Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“Who is it?” Wilbur called to the front door.

“The police!”

Wilbur clenched his fists out of anxiousness. “What do you need?”

There was a shuffling on the other side, and Wilbur risked a peek through the eyehole. It was, in fact, a police officer, with his badge in hand and a taser on his waist.

“I just need to speak to the owner of the house. You sound young; are either of your parents home?”

“My dad’s at work and my mom’s taking a nap, sorry. Come back later.” His mom was dead, but that bozo didn’t need to know that.

The cop sighed. “Kid, does a Phil Watson live here?”

Wilbur considered saying no, just to spite the guy. His dad hadn’t been awhile anyways, so it wouldn’t totally be a lie. “Is that who you’re looking for?”

“Yes. Now let me in, please.”

“Do you have a warrant?”

“I have suspicious activity. Your dad hasn’t been around in a while, has he?”

Wilbur gaped. “Um- how do you know that?”

“A neighbor called,” the guy said. “A Ms. Haldemen down the street, told us that it looked like you kids were home all alone past the legal limit.”

“He’s probably at work, you know.”

The police officer scoffed. “Yeah, we checked in at the office. He hasn’t clocked in since last Thursday. I dunno if he gave you a calendar, but it’s Wednesday now.”

“Well- I still don’t know if you have a warrant.”

A jiggle of the doorknob. “What’s your name, bud?”

“It’s Wilbur,” he glared at the door. “And you don’t need to call me bud, I’m sixteen.

“Well, Wilbur, you’re still underage. Why don’t you come out here, and we can get this all figured out.”

“Put your badge up to the peephole.”

“What, you don’t think I’m the real deal?”

Wilbur unclenched his fists slowly, and ignored the sting when the crescents on his palms hit the open air. “I’m cautious.”

He was met with a glossy Officer Cothran, #39, and slowly unlocked and opened the door. He cracked it open just enough to slip through, and looked the police officer right in the forehead.

“You’re taller than I thought.”

Wilbur crossed his arms. “What questions do you have for me? I have an English assignment due.”

“You work very hard then?”

He shrugged. “I’d say so.”

“You gettin’ good grades in school?”

“I have all As, except for Maths. That’s a b-minus.”

The officer opened his phone, made a noise of approval, then put it back away. His hand brushed his gun. “Do you have a job?”

Wilbur shifted his feet, the thin year-old socks being entirely unhelpful against the cold concrete of his front step. “I have a shift at Wendy’s, if that’s what you’re wondering.”

“Do you have a driver’s license?” “

Yes, I got it last June.”

The man hummed.

“Officer, am I being detained?”

“No! No, not at all.” Wilbur adjusted his sleeve. “Then am I free to go?”

The officer faltered. “Ah- just…” he turned his attention to the driveway, where a sleek red prius was slowing to a stop. “Kelsey! There you are!”

A woman stepped out of the driver’s seat of the car. Her hair was wavy in the way someone with curly hair who didn’t know how to properly dry it was. As she made her way up the path, she was forced to look up at Wilbur.

“Hi. Wilbur, right?”

“...Yeah. That’s me.”

She beamed at him. “I’m Kelsey Henderson from Child Protective Services, but you can call me Kelsey.”

Wilbur looked at her outstretched hand and tentatively shook it. “Um- hi.”

She turned to the officer. “I’ll be alright from here. Thank you, Ron.”

He tipped his hat like a pretentious bastard, then crossed back to the police car.

“So, Wilbur, do you mind if I take a look around?”

“Do I have a choice?”

Kelsey’s face softened for a second. “Not really, sorry.”

Wilbur sighed. “Come on in, I guess.”

When Wilbur shut the door behind them, he was met with his little brother staring at them from the bottom of the stairs, bright blue eyes flitting between him and the woman.

“Hey, Toms-” He looked between the social worker and his brother, then made his way to the stairs. “This is Kelsey. She’s going to be taking a look around, okay?”

“Where’s dad?”

“Um-” Wilbur glanced at Kelsey, who was watching them from a few feet away. “He’ll be home really soon, okay? He’s just a little caught up on work right now.”

Kelsey flipped through a few pages on her clipboard. “You’re Thomas, right?”

Tommy looked at her. “It’s Tommy.” He turned back to Wilbur. “Wil, who’s she?”

“She’s just looking around, okay?”

Tommy looked at her again, this time with narrowed eyes. “Are you one of dad’s coworkers? When is he coming home?”

Wilbur picked up Tommy and set him on his hip, groaning slightly at the weight. “I think you’re getting a bit big for this, bud.”

Kelsey smiled softly at them. “Wilbur, when was the last time you saw your father?”

—-------

Wilbur’s couch was stiff. That was the thought that crossed his mind every time he sat on the damn thing, but he didn’t have enough spare change lying around to replace it. Couches were damn expensive, and cleaning the roaches off of one from the side of the road was, too.

The rain pattered against his windows against the wall in front of him, but he was too committed to lounging on the couch with his bottle of wine to stand up and close them. Lightning flashed in the sky.

One. Two. Three. Four. Thunder.

Wilbur was about to give up on his thoughts altogether and turn on a shitty movie, when a faint knock sounded at the front door.

“Coming!” he groaned. He cringed at the soreness of his legs as he rose up. Christ, I’m barely in my twenties and I’m already an old man. He opened the wooden door, to be met with a sopping wet child standing at his doorstep.

“Um- are you Wilbur Watson?”

The boy at Wilbur’s door was strangely familiar, in a way that he couldn’t exactly place. He had wavy, golden hair that darkened near the roots, pale skin, and icy blue eyes that pierced into his soul like a pair of tiny spotlights. He couldn’t have been more than fifteen, although Wilbur suspected his height did most of the work.

“Who’s asking?”

The boy shifted from the front doorstep. “Look, I’m sorry if I’m bothering you, but I’m sort of looking for my brother.” He adjusted the ratty straps of his backpack. “He’s a tall fuck like you, brown hair like yours-”

“So why are you asking me?”

The deja vu was uncanny.

“I’m sorry-”

Wilbur sighed. “You don’t have to apologize. Just spit it out.”

The boy took a shaky breath. “I just- I haven’t seen him since I was, like, eight, when we got separated in the foster system. You know how it is.”

Wilbur thought back on his own experiences and shuddered. “I do.”

“Wait, really?” his face lit up. “You were a foster kid too? Do you think you can help me out? You look kinda the same age. How old are you?”

“Twenty-two. How old are you?”

“I’m thirteen, but I’ll be fourteen in July. My brother’s twenty-two, too.” He pressed his lips together. “At least, I think he is.”

Wilbur felt a churning in his gut. “Really? Did you ever go to a group home?”

The boy faltered. “I- yeah. The one with the big-ass green doors in front.”

“Saint Josephine’s?”

“Yeah.”

The rain outside was still pouring, and it was the only sound for a moment.

Wilbur cleared his throat. “What’s your name?”

“T-tommy.”

“You’re fucking with me.” Wilbur laughed incredulously. “Your name is Tommy.”

Tommy shifted awkwardly, his fingers drumming on the cold metal railing on the porch.

When Wilbur pulled himself together, he ran a hand through his hair. “Sorry- that was my brother’s name.” They both faltered.

“Wait…” Tommy muttered. “Wil?”

“Toms?”

The world stopped.

Raindrops were bypassing the doorframe and onto Wilbur’s scuffed hardwood floors. His electricity bill was being wasted on conventionally attractive Americans on the television behind him. His neighbors were playing music much too loudly for twenty-one at night. For once, he didn’t mind.

Tommy’s eyes may have been filling with tears, although Wilbur couldn’t see behind the blur in his own. All he could really register was opening up his arms, and the weight of Tommy throwing himself into them. He wrapped his arms around him and ducked his face into the mass of hair wet from the rain.

“I wanted to stay with- with you- but when I got back y-you were gone-” Tommy blubbered into his sweater. “You were gone and I was so scared- I-”

Wilbur shushed him, but it was no use.

“And then they sent me to a new- a new house but they were so mean, Wil- they were mean so I ran away but they found me!”

Tommy’s breaths were coming quicker, so Wilbur tried to pry his shaking hands away to look him in the eyes.

“Tommy- hey, hey- look at me, okay?”

Tommy’s eyes scrunched up tighter and more tears poured down his cheeks. Wilbur vaguely registered that he was crying, too.

“Toms, can you open your eyes?”

“...don’ wanna.”

Wilbur chuckled wetly. “I know, but look at me please.”

Tommy’s eyes slowly opened a sliver.

“There you are.” Wilbur smiled. “I need you to take a breath for me, okay? In-”

A dangerously shallow breath.

“And out.”

Tommy’s exhale was shaky and paired with a quivering lip, but even one deep breath seemed to calm him down.

“Is that better?”

Tommy nodded. “I- sorry. Sorry.”

“No,” Wilbur shook his head. “Don’t apologize. It’s okay.” He rubbed Tommy’s arms to try and warm them up. “You’re freezing. Do you want a shower?”

Tommy looked up at him with wide eyes. “Sure, bossman.”

Wilbur smiled. “Okay, I’ll show you the bathroom."

Chapter Text

“I told you that I was going to be late!”

Tommy wrapped his arms closer around himself, and tried fruitfully to shove the towel further under the closet door in an attempt to muffle the shouts from downstairs. 

“No you didn’t, Skeppy! I was sitting here, all night, waiting patiently for you to come home!”

Tommy’s hands were shaking. His entire body was shaking.

“Well that’s not my problem, is it?!”

Henry was tucked in between his arm and torso, worn with age. Tommy looked into the beads that made his eyes. “It’s okay Henry, they’ll-they’ll be done soon. I’m sure of it.”

“It’s not my fault you can’t read your fucking texts!”

“Don’t- dont you speak to me like that! I wasn’t the one drinking away with all my- my coworkers!”

The closet was dark and cramped, and Tommy had to squeeze his eyes shut so as to stop seeing the walls close in on him.

A slam, probably a hand to a table. “Oh, I’m sorry Bad! Would you like me to throw away my social life for you?”

“No!” Just stop running around without telling me first!”

Tommy took a deep breath- or tried to. It came out more like a gasp and a sputter.

“Why’s it your problem?!”

“We’re married, that’s my problem!”

Tommy clamped his hands over his ears, and the knot in his chest loosened slightly at the way they slightly muffled his fosters’ voices downstairs. He could still hear shouting and slamming, but it was slightly more bearable. 

The slam of a front door echoed through the house, and Tommy tentatively lifted his trembling hands away from his head. At the silence, he pulled the towel away from the door. 

