Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

It was 3:45 AM when Tommy woke up to his door slamming shut. Wilbur was leaning against it, chest heaving, and eyes shut. Tommy hadn’t even changed out of his pajamas before Wilbur was scooping him up and running out the door, he wasn’t sure of the rest, Wilbur said it was best to forget that night and Tommy had listened. 

Helicopters, however, he did remember. Three of them flying low and Wilbur gripping his head against his shoulder. And his mothers dead body, he still has nightmares sometimes. 

That night was the first time Tommy had been sure he would die. 

Tommy ran down the stairs, a book he had read over and over again in hand, “Wilbur!” 

A smile bright as the sun was spread across Tommys face. He had worked on this present all night, almost getting caught awake under the covers multiple times, but it was worth it because it was for Wilbur. 

He was determined to make as many old person jokes as he could in one sitting; 18 was old. Wilbur was old.

Tommy never got to make those jokes, or give Wilbur his present. Phil was on the kitchen floor, fingertips gray, and blood directly next to his head. Radiation poisoning: practically a death sentence from the start.

Phil was nice, to put it short. Tommy and Wilbur had jumped from abandoned house to abandoned house, sometimes an empty store or a nice campsite for a few months, if they were lucky, and that was fine. Tommy was contempt, albeit a little annoyed when he would get attached to something and have to pick up and leave the next week, but this was how life was and that was fine. 

Tommy had broken his wrist falling out of a tree two years back and Wilbur found the nearest person for help; Phil. Phil took them in, gave them their own rooms, cooked dinner every other night. He was good, Tommy was happy. 

And now Phil was dead. 

“Phil! Phil please!” Wilbur was begging, shaking his arms, but he wasn’t crying. By the time Wilbur noticed Tommy standing in the doorway, he had thrown up everywhere, dribbling down his chin and onto the tile floor. 

A sob bubbled from his throat and Wilbur was immediately in front of him. Wait right here, or, i’ll be right back, Tommy could barely register the voice because Phil was dead. He was dead and he really wanted to give Wilbur that present. 

Wilbur dropped Tommy’s vomit covered shirt onto the floor and replaced it with the sweater he had been wearing. He didn’t bother picking it up. Before Tommy knew it his arms were being maneuvered through the straps of his backpack and he was being picked up. 

Tommy was eight when the world began to crumble. He was eight when Wilbur dragged him away from their mothers dead body, and he was thirteen when Phil died. 

“Wait, no Wilbur wait- Phil, we have to go back for him,” Tommy looked at Wilbur like—well, he had just witnessed a murder. “Let me go, you fucking prick!” Tommy was loud, very much so, and Wilbur knew there was no chance in getting Tommy to shut-up, so he ran. He clung to Tommy like his life depended on it and didn't slow down until they were at least half a mile away.

He had screamed and kicked for an hour straight and Wilbur stayed silent the whole time, holding him against his chest with two hands and not stopping to rest. Tommy only quieted down when his throat grew sore and his head started to hurt. 

The sun was setting and Tommy shivered. It was hot during the day, enough to make your skin melt right off the bone—at least it felt like it—and the second the sun began to set, it was cold again. Cold, cold, cold. Wilbur had said it had something to do with radiation and Tommy was sure that was right. It never used to be this bad.

He was set onto the ground suddenly and Wilbur kept a death grip on his hand, like he would run away. “Will you be calm now?” Wilbur stared down at him and Tommy nodded. He turned his backpack around and bent down, Tommy jumped onto his back immediately. 

Tommy hated this. He hated this and he wanted his mom—or Phil—and he was tired. The back of Wilburs shirt was balled in his fist because he hated him. He hated how Wilbur hadn’t said a word since they left, he hated how Wilburs eyes were dead set in front of him, he hated how Wilbur wasn’t crying and Tommy was.

He hated him, so he laid the side of his head against Wilburs and shut his eyes. This was a dream and when he woke up everything would be okay. 

When Tommy woke up everything was in-fact, not okay, and Wilbur was hunched over himself crying in the corner of—wherever they were. 

Tommy shuffled the jacket laying on top of him off, Wilburs jacket, he would get cold without it. This was probably some abandoned shelter someone had made weeks ago and left behind. (Tommy didn't like to think about the fact they were most likely dead) “Will?” Tommy was quiet as he walked up to his brother, holding the jacket out like some offering of peace. Wilbur jumped at the noise, putting a hand over his heart and sighing.

“You- you scared me, Tommy,” his voice wavered, almost, “why are you awake?” 

“You’re crying,” he shrugged. Wilbur quickly rubbed a hand over his face, “Nope, just got dirt in my eye and it’s been irritating them like crazy.” An obvious lie, even Tommy could tell. 

Tommy shoved the jacket towards him, “You’ll get cold. And sick, that’s gross.” Wilbur nearly smiled at the gesture. 

“No, no, you need it more than me. I’m fine.”

A hum of approval, “You promise?” Wilbur held his breath and nodded because, well—it wasn’t technically a lie. Tommy would be safe and that meant Wilbur would be okay. He just didn’t know when, exactly. 

“Pinky promise.”

Tommy nodded, repeating the words back to Wilbur. “Well, take it anyway. It’s itchy,” It really wasn’t itchy, Tommy wore Wilburs clothes more than his own, despite the major height difference, because they felt like a hug. 

“Fine,” Wilbur huffed in amusement at Tommys… perseverance. The jacket wasn’t even over Wilburs shoulders fully before Tommy was barreling forwards into his chest. Wilbur sat there, his half asleep brother in his arms, afraid. But that didn’t matter now and never had, he would be resilient for Tommy, he always had been. Always for Tommy. 

Chapter Text

“Eat,” Wilbur pushed the granola bar towards Tommy, a stern look on his face. Tommy only crossed his arms and stared at the scraps of rusted metal and plastic on the floor. “I’m not messing around Tommy, eat, you need it.”

“Why would I listen to you?” Tommy snapped, head shooting up to glare at his brother. 

Wilbur tilted his head in confusion and took a step back at the sudden outburst, “Will, Phil is fuckin’ dead, and you didn’t even look back to help him! He saved us and you wouldn’t do the same!” Tommy scoffed and took a step towards Wilbur. 

“You really…” Wilbur trailed, wiping his cheek from the spit sprayed across it, “you really think I didn’t want to help Phil? He was dead, Tommy! I couldn’t help him!”

Tommy gripped the straps of his backpack until his knuckles turned white. He knew that without Phil they wouldn’t have made it to camp, and without Phil, Tommy would have bled out most likely. And now Phil was gone, just like their mother, because he was just a few seconds too late.

He scuffed the toe of his shoe into the dirt, digging into it a little. Phil had given him these shoes two weeks after he found them, an old pair of red converse that didn’t fit anymore. Tommy cherished them. 

“I know that- I know. I’m sorry, Will, just upset.”

Wilbur rubbed the back of his neck and nodded, “I know, Tommy, I miss him too, but we have to go. There’s a supply crate dropping in-“ he lifted his wrist to check the barely ticking watch, “two hours.”

A comfortable silence took over for a beat before Tommy agreed. Wilbur only smiled and licked his thumb, reaching out to rub at the smear of dirt on his brother's cheek. Tommy squawked and batted away at his hand in disgust. 

“You’re disgusting, the grossest,” Tommy announced with a mouth full of granola.

Wilbur pushed him out the door—or more-so opening—and laughed, “Whatever, swallow before you talk,” Tommy opened his mouth wider at the reaction and Wilbur nearly gagged, “God you are such a child.”

A helicopter flew past overhead and their banter was cut short. 

“Come on, we gotta go,” a hand pushed Tommy forwards again.

The walk was annoying and the only noise heard the entire time was Tommy's occasional grumble at how this was cruel or he was going to collapse . Wilbur rolled his eyes and told him to keep walking every time. 

This wasn’t the worst walk they had ever been on, not by a long shot, Tommy could remember the twenty-three miles they walked in one day, the day after their mother died. If they had arrived even an hour later to that camp, the food stock would’ve been cleared out. That food lasted them 2 weeks and Wilbur had insisted he wasn’t hungry every time Tommy offered him a bite. 

He was sure that was a lie. 

The wind blew his face into his eyes and he pushed it back with one hand, the other gripping onto the strap of his backpack tightly. It was mostly just scraps of fabric sewn–or glued–together by Wilbur, but Tommy refused to throw it out, it wasn’t like he could just buy another one.

Their walk continued for two hours, never stopping for a break. Every time Tommy would look up, Wilbur had his eyes dead set ahead of him or fiddling with the watch on his wrist, nothing else. Tommy always wondered how Wilbur could look so cold all the time, even when the sun shone directly onto their faces. 

It was most likely better not to ask, so he didn’t.

The closer the brothers got to the supply drop, the tighter Wilbur’s grip on Tommy’s hand grew. It was annoying, he wanted to scream but any sudden noise could have them at gunpoint. He had learned the hard way once before.

Wilbur stopped abruptly, almost sending Tommy to the floor, “Inside,” he whispered, pointing towards the house that stood at the top of the hill, something out of a picture, almost. 

Tommy wanted to protest, to fight Wilbur and demand that he come along to help (or protect him, but he wouldn’t dare tell that to anyone), but he knew the answer already and Wilbur had nearly shot three innocent strangers for standing anywhere close to his brother, so he decided against testing his luck.

He looked over his shoulder for a moment and Wilbur placed a hand on his heart, two fingers crossed. 

When Tommy was young enough, he and Wilbur had gone to the same primary school. It was only for a year before Wilbur was moving up a grade, but it still counted. A kid had stolen his snack one day and he ran to Wilbur crying. Wilbur promised him that he would buy him a candy bar after school to make up for it, and Tommy made him swear on it, crossing his fingers and putting them over his heart. 

Wilbur had then, and he had now. He had never broken a promise like that before, the tension left Tommy’s shoulders and he nodded, trudging up the hill to the abandoned house.

He blocked his face with his arm and kicked the rotting wood nailed to the door, or lack of, a few times. After the fifth attempt the boards crumbled and he fell forwards through the opening onto his stomach. He groaned slightly and pushed himself off the floor with his hands. 

The house had clearly been raided before, glass shattered on the floor and any drawer or cupboard left open and cleared out. Tommy silently thanked whatever God let that happen, at least he wouldn’t have to worry about Wilbur going all big brother mode on him because someone tried to rob them while they were asleep. Thankfully.

Tommy climbed the stairs carefully, wincing at the obnoxiously loud creak that sounded when he stepped on one wrong board. If downstairs was a disaster, this was even worse. Smashed picture frames laid on the floor, broken pieces of a table and some random toy cars, this was probably a family home, Tommy assumed.

Just like his had been.

He kicked open one of the two doors, it was purple and had scratched off writing that made it just too illegible to make out the name, and behind it was a broken desk, a bed and mattress, and a smashed window with torn curtains blowing in the wind. At least it wasn’t the floor, this time.

Tommy slipped the backpack off his shoulders and threw it onto the bed, the sun was just beginning to set and he wasn’t even sure he had gotten an hour of sleep the night before. A nap wouldn’t kill him.

He shoved his hand into the bag, digging out a blanket and throwing it to the side, continuing to dig for the only important item in that backpack. The wind picked up and Tommy tipped his bag upside down, dumping some chip bags, a water bottle, random scraps of trash he would find and swear they had use, but not Henry.

Panic, he was panicking. He shouldn’t be, Henry was most likely in Wilbur’s bag, but he didn’t know that.

Tommy did not bother to put anything back in his bag, sprinting down the hall and back to the bottom of the stairs the moment he heard Wilbur call his name. 

“Henry- I don’t-” he paused to catch his breath, staring at Wilbur with wide eyes who returned the same expression.

“Tommy, breathe, I can't understand you like this,” Wilbur dropped his bag and the supplies in his arms onto the floor.

Tommy shook his head furiously, “Do you have Henry?” he kept his eyes on Wilbur, waiting for a response. Wilbur only froze and lowered his hands to his sides.

“You still have Henry?” 

Tommy's hand twitched as his side. Henry was the first gift he ever received, a stuffed cow with the engravings “Baby’s First Christmas!” on the foot. It was from their mother–the only thing he had left of her. 

Wilbur reached a hand out carefully, “Tommy, I’m so sorry, I had no idea.”

Tommy held his breath. He was shaking now, “No, Wilbur. You… you knew that I left Henry! You packed my bag for me,” Wilbur could practically feel the heat radiating from his brother's face, across the room.

“Tommy, you and me both know I wouldn’t leave him behind on purpose. I wouldn’t do that to you, ever.”

“But you did, Will! You did!” he was screaming before he realized it, “And we can’t even go back, or something, because Phil’s fucking dead!” 

Wilbur opened his mouth to respond and closed it just as fast, jaw clamping shut with a snap. Tommy pushed past him and back up the stairs, slamming closed what was left of a door behind him. 

He pushed himself against the wall and sighed. There was a half-empty water bottle on the floor with a puddle of water underneath left un-evaporated, Tommy kicked it across the room and leaned his head against the palm of his hand. 

He was mad and he was tired, and he couldn’t even talk to Henry. It got lonely, Henry never told anyone what he said, so he talked. 

Tommy clenched his fists and let them relax again. It was fine, he was just a stuffed animal anyway.

“Will you please stop throwing a fit, now?” Wilbur was standing against the door with a granola bar in hand, throwing it into Tommy’s lap, “And eat that, we’ll get some real food tomorrow.”

Tommy glared up at him and rolled his eyes, ripping open the packaging reluctantly.

The two stayed in silence until he finished the granola bar completely and threw the trash across the room. “Come on,” Wilbur reached out a hand to pull Tommy up.

Tommy grumbled and let Wilbur help him up, shaking the dirt off his hands, “Where are we going?” He crossed his arms to seem- stronger.

“Watching the stars,” Wilbur called behind him and made his way downstairs. Tommy was quick to follow, skipping every other step and ignoring the way he was excited. He still hated Wilbur, he just liked space.

Wilbur stepped outside after Tommy and sat on the grass, patting the spot next to him and looking at Tommy expectantly. He rolled his eyes and lowered himself to the floor, laying his back against the cold grass.

Tommy learned to let things go, never get attached, but one thing he could always hold onto was the stars. Phil had told him once that no matter where he went, who he was with, the stars would always be there to find his way home. 

He learned that wasn’t fully true when he had lost his way back to camp one night. Wilbur had babied him for a week after that, practically attaching him to his hip and scolding him for ever walking out of his sight. 

Still, Tommy loved the stars.

“How do you stay so positive all the time?” Wilbur asked, out of the blue. They had been laying in the grass and watching the stars, in silence for almost five minutes, something steady. 

“I ‘dunno big dubs, gotta keep fighting, it’s what makes whatever’s left of this world worth it in the end. Gives me a purpose, I guess,” Tommy trailed, twirling a blade of grass between his fingers. 

Wilbur held himself up with his elbow, leaning on his side to face him. “Yeah?” Tommy nodded sharply, “Well, I think that’s nice. Poetic, even,” Wilbur grinned up at him and he grimaced, Wilbur was such a sap sometimes. 

“Well I think you’re a pussy,” Tommy threw the blade of grass at his brother's face and received a gasp in return.

“I am not!”

Tommy only laughed in response and Wilbur followed suit. 

A few beats of silence passed after they had both calmed down, “Really though,” Wilbur started, “I appreciate your- optimism. I can't see anything good left in this shit hole.”

And Tommy understood, he got why Wilbur, or really anyone hated living on this earth. It was scary and if he didn’t have his brother he was sure he wouldn’t have made it half as far as he had. 

He all but frowned at the thought of anyone being alone like this, it was obvious that many people were, but it still hurt to think about. 

But Tommy had seen the world in all its grace. He had seen the sun when it would shine in the summer and snow in the winter, when leaves would turn brown in the fall. He had sat outside with his mother and chased the butterflies around while she picked dandelions to make into a flower crown for him. He had witnessed everything good about the world, and he had witnessed it in its tainted glory, as well.

Wilbur always told him that it took a lot of strength to see the good in something so… scary. 

Tommy always wondered how something that used to be so beautiful could be ugly forever. He decided it couldn’t, it was just having a bad day. Everyone had those, when they were sick or bummed out, but everyone got better and life went on, that would happen again.

He was sure of it. 

“Come on, it’s late, time for bed,” Wilbur stood after a while and reached a hand out for Tommy to grab, which he did.

