Work Text:
It’s a Wednesday, and Tommy wakes up grinning.
He’s been doing that most days now – waking up with the sun in his eyes and a smile curved into his face. It’s weird, sure, but he’s happy, and everything is good, so he’s not really complaining. It’s good to wake up content for a change. It’s a nice way to start the day.
Today, he wakes up around noon - which, all things considered, is actually an impressively early time – with his charger cord wrapped around his wrist and his phone still clenched firmly in hand. Tommy’s got a pretty set-in-stone morning routine – wake up, blink at the sun for approximately three minutes, open phone, scroll through YouTube, open Discord, scroll through messages. There’s nothing new on YouTube this morning except for a belatedly uploaded Tubbo VOD. He saves it to his watch later, and then opens Discord, and –
Man, he thinks. This is kind of cringe.
His DMs with Wilbur are still open.
Go to sleep you idiot, reads the last message. Sent at 2:45am. He scrolls.
It’s a thing they do now; talk every night and into the morning. If he and Wilbur aren’t streaming together, they’re talking. Or calling. Or Wilbur’s picking him up in his fucking shitty car and taking him to one of his Lovejoy practice sessions, or –
Point being, they talk a lot. Back and forward impressive banter, and –
For the past couple of nights, Tommy’s been falling asleep, conversation still on his mind, and –
He’s been waking up smiling because he was thinking of Wilbur.
Huh, he thinks. good morning, he types.
Tommy blinks, and then Wilbur’s status shifts from a greyed-out offline to the red Do Not Disturb. Another second later he’s typing, and Tommy can’t quite stop his smile from widening.
Good morning dipshit
Did you sleep well?
you should go back to bed we were texting late
Tommy laughs. He sits up around his pillows and unplugs his phone. nah, he sends back. sleeping’s shit. can’t talk to you.
Wilbur’s reply is immediate. AWWWWWW TOMMY, he writes, and then attaches an image. It takes a second to load, and then Tommy’s laughing, full-bellied, head-tilted back, wheezing, fumbling with his phone and switching from handheld to speaker, and –
“You idiot! You – you – absolute wanker –”
“Good morning, Tommy,” Wilbur giggles. “I didn’t realise you’d have such an adverse reaction to amongass.”
Tommy grins. “It’s amongass, Wil. What – what am I supposed to do?”
“Not laugh so hard you pop a lung?”
“Well – wait, can you pop a lung?”
Wilbur pauses. There’s a shuffling noise, and then clacking; he’s switched from his mobile to his PC. “Um – you can puncture it, I know that much – oh, yeah, just puncturing. The medical term is pneumothorax – ooh, there’s a video –”
Tommy blinks. He rubs at his eyes and sits up straighter, open-mouthed. “Wil, I say this in the nicest way possible – what the fuck?”
“It’s interesting,” Wilbur whines, as if that’s his defence. Tommy laughs harder, and he splutters over the call. “Hey – hey! Shut it, you, I’m learning!”
Tommy’s pretty sure his face is going to split in two from smiling so hard. “Wil, I love your rants and – talks and shit, but I’ll have to take a hard pass on the pne – pon – pogmo –”
“Pneumothorax,” Wilbur supplies, but the sound of incessant typing drops away. Tommy falls back against his mattress, appeased. “Are you sure you don’t want to learn about punctured lungs?”
Tommy snorts. “Hard pass,” he repeats, and ducks his face against his chest. Wilbur has an Epic Knack for making him feel – nice. Happy. Good, and other words that he knows, because he is a Big Man who got an A** on his GSCES. “Hey, Wil.”
It’s Wilbur’s turn to laugh now. “Hi, Toms, for the third time this morning.” There’s a pause as Wilbur exits Discord on his PC and moves back to mobile. “How are you? How are the parents?”
Tommy blinks; the topic change is – odd. “I – good? I just woke up; haven’t seen the parents yet. Why are you asking me this?”
There’s a rustle. “Topic change from pneumothoraxing,” he answers. “Wait – you called me first thing in the morning?”
Tommy hesitates. “Yes?”
“Oh my god, Tommy,” Wilbur says. “Oh, my god, you’re adorable –”
“What? No, shut your fuck –”
“Tommy! Aww, Tommy, you’re adorable, you called me first thing in the morning, you texted me first thing in the morning –”
“Oh, I’m Wilbur Soot, mimimimimi, I’m a fucking bitch, mimimimi –”
“Tommmyyyy, that’s literally so cute –”
“I will literally punt your head into the fucking sun—”
“You’re literally adorable, I will die on this hill—”
“Shut your fuck, Wilbur Soot, you’re objectively nicer, you’re like, fuckin’ wonderful and shit.”
There’s no reply, and for a second, Tommy thinks he might’ve said something that was – wrong. He sits back up, straight against his bedframe. “Wil?”
Wilbur’s response comes out choked. “Sorry, I was – damn, just – wow. Y’know. Words, and all.”
“I do know those,” Tommy says sagely, and squares his shoulders. “I’m sorry, did I upset you?”
“No, no, not at all,” Wilbur stutters. “I – just had a moment of appreciation. One of those big wow, I love you thingos.”