“Tommy?”

It was quieter, and softer. Bad was yelling for him. 

“Hey, where are you?”

Footsteps reached the closet door, and a stream of light entered his hiding spot. 

“Oh there you are, you little muffin,” Bad smiled at him, stretching his arms out. “Come on out of there, okay?”

He shook his head. 

Bad sighed. “Please? We can make cookies! Whichever recipe you want, I promise!”

Tommy squinted at him. “Any recipe?”

“Any one you want.”

Tommy wiped the drying tears off of his face. “Henry wants monster cookies.”

“Okay,” Bad murmured. “We’ll have to go out to get more M&Ms first. Do you want to come with me?”

“Yeah, I guess.”

Bad stood up. “Perfect! I’ll meet you at the front door in a few minutes!”

“Can I-”

“Hm?”

Tommy looked at the ground sheepishly. “Can I bring Henry?”

Bad smiled at him again. “Of course you can.”

“Okay.” Tommy stood up on shaking legs, and followed his foster dad to the car. 

—-------

The water was hotter than Tommy was used to. The moment he stepped into the scalding shower, he had to resist the urge to cry out. Instead, he turned the faucet further right like Wilbur had shown him, and waited for it to cool down. 

It was sort of nice, having warm water again. The last few foster homes made him take a shower last, so he always felt like he was freezing his balls off. 

The shampoos smelled like citrus. Tommy used as many of them as possible.

By the time steam was clouding his vision and his skin was red, he stepped out and pulled on a pair of pants and a sweater that Wilbur had given him. The pants were thin, blue flannel, and the sweater was a dark gray with the words: ‘Kennedy Administration’ on it.

“Wil, you haven’t turned American on me, have you?” Tommy cried as he opened the door, steam pouring out. 

“Huh?” Wilbur called from around the corner. 

Tommy walked down the hall from the bathroom and turned right to see Wilbur pouring noodles into a strainer over the sink. 

“You- your fuckin’ shirt says Kennedy Administration. Isn’t that the American guy who got shot?”

“Everyone gets shot in America, Tommy.”

He snorted. “Yeah, but ‘e got shot in the head, right?”

“Hm. Yeah, sixties. It was all over the news here, too, you know.”

Tommy scrunched up his nose and walked further into the room. “You say that like you’re as old as Phil, or something.”

Wilbur stopped shaking the strainer, then set it down.

“Sorry-” Tommy started. “I didn’t mean to-” He took a breath. “Have you heard from the fucker? Like, since- you know.”

Wilbur poured the noodles into a pot. “No more than you have.”

“Oh.”

Tommy fiddled with his sleeve. The television behind him was playing some shitty reality show in the background. 

Wilbur coughed. “I’m- uh- making mac and cheese if you want any.” He gestured to the pot. “It’s the box kind, but I’m not half bad.”

“It’s the box cheese, Wil. It always sucks.”

He poured the cheese dust (cheese dust) in. “Yeah, well, I have a secret ingredient.”

“Really? What is it?”

“An extra slice of cheese.”

Tommy bit the inside of his lip. It was a habit he should probably shake. “You never did that before.”

Wilbur looked at him for a moment. “You remember that?”

“Yeah?”

“Dude, you were eight.”

“And you were sixteen, what’s your point?”

That awkward silence again. It was like when Tommy would step into the kitchen and a plate magically found its way back on the counter from Skeppy’s hand. Except this time

it was worse, because Wil was his brother, and brothers weren’t supposed to be awkward.

“Anyways-” Wilbur started. “An old- uh- guy I knew taught it to me.”

“Oh. Cool.” 

Wilbur held up the pot. “It’s done. Will you want any?”

Tommy was unceremoniously remembered by his stomach that he hadn’t exactly eaten anything that day, so he nodded. 

“Awesome.” Wilbur reached into a cupboard. “Flower or cactus?”

“Huh?”

He gestured to the bowls in the cupboard. “I have two bowls. Do you want the flower one or the cactus one?”

“Um..” Tommy scrunched up his nose. “Which one do you like best?”

He regarded the bowls closely. “I mean, Niki painted the cactus one, so I suppose that’s my favorite.”

“I want that one.”

Wilbur huffed a laugh. “Yeah, okay. Do you want to sit at the table or on the couch?”

“I can choose?” 

“Y-yeah. Go ahead, bud.”

Tommy looked at the table, then the dark grey couch. “Which one’s more comfortable?”

“Honestly?”

Tommy shrugged. 

“The couch is just barely more comfortable.”

“Then I’ll take it. Duh.”

Wilbur handed him the bowl, and Tommy took it to the far end of the couch. Wilbur sank down on the other side. “Do you want to change the channel?”

Tommy blew on his fork. “Depends on what you’re watching.”

“Bachelor in Paradise. It’s a bunch of hot people lounging on Mexican beaches with cameras in their faces,” Wilbur explained. 

“Oh,” Tommy mumbled. “It sounds like this show Skeppy used to watch.”

“Who?”

He swallowed the noodles. “Uh- one of my fosters. The ones that had me for, like, two years.”

“Huh.”

Tommy adjusted his feet. “Yeah. They got divorced, though.”

“Shit, really? Why?”

“I-” Tommy started. “They were always yelling about stuff. Skeppy was getting out of the house too often, Bad started focusing all his energy on his work…I dunno.”

Wilbur was looking at him. Right in the eyes, too. “Hey man, I’m sorry.”

“Why?”

He chewed the inside of his cheek, a habit that was vaguely familiar. “I just- I should have been there. I should have been placed there with you.”

“I mean, it’s not your fault,” Tommy countered. “They only had room for one.”

“I know,” Wilbur sighed. “I wish that I had pushed harder, though.”

Tommy scoffed. “I still found you though, didn’t I? Can’t hide from me, fucker.”

“Wait, how did you find me?” 

“Your- uh,” Tommy picked at his nail. “Your name was still in St. Josephine’s system, even with the name change. You’re still under their financial assistance, remember?”

Wilbur laughed next to him. “It’s so shitty, I may as well not be.” 

“Actually?”

“I’m serious with you. I only get enough assistance from them to eat out once a month and buy clothes. Their funding is-”

“I’m sorry-” Tommy said. “I can leave if- if you need me to-”

Wilbur leaned towards him. “No, no, I have money! I have a job at an office a bus ride away, and it pays well enough- don’t worry about it, man.”

“You’re sure?”

“I’m sure.”

Tommy hesitated. Wilbur wasn’t really legally fostering him, so he wouldn’t be getting the government checks-

Not worrying about that yet. Nope nope nope. “Okay.”

Wilbur gestured to his bowl. “Are you done with that?”

“Uh, yeah,” Tommy muttered, putting his bowl and spoon in Wilbur’s outstretched hand, who stood up to place them in the sink. Tommy turned to the television, where a shirtless guy was talking to the camera. 

“Wil?”

The sound of silverware clinking stopped. “Huh?”

Tommy scrunched his eyes up at the show. “Why’s Abs Guy so upset?”

“He’s trying to find ‘love’,” Wilbur punctuated with air quotes. “But the woman that he was paired up with the whole time thought another guy had- well, better pecs.”

“Really?”

Wilbur sat back down next to him. “Something or other.”

“Have you ever found love?”

He snorted. “That’s a story for another time, man.”

Tommy gasped. “So you have!”

“Shut up-”

“You have a girlfriend, you have a boyfriend!”

“I had,” Wilbur sighed. “We don’t need to talk about that right now.”

“Okay,” Tommy said. The people on the television were swimming now, and kissing. Gross. The cameras were still on, rolling, rolling. “I think Bad and Skeppy loved me.”

“You do?” Wilbur asked softly. 

Tommy shrugged. “At least, I thought they did for a while. Then they sent me back, so. You know.”

“Because of the divorce?”

“Prob’ly. Skeppy didn’t like me as much as Bad did, either. I could tell because- um-”

Wilbur shifted in his seat. “What do you mean? What did he do?”

Sensing Wilbur’s panic, Tommy quickly backtracked. “Dude, he didn’t hit me or anything! It’s just- sometimes they were fighting about me, you know?”

“Toms?”

“Hm?”

“Why did you emphasize it like that?” Wilbur’s voice was deceptively calm, like storm clouds or the rumble of a shitty radiator. 

“Emphasize what?”

Wilbur cocked his head. “You said he didn’t hit you.”

Tommy sprung up from the couch. “I’m getting real tired, Wil. Mm, sleepy sleepy.”

“You’re ignoring me.”

Tommy laughed out loud for the first time since he entered his brother’s cheap Brighton apartment. “Absolutely, big man. Give me that pillow.”

When the lights in the living room were turned off and Wilbur brushed Tommy’s hair away from his forehead, Tommy finally allowed himself to exhale. 

“G’night, Wil.”

Wilbur smiled at him in the darkness. “Sleep well.”

Chapter Text

“What a fucking waste, honestly.”

“Boys!” the woman muttered. “Please be kind.”

Wilbur stepped away from the bedroom door. The woman’s name was- Heather? Yes, Heather. Heather had applied to be a foster parent a few months ago, Kelsey said, and he was her first placement. 

It explained the two fucks down the hall, that was for sure. 

Wilbur’s room had been their gaming room. There were the remnants of posters all over the painted walls, there were various stains on the carpet, and a shoddily patched up hole in the wall occupied the space between his bedframe and the window. So- a dump. 

Despite the overall state of the place, Wilbur had been pleasantly surprised to learn that he was getting a room all to himself. After one year of Tommy being- 

Happy. 

-Another guy had been moved into his room, which made smothering his sobs in his ratty pillow just a tiny bit awkward. 

The sheets provided were nice, albeit a little juvenile. They had owls on them, which made Wilbur have to hold back a comment about his glasses. 

They were all cracked, anyways.

They cracked when the older son (Harry, maybe) pushed him to the ground outside the college that he was being sent to during his stay. Something about taking over their ‘hang spot’. 

Needless to say, Wilbur skipped school entirely. He spent that entire Tuesday loitering around gas stations and McDonald's locations- why there were so many, he had no clue- until a few other groups of teenagers made their way towards him and he figured school was out. 

Dinner was a scattered affair, mostly due to Heather’s mindless rambling on the phone with her brother, and the younger brother’s (Jon) glares from across the table. 

He had to brush his teeth after lights out in the pitch-black bathroom because Harry gave him a look that made him want to rip his hair out in anxiety.

