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1.
Wilbur sighs, and checks Google Maps, “So where are you staying?”
Quackity huffs in the mic, voice heightening just slightly—starting up another giggling fit even if they aren't on stream—but he's always been known to do so even if it's not on camera. “Uh, with George, for a bit. It's in London, obviously- well, you've been there man, of course you know where George lives.”
He does know where George lives. On the corner between that bakery he and Tommy ate at together when he stayed over for three days; simply because Tommy and Wilbur wanted to see each other and the teen had missed him, and next to the boutique that sells really cool looking china and all sorts of cups and plates. He’s gotten one of those cats with one paw in the air just on impulse because Tommy thought it was cute. “I do.”
“Man, I can't wait to walk the streets with you, though I can't say I'm excited to be British.”
Wilbur huffs out a laugh. “Moving to another country for a suspended period of time doesn't make you the nationality of said country.”
“Well, either way, I’m excited to go there with you. To walk Great Britain with Wilbur Soot, I’m so-”
He doesn't miss a beat, not hesitating, immediately butting in with a quick, “And Tommy?”
The other man blinks a little, lips parting over the screen in confusion, before he shakes himself and grins, “Of course! Tommy, my man, my man- of course he can come. My beloved.”
Confused- of course he is, but not surprised, because it's such a Wilbur thing to ask— Is Tommy coming too?— especially since they've gotten so close in the past few months, even years, so his behavior shouldn't surprise anyone these days. It doesn't faze Phil, he gets Wil’s bullshit daily, but Quackity hasn't experienced it as firsthand as the older man has.
He's not going to walk London if Tommy isn't there with him, because he doesn't have his golden laughter echoing in his ears, making his useless comments about The Queen whenever they pass Buckingham Palace, or pointing at buildings he's seen a million times because he goes here constantly to meet George for the nth time.
“So Tommy will be coming?” Wilbur repeats, picking his fingernails absentmindedly. He nudges at the guitar next to his monitor. “I want to see him again.”
Quackity can't help an exasperated grin. “Didn't you see him a week or so ago?”
The brunet shrugs, sighing; he knows he's clingy. He just doesn't care. “Yes. I miss him.”
“Anyways— Yes, Tommy’s coming, I’ll DM him as we speak—but about seeing you in-”
He kinda tunes out at the end because Tommy’s not being mentioned, but either way- he smiles, because it's him.
2.
Tommy’s high.
Not literally. That's illegal in some countries.
High on the feeling of just winning an MCC—mainly because it's been fourteen whole MCC’s since he last made it to Dodgebolt, and to kill Fruitberries as well is even cooler, because holy shit. Sapnap and Phil and Sneeg all did so well, and it was even better that Wilbur was cheering him on from the sidelines- LET’S GO TOMMY!
He’s sat in a VC with his team and few other groups, mismatched, like Gumi and Eret and Scott; a few others he can't really hear over the chaos of the call, but he swore he heard Jack Manifold—Wilbur’s icon sits idly on the side, and last he checked, it's untouched and unmuted therefore he’s immediate thought is to bug the shit out of him.
“ Wilbur!” he yells, the force of his voice making everyone else quiet down, mainly to listen to him screech like a bird. “Wilbur, Wilbur, I’m so much better than you, I just fuckin’ won, oh my God, Wil-”
“Tommy, Tommy,” Gumi giggles, laughing, her voice lifting fondly. “what are you on about! Wilbur’s on deafen.”
He blinks. Audibly. He swore he just checked, and he was positive it wasn't muted, you’ve gotta be kidding- and he swears under his breath, before croaking, “What?” Where is he? Where’s my brother? I want to brag about my win!
There's a small silence, because his voice comes out much softer and quieter than he previously expected it to, tinged with something that seems a little too real, and it bursts out like a tidal wave. Everyone fucking awe's.
“He sounded so sad-”
“Oh, Tommy-”
“Why was that actually kinda heartbreaking-”
“ Awh, that was-”
He makes a confused and distraught face at the camera, and over exaggerates it just for the idea Wilbur might see it on Reddit later. “I- What the hell?”
“It’s okay, man,” Sneeg soothes him, snickering, “I’m sure Wilbur was screaming for you.”
