to do than worksheets and revisions. It was just that the last text Tommy sent him was a somewhat nonsensical, circular thing he could barely parse about being sick. It was full of typos worse than Tubbo's usual.

That text, then radio silence.

Tubbo had even texted Wilbur--he'd kept it casual, even spent several minutes hunched over his screen painstakingly fixing spelling errors--and the effort was wasted because his number was out of service.

So here he was, at the now-familiar door, wrestling with the lock because no one had answered when he knocked. He pushed the door open and flipped on the light.

The pile of blankets on Tommy's mattress whimpered and shifted.

"Tommy," he said, relieved beyond measure, and stumbled to the mattress. He dug through the blankets.

Tommy squinted up at him against the lights. His hair was plastered to his forehead with sweat. His arms trembled underneath him until he sank back down.

"Tubbo?" Tommy slurred, looking confused.

Tubbo wiped the damp pieces of hair from his forehead and didn't even need to linger to feel the heat. Jesus, he even smelled bad, like stale sweat and that particular sour sickness-scent.

Now that he was looking, at least half of that had to be the big bowl full of vomit sitting next to Tommy. He tried to stifle the smell with a hand over his nose and mouth, and said through it, as chipper as he could,

"Hey, Big T. I got worried so I thought I'd, you know, pop by. How you doing?"

"Fine," Tommy said, groping blindly for the blankets to stave off his shivers. "Good to see you."

Tubbo helped tuck him back in.

"It's good to see you, too. I'll get you some water and food and stuff."

Tommy hummed. He was already half-asleep on his grimy pillow.

"Don't bother," he mumbled. "I'll throw it back up. 'S gross."

Tubbo frowned.

Tommy had to eat something.

He checked the fridge.

It was still stocked with lots of beer, even though he'd never seen Wilbur drink anything softer than wine, and a singular pack of moldy cheese.

"Okay," he said aloud. "That's okay. I got this."

Tommy made a vague, sleepy noise from his bed. Tubbo crouched down next to him and told him,

"I'll be back soon. I'll get you soup!"

Even though the medicine in the stores might not help Tommy at all, Tubbo got several different types, and more soups than he knew what to do with.

He heated a bowl in the microwave and ended up leaving it there until it was too cold because he remembered he had to clean out the Vomit Bowl. He gagged the whole time and really, really wished there were rubber gloves somewhere.

Thank fuck he did clean it out, though.

Tommy got through about half the soup before throwing it back up.

He'd never been a liar, not to Tubbo, that was for sure.

So they tried again. Tubbo cleaned out the bowl again, almost puking in the process, and heated up more soup. He started small. Two spoonfuls of soup and a tablet of cold medicine. A two hour nap for Tommy while Tubbo stared at Schlatt blowing up his phone. Four spoonfuls of soup and a capful of a different medication that might work better. A half-hour of being screamed at over the phone while he tried to explain himself away as sick.

"If you're sick," Schlatt asked, "then why aren't you here?"

"I'm at Tommy's," he said, and he didn't even realize it was the wrong thing to say until the silence stretched into deadly. He swallowed. He tacked on a sniffle and a cough just to be convincing.

Schlatt hung up on him.

Even though he was likely to get himself sick, Tubbo crawled under the covers with Tommy and curled up against him, burying his head under the blanket and pretending tears of stress weren't threatening to fall.

He'd thought he had it figured out, after the disaster that was his relationship with his foster father. He'd been a stupid, soft kid who had believed that every software language and hardware part he was taught about meant they were bonding. Look how that turned out. He'd tried to turn his foster father in when he realized what all his tech projects were really for, but no one listened to him--they blamed him. They sent him to juvenile detention and treated him as subhuman until a box on the street was an attractive alternative.

He'd eliminated any chance of being fooled into trusting someone by working with Schlatt, who was tolerable at best.

It turned out knowing he was being used didn't make it any easier.

Tommy got better, with Tubbo's help. He gained a better color, and stopped vomiting as often, and started sleeping properly through the night. Tubbo missed school but wasn't so stupid about work; he attended to his tasks whenever Schlatt was conveniently gone and texted him updates that went unacknowledged.

Wilbur didn't turn up.

"Where even is he?" Tubbo asked, frustrated.

Tommy shrugged.

"I don't know. He said he was visiting one of his friends."

"His phone's out of service."

"Yeah," was all Tommy said.

"A real brother would come back to take care of you," Tubbo said--couldn't stop himself from saying. The words pushed through the spaces between his teeth when he tried to bite down on them. The righteousness of it reached all the way down to his trembling fists.