The next day, Heather lectured him about going to school, so he went to the bathroom and sat with his feet off of the ground the whole time, holding back tears when a group of guys walked in complaining about the ‘queers’ in their math class. 

They ordered Chinese for dinner, which Wilbur took to his bedroom. 

A girl in his English class laughed at one of his geography jokes. Her boyfriend punched him in the face. 

Instead of eating that night, Wilbur muffled his cries in his owl-covered pillow. 

When Heather knocked on his door and saw his red nose and eyes, she asked him if he was sick. 

“Um- yeah.”

She tutted. “Well, I can’t stay home with you, but I’ll call you in sick, okay?”

He sighed. “Okay.”

That Saturday, Heather took them out to some restaurant with cushy chairs and free bread rolls. When he caught Wilbur staring at their waiter, Jon called him some less than politically correct words. 

It wasn’t his fault the guy was pretty. 

On the way to his room, Harry and Jon cornered Wilbur in the hall. 

“What do you need?’

Jon shoved him up against the wall, despite being two years younger than him. “You’re a fucking disease, you got it?”

“Y-yeah, I got it. What’s that have to do with you?”

“It means you’ve taken over our room, our school, and our mom, that’s what it’s got to do with you!” Harry chimed in. 

Wilbur tried to talk back-and-forth with them, but it only resulted in a hole in the wall next to his head, and shaky breaths while the two banged on his door. 

Needless to say, Kelsey came to pick him up early Sunday morning. It would have been perfect church time, had Wilbur ever been a religious guy. But he wasn’t, so it didn’t matter anyway. 

He never even got that waiter’s number. 

—-------

“Wilbur, you bitch!”

Wilbur laughed as Tommy rushed towards him, sweater in hand. “What’s up?”

“You-” Tommy took a moment to catch his breath. “You said- I could only pick out three expensive things, Wil!”

He turned back to the rack of pants. “What’s your point, then?”

“Wh- all of this, man!” Tommy gestured wildly to the bags that they were both carrying. “You’re buying me all this shit!”

“Well, you’re not going to wear my clothes all the time, are you?” Wilbur surveyed a pair of jeans. “You’re a growing boy.”

Tommy huffed. “I am not a boy, I am a man! An incredibly big man, mind you!”

“Sure,” Wilbur smirked. “Do you see any pants you like?”

“No- I don’t know. It’s all the same, innit?”

Wilbur shrugged. “I think I like these.” He held up a pair of loose black jeans, to which Tommy shrugged in annoyance. “Are you ready to head out?”

Tommy groaned. “Yes, I am so ready to leave.” He began marching to the cashier. “Can we get sweets after this?”

“Why the rush for- yes, hi,” Wilbur interrupted himself to greet the cashier. 

“Cash or credit?”

“Um, debit, actually. Is that okay?”

The cashier smiled at him. “No problem. Follow the instructions on the keypad, please.”

While Wilbur was typing his PIN, he looked over to see Tommy staring at him as intensely as he possibly could, like a raccoon caught in headlights. “Yes, Tommy?”

“Wilbur,” he said, in a very low voice, as if he was trying to be threatening. 

“...Yes?”

Tommy took a deep breath. “What is your favorite ice cream flavor? Because if you say mint chocolate chip, I may have to taxidermy you.”

Wilbur huffed a laugh. “Do you even know what that means?”

“Want to find out?”

“I mean, it’s pecan-”

Tommy’s reaction was instantaneous. “Aw! Wilbur! You’re old! Elderly!”

“I am twenty-two, and paying for your clothing.” Wilbur turned back to the keypad and glanced at the cashier, who was clearly trying to hold back laughter. 

“At least you’re not an absolute wrongen who likes mint chocolate chip, but pecan? Really?”

As the cashier handed him the receipt, Wilbur shoved a plastic bag into Tommy’s arms. “Yes, really. Now let’s go get your ice cream.”

Tommy’s eyes lit up. “Honestly? We’re getting ice cream?”

“Don’t make me change my mind. Now let’s go!”

Ice cream was filled with more shouting and vague death threats, but it was worth it when Tommy quietly thanked him while they were getting into the car. 

“I- um, I know you didn’t really ask for me to just-” Tommy muttered. “Just show up like this, but I did, and now you’re buying me shit, so thanks.”

Wilbur shifted his gaze towards him for a moment. “It’s really alright. I needed to get out of the house, anyway.”

“Still.” 

The yellow lines of Wilbur’s personal favorite parking spot (a spiny tree hovered just above) slid into view, and he pulled into the spot before turning the car off. 

“What’re we doing here?” Tommy regarded the building.

Wilbur unclipped his seat belt. “We need groceries. Do me a favor and shove your bags under the seat, will you? I don’t want anyone to see them and try to steal them.”

“Wrongen protection.”

“Exactly,” Wilbur assented.

When they got to the front entrance, Wilbur pulled out a quarter from his pocket and offered it to Tommy. “Want to put the quarter in?”

“Do I?” Tommy gasped and took the coin. He pulled out a bright blue cart and marched towards the automatic doors. “C’mon, Wilbur! I want gummy bears!”

“You just had ice cream!”

“La la la, I can’t hear you!”

“Come back, you dick!”

Chapter Text

Skeppy and Bad’s van was a sickeningly suburban grey KIA, with automatic doors and black pleather seats that burned Tommy’s legs in the summer. The front console glowed in the darkness of the car, and the engine hummed quietly in the background. It was sort of sad. Tommy missed the days when he ate ice cream in the backseat instead of sitting with a packed bag. 

“How much longer?” Tommy muttered, backpack clutched to his chest. It was stuffed full with shirts and socks, toothpaste, and everything else that Bad had quietly folded the day before. Henry was there too, sitting next to him for moral support. Tommy was eleven, anyways, so Henry was the one that needed him (obviously).

Skeppy glanced towards the clock. “Well, it’s six forty-five, we left at five forty, and it takes an hour and a half to get to the home.”

“How long is that?”

“About half an hour,” Skeppy sighed, in the way he always did when he was tired or frustrated. He couldn’t tell which. 

Tommy nodded. He turned his gaze to the sky outside his window, where scattered clouds were moving quickly across the horizon. His face stared back at him in the faint reflection. He looked- well, like shit. Bad would hate to hear him say that, if he wasn’t holed up in the guest bedroom instead of saying goodbye.

“Why can’t Bad drive me?” 

“I don’t know,” Skeppy deadpanned. “I don’t exactly know why Bad does anything these days, to be fair. The guy’s a mystery.”

“Oh,” he mumbled. There weren’t many other cars on the road, only pavement and telephone poles. Tommy rubbed his fingers together subconsciously. 

“I mean, getting you was kind of Bad’s idea,” Skeppy started. “I wasn’t ever really a kid person, but Bad just loves nurturing, and-” he faltered, and turned to him. “You know we’re getting divorced, right? Like- you’ve figured it out?”

“Yeah.”

Skeppy focused back on the road. “Just making sure.”

Tommy nodded and went back to watching the fields roll by. At one point, Skeppy turned the radio on, and it began playing various Top 100 songs. They just felt inappropriate. 

“I-uh, I just want to clarify- us getting divorced isn’t, uh, your fault.”

Tommy huffed. “Bad’s already given me this talk, man.” It was true. Bad had sat him down when Skeppy was bowling with his friends, and explained to him that nothing that had happened was his fault with a calm smile and a sweet voice. 

Bullshit, but whatever.

“I’m going to turn up the heat?” It was asked as a question- tonally, anyways.

Tommy crossed his arms. “What is this, a last meal? Your car.”

Skeppy huffed. “Bad’s parents paid for it, actually. Want me to text to ask him?”

“Bad said that he blocked you, so…”

He frowned. “Of fucking course he did.” Skeppy clenched his fists on the steering wheel. “Why’d he tell you that?”

Tommy shrugged. 

“I probably should have seen the divorce coming, huh?”

“Um, yeah,” Tommy said. “You guys were fighting- all the time. You fired your couples therapist, remember?”

“I do- I do remember that.”

Tommy clutched Henry’s leg as he spoke. “I know you went on date nights to fix it, but that’s not good.”

Skeppy flicked the radio switch, and a new station turned on. “Well, how do you know that?”

“Tubbo told me,” he explained. “His dad’s divorced, and his old wife would get all angry and then all nice again. Tubbo said that’s a tox-ick relationship.”

Skeppy smirked. “Well isn’t Tubbo so smart?”

“He is,” Tommy said. “I still have his number up here-” he gestured to his head, “So I can call him whenever I want.”

“You can use a phone there?”

“Yeah, I’m pretty sure. I remember Wilbur used to complain about needing quarters to call this old boyfriend of his before- um- you guys came.”

Skeppy looked at him quizzically. “Who’s Wilbur?”

Tommy faltered. “My- he’s my brother. He’s gonna be at Saint Josephine's when I get there, and he’ll be super happy to see me.”

“Really?”

“Yeah! It’ll be okay that you guys gave me away, don’t worry. Wilbur used to give awesome hugs, better than Bad’s.”

Bad’s hugs were fantastic, but Tommy remembered Wilbur’s hugs making him feel secure, an experience that no one else had been able to recreate. 

Skeppy turned onto another road, passing a McDonald’s. “Are you sure he won’t be asleep?”

Tommy shook his head, remembering all the times Wilbur stayed up for him to come home. “No. He’ll be waiting for me-

“-He always has.”

—-------

Wilbur was gone. 

Something about ‘reports to fill out’ and ‘phone calls to make’ had been flung over his shoulder with the promise of calling the home phone during his lunch break, so now Tommy was moping around the apartment with nothing to do. 

He could take the remote off of its place upside-down on the arm of the couch (“So it doesn’t fall off, obviously,”), but that would require him to know how to use it, and Tommy was too high-strung to deal with any frustration at the moment. 

He couldn’t cook, either. Not unless he wanted to burn everything down, or waste the new groceries. Most of his fosters had hated when he wasted food-

Nope. Not doing that. Comparing Wilbur to foster families would only send him down a rabbit hole of paranoia and stress. Paranoia and stress turned into anxiety, and anxiety led him to a dark closet or room for hours on end, which was a no go . 

So, Tommy did what he did best; snooping around. 

Bad had called him a ‘little raccoon’ affectionately one time, when he had been caught peeking through the laundry room on the ground floor of their house. Bad had given him a tour then, of the tiny block with a washer, dryer, and water heater in it. Pretty lame, if someone would ask him, but Bad’s enthusiasm had really boosted eight-year-old Tommy’s spirits. 

