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There’s been an itch under his skin since he was twelve.
Tommy always used to give the credit for it to the way his parents started giving him more independence. Instead of keeping a careful eye as he walked down the street, they told him to lock the door behind him. While they used to stay home with him when he got sick, they now made sure he knew which medicines to take before they headed to work.
It’s not necessarily a bad thing, the independence. The lack of parental oversight almost single handedly allowed him to kickstart his streaming career. He hits 16, and they hear him talk of a ‘Toby’ who likes Minecraft the same way he does and a ‘Wilbur’ who has more creative energy in his pinky than anyone else he knows at the dining table regularly.
The first time he meets Wilbur in real life, the man laughs at nearly all his jokes and goes with all his over the top bits, like streaming from his account and pointing a nerf gun into his gut. What really cements just how well the meeting goes is that for eight too-short hours, that itch that he had grown so used to feeling?
It recedes until it almost isn’t noticeable anymore.
***
At home once more, Wilbur finds himself spending more and more time on the phone with Tommy. They talk about everything, from analytics, which Tommy definitely has a knack for, the growing fascination for numbers pitting itself against how much attention he gives school, to things like theatre, which Wilbur throws himself into wholeheartedly.
Wilbur just listens to Tommy talk about the ways his attention span just leaves in the middle of the day, and how despite loving learning, the school format just isn’t suiting him. He doesn’t try to talk him into staying like his teachers or his parents. Instead, he suggests using the time more wisely with tutors who will match his pace. Tommy happily takes Wilbur’s advice and starts college online armed with a new plan.
In turn Wilbur tells him about living alone and learning how to drive. Brighton is the perfect place for someone like him, but he still tends to drag his feet around the corners, wistful for a sense of purpose. It’s not really surprising that the isolation hit him hard, but talking to Tommy on the phone about doing regular old things like groceries and driving around at night brings him much needed motivation to continue on.
More than once, he sends Tommy a picture of the sunrise from the beach or the top of a particularly climbable building because he just happened to end up there, some urge under his skin screaming at him to go.
Tommy introduces him to all his friends and Wilbur now has to share his editor. It’s worth it because it means they’re in the same calls more often than not.
There’s something comforting about the thought that he isn’t alone.
***
Somewhere along the way, Tommy gets attached.
Will’s his best friend, right up there with Toby, and everything they get to do together is an adventure. The DreamSMP shit is doing so well that college is just barely a blip on the horizon. Will calls him with ideas and sometimes his guitar in hand, and Tommy gets used to falling asleep to the melody of Wilbur’s quiet strumming and smooth voice.
He dreams of Wilbur's voice, the soft tone of his whispers and the fuzzy feeling that comes with his touch.
Their friends and fans alike joke about their brotherhood, and in a way, they might be right. Tommy’s never had a brother, but he imagines maybe this would be how it would feel, the closeness that threatens to overwhelm him every time he thinks about it too hard.
Seasons pass and they are seeing each other nearly every week for vlogs. Tommy doesn’t miss his own bed when he can be sleeping in Will’s guest room. If he’s close enough, he doesn’t bother making Russ rent a hotel room anymore, rarely even giving Wilbur warning of his impending houseguest after the first few times.
Wilbur doesn't complain. He makes twice the amount of food he was planning on making for dinner. The little electronic hub in the kitchen is almost always playing music, the soundtrack of Wilbur's life, and Tommy dances around to the tune of Lovejoy and Wilbur's laughter while he cooks. It feels like home, and it only serves to make the festering longing in his gut grow.
It’s one of those visits when he realizes they aren’t brothers.
Will’s joking with Mark and he’s strumming his guitar and Tommy’s sitting next to him, laying back on an elbow to stare, and it hits him. The itch is more muted in Wilbur’s presence. The closer he gets, the less he wants to move away. He makes his way worming across the floor until his head rests in Will’s lap.
Wilbur runs a hand through his hair and smiles as Tommy eagerly leans into the touch, pushing up into the contact, everything in him tensing at the gentle motion.
“You okay there?” Wilbur asks sweetly, curling his fingers so his nails scrape gently over his scalp.
The tension drains and with the motion, the itch disappears completely. He’s never felt quite so malleable, and his head has never been more quiet, despite the racing thoughts of mine and feelings of loveLoveLOVE. “Move in with me,” Tommy replies.
Wilbur blinks slowly, like he’s sure he’s missed something, “What?”
“I’m looking for a place in Brighton, and you probably don’t want to live in a place with a doom shack forever,” he smiles and grabs the guitar from Will’s hands, resting it over his legs as he plucks out an A chord, “Move in with me.”
