Chapter Text
Tommy slipped from Tubbo's grip.
As he tiptoed toward the door, he chanced a look over his shoulder. He saw the whites of Tubbo’s eyes watching him go. He paused, hand on the doorknob, wondering if Tubbo knew where he was going–if he was going to stop him.
They stared at each other under the dull shine from light pollution outside.
Tubbo rolled over into Ranboo, letting him curl over him in sleep, hiding away.
Tommy eased the door closed behind him.
Wilbur was still up. Warm light spilled under his door.
When Tommy pushed it open, Wilbur was busy staring down at his tablet with intensity, a stylus gripped in his teeth. From the door, Tommy could see crude doodles of schematics, which Wilbur made another note on before switching to a wall of dense text. He looked up and jumped.
"Tommy! I thought you were Fundy. Fuck," he said, clutching his chest and laughing.
Tommy's gut twisted.
He hated that stupid fox-hat child. He wanted him gone. He wanted him dead.
"He's two feet tall. How could I be him?" he demanded.
His fingers curled over the door jamb and it hurt, how tightly he gripped the wood, but he couldn’t let go.
Wilbur patted the bed next to him.
"I'm still getting used to you being back," he said, so lighthearted. "I missed you, you know."
Turned out he could let go. Tommy wished he could be stoic, but he stumbled toward Wilbur, kicking his shoes off because Wilbur hated shoes on the bed. He climbed on and plastered himself to Wilbur, loathing and loving the warm arm over his shoulder in equal measure.
"What do you know?" he got out around gritted teeth. "You were--you were dead." The wet sheen in his eyes swelled and spilled over.
"Oh, Tommy," Wilbur said.
Tommy buried his face in Wilbur's shoulder.
He tried so hard not to cry on Tubbo. Tubbo did everything, had gone through everything right alongside him, and Tommy never wanted their friendship to be more of a burden on him than it already was.
Wilbur never made Tommy feel like a burden. It’s okay to cry, he’d told Tommy, when he’d never had someone tell him that before. He’d never been angry when Tommy woke him up in the middle of the night by sneaking underneath the covers, or when he dripped blood all over the bathroom counter. He always cared more about Tommy than the collateral damage he caused.
Wilbur shoved his tablet out of the way under his pillow with a click of metal against metal.
He guided Tommy down onto his side and cradled him fully, pressing his face into his shirt when Tommy tried to pull away with a gentle hand in his hair. He combed through knots and tangles with gentle fingers. Tommy clutched him so tightly his fingers cramped.
He never thought he would have this again.
Ghostbur was a poor imitation. Even when he asked the AI to sing him Blue again, in secret, it didn't compare to Wilbur Soot, real and there, rocking him back and forth and rubbing his back while he cried. Even when he turned the volume down in his headphones and listened to Ghostbur while curled up next to Ranboo and Tubbo, it wasn't the same comfort. Ranboo's touch was cool metal and too unfamiliar; Tubbo was Tubbo.
And Wilbur was Wilbur.
"I missed you," Wilbur said. "Don't think I didn't."
Tommy struggled to get his sobs under control.
"Y-yeah, well, I missed you too. A bit," he said.
"I'm not sure you did miss me. I went back to the apartment, you know. You broke my guitar, didn't you?"
Tommy should’ve let go. He should’ve pushed Wilbur away, wiped his tears, and told Wilbur to fuck off. It's what Tubbo would have done, if he was ever caught out crying. Instead, he wound his grip tighter and said,
"Guess you should have taken it."
"I couldn't. It was a big, bulky guitar." Wilbur already sounded sick of the conversation but Tommy couldn’t help but whine,
"You said you loved that guitar."
Wilbur's hands soothed through his hair, down his back, in circles just the right size and pressure.
"I did. I couldn't take it. I left behind a lot of shit, you know that. I had to, for Fundy."
"Why?" Tommy said. "He's just some stupid kid."
Wilbur laughed.
"He's my stupid kid."
"Right," Tommy said.
He was so stupid. He was just like Henry the First; so desperate for a scrap of food or affection that he crawled out from behind that dumpster at the first soft words. For fuck's sake, Henry even liked Sapnap, and look how that turned out for him–burnt to a crisp.
Tommy pushed away and sat up.
He rubbed at his eye with a knuckle and turned his back on Wilbur.
"This isn't about the guitar, is it?" Wilbur asked from behind him.
Hot shame scalded Tommy.
"Of course it's about the stupid guitar," he said. "I didn't give a shit that you left. I'm my own man."
"Uh-huh."
Tommy whirled.
"Stop it! You died! You don't get to pretend to know anything about me."
"I didn't die. I'm right here. We're still brothers." Wilbur reached for him. He slapped him away.
"No, we're not. Your 'brother' status was revoked the second you pressed that detonator."
"Tommy--"
"I made you a memorial. Two. And now here you are. You went somewhere better and you didn't take me."
"Aw, Tommy."
The tears came tidal-wave like, back with a vengeance, and just to preserve his dignity he buried his face in his hands. Wilbur's hug was hesitant, as if Tommy might bite--similar to the cautious affection he doled out when he first let Tommy stay with him, when he didn't know what was and wasn't okay.
Tommy, who was stupid and awful and an idiot, turned into the hug again.
“I thought you were dead," Tommy wailed, too loud for the late hour.
Wilbur shushed him and rocked him back and forth.
"I'm not. I'm right here," he whispered into Tommy's hair.
Tommy felt years younger, felt like that stupid kid who followed Wilbur home from a backalley and somehow scored a brother instead of a body bag.
“It was so hard without you,” he blubbered. The dam broke and Tommy started talking, started telling Wil about everything that had happened, from his fight with Dream to Tubbo killing him to being hunted like rats. Wilbur was his brother; Wilbur would fix it all.