Tubbo may have spent a great portion of his life in a box, but he still knew showing up was the bare minimum.

"He'd have come," Tommy said, without looking at him. "He'd have come if he'd known."

Tubbo joked, once Tommy was back to his normal self and the sting of worry was distant enough it didn't hurt, that he'd get payback for all the vomit.

He hadn't expected it to be so soon.

Schlatt had been a nightmare ever since that phone call. He yelled more often than he ever had before. Sometimes he even threw parts or whole products at Tubbo when he wasn't doing a good job. He went on tangents about how Tubbo could never trust Wilbur, insisting he was the better deal, as if he wasn't driving Tubbo straight into Wilbur's clutches with every drunken rampage.

"Wilbur won't give you a place to stay," he said, backing Tubbo into a corner. "I'm not letting him steal you just because you're good with computers. No one gets you. You're my employee."

And so Tubbo, who had thought he'd be able to hire a replacement when he wanted to leave, revised his plans to 'afford an apartment and escape Schlatt' and started saving up even more money.

All of it was stressful, alright?

Tommy and him already went to Wilbur's parties. Tommy liked to sneak the party drugs, flopping onto the couch or the floor and giggling about the tingle in his fingers. Tubbo liked to do that too, but he liked the hard stuff way more.

He might've miscalculated just how much to take, though.

He heaved and coughed bile into the toilet.

Tommy rubbed his back.

The bathroom light at this house was so dim it barely illuminated anything.

Tubbo blinked.

The world fuzzed at the edges.

He puked again.

Nothing came up.

"It's okay," Tommy said. "You'll be alright."

It'd been nice at first. The whole world had peeled away until he was left with a wonderful fizzing through his body; everything had been so funny. Everything was easy.

Then, out of nowhere, his mood had nosedived and the world snapped into focus and he vomited all over the floor of some stranger's house before bolting to the bathroom.

"I called Wilbur. He's gonna come get us. He's only drunk, and he's like, all giggly and nice when he's like that. He's not like Schlatt. He'll help us out," Tommy said.

Tubbo sobbed into the toilet and would have called Tommy several choice names if his mouth hadn't been otherwise occupied.

The door knocked against the wall.

"Aw, Tubbo," Wilbur said, and he actually sounded sympathetic. "We'll get you fixed up. Tommy mentioned you liked to go a bit overboard. I should've kept a closer eye."

Strong arms lifted him up and he thought he should probably warn Wilbur that his sweater was in danger, but he was too busy coughing up bile; Wilbur didn't seem to care. He patted him on the back and carried him to the car.

Tommy had made a point to tell Tubbo every good story about Wilbur ever since he was sick, including how Wilbur liked to play his guitar when he was sick or upset. Tubbo never had anyone to take care of him, let alone sing away his woes, and privately thought the whole thing sounded stupid.

Oh, how wrong he was.

Wilbur helped him change into soft pajamas, and gave him water, and promised him it would be better tomorrow, and sat beside the bed and plucked a soft tune on the guitar strings that melted Tubbo into a puddle without his agreement.

The experience was almost as comforting as getting high.

Almost.

Tubbo was stupid.

Wilbur was here, and Tommy was not, and even under the bright, watchful lights of the store Tubbo felt fear make his breath shake.

"I just wanted to check on you," Wilbur said, peering around the store--as if admiring the merchandise, but Tubbo knew he was checking for Schlatt; who was gone because Tubbo built his whole schedule around him being gone, because he was stupid.

Schlatt was a known entity; he yelled and screamed, but that was easy to handle. People like Wilbur and his foster father were the real threats; their honey-sweet words tricked Tubbo into swallowing their poison, and he only ever tasted it when it was too late.

"I'm feeling great, bossman, thanks for checking up on me," Tubbo said. If only he hadn't overdosed, and hadn't accepted Wilbur's help.

Fuck, where was Tommy?

Wilbur's smile looked genuine from every angle.

"I'm glad. You had us worried, for a minute there."

Tubbo chuckled awkwardly.

"Yeah, it was a dumb mistake."

Wilbur waved him off.

"Happens to the best of us. You know, Tommy mentioned you and Schlatt have been at odds lately. That doesn't have anything to do with that party, does it?"

"Did he?" Tubbo asked. He was going to kill Tommy. Fuck 'best friends forever,' Tommy would have to make this up from beyond the grave.