Tommy pauses. It’s not – hearing those words isn’t that big of a deal anymore; Wilbur’s told him more times than he can count. I love you, Toms, you’re like my little brother, shut up, I will cry – no, but seriously, I love you, I love you – but every time Wilbur does, the world stops spinning. Tommy relaxes against his bedframe, settles into his pillows, and smiles. Wilbur was his idol and now he’s dropping those three words into normal conversation and shouting how much he actually likes him from the rooftops and – it’s surreal. It’s amazing. Tommy’s – Tommy’s fucking happy. He’s so happy.
“Oh, man, I know that’s cringe, I’m sorry, I just—"
Tommy shakes his head. “No, Wil, shut up. I’ve – do you wanna know something – really cringe?”
“Of course?”
“I – I’ve been waking up.”
“I sure fucking hope you have been –”
“No, you idiot, I’ve been waking up – er, smiling?”
A pause. Tommy cracks a knuckle, anxious. Wilbur’s voice comes through eventually, perplexed. “Uh – I’m not quite following.”
He swallows. “I mean, I’ve been waking up smiling because I fall asleep texting you. The conversation’s kinda – still on my mind.”
Silence again. Tommy runs a hand through his hair and hunches forward, hands clamped around the metal of his phone nervously. “What I mean to say is,” he continues, “Is – uh. You make me happy? Yeah. Like, I know it’s only been a year or whatever, but – we’re kind of insanely close. Which is pog. Pogchamp, actually. And I’m – really glad you’re in my life? I’m very glad we’re friends. Words - We’re – my brain – um. Wilbur,” he adds, when the other end of the line stays silent, “I’m really not good at this.”
A second passes, and then two. Three, and Tommy stands, switching from speaker mode back to hold it to his ear, and pushes open his door. “Hello? Uh – did the Wi-fi die?”
“Wi-fi’s fine?” his father calls confusedly from somewhere in the house. “We’ve got five jeez!”
“5G,” Tommy corrects gently, but frowns. “Uh – Wil?”
“Sorry,” Wilbur’s voice comes through, considerably more choked up than before. Tommy almost drops the phone. “I – uh. Had a moment.”
“Oh. Slash – pos?”
“Did you just ask – did you just say a tone indicator aloud?”
“…no?”
There’s another beat of silence, and then: “Oh, my god. Tommy. Sorry – I just. I love you, y’know? Like, absolutely. Unequivocally.”
“That’s a big word.”
“Oh – shut up,” Wilbur quips, but his voice is soft. “I – god. I never really liked my brothers, y’know? Step-brothers. They were kind of – dickheads. Massive ones.”
“Oh,” says Tommy, kind of dumbly. He’s not sure what to say. “I’ll piss on them. Wankers, the lot of them.”
Wilbur barks a laugh, and Tommy doesn’t need to see his face to know exactly what movement he’s making right now; head tilted back, beaming, hand slapping the desk or whatever object is closest to him. “I don’t think your services are needed.”
“Aw, man. Really?”
“Really,” Wilbur confirms. “I’ve got you now, don’t I? An objectively better brother.”
Tommy stops, mid-step. “You – you’re gonna make me cry. Wil. Wil, what the fuck – you wanker, you—"
“Aww, Tommy. I love you, you adorable idiot – I can’t believe you wake up smiling because of me, that’s so cute—"
“Your mum’s so cute – Wilbur, shut up, I’ll eat your kneecaps, I will—”
“You’re like my little brother, I’m so proud of you, I love you—”
“Shut up, I swear to god—”
“All bits aside, I love you—”
“I will cry, actually, watch it—”
“I love you.”
Tommy closes his eyes. He smiles. “Yeah, yeah. Love you too, or whatever.”
“Or whatever,” Wilbur echoes, laughing. “God.”
The banter tapers away, but it’s not awkward. There’s never an awkward moment between them – not anymore. Tommy shifts the phone so it’s resting between his head and his shoulder, and pushes open the door to the kitchen. He can hear something on Wilbur’s end move – something clacking.
“Tommy,” says Wilbur. “Wanna come over?”
Tommy doesn’t hesitate. “Why is that a question? Dipshit.”
“I’ll take that as a yes?”
“Always,” Tommy grins. “What’re we doing? Is David home? Can we piss him off – are we streaming? Do I wear the fuckin’ blue jacket, or your hoodie? Ooh, have you got practice today?”
“Aww,” Wilbur coos again, voice impossibly soft. “I was thinking more along the lines of – just us. Hanging out. Guys being dudes.”
“Gu – guys being dudes. Just – dudes being bros.”
“ – Tommy? Are you – crying?”
“Absolutely fucking not.”
“Tommy.”
“Nope. I am Not. Capital letter and all – I’m a big man. I am not crying. You’re not nice – you’re bullying me. Don’t bully me, Wilbur, I’ll report you to the police—”
“Oh my god, Tommy, are you crying because I love you?”
“Wilbur, I swear to fucking God, I will punt you into the sun—”
“Aww, Tommy—”
“—do not ‘aww, Tommy’ me, you piece of shit!”
“Aww, Tommy! I love you!”
“I hate you! I hate you!”
“You love me! You wake up smiling because you—”
“Wilbur, you finish that sentence, and—”
“What? You’ll what?”
“I’ll tackle you! With – with—”
“With your love?”
“Wilbur!”