He’d seen plenty of the kitchen before, but Tommy was extra focused on the cupboard high up next to the fridge. When he and Wilbur had been packing up the groceries, Wilbur had specifically kept him away from it.

It was an obvious snoop, really.

Climbing onto the counter to grab the handles was easy enough with long legs, and Tommy had to duck awkwardly to keep from hitting his head on the door, but when he did-

Well, it wasn’t exactly as interesting as he’d hoped.

The cupboard had one half-drank bottle of what Tommy could easily identify as vodka, and another, slightly taller bottle of wine with an intact seal. 

“Boring, Wil,” Tommy muttered to himself. He scanned the space for anything else, and reached for some brightly colored circles in the back corner. “At least he’s got some fuckin- candies, huh?”

He flipped them around to see that they were, in fact, not sugar. They were pins, blue, pink, and green, with the words ‘1 MONTH!’ on each of them. Tommy recognized them from the desk drawer of one foster sibling. The guy was probably nineteen, but the prick must’ve been too poor (or too much of a drinker) to live on his own. 

He decided to just ignore that comparison. 

Wilbur’s room was across from the bathroom, but Tommy decided not to spend too much time in there- he wasn’t a dick, after all.

He peeked through his bedside table and squinted at a polaroid of Wilbur and some ginger girl at a concert. She was probably holding the camera, and he was laughing into her cheek. The photo was too dark to make out anyone else’s faces, but they were definitely in a crowd.

“Gross,” Tommy stuck his tongue out at the photo, but shoved it back in its place and continued on. 

The office at the end of the hall was, according to Wilbur, mostly unused. That was made obvious by the state of the place- papers were thrown everywhere, the desk was covered in dust, an old printer was falling apart in the corner, and Tommy sneezed a few times. 

“I should probably clean this bitch, huh?”

Wilbur had told him that they would tidy up the office together in between his work days, but Tommy was impatient, and bored , so he got to work. 

The printer was a piece of junk, so Tommy felt zero remorse just chucking it to the front door to be put in the trash later. So was the ripped up desk chair, and the trash can was covered in dents. 

Tommy opened the desk (this was a snooping mission, after all), and audibly sighed when the drawers were mostly empty. 

“Fuckin’ waste- can’t even store his things properly, honesty-”

His voice cut off when he saw it. 

CERTIFICATE OF BIRTH

Thomas Watson to Phil Watson and Kristin Watson

4 / 7 / 20XX

“Huh,” Tommy mumbled to himself. 

It was clearly a copy, since there wasn’t any glossy finish and the edges tapered off into spotty black ink, but it was there, and it was him. 

When he placed it to the side and reached back into the drawer, a similar copy with Wilbur Watson emerged, along with a document that read CERTIFICATION OF NAME CHANGE . 

Tommy put them all away. “He actually changed his name? Good for him.”

The rest of the office paled in comparison to the discovery of his literal birth documents , so Tommy left it in favor of making a grilled cheese with the disgusting whole grain bread that Wilbur had insisted on buying in the bread aisle of Aldi. 

“I may be a tad unhealthy, but I want to live past twenty-five.”

“I know Wil, but can’t you- I don’t know, eat more carrots or something?”

He laughed. “White bread has too much sugar in it.” He gently swatted Tommy’s hand away from the loaves. “You’ll see.”

The joke was on Wilbur, because Tommy was putting American cheese on the bread, which balanced out the sugar ratio anyways. Dick. 

This is fine , Tommy thought as he flipped the sandwich with a spatula that he’d swiped from the drawer, the anxiety that came with cooking in any foster family’s home creeping up on him. 

“There’s nothing to worry about , dumbass,” Tommy whispered to himself as he placed the grilled cheese onto a plate and cut it (diagonally, of course). 

As he made his way to the couch, someone next door must have fallen, because the resulting thump made him jump slightly. 

He turned the television on to some random channel to muffle the sounds all around him that just freaked him out, but it turned out to be a nature documentary about panthers. 

“The panthers of South America have evolved to blend in with their environment, which only serves to make them excellent predators.”

Tommy took a break from his grilled cheese to glance suspiciously at the shadows in the hallway. From where he was sitting, anyone could be hiding inside the bathroom, and he would have no clue. 

“The panther quietly stalks in the underbrush, watching its prey, searching for an opening to attack.”

Fuck . He could feel the churning in his gut. Tommy looked to the hallway again, for it only to feel more oppressive. 

“And then- it attacks .”

In a moment of anxiety, Tommy jumped up from the couch and leaped to the light switch. He fumbled with it for a moment before the hallway was bathed in light.

Nothing. 

Despite the absence of shadows in his direct area, Tommy’s heart was still pounding and he was still left with an innate feeling of danger , so he crept into the bathroom and turned that light on too. There wasn’t anyone behind the shower curtain, but he kept it open anyways. 

The office was all good, and his burst of paranoia made Tommy realize that sleeping in the room with no windows made him feel more secure than was probably natural. 

He had to check Wilbur’s bedroom, so he did, but not before double-checking the wardrobe for anything out of the ordinary. He left its doors open, too. 

When he was sure that nothing bad would happen (what, Tommy didn’t know) he sat back down on the couch and switched the channel to children’s programming. At least there wouldn’t be any prey in Steven Universe. 

Chapter Text

Wilbur pushed through the crowded hall and out the doors of the English building, wincing at the sudden appearance of the sun in his eyes. He quickly ducked under an awning, trying to gather his thoughts instead of letting the anxiety that came with the crowd get to him. 

As more and more people dispersed to go their separate ways, Wilbur noticed someone in a similar situation across the drive, outside the Science building. 

“Hey- you’re Sally, right?” he said, once he had made his way to her side. 

She looked up at him, scrunched up her nose. “Yeah. You’re… Wilbur- you’re in my French class.”

Wilbur was, in fact, in her French 1 class on Tuesdays and Fridays. Apparently one world language was required for him to graduate college, and he was already two years behind on that front.           

“Sorry if it was- uh- weird to come up like this,” Wilbur started. “I just noticed that you were someone I knew, and-”

Sally cut him off. “Dude, it’s fine.”

“You sure?”

“Yep,” she reassured him. “Literally no problem.”

Wilbur shuffled his feet. “Do we-”

“Hm?”

“Oh, sorry-”

Sally stepped closer to him- Wilbur only noticed because his brain was rewired to notice, instincts built up from five houses of intimidation and piercing stares.

“No, that was my bad,” she laughed. “What were you going to say?”

He reached a hand up to readjust his fringe. “I just was wondering if you knew about any homework we had?”

Sally’s mouth fell into an o shape. “Um, there’s actually a study guide for the test next week.”

“Oh, really?” Wilbur asked. “I completely forgot about that, oh my god.”

She smiled, teeth showing and the corners of her eyes crinkling. “You forgot about the test?”

“...Yes.”

Wilbur couldn’t help but smile as she giggled, airy and good-natured. 

“I was actually about to go work on it,” she started. “There’s a starbucks just off-campus that has some nice corner booths. Do you want to, um- want to come with me?”

Kelsey had told him, when she handed Wilbur the form granting his access to higher education (by the foster agency, of course), that socialization was the most important part of schooling. Something about ‘connections’ and ‘bridges’ that Wilbur had paid absolutely no attention to. 

Until now. 

“Are you sure?”

“Yeah, I’m sure,” Sally was fiddling with the buttons on her bag. “It’s always so quiet there anyways. I could use a little company.”

She wasn’t wrong about quiet coffee shops. The banter of baristas going about their shifts and smooth music was as soothing as it was claustrophobic. There was an old diner that Wilbur had taken as a refuge a few years back, where the owner gave him chocolate milkshakes and one of the waiters actually flirted back. It was a perfectly lovely place, but all it meant by the time he got back in Kelsey’s car was limbs that felt like lead and heads swimming with the voices of the fosters that he was trying to escape. 

“Wilbur?”

Sally’s face came back into focus, hazel eyes and stray baby hairs. 

“Sorry-” he stuttered. “I’d love to go.”

She grinned at him. “Awesome!” She started off down the sidewalk, one hand swinging back and forth, the other loosely dragging him by his sweater sleeve. 

Sally turned back to him when they approached a stoplight. “You’ve been to a Starbucks before, right?”

Wilbur huffed a laugh incredulously. “Wh- of course I’ve been to a Starbucks! What makes you think I haven’t!”

The tips of her ears took a pinkish hue as she glanced to the screen across the road. “I don’t know! You look like one of those locally-owned-fuck-corporations type.”

The screen read WALK. They moved forward, Sally’s hand now clenched around his wrist. 

“I mean, I am,” Wilbur muttered. “I just- dunno. Starbucks is everywhere. I like their pastries.”

Sally skirted around a person who was leaving the store before taking the door for herself. “Their brownies are fantastic, I’ll give you that.”

“Yeah,” Wilbur agreed. 

A barista stepped up to their register. “Hi, how can I help you?”

Sally leaned forward to go first. “Um, can I just get a hot chocolate with two shots of vanilla?”

The barista nodded and glanced to Wilbur. “Anything for you?”

He nodded, cleared his throat. “Yeah- I’d like an iced coffee- large, please- and a chocolate croissant.”

“Alright,” they said as they finished typing in the order. “That’ll be-” They squinted at the screen. “I should have brought my glasses- your price is on the screen.”

“Got it,” Sally went to reach into her bag, when her eyes widened as she noticed her hand still around Wilbur’s arm. “Um, sorry-” she started, releasing it. “I didn’t even notice I did that.”

Wilbur shrugged, ignoring the heat that rose to his cheeks at the reminder of the extended contact. “I don’t- you’re fine.” He watched as she held out a couple bills to pay for their food, taking back the change and haphazardly shoved it in the front pocket of her jeans. 

“I am sorry for that, though,” Sally clarified as they sat down at a corner table. “I’m just a naturally touchy person I guess- sometimes I forget that other people aren’t, too.”

At the admission, Wilbur recalled hair ruffles and shoulder hugs from behind. “I’m like that too, so I- I get it.”

“Oh, really?”

He smiled to himself. “Oh yeah. My brother used to just- hate me for it. He’d be all like 

‘Wil! You’re embarrassing me!’ just for holding his hand when I walked him to school.”

Sally opened the lid to her hot chocolate, and they both watched as hot steam poured out. “He sounds cute. Is he back at home then?”

Thinking of filing cabinets and closed office doors, Wilbur shook his head. “We were actually in the foster system- he got taken in by some young couple a few years ago. I presume they adopted him or something, because I haven’t actually seen him in…”

“I’m sorry,” she said, a look of pity on her face. 

