Work Text:
1.
His shirt is covered in dirt, grime; it’s tugged out - almost, slightly, by the hem. Wilbur’s voice comes in, crackling, over the coms. “Guys — guys, I fell in-”
Phil’s voice overlaps Wilbur, and Tommy’s expression crumples in frustration. “Big Q, do you have any bread?”
The man’s standing above, tall, his robes pooling against the ground; they’re emerald green, same color as the lining against the coal-colored velvet fabric. His eyes, sparkling blue, is a contrast that Tommy relates to, considering his match. “Wait, I can't hear Wil—”
His heart clenches. Something’s wrong. He's searching for Wilbur - in the trees, he had just respawned to come find him - but since Wilbur’s small, and Tommy’s larger than usual, he can't see him anywhere.
“Nah, I don't have any.” Quackity yelps as a Creeper explodes next to him, and he jumps out of the way - dirt flies in his direction. It would be funny, considering his foot-long legs go as fast as they can - and it's a comical sight. If he wasn't worried about Wil. “You could ask Tommy.”
Tommy grunts. “No, I don't — but everyone shut the fuck up and let Wilbur talk.”
They hush, and Wilbur chokes out a soft, “I’m sorry for calling you a loser, can you come get me out of the puddle?”
Tommy blinks, and hisses as his hand scratches against a rose bush. “Pardon?”
“I feel in a hole - it's a two block one - and I-” Wilbur sounds so hurt, and Tommy runs a little faster. “I can't get out, it's just,” Wilbur laughs gently, “me and this dandelion flower.”
He checks his coordinates, glancing at the numbers that change periodically on his wrist. “Oh, I — send me your co-ords, please.”
The numbers come through, and went Tommy jumps into the cavern, Wilbur’s, well - baby Wilbur, is sat on the ground next to the flower that he mentioned. He snorts. It's bigger than him.
He feels a bit silly, considering the fact he was about to panic - protectively hovering over Wilbur, fighting for the spotlight in the coms so everyone would shut up and let Wilbur give his piece.
Wilbur gasps, his eyes widening, standing up - he only reaches the top of the nearest block. “My savior.”
He’s glad Wilbur doesn't look the slightest bit phased, and if anything - he's happy, grinning like a kid in a candy store, his teeth stark white. He makes grabby hands at Tommy, who muffles a snicker.
“I’m gonna get in your sock, in your shoe — and hide in there.”
He kneels before he can, his beige pants pressing into the dirt, and picks Wilbur up. The brunet - while, is about eight years older than him, and a good five inches taller - is certainly not, not by height in the mod they've applied to the server. He's not even a foot, honestly, and Tommy can hold him in the palms of his hands. Wilbur scrambles to sit on his shoulders, his hands carding themselves through his curls.
“Don't hide in my shoe, Wil,” Tommy grins. “I’ll crush you.” He's relieved; Wilbur can certainly tell, because Wilbur knows Tommy, like Tommy knows Wil, but he just gets him. He knows him.
Wilbur places a small hand on his cheek, and murmurs in his ear, leaning his head down, “I’m alright, Tommy.”
He tilts his head back, lets Wilbur calm him. “I know,” he whispers. “I know, I know.”
His heart beats.
—
2.
“I’m not sure,” Tommy tells Slime, who blinks at him. “I feel - like, every time I go to the fuckin’- the fuckin’ Doctor’s he- like- he wants to make me a monster.”
“No! Doctor Malpractice means good!” He readjusts his glasses, his popsicle stick - covered in green goo - titling to the side of his head. A drop of slime lands on the ground, the grassing burning and hissing, a hand landing on his shoulder. “He - Wilbur - he always does this, he just wants to help!”
“I’m not sure,” Tommy looks down, and he- he makes a joke, because that's the only way he can downplay the situation from what it truly is, or else he's going to go mad . “how do I get wives if I poison people on the touch?”
“That doesn't matter!” He trots away, red shoes kicking at the weeds, slime pouring off him faster, and faster. “What matters is getting your shit together, man. Just—”
Slime turns to stare at him, a mean grin splitting his face, eyes dark, “Don’t offer a place for me to sit.”
The blond shivers. He's been saying that stupid phrase for a while, Don't offer me a chair, don't let me take a seat, don't let me sit down, don't-
An explosion, loud, Slime’s scream of glee echoing in the aftermath - shrapnel bursting out of the air.
He looks away, biting his tongue so hard he tastes blood.