“I’m fourteen Wilbur, I don’t need a bedtime,” he grumbled but let Wilbur pull him to his feet and push him forwards towards the front door. “Yeah, yeah. Whatever you say child.”

Tommy screeched and jumped forwards to bite the hand that was reaching out to pat his head, “Did you just try to bite me?” Wilbur exclaimed, pulling his hand back, “You demon child!” 

Tommy doubled over with laughter the moment they had stepped through the door, putting a hand on his stomach to calm down.

Wilbur urged him to wash his hands and face off with a bottle of water in the kitchen. The water had stopped running a year ago and Tommy did not miss those first few months of drinking river water where it made him so sick he couldn’t even walk on his own. He had to rely on Wilbur for everything then and made a mental promise that he would never let himself be the cause of Wilbur looking like that ever again; stressed and afraid.

He jumped onto the mattress near the fireplace and sighed, relishing in the warmth that emitted from the fire and the thick blanket. Wilbur nailed the last board to the door and brushed his hands on his trousers, “That works, we’re gonna have to go through a window or something, though,” he mumbled mostly to himself as he climbed under the blanket, sitting himself up against the wall slightly. 

Wilbur laid a palm out to his side and Tommy reached a hand out of the blanket to grab it. It became a habit, mostly, having to hold onto his brother's hand or he couldn’t fall asleep. He had been four and had just woken up from a nightmare, stumbling into Wilburs room crying, and Wilbur had put him back to sleep, holding his hand and promising that as long as he was holding his hand no monsters could get him.

Obviously, Tommy didn’t believe in monsters anymore, he wasn’t a baby, but knowing that if there were a monster by chance, he would be holding his brother's hand, made him feel a lot safer.

Tommy curled into a ball and stared at the ceiling. “Stop doing that,” Wilbur was messing with his watch again with one hand.

“Doing what?” Tommy looked up and raised an eyebrow, “Thinking,” Wilbur glanced at him, “we’re gonna be fine, okay? We’ll find a way, we always have.”

He doubted that, because it’s cold. It's cold and Henry is gone and Wilbur is… well, Wilbur. He’s always been like this and they’ve always had each other.

Chapter Text

A bandana was pulled out of Wilbur's bag and passed to Tommy, “Here, tie it properly.”

“What about you?” Tommy brought the material to his neck and double knotted the ends in the back, wincing when it pulled a few stray hairs.

Wilbur focused on zipping his radiation suit closed and rolled his eyes, “You aren’t coming in, you’re staying outside, the bandanas just to be safe.”

Tommys eyebrows scrunched in confusion and Wilbur brought a thumb to his forehead, smoothing down the lines and ignoring the way he batted the hand away aggressively.

“You know I can take care of myself, bitch,” he crossed his arms and frowned. Pouting, the boy was pouting. 

Wilbur tilted his head and looked down at Tommy—he was such a child. 

He shoved the gun into his duffel bag and pointed towards his brother towards the knife on the table, “I know you can, I didn’t say that you couldn’t, but I only have one rad suit and knowing you, you’d probably get distracted and kill someone.”

“Yeah bitch, course I would, I’m not a pussy like you,” Tommy rolled his eyes and stuck the folded shut knife into his belt. Wilbur held back the urge to laugh at the notion.

He pushed the back of his head slightly towards the window and followed behind, lifting Tommy from under his arms out the window. Tommy looked back expectantly, having to strain his neck slightly at the height difference. 

And Wilbur was proud, to say the least. He and Tommy had spent a week and a half, too many hours, fixing up this home, and it was perfect.

Well, the cracked wallpaper and smashed windows replaced with a pillow and some duct tape disagreed, but still, it was perfect in Wilbur’s eyes—it was home.

He climbed out the window and almost toppled over the moment he stepped foot on the dirt, “Come on,” he waved a hand behind him and began down the hill, Tommy nodding sharply and followed. 

The walk into camp was quiet. Like the walk to their current home, it wasn’t rushed and the sun had just peaked over the horizon so the heat hadn’t become too unbearable quite yet. 

Tommy loved mornings like these, the times he and Wilbur would just exist and he could ignore the pained expression on his brother's face. 

Wilbur never told him why he looked so stressed but Tommy had learned not to question it when he brushed Tommy off to go play outside for the tenth time that month. Wilbur almost never told him no. That was the second time he felt true heartbreak. 

The ground underneath their feet turned from a yellow and green grass to a sandy gravel that crunched with each step. The noise made Tommys ears hurt, slightly. 

He lifted his head and met three trains on a set of train tracks, going further than he could see. A childlike gasp left his mouth and he opened it to beg Wilbur to let him go see it. Maybe take a picture with one of their last few polaroids. 

However, he was cut off by the sound of a helicopter flying ahead and Wilbur placing two hands on his shoulders, making direct eye contact. “Stay, do not leave this spot and if you see anyone or someone tries to talk to you- act deaf or something,” he hoped the serious tone was clear.

Tommy nodded sharply and stood straight, lifting his fingers to his forehead and saluting, “Got it, big man, I’ll stay put.”

Wilbur smiled and cupped Tommys cheek with the palm of his head, smiling even wider when he pushed into the touch further. 

He pulled his hand away and turned his back, walking towards the ladder on the—building? If it couldn’t even be called that. More an abandoned mall… type thing. 

Tommy tried his best to calm the worry in his chest as he watched his brother climb to the first awning and scurry off. 

This was Wilbur, it was his big brother and he could do everything. He could find his way around the impossible for Tommy if he had to, he had no real reason to be worried. Yet, he still was. 

Tommy sat on the grass and leaned against a tree, using its shade to his advantage. It was fucking hot outside today, the mask wasn’t helping. Still, he kept it on. He hated Wilbur, really, but he would admit that Wilbur knew his stuff. 

Never to his face though. 

He picked idly at his nail beds and grimaced at the condition of them—torn skin with little red speckles here and there; most likely dried blood. It was gross but he didn’t throw up at the sight of blood anymore. 

He had learned not to when he killed his first person, then second, and third… he lost count now. Tommy never wanted to kill anyone, he hated it and he hated how his gut never stopped churning or how it never was easier then the first. He didn’t have a choice, though. It was kill or be killed and, if you’re asking Tommy, he would’ve thrown himself in front of a dagger months ago, but Wilbur still called him in for dinner each evening and combed his hair after a bath. So, he stayed for Wilbur. 

Tommy stayed there, digging his hands into the dirt or watching a blind June bug fly past and into one forest or another, for ten minutes. Two people hurried behind some cargo on the train before running off and they were gone before Tommy could even process it.  

It was peaceful and he could almost forget about his brother that was currently in a trashed train park in some radioactive-filled building, just so they could eat tonight. 

See, the key word here is almost .

Three gunshots sounded and Tommy was already on his feet, bending forwards and running across the tracks in the direction of the noise. In the direction of Wilbur. 

Another gunshot and Tommy had hoisted himself onto the rusty ladder. 

He hadn’t been thinking when he began to climb and run across the unsteady platform, bending and groaning with every thud of his heels hitting the floor. 

Tommy swiped a hand across his runny nose, wiping the trail of snot on his shirt. He wasn’t sick and he wasn’t crying, his nose just… did that sometimes. 

He held his breath for a moment and squeezed his eyes shut. It had become a habit to pretend he wasn’t really there in a bad situation. It terrified him and, well, it shouldn’t because he had killed a blacksmith stronger than Phil once and he had survived too many days to count without food or water or a roof over his head. But still, he was scared.

One foot in front of the other, and the other, and the-

A piece of the rusted floor collapsed in on itself and to the floor below. It wasn’t a far fall, not even close, but it was loud. 

Before he could collect himself the miniature heart attack he nearly had, another round of gunshots sounded and he was throwing himself into an empty hallway with no door and a shattered window. 

It reminded him of their home. 

Someone gripped his wrist and slapped a hand over his mouth before he could scream, pulling him to the floor with them and behind a dumpster in the corner. “What the fuck are you doing?” Wilbur whispered with just as much bite as if he was screaming his head off. 

Tommy stared up at him for a moment, “What were you thinking? Are you insane?” The grip on his wrist had only tightened and he all but winced at the sharp pain that ran through his arm. Wilbur noticed and loosened his grip just as fast. 

“I was coming to save you, dickhead,” the younger seethed, narrowing his eyes and scanning Wilbur over quickly, “I heard gunshots and the helicopter and- what was I supposed to do? Just sit there?”

“Yes!” A barely audible radio voice sounded in the distance, “You were supposed to sit there, Tommy!” 

He crossed his arms stubbornly and stared at the floor like it had personally wronged him. 

Well, it had in a way. The floor was the Earth and the Earth was the reason that he was alive right now. Some— most days Tommy couldn’t tell if that was a good or bad thing. 

“You’re fourteen, Tommy. I know you act all big but I am your big brother, I’m older than you and I know what I’m doing. It’s my job to keep you safe and that means you have to listen to me,” nothing in return. “Tommy.”

Tommy broke and muttered a quiet, “Yeah, yeah. I know, I’m sorry. Just got worried.”

Wilbur dragged a hand down his masked face and pulled his brother into a tight hug, leaning his chin against the top of his head. “You’re lucky I didn’t have time to make it to the rad towers yet,” a broken chuckle sounded from the two and it sounded more forced, more making light of the situation, then real. 

A gun, a chipped and bent knife (nothing Tommy couldn’t fix by slamming against a rock a few times), eight cans of beans, a gallon of water, and more bandages and medicine tape then he could count was inside the duffel bag that his brother pushed towards him slowly, smiling brightly at him like he was so proud. There might have been some boxes of ammo and a radiation mask in there but Tommy only had enough time to glance once.

The quiet buzzing of the helicopter above subdued enough after three minutes and Wilbur almost immediately began to run, only pausing to lift Tommy to his feet by his underarms. 

“We’re leaving now,” Tommy nodded sharply and followed his brother without another word. 

He understood the fear that Wilbur always seemed to have, the overbearing oh did you shower? and i’m not mad just disappointed ‘s. It made sense, he was all Wilbur had left and Wilbur was all Tommy had left. Other than Henry, of course, but that decided itself days ago. 

The ground shook dangerously and Wilbur sucked in another sharp breath at the damage to the walkway. “Right, we’re going down here,” he patted his thigh gently as to call Tommy over and Tommy obeyed.

“Isn’t that like… I ‘dunno, dangerous, though?” His eyes widened slightly at the jagged pieces of metal and nails sticking out of the sides. “No, look, I’ll go first.”

Wilbur jumped to the ground when he was halfway kneeled to the hole in the floor. He jolted and raised his hand, pulling away to shake it mercilessly. 

A wave of relief passed through Tommy at the sight because Wilbur was always brave and if he could do something then Tommy definitely could as well.

“Wilbur hurry up!” Tommy muttered as loud as he could and kicked the floor carefully. A small trail of blood rolled down Wilbur’s palm onto his wrist. 

Wilbur wiped the hand on his pant leg and raised his arms out, catching his brother when he jumped to the floor. Tommy almost immediately grabbed his hand—the one without the small cut—and started running. 

The air was warm and sticky, way too humid for the middle of May, but it wasn’t a surprise. Not in any way, actually. It had been sweaty and cold, both at once, all year round since Tommy was nine. It had scared Wilbur at first, the fast change and the way it didn’t snow on Christmas like it always had. He got over that quickly, like most things. 

Tommy didn’t slow his strides or let go of the grip on his brother's hand once. Not even when he looked to his side and could practically hear the others heart beating, he did what Wilbur would have done with him and he kept running.

By the time the pair had made it back to their house Wilbur was leaning his hands onto his knees and crouching to catch his breath. “Shit, shit- okay uh- hold on, hold on,” Tommy scrambled into the house and into the kitchen. 

He slammed his hip against the cabinet underneath the sink and it fell to the ground with a clatter. A beige camper backpack was shoved to the back and Tommy wasted no time pulling it into his lap, digging through the collected junk (probably used to hold a skateboard, Tommy had always guessed. He could just barely remember riding down the driveway on it and crashing into the garage door. He could also remember how much Wilbur babied him the next day and refused to let him do anything but eat popsicles and watch movies on the couch. Tommy pretended to hate it).

Growing up, Tommy had always been adventurous. Even before the world began to fall to pieces, he was always outside with neighbour’s or getting lost in the park because he saw a cool rock. He always brought Wilbur his best finds these days, a funny shaped rock, a silky black feather, a bottle cap or two (even after Wilbur stopped collecting them at age fifteen, Tommy kept snatching every one he found). 

He thought Wilbur threw them away or at least left them behind. It was just junk and there was only so much you could carry on two backs for so many miles at a time. 

The scraps of familiar trash and pine cones held together with tape and string that were scattered in Wilbur’s bag said differently. 

After what felt like a year, Tommy pulled the dull and worn inhaler out of the bag and pushed himself, and the bag, to his feet. He didn’t bother shoving it back under the sink. 

Tommy dropped to his knees beside his brother the moment he had made it back outside and shoved the inhaler into his hands, “Here, use it,” he lifted shaky hands to Wilbur’s face and pressed the opening to his lips. 

Puff. Hold, two, three, four. Breathe. 

Tommy repeated the motion once more before Wilbur pushed his hands away and pressed the silver button a third time. 

A breath out and Tommy sighed. “You scared me, you- you bitch,” he punched the man’s shoulder who gave a hiss in return. 

“Ow, prick!” Wilbur furrowed his eyebrows and stared at Tommy who only smiled with full teeth back, “Not my fault.”

Tommy rolled his eyes, held out a hand to pull Wilbur to his feet with him, and pushed him inside. He hated Wilbur but he couldn’t cook and Wilbur could so he would stand him a little while longer. 

It was something simple, a gentle gesture that neither stopped to appreciate. Helping the other to their feet by offering a hand, that was. But somehow, it always happened, and the idea was enough to feel like a hug in itself. Wilbur stopped him with a hand on his shoulder and Tommy turned to face him, “Thanks though, really. I love you to the moon and back, don’t forget it,” a huff and a “sap” was all he heard back, but really, he didn’t mind.

“Go wash up, i’ll put some beans and veggies on the stove,” Wilbur pointed towards the bathroom and headed into the kitchen. Tommy gagged internally because gross , veggies. 

But he obeyed and ran down the hall while hopping over any crack in the tile floor. Normally he would jump directly onto it and clasp his hands hoping that Wilbur would get a day of bad luck for it, maybe run out of toothpaste or burn his tongue on hot soup. Nothing that bad, just enough to make it clear that Tommy really, truly, hated him.

He decided to spare him tonight. They had been through enough.

After dinner—which Tommy swore he hated and only scarfed down so fast because he was afraid Wilbur would’ve stolen it himself—he had grumbled his way into the living room and collapsed onto the couch next to his brother. The fireplace that was lit in the corner of the room was the only noise, aside from Wilbur’s humming as he stitched a small patch into his jacket. 

It was calm and it was warm, it reminded him that he was alright and that through it all, he had his brother. It grounded him, in a way. 

Everything changed constantly, maybe that was the only real constant in his life; change itself. But one thing that always stayed and he never doubted was Wilbur. His brother. If he said he would come home that night then you could bet your ass that he would be home ten minutes before curfew. 

Another thing that stayed constant, in it’s own way, was quiet nights like these. He could fall asleep to the sound of his brother's voice (though he never really was on key, his voice bounced more than anything but Tommy paid no mind to it) and the hair on his scalp being combed back out of his face or some other idle task Wilbur was focused on. Tonight, it was sewing.

He had hit a growth spurt at age twelve and hadn’t stopped since, still shorter then Wilbur by a foot but tall for a kid his age. When his clothes began to outgrow him a month after his twelfth birthday, Wilbur sewed him new ones. A white shirt with bright red sleeves that only happened when Wilbur had run out of white fabric, and a pair of cargo pants that had been cut into shorts. They weren’t even half-bad, if it mattered at all, neither had looked in a mirror in months and any chance given to, they strictly avoided.

Tommy had a theory that Wilbur didn’t want to see how sick he looked, how exhausted he seemed. 

It made sense, really, considering the last photo Tommy had seen of his brother before the schools shut down and windows were dead-bolted shut, had been of him and his date to a school dance. It was just a friend of his and Tommy was pretty sure he bailed not even half-way through the night, but still, he had looked alive. He looked well and the black suit with a purple tie that he wore looked silly, stupid. He had looked like a kid dressed in his fathers work clothes.