He snorted. “You didn’t have anything to do with it.”

Across the shop, a well-dressed man entered. The same barista from before greeted him. 

“So…” Wilbur started awkwardly. “What’s your major?”

Sally looked up from her drink. “Oh, marine biology. I’m thinking of moving down south once I get my degree- maybe travel a bit, you know how it is.”

“I can’t say I do, actually.”

She giggled. “I guess not. What about you?”

“English,” Wilbur shrugged. “Traveling would be nice, but I don’t exactly have the skills to go into anything as intense as the sciences, so.”

Sally furrowed her brows. “Oh, I get that. I was so caught up in my biology classes and trying to get into the next course that I completely forgot about the language requirement until this year- and here I am.”

“Wait, you’re a few years in?”

“Yeah?”

Wilbur tilted his head. “Wait, how old are you?”

She looked up at him through her bangs in faux suspicion. “I’m eighteen.”

He nodded. “Me too.”

“What was-” Sally interrupted herself with a chuckle. “What was that for?”

“I dunno, just- checking.”

Her eyes widened. “Just checking? You’re crazy.”

“Well, sue me for making sure we both can have alcohol before I consider inviting you to my roommate’s party, but-”

“Your roommate’s having a party?”

Wilbur raised his eyes to meet hers, brown to hazel. “Yeah, I was- only if you wanted to, though. You’re a busy woman, clearly.”

“No, I’d love to,” she said softly. “When is it?”

He sputtered, ran a hand through his hair, then wracked his brain. “This Friday, I think? The dude’s loaded, basically bought his way into this place, so he bought a venue a few miles away from here. I can text you the address, if you want to meet me there.”

Needless to say, Sally didn’t meet him there- rather, she dragged him out of his dorm by the arm and rode the bus next to him, and never left his side the whole night. 

—-----

“Wilbur.”

He looked up from his grey plastic desk, head in his hands. “Huh?”

An airy giggle. “You’re falling asleep there.”

Wilbur blinked the spots from his eyes. “Ah. So I am.”

“Is everything okay?”

Wilbur sat up (mostly) straight at his desk, adjusting himself back into Work Mode. His half-finished coffee was sat abandoned in one corner of his desk, his cup of pens was woefully understocked, and his computer was angled on his left side so that he could better see Niki at the desk across from him. “Mm- all good.”

Niki’s face dropped slightly in disbelief. “Are you sure?”

“Yes, I’m sure,” he sighed. “I just didn’t sleep well last night- sorry.”

“Oh,” she muttered. “I’m sorry to hear that.”

Wilbur slapped the sides of his face lightly to wake himself up further. “I am too.” He searched for his place on the contract that he was double-checking. “How’s Jack? I know you said the move was tricky.”

Niki smiled. “Oh- it’s actually much better now. If I see another recycled Amazon box I’ll puke, but his family’s only a train ride away, so that’s been nice.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. They’ve been coming over to see the new place often, but I’m not sure whether that makes Jack feel safer or… what’s the right word?

All applicants must allot 20% of their median income by 1/7/20XX. “Criticized, maybe?”

Niki pursed her lips. “Close, but not quite- scrutinized . That’s the word I was thinking of!”

“Let me know if you need me to come in and scare them off,” Wilbur offered. “I can pretend to be Jack’s boyfriend, I don’t mind.”

She grinned. “I’m sure you wouldn’t,” she laughed. “How’s the editing coming along?”

“My degree is wasted on this,” Wilbur deadpanned. 

“Mine too,” Niki frowned. “Two years of analytics training…” she typed a few words onto her computer, then turned back to him. “So what’s going on with you? You’re upset.”

Wilbur gaped at her. “You fucking sneak, distracting me with your- vocabulary.”

“Maybe,” Niki smirked. “Did you try taking melatonin?”

“Yes, I tried melatonin, ” he sighed. “Three of them- I was just too stressed to fall asleep, so I didn’t.”

She leaned over the desk to look him in the eyes. “Is there any reason you want to talk about? You know I’ll listen.”

He huffed. “Is your work really that boring?”

“Entirely.”

Wilbur exhaled slowly, then rubbed his eyes to prepare himself. “My- um, my brother showed up.”

“You have a brother?” Niki asked, her eyebrows raised. 

“Mhm,” Wilbur hummed. “We got separated back when I was… sixteen?” He paused. “Yeah, sixteen. We were in a group home- super new to the foster system. This, like, newly married couple fostered him, but they only had room for one, so…”

“Aw, Wilbur,” Niki said, in that sympathetic tone that she held whenever Wilbur mentioned his past. 

Or his present. Anything, really, was worth Niki Sympathy, it appeared.

“No- I was over it for a while,” he reassured her. “I guess I just always figured that they had adopted him. They were loaded as shit , so he would be all set-”

“But?”

He fiddled with the hem of his sleeve. “He showed up at my door Saturday night.”

“In the rain?” Niki asked in a hushed voice. “Is he alright?”

Wilbur shrugged. “He’s physically healthy and all, but…” he hesitated, remembering the feeling of his little brother’s tears on the chest of his hoodie. “He- he started sobbing as soon as he realized it was me, and he was so scared-” He cut himself off before he broke. 

Niki reached out a hand, and Wilbur gladly took it, blinking the gloss in his eyes away hastily. 

“So is he a runaway? Because I can’t exactly help with that,” she asked- quietly, as if Wilbur was made of glass.

“You’re mom-ing me,” he chastised.

Her mouth fell open in exaggerated offense. “Me? Never.”

“I’m serious,” he said, suddenly feeling guilty for the amount of attention Niki was giving. “It’s not your job to- I don’t know, be my therapist.”

She smiled at him. “That’s true, it’s not. That’s what friends do.”

Wilbur supposed that was fair- Niki was his friend and he was hers. She was also one of the longest friendships that he had, barring childhood playground buddies from back when Phil was still around that he hadn’t even seen since he stopped going to school to take care of Tommy. 

“Okay,” he gave in.

Niki grinned triumphantly, and pulled her hands back to shuffle papers around. “Awesome. Let me know when I can meet him, how about?”

“You want to meet him?”

“Well- only if you think he can handle it,” she backtracked. “It’s perfectly fine if he can’t handle people right now.”

Wilbur sat up straighter in his desk. “I’ll let you know, Niki.” He turned back to the contract at hand, skimming through lines of percents and mutual agreements that were sure to make his head spin. Despite the way the words muffled his brain, he knew that there was a newfound motivation for going through with the grey. 

He did have another mouth to feed, after all. 

Chapter Text

Tommy’s new social worker was a guy named Kevean. Pronounced like Kev-ahn, five feet eleven inches of dickhead. He drove a well-kept navy blue pickup truck, which was explained by the slight American accent and sticker on his back window for some mid-western university he’d never heard of. 

“Why- why-” Tommy sputtered, still getting used to the feeling of being so high in his seat as opposed to the low recline of Kelsey’s Prius. Tommy didn’t like change. “What happened to Kelsey, again?” Jesus, what was it with all the social workers with K names?

The man sighed. “Thomas-”

“It’s Tommy.”

“Sorry, Tommy,” he said. “Kelsey moved. To London, actually, but too far away from St. Josephine’s, so her kids were all dispersed to the rest of us until we can replace her.”

“Oh. Okay.” Tommy readjusted the grip on his backpack, which was laid down on the floor of the car as opposed to in his lap. “Why’re you driving me?”

Kevean furrowed his brow. “What do you mean?”

“I dunno- Bad and Skeppy, like, drove to the group home to pick me up, so I just figured…” his voice tapered off when he got no reaction. “Is that not normal, or?”

“No, it is normal,” Kevean reassured him. “However, most people opt to have their foster kid, ah…” He grimaced as if he was about to say something bad before stopping himself. “Delivered to them, I guess.”

“I’m not a package.”

“No, you’re not,” Kevean said calmly. “That was my bad, I worded it wrong.”

Tommy snorted. “Yeah, a little.”

He sighed. “Just- do me a favor and try not to stress too much about it. Her name’s Maggie, she’s an older woman. She’s had a few foster kids in the past, so she isn’t completely new to this.”

“Okay?”

“That being said, she’s not looking to adopt- like the file says your old fosters were. You’ll probably be there a few months at most, got it?”

Tommy faltered. On one hand, with Wilbur gone seemingly without a trace, it would be the next best goal to get adopted and- move on? It wasn’t as if he was going to find Wilbur ever again, unless he came back for custody.

But on the other hand, if someone adopted him, Wilbur wouldn’t even consider coming back. 

“Yeah, I got it.”

Maggie’s house was a one-story townhome- the fancy kind, since everything in her neighborhood was pristine and curated. The trees were spaced apart perfectly, each unit had its own color scheme that was repeated a block down, and there was even a pool- only for the people who lived there! If Tommy could make this work, it would be a pretty cushy few months. 

After Kevean dropped him off and assured that there would be a week check-in (just like Bad and Skeppy’s, Tommy made sure to note in his little mind-file), he was sat on his (temporary) bed. Maggie had fucked off to her own room as soon as he turned away from the window, so Tommy was left mostly to his own devices. 

“Hey, um-” he called into her room. “Mag- Maggie? M-ster?” He had given up on trying to turn on the television (he never was good with all the differently-colored buttons, made harder with how ancient hers was) and was knocking on her door. 

If he was only going to know her for a little while, he may as well get the most out of his time, right?

Footsteps approached, and Tommy stepped back as she opened the door with a huff, bleach-dyed hair pulled into a bun held together with only a few bobby pins. 

“What?”

“Um- hi,” Tommy started. “I was just wondering, how… how’s it going? Just- wondering what you’re up to, is all.” He peeked around her to peer into her bedroom, eyes locking on a tall wooden bookshelf stuffed to the brim with faded copies of- well, whatever fifty-year-old women were into. “What kinda books do you have?”

She glared at him. “I’ll call you for dinner.”

And promptly slammed the door in his face. 

“Rude,” Tommy muttered, but turned around anyways. 

When he was dialing Tubbo’s number into the old plug-in phone, Maggie came up from behind him and slapped it right out of his hands. Pain spiked in the hand that was holding it, and Tommy held it to his chest. “What- what the hell?!”

She looked at him, gaping as if he had been the one to slap her. “You have a disgusting mouth.”

“I- okay?”

“Get to your room- now.”

Tommy scrunched up his face in confusion. “Actually?”

“Go.”