“He was!” And here comes Scott Smajor, bless the guy, “Oh my god, he was your biggest supporter I swear, he switched sides just for you, y’know. He wanted you to win so badly.”
“Tommy shot a man and went straight to Wilbur.” Oh, Sneeg, we always knew you were a Crimeduo Enjoyer.
Everyone aww’s. Again.
That kinda. Uh. Tommy’s heart really isn't suited for this shit, especially on stream, and he knows Chat’s having a stroke- he doesn't even wanna glance- because Wilbur undefeans and goes, “Where is Tommy? Where is he? Where has my boy gone?”
“I'm here, Wil!” Tommy grins, his character sprints toward the brunet’s, clicking at him repeatedly, “I won! I won!”
“I know you did,” Wil snorts, “of course it had to be on one of the most stacked and highest scoring teams ever, is that what it takes?”
Tommy rolls his eyes, what bullshit, “You suck.”
It’s slipped from his brain about the idea that they're doing this in front of a packed call of people, and he doesn't really care, because he needs this, the interaction with Wilbur, especially because it's him. They're probably watching on fondly, especially Phil, considering the fact they've all gone quiet like some nosy bastards, and all it is is just a callback to the idea that they are, indeed, brothers.
(Of course, they hang out of the tournament, after the streams, because it's a thing for them and after three hours separated they can't exactly stay away for long, y’know? They're like magnets, they attract, they stick to each other. Wilbur compliments him on his shot and his playing and Tommy takes it all in like a sponge and tries not to cry.)
3.
They're in a VC with Phil, Techno (who they had to drag in by the scruff of his neck like a baby kitten), Sapnap, Dream, Jack, and Quackity when it happens.
Jackbox is usually really fun, Tommy makes stupid jokes that Wilbur always recognizes and is positive to always vote for the opposite one, Sapnap roasts the shit out of Quackity in Rap Battle, Jack does garbage in Survive The Internet, the usual—Tommy expected it to all go that way. It’s a strange lobby, but he adores all of the players; and it's even better considering they somehow got 4/4 in a game without a lot of planning. Mainly since it's Quackity’s stream and they were all forcefully pulled in one by one- going off of whoever had their Discord icon labeled as Online.
Wilbur yawns into the mic obnoxiously after their third Quiplash game- it is quite late, probably around seven or eight Quackity’s time—he left London a few weeks ago. “I’m gonna head out.”
Tommy leans up from his slump into the crooks of his elbows, and makes a face, “Wha- you're-”
Everyone else makes soft goodbyes, and it's surprising even Techno’s staying—which is a shock, and Tommy would usually stay, but it's really not worth it if Wilbur’s not here with him, makes it less funnier—and while he has tons of fun with the others, they're not Wil.
He would stay. Almost every time, he would. But he's not in the mood to be here alone without him even if he's got literally every other person in this call to big brother and father him as well, but he's in a clingy mood and wants Wil.
His best friend leaves the call and just before they start another game, Tommy comes to a conclusion, he decides. “I’m gonna head out too.”
Just before someone says bye to him as well, Quackity rolls his eyes—on his stream, he grins fondly. “You just wanna leave because Wilbur’s not here anymore.”
“Oh my god,” Jack groans. “ Wilbur's gone, I’m leaving- you're such a dick. Like, seriously. You've gotta get that fuckin’ checked.”
Multiple chuckles chime in, mainly Techno, because he has completely been called out. “And?” Tommy prods. “I’m tired. It’s late here.”
“ And,” Phil sighs, “you wanna go talk to Wilbur as you fall asleep on call.”
He flushes, because he completely hit the nail on the head, mainly since they both know that Wil’s still awake. “Shut up.”
“Alright,” Dream tacks on, affectionately, “We’ll leave you be, have a nice night, kiddo.”
Is he really that predictable nowadays? He has to be, because now everyone knows he goes straight to Wilbur for help or advice or guidance- someone to hold his hand the first few steps, because it's him. So irritating people can pick out the words about to come out of his mouth.
“Bye Tommy!” They all parrot the phrase, and Tommy hurries to click out of the call and immediately ring Wilbur.