“I’m not sure your parents would-”
“My mum and dad love you, maybe more than they love me at this point,” Tommy rolls his eyes because it’s the truth, and Will’s genuinely an idiot if he doesn’t believe him. Wilbur has had a key to Tommy’s house since the second vlog and there’s a matching key around his own keys to Wilbur’s place. With how much time Tommy already spends over, it isn’t as big a leap as anyone would think. “C’mon, Will. Move in with me.”
The look on Will’s face is nothing short of fond, “I think I should be asking you to move in with me, considering that I already have a place of my own.”
Tommy snorts, “Your place is shit. Tell him, Joe!”
Joe nods solemnly, slumping to the floor to nudge his body closer to Mark and Ash, “I’ve only spent a few hours there, and honestly? I think you might be able to file a case for mesothelioma, or like, toxic waste poisoning or some shit.”
“See?” Tommy’s practically cackling at Will’s clear offense, “I’m right. If you say yes now, I’ll even let you help pick out our furniture.”
“You’ll regret that,” Mark chimes in, pushing back to lean against the wall to get away from Joe’s insistent elbows, ignoring Wilbur’s little ‘Hey!’ “Have you seen his current furniture?”
Tommy has seen Wilbur’s furniture. He has a tendency to collect anything that is deemed squishy enough to sleep on, regardless of whether or not it matches, along with strange regency era wooden pieces that should belong in some historic reconstruction rather than his home. “It’s not that bad,” Will replies morosely.
It is that bad. It is absolutely worse than whatever Wilbur thinks ‘that bad’ is, and as endearing as it is, Tommy wants to have some cohesion in what will be their space. Still, the hand in Tommy’s hair feels nice enough that he doesn’t actively start roasting Will’s taste, opting to just agree with Mark, “You may have a point, Marcus.”
“That’s not even my name.”
“Okay, Marius.”
“Wilbur, dump your boyfriend, so he stops coming to band practice,” Mark kicks at Tommy’s leg until he curls into himself, closer to Will, “He takes up too much space, and he’s mean to me.”
Tommy flushes at the implication, but he doesn’t say anything, looking up to see Will’s jaw dropping open, the corners of his mouth curling upwards. “But where would we be without our number one fan? He’s got all the sunshine that makes our beats bop,” He boops Tommy on the nose, leaning back on his palms, and Tommy can’t stop the quiet noise of longing that comes with the loss of the hand petting him.
Still, that’s not a denial. That’s encouragement, if not flat out admission, “You know you love me,” Tommy tries to aim the quip back at Mark, but Wilbur is too distracting of an entity for Tommy’s eyes not to flick back to him.
He thinks he hears Wilbur respond, “Who wouldn’t?” but it’s probably wishful thinking, and even if it isn’t, it’s covered by Mark letting out a series of loud retching noises, which sends them all into bouts of raucous laughter. Wilbur’s quiet reply breaks their gigglefest, using a voice filled with a fondness reserved only for Tommy, “Okay, Toms, let’s move in together.”
It sets a small flame alight in his stomach.
***
Their couch matches their ottoman and the side tables in their common area.
Tommy has spent the entire day setting up the soundproofing in their offices, and he doesn’t think any of his limbs can move right anymore, his vision swimming with foam triangles whenever he so much as twitches.
“We should have invited Ranboo and Eryn,” Tommy says from where his face is buried in a cushion, his words slurring in his exhaustion. Wilbur is sitting on the floor, leaning on the couch, his head tilted back somewhere near Tommy’s hip, exhausted from putting together both their beds. “And Jack and Aimee and your fucking band. Actually, Ash would’ve loved having this in his next vlog. My point is, this should have been a group activity.”
Wilbur just makes a humming noise, pushing him over until there’s enough room for both of them to sit on the couch. Even after the incessant pushing, Tommy slumps down, settling against Will’s shoulder, the contact lovely after the full day of the itch worming its way to the surface of his skin. Now, the itch is shoved to the far corner of his brain as warmth bleeds into the flesh right under Wilbur’s hands, separated only by the thin material of his tshirt.
The heat coils over his skin, sending shudders down his spine as Wilbur moves his hand over his back, rubbing slow circles until Tommy relaxes, his sensitive skin tingling with a hint of too much.
“What's wrong, sunshine?” Wilbur soothes at the ache that Tommy’s soul has been whining about for too long.
