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he can see wilbur standing in the backyard, just beyond the window.
his friends are all laughing around him, carving pumpkins, knocking into his shoulders as they lean past him, reaching for the tools on the table, as they almost pay him no mind— they don't seem to notice wilbur, standing, staring, watching them from the backyard, his hands shoved deep into the pockets of his coat as if he were exasperated.
it must be because of him, he thinks.
(he's done an awful job at following through with the plans, he knows, he knows—)
his phone begins to ring.
outside, wilbur has his phone up to his ear.
"hello, wilbur."
next to him, tubbo gives him a questionable glance, though he smiles at tommy all the same— he's clueless.— the thought makes tommy want to cry, but he can't. he feels frozen, spotted by a predator that lingers in the tall grass, waiting, waiting to pounce—
"here, call him on my phone, it'll connect with-"
"no-" the reply slips his tongue before he can even stop it, can even begin to breathe properly, he shuts his eyes tightly. "i just- no. i just want him to.." the words begin to fall apart right in front of him, suddenly feeling hot at the amount of eyes on him, the way they stare, he feels like they know something he doesn't. "i just want to be talking." i need to be the only one, is what he means.
when he opens his eyes again, wilbur is gone.
(was he even there to begin with?)
it's enough to send a chill down his spine, enough to make him shift in his seat uncomfortably, remembering how haunting, how empty his eyes were when he saw him last— when was the last time? days? weeks? months?
he laughs.
it's empty.
"he's confused." tommy recites, though he feels as if he's talking more about tommy than he is about wilbur. "'what's going on? why is it lit like one of you's going to die?'" his friends laugh, exchanging looks between each other. tommy feels left out, as if he's outside, trapped behind a locked door. "sorry, wil. it's going a little wrong. um.." he pauses; and suddenly his throat feels dry and his wrist is heavy, weighing down on him like a brick—
"it's- can we-" the words are stuck in his throat, a pill he can't seem to swallow— none of it feels real; he's dreaming, is what he wants to believe, but this feels more like a nightmare. he's in bed, dopey with a high fever of 102— "i- wait, can i go speak to him out in the.. the thing? just me and him?" this can't be real.
his friends sound if they're miles away from him, a room over, across the street. he feels lost as wilbur's words melt in his ears, pooling in his skull, and all he can hear is his friends and their joyous laughter, how happy they must be.
and how carefree he wishes he could be along with them.
"no, sorry, sorry-" he feels like he's been ripped back to the reality at hand. one of his friends will die tonight. "i'm just gonna speak to-" wilbur keeps speaking over him, muttering nonsense, commenting on the lighting, asking about the equipment inside, what tools are nearby, what are they carving with? who's closest nearby? "i'm just speaking to wil. sorry, so sorry." wilbur won't stop speaking over him; his friends merely ignore him. "i'm sorry wil, i only wanted a.. i only wanted a camera, just for-" wilbur raises his voice. tommy listens to him. "yeah, wil. they kept making me do weird shit, wil." wilbur is silent. tommy tears at the inside of his cheek. the tension hugs him like a security blanket, weighing him down further into the depths that are wilbur.
"you should, um, you should fight them all."
tommy stares at the window. disbelief, is what he thinks this must be.
"um, fight them all?"
"who'd you reckon you'd take down first?" wilbur pauses, laughs— laughs— "could pick one, then go one by one, and just-" mumbling, he trails off, and tommy can just hear his smile. it's deadly.
"um." tommy looks to his friends. ranboo and bill seem like they would be difficult to take down, and even harder to..
tubbo and aimsey are both short, shorter than he is, but he knows tubbo can pack a nasty punch, so.. that would leave—
"um, probably the.. girl. she's proper nimble."
he can hear wilbur move, as if shifting his weight onto his other foot. he's breathing— rather, breathing into the phone, but it's as if tommy can feel his breath on his face; feel the heat of it radiate from his phone, pooling against the crook in his neck, as if wilbur is right there, right there behind him, looming, watching his every move—
"but that means it'll be difficult to fight." wilbur's voice calls, and tommy suddenly feels sick to his stomach. he's sweating underneath his sweatshirt, shuddering at the feeling— it. he said it.
"right. ..um.. probably bill."
"is bill's full name william?" wilbur pauses, laughs, "you could beat the shit out of a william."
tommy's heart stills. in a way, takes it as praise, eats it up as if wilbur's been starving him for weeks— he has, he has, tommy thinks; wilbur hasn't spoken to him in so long, his words are playing in his head over and over like a broken record, a sick mantra—
wilbur begins to breathe into the phone again. it's sticky, numbing as tommy listens to his silence, and he almost contemplates hanging up, blocking wilbur's number, running anywhere but here—
"go for the shoulders." is what erupts from the silence.
"okay so.." tommy begins to survey the room. the knives, he thinks. the carving knives. "what do i do? because.. there are knives out right now, and-"
"a knife isn't going to go into it." wilbur interjects, and tommy cringes at the embarrassment. fuck. "a knife's not gonna tear into it, is it?" he begins to mumble again, and it sounds like wilbur is traversing through fallen leaves, crushing them under his boots.