"I mean, not in so many words, but I did know Schlatt when we were both young and stupid. I know what he's like."

Tubbo's tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth. He felt like a rabbit being stared down; Wilbur's eyes were dark enough to be black, and even as he leaned forward with a soft smile his eyes didn't reflect the sentiment correctly.

"Tommy's like a little brother to me, you know? I want him to come to me when he has problems. I don't mind extending that same invitation to you. Are you okay?"

Honey-sweet, just like he'd expected. His heart ached for the offer to be true, but the words were so saccharine they'd make him sick if he weren't careful. He sighed and said,

"The boss putting pressure on you to recruit more people?"

Surprise flashed over Wilbur's face, but he just laughed.

"Okay, you've caught me. That is part of why I'm here. But I also want to know if you're okay."

"I'm doing great," Tubbo repeated.

"You're still pretty pale and shaky," Wilbur pointed out.

Yeah, because of you, Tubbo thought. I'm freaking the fuck out.

When it became clear Tubbo wasn't going to engage, Wilbur pressed, "Listen, working for Dream isn't bad. I mean, he's kind of a dickhead, but you'd probably never see him. Tech's a whole different circle. The pay's great, and you get people in your corner."

"I'm pretty solidly employed here," Tubbo said. "Where's Tommy?"

"Uh, at home, I think. I haven't seen him in a couple of days. I've been out and about. Oh, that's another perk of working for Dream. You'd get to go on fun adventures!"

Tubbo curled his hands into fists under the counter where Wilbur couldn't see. As if. Tubbo daydreamed about a small, serviceable apartment in a safe neighbourhood, and a legal job, and maybe even a window box for some flowers. On days when things were particularly shitty, he imagined a whole garden he had the time to tend to, that attracted bees who would perch on his palm to drink water.

Sometimes he thought maybe he could take Tommy with him, but Wilbur had his claws sunk so tightly into him Tubbo probably couldn't separate them without Tommy dying from the heartbreak.

Which was fucking unfair, because Tommy was his best friend.

Tubbo's door had no lock, but it was still a shock when it flew open.

He heard the plaster crack under the doorknob.

"Did you forget about the fucking cameras?" Schlatt asked. "Wilbur and his stupid little friend have been hanging around here way too often. Care to explain?"

Tubbo inhaled the stench of alcohol so strong he could taste it on his tongue. He scrambled to his feet and backed against the far wall.

"I told Wilbur to stop coming around but he didn't," he said, which wasn't true, but only because he wasn't bold enough to cut off Wilbur when that risked Tommy.

"Bullshit," Schlatt spat. He really wasn't that much taller than Tubbo, but in that moment, he filled the whole doorway, blocking the light and Tubbo's only escape route.

"It's really nothing--" Tubbo tried.

Schlatt slammed his fist into the wall.

Tubbo winced away.

"I know what that stupid bitch is up to and it isn't nothing. If you even think about leaving your job, I'll kill you."

"I told you, I'm not going anywhere."

Schlatt grabbed his arm and yanked him close, as if Tubbo hadn't received the message the last thousand times he'd screamed it at him, spraying spit in his face as he yelled,

"This is about more than just the job! This is about loyalty. You're my goddamn employee and if Wilbur thinks he can edge in on that he's wrong. Jesus, I've given you a roof over your head and money and you still have the audacity to sneak behind my back." Every word, his grip twisted tighter, until something popped, smashed, exploded. Tubbo didn't know. He just knew his wrist hurt and he let out a high-pitched squeal he'd never made before.

Schlatt dropped him.

Tubbo didn't care if it was surprise or foggy regret that loosened his grip.

He shoved past and bolted.

He ran until his lungs screamed and his feet ached, and then he ran a little more to a fluorescent-lit supermarket, where he slipped into the bathroom to assess the damage.

His wrist hurt to move, and was already puffy and swelling, with the shadow of bruises beneath the skin that he knew would be worse tomorrow. He clenched his hoodie between his teeth before poking at it, looking for broken bones.

He thought it hurt enough to be broken, but he could still move his fingers, so that meant it was just bruised, right?

Schlatt just had to go and choose the dominant hand.

Tubbo hung his head over the sink.

Schlatt had never hit him before; he was ill-tempered but he wasn't like that. Tubbo thought he knew what to expect from him, thought he knew how to say and do the right things. Then Wilbur had to come and fuck it all up.

Tubbo tucked his hurt hand into the pocket of his hoodie as a makeshift sling.