“Yeah, yeah, whatever,” he grumbled, shuffling down the hall. Bad and Skeppy would never send him to his room- not for a punishment, anyways. Their discipline was tame, like making him clean the bathroom sink when he got toothpaste all over it, (he wasn’t used to having a full tube- Wilbur had always made him use as little as possible to preserve it) or taking away his television privileges for a week when he got detention for ‘getting in a fight’. They shortened it to five days when he explained that the kids were picking on Tubbo (‘It’s not his fault words are all spinny, they were just being jerks!’). 

But being sent to his room wasn’t too bad. Inconvenient? Yeah, a little. Stupid- a lot. Maggie’s punishments weren’t too bad.

Until dinner. 

Tommy learned very quickly that the hall closet in Maggie’s house was just as dark and oppressive as any other closet, but hers locked- and she had the only key. 

He fought back tears as Maggie’s footsteps faded into the distance. “Can you- please let me out?” Her coats brushed against his head and neck in a way that made him claw at them in an attempt to make the feeling go away. “I-I was just joking around! I don’t, um- really like closets, so-”

The television started up, and then cheers. Was she really- watching sports?

He fucking hated this. 

—-------

“So who’s coming over again?”

Wilbur closed the fridge, a bowl of grapes cradled in his arm. “My friend Niki.”

“Who?”

He snorted. “Tommy- she works with me. Painted that cactus bowl, she’s in that photo over there-” He pointed to the television console, where a framed picture of Wilbur and a (much shorter) woman with short blonde hair were standing outside of a supermarket pride display.

“Why did you take a photo of yourself… in front of corporate pride shit?”

Wilbur shrugged. “Cause’ it’s funny.”

“Oh.”

“She has different colored hair now, by the way.”

That caught Tommy’s attention. “Actually? What color?”

Wilbur handed him the bowl, which Tommy set on the table. “It’s pink. Do those grapes look good?”

“Like, edible good, or presentation good?”

“Um… both?”

He regarded the fruits with a trained eye . “I mean, yeah, they’re edible.”

“Goddamn it- do they look trash?”

Tommy turned to Wilbur, who was standing next to the kitchen wall (pillar, more like) with his arms crossed in frustration. “Are you good?”

“ Yes ,” Wilbur sighed. “She just- she comes around a lot, but every time I get, stressed the hell out.”

“So you’re worried that she’s going to… what, judge you?”

Wilbur looked at the ground, a childish look of shame on his face. 

Tommy smirked. “Dude, chill out. Your apartment’s perfectly fine, and she has the same income as you.”

“I mean, less,” Wilbur muttered. “Wage gap-”

“My point !” Tommy forcefully interrupted, “Is that there is no issue. She’s seen your place plenty, you’re already good friends with her- this is, like, a bonus point. An expansion pack, if you will.”

“What, you?”

Tommy nodded.

“Yeah, but Niki- Niki’s got this sympathy face that she pulls whenever I talk about my life, and I know that I’m probably just getting in my head, and I’m focusing too hard on some fucking grapes-”

“Wilbur, grapes are always messy. You squeeze them and they go spoosh , get their fruit guts everywhere.”

Wilbur gaped at him. “Wh-what?”

“ Sploosh, Dickhead. When you squeeze things and they self-combust on you.”

Their staring contest was interrupted by a knock at the door, to which Wilbur perked up and strode the short distance to answer. Tommy watched as he opened the door for the woman in the photo- and she did have bright pink hair. 

“I like your hair,” he blurted. 

She smiled at him. “Thank you! I like your shirt.”

He shrugged. “I stole it from Wilbur.”

Wilbur, sensing that the conversation had turned to him, poked his head out of the closet door where he had been depositing Niki’s purse (diva prick). “Huh?”

Niki spoke up first. “Tommy’s been telling me how he raccooned you out of a shirt.”

“Ah,” Wilbur nodded. “‘Tis true.” He led the three of them to slowly migrate to the couch. “Food should be here soon- I ordered Doordash, I hope that’s okay.”

“Wait-” Tommy gasped. “We get food?!”

After Wilbur explained to him that yes, food is on its way, why else would I have you set the table? and Tommy responded with a very mature asshole , Niki sifted through a bin under the television and pulled out Scrabble . 

“Niki…” Wilbur groaned. 

She giggled. “ Wilbur . Let’s play Scrabble.”

Tommy tilted his head in confusion. “What’s all wrong with Scrabble?”

“She beats me every fucking time ,” Wilbur whined, sliding down to sit in front of the coffee table.

“It’s my biggest flex that I consistently beat an English major at Scrabble,” Niki said with a wink. 

“And she’s german!” Wilbur said, exasperated. 

Tommy joined them on the carpet. “Wait, your first language isn’t English?”

She shook her head. “Nope.”

Tommy grinned. “Wow, Wilbur, you must suck .”

Niki looked up at him, a glint in her eye (like Santa or something, christ). “Want to find out?”

Wilbur was still moaning and groaning about the ‘travesty’ by the time the food came, and they were still sat around the board, eating breadsticks and hefty piles of noodles. 

“I fucking- how am I meant to use this?” He cried, holding up an X tile with one hand, fork in the other.

Tommy scoffed. “Wow, Wil, imagine telling everyone about your cards. Couldn’t be me- only wrongens reveal themselves.”

“Wha- Niki just told us she had all vowels, like, a minute ago.”

He shrugged. “Not my fault she’s a woman, and women can do no wrong. Simply do better, men.”

Niki fist-bumped him from across the board. “I agree.” She looked back at Wilbur’s exasperated expression and burst out laughing. “I’m- I’m sorry, I just- don’t look at me like that!”

After the sun was low enough in the sky that the streetlamps outside the window were lit up one by one and Wilbur stood up to close the blinds, Niki stood up to sling her purse over her shoulder. Wilbur gave her a hug on the way out, while Tommy fidgeted for a second before she opened her arms for him and he leaned into her hug. 

Wilbur didn’t make fun of him for it, surprisingly- he wasn’t used to receiving hugs, and even less used to not being teased for that kind of thing, but this version of Wilbur was different from everything else he knew, so…

Yeah. Not a bad night. 

Chapter Text

This was Wilbur’s third party of the month. 

This time, he was in a house that was actually owned- it was a nice lakeside place, four upstairs bedrooms that he was pointedly avoiding at all costs, an open-concept kitchen and main room that was filled with shattered college students, a pool out back; it was a nice place, minus the pole that had been installed in the corner of the massive room. 

When he had first gotten to the house an hour or so before, he hadn’t paid much attention to it, chalking it up to not much more than the result of a city-kid party house, or maybe it had used to be the residence of someone who danced- athletically, that was. Now, though, there was a ring of people cheering at it, hyping someone up. Huh. 

Out of curiosity, Wilbur made his way across the room to check it out, easily looking over the shoulders of the frontward onlookers. 

“Go! Go! Go!”

There was a guy on the pole, white tank top and short shorts, and Wilbur was instantly intrigued. He’d been to a few parties where people would dance on poles momentarily, but it was always a joke; a quick spin to make their friends laugh, followed promptly by them falling on their ass. 

He was different. More concentrated, knowing where to lock his ankles and not glancing to a group of drunken friends for approval. Only quick glances to a pile of clothes (his, probably) and eye rolls whenever someone in the steadily growing audience made a comment about his body. 

“Nice ass, princess!” someone called in a half joking tone, to which he frowned slightly. 

“Alright, that’s it,” he said, dropping to the ground. “Get lost, assholes! I’m done entertaining you!”

A few partygoers groaned, but most of them seemed perfectly content with integrating back into the rest of the crowd, leaving him mostly alone. 

Wilbur thought to himself for a moment, fishing through his back pocket as he approached the guy. 

When Wilbur got close enough, the guy looked up at him. He was shorter than Wilbur, the top of his head barely exceeding his shoulders. 

“What do you want?”

“Hang on- found it.” Wilbur brought his hand around to hold out a crumpled bill in his direction. 

The guy scoffed. “You can’t actually pay me for that.”

Wilbur nodded his head in beckoning. 

“Oh my- fuck off,” he groaned. “I’m not taking off my shirt- that’s too far, man.”

“What about the beanie?”

He glared at Wilbur. “My hair’s under there.”

“Is the- is the hair special?”

He nodded. “Oh, yeah. It’s very important. A man’s gotta pay to see my hair.”

Wilbur laughed. “If I pay more, do I get to touch it?”

“Absolutely not.”

“Okay, fair,” Wilbur said as the guy reached to the brim of his beanie. He lifted it up for a split second to reveal more of his black hair, before shoving it back down and taking the bill out of his hand in one swift motion. 

“That’s all you get. Fuck you.” He bent down to slip on a navy blue jacket- it was one of those athletic kinds, with white reflective stripes on the sides and a zipper in the center. “What’d you bet that someone slipped something in my drink?” He gestured to a cup on the floor next to his pants. 

Wilbur picked it up, sniffed it. The music was so loud that it sent small shockwaves through the drink. “I don’t know many guys who are too worried about that, to be honest with you.”

“Yeah, well-” the guy shrugged, hoisting his pants up until he was dressed almost like a pretentious gym instructor. “I wasn’t exactly known for being Mr. Straight Guy in highschool, and people do some fucked-up shit, so.”

Wilbur nodded. “Tell me about it.” He regarded the crowd for a second, debating how much of a hassle it would be to shove through. “Want me to get you another one? You can watch me pour it.”

“Eh, sure.”

“I’m Wilbur,” he said. 

“Hi, Wilbur- I’m Quackity.”

“Fun name.”

Quackity scoffed. “Make fun of me and I’ll kill you.”

“Okay, Q,” Wilbur shrugged. He turned on his heel to push through towards the kitchen, trusting Quackity to follow. He was about to turn back to double check, when he felt a hand gently clench the back of his shirt- not enough to stretch or wrinkle, just to keep his place among the lights and music. 

Once in the kitchen, Wilbur reached for a cup, making sure that Quackity was watching (as he promised), and started pouring when-

“Oh, are you sure you want that?” someone gestured from across the counter. 

Quackity responded first. “What? Something wrong with it?”

“No, someone’s just making jungle juice in the front lawn. You know, if you wanted it.”

Wilbur watched as Quackity scrunched up his face. “Gross. No, I’m good.” The person was gone by the time Wilbur handed him the drink, and he took it gratefully. “God, some people really wanna die. Jungle juice? Seriously?”

They were walking out the door, Wilbur registered. It was more instinct than anything, but at least no one was out back.

“What, you don’t think drinking unknown substances is the goal of college parties?”