"sorry?"
he's breathing into the phone again.
he can see him, in the backyard.
"how about those tripods? heavy duty?"
tommy looks to the cameras.
"yeah, they're heavy duty." i think. "tubbo, uh.. are those.. um. those tripods, are they heavy duty?" tubbo gives him a funny look, ranboo answers for him, yes, the one made of metal, and tommy is almost in shock of how easy this is.
"like lambs to the slaughter." wilbur comments. tommy wishes he didn't say it like that. "can they get out, by the way? can they-"
"no. they can't."
what happens next feels blurry, as if he's watching himself do it from a screen— he's falling to the floor, watching his friends grimace at the act, listening to wilbur's voice breathe into the phone— the noise is pooling in ears once more, his head is swimming, reeling, as if he's merely a puppet for wilbur to toy with. none of it feels real. his body feels heavy, weighed down with the phone in his right hand, and he almost doesn't realize what he's doing as he tugs at the cables in tubbo's room, pulling at the cords, listening to them fall to the floor with a thunk, listening to tubbo scold him for being such an idiot as he plugs them back in, to which tommy can hardly mumble an apology in response to. it isn't long before his legs begin to carry him away, to the backyard, the frigid air snapping him back to reality; this reality.
wilbur hangs up.
tommy lets his phone drop into the grass.
he's smiling. wilbur laughs. i did everything you told me to, tommy wants to cry; to be told he did a good job, that he was done for the night, that wilbur didn't need him anymore—
but wilbur merely turns, leaving tommy to follow him (which he does, he always does), and the two fall back into this game of cat and mouse— wilbur toys with tommy, gets inside his brain, grabs hold of it tightly, holds it just barely out of his reach— and tommy lets him, he indulges him, merely swats in response, dully following in wilbur's steps every second he's alive; because he knows he's disappointed him.
wilbur keeps his back turned to him as he leads him further into the trees that surround the household, and deeper yet as the dim orange lighting diminishes, until he can no longer see his own hands in front of him, let alone wilbur. he would be lost had it not been for the sound of wilbur's sharp breaths guiding him along the way. upon their arrival— which, tommy only recognizes once he walks directly into wilbur's back— there's a high smell hanging in the air, and it's enough to make his hand fly to his nose, cringing—
rot is exactly what it smells like— rotting meat left out for far too long in the heat of summer.
"wilbur?"
wilbur merely pushes him forward, as if unaffected by the high smells of rot and a fruit bouquet, which sends him falling to his knees. they teeter against a dip in the dirt and the leaves, as if leaning against the edge of a-
a light shines in his eyes, and he quickly shields them with the back of his hand. "wilbur, what the fuck? turn that off-" though, from underneath the barricade of his hand, he can see down into the hole— a makeshift grave—, and the sight is that of a corpse thrown haphazardly, mouth mangled into an open scream— it only takes him a moment to realize that their shirt is red not because of the dye, but because of the blood.
"you've disappointed me, tommy."
wilbur is standing above him, proudly shining the light from his phone directly into the grave; and his eyes scream nothing but pride.
because what else could wilbur possibly feel in a situation like this— anguish? anger? guilt? god, forbid.
"bury it."
it. tommy feels sick to his stomach.
wilbur often has high expectations, as he's learned; expectations that he's required to meet, lest he meet the same fate as the one in the grave.
he looks about the scene, only to realize that wilbur hadn't brought him a shovel, no; but had fully intended to rely on his hands. was this some kind of punishment? a punishment for his failure, for ruining wilbur's plans? would this have been easier if it had been one of his friends instead?
maybe then, it wouldn't be him scooping cold dirt into his hands, throwing it into the hole, watching the cascade of dirt fall about the body, hardly covering it. wilbur laughs again. his face flushes with embarrassment, hot tears pooling in the corners of his eyes. he feels like a proper dog now, at the lowest wrung of the world— and it's cold, it's so cold— how long as he been out here? it couldn't have been longer than a few minutes, right? it hasn't been an hour yet, has it? his fingers tremble. the light on him stays completely still.
it's a sick game of simon says.
when wilbur tells him to disrupt the surrounding dirt, to ignore how numb his fingers feel, tommy follows through. he ignores how badly he's shaking, how heavy his eyelids feel, how much he stumbles in the dirt; no matter how many times he falls, he gets back up, gets back to pushing dirt over the body, sealing its fate— a tomb to be forgotten.
wilbur congratulates him.
tommy stares at the uneven terrain.
all he feels is cold. he's so cold, freezing. wilbur stands beside him in the darkness, looming, watching him— a predator that's caught its next meal. he can feel wilbur's breath from here.
he turns to leave.
wilbur allows it.
tommy doesn't hear him tailing as he traces his steps back to the house, and the orange light on his face feels like heaven.
you've disappointed me, tommy.
his friends are still inside, laughing, smiling, they stay huddled around their table. they're carving pumpkins. music from inside plays so loudly that it rattles deep within tommy's ribcage. they're happy. they're warm.
he doesn't seem to notice when, but there are hot tears rolling down his cheeks, seeping into the dozens of little cuts, and for a moment—
he feels warm, too.