Now, Tommy was sure if he saw his brother in the same suit, he wouldn’t look as silly. He was the father whose work clothes would be stolen, no longer the kid who played dress-up. A stubborn part of Tommy mourned that Wilbur. 

A stubborn part of Tommy mourned for the Wilbur that became the father just for Tommy.

The guilt would eat him alive if he kept thinking about it though, so he didn’t. He ignored it like they ignored everything.

Tommys head was pushed off the shoulder he had leaned it against, opening his mouth to bark something about him being comfortable. 

Wilbur was hunched over with his head in his hands. “Will?” Tommy tapped his shoulder gently and received a shrug in return. 

“It’s okay, I’m just…” he trailed and Tommy brought his knees back to his chest, hugging them tightly and leaning a cheek against his knees. Wilbur gripped his forearms tightly, “I just- I’m tired, Tommy, I’m really fucking tired. Got dizzy and all, that’s it.”

Tommy stared back in silence. He couldn’t speak if he wanted to, neither could, it was like there was an invisible barrier blocking every word. 

“Yeah, I can tell,” It wasn’t rude, either, it was a statement, like he was pointing at the sky and calling it blue or looking at the blood dripping from- 

“Wilbur, your nose is bleeding.”

Wilbur brought a hand to his face and wiped aggressively, like it was his nose's fault that it was bleeding. It wasn’t, it was Tommy’s, he knew that. 

Tommy grabbed the bandana from his neck and shoved it into his brother's hold, “Use it, please,” Wilbur pushed the hand back and shook his head, grumbling in disagreement. “Please, Wilbur please .”

Tommy was practically begging at this point, stuck between the line of fear and anger. 

A beat passed and Tommy didn’t budge, pushing the bandana further into Wilbur’s hold. “Fine, fine. I’m alright though, probably the air being too dry,” He nodded softly.

“The fuckin’ air doesn’t make you tired, Will,” Tommy squinted his eyes in confusion—or what Wilbur thought was confusion. 

“Haven’t been sleeping well.” And that wasn’t a lie, per-say, it had been a month since Phil died and Tommy watched him nod off a few times and pass out on the sofa once; he didn’t bother correcting his brother. 

Because their life wasn’t peaceful enough to stop and rest, it wasn’t calm and by God was it painful, but it was life. And truly, life stopped for no one, anymore. Tommy learned to accept that and keep walking, to let it hurt until it didn’t. 

Wilbur pinched a hand over the bridge of his nose tightly, “You know that I’ll be alright, right?” He eyed Tommy, “Come on, don’t wimp out on me now. We can handle a few scratches.”

“I’m not wimping out on you, bitch! Fuck you!” Tommy exclaimed, waving his hands around dramatically, adding to his frustration. Wilbur smiled and the lines around his eyes appeared, which never happened when it was a tight smile to reassure Tommy they wouldn’t starve to death, or something. Tommy hadn’t seen his brothers smile lines in weeks and now they were sat in their “home” with a bloody bandana pressed against one of their faces, grinning at each other. 

It was somewhat reassuring that it would work.

Because they were fine, everything was alright and Wilbur’s head did not hurt, in fact. 

Wilbur just hoped Tommy wouldn’t make him swear on it.  

Chapter Text

“We’re leaving already?” Tommy asked, one night. They were sat over dinner, canned tuna and bread, when Wilbur broke the news.

Wilbur leaned against the cabinet door and pinched the bridge of his nose tightly. He was too tired to deal with this today. “Yes, Tommy, we’re leaving already,” he sighed and laid his head against a board that had been nailed to the wall a week prior, “there’s more people and better supply drops.”

Tommy whined. He shouldn’t have been shocked, really, even living with Phil they had moved houses more times than he could count and before that they had moved even more. He knew don’t get attached, don’t get attached, and still, he always let himself believe that this home was permanent. That they would stay this time.

They never did.

“Okay,” he mumbled, flicking the empty can in front of him and watching it topple to the floor before a harsh gaze had him chucking it into the bin without words.

“I’m sorry, Tommy, you know I’d like to stay,” Wilbur rubbed a hand over his face and Tommy couldn’t find it in himself to be mad, at least at him , if he tried. Deep gray and purple lines sprouted underneath his eyes and his cheeks looked nearly sunken in. Tommy wondered if he looked that sick as well. 

He picked up his torch and made his way to the living room, “It’s not your fault, big man. Just-” 

Wilbur cut him off, “Annoying?” Tommy nodded and dropped himself onto the sofa, “Yeah, I know.”

The couch dipped beside him as he dug through his bag, pulling out a book and dropping the backpack onto the floor when he came up successful. 

Tommy settled into the cushions and opened the book to where he had last left off, letting the post-it note used in place of a bookmark fall to his lap. He couldn’t remember the last time he opened this book and just… read. It was usually Wilbur doing the reading after Tommy would wake up with a nightmare that left him gasping for breath or focusing on the billboards covered in moss and vines to get an idea of where they had ended up this time.

It was nice and When Tommy had stopped mid-page to peek his eyes up at his brother, he too looked calm.

“Hey Will?” Tommy blurted out after a while of silence. It was cool and the breeze was gentle enough for a sweater to be ample in the cluttered house. Wilbur looked up from his spot on the sofa beside his brother, legs thrown over Wilbur’s lap, and hummed a quiet response. “How do you say this word?” 

Tommy knew how to read, of course, but not nearly as well as he should for his age. Or, what Wilbur assumed was well. He had just started to grasp bigger words or read anything other than a picture book when his school had shut down. He was eight at the time and Wilbur promised to teach him how to shoot a gun if he read the entirety of “The Velveteen Rabbit” in one summer. 

Their mother died that summer, Tommy never finished the book and Wilbur had no choice but to teach him how to shoot a gun.

Now, however, he was reading “The Wind in the Willows” and seemed to be around a quarter of the way finished. Wilbur was impressed, honestly, at his brother's perseverance. If he said he would finish something then you could swear your life on the fact that Tommy would find a way to finish it. 

“What word?” Wilbur focused back on the chunk of fabric and leather he had been weaving together with a fishing line. 

The boy’s nose scrunched up for a moment, “Res- resp-” 

“Respite?” He raised an eyebrow but kept his gaze on the wire in his hold. Tommy nodded and sunk back into the arm of the sofa, “What’s that mean?”

Wilbur paused, in thought, “Uh… I think- like, a break, or moment to breathe after something bad happened, I guess,” Tommy reached forwards to turn the page and retreated just as fast.

“When do we get to respite?” He grumbled under his breath and turned the page fully, this time, butchering the pronunciation of the word somehow, despite it being two syllables. Wilbur chose to ignore the comment.

He set the project in his hands onto the floor beside his feet and sighed, “Read to me,” he stretched out his arms and stifled a yawn that caused his jaw to let out a quiet pop. Tommy tilted his head and Wilbur repeated himself, “Read to me. Out loud,” gesturing towards the book with his shoulder.

Tommy sucked in a sharp breath and nodded, “It was a bright summer in the early part of summer, the river had resumed it’s wonted banks and…” 

Wilbur shut his eyes as Tommy continued to read, stumbling over words occasionally and scowling at the pages like it was their fault that he didn’t understand them. A cricket chirped somewhere in the corners of the house and the wind tousled the leaves on the branches of a nearby tree, it was calm.

The mixture of cool air and warm light from a torch held above his brother's head to assist his reading, and the quieted story that danced in his head was enough in and of itself to lull Wilbur to sleep. 

At one point, the weight was removed from his lap and replaced with the feeling of a soft fabric. A blanket, he assumed from his half-conscious state. The light was flicked off and the blanket tugged at his side for a moment before another weight settled into his side.

“Goodnight, Will,” and he was asleep.

“Let’s go, Tommy,” Wilbur called from the front door, adjusting the duffle bag that sat on his hip and was strapped to his shoulder.

Tommy stumbled around the corner and pulled tightly on the straps of his backpack, “Yeah, yeah, I’m here dickhead.” Wilbur rolled his eyes and took the guitar case from his brother's arms, shuffling to the side slightly to pull the straps over his shoulders. 

“What took you so long?” 

“‘Dunno. Was making sure Henry wasn’t here somewhere,” Tommy shrugged and brought his thumb to his mouth to chew on his nail, only stopping when his hand was slapped away with a “Stop that.”

A beat of silence passed and Wilbur shrugged the straps of the guitar closer to his collarbone. “Well then, have everything?” A sharp nod, “Then let’s go.”

Tommy was the first out the door, marching down the hill with his chest puffed out. He looked ridiculous and if they had more than five polaroids left, Wilbur would've taken a picture of the scene. 

“Tommy,” Wilbur called his name and he stopped in his tracks, turning to face the man, “please, for the love of God, stay with me, alright?”

Tommy tilted his head slightly and nodded, shifting his eight to his other hip, “Of course? I always do-”

Wilbur cut him off abruptly, “No, I mean, don’t run off or sit down to take a break without telling me like last time. Stick with me and if I get too far ahead just tell me and I’ll slow down, okay? It’s not that far of a walk this time but… it’s definitely a walk.”

The younger nodded slowly, curiously, “Okay.”

“This camp- area- whatever, it’s not a joke. I don't know what exactly is there and what’s not there, so you have to listen to me and shut up when I tell you to. Got it?” Tommy nodded again and wiped his palms on the sides of his pants.

Wilbur turned and continued to walk, “Cool, thank you,” as if he could read his brother's mind, “and don’t be scared or anything, you know I’ll keep us safe. Always have and nothings gonna change that, promise.” He placed two crossed fingers over his heart and Tommy could feel himself untense at the notion. Wilbur never broke promises, they were fine.

Tommy followed as Wilbur headed down a path he had never seen before and crossed a bridge. He stopped for a moment to peek his head over the railing and towards the murky water. It was a little unnerving to see, if he was honest, the gray water that seemed never ending and was filled with a fog-like substance. 

He peeked his head up to look at his brother. Wilbur looked almost, almost , afraid and Tommy was quick to rush over the idea without much concern. If Wilbur was scared then Tommy should be scared, beyond scared actually. Tommy assumed it was just concern and stress, Wilbur was good at being those two.

Tommy continued to stay in Wilbur’s shadow, even as he curved in and out of trees or went the long way on a certain path or two, he stayed quiet and continued to follow. The only noise he dared to make was the patting of his palms against his legs or a soft pitter-patter when he stomped in the dirt to watch the beetles emerge from underground. 

A few times the pair had passed a group of people, sometimes just one person straying behind, and each time Wilbur would grab his wrist and pull him to the opposite side of said people. He spared a few glances once or twice behind Wilburs shoulder but wasn’t tall enough to see anything interesting or make eye-contact with anyone. After the group would pass, Wilbur would let go of Tommy’s wrist and ruffle his hair with the same hand, sparing a soft and apologetic smile. It wasn’t like Tommy thought Wilbur wanted to keep him away from other people, he was loud and energetic, he knew that Wilbur would gladly throw him out the back door to go eat mud with a neighbour or something stupid if he could, they were brothers after all. 

Yet, he couldn’t. No one could be trusted this late on in the world and almost everyone kept to themselves. The few times Tommy had to kill someone, or watched Wilbur, was when a stranger crossed their path and tried to rob them of a supply drop or cause trouble.

At least, Tommy assumed they wanted trouble. He wasn’t always sure, Wilbur was confusing and one moment he would be conversing with a shopkeeper, the next he would be wiping his sweat with the same hand he used to stab that shopkeeper.

But hey, anything to stay alive, right? If Tommy told himself it enough, it would be true. He hoped so, at the very least, that it was true.

The sun beat down against his face as he lifted his elbow to shield his eyes. He was sure that if he hadn’t already been sunburnt, the sudden heat wave would definitely do the trick.

Tommy was hot, tired, sweaty, plain miserable. He hated this and if it weren’t for the way Wilbur’s knees trembled dangerously with each step, Tommy would have asked for a piggy-back ride. 

It must have only been quiet for an hour, walking not even two miles in silence with the occasional bird or squirrel calling out some noise he wished he could understand, before Tommy was pestering Wilbur and bouncing anxiously on his heels.

“Will…” Tommy whined, dragging the L pronunciation out, “I’m bored.” Wilbur looked over his head for a moment and chuckled.

“You’re so impatient, child.”

Tommy all but screamed (like a man) at the name, “I’m not impatient- I’m not- I’m not a child! Fuck you, bitch!” He crossed his arms tight across his chest. Even he knew he was pouting and that for sure would ruin his reputation but he honestly couldn’t care less. The damn ignorance of some people, calling him a child . He was not a child, he would have you know that-

“Fine, I’ll tell you a story or something. What do you wanna know?” Wilbur asked, keeping his place ahead of Tommy and occasionally looking back to make sure he was still in one piece when it got too quiet.

A hum, deep in thought, then, “When… this all started,” Tommy paused to wildly gesture around himself, “what was it like for you?”

“‘Dunno, I was sixteen when it all started,” Wilbur began with a single breath, “I didn’t have any blood on my hands, I still believed life was good and that flowers would always bloom in the spring and wither in the fall. It happened really fast- life getting bad, I mean. It sucked, really it did, but it was life. It was scary and it seemed like it would never end, which I guess is true, but I got the hang of it eventually.”

Wilbur scratched the back of his head and let his hand fall limp to his side again. “I would always tell myself that life sucked but by God was it life. That’s all that mattered to me- matters to me, at the end of the day, I think.”

Tommy kicked a rock in front of him gently and watched it roll a few feet before getting wedged between two sticks. He nodded his head in an understanding, a lie on his part, he didn’t know what it was like to have an understanding of the world when it began to end, he was too young. Everyone shushed him and told him it was alright, everyone told Wilbur the truth, no one bothered lying to someone his age. Tommy was only fourteen and he still got chills at the thought of living normal up until this age, he doesn’t know how Wilbur did it.

Maybe, it was because of Tommy, for Tommy.

“Oh, pog, I think,” he kept his gaze on his feet and his hands in the front pockets of his jeans. 

Wilbur laughed slightly. His tone wasn’t humorous. “Yeah, pog .”

Tommy’s stomach grumbled and he was hit with the sudden realisation that it was somewhere around noon and he hadn’t eaten since last night’s dinner. A granola bar would have to suffice, he told himself.

Before he could act on the thought, a butterfly flew past his view and Tommy straightened his posture immediately, mood boosting at the sight. He couldn’t recall the last time he saw a butterfly, maybe before his mother had passed? Or a chance that it was after that, but either way, it had been a long time and Tommy was excited. The insect flew past Wilbur and Tommy chased directly after it, arms out to try and catch it. He would never hurt it, that was cruel, he just wanted to see if it were a monarch or swallowtail or- actually, he had only learned those two types of butterflies in school.

Years ago, when everything started to go to shit, Wilbur would read Tommy to sleep each night. It was terrifying, being eight years old and going one day from playing tag in the school-yard to the next watching sirens blare through the streets as your mother pulls you inside to tell you never open the door and listen to your brother . 

Some nights were worse than others, he would spend those days curled into his brother's side and gripping his shirt and Henry close to him wherever he went. Wilbur would read him to sleep those nights, running a hand through his hair and telling him something about his fascinations at the moment. 

At the peak of Tommy’s fear, Wilbur loved insects. So, Tommy just so happened to know everything under the sun about bugs and most reptiles. 

Tommy’s favourite was butterflies. They reminded him that scary things could still be beautiful. Everyone hated caterpillars growing up, including Wilbur, and Tommy didn't. He would go on and on about how they were his friends and how they needed a home too. His mother and brother didn’t have the heart to tell him no so they spent the entire day turning an old fishing net and trash-can lid into a butterfly sanctuary.

After three weeks, Tommy woke up to a large winged, fluttering… moth. Wilbur had been half-expecting his little brother to burst into tears, Tommy had been fascinated by this creature for the past month and it wasn’t even a butterfly. 

Tommy, however, didn’t seem to mind, not in the slightest. He watched in awe as the moth flew around its enclosure for three hours straight before marching into the kitchen with the net in his arms and demanding to let it free. I wouldn’t want to live in a cage forever if I was this cool he had explained. It was both sweet and concerning to hear.

They let the creature out the back window and Tommy waved through the glass the entire time. He named it Clementine.

The butterfly that he had been chasing fluttered off into a nearby tree and Tommy barely bit back a whine. He wanted to name that one, at least.