“The goal of college parties is to have fun,” Quackity deadpanned. “Not to get your stomach pumped and a big-ass hospital bill.”

The back porch was creaky and peeling, and the underground pool was filled with leaves. Nevertheless, they both ended up sitting down- Wilbur with his jeans rolled up, and Quackity with his jacket unzipped and track pants discarded again. 

Wilbur faltered- hospital bill.. “I knew you were a fucking American!”

“Grew up in Mexico, actually,” Quackity clarified. “But yeah, I’m in L.A. for school.”

“Oh yeah? What’re you studying?”

Quackity put his cup down to swipe his hair out of his face. “I’m gonna be a lawyer, baby. The most badass lawyer you’ll ever see.”

“You’ve got the swagger.”

“You think?”

Wilbur nodded. “Definitely- it’s the charm, the massive fucking ego-”

Quackity punched his arm. “Fuck you!” he cackled. “What the fuck is your major, huh, big shot? I bet it’s goddamn accounting-” He cut himself off with another giggle.

“I should be doing English, but I’ve skipped the past three classes, so..” Wilbur confessed. 

“Ha. Loser.”

Wilbur bent down to splash a handful of water in Quackity’s direction. He retaliated by grabbing a handful of leaves and dropping them on Wilbur’s head, which he frantically ruffled out, laughing the entire time.

“Why’re we out here, anyway?”

“Oh- did I lead?” Wilbur didn’t exactly remember who started towards the back door first. 

He nodded. “You did. Fuckin’ walked out of there.” He stopped himself, like he was thinking. “Wilbur, are you a serial killer?”

Wilbur laughed in spite of himself. “I don’t know-” he started. “Maybe I am.”

Quackity scoffed. “You couldn’t kill me if you tried. I was a stripper in highschool, I’ve got the muscle.”

Wilbur’s head snapped to his direction. “Wait, actually?”

“Yeah, actually,” Quackity said as if it were the obvious answer. “Bills to pay, dollars to make.”

“You were paying bills?”

Quackity chuckled. “Nah, it’s a figure of speech. What, you think I was out there paying the bills? People always think I’m five ‘cause of my height- the tax collectors would investigate my ass.”

“That’s fair.” He needed a drink. Oh god- he could start to feel the panic creeping in. “Can I have some of that?” He pointed to Quackity’s cup, which had been sitting by his side for a while. He could hear the music outside. This was such a horrible fucking time.

Quackity pointed out as such. “Dude, it’s going to be so warm.”

“Yeah, but I don’t-” Wilbur stuttered. “I don’t want to go back-fucking-inside, so give me the goddamn beer.” His chest was tighter than it had been a minute ago- not good. If Wilbur didn’t get his hands on some fucking alcohol, he was probably going to have a panic attack.

The cup was thrust into his hand. “Here,” Quackity mumbled. “Don’t get your panties in a twist, jeez.”

Wilbur sighed in relief. “Thanks.” The drink was getting warm, but he didn’t pay it any mind as he tipped his head back and let the alcohol wash the static away. He would be left with a bitch headache in the morning, but anything was better than ruining this conversation. 

Quackity adjusted his beanie in the corner of his eye. “I’ve- um, been thinking about getting around while I’m here- I could use someone who knows all the best spots, if you know what I mean.” He grinned up at Wilbur. “How’d you feel about being my guide?”

He smiled, and lifted his cup in a mock-raise. “Drinking buddies?”

Quackity tilted his head. “Yeah, sure. Drinking buddies.”

And so it was. 

————

Wilbur was out on the patio when his phone rang. 

“Who the fuck’s callin’ you?” Schlatt said through a mouthful of salad. He was weird about his greens- a guy like him seemed like he would carry beef jerky in his boots, not chowing down on romaine lettuce, but who was Wilbur to judge?

“Dunno,” he said, reaching into his pocket to check the caller id. It was his home phone. He had given Tommy his home phone for emergencies. “Bollocks.”

Schlatt snorted. “ Bollocks - god, you British people are just another breed.”

“Yeah, yeah, shut the fuck up,” Wilbur waved him off as he moved away from the table, mind already racing. 

“ Wil ?” Tommy’s voice came through the line. He was close to the microphone, shuffling around it nonstop. Wilbur was instantly on edge. 

“Hey, Tommy- what’s wrong? What’s happened?”

A sob. Wilbur resisted the urge to cry. “I- I don’t- I can hear them- I’m in the closet, Wil. I’m in the closet, but I don’t know whether- whether I like it any better but I always do this -”

“I’m coming home,” he said, slightly shakily. “I’m heading back- stay right where you are, okay?”

“Okay,” Tommy said quietly. 

“I have to hang up now- I’ll take the bus over, it should only be fifteen minutes- got it?”

“Mhm.”

Wilbur moved to his bag. “I have to go- I need a half sick-day.”

Schlatt, seemingly unbothered, kept stabbing his meal. “Yeah, man, do whatever. I’ll still be here, God knows there’s always more fuckin’ contracts.”

“Yeah, cool. Thanks,” Wilbur muttered on his way out. 

By the time he got to the bus stop, Wilbur had realized that not only was the drive fifteen minutes from his flat, but he would also have to wait . Due to delays (red lights, other bus stops, a fucking puddle ), he was unlocking the front door and rushing to look in each of the closets an entire half hour after he hung up the phone. 

“Tommy?” Wilbur pushed away a row of hangers in his own closet, coming up empty-handed. “Hey- Toms! I’m here, you can come out!”

Nothing. 

He opened the door to Tommy’s darkened room, stepped over a box of trash that he had yet to toss, and crouched in front of the closet door. He gently knocked his knuckles against the wood. “Are you in there, bud?” 

“Wil?”

“Yeah- it’s me. I’m sorry it took so long- I forgot how fucking long buses take to get from point A to point B…”

Tommy shuffled somewhere on the other side of the door, but he didn’t seem to be moving to open it. “‘S okay.”

“You seemed pretty freaked out on the phone,” Wilbur started as gently as he could. “Do you want to talk about it?”

“No-” he deadpanned, slightly muffled. “You’ll make fun of me- dick.”

Wilbur snorted at the halfhearted insult. “I once had a panic attack because my finger fell asleep and my girlfriend had to spend half an hour calming me down. I’m not really in the place to judge you.”

A sniffle. “You have a girlfriend?”

“ That’s what you focused on?”

“Romance is important to me, Wilbur, you should know this.”

“Fair,” he shrugged. “Ex-girlfriend, for the record. We were together in college.”

“Oh.” Wilbur listened as Tommy thumped against the door. “I can- I can tell you, and you won’t, like, be weird about it?”

Wilbur held up a pinky finger, then realized that he couldn’t see it. “My pinky’s up, swear it.”

Tommy laughed from the closet- not his normal laugh, more muted and hoarse, probably from crying. “Yeah, sure, king.” He cleared his throat. “I was just- I heard a siren, you know? Like, it was probably just some poor fucker who had a heart attack or something, but I guess I just- automatically assumed it was someone to take me away-” He took a breath. It was shaky. “I just started thinking about what would happen if someone would come in and make me go back, and I got all freaked out. Sorry.”

Wilbur watched as the closet door slowly slid open and Tommy scooted out, still sitting with his knees in front of his chest and red lines under his eyes. He decided not to comment on his appearance, instead smiling. “There you are. It’s pretty dark in there.”

Tommy shrugged. “I don’t much like small spaces.”

“Why did you…”

“Because it’s my feelings zone , Wil,” Tommy rolled his eyes in annoyance that Wilbur could tell was manufactured. “God, get with the program- feelings time is over now that I’m out.”

“Aw, it is? You’re nice when you’re talking about real stuff.”

Tommy crossed his arms over his chest. “Too bad.” His hands twitched. 

“What’s up?” Wilbur asked.

“Huh?” He was looking away. 

Wilbur sighed. “Do you want a hug?”

“ What ?” Tommy sputtered. “I don’t- I don’t know what makes you think that.”

“You sure?” He adjusted his arms, holding them slightly open. 

Tommy sighed. “I mean, I guess, since we’re right outside the feelings closet ‘n all.” He moved to Wilbur, planting his head in the middle of his chest. “But only because feelings are- are important. Big men hug, right Wilbur?”

“That’s right,” he said, and moved his hands to Tommy’s back. “Toxic masculinity is for losers.”

“Only wrongens are toxically masuline,” Tommy murmured. “Isn’t that right?”

Wilbur huffed a laugh. “Yes, sir. Only wrongens.”

Tommy hummed in approval, and promptly fell asleep, much to Wilbur’s dismay.

Chapter Text

The doors were bright green. 

That was the first thing that Tommy had brought up when they walked into the home (St. Josephine’s, Wilbur reminded him gently. Wilbur seemed sad.), the thought after that being that there were a lot of kids. 

They were all different ages- he saw a couple that were his age, some big kids, and he even spotted a few really big kids out back that Wilbur steered him away from as soon as he noticed them. 

They were led to an office. It was kind of like the principal’s office. He had only gotten to go to the principal’s office a little bit ago, to talk about his dad and Wilbur. The guy that came to his school asked weird questions about what he’d had for dinner, where he slept, why Wilbur came to his parent-teacher conferences instead of his dad. 

It was weird. 

The woman who drove them sat down at the desk, and Wilbur led Tommy to one of the chairs, where he sat quietly. 

“Would you like to sit in the other chair?” The woman asked. Tommy craned his neck to see Wilbur shaking his head. 

“I’m good,” Wilbur said from behind him, gently ruffling Tommy’s hair with one of his hands. Wilbur only ruffled Tommy’s hair when he was sad, like when his dad came home and got really loud really fast. 

This was weird. 

“So, boys, there aren’t many foster families in the area. The closest free bed is half an hour away, but the home only has room for one,” the woman said mostly to Wilbur, eyes trained on her old boxy computer. “I’m sure you wouldn’t want to be separated.”

Wilbur’s hand clenched slightly in his hair. “Um, yeah. No thanks.”

The woman smiled at him, but it was a sad smile. “We have a room upstairs with two beds. Would that be okay?”

“Yeah, sure.”

Tommy crossed his arms. “Why can’t we stay at home?”

Wilbur crouched down to his level. “When Dad gets back from work, how about that?”

“When’s that?” Tommy asked. “I’m hungry.”

“We have a kitchen down the hall,” the woman said.

Wilbur turned back to her. “I’ll get him food later.” He stood all the way up, and gestured for Tommy to stand up, too. “Where’s the room?”