“I had a feeling you'd do that,” Wilbur picks up immediately, and his voice makes him jump. “you were quieter than usual. You're also clingy. Clingy little brother, yeah?”
He exhales harshly through his nose, “You can shut the fuck up too.”
The man barks out a laugh—and Tommy grins.
4.
His next mod video is gonna be on Sunday, late in the afternoon—he's trying to see if Wilbur can join. “Can you?”
“I don't think so,” Wil mumbles into his hand, readjusting his head so it's closer to the mic, more audible for Tommy. “I’m busy that night, but obviously you can't move it—you already planned the date with Phil, Charlie, and Jack.”
Well. That just won't do, because Wilbur hasn't been in the past four mod videos and he's getting antsy, because he misses him. Not for the fuckin’ clicks, for the funnies or whatever, but because having Wilbur in a mod video is some of the most fun and memorable moments for him. If he's removed from the equation, it's all sapped out, like a spile in a tree.
Not saying that anyone who joins the videos aren't funny, because he adores Charlie like a brother and Phil is the shit trademark and Jack is one of his favorites, but of course it's Wilbur Soot. That’s it. That’s why. That is quite enough for someone named Tom Simons.
“Well,” Tommy shrugs, rolling his shoulders as he straightens his back— Stand like this, Wilbur had said, all those months ago back in August, Yeah, kid, there you go, it's better for you— just so he doesn't call him out on it. “I can move the date, just a little. I want you there.”
Wilbur sighs, exasperated and irritated yet so fond in one single sentence, “Tommy,” he scolds, “that’s gonna fuck up their schedules, it's rude.”
“But I want you there!” he protests, eyes wide as he gazes at Wil. “You've missed the past four fucking videos and I miss you!”
Is he being a prick? Probably. Most likely. He's being ignorant of his friends schedules and messing it up for them just because he wants Wilbur there with him, but—it's him. Hopefully they'll understand, he’ll have to make it up for eh three of them somehow, because- this is really shitty. (But it's him.) “I’m sorry, I really am, but-”
“Fine,” his mouth curls, upwards, into a soft smile, “But tell the boys immediately and don't you dare sugarcoat it, because they'll talk to me right after and I will not lie to them.”
Yes, yes- thank you, thank you- “Yes! Oh my God— thank you, thank you so much Wil, yes-” he bounces in his seat, and shoots all three of them individually a text, because he can't help himself to get it over with now, mainly ‘cause he wants to keep chatting. “Thank you, man, thank you.”
Wilbur rolls his eyes, running a hand through his curls, “S’ alright.”
Charlie
> sorry charlie slimecicle mods been moved to monday 5pm
you little shit, it was cause of wil wasn't it <
OH MY GOD TOMMY IT WAS <
Read 7:08pm
Phil
> phil mods on monday 5pm instead of previous time
you are so predictable <
Read 7:08pm
Jack
> sorry big man mods on monday 5pm
TOMMY. <
TOMMY??????? <
. <
Read 7:08pm
5
It isn’t like Wilbur’s gone for that long, but it's long enough for Tommy to want to shoot himself in the face with a nine millimeter glock.
He does quite a bit missing in those weeks he's gone. To never go down to Brighton just to chill in the man’s flat for fun, off camera, because it's so much sweeter and Wilbur’s more likely to swing a hand in his curls or drop a darlin’ whenever he feels like it. Because they're both private people who don't really do that on stream, and while Wilbur can say I love you in front of thousands of people , Tommy can't bring himself to say it; despite the fact he says it constantly offhandedly whenever he sees, speaks to, or if someone even mentions him.
He'll go meet people and someone mentions Wilbur and Tommy goes I love him! because it's not going to be shown anywhere and anytime someone puts the quote on Twitter they call them a liar because there's no proof.
But, but, when Wilbur comes back, it's a different story for the both of them.
Wilbur is clingy. And it's not like he was never clingy before that, because he definitely was, but now he is maybe one hundred times more than before. He grabs Tommy’s sweater hem and drags him around like a child with their toy doll, and presses a throwaway kiss to his forehead whenever he feels like. (So he missed him. Figures).
Tommy feels the same, of course he does, because he whined about him disappearing on stream and on Twitter because that's his character—missing Wilbur Soot and liking women—that's his whole thing. Despite the fact it's not a thing, he actually really misses Wilbur every second of the damn day, because it's his older brother. He calls him constantly, texts him every five minutes, and says I miss you despite the fact they ended stream two seconds ago.
“Wilbur,” Phil snorts, looking at him over the rim of his glass of water. They're in Wil’s flat. “you do know this is ruining your brand, right?”
The man in question hefts his mug of hot chocolate like he's considering throwing the object straight at Phil's face, before he puts it down last second, ‘cause it was a gift from Tommy—a white mug with Wilbur’s iconic profile picture stretched out and distorted on the front—and Tommy custom made it simply because he thought it was funny as hell. He glances at the boy sleeping soundly, his curls pressed against his neck. “No.”
Phil’s lips perk at the edges, glancing at their intertwined hands, that Tommy still has firmly gripped even though he's passed out. “Oh?”
“Yes.” Wilbur nods. But not enough to disturb Tommy, because it's akin to moving a cat up off your lap. “This is fine.”
“Well, mate, I didn't say it was bad, I just-” he cuts off, like it's a funny thought he's just conjured up mentally, and snorts. Pulls out his phone. “Just let me- oh yeah, there we go. You look lovely, Wil.”
He's half glaring at the camera, half staring fondly down at teen below his chin, with a sickeningly affectionate smile on his face, and he's been doting on him ever since he met him at the airport.
“Excellent,” Wil deadpans. “I’m so happy for you.”
“Thanks,” Phil giggles. He’ll get Kristen to put the photo on his Christmas cards, photoshopped in with Techno’s minecraft character along with himself and Kristen posing in cheesy Santa and Mrs. Claus outfits, just to have the whole family there.
Out of spite, Wilbur presses a hand against Tommy’s back, and the blond snuggles closer against him, and his heart melts. He's gone. He's so fucking gone. “I do not like you, Philza Minecraft.”
“Okay,” Phil smiles. “doesn't take away from the fact you are cuddling with him. AntVenom won't like this one.”
“AntVenom can suck it,” just for kicks, he pushes himself further into the couch, letting the teen fall against him even further. He does not coo. He does not. “Tommy making a joke about he's his new older brother, pfft.”
Phil snorts. “You are so jealous. It was so obvious on call, too.”
He settles a glare on him, and it softens as his eyes turn back to the younger blond. “Shut.”
He breathes out, and closes his eyes.
6.
“So am I invited to this thing?” Wilbur questions. It's a podcast, apparently, with a bunch of other creators he doesn't know too well—which is already a big flag, but Quackity will be there, so he can have a vice grip onto that thread and hang on for dear life. “Like- am I-”
“Of course,” he says, and Wilbur doesn't remember his name—which is definitely rude, Phil would scold him for it—but it's not exactly his fault considering they didn't really introduce himself before jumping into a VC. “we love that all these big creators are coming!”
So. They want.. what? Exposure? Wilbur thinks that's bullshit, because he doesn't wanna go if his name will make a few more people click on the Spotify podcast ad. Would Quackity really notice those red flags and still go? That doesn't even really sound like the guy, and Wil’s known him forever. “Oh, well. Uh. Sure. But- uh-”
Who else could he invite? He doesn't wanna drag Phil into this, or Techno; he's not big on those huge podcasts with a bunch of people he doesn't know. But Tommy would excel at that, he's great at meeting people, except, Wilbur doesn't know if he really wants to drag the kid into an environment where they won't treat him the way all of their friends would on a stream. “Can Tommy come?”
The guy blinks. Recoils, slightly, his brows furrowing at the slightest mention of the blond, and many, many more alarms blare in his head. No one makes that face when Tommy's mentioned, he's never seen that before, ever. He's a sweetheart, and Wilbur’s offended someone who, mind you, had never met him is making a face at the prospect of meeting the kid. “Tommy? Like TommyInnit?”
“Mhm,” Wilbur affirms, nodding like he's talking to a child, because he probably is . “my little brother.”
They blanch, face paling slightly, because even Wilbur knows it sounds a little like a threat, as if they might pass the boundary of Don't say something that you will, in fact, regret. “Can he come?”
God, can they take a damn hint? He nods, again, a little more curt, because this is just downright irritating. He makes a mental note to send a DM to Quackity to cancel the podcast.
“Well,” they start, and Wilbur’s lips thin out into a frown. “I mean- we kinda only wanted you and Quackity there—we only wanted to bring on the ones we personally invited ourselves. Tommy can come, but I- I don't think- uh. I don’t think that's what we want to occur—”
“Oh my fuckin-” Wilbur sighs in frustration, and growls at the guy, “I’m not going.”
“ What?” They stare at him, wide-eyed, “But you already—”
“Nope,” Wilbur shakes his head. “Not going. Have a good day.”
He clicks out of the call.
He's not gonna tell Tommy the experience, because he's 99.9% sure he’d complain at Wilbur for leaving because of how they treated Tommy even when he doesn't care, and Wilbur; he wouldn't give a shit. They gave him major red flags, and no ones allowed to shittalk his kid, so he's not letting any of it slide. Instead- he slides Tommy a quick Love you, because that's all he really needs, because Tommy responds within seconds with a Love you too :).
Quackity
> don't go to the podcast. they told me they exclusively didn't want tommy to go for some bullshit reason.
you're fucking kidding? <
> no, it was so stupid
that's so annoying. thank you for telling me. they shouldn't treat tommy that way <
7.
“Are you sure I'm even allowed to go?” Tommy wonders, tugging at the tight collar of the turtleneck Wilbur had lent him. “I—Wil, they didn't even invite me-”
“Mm.” He hums, noncommittal, and the blond sighs in exasperation. He shifts in place, feet stepping up and down before he's eventually tugged by the hand out the door, strolling down the stairs. Wilbur nudges him to his car, and Tommy gets into the passenger seat. Wilbur pulls himself into the driver's, hooking his phone up into the AUX. “You're coming with me.”
“But-” Tommy sighs. Is it even worth trying? He knows he's going, even if it's rude and not polite, but he doesn't think Wilbur really cares. The event doesn't have many people Tommy knows, and usually he'd be stoked, but—he wasn't even asked to come. Wilbur ringed him and told him You’re coming with me and Tommy couldn't bring himself to say no, because it meant more time with Wilbur. Or just standing behind the brunet’s back like a small child, hands gripping into the hem of his sweater.
Dumb Luck by Los Campesinos! comes on, and he grins; only slightly, though, because he doesn't want Wilbur to get the wave of satisfaction. “I don't think I should be doing this.”
Wilbur glances at him, softening. “We don't have to go.” He hasn't started the car. They could stay here, in his flat, watch a movie—Wilbur could get them sugary bowls of ice cream from his freezer and they could fall asleep to the soft pounding of his Spotify playlist. “We don't have to, if you don't want to—it's not like it's mandatory. I could back out if I wanted to.”
He glances at the ground. It’s Wilbur's event. He doesn't wanna be the one to stop for him. He's just going as the man’s plus one, maybe or maybe not the little brother at their older sibling’s birthday party. “We can go.”
The brunet exhales softly through his nose, knowing, understanding; wanting, believing. “Okay. Okay. I’ve got it.”
When they get there, after a ride of comfortable silence, Tommy’s head cocked back to lay—slightly awkward—on the headrest, Wilbur’s hand over his, he turns to him. “Here’s some ground rules,” he pushes up his glasses with his index finger, Hah, nerd, “don’t leave my side. If you do- please let me know beforehand. I don't want your parents to murder me.”
Tommy nods, “Okay.”
Arriving at the place, this pretty lady- a lanyard around her neck, probably a YouTuber Tommy doesn't know- glances at Wilbur, who seems to recognize her. He waves; Tommy gets nervous, because he must look dumb, slightly hidden behind Wil, but Wilbur still hasn't let go of his hand, so it must be a good sign. For now. “I see you brought a friend.”
She smiles, kind. A little smug. “This is Tommy, I’d guess?”
Wilbur’s talked about him? He glances at the elder, a little difficult since he's hiding behind him, and he meets his gaze with a fond smile. The lady glances between them, knowing, and Wilbur turns back.
He flushes in embarrassment at being so easily read, like he's an open book. “Shut up. I didn't wanna go alone.”
“Didn't even invite the kid,” the woman laughs, high, and hands Wilbur his lanyard; when Tommy gets his, it's labeled Premium Guest. He pulls it over his head. “it’s lovely to meet you. I've heard about you a lot.”
“Nice to meet you, too,” he mumbles shyly. He looks down, and he feels like a little kid. Wilbur grips his hand comfortingly. “sorry I came without notice.”
“That's okay,” she smiles placatingly. “we all kinda guessed so, anyways.”
The rest of the event is cool—Wilbur talks to tons of people, unabashed even as he grips Tommy’s hand as if they were children, standing side by side in the supermarket when they couldn't find their parents. He’s like a treasure map, and Wilbur's the pirate. He needs Tommy so he doesn't get lost, so he can't let go of the thing that matters most. (Something about that, Tommy thinks, makes him unravel at the seams.) Tons of people comment on Tommy himself, saying hello, shaking his vacant hand, congratulating him on the success.
I’m just suffering from success, he giggles in Wil’s ear when they're alone for a moment.
Wilbur snorts. You're such an idiot.
(It wasn't too bad.)
8.
Jack makes an augh type-esque sound into the mic. “All TommyInnit wants in life is Wilbur Soot and money.”
So true, Tommy muses, so true, preach, Jack Manifold. Upvote, retweet, vouch.
He can imagine the way Wilbur’s eyes would light up smugly, in the lens of his camera, and hold down a grin; and only because people will never let him live it down. How Tommy only cares about him—while, being very untrue, because he has everyone else he's ever met online, including his own biological family—it's obvious Wilbur’s the favorite.
“Shut up, Jack Manifold,” Tommy sneers. “No one asked about your opinion.”
“No one asked for you to be biased in Wil’s favor!”
Well. He didn't need to call him out that hard. Like a car on a racetrack, over barren grass—there is nothing left. Just like Tommy’s dignity. “I don't think I like you very much anymore.”
Jack’s I’m surprised you liked me in the first place gets overtaken by Wilbur’s confused, “What are we talking about?”
The older man huffs out an exasperated, “Tommy wants you.”
“ Jack!” Tommy says, scandalized, and pulls up Wilbur’s DM’s to spam an irritated DON’T LISTEN TO HIM! “Shut the fuck up.”
Wilbur
> DON'T LISTEN TO HIM!
> DON'T LISTEN TO HIM!
> DON'T LISTEN TO HIM!
> DON'T LISTEN TO HIM!
i love you too <
Wilbur’s being..oddly soft, for a post MCC and right after a bundle of stress being unleashed on him; maybe it's because he's tired, but either way—he's not in the mood to tease.
It's not like Jack would be telling Wilbur anything that's new, because Wilbur damn well knows that Tommy’s clingy, and that Tommy adores the man more than life itself. He's always been the blonde’s favorite, whether that be intentional, willingly, or not.
“He wants me?” Wilbur questions, sleepily, “Doesn't he always want me?”
He can hear the wheels in Jack’s head turning, each metaphorical one rusty and creaking as they spin against each other, trying to start up for the first time in forever. “Well. True. You've got a point.”
Phil lets out a sigh, clamoring, declaring, “You guys are so stupid—can we just please leave stream now?”
“Yeah,” Tommy croaks. His voice cracks, and it sounds a bit wet, tinged with emotion. It only seems to be noticed by Tommy himself. “I’ll dip. Bye guys.”
They give small bye’s, and as he goes to sleep that night Wilbur sends a:
Wilbur
> you suck
you're a sweetheart :) have a good night <3 <
9.
“I can't go to the premiere with you,” Wilbur reveals one day at his flat. His legs are kicked up over Tommy’s lap, the back of the blond’s head planted against the arm of the couch. He's close to falling asleep, but Wilbur's got him hanging on a threadbare string. “I’m sorry kiddo, or else I would. I’m meeting up with Quackity, we're going to Los Campesinos.”
Without him? They're going- “But-”
He swings his legs off, moving himself over so their shoulders are pressed together, moving the younger so his curls are against his neck. “I’m sorry I can't go.”
It's fine. That’s fine—Tommy can just go along with them. He'd rather go meet Big Q and hang out with him and Wilbur for a night instead of seeing a movie without either of them there, anyways. “I’ll just go with you.”
They would be matching, too. They both have Los Campesinos! shirts, which Wilbur got for the both of them.
Wilbur recoils, away from his neck—not noticing as Tommy holds back a whine at the loss of physical contact. “What? You- you can't just fuckin’ leave man, you-”
“I don't have to,” Tommy mumbles. “I wanna go with you and Big Q. I haven't met him before you- and I wanna-”
“You don't wanna leave me?” Wilbur snorts, and moves Tommy’s head back so he's lying against him again, safely enveloped in the warm coverings of his blanket.
“No,” The blond replies, gently, softly, walking on air, on the sun's rays, on the way Wilbur’s fingertips push gently into his shoulder blades, “I don't want to leave you. You already made me go through that when you left for America.”
“Sorry about that,” is whispered in his ear, “I missed you too.”
“I know you did,” he giggles, pushing into Wilbur’s chest, like a squirrel in a tree, trying to hide in the confines of the safety the man gives off. “I don't like it when you leave.”
“I would miss me too,” Wilbur jokes, and then sobers up. “No, yeah, I miss you when you leave me too- which is almost never, but when I left for America..”
That feeling sucked. To be away from his friends for so long, even if it truly was only like a week or so; he's happy he's back, because he gets to see Tommy—and some would say that's silly, to be happy to meet up with a seventeen year old child for the nth time, but it’s truly how they are, despite common belief. Brothers, yeah?
He tilts his head down, pressing his cheek against Tommy’s; eyes fluttering shut. To make sure he’s here with him, still here next to him. “It was something I'd rather not feel again.” Next time, I want you there with me.
+1.
“There’s always been a recurring theme with us, bro,” Tommy nibbles gently on the honeysuckle on his mouth, the one he plucked off the tree before walking into the building. He glances at Wilbur, who's got his elbows on his knees, and is staring at him with a strange, knowing glint in his eyes. “We bring each other places, leave VC when the other one goes away, don't go to things if the other isn't there, like– everyone expects it at this point. Oh- and you like to let the whole world know you're with me whenever you're here at my flat.”
That's something they both recognize, but have never mentioned outright at this point. Like they're working on a school biology project together, both know that they should definitely start but haven't gotten to it, yet don't do it. (They know they cling, they understand they cling. They don't talk about it. Probably because there's nothing to talk about. Wilbur and Tommy both know.)
“I follow you,” Tommy says, sighing out a quick breath of air, before he meets Wilbur’s eyes. “you follow me. Isn't that what we're meant to do?”
“We do it because that's what we want to do. Not because we have to, yeah?” The brunet leans closer, at an arm’s reach. To grasp. To hold. “It's not as if I want to grab onto someone else and not let go like I do you. You're different.”
“How am I different?”
He's the person he follows like a moth to a flame. Goes with him wherever the blond goes because it's where he is, and vice versa. If Wilbur goes, Tommy grabs his hand and follows along, because they're a package deal. Frequently bought together, if you will.
If you want Wilbur, you get Tommy as well—everyone knows this. You don't get one or the other, you get both, or none. There's no pick-and-choose in a situation like them; Tommy is Wilbur’s and Wilbur is Tommy’s.
They're each other’s North Star, each other’s guiding light. (A beacon of hope, maybe.)
“I think you know why,” Wilbur sums up, gently, and smiles. “I’ll protect you. You’ll protect me. I guess.. I guess we watch each others’ backs.”
There's something there that makes Tommy feel good inside; to be wanted and loved so much by someone else they feel the need to be tied by a string to you or else it doesn't work. They don't exist, not without your presence in their life. And that, perfectly, describes Wilbur and Tommy.
“Package deal?” He laughs, wryly, just slightly laced with tears. Because if Wilbur pushes too much, he will cry.
“Package deal,” Wilbur affirms, eyes lighting up, and it
works.