Tommy stopped and turned around at the sound of a choked and mucusy cough. Bent forwards with his hands on his knees was Wilbur. Tommy rushed towards his brother and placed a hand on his back, harshly patting it multiple times.

After what felt like ten minutes, but was likely less than one, Wilbur spit onto the floor beneath him and took a shaky deep breath in. “I’m okay, I’m okay,” he wheezed into another cough and waved his hand aimlessly above him. 

“Obviously not, idiot. You almost fuckin’- died, or something,” Tommy stared at Wilbur like he was crazy. 

“I didn’t almost die, you’re so dramatic. Probably my asthma acting up again, can you get my inhaler from the bag?” He pointed towards the duffel bag, still clearly out of breath.

Tommy bent down to the bag on the floor and dug through the clutter until he felt the hard L shaped plastic, passing it up towards the older. “Your asthma’s been acting up a lot lately.”

Wilbur only hummed and pressed the inhaler to his lips, taking a breath in and putting a hand on his chest to count. He took a breath out after five seconds and slipped it back into the bag.

“It’s almost summer, innit?” He pulled the bag back to his shoulder and ignored the way his knees wobbled, “Dry weather and shit, bad for my lungs.”

Tommy rolled his eyes and crossed his arms against his chest tightly, “Yeah, I know, mom always said-” he caught himself before he could finish his sentence. 

Don’t talk about her or you didn’t know her, Tommy . Wilbur always responded with one of the two when he would bring up her name. He stopped trying when he turned twelve and received a slap across the cheek for begging his brother to tell him what her favourite colour was because he could swear it was purple.

“It's alright,” Wilbur said after a moment, “she was both our mom.”

It stayed silent for another minute, neither daring to speak, especially not Tommy. He avoided talking about their mother at all costs, he could barely remember her and he guessed Wilbur blocked that time out of his memories because anytime he brought it up, he swore he could barely remember her. 

Part of Tommy knew that was a lie, he remembered enough to know Wilbur loved their mother. He wondered if Wilbur would forget about him too if he died. 

Wilbur huffed out a sigh, “Come on, stop moping.”

Before Tommy could fight him on the remark, he was ten feet ahead and continuing to move. He shook his arms out and followed behind in silence.

By the time they had made it to the spot circled on Wilbur’s map, the sun had begun to set. Tommy could only assume they had been walking for at least six hours. His ankles hurt and his shoes burned with fresh blisters from the journey. Of course he would forget to put bandaids on his heels and toes the day they walk more than three miles.

“Here, drink,” Wilbur passed a water bottle over to him without the cap. “What about you?” Tommy eyed him carefully.

Wilbur paused, took a single swig, and passed it back to his brother. “There, now you drink,” he began chugging it before Wilbur could finish his sentence, “finish it all, please.”

Once the bottle was empty, Tommy dropped it onto the floor and kicked it across the field. The older looked at him all annoyed and shit and Tommy dragged his feet over towards the bottle with a groan. Wilbur only laughed at his actions.

He laughed! He had the audacity to laugh! A prick, a real prick.

As they approached what Tommy assumed to be an old church, Wilbur grabbed his wrist tightly and put a finger over his lips, hushing him. Tommy rolled his eyes and shut up because this wasn’t the first or last time that he had done this, he knew when to be quiet.

“Stay,” he whispered before dropping his bag and keeping the guitar on his back. Tommy really hoped he survived, not because he cared about him, but because he cared about Simone, his guitar. 

Tommy named the instrument the day he found it. He and Wilbur had made it into a city a few months after all hell broke loose and had somehow managed to snatch the thing left unattended on a park bench. Wilbur looked at him like he was insane when he told him the name of it. 

He didn’t care though, he punched him right in the jaw afterwards because how dare anyone make fun of his daughter or ridicule his amazing name choosing abilities. The true insolence of people these days.

A minute after Wilbur disappeared into the building, he popped his head out and called for Tommy to come in, standing to his feet and dusting his pants off before dragging the bags inside with him.

When Tommy stepped inside he had to stop himself from falling over, “Aye?” 

Inside the two front doors was a room with eight sofas, a broken piano, and a torn rug. The walls had been graffitied with random art and words Tommy could hardly make out most of the letters from.

“Our new humble abode. Very humble, very,” Wilbur smiled and slipped the guitar off his shoulders and onto the couch. The sun was dipping under the horizon fairly quickly and as fast as the heat had rolled in this morning, the cold breeze started up again as well. “Here,” Wilbur took the jacket tied to his waist and laid it over his brother's shoulders. It was a thick and heavy army green bomber jacket that he had worn since he was sixteen, patches sewn messily to the pockets and sleeves that had collected over the years. Tommy always swore it was hideous and that it was the reason Wilbur “got no bitches”, he would bring the secret that he loved this coat with him to the grave, however. 

Wilbur stood abruptly and stretched his arms, “Right, I’m gonna go check what’s upstairs, don’t do anything I wouldn’t.”

Tommy threw a thumbs up and pulled the jacket impossibly closer around his shoulders, ignoring the fond smile and hand that ran through his knotted hair. 

Once Wilbur had made it to the top of the stairs, Tommy’s stomach growled loudly and he was hit with the reminder of asking for a snack before Wilbur had almost died on him, earlier on. He tucked his knees underneath him on the sofa cushions and dug through Wilbur’s duffel bag. 

He had meant to find a granola bar, instead he found an envelope sealed shut with a bobby-pin. Of course, curiosity got the best of him, and Tommy was dumping the contents of the slip onto his lap in a heartbeat. A single piece of paper slid out and fluttered to a halt. 

And- oh. It was a picture of his mother. More specifically, a picture of his mother and Wilbur, the other half of the picture had been ripped away, likely where another person used to stand.

Tommy lifted the picture in front of his face and smiled, he hadn’t seen his mother since he was eight. Not a picture, a video, anything. She was just as beautiful as he remembered and he could faintly imagine her laughter just by seeing her smile in the photo. His chest bubbled with warmth.

“What the fuck are you doing?” Tommy shot his head up and pushed himself to his feet quickly, “Why were you going through my bag?” 

Wilbur stared at Tommy with a scowl and only broke his glare to pull the photo out of his grip. Tommy’s smile fell and he didn’t budge, holding onto the picture even tighter. “You said it yourself, she’s both our mom’s!” He ignored the way Wilbur tugged harder.

“She is, but it’s my picture,” the pair stumbled back in opposite directions as the photo tore in two, a rip going diagonal. 

Tommy hadn’t thought twice about the tear because it was just a picture, nothing more and nothing less. He did, however, when he saw his brother's jaw tighten.

“See what you did?” Wilbur shouted, throwing his half of the photo onto the floor, “I told you not to go through my stuff and you still did. Can’t you listen for once in your life?” 

Tommy scoffed and stared at the man with his eyes squinted, “It’s just a picture, Wilbur, we have tape and-”

Wilbur cut him off with a laugh, it didn’t sound funny and Tommy practically shivered at the sound of it, “Just a picture? Tommy, that was the only picture I had of mom!” He raised his voice even louder and Tommy had to stop himself from putting his hands over his ears to block the noise.

“Well how was I supposed to know that? You don’t tell me shit about her.”

“Because you’re the reason she’s dead!” Tommy felt the fuse in his gut burn out immediately. “She died because people were looking for you and she swore she had to protect you,” a mocking tone was added to the end of his sentence.

If he hadn’t already, Tommy was sure he could throw up, “What?”

“Yeah,” Wilbur clicked his tongue and glared at his brother, “some guys broke into the house one night trying to find you and mom shot each of them dead right after she was stabbed.” The room went silent. She died so you wouldn’t , went unsaid.

The air felt thick and Tommy’s ears began to ring. He didn’t process his words before they had already left his mouth, “I hate you! I hate you so fucking much!”

“No you don’t-”

“Yes I do! Who are you to tell me what I do and don’t feel? I hate you and I always have,” he paused to catch his breath, “I wish it was you that died instead of mom!”

Suddenly, the world seemed to pause. The water that had been running in the tap just outside the door froze in place, the earth stopped spinning on its axis, and the words that Tommy was seconds away from spewing were clogged in his throat. “You don’t mean that,” Wilbur whispered in the quiet room.

“Yeah,” he nodded.

As if the previous fuse had been reignited, Tommy brought a hand to his neck and tugged at the silver chain around his neck. (“Here, it’s a necklace with a W on it so you can always have me with you,” Wilbur handed him the chain one night before bed. There was a small metal heart, horribly lopsided and rough, with a hand carven W engraved in the center.

“For me?” Tommy looked up at his brother with wide eyes and received a nod in return. The chain was clasped behind his neck and Wilbur brought the heart to the front of his chest. “Now, whenever you’re afraid and I’m not there, you have a piece of me with you. I can still scare off the monsters.”

Tommy giggled and shoved his face into his brother's sweater, smiling widely, “Thanks Wilby, I love it.”)

It took one swift pull and the chain that hadn’t left his neck since he was six was in pieces on the floor, “Yes I do.”

Wilbur stared at the necklace on the floor and back up at Tommy. Tommy’s trembling lip matched his brothers and soon enough, tears were falling down both their faces.

“Tommy…” he had turned on his heel and was out the door, slamming it shut behind him, before Wilbur could finish his sentence. His feet moved without his mind, running presumably nowhere. Tommy was still in that room with his brother, staring at the broken necklace on the floor and the ripped photo next to it.

The cold air nipped at his skin, he realised too late that he had left without a jacket, without Wilbur’s jacket. 

He ignored the way his chest hurt with every step and his eyes burned with fresh tears. He was fine. He was fine he was fine he was fine he was-

Tommy fell to his knees the moment he reached the tide, digging his hands deep into the sand and sobbing. It hurt, it hurt so fucking bad. 

He wanted his mom and he wanted Phil and he wanted anyone but Wilbur because he really, truly, hated him. Tommy sat curled over his knees, flexing his fingers in and out, in and out. His chest was heaving and he couldn’t tell if it was from the run or the anxiety running cold throughout his veins at the moment.

Tommy dug his fingers deeper into the sand and did his best to breathe. Dying from hypothermia on the beach because you passed out probably wasn’t a fun way to go.

The night was dark, the only light emitting onto the beach in front of him coming from the moon. It had been a crescent moon that night. A moth flew past his head and a single buzz could be heard. Tommy sat up to swat whatever bug was making the noise away and the moth circled his head twice before flying off into the night sky again. 

Tommy hated Wilbur, so why did it hurt so bad to tell him that?

Chapter Text

The sound of a gun cocking startled Tommy awake. He wasn’t sure when he fell asleep–or if he even had, he could have easily been lost in his own head and just… clocked out.

He was tempted to give up on the world, let it all go to hell and burn to the ground just so he could go back to sleep for a little while longer.

Something nudged his side harshly and he realised he hadn’t moved yet. “You alive?” A voice above him questioned and Tommy jumped to his feet. It should have been obvious from how far he ran that his legs would give out on him, but he was half-asleep and barely conscious enough to piece together from the sand sticking to his cheek and the smell of salt, that he was still on the beach. His knees buckled and he fell back to the floor almost immediately.

“I didn’t ask you to stand up,” The voice sounded awfully calm and if Tommy had known any better, he would’ve understood that that in itself was a red flag. “Who are you?” A sickeningly sweet tone laced with obvious sarcasm came from the voice, repeating themselves again.

“The fuck’s it to you?” Tommy spat, pushing himself to sit up with the palm of his hands. The voice paused and just as Tommy had believed the voice had gone and left, a cold, round object pressed into the back of his head. 

If he had no idea what the object pressed into his skull was he might have screamed and cursed the voice out, but Tommy did know what it was. He and Wilbur had been in this situation three or four times before and each time he grasped a better understanding of the feeling of a gun held against his head. 

It never got any less scary.

See, the world had ended multiple times for Tommy. Once when it actually began, another when his mother died, when Phil died–he was immune to it at this point. He stopped paying attention because it ended in the night and began again in the morning.

“Are you deaf or something? I could blow your brains out-”

The voice was cut off quickly, “Tommy!” He rushed, “Tommy- Tommy Soot,” the tremble in his voice was barely audible if you had never heard him speak before.

“What are you doing on the beach at… three in the morning?” The gun was lowered from his head and Tommy didn’t waste another moment before snapping his head around and standing again, this time, without collapsing to the voices feet.

Tommy held his breath and waited one, two, three counts before breathing out. He hoped the man who the voice was coming from would have taken his silence as an answer but clearly the world never worked in his favour. It would be too easy.

However, the only sign he received was a hum in reminder of the man's question. “What? A guy can’t take a nap on the beach? Nosy prick,” the gun was shoved back into the man's belt and Tommy felt his shoulders slump at the offering of peace–or at least what he hoped was peace.

“Yeah, a guy can’t take a nap on the beach when he looks twelve,”

Tommy puffed his chest out in retaliation, “I’ll have you know I am fourteen, not twelve you ugly bitch,” he crossed his arms across his chest and slumped forwards slightly, a shiver wracking his body as the wind picked up again. His entire demeanour counteracted his words and any clue that he was a threat was balled up and thrown right back into the ocean.

“You still haven’t told me why you’re alone at night.”

“You still haven’t told me your name,” the teen shot back, glaring at the man in front of him the best he could. It was odd, Tommy realised, how unafraid he was. Rightfully, he should be terrified, the owner of the gun just held against his head was tall, he looked strong–at least strong enough to drag Tommy away to no return–but he really, really , wasn’t. If it were a little less cold he might’ve dropped right into the man's arms and fallen back asleep. 

The voice sighed and turned on his heel, walking in the direction Tommy had run from, “Blade. Now walk with me,” the boy hesitated for a moment, “or I’ll shoot you.” Gripping his arms tighter to his chest and grumbling something incoherent, Tommy followed.

He blamed it on the exhaustion, ignoring the fact he knew he’d regret following in the morning. If he was walking into a death trap then at least he could pretend he was still dreaming.

“Is that even a real name?” Blade nearly stopped, caught off guard by the kids' bluntness yet again.

“I- no, why would I give anyone my real name like this,” the question died on his lips and presented itself more of a stop talking line. Tommy knew those all too well, his mother would snap them his way in a grocery store or in the middle of his brother’s choir recitals. There was no doubt he was loud and obnoxious, and he never cared enough to change that. It was good though, not changing himself, or what that’s what Wilbur had told him, at least.

Tommy merely shrugged and kept his place. 

Again, Blade poked at the tenseness between each other with a ten foot pole, “You out here on your own?” 

“Why, you gonna rob me or something? Awfully rude first impression, don’t you think?” Blade turned to glare at the boy amusingly, “I’m with my brother, Wilbur. You might’ve heard of him, he’s weird but he’s the second best man in the world. Besides me, obviously.”

Blade rolled his eyes, “How in God’s name have I known you for less than ten minutes and you’re already the most annoying person I’ve ever met,” he clicked his tongue slightly but showed no sign of reaching for his gun, which Tommy took as a win.

A grin spread across the teens face and he shoved his hands into the front pockets of his jeans. It wasn’t a compliment in any way of the matter but he took it as such, puffing up his chest again in pride.

“What about you?” Tommy blurted, skipping forwards to be by his side instead of a few feet behind.

“Yeah, just me.”

“Oh,” his shoulders slumped forwards again, “that’s scary.”

The man laughed and stretched out his arm to the side, “Used to be, I got the hang of it now though.” Tommy picked at the small hole on the side of his pants. Now that he was focused on it, he realised how the seam had begun to come undone. He made a mental note to remind Wilbur the next morning.

“Then, like- why did you keep going?” He pulled his hand away and focused on the crunching of dirt beneath his feet.

Blade sighed and Tommy immediately felt bad. It wasn’t meant to come across rude. “It was either that, or I could just give up and die.” He spared a glance at the boy and continued on, “I keep myself busy being alone, finish stuff I wouldn’t get done otherwise and keep myself safe. All I really need is myself.”

A blanket of silence laid itself on the forest and was ripped off just as fast–quite rude if you asked him. Maybe that was what it was like for Wilbur though, he busied himself with Tommy, taking care of him and all.

One of his first memories 

“You guys on your own?” Blade asked.

It wasn’t that Wilbur hadn’t taught him to never speak to strangers, especially if they asked personal questions, he was just mad still. The boiling rage at his brother had lowered to a simmer and replaced itself with a bitter and spiteful feeling. 