-
“Get back here, Tommy!” He sounds insane, and Tommy can't breathe, there's tar in his lungs, blood pouring out of his eyes—
"I’m faster, Wil!” He pushes himself farther, and good Ender, he knows that it's a mod. He knows they can respawn, that Slime is safe, that this entire thing is a bit, that Wilbur and Slime are both completely okay. Except - they're playing a game, and the way Wilbur bolts after him is going to— “Leave me alone!”
Appendix dies, because of course he does, and Wilbur hands tremble. He gets a glance behind him, shoving a bite of steak in his mouth, and he huffs in a breath of air as Wilbur bounces forward. He lands just in front of him - his eyes have lost the horrifying gleam they had moments ago. Tommy gasps.
Wilbur places his hands on his shoulders. “Tommy.”
“Mm.”
“Tommy,” softer, less harsh. Open. His forehead presses against his own, “we’re kidding, man, I love you, I wouldn't actually hurt you.”
His hands are gentle, holding Tommy like he's a piece of china.
“But I-” Wilbur’s eyes harden, and his mouth shuts. He lets go, and Slime calls out behind them, Wil? Tommy?
“I’ll stop it, if you'd like?” He pulls away, and cracks his knuckles, pushing at the bone with a grin. “I can do that. But then again - I also wanna beat you in a race.”
His heart has stopped pounding faster than he can run - they’re okay. Wilbur’s okay - and that's all he needs to know. “Race you to Slimecicle?”
Wilbur wins the race. His eyes are clear, Slime’s laughing happily, Phil’s rocking back on his heels with a fond look - and Tommy exhales.
—
3.
Tommy falls onto the ground, tears in his eyes, and screams. “Wilbur- Wilbur— it’s me! It’s me, it’s Tommy, Wil! It’s-”
The fact Wilbur doesn't stop is concerning. He keeps going, fireballs ripping themselves from his throat, burning against the End’s floorbed. Tommy holds in a fiery rush of tears like he's squeezing a water bottle.
Wilbur, or, Keith- whatever the fuck he's calling himself, snarls in Dragon form, his purple eyes glowing at the high of the rush, Phil letting out a shrill cry as he throws a violet fireball towards his wings. Quackity tries to step in; Wilbur turns to him, and Tommy almost sobs, He’s going to hurt Big Q—
He dives out of the way, of course, as expected, as hoped, and Phil and Tommy let out synched sighs of pure relief. But - as Quackity crawls up a pillar, hard, gnawing obsidian, Wilbur-Kieth turns to the two of them. Phil’s head yanks towards Tommy, “ Run left,” he mouths, and Tommy nods curtly.
Unfortunately for Tommy, Wilbur beings to fly in his direction, “ Get back here, motherfucker,” Tommy holds in a sob, “ get the fuck back here, you killed my wife—”
He giggles wetly, because his brother sounds so stupid. He’s yelling about a wife that was never his, that doesn't exist - because she despawned and Wilbur’s going to kill him. “Come and get me, you prick.”
They reach the side of the End, the edge of the island just in front of him; There’s revivals, Tommy chants silently, we can revive we can revive, I learnt this lesson back in the stupid Size and Surgeon mod, I should know this, I’ll be fine, I can't ruin the joke—
He falls back on his ass, facing Wilbur, and scrambles away from him, fingers pushing into the sand. “Wil, please, I-”
“ Shut up! You killed my Motherfucking Wife!” Wilbur lets out another ball of flame for emphasis. “ She’s gone! I thought you were my friend!”
“Stop the bit,” the teenager tells him, sniffling, brushing at the corner of his mouth. The way Wilbur falters, his wings slowing is somewhat comforting. “it's not funny anymore. Please.”
He doesn't want Wilbur to hurt him. And maybe - maybe Wilbur would recoil and become upset if he even thought that the brunette would even do such a thing in the first place - but it really seems like that. That Wilbur would slash his claws against his skin and make him bleed.
He slows, eyes blinking slower - and his stupid little Dragon eyebrows curl up in a motion that makes his face look distraught. Or snout. His body fades, getting smaller, until he turns into a body - yellow jumper, the usual.
His hands come up, fingers shaking oh so slightly, and his eyes are large. Like - as in wide-as-donuts. He toys with the small ponytail at the back of Tommy’s neck, lips almost in a pout, “I didn't scare you, did I?”
Tommy sighs, slow, calming down, “Just don't do that again.” His cheek presses against Wilbur's collarbone. “It was really scary.”
Oh, Tom, Wilbur says under his breath, we gotta make sure you know we’ll all be fine anyways- and Phil flies down to them, his eyes watery. “You guys alright?”
The blonde - despite being Phil’s son, despite the fact he would tell anything to Phil - hides in Wilbur’s chest out of shame. “We’re fine,” he converses quietly, over his head. “Tommy got a little shaken up, but we're okay.”