The woman smiled at them again. “Follow me.” She stepped over a pile of books on the floor to open the door, and, making sure that they were following her, walked around the corner and to a flight of stairs. There were eight narrow stairs, Tommy counted, to a narrow hallway covered in old flower wallpaper with doors on either end. 

A kid burst out of one of the doors, and the woman stepped back to scold them. “Jada! Inside feet!”

“Sorry!” the kid yelled from halfway down the stairs, not really sounding apologetic. 

The woman looked back at them. “I’m sorry about her. She’s always so hyper- I tried to keep the caffeine away from her, but I think some of the older kids enjoy riling her up.” She smiled to herself like it was an inside joke, before grasping the handle to one of the doors on the left. “This one’s your room.”

Tommy crept in after her, and looked around the small space. There were two beds next to each other on one wall, a window across from the door, and a small toybox in the corner. He made a beeline to it, opening the lid to see a few scrappy toys and stuffed animals. 

“That’s the toybox for this room,” the woman explained. “Sometimes kids leave here and they decide to keep their toys there, so please don’t take anything out of the room, okay?”

Tommy nodded. Wilbur sat on one of the beds behind her in silence. 

She cleared her throat. “Well.. I’ll let you two get settled, maybe have a talk.” She smiled in Wilbur’s direction, who wasn’t even looking at her. “I know this is a big transition, so you can come to any one of us in the home if you’re having any big feelings, okay?” She directed that second part to Tommy, so he nodded to show that he was listening. Seeming to be satisfied with her work, the woman left and quietly shut the door behind her, leaving Wilbur and Tommy alone. 

“Wil?” Tommy asked. 

Wilbur was still staring at his lap. 

Tommy walked up to his bed and scrunched up his nose at him. “Wilbur..”

“Hm?”

“Why’re you being all weird and depressed?”

Wilbur turned to him sharply. “I’m not being-” he stopped himself, then spoke again, more softly. “I’m just tired. Want to go to bed?”

Tommy pouted. “But I’m not tired!” 

“Yeah, well, I am,” Wilbur said sternly. “Does the door have a lock on it?”

Tommy glanced to the doorknob. It didn’t have any latch or keyhole, only a smooth surface. “No.”

Wilbur sighed, long and low. “Okay,” he whispered. He flipped over the blanket and peered under it, like he was looking for something. When whatever was under the blankets was good enough for him, he kicked off his shoes, gesturing for Tommy to do the same. 

Tommy’s shoes also fell to the ground as he climbed into bed next to him, as per Wilbur’s beckoning hand. He wriggled around to get comfortable as Wilbur’s arm found its way around his shoulders, and he melted into the embrace. “Wilbur?” He said as quietly as he could. 

“Yeah?”

“When can we go home?”

Tommy felt the arm around him stiffen and Wilbur’s jaw clench from where it was pressed into his hair. 

“I don’t…” Wilbur’s voice was wavering dangerously. “I don’t think we can- I’m sorry.”

“What?” Tommy’s heart skipped a beat. “Why- why not? I wanna go…” His voice tapered off as he registered the feeling of something warm in his hair, and it took him another second to realize that Wilbur was crying. “Wil? What’s wrong?”

“I’m so, so sorry-” The arm around him tightened as Wilbur took a sharp breath. “I wanna go home too, but we can’t- we can’t and it’s all my fault-” A sob escaped his throat and into Tommy’s hair, and his own eyes were watering at the sound of his brother sounding so, entirely, sad. 

“Why?”

Wilbur let a breath out shakily. “Because I messed up, Toms. I messed up- I was supposed to keep you safe but I didn’t-” Tommy’s hair was getting wetter by the minute. “I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry-”

He stayed like that for a while. 

—-------

“Hey, what’s with that picture of a lady in your drawer?”

Wilbur did what could only be described as a spit-take, eyes wide and coffee quickly swallowed so that he could laugh nervously. “Wh-what d’you mean?”

Tommy frowned. “There’s a lady,” he said slowly. “In your drawer. Next to your bed. What’s- what’s up with that?”

“Yeah, I still have no fucking clue what you’re on about.”

He shrugged. “I mean, you’re in it too- it’s all dark n’ shit, and she has red hair, and you’re being all lovey-dovey in it- do you seriously have no clue what I’m talking about?”

Tommy watched as Wilbur set his mug down, slowly, before sighing with his face in his hands. “Tommy, did you look through my bedside table?”

He ignored how his stomach turned at the question. “Yeah, maybe I did.”

Wilbur lifted his head up to look at him. “Okay- could you, like, not do that?”

“Why?” Tommy asked. “It’s not like I was gonna find anything bad in there, right?”

Wilbur just looked at him.

“Wilbur, I wasn’t going to find anything bad in there, right?”

“Hm?” He blinked. “Sorry, I zoned out. What’s up?”

Tommy gaped. “You- I wasn’t going to find anything- anything bad in your bedside table right?”

“Wh- no, Tommy! Jesus christ!” Wilbur sputtered. 

“I’m sorry, I was just checking!”

“You don’t have to-” Wilbur cut himself off with a frown. “It doesn’t matter, so.”

Tommy perked up from where he was sitting on the couch. “What? The picture? I think it matters, Wil.” He shrugged. “Is it that love thing you were talking about?”

“Holy shit, do you really want a storytime right now?”

“Yes,” Tommy pushed. He watched as he furrowed his brow, bit the inside of his cheek, and finally caved. 

“She was my girlfriend in college,” Wilbur said casually, before pushing himself off and around the couch. “I’m getting ice cream.”

“I mean, it would suck if she was dead or something,” Tommy said. When he didn’t get an immediate response, he began to backtrack. “But if she’s, you know, moved on from this world, I would hope that she went out peacefully, you know…”

Wilbur huffed. “No, Toms, she did not die.”

“Oh,” he mumbled. “Okay.”

Wilbur hummed in response from the kitchen. “Cookie dough or pistachio?”

Tommy scrunched up his face. “Cookie dough. What do you take me for?”

“Eh- fair.” There was a clinking of silverware. “Yeah, man, I dunno- it feels kinda weird to explain my past love life to my thirteen-year-old brother.”

“I’m almost fourteen,” he shot back. 

Wilbur waved a hand at him. “Yeah, yeah, whatever.” He joined him back on the couch, and Tommy gladly took one bowl off of his hands. “What do you want to know?”

“What’s her name?”

“...Sally.”

Tommy turned the name over and over in his head, and tried to attach it to the face he’d seen in the photo. “It fits, I think.”

“You think?” Wilbur asked, eyebrows raised. 

“Don’t question my word choice,” Tommy pouted. “Where’d you meet her?”

He looked like he was thinking for a second. “Um- we were in the same French class in college.”

“You took French?” Tommy asked. “Like, oui oui baguette?”

Wilbur looked offended. “The French language is more than oui oui baguette, you fucking gremlin.”

“Whatever,” Tommy brushed it off and lifted another spoonful of freezing sugary goodness to his mouth. “Um… when was your first date, I guess.”

“Okay, that’s tricky,” Wilbur started. “Because- the thing is, right- we went out to coffee once- yes, that seems like a date, but we didn’t plan that.”

“Th’o?” Tommy asked around a mouthful of ice cream. “What wa’th it then, huh, big man?”

“We went to a party the weekend after.”

Tommy’s mind flitted to a foster family and the overwhelming smell of the bonfire in their backyard. “Gross.” 

Wilbur nodded in agreement. “Oh yeah, it was shit. We left an hour in- just started walking around town.”

“Really?”

“You think I’d lie to you? C’mon, man,” Wilbur smiled softly. There was something sad in his voice as he continued. “That was kind of how most of our time together went, you know? Like, we’d ditch all her friends at a pub to go dick around at the park, tell ourselves we’d study together and just end up ordering food…”

“Did you love her?”

Wilbur paused. “Yeah,” he said quietly. “Yeah, I did.”

Tommy drew a leg up to his chest subconsciously. “Oh.” He started to notice how his brother avoided his gaze. “Did you ever, like tell her that?”

“Oh, all the time,” he replied, still subdued.

“Okay,” Tommy murmured. He took in the silence that stretched between them, considered his next question carefully. “Why did you break up?”

Wilbur shrugged sluggishly. “She was going to travel around Europe, and I couldn’t leave. That was the bulk of it, anyways.” He was still staring at his bowl, not making eye contact.

“Well, why did you need to stay?” Please. 

Wilbur shifted in his seat. “You.” He turned to look Tommy in the eyes.

You. 

Wilbur had stuck around for him. Tommy had hoped that was the case, a little selfishly, but now that he was actually confronted with it, he was just… upset. He was upset that Wilbur had lost the love of his life for him, he was upset that he was happy about it, and he was really goddamn upset- no, mad- that he’d given up on him anyways. 

“So why didn’t you look for me?” Tommy asked. “If you- if you gave everything up to find me, where were you?” He felt his lip quiver of its own volition. “You still didn’t.. You still didn’t try, so-” He took a long breath to try and wave away the hot feeling in his eyes; it didn’t work. “How long ago did you break up?”

Wilbur bit the inside of his cheek. “Like… two years ago? I think- yeah, two years.” 

“You had two years,” Tommy started, “To find me- and you didn’t even fuckin’ try?”

“It wasn’t like that-” he sputtered. “C’mon, Tommy, you know I didn’t mean to- to leave you, it just happened!”

Tommy glared at him with all the strength he had. “Well, you’re the one living it up in your fancy fucking apartment in your fancy fuckin’ neighborhood, and you couldn’t even spare a second to maybe check that I was- you know, not having a really goddamn bad time!”

“Because I thought that that couple had adopted you!” Wilbur shot back. “Sue me for hoping for the best!”

He stood up. “Why didn’t you come with me, then? Huh?”

“You think I had any control over that shit?”

“You’ve had control for four fucking years, Wilbur!”

Tommy paused. His hands were shaking. Wilbur looked up at him- he seemed sad. 

“I’m going to bed,” Tommy said. 

“Okay,” Wilbur responded. 

Tommy turned on his heel and stomped towards his room, pausing only to stop himself from slamming the door. He turned around, flipped on the light switch, and stood there for a good twenty minutes in his windowless room. 

Chapter Text

Heyyyy so this has obviously been discontinued for pretty obvious reasons. Sorry!

I'm going to be hopefully uploading fics for other fandoms on this account, but I didn't have the heart to orphan this fic. So, I figured I would just post an obligatory chapter establishing that this one won't be continued.

It's an old fic, I like to think that my writing had improved, and I also am just done with these characters more or less.

Have a good day!