If they were robbed by the creepy ass man with a gun who was walking him home, that was on Wilbur, not him. Karma, bitch.

Tommy nodded. “Got chased out of our house by these- weird helicopter things. Wilbur says they were looking for me, I think,” he purposely avoided his mother and Phil.

His haphazard ramble had turned into more of a pity-story before he realised it, only stopping himself when he was met with frozen, blown wide open eyes. 

“Helicopters? They- how long ago was this?” Tommy shook his head sharply like a wet dog and shrugged again. “‘Dunno, I was eight. Stopped keeping track of the years a while ago.”

Tommy was almost afraid again (as if he hadn’t been the entire time) at the several emotions that danced around the man’s face. None of them looked happy. He almost felt bad, as if the guy hadn’t just threatened to kill him for falling asleep.

“Huh, they… I thought they found the rest of them.”

“Found the rest of who?” Tommy scrunched his nose up in confusion. He had always hated secrets.

“What- do you not know what those helicopters mean?” He hummed a quiet no and Blade continued, “They’re looking for experiments, kid. Dead or alive, they won’t stop looking for you ever .” He didn’t have to say there’s no chance you’ll survive or no matter how long someone looks, no one will find you , for Tommy to know.

Tommy felt his gut churn. His ears rang because maybe, just maybe, Wilbur could’ve been wrong. He could’ve been lying to irk Tommy on.

But oh, oh. Wilbur was right.

Distantly he could remember the knife shoved into his pocket that he had left on the beach; he didn’t mind, though. He didn’t deserve to mind. Tommy wanted nothing more than to burst into flames and catch the forest on fire or turn into dust and fall back to the dirt.

Tommy hated himself.

“They were after twenty people to start with, I’m pretty sure. I only know of two people who they haven’t caught yet, one of them being you now.” Blade scratched his palm and let it fall back to his side, picking up his pace ever-so slightly. 

“Who is the other one?” 

“None of your business,” Blade shot back. Tommy couldn’t help but feel guilty, like he had done something wrong just by being there.

He hadn’t even chosen to be here.

“Okay,” Tommy whispered and continued to follow.

It was a gentle thing, something so brittle and innocent that if the wind had blown just a little harder, the words would crash to the floor and break in half. Tommy could hardly make out the knot in his throat, clearing it once loudly. It stayed unfaltered, as if someone had reached into his chest, pulled the strings keeping him whole, and dragged them to the surface.

But he was stubborn and if he was going to float off into space in front of anyone, it would be Wilbur.

He wrapped his arms back around his chest.

Tommy decided, in that moment, he didn’t hate Blade. Blade didn’t treat him like a child and he didn’t offer his coat to Tommy despite his visible shivering, he treated him like any other person he would see crossing the street. It was annoying, the way Wilbur would mother-hen him all hours of the day and panic when he would sniffle. How Wilbur would put Tommy first always .

A kid who killed a man against his will wasn’t a kid anymore. A kid who was the reason his mother was dead would never be a kid again. He knew that; he accepted it with open arms, that from a very young age he was never young.

The two stayed silent, Tommy following the older obediently and Blade walking aimlessly through the forest, until they reached a fork in the road. “So, which way do you live?”

“You think I wasn’t taught stranger danger? I thought I was the kid here… I can walk just fine from here,” Blade stared at him with a staggered expression for a moment before dropping back to a gaze. 

A leaf fell from an overhead tree and Tommy nearly screamed, “Right… listen, don’t tell anyone what I told you, you hear me? Unless you want us both dead.”

The teen lifted his leg and tugged on the top of his sock that was slipping down his heel, irritating the blisters already. He hummed in acknowledgment. It was a bit hypocritical how Blade was asking him to spare his life when he had been the one with Tommys own life in his hands just minutes ago.

“Well, I’ll be off then, thanks for the uh- chauffeur, big man,” Tommy huffed and stepped backwards into the path again, nearly tripping over a rock on the way and steadying himself with spread arms.

Blade nodded and waved a hand in mock salute as he watched him scurry off into the trees again.

“Hopefully I won’t ever see you again, no offence just… you tried to kill me and shit. You get it,” Tommy called and didn’t wait for a response before taking off down the path, ignoring the way his knees burned at the pressure. Again, he forgot to put bandaids on his fresh blisters and cringed at the feeling of the heel of his shoe rubbing against one.

Blade stayed put, half because he wanted to make sure he really did have a brother and wasn’t just lying to get away, and half because he wondered if he would ever see the kid again.

It wasn’t until he had turned to walk home that he realised he never did rob Tommy, what he had woken him up on the beach for in the first place. For once, he could excuse himself.

The sun had barely showed signs of peeking over the horizon anytime soon when he heard the quiet shuffling of feet outside a window and around towards the front doors. It was—Wilbur tapped at the watch on his wrist carefully—4:16 AM. 

A wave of relief washed over Wilbur yet he was barely shocked when a scrawny teenager stumbled through the doors with hair tousled by the wind. 

Tommy was shocked, however, when Wilbur pulled him into a hug with a death grip. “You stupid, stupid child,” he pulled his brothers face into his hands and looked him over once, “what were you thinking, running off like that?” 

Tommy stood frozen in his spot. He didn’t know whether it was from shock or how badly his legs hurt, but he stayed. Wilbur continued to brush his thumb over his cheekbones with a crease between his eyebrows. 

A noise similar to a scoff sounded in his head. Wilbur was the reason he knew why his mom was dead, Wilbur was the reason he met Blade, Wilbur hadn’t even apologised and went straight to scolding him for his own actions, Wilbur was-

The noise also sounded similar to a sob. Desperate. It was Tommy’s fault.

He sucked in a sharp breath and glared at him, “Oh, I’m sorry, thought you made it clear that you hated me. My bad for not thinking about your feelings,” he pulled his face from the hold it was in and stepped back twice.

“I never said I hated you, Tommy. Not once did I even hint at that. You on the other hand-”

He was cut off immediately, “You implied it.” A laugh filled with anything but humour.

Wilbur paused in his spot between the walkway of two sofas, Tommy was keeping himself busy kicking the corner of a dirty rug under his feet. “Everything I do is for you, Tommy!” He snapped, voice heightening again, “Everything that I have ever done in the past, what–six years?--was for you. So don’t you dare go and say that I implied I hate you.”

Tommy felt his eyes well with tears again and he quickly blinked them away, straightening his posture and gripping onto the bottom of his shirt. It had become a habit, balling his shirt or jacket sleeve in his fists when he was stressed, it hurt but it was a good hurt. Enough to ground himself and remind him not to float off into the sky, at least. Wilbur didn’t deserve to see him cry.

What hurt him the most was accepting that if he were to dive head first into hell, Wilbur would follow. Somehow Tommy knew that it wouldn’t be by choice.

“Why though?” Tommy’s voice cracked slightly and he cleared his throat before continuing, “Why do you love me if I’m the reason moms dead? I think it’d be a lot easier to just take care of one person instead of two.”

A silence fell over the room again and Tommy dared to breathe once, hold it, remind himself don’t choke , and let it out. 

“Why didn’t you just leave me in my bed or- or give me to them? Why did you come back for me?” 

The lump in his throat was increasingly harder to ignore, yet he continued to try his best. “You’re so quick to- to say that you saved me, and it’s almost like taking the blame now… that you’re stuck with me. That it’s too late to get rid of me.”

When Tommy was younger, his brother would put him in the bathtub and teach him a new word each time. After he got out and dried off he would run into the living room and tell his mother all about the new word, Wilbur standing proudly behind him. Tommy grew up in the same house he was born into, the house he learned the word indelible in.

He was sure this was an indelible moment.

The wind carried on outside, unbothered by the conversation happening inside the ruins of a church. It felt ironic how a place of worship, something so holy, could feel like blazing lava being poured directly down his back. 

“I know why they wanted me, Wilbur.”

Wilbur was sure if he could describe how he felt in words, it would be nothing less than an infant's wail.

Chapter Text

Tommy didn’t know what happened that night and the morning following, what shifted, but whatever it was stuck with them. Tension seeped through the gaps in the shutters and danced around the two brothers tauntingly. 

It was as if Someone had just yelled, Hey! Nothing will ever be the same again! It hurt the most that that was what had practically happened already.

What Tommy did know however, was that something was bad. He didn’t know what or why or how something was bad, but it was. He was always on edge, his head was screaming at him constantly, and Wilbur was being fucking weird.

It began the week after their fight; Wilbur would pull Tommy out of bed to do their chores for the day, he would keep his coat on despite it being 35 degrees, and he was always out of breath. Everytime Tommy asked he would get a glare and told to mind his business. It didn’t hurt, it didn’t , it was just a little uncalled for when all Tommy wanted to do was help.

It was like being around Wilbur was a burden itself. Like with Blade, Tommy felt guilty for just having a presence in the church. And like with Blade, Tommy still hadn’t chosen to be here.

If he had the choice, he would’ve been stomping out the door and leaving nothing but a cloud of dirt behind. It was exhausting sometimes wanting nothing more than to crawl in on himself like a hermit crab and sulk in his own self hatred for the rest of eternity, but being unable to because that would make his brother sad. It was exhausting never doing anything for himself because he wanted to, but instead to keep Wilbur happy.

He was grateful and lucky to have someone by his side throughout this all and he wasn’t even ten percent sure that he would’ve made it to his tenth birthday if it weren’t for Wilbur, but he wished a lot of the time that things would’ve been different. Maybe worked out in his favour just once.

Tommy felt overwhelmingly guilty everytime he thought like that. It felt the same as wishing for new parents just because yours wouldn’t let you watch a cartoon past bedtime. He knew it was irrational and stupid but no matter how hard he tried to squish it down in his brain until the thought was small enough to forget, he couldn’t.

Typically, whenever Tommy would be overflowing with these thoughts, he would go to bed early for a week and move past it like it was nothing. When he was asleep he could dream and when he could dream he was back in his childhood home with his mother and Wilbur, playing pirates or duck duck goose in the garden while their mother brought them lemonade with a smile on her face.

But Tommy hadn’t dreamt since he was twelve.

One evening after dinner, Tommy had managed to sneak to the roof of the church with his guitar in hand. It wasn’t really his guitar, it belonged to his mother but the day her hands began to shake far too much to keep a steady grip on the strings, she handed it to Wilbur. That year, Tommy’s birthday gift was a slightly chipped and scratched guitar far too big for him. He loved it anyway and eventually grew into the size.

He wasn’t good at the instrument by a long shot, taking more time to position his fingers correctly and memorise the strumming pattern than actually playing. But he didn’t mind and Wilbur didn’t either, he was trying and he was happy, that was all that had ever mattered.

Tommy leaned his back against the cold metal pillar holding the roof above him in place, it was good to ground him with. He had been needing a lot more grounding methods lately and that partially terrified him.

The sun had barely started to lower itself back behind a hill and the breeze was already sending a chill down Tommy’s spine. He pulled his jacket tighter and scrunched his nose up in discomfort because he was not going inside anytime soon, that church had become suffocating much faster than he anticipated and staying up on the roof was his one promise of a break from that, even if that meant shivering until he couldn’t feel his toes through his sneakers anymore.

It was nice up here, away from anyone and anything that could hurt him.

Because oh how it hurt to love something that death could reach. 

Tommy bustled in his seat on the concrete floor and strained his neck down to focus back on the neck of his guitar. He was trying to learn a song he had found on the floor of Wilbur’s room once and tweaked to his liking, scattered underneath dirty clothes and strewn about books or scraps of wood he was carving. 

That was something Tommy missed; For a while, when Tommy was barely twelve, Wilbur would spend his evenings on the back porch with an arm wrapped around Tommy’s torso and both hands working on a piece of wood he was carving into whatever came to mind in that moment. 

It was an extremely tedious process that he still couldn’t wrap his head around and more times than not he would become bored out of his mind before Wilbur had even begun to carve details into the figure, but Wilbur seemed to enjoy himself and even at twelve, Tommy knew that if his brother looked happy than it was his duty to make sure everyone kept him that way. 

Usually, the figures would go to Tommy or Phil and that was something Tommy never complained about. 

He had managed to snag a bird and an angel figure that his brother had carved for him before they left one house or another for good. But, like all things he loved, they were smashed under a stranger's boot in an attempted robbery a few years back—the first time he had shot a man and felt blood splatter onto his face from how close he stood. 

Tommy plucked at a few strings and sighed at the noise it made. He was pretty sure that this guitar was impossible to tune and that the tuning pegs were all lying to him but it still made some sort of noise and that was what mattered. 

He strummed his thumb against the base and pressed a few strings down, smiling at the noise it made. It wasn’t a song, it was a C major and that was it. If anyone else walked by they surely would’ve shot him or something from how annoyingly repetitive the noise was. 

Tommy tensed himself in preparation for Wilbur to come up the stairs and exasperatedly beg him to play anything else. He seemed a lot more on edge lately and that was fine, Tommy could live with that, nothing that walking on a few eggshells here and there couldn’t fix.

Wilbur didn’t come up the stairs though. A crash sounded from below him and Tommy shot his head up at the sudden noise. “Will?” He called, raising his voice just loud enough for Wilbur to hear.

He waited a beat, then two and three. There was no response.

Tommy let himself trust his gut on this one and jumped to his feet so fast it made his head spin a little.

The guitar fell to the floor with a clatter and Tommy could just barely make out the feeling of wood snapping underneath the heel of his sneaker, and he didn’t stop to turn around and check. He wasn’t sure he had ever run that fast down a flight of stairs in his life because by the time he was at the door separating the spiralling stairs from the rest of the church, his lungs were already burning. 

Tommy pushed through the door and towards his brother who was lying on the floor on his side, an arm stretched out in front of him and the other clutching a small yellow bottle. It didn’t take a genius to know that the bottle was a pill bottle and the containings were for Wilbur.

Tommy paused in his tracks and held his breath without realising it. This week had been weird, very fucking weird, and the idea of Wilbur choking down a bottle of pills and killing himself wasn’t as unrealistic as it should’ve been.

Shaking himself off, Tommy pushed forwards and dropped to his knees in front of his brother. Thankfully, the pill bottle wasn’t nearly close to being empty and Tommy could tell from the label that it was just some pain killers. He let out a sigh of relief and swallowed the bile in the back of his throat at the thought of Wilbur being dead on this dirty floor.

He had never been religious. What was the point in believing in a God that everyone looked so highly to, just for that God to turn his back and make the world fall apart with billions still on their morning drive to work. But, he decided to pray to God that night and thank him on all the stars for keeping his brother alive.

As fast as the relief had come however, it was gone. Even if Wilbur wasn’t dead, he was still passed out on the floor and that was still scary as fuck.

Tommy pulled Wilbur to his back and shook his shoulders violently, “Wilbur, get up!” He didn't budge. Tommy tried again and pressed a finger to his neck to feel for a pulse which was thankfully, and barely, beating. 

“Come on Will this isn’t a funny joke. Please get up,” Tommy pleaded.

Again, Wilbur stayed still. Tommy never thought he would be grateful for the quiet environment around the church but here he was, being able to make out a soft whistle of air every time his brother would take a breath out and wondering if maybe this was his one shot of things working out in his favour.

A pretty fucked up way of proving that he should still have hope, if Tommy said so.

Tommy pulled himself to his feet and grabbed Wilbur’s underarms. There was no chance in hell that he was waking him up anytime soon. He groaned as he pulled his brother across the church floor, surely getting his trousers covered with dirt and crumbs and truly not caring. An ounce of spite egged the boy on because he was still mad at Wilbur for their fight, and even though he was shaking with adrenaline, he couldn’t find it in himself to not feel a little giddy at the thought of Wilbur throwing a fit over his new jeans being dirtied already. Take that bitch.

He dropped Wilbur’s head onto the mattress against one of the walls and pulled his legs up as well, throwing the blanket over his shivering figure. It really wasn’t that cold in the church, the walls did a decent job at keeping the warmth in and Wilbur was wearing a coat and sweater like usual. Even just in his hoodie, Tommy felt the urge to peel it off from the difference in temperature compared to outside. But Tommy had never dealt with the aftermath of someone passing out before, he had seen people who were already passed out and even watched a man’s knees buckle beneath himself when he saw the gun that Wilbur had been holding, but never taken care of them afterwards. So, he decided that his brother shivering was something completely normal and a side effect of anyone passing out.