Phil’s slightly clawed crow hand ruffles his hair, “It’s alright mate, he's not actually angry.”
There's footsteps, and arms circle around Tommy’s waist; he's taken right from Wilbur’s hold in pulled right into Quackity’s. His golden, ombré wings cover them in a sphere, as if shielding him. “Hi, pollito , it's gonna be okay,”
He adds that last bit as a joke, but it means the world to Tommy. “I am saving you from Big Bad Dragon Wilbur.”
Wilbur rolls his eyes, crossing his arms over his chest - and he's gonna be okay. He’s alive.
—
4.
Wilbur tugs at his battered shoes, the shoelaces broken. “Bullshit.”
“Not exactly,” Tommy wobbles dangerously close to the side. “You're just a prick who doesn't give a shit about shit.”
“That makes no sense.” The ground trembles, Wilbur’s eyes flick to him - in fear; watching, making sure Tommy doesn't fall in - if Tommy does, he'll continuously fall into the lava constantly ‘till someone walks out with blocks and picks him up. “You're a fool. Also - love, move away from the edge, you'll fall in.”
Tommy smirks, and moves closer. “Like this?”
He swallows, and glares, harsh. “ Yes, like that, so—”
The lava moves up another foot, and the grass trembles beneath his sneakers - Tommy looks at Wil, wide-eyed, and falls backwards. Wilbur yells his name, jumping forward, arm outstretched.
At first, Tommy doesn't think he's gonna grab him. That he's going to burn to death, slowly, until he's dead ; that he's going to fall repeatedly into the lava ‘till Phil flies over and catches him in his arms. The magma is hot, steaming - ghosting over his skin. I’m going to die.
They grab hands, their fingers interlocking, and Tommy lets out a sharp gasp - if Wilbur peaks over the kid’s shoulder, his feet are dangling above the lava. Oh, Tommy.
The younger screeches, biting on his lip as he struggles to pull himself up, Wilbur’s hand tightening; He’s not going to fall. I won't let him. Digging the heel of his foot into the ground, the dirt pooling around it, he pulls as hard as he can - Tommy comes flying up, and crashes into his arms. They fall back on the grass, Tommy cradled against him, the boy pressing his face into his neck; it feels like his skin is getting wet, and Will sighs, soft. “Shh.”
Tommy whines, his voice cracking - he winces, but he persists, in pulling them together tight enough to practically knot them both with a string of yarn. “Wil, Wil,” he places a hand on his wrist, his fingers not strong enough to squeeze. “you're here, you're with me.”
“I am,” Wil nods, confident, without deadline. “I’ve got you. You feel my heartbeat? That's — I’ve got you. You're not going anywhere.”
He’s got me. I’m still breathing.
-
5.
The mental clock ticks.
“It's not that bad,” Wilbur mumbles, quiet. The thunder is loud - rumbling over the silence within the house. He left his Hot Girlfriend out on the treehouse he and Jack built together. His hands shake, and Wilbur grabs them, one in each of his own. The tremble fades. “we're in this together.”
Jack is dead. He died in the rain. “Yeah?”
“We’ll be fine,” Wilbur smiles, and even the edges of his own lips falter almost into a frown. Phil is dead.
“I wouldn't let you go out on there on your own, after all, Tommy.”
“I reckon that if I did, I’d probably die.” he chuckles humorlessly, and his throat bobs — Wilbur’s bottom lip quivers uselessly. “You'd be all alone.”
“Better than you being alone.” Tubbo had screamed as he died, his hand reaching for Tommy’s; the wind swept him away. He reaches a hand up to touch his cheek - it comes back covered in blood, his fingertips crimson. “I could never live with myself.”
“They'll be back?”
“Of course,” Wilbur sighs, and he wants it all to be tongue-in-cheek, but it's not. Phil and Jack and Tubbo are all back at spawn, laughing, probably. A tear trails down his cheek, and Wilbur, poor Wilbur, his breath can't stay steady. “we'll all be okay.”
Tommy doesn't believe him, but he listens to Wilbur and goes along with what he says.
The lightning strikes their house. The clock ticks twelve. “It's the end of the world?”
Wilbur’s eyes water, and his smile is shaky. He's shaking. They're both shaking. “I love you, darling.”
He's gonna scream. He's going to scream. “I love you too. You're coming back, right?”
He sobs, letting go, his hands gripping the sleeves of his shirt, and his forehead hits Tommy’s chest. Right over his dying heart. “I don't think I’m coming back this time.”
He gasps, loud. He can't hear over the rain, his ears are ringing, bleeding, his heart is pounding - I am dying. I think.
And his lungs - his lungs do not breathe in, this time.