Tommy would be home, and he wouldn't say a thing about Tubbo staying for a day or two, just until things calmed down. Tommy had frozen food he could press to his wrist, and pain medication, and most importantly, Tommy himself, who would hug Tubbo if he asked.

At Tommy's apartment, Tubbo was surprised to find the front door unlocked. He pushed it open.

The lights were on, but the living room was dead silent. The bathroom sink was running.

"Tommy?" Tubbo called.

Something clattered.

"The fuck? Tubbo?"

Tommy poked his head out of the bathroom.

He looked like shit.

Blood dripped from his split lip, and his cheek was raw with road rash, and a black eye already sat stark and dark on his face.

"Jesus," Tubbo said. "What happened to you?"

"Aw, nothing, I just met the Dream Team. There was a little bit of a miscommunication about me being allowed to be there, but we fought it out," Tommy said, vanishing back into the bathroom. Tubbo dragged himself across the living room.

"And you lost?" he guessed.

Tommy pouted.

Fresh blood poured from his lip.

"Shut up," he said. "What're you doing here?"

Tubbo's hand throbbed.

"Schlatt didn't need me so I thought I'd come by," he said. "Especially 'cause I figured Wil would be gone and you'd be lonely."

"Wh--hey! I'm not lonely, you fucking bitch!"

Tubbo laughed.

"Let me help you." He dug through the disorganized mess under the sink until he found bandaids and expired antibacterial ointment. He hoped Tommy didn't notice he was only using one hand. His eye was swelling shut already, though, so he hoped that would be enough to district him.

"Wil said he'd be back in the morning," Tommy said.

Rather than point out all the instances Wilbur had promised to be back by a certain time and never delivered, Tubbo tended to Tommy in silence. When the last bandaid was smoothed onto his face, Tubbo stepped back to admire his work.

"Ok," he said. "Let's go to bed. I'm fucking exhausted."

"Toddler shit. I don't need sleep."

Tubbo rolled his eyes and settled into Tommy's bed like it was his own. He kept his hoodie on, even though it was too hot with the blankets. Tommy didn't question it. He hesitantly pressed his back to Tubbo's and mumbled,

"Goodnight. Love you."

Tubbo tucked his smile into the blankets and hummed back.

Wilbur did come back in the morning.

He slammed the front door and tripped over kicking his shoes off and muttered curses as he fumbled for the kitchen light, as it was too early for the sun to even consider rising. Even though it was too bright, Tubbo lifted himself up on an elbow to squint after him.

Wil noticed.

In two long strides he was crouched over Tubbo and petting his head.

They both froze: Tubbo, because someone was in his personal space who he did not want there; Wilbur, because Tubbo was not Tommy.

Wilbur cleared his throat and detangled his hand from Tubbo's greasy hair, instead giving him a much more acceptable pat on the arm.

"Hey, Tubbo, didn't realize you were coming over," he said.

Tommy snuffled and stirred.

Wilbur rounded the bed, and the second he got a proper look at Tommy, even if it was only with the sick orange light from the kitchen, he gasped.

"Holy shit, what happened to you?" he asked, voice shrill, already pulling Tommy up into a sitting position. Tommy grumbled in sleepy protest as Wil's hands flew across his face, tracing over his eye, which was well-and-proper swelled now. He flinched away from the pain. "Oh, Tommy," Wilbur breathed.

Tubbo hurried to get up, pushing up with his hurt wrist, which protested by making his arm hurt all the way up to his head. An involuntary, "Fuck!" fell from his mouth.

"'Fuck' is right," Wilbur said. "Let me check you for a concussion, buddy, I know you don't feel good. I'll get you some painkillers after, okay?"

Tommy made more incoherent noises of protest, but was docile under Wil's examination. Tubbo felt something swell up and stick in the opening of his throat. He shouldn't have let Tommy sleep. He didn't know anything about concussions, but he should have assumed that with all that bruising, that Tommy'd probably gotten a knock to the head.

"Does anything else hurt? Where'd they hit you?" Wil asked.

"I don't know," Tommy said, sounding tired down to his bones. "The usual places someone decks you. My stomach hurts and stuff."

Wilbur poked his ribs, and sighed in relief when he didn't elicit a strong reaction. He gave Tommy a couple pills, and helped him drink water, and when that was done he helped him into Wilbur's bedroom.

He was giving Tommy a soft, proper place to rest, just like he had when Tubbo overdosed.

"There," Wilbur said, tucking the blankets tenderly around Tommy. "Nice and quiet."