It was possibly to calm his running nerves but he wouldn’t admit that.

Staring down at his brother, Tommy remembered his guitar and was running through the doors and up the spiralling stairs before he realised it. When he reached the roof his eyes burned and he felt the sudden urge to cry. Maybe it was the events of his brother that he should probably be focusing on with the buzzing fear in the back of his head, but Tommy had to bite his tongue to not break down crying right there. The guitar that he had known as long as his mother was lying on the concrete floor at his feet broken in a way that was still just barely playable but one gust of wind would have it snapped in half and broken beyond repair.

Tommy grabbed the instrument and the two chunks of wood beside it and carried them back inside without another thought. He locked both doors behind him and tapped his fingers against his leg in a subtle pattern to remind himself that there were much bigger issues than a broken toy–he was being selfish.

Setting the guitar and its broken pieces in the corner of the room, Tommy trudged back over to his brother and sat himself next to the mattress on the floor.

His head hurt and all he wanted to do was wake up from this fucked up dream he had been having for six years.

It took two hours for Wilbur to finally peel his eyes open, all sticky and crusted over with sleep. Tommy jumped at the rustling in the blankets and felt his throat jump to his throat, catching him off guard from the stick he had been dragging the dust on the floor around with.

“Wilbur? Are you okay?” He pressed, leaning just a bit closer to be sure that he really was awake.

Wilbur hummed in confusion and blinked up at the roof, lifting his neck slightly to glance around the room and land his eyes on Tommy. He sighed at the sight, “Yeah, yeah I’m okay. What happened?” He grumbled sleepily, voice scratchy in a way that had Tommy wishing a cough drop was on hand.

“You passed out I guess. Scared the fucking shit out of me,” Tommy frowned and twisted the hem of his T-shirt between his fingers, keeping his eyes locked with his brother.

“Oh. I’m sorry Toms… I don’t even remember getting dizzy or anything. I didn’t mean to scare you,” a hint of guilt laced Wilbur’s words and Tommy nodded understandingly.

“It’s alright big dubs, I know you didn’t do it on purpose,” Tommy leaned his chin on his knees that were currently pulled to his chest like he was hugging himself. “Just- what made you pass out?”

Wilbur let his head fall back down to the pillow with a huff and frowned, “I’ve felt like shit the past week, all lethargic and weak. I think I’m sick or something.”

The same wave of fear that he had felt when Phil died was back again and Tommy had to brace himself so as to not let them spew out of his mouth without permission. He wanted to mutter a yeah, I could tell dipshit , but he didn’t trust himself to speak safely right now.

As if Wilbur could read his mind, he cut him off mid-freak the fuck out, “I’m okay though, don’t worry about me. If I was seriously sick or something I would look a lot worse than I do now. I probably just need to sleep it off.”

Leaning back into the blankets, Wilbur sighed again and the same tired look in his eyes was back. Tommy wanted to laugh at that. Oh yes dear brother that is the only family I have left and only person I know, I won’t panic about you being sick, that would be ridiculous! Not like anyone we have loved or cared about has ever died from a sickness, no no.

He rolled his eyes and and mumbled a fuck you under his breath.

“Could you get me some water though? My throat hurts like a bitch,” Wilbur sucked in a sharp breath before letting it out his mouth in a sigh.

Tommy nodded quickly and pushed himself back to his feet, walking towards the back of the church again.

He had never taken care of Wilbur while he was sick, or anyone while they were sick–he relied on his memory from the days he was so ill that he could barely keep down a tablespoon of water during the day and Wilbur was the only one left to nurse him back to health.

Stumbling back to the spot he found his brother, Tommy dug through the grey duffel bag stuffed underneath the bottom of a flap in one of the sofas, sighing in relief when he came up with a half drunken water bottle and an old T-shirt. Dumping a good quarter of the water onto the cloth, Tommy clambered back to the mattress and laid the cloth on Wilbur’s forehead.

Oddly, Wilbur continued to shiver. An ounce of fear clawed at Tommy’s eyelids and begged him to cry and cry until his brother would give up the act and hug him until he felt better, but Tommy knew better. He knew that this wasn’t an act and that Wilbur wasn’t getting better just because of a single person's wish.

It was selfish and it was childish but he was afraid.

“Here, Will, drink,” the teen kneeled to the floor and pressed the bottle against his brother's hands that were flopped beside his head. He showed no signs of moving to grab it himself.

With a groan, Tommy put a hand behind his neck, almost pulling it away at the damp, clammy feeling that came from the touch. Wilbur pulled his eyes open with as much effort as he could when his head was lifted just off the makeshift pillow it laid on previously. 

A bottle was pressed to his lips and he chugged the water without hesitation, weakly bringing his hands to the one holding the container. Both pairs of hands were shaking.

He finished half the bottle and Tommy dropped his head back down gently against the mattress, setting the empty plastic on the floor beside him. 

Looking at Wilbur like this was terrifying. It wasn’t that he looked dead or anything, he just had sweat rolling down the side of his bright red face and was shaking despite it. He was also eerily pale considering they spent most of their day’s in the blazing sun. Tommy reminded himself to never make a fuss out of being sick again after this and apologise for the times he had when Wilbur was all better.

Lifting the cloth for a moment, Tommy brought a hand to his brother's forehead and brushed the hair that had stuck itself against it with his palm. 

“Can you play a song?” Wilbur waved lazily towards the corner of the room where the guitar laid and Tommy let out a whine.

“I can’t, I broke it.”

Wilbur tilted his head to the side and hummed just above a whisper, “Bring it to me and a roll of tape.”

Tommy stared at him with an expression that looked mildly similar to that of someone who was constipated. “What? You- no, Will, you’re sick. You couldn’t even hold a fucking water bottle by yourself without shaking like a wet dog or something.”

Wilbur flipped him off tiredly and pushed himself up as best he could so that his back was half-way leaned against the wall, “Okay and I want you to play me a song so go get the tape.”

Waiting a moment to see if Wilbur would realise how stupid he sounded, Tommy grumbled and gathered a roll of duct tape from the bag and his guitar before dropping it onto his brother’s lap.

He stared in silence as Wilbur pieced together the instrument and fumbled with the roll of tape before finally ripping a piece off.

“That doesn’t-”

“Stop backseat taping,” Wilbur shot a half lidded glare the teens way and Tommy huffed in annoyance, shutting up and crossing his hands over his chest.

It took a painfully long amount of time (three minutes) for Wilbur to finish mending the guitar and hand it back to Tommy. It was ugly, neon green duct tape with hot pink skulls and bows on their heads being strewn across the body of it, but it was playable and that was all that Tommy cared about. 

“Please don’t play the Wii shop theme,” Wilbur flopped back onto the bed and any energy that had been left in him from before he passed out had withered it’s way out the window and into some unfamiliar star again.

“Oi bitch! What’s wrong with the Wii shop theme?” Tommy squawked, ignoring the smile threatening to form on his face.

Wilbur shut his eyes and laughed under his breath, bringing his hands to his armpits for extra warmth. 

“Okay fine, be that way. What song do you want me to play then?”

“You pick, doesn’t matter to me,” Tommy puffed out his chest and pushed his fear deep back into the pit of his stomach, replacing it with the feeling of strings on his fingertips and the sound of a guitar instead. He plucked a few strings and hummed quietly.

He ran his fingers across the strings and hummed a quiet tune, something familiar and warm that even made Tommy himself feel safe.

Wilbur stared at Tommy with flushed cheeks and a smile pulling at his lips and Tommy couldn’t help but smile knowing why. He knew four songs on the guitar–at least that actually counted–and all of them were played on the same six notes. One, however, stood out; Tommy’s lullaby.

It had become a recurring theme when he was younger, stumbling through his big brother’s door half asleep and terrified from some weird nightmare he had just woken up from, and each time, Wilbur would set him on the bed next to him, smother him in blankets, and sing some sea shanty that was almost fully composed of word’s Tommy had no idea what they meant. 

Obviously, the sea shanty wasn’t Tommy’s song, it had been snatched from some Spotify playlist by Wilbur ages ago, but Tommy didn’t know that at the time and swore every time it was sung that it was his song.

He still loved that song and it had been Wilbur who taught him how to play it on the guitar in the first place so it really shouldn’t have been a shock that he would play it now, but maybe it was from Wilbur’s sick brain that he looked so moved by the gesture.

Tommy nodded his head along slightly and leaned his chin against his knee as he continued to play.

Wilbur smiled and pushed his face further into the jacket beneath his head. The notes were all off and it was slightly out of tune and there was an occasional swear when he messed up the song but Wilbur didn’t seem to mind so neither did he.

“How was that?” Tommy asked, innocently. He set the guitar down to his side and moved closer to Wilbur, shuffling slightly to pull the blankets higher up on his brother’s chest.

“It was nice-“ hands were carded through his hair and he shivered, melting into the touch. Wilbur shut his eyes and felt his words fall off his tongue. 

Tommy hummed in agreement and picked the guitar up again, he wouldn’t sleep until his brother was better because that's just what Wilbur had done for him. Leaning his head against the concrete wall their bed was against, Tommy kept playing.

Tommy stayed there playing until his arms hurt from the position they were in and needles were shooting through his right leg from sitting on it and it falling asleep. He wanted to keep playing, he did , but he was so tired from today and he could hardly tell what time it was anyways.

Urging himself forwards, Tommy pulled Wilburs, arm out from under the blanket and held his wrist up to see the time that read on his watch. 11:46 PM.

It wasn’t crazily late or anything, he wasn’t ever asleep until the moon was directly above him anyways, but it was still late enough to sleep and hope Wilbur would do as he said and feel better when he woke. 

Pulling Wilbur’s sleeve back over his wrist, Tommy froze. There, crawling it’s way up Wilbur’s arm and starting from his palm, were the same golden lines that Phil had, wrapping themselves around like vines.

The same golden lines that had been on Phil’s neck when they found him dead in his own blood.

Tommy dropped his brother’s arm like it had burned him and he felt sick.

Chapter Text

“Tommy?” Wilbur mumbled just over a whisper and craned his neck upwards to look at his brother. Tommy continued to run a hand through Wilbur's hair and work at the few knots he had left behind.

“Go back to sleep Will, you need the rest,” Tommy rolled his head to the side, cheek pressed against the cold concrete wall. It was a nice feeling honestly, made him feel at ease.

Attempting to push himself up and failing miserably when he fell back to the bed with a huff, Wilbur narrowed his eyes and hummed, “You look tired. When did you wake up?”

“A while ago, I’m okay. Please go back to sleep,” eyeing Wilbur carefully, Tommy hoped he didn’t look as afraid as he sounded.

And, that wasn’t a lie particularly, it just wasn’t the detailed truth. He had woken up a while ago; 8 AM the previous morning, he was fine. He could take care of himself.

Tommy didn’t- couldn’t sleep after he saw the golden lines that were quickly spreading their way up to Wilbur’s shoulder. In his defence, how would anyone sleep after that? Phil had died from this exact thing and Tommy didn’t even know if there was a way to fix it. He didn’t know if Wilbur’s promise to get better would stay a promise, so Tommy decided to promise it himself. He promised that he would make sure Wilbur got better; cross your fingers, lay it on your heart.

Most likely due to the fact that he was so sick he could hardly hold his own weight, Wilbur grumbled incoherently and settled back into the makeshift pillow underneath his head. He didn’t say another word or try to fight sleep before his breathing was evened out again, leaving Tommy in a wave of relief that sagged his shoulders. It was much easier taking care of a sleeping and sick Wilbur than a delirious and clingy sick Wilbur.

He laid his palm against his brother’s chest and counted seven times in his head each time that Wilbur’s heart beat. He waited another three, then another, and another before finally dipping out of the bed slowly and carefully so as to not wake Wilbur.

Wilbur had made it very clear that anytime he left his brother’s sight he was to tell him why, where, and when he did. That wasn’t abnormal to Tommy–at least anymore–and he had grown used to how protective Wilbur was. At first it had made him feel safe knowing that he was loved so much by somebody that they would be in distress if he were to disappear, but that left as fast as it came and by the time Tommy had turned nine he had quickly become annoyed with it.

Now was different, however. Wilbur was asleep and Tommy technically wasn’t sneaking out because if he tried telling his brother he would either receive nothing in return or a slap across the face for waking him up, so he was certain he could get away with this ungrounded.

Tommy hadn’t meant to snoop through Wilbur’s things and find the empty pill bottle, but he had. Part of him was grateful for that because the date called for a refill on the same day that Wilbur had passed out and gotten to where he was now.

It wasn’t like Tommy could just call the pharmacy and bug them until they refilled his medicine for free, using his charm to get his way (because what the fuck was insurance?) All the medicine that was left on the server was from pharmacy's that had shut down forever years ago or tried to continue working and all the employees eventually just… died.

Slipping his backpack onto his shoulder with its dangling and barely working singular strap, Tommy took one last glance at his brother, whispered an I love you and locked the door behind him.

The walk to the dome wasn’t especially treacherous or out of the way, Tommy had made sure to stay on a clear path back to the church because he promised himself that he would make it back home to Wilbur.

He had made this walk many times before, more times than he could count anymore if he was honest, but never the same route twice. His mother had given him a watch on the first birthday of his that was celebrated in the basement in complete darkness and silence. Neither Tommy nor Wilbur were allowed to make such as a whimper that night and the only way they could tell when they would be allowed out the crate was by Tommy’s new birthday watch. When their mother had finally unlocked the crate they were stuffed into, Wilbur kept his hold on his little brother and marched straight to his room, slamming it shut with his heel and locking it behind him.

That night, Wilbur sang Tommy to sleep as usual and that night, Tommy had his first nightmare. He cried so much that night that his voice was hoarse and his throat was sticky by the next morning.

Tommy hated remembering that day. He knew his mother was good, he just didn’t know why Wilbur had such a hard time believing that sometimes. He pressed the plastic guitar pick hung around his neck with a faded silver chain between his thumb and index finger, mindlessly twirling it around as he kept his eye on the approaching copper tower in the distance. A miracle that he had spotted it when they had first arrived.

Tilting his head down to focus back on the map in his hold, it was also a miracle that Wilbur was too out of it to realise that Tommy had gone through his shit and found a map of the server. He knew that Wilbur had a map, he had seen him use it plenty of times before and had been allowed to hold it but he could never have his own. Tommy never understood that but like most things, he learned not to question it.

When their mother had died Wilbur and Tommy spent the first sixteen months running. Tommy knew why they were running now, but at the time he didn’t and he couldn’t help but wonder how he just went along with it all, only listening to big brother Wilbur and nothing else. They spent that first year and so sleeping in a new area each night. Wilbur always said that it was far too dangerous to stay put so they never did, they kept moving. At first Tommy had tried to make friends and was, of course, successful. He talked to any person he saw his age and spent the whole day playing with a toy they found in an old sandbox behind a schoolyard, and then the next day they were gone.

It was always a mystery whether the parents had picked up and left, they died, or if his brother was lying to him about both scenarios so that it wouldn’t hurt Tommy worse to keep leaving and never see those friends again.

That wasn’t now though and that meant he had no reason to think about it, because Wilbur had stopped to think and now he was… well, sick. Very sick. Tommy gripped the poorly laminated and worn map in his fists and sighed.

In the dead centre of the map was a large sphere the same colour as his brother’s lines. The reminder pushed him to quicken his pace; he was out here without telling Wilbur first for a reason–get bandages, find some payment, buy a shit ton of medicine, and get the hell out of there. Tommy hadn’t gone into a city or a drop that stuck out like a sore thumb by himself in months, it was far too dangerous for someone to travel to such an occupied location alone, let alone a child .

Tommy didn’t really have a choice though, and he continued to tell himself that just to stick it in his head in case Wilbur caught him sneaking back into the church later, definitely not to make himself feel less guilty. He would never.

If he could ignore the weight in his chest urging him to go home, it almost felt nice to be on his own for once. 

The sun wasn’t shining absurdly bright and leaving him with sunburns if he chose to walk without the shade of an overhead tree for ten minutes, the air wasn’t stuffy and thick with grey smog as it always was, and if he thought hard enough, Tommy was sure he could recall seeing a white and grey spotted bunny scurrying across the dirt path.

It was nice. It was too nice. The world was never this kind to him unless it was throwing him an absent-minded apology.

Tommy stepped over the log of a fallen tree, maggots and fleas buzzing around the base that had been chipped away with time and rotted to it’s centre. He held back a grimace at the sight–it’s not like the bug’s were doing anything wrong , if he were a bug he too would be eating mushy wood. It didn’t sound half bad even as a living person.

Well, as alive as you could be in the apocalypse.

He tugged at the strap connected to his backpack hanging onto his shoulder and sucked a deep breath in before huffing it out heavily. He wasn’t a baby, he could handle a little violence without being babysat the entire time. 

The heavy plastic nearly stuck to his head from how tight the leather straps were reminded him of his gas mask. It was an annoying chunk of white and yellow plastic that had a one-way vent on either side of the cheeks, serving to do nothing but get in the way of any given tight crawl spaces. 

Trudging over the overgrown patches of grass and moss, Tommy could only hope that his thick jacket and trousers served as good protection as a radiation suit would. He didn’t know where that one was, most likely locked in the safe behind the spiralling stairs in the church, and he had no choice but to risk it. He walked directly towards the opening to the dome, a large hole in the bottom with a rope ladder that looked as if it could barely hold one person’s weight. It did, however, because he pulled himself up onto the ledge with little trouble and only gave himself three seconds to balance on the unsteady metal.

The scenario vaguely reminded him of when Wilbur cut his hand on the unsteady platform that Tommy caused to break. 

He could do his best to forget about that though, at least for now. He was busy making Wilbur better and he did not have the time to stop and breathe for himself–not when his brother was sick at the church. That came first because he knew that Wilbur would do the same if it were Tommy in that bed.

He climbed the last few stairs and stepped out around the corner to stay out of view of anyone who had possibly gotten to the loot crate earlier than him, pulling the collar of his T-shirt over his nose and mouth to be sure that any radiation wouldn’t pass through the mask.

It was silly, using a thin cloth to stop a deadly chemical was about as useful as telling it to stop with words, but he hadn’t been thinking about himself at the moment. He was focused on Wilbur; Wilbur getting better, Wilbur’s medicine, Wilbur’s asthma, Wilbur’s cut. All that mattered to him right now was Wilbur.

Tommy ducked forwards and climbed underneath the tallest platform in the building, using it to shield himself from anything he couldn’t shoot fast enough with his head in a loot crate, fumbling with the latch of the box until it opened with a snap. 

He sighed in relief at the sight, nothing had been taken yet, he was the first to get here.

But, being the first to get there also meant that others were on their way, if not already climbing the stairs like Tommy had done just seconds ago. He realised this and rushed himself, digging through the box and pulling medical items–or what looked like medical items–into the slim duffel bag.

Five water bottles, two packs of bandages, wound ointment, a box of matches, seven rolls of gauze. 

Tommy scanned the bag over once he had deemed the loot crate empty of medical supplies and zipped the bag shut in a swift motion, jumping to his feet and pulling it back over his spare shoulder. The universe didn’t work on Tommy Soot’s side but it did give him an extra push from time to time. Tommy assumed this was one of those times considering he had ended up with a box of matches and more than one water bottle.

The sun began to beat down on the back of his neck again and Tommy realised that his luck had run short. He adjusted the mask on his chin once before climbing over the wall of the dome, sliding down the curved wall a few feet until he met another unsturdy metal platform. 

Something good, he supposed, that came out of being a child in the fight for your life was the fact that he could run, climb, jump, and he never got tired. Times like these that youth came to his advantage because the moment his feet hit the ground Tommy could hear the muffled laughter of what he assumed was a man and woman digging through the loot crate and only waited half as long as he usually would to hear their response to it being emptied already. It was humorous hearing and seeing the distress that people would go through after travelling miles for a decent drop, only for it to be wiped dry the minute they arrive.

As he expected, the man groaned loudly and a thud shook the building slightly, most likely the crate being dropped onto the cement floor. The woman cursed just loud enough for Tommy to hear that it was closer than before–they were coming his way.

If he was a normal kid, Tommy thought he would enjoy superheroes like the ones in Phil’s old comics–they got to watch civilians throw their fits over whatever it was and not have to deal with the guilt of not helping afterwards.

But he wasn’t a normal kid. He was Tommy Soot and he was alive during the end of the world. He had watched his mother die, his friend die, and was about to watch his brother die. He was pretty sure normal kids didn’t experience that, but who knew anyways. Tommy dropped onto the dirt and landed on his heels, rocking backwards just enough to catch himself in time before he tipped over. 

Pulling a hand over his head to block the sun, he stared up at the sky for a moment. The sun was directly above him–noon–and he still hadn’t found Wilbur’s medicine. He assumed it must have been rare or handmade because he had never seen a bottle with the label “Potassium Iodide” across it in small block letters.

Either way, easy to find or not, Tommy would get his brother that medicine and he would get better.

Standing in front of a random boy he had just bumped into, Tommy was quick to realise that he would probably not be getting his brother’s medicine. He stumbled back a few steps, holding his jaw in his hand and massaging it lightly, “What the fuck man!”

The boy standing in front of him raised his fist again and before Tommy could react, he had fallen to the floor flat on his back, the wind being knocked out of him abruptly.

“Who the hell are you, huh?” The boy kicked at Tommy’s ribs and only stopped to drop to Tommy’s level when he had managed to push himself up and keep a firm grip on his side. Tommy narrowed his eyes and pushed himself forwards, knocking into the boy's chest with his shoulder and swinging twice, punching him across the jaw both times. 

The boy seemed hardly phased and kicked his leg out from underneath him. It took three tries but eventually a sickening crack sounded throughout Tommy’s skull and what felt like warm snot–but he had clearly known better–began to trickle out his nose and onto his chin.

Tommy held his hand over his nose like a cage, an act of protecting it from being irreversibly broken. He wasn’t even sure if that could happen but Wilbur had said so when he broke his arm a few years back and hid under a bush crying for an hour because it hurt. The only way Wilbur managed to urge him out was by scaring him and saying it could be forever broken if they didn’t get help right then and there.

It seemed very fake, but Tommy was not going to take that chance on his nose of all things. 

The boy pounced again and kicked Tommy back to the floor, stepping on his chest with half his weight and leaving Tommy struggling for air. 

“What the fuck do you want?” Tommy screeched, clawing at the boy's ankle with his uncut nails and sliding back when it caused a yelp of pain and the pressure to leave his chest. 

“What do I want? First of all,” The boy pulled out a knife at the same time that Tommy grabbed his gun from his back pocket, “you’re the one who tried mugging me, you started this!”

Tommy growled like a rabid dog with all kinds of diseases, “Didn’t mean you had to bash my fuckin’ head in! Bit over dramatic innit?” Running his tongue over his bottom lip, Tommy could feel the spot he had bitten his lip to not start crying when the boy threw the first punch.

Maybe it was stupid, holding a gun at a knife fight and not firing, but they were kids; fourteen. They hadn’t been expected to know any better because they were fourteen and they were fucking idiots.

For a split second, Tommy almost regretted coming to the dome for medicine and bandages. He almost thought that he was too young to be doing this alone—to be doing this at all. 

But then again, who could act their age when the world had fallen apart around them. 

“Tubbo! Stop- let him go!” A voice screamed in the distance, the sound of leaves crunching under their feet as they assumably ran. The hand gripping his shoulder loosened before dropping back down to the boy’s side again.

Tommy wiped his nose with the back of his hand and grimaced at the blood smeared across it. It wasn’t a heavy flow of blood, just a few drops here and there that had surely stained his T-shirt and covered his lips and chin, but it still hurt. 

“Hey, hey- you good?” Tommy snapped his head to the side to glare at whoever was talking to him and paused. That was Blade, the same guy who held a gun to his head the week prior and then attempted to befriend him right after. 

That fucking psychopath. If jails and telephones still existed Tommy was sure he would’ve called the police and had him arrested on the spot.

But, they didn’t.

Tommy yanked his backpack to his shoulder and frowned, “Yep, perfectly great,” he shot a weak thumbs up and laced his words with fake enthusiasm. 

“Tommy, right?” Blade waited a beat and Tommy nodded his head, allowing him to continue. He was by himself and Blade was notably… not. Even with a gun Tommy was sure if he tried to run he wouldn’t make it very far, “Why were you-”

“He tried to mug me! I don’t even have anything good on me so he’s either a fucking dumbass or- a fucking dumbass!” The boy huffed, throwing his knife across the dirt upon a glance from Blade. It skid across the floor and left a small cloud of dust out of reach. 

Tommy narrowed his eyes again at the boy and wiped another few droplets of the now slowing stream of blood coming from his nose, “Oh fuck off! I wasn’t actually gonna shoot you, I ‘dunno who you’re with and what mess that’s gonna get me into.” 

Blade pulled a dirty rag from his backpack and passed it to Tommy slowly at an attempt of peace. Tommy reluctantly took it as such and mumbled a quiet thank you as he pressed the cloth against his now clotting bloody nose.

Slipping his backpack over his shoulders again, Blade hummed in response, “You had it coming though, I mean, like… what did you think would happen if you tried to mug someone while you had a gun in your back pocket.” 

Alright, so maybe he didn’t just bump into a random kid. Maybe he did try to mug him for his papers and maybe he did throw the first punch, but that wasn’t important.

Either he didn’t notice or didn’t care, but Blade kept his same unmoved expression as Tommy practically turned red from anger, “You were watching the whole time? And you didn’t think to step in earlier when I had my fucking nose bashed in?” Tommy gritted his teeth and clenched his fists as if he was going to attack Blade himself, but as soon as the anger came it had dispersed and sizzled out into nothing.

“I mean yeah, you think I’m gonna be some mediator? I don’t leash my kid,” Blade snorted and the boy quickly followed suit.

“Thanks asshole, I feel so much better now,” Tommy deadpanned sarcastically, staring Blade in the eyes with an annoyed expression. If you didn’t know Tommy, you’d think he was moments from snapping and turning into a human fireball, but if you did know him you would know that he was exhausted and defeated.

Blade could most likely tell because he quickly straightened up again and cleared his throat, “Why’d you try and mug him? He doesn’t even have a bag on him.”

It could have been the fact he hadn’t slept the prior night but Tommy began to spew his words faster than his brain could comprehend, “Needed the paper, he looks like he’s got money at least,” he gestured vaguely towards the boy, “and I’m like, three scraps off from being able to get medicine for my brother. Oh yeah, Wilbur, you remember him?”

Blade blinked twice and nodded, “Yep, you still fightin’?” 

“No- well, I don’t think so at least. Anyways, he’s really sick, like can’t-hold-a-cup-by-himself sick, so I came here to get him shit to feel better and all that. You get it I assume.”

Silence laid over the three for a moment before Blade spoke up finally, “Seems pretty serious,” he pulled six sheets of paper out of his pocket, folded over four times, and waved it in front of Tommy. “Here, get his medicine and just- don’t do this again, alright?”

Tommy didn’t hesitate to grab the paper and shove it into his bag as fast he could. If someone was offering him paper just to not fight a random kid again, he would gladly take it, no protest needed.

“And if he gets worse or something just- y’know where I found you on the beach, right?” Tommy nodded sharply, already pulling his backpack up to his shoulders, “Yeah, we live in that lighthouse so just find me or leave a note or something.” Ignoring the way the boy next to Blade frowned and craned his neck up to stare at him like he was crazy, Tommy forced a small smile and nodded again.

“Got it, I- we’ll be fine. Thanks for the papers though,” Blade raised his eyebrows slightly and pressed his lips together into a tight smile. Tommy realised then that Blade was odd. Odd in the way that left someone wondering why a person was so kind when they truly didn’t have to be. 

Taking the gesture as his leave, Tommy waved in mock salute and turned on his heel, heading back up the path he had come from to start.

“Wait-” the boy shouted, running towards him with a hobble. It made Tommy feel a small sense of pride knowing he hurt the boy as much as he’d been hurt in the fight. “I’m Tubbo by the way.” 

Tubbo stuck his hand out for Tommy to shake, which he accepted slowly, eyeing the other carefully. “Sorry by the way, for the whole-” Tubbo pointed to Tommy’s nose lazily and couldn’t help but laugh under his breath at the way he gagged and looked away when Tommy took the rag off his nose to adjust it to a cleaner, less bloody side. Tubbo dropped his hand back down eventually to pull a compass out his back pocket.

Tommy stared in bewilderment for a moment before receiving a nod of approval towards it. He took the compass outreached towards him and raised an eyebrow, “What’s this?” He flipped the gadget around in his palm for a moment before refocusing on the boy in front of him.

“A compass, it’s like a GPS or- or a map I guess? If you follow the arrow it’ll lead you to Blade’s house.” Tommy scrunched his eyebrows together in confusion, “Oh yeah, don’t mind the ‘Your Tubbo’ on the back, it was a joke between me and an old friend so… yeah.”

The metal of the compass was cold in Tommy’s hand and it was yet another reminder that this was real, this was not a dream, and he was standing here right now. This time with Tubbo .

“Oh, that- thank you,” he smiled at the small bronze circle with a water damaged set of directions behind the glass, a genuine smile.

Tubbo put both his thumbs up and backed up down the hill again, “No problem, hope your brother feels better soon or whatever.”

Tommy ran his thumb across the back of the compass and smiled again at the feeling of words carved into the metal. Obviously it wasn’t made for him but that didn’t mean he couldn’t pretend it was. Dreaming about things that could never happen was always better anyways, there was no chance of ever losing it if it stayed a picture in his brain.

Shoving the compass into his back pocket, Tommy rolled his shoulders back and continued up the path. He would be fine, Wilbur would be fine, everything would work out because it always did and that meant it always would.

When Tommy pushed through the church doors finally, night had fallen and the light of the sliver of a moon and stars was the only illumination guiding him back to the church. Of course, the one night he was sure he would be back before dinner and didn’t need a flashlight, he would be out until nearly midnight.

Again, it wasn’t by choice, the walk to the shops was terribly far and well over ten miles just one way. 

Tommy managed to shut the door and tredge over to the mattress where his brother still lay asleep, knees seconds from buckling. He was used to walking far and working until the sun set and rose again, but not after being beat up and breaking his nose. 

Or, what Tommy assumed was a broken nose. He wasn’t a doctor and neither was Wilbur, not like it would help any if he was.

Stumbling forwards, Tommy collapsed forwards onto the mattress and laid there for a moment, basking in the warmth emitting from Wilbur’s skin. That couldn’t be healthy in the slightest, Tommy knew that, but none of this was healthy. What was five minutes more going to do?

When he had finally built up enough strength to sit up and force feed a spoonful of medicine to his brother, his eyes were drooping dangerously. He was tired, so so so tired, yet no matter how long he shut his eyes, counted blue sheep, or relaxed his muscles, he couldn’t fall asleep. 

Maybe it was from the stress that had built its way around Tommy’s skull like a bird cage, or the fact he hadn’t eaten in three days and was only just realising, or-

Tommy wished more than anything that he could go home; Mom, Wilbur, Tommy.

Tommy attempted to use a gracious amount of wound ointment he had retrieved from the loot drop and wrapped a bandage around Wilbur’s hand with the most damage done from the radiation lines. In all honesty, now that he was looking at it from the light of the flashlight and window he was too lazy to close, the lines looked like rust itself in a way. 

So, Tommy decided that’s what it was then. Rust. The radiation lines were caused by rust and they were rust. Rust didn’t mean something was broken for good, it could be polished and repainted and washed off, but it also didn’t promise that it would ever be the same as before. The motor would always run a little wrong or sound slightly too staticy, the wheels of a red wagon wouldn’t roll as fast no matter how much it was oiled.

Tommy wondered if Wilbur would be the same. He wondered if Wilbur would be just so slightly wrong and Tommy wouldn’t be able to do anything at all.

But this was Wilbur, his big brother, and big brother’s never got hurt or afraid. Instead, Tommy counted the stars from the crack in the roof that was just big enough to see twenty four if he squinted. He did his best to ignore the moth’s fluttering outside the window that he had forgotten to shut.

That night, Wilbur slept soundly as he had the entire day and like the previous night, Tommy didn’t.

Chapter Text

Tommy, for one, was exhausted. He had been on the brink of death itself before, riddled with one sickness or another, and even that couldn’t compare to the God awful exhaustion settling deep into his bones. 

Sleep was easy, Wilbur didn’t keep him awake because the only times he did wake up were to shuffle to the bathroom and curl back up on the mattress ten minutes later. It was odd, honestly, how he would sleep through the night, five hours or so, and still wake up as if he hadn’t slept in days. 