“Nothing,” Tommy attempts to get the word out coherently, feeling almost dumb with how nicely the comfort settles into his bones, turning his brain to mush. He wishes Wilbur would lift him into his lap and banish the itch forever. “It’s just nice, yeah?”
“Yeah?” The hand that grazes from his shoulder down to his waist tightens, the firm grip overwriting the nervousness into something akin to want, Wilbur sounding pleased with himself, “You comfy?”
A noncommittal humming noise manages to leave him as he nuzzles into the space between Wilbur’s neck and shoulder. Tommy’s tired and he isn’t thinking straight (ha! straight!). Impulsively, he thinks, he’s feeling bold. “Thought I couldn’t love you more, then you go and be perfect again. It’s not fair.”
“Aww, Tommy loves me?” Teasing, Wilbur pulls him closer, letting Tommy swing his legs over his thighs, “Are you fond?”
“Yes,” He's tired enough to admit it, the calming touches draining him of any sense with how pleasant it feels, almost burning his skin when Wilbur brushes over the skin of his back where his shirt rides up, “More than I can find words to say.”
“Oh,” Wilbur almost looks surprised, which isn’t right. How could Tommy's love ever be in doubt? “That much?”
“I feel like I’m going to burn alive whenever you touch me.” Tommy’s words don't slip now, even as his confidence wavers, “But I like it. Whenever you do it, I feel like I can tell that you want me here.”
“Of course I want you here, sunshine,” Tommy feels the way that Wilbur leans into him now, “I don’t think I’d like it very much if you were further away from me. I’d miss you too much.”
“I don’t think I could ever stand to be too far away from you,” Tommy mumbles into the space between them. “I’d miss you too.”
“Do you think we’re like this in every universe?” Wilbur gets like this sometimes, existential, pondersome, especially when he’s tired. “What if we met and neither of us were the way we are?”
“I don’t think it would matter,” A bit shy and very aware of his reddening face, Tommy burrows into his shoulder, “In every universe, it would still be you and me, right? It’s like gravity or some shit.”
Wilbur lets out a broken noise underneath him and suddenly he's on his back, Wilbur laying down on top of him, “Say that again.”
It all culminates here: the feelings that keep welling up in bits and pieces whenever they’re together, the shuddering heat that sears his skin wherever Wilbur touches him, the constant need to be closer. “What?” It's Tommy’s turn to tease, laying his head back against the armrest of the couch, closing his eyes, “That I’d love you in every universe? You know that.”
“Again,” he's never heard Wilbur so desperate, so he tilts his head up to look Wilbur in the eye. Tommy ends up cupping his love’s cheeks and dragging his thumbs across his cheekbones to catch stray tears, the strength of his conviction growing with every drop, “Please?”
“I’m so utterly enraptured by you, Will. You make me feel whole in a way that feels like I never even knew was missing. You remind me of one of those myths Techno’s always telling us about, the one where the gods broke soulmates apart because they'd be too powerful together. It feels like we found each other.”
Then Wilbur’s mouth is on his, the warm slide of his parted lips clinging to Tommy’s and Tommy throws himself into it, every touch feeling like a brand. A hand in his hair draws fire over his scalp, a touch to the bare skin of his chest where Wilbur yanks his shirt up, right over his heart, bleeding sunfire through his veins. Wilbur breaks him apart and puts him back together with kisses to his forehead, his cheeks, his eyelids, the corner of his jaw, his pulse, his mouth again.
“I love you,” the words are pressed reverently into his skin, “I adore every piece of you, and now I don't want to let you go.”
“Then don’t,” Making the request is as easy as breathing. “Let me have you.”
“You already have me,” It's the truth and they both know it, Tommy’s ankles crossing behind Wilbur’s back to pull him closer, “There isn’t any piece of me that isn't yours.”
“Oh,” Tommy hums into the next kiss, smiling too hard to let anything really happen, “That’s good.”
“Yeah?” Wilbur’s teeth drag lightly over his jaw, sighing happily as the younger arches into the contact, “Is it?”
Burying his hands in Wilbur’s hair, Tommy pulls him up to look him in the eye fondly. He can’t think of a better outcome to this night because if Wilbur is all his and he’s all Wilbur’s, there really isn’t anything more he can ask for.
It’s in that moment that the itch that had been building up what feels like his whole life shuts up for good. The thrumming restlessness under his skin focuses into a burning want for Wilbur’s hands all over him, just like they are now, and Wilbur’s mouth on his. The ache gives way to this feeling of utter rightness that melts into a sense of belonging. He presses a soft kiss to Wilbur's mouth.
“It’s perfect.”