Tubbo hovered in the doorway. Could he have the air mattress? The floor?

Wilbur turned down the covers on the other side of the bed and patted the mattress, answering the question for him.

"C'mon," Wil stage-whispered. "You know he gets all clingy when he's sick."

Tommy grumbled in affront, but Tubbo didn't care. He crawled in next to him and curled up, arm around his knees, backs pressed together again. Wilbur tucked him in too, and he turned the light off when he left.

The apartment was silent when Tubbo woke up. He slipped from the bed and limped to the bathroom. He was sore from running, and when he tugged his arm from where it had spent all night in his hoodie pocket, he was dismayed to see it even more swollen than before.

He could hardly bend his fingers.

His wrist didn't move at all.

Sitting on the bathroom counter was the bottle Tommy had taken pills from last night. Tubbo picked it up. It was light, barely rattling because there were so few pills in it. Tears pricked at his eyes. He should save these for Tommy, he knew, but his wrist hurt so damn bad.

Wilbur appeared in the doorway.

"I thought you might be up," he said.

Tubbo hid the pill bottle--and his hand--behind his back, but Wilbur didn't look at the counter or his hands, instead staring steadily at his face as he offered,

"I'm ordering breakfast, you want anything?"

"Uh, whatever's fine with me."

"Sampler it is," Wilbur laughed, and vanished back to the living room.

Tubbo let out a breath of relief, and regretfully replaced the bottle on the counter without taking any. Tommy was more beat up than him, and as his best friend, Tubbo had to look out for his best interests.

In the living room, Wilbur invited him to play a round of games, and Tubbo couldn't find a reason to refuse now, when he never had before.

"Since when," Wilbur said, "do you play one-handed?"

Tubbo clenched the controller.

"Just trying to give you a chance to win, big man. You're not very good at this game."

Wilbur laughed.

"I've been playing this game longer than you've been alive, you little gremlin. My dad made it, actually." A pause. "I know your hand's hurt. I saw."

Tubbo scooted away, but Wilbur didn't come after him. He stayed where he was, hands still on the controller but gaze on Tubbo. Like that, Tubbo could almost be fooled into thinking he looked worried.

"It's nothing," Tubbo said.

"Can I see? I won't touch it, I just want to make sure it isn't broken. Did you even take any painkillers for it?"

Tubbo sucked in a breath. He was pretty sure it wasn't broken, but maybe it was bad enough that Wilbur would look at it and help him like he had Tommy.

He extracted his hand from his pocket and held it up for Wil to see.

Wilbur whistled through his teeth.

"That looks pretty bad. I'm gonna get you ice." He abandoned his controller, not even bothering to pause the game. Tubbo sat with his arm cradled to his chest. He wasn't sure he'd made the right choice, no matter what the confusing warmth inside him said. He didn't need to be taken care of.

Wilbur came back not only with a bag of frozen peas, melted into a slag because of how many times they'd been used for first aid, but also a roll of cheap bandages and the painkillers.

"Can I wrap your hand, or do you want to do it?"

"I can do it," Tubbo said, snatching the bandages from him. Wilbur held his hands up and directed him in looping the bandages around his thumb and across his wrist to stabilize everything. It hurt so bad that Tubbo bit clear through his lip, but afterward it didn't hurt nearly as much every time he moved.

Wilbur's face was soft when he passed him pills and ice.

"You punch the dicks who attacked Tommy?" Wil asked.

Cold washed over Tubbo.

"No," he said. "I wasn't there." He withdrew, before Wilbur could take back the bandages and ice that had clearly been a reward, and spat, "Neither were you. The Dream Team's the one who did this."

Wilbur's face fell.

"I can't always be there to keep him out of trouble," he said. "Honestly, you spend more time with him than I do."

Damn right.

"We're best friends," Tubbo said, hotly. "Of course we spend a lot of time together."

"He's lucky to have a friend like you," Wilbur said. He smiled.

Tubbo grit his teeth.

"I'd kill for him," he said, and he meant it as a threat, a promise, but Wilbur just tossed his head back and laughed.

"I don't doubt it," he said.

Tubbo thought about Tommy, alone in the bathroom, not even bothering to text Tubbo or Wilbur. If Tubbo had never fought with Schlatt, he wouldn't have known until Monday, if Tommy was even willing to risk showing up to school with such visible bruises.

"Your offer," Tubbo said, at length, "to work for Dream. Is it still open?"

Wilbur's eyes glittered.

"I've kept a position vacant," he said, "just for you."