Chapter Text
Tommy remembers how worried his parents were when he got his dots. He didn’t understand the problem at the time, after all, he was ten.
His soulmate was eight years older than him. But the first thing that he felt was sorry. Sorry that his soulmate would think she was alone, and that she had no one. Until he himself was eighteen.
That night, when Tommy was looking at those three dots - they took turns fading from darkest to lightest, like a text bubble would - and gently touched them. Maybe his naive brain thought that it would magically comfort his soulmate. “Happy birthday, soulmate,” he whispered.
When Wilbur turned eighteen, he closed his eyes and waited for the pressure of someone writing on his arm, or the warmth of being held. That’s what his parents told him it had felt like.
It didn’t come. He was disappointed, but reasonably thought that he was older than his soulmate.
That made him a bit happier; someone could’ve just woken up, feeling something poking their arm and immediately have known that there was someone out there for them. He might’ve made someone’s day, just by letting them know they weren’t alone, that someone loved them.
It was the night of Wilbur’s twenty second birthday that he realized that he had no one, because if he had a soulmate, he couldn’t be with them. No mark for him, and a soulmate who was definitely younger than eighteen.
At twenty three, he thought that he didn’t have a soulmate in the first place.
Or else they’d be illegal.
Nonce. A fucking creep. A wrong’un.
It wasn’t unusual for a soulmate to be a year or two older than the other. For some, it was as high as four. But for him, two years doubled to four, stretching into eight years alone.
He was alone. That feeling settled into his gut, and the protection of optimism melted away as he drank.
To be honest with himself, he hated the feeling of burning liquid sliding down his throat. It hurt and tickled his chest, and he felt a pounding headache. Pain. That’s what he did this for.
He drank the whole day, sunrise til sundown, slouched over and crying. He was alone.
It’s true what they say. Some alcohol is an acquired taste. He started to like it.
***
Tommy grinned widely, as the clock slowly ticked down. 11:57 p.m. “Okay, okay! Everyone, shut up!” he yelled. Tubbo sidled closer, only to be shoved onto the ground.
“Oi!” he shouted back indignantly. “Bitch boy, watch it!” He only laughed back.
To be honest, he was more worried than excited. Eight years, he had waited, not that anyone else but his parents knew. And they made sure he was careful. Made every one of his friends meet them before going on trips together. They made him hide his dots, until he was seventeen, in which he could wait no longer.
He marked down the day, November twelfth, when he got his dots, and hyped himself up, by drinking nine cokes, before messaging literally everyone in their personal discord chat. The responses were beyond enthusiastic, and now because of this day, it might be ruined.
“Okay, okay, okay, okay, everyone, no one say anything!” His leg bounced up and down.
11:59 .
“You excited?” Phil chuckled, while reaching over and patting his knee to stop it from moving. He could only nod.
Then. Then, the wonderful moment that everyone described it to be, feeling warm hands grip your arms, carefully writing its own words on it. That feeling of warmth and love, in his heart, knowing someone was there.
Thin, wavy lines were drawn across his skin, looping messily. The letters were wonky, the capitals of the words way larger than the rest of the sentence. He admired it for a minute, how the i’s weren’t dotted. Then, at the end of the sentence, the letter dipped and winded down, and the question mark swirled.
‘ Well? What’s it say, you little brat? ‘
Oh. The writing looked better than the written. What the fuck . The clock continued to tick, even though it felt like time stopped. 12:01 a.m. The rest of the group gets uneasy, shifting, yet trying not to invade. Tubbo and George do the opposite, trying to see. Phil pats his back, muttering, “What’s it say, mate?”
Wilbur speaks up from where he sits. He’s been lounging against a chair on the floor, opposite to them all, cradling a small glass of scotch. “Well? What’s it say, you little brat?” he asks fondly.
Tommy can hear his neck crick as he looks up. Words swell in his throat, mostly swears and questions to bombard, but surely it's a joke? A mistake, yes, that’s it. So he chooses his words carefully.
“Pine blue pizza,” he blurts out, not thinking at all. Tubbo bursts out laughing, but Wilbur sobers up as though someone slapped him.
“Oh, shit,” he glances down subtly, but all of Tommy’s attention is on him. “Tommy, what, no-” He stumbles over every word that falls out of his mouth, shaking a bit. He feels himself get up and walk over to Wil, surprised when the older gets up and pushes him away. Walks to the complete opposite side of the room, in fact. Everyone is watching now.
“Guys, what’s going on..? Oh-” Ranboo. Fucking Ranboo. Of course he’s going to be the one to figure it out. “You’re soulmates?”
“No.” Wilbur grabs his coat, and throws it on, “No, we’re fucking not,” and leaves.