Truly, Tommy believed that he must have done something to deserve this. Some fight with Wilbur or bug he stepped on without noticing, because Wilbur had been like this for a week and it had to be karma prompting it all to begin after Phil had died.

Taking care of sick people was hard. Taking care of sick people when you were never taught how to was even harder. This responsibility had never fallen into his hands before and that was the scariest part, he had never had to deal with this, it was always himself getting sick, never Wilbur. He could only hope that he was doing this right.

But, he wasn’t a complete idiot. Growing up, he and Wilbur shared a room, so the first and only time that Wilbur got sick, Tommy was forced to watch. Their mother rushed in with some medicine and a glass of water, a clean wet cloth for his head, every three hours, so he followed that the best he could. Every other hour (just to be sure) he would soak a rag in cold water, lay it on Wilbur’s neck, and force down some water, even if he wasn’t conscious. The only time Tommy wasn’t doing this was when he was asleep, and by day three he had begun to wake up instinctually anyways.

He really was trying his best to keep himself and Wilbur together, going to loot drops every other day and sitting outside with a gun to be sure that they weren’t robbed, but it was fucking hard. Tommy was fourteen and not once in his life was he left to fend for himself. Wilbur was the one protecting him, never Tommy. It was only day seven and had already been the worst week of his life.

Tommy plucked at the strings on his guitar gently, barely making a noise at all. He had always hated silence, wrapping around his brain like thorns and giving him room to think–thinking was never good. So, to fill the void of Wilbur’s pestering, Tommy made music. It wasn’t good, per say, but it kept him company when his brother couldn’t.

It was nice and he was contempt staying here until Wilbur got better.

Five knocks sounded from across the room, a loud “Tommy?” coming after.

Before anything, Tommy snapped his head to the side of the bed his brother was sprawled out on, only standing when he was seemingly unmoved. He grabbed his gun sat beside the bed and held it low, walking to the door on his heels to avoid making noise. The only person that knew his name besides Wilbur was Blade, and Blade did not sound like a squeaky mouse like the voice on the other side of the door had.

He held his breath and swung open the door, gun crookedly pointed forwards. 

“Jesus Christ man! Put the gun down- I’m not here to rob you!” Tubbo threw his hands up and took a step back, eyes blown wide. 

Almost immediately, Tommy dropped his arms to his side, the gun going with. “How was I supposed to know that? How did you even know I was staying here?”

“I followed you home…?”

“Why the fuck would you-” Tommy paused to pull them both further away from the door, “follow me home, are you insane?” He scrunched his eyebrows together in a mix of bewilderment and anger.

Tubbo seemed to ignore this, or simply not care, because he beamed even brighter. “I followed you home so I could ask if you wanted to come with me today. It’s right when the radiation is low enough to plant flowers without the soil rotting right away.”

“Flowers?”

“Yep,” he carefully dug through the satchel hanging off his shoulder and pulled out a barely sprouted flower in a cup of soil. “I made it myself.”

Tommy stared at the bud in Tubbo’s hands and gaped because there, in real life, was something from before the world began to end. Something that stopped growing when he was nine and told would never come back. But it was here and even if it didn’t grow, it was real. That meant things had to get better.

“I need to plant it today though and you’re the first person around here in a while that’s not old and on a killing spree, so you can come with me if you want.”

Before he could think twice, Tommy was nodding eagerly, forgetting completely about the fact this kid had followed him home. 

Something about the situation had Tommy itching to follow, so he did. He didn’t bother looking over his shoulder one last time to be sure his brother was still breathing, he didn’t shuffle his weight and tell him where he was headed like he had the previous week, he just grabbed his backpack and shut the door behind him.

Wilbur had been—what Tommy deemed to be—fine for the past week, hanging out with Tubbo just this once wasn’t going to be what killed him. He hoped so at least. 

“Can I hold it?” He called from behind, following eagerly.

“Sure, don’t drop it though, I didn’t have time to pack the soil down tight,” Tubbo handed him the cup and began forwards again, a small skip in his step.

Tommy lifted the cup closer to his eyes and felt the corners of his lips upturn just barely. It was silly, childish really, but he had survived this long out of spite and spite only. He fought back to prove that he could, he never backed down without a fight. Now, however, he would survive out of spite and hope. Hope that things would, could , get better. 

“How’s he been feeling?” Tubbo called from up ahead, kicking a rock in front of him and watching it roll down the path. 

Tommy brought the cup down to his chest and held onto it tightly, protecting it like a child as he ran to catch up with the boy. “Who?”

“Your brother.”

“Oh,” he cleared his throat before continuing, “he’s fine, yeah. I mean, I think so at least, he’s able to get up and walk to the bathroom and he hasn’t thrown up or anything yet, so I think he’s getting better.”

Tubbo nodded along, “That’s good, probably just a really bad flu or somethin’.”

And honestly? Tommy believed him. Phil had died two days after he started showing signs of radiation poisoning, and by then it was too late to save him, but Wilbur had been like this for a week . The golden lines on his neck and arms had stopped growing, and he was getting any worse. 

Growing up, Wilbur told him story after story–made up or not, Tommy couldn’t recall–of the effects from radiation poisoning. And though he seemed to exhibit those traits in the beginning, now it just seemed like a terrible virus that passed with sleep. None of the stories that Wilbur told said anything about getting better just to crash again, so Tommy let the tension in his shoulders, the bite on his tongue, loosen. 

“Where are we going?” It wasn’t a particularly beautiful day, but Tommy wasn’t complaining about getting out of the church to do something other than getting medicine, food, water, for Wilbur. The small chapel had quickly become stuffy, despite the cracks in the walls and window that seemed impossible to close, so being able to breathe without being in a rush–it was nice.

“There’s a hideout I have, like- like a secret lair,” Tubbo smiled like he was inexplicably proud of his work. “It’s by a creek in the forest and there’s a bunch of bugs and shit, it’s cool.”

The excitement in Tubbo’s voice was enough to have Tommy’s chest bubbling with joy, but the added secret lair and bugs made it even better. These moments were rare. Tommy was happy, he smiled without it being forced at least three times a week, he laughed at least twice, and he was glad that he was alive every other. He was happy, but there was a difference in distractions from the bad, and elation. True, unrequisited childlike joy. “I like bugs.”

“Me too!” 

He waited and waited and waited for that pang of stress to come, but it never came. There was also a difference between adrenaline and excitement. Tommy grinned toothily, running forwards a few feet to walk beside the boy. 

“So,” Tommy huffed, subconsciously walking closer. Tubbo liked bugs, that automatically meant he could be trusted in Tommy’s eyes. “Tubbo, Tubster, Tubs- can I call you that? I’m gonna call you that. Tubs, what’s your favourite bug?” 

The walk to the creek wasn’t necessarily hard. It wasn’t so much a walk either way, more of a hike up a hill whose floors were plastered with dead leaves, brown and deep orange colours standing out amongst the dirt. 

Something Tommy noticed fairly quick was that Tubbo was a very good listener. The walk took, what Tommy could assume was, ten minutes, and in that time he had switched topics five times and barely taken a moment to breathe between his words. Tubbo, however, only spoke up a handful of times to urge Tommy on when he would quiet down, afraid he was talking too much. It was nice being able to talk to someone his age, even if it didn’t reward a response, it was still ears that weren’t his brother.

He was sure the added fact that his brother hadn’t spoken a word–at least one that was coherent–in the past week didn’t help any.

When they did eventually make it to the hideout, Tommy shut up faster than he had in his entire fourteen years of life. The entrance was blocked by low hanging branches and vines that were far overgrown from their lack of care over the years, and when pushed past, they revealed a slow running creek in between a large crack in the cement. 

At first glance it was obvious to see that this wasn’t part of the forest, most likely some garden or outdoor monument that had been left behind in time, but it was beautiful nonetheless. And green, very green.

The creek was clearly man-made, probably carved out by Tubbo himself, and stopped abruptly at a wooden bench, trickling down into a hole dug in the dirt just below it.

“I made all this myself,” Tubbo boasted proudly. “Well, not all of it, most of this stuff was here already when I found it but I made the creek and fixed up that bench- oh! And Blade doesn’t really know much about this, or like, at all. So let’s just keep it between us, yeah?”

Tommy nodded sharply, following the boy to a wall with a patch of fresh soil barely covered with some fallen leaves from the tree overhead. Truly, it was a shock that trees, or any plant for that matter, grew at all anymore. Crops had stopped flourishing only four months after the apocalypse initially began and that meant fruits and vegetables, wheat or grains, stopped being available as a whole. The first wave of malnutrition from that had killed nearly half the population alone, and then untreated disease, and finally the fatigue of it all. There were no real statistics, really, as there were no news reporters or internet to hear it from, but the amount of rooms he had walked into and found a person hanging from the ceiling or soaking in red bath water had given him enough of an estimate. Wilbur always tried his best to hide Tommy after that, pulling him behind his back and shielding his view as they left the room. 

No matter how uncomfortable it was, they still had to get supplies one way or another. Tommy quickly learned to keep his head down and swallow the bile that rose in his throat at the sight of yet another lifeless body.

“You still have the flower?” Tommy perked up and scurried forwards to the spot Tubbo had kneeled down on.

He sat beside the boy and handed him the flower, “You’re sure it’s gonna grow?” The question had come across as if Tubbo had never done this before, which was obviously untrue, but Tommy was excited. He clung to the shreds of hope he had in his life to stay afloat, and recently those had become minuscule, so of course he would be excited.

“I’m not one hundred percent sure, last year I planted seven flowers and only three grew, so it’s just a waiting game,” Tubbo began to pat around on the dirt to find the best spot to plant the flower. “But it’s radiation making this thing grow, so it grows pretty fast. Usually it takes like… more than a month for it to really bloom, but here it’ll only take a week, if that.”

Tommy perked up immediately, eyes wide, “Really?” A nod in return. “That’s sick, man! Cool!”

Tubbo smiled widely at the enthusiasm in Tommy’s voice, both the kids' attitudes clearly bright. 

Finding the perfect spot didn’t take long and once Tubbo had decided on a corner of the dirt to dig up, he dug his hands into the soil and scooped it out to the side. Then, carefully so, he tipped the bud onto its side and pulled the root out of the cup, setting it into the hole and gesturing for Tommy to cover the bottom up with soil again.

Once the unbloomed flower was planted, Tubbo brushed the dirt off his hands and sat back against the tree. He had a proud smile on his face and just being around him was enough for Tommy to be smiling as well. 

He couldn’t wait to shove an I-told-you-so in Wilbur’s face when he got better.

“We should name it,” Tommy leaned forwards on his palms and nodded at the flower like it could hear him. 

“Why would we name a flower ?” 

“Because when you name something it always comes back, so if we name it, it’ll have to grow,” he grinned, ignoring Tubbo’s failed attempts at hiding his laughter at that excuse. “I was thinking about the name Shroud.”

“What the fuck kinda name is Shroud?” The older burst into giggles, bending forwards to clutch his stomach at the force. 

Feigning disappointment at the reaction, Tommy frowned and crossed his soil coated hands across his chest. “What’s so funny about that name, huh? It’s nice!”

No matter how hard he tried, Tommy couldn’t keep the smile off of his face, clearly betraying any act of faking upset. It was nice, Tommy would admit, having someone his age around. Someone who wasn’t family and that he wasn’t stuck in the same house with forever. Wilbur was clingy, a pest, and bossy. Do this Tommy, don’t touch that you’ll get hurt, drink water, no sugar before bed, brush your teeth ; it was annoying. Tubbo wasn’t annoying.

Maybe to someone else, the two boys becoming so close in barely a day would be odd, but they were kids. No matter what they said, what they did, they were two kids in the apocalypse. Tommy wasn’t sure if Tubbo had any siblings or anyone other than Blade living with him, but from the way he clung right back, Tommy had a good guess that they were very alike in that sense. 

“I made the seed myself too,” Tubbo bragged, “took forever and it’s still not perfect but it does the trick.”

“How?” Tommy scrunched his eyebrows together in confusion.

“Genetic engineering! It’s confusing, I guess, but it’s just chemicals and heat, pretty much. I used a carrot seed for this one and I just fused radiation and recombined its DNA, it’s enzymes already would catalyse a reaction with its phosphate bonds so I just took advantage of that and manipulated it into the seed I wanted.”

Tommy blinked a few times to himself at an attempt of processing anything that the boy beside him had just said, but worked to no avail.

“What- how do you even do that? Aren’t we the same age?” Tubbo nodded his head, “When’s your birthday?”

“‘Dunno, I was dropped off at a fire station when I was a baby. I’ve been an orphan my whole life and then this all started,” he paused to gesture around them, “so I left. Then Blade found me and now I’m here.”

A cockroach scurried across the dirt just beside Tommy’s leg and he leaned an open palm down for it to climb onto, smiling to himself when it didn’t hesitate to.

Tommy loved bugs. Other than the fact they looked cool and were cool, they liked him and he liked them. Wilbur had always been stern on who to speak to, where to stand, keeping his eyes ahead and never looking back, and Tommy hated that. He hated that he couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe , without Wilbur telling him it was wrong. 

Wilbur was his brother, nothing more and nothing less, just his brother . He didn’t seem to get that message much though because he acted more like a parent than a sibling most days.

Either way, he loved bugs because he could talk to them and they would listen, or what he hoped was listening, their antennas would twitch and that was enough for him. It had to be enough for him, he had no other choice.

“Well,” Tommy began again, setting the cockroach back into the dirt and watching as it sped away. “We can have the same birthday if you want, we can be like twins.” 

Tubbo hummed in thought, twisting the idea around in his head for a few seconds before agreeing, “Yeah, sure, we’re twins!” He pointed his pinky finger forwards expectantly. 

Without second thought, Tommy wrapped his left pinky around Tubbo’s. Both boys smiled so big that their eyes scrunched at the corners and were nearly shut.

If Tommy had known that this would have been his last good day, he would’ve cherished it more. He would’ve listened to that gut feeling that something was wrong and gone home early.

Chapter Text

Tubbo didn’t walk Tommy home that night, the sun had just begun to dip under the horizon and he seemed rushed to get home. Tommy didn’t budge at the reason why, he would never. Privacy was something rare when a lock on your door did nothing to stop a mugger barging in. 

Shoving everything but the obvious planted flower in his bag, Tubbo was running through the vines that blocked the entrance to his hideout before he could even put his satchel over his shoulder. 

Of course, Tommy followed, having to jog to keep up with the boy. “You’re in a rush,” he offered, not a question, just a matter of fact. 

“Yeah, sorry, I didn’t realise how long it had been. My brother’s gonna have my ass if I'm not home before dark.”

Desperately, Tommy wanted to ask why. He wanted to stop Tubbo, his newly proclaimed twin, and question why he needed to be home so early. He pressed his lips together instead. 

It was a given, most likely, that Tubbo had a curfew just like himself, but the idea didn’t click in Tommy’s mind. Blade wasn’t protective, at least from what he had seen—if it were Wilbur there when he had fought Tubbo at the dome, he would’ve been all over Tommy and kicking Tubbo to the floor for even looking at his little brother wrong.

Blade, however, wasn’t like that. He let Tubbo run after him, didn’t bother double checking if he had any injuries, and let him go to the dome alone. 

A small, very minuscule, part of Tommy was jealous at that. 

The aching freedom that he knew would be ripped away when Wilbur got better was almost taunting, because if he even tried to explain the past week to him, it would result in Wilbur being even more possessive. 

Tubbo pulled a walkie-talkie out of his satchel and kept his pace, fiddling with the antenna and then the switches and knobs. A small pang of jealousy that Blade would trust Tubbo with one of those, yet Wilbur had always refused Tommy’s pestering for one, made itself present in his heart.

“Oh,” Tubbo perked up, “I’ll give you our radio line. So I don’t have to worry about almost being shot the next time I see you.”

Maybe he should’ve felt bad for that, pulling a gun on Tubbo when he was there innocently, but he didn’t. He had believed it was a stranger and all. 

“Nah, my brother’s the only one with a working radio, I'll forget it by the time I’m home anyways,” Tommy supplied.

Tubbo, just enough for Tommy to catch, slowed his pace. “How do you call each other if you need something? Like- say one of you gets hurt.”

Tommy shrugged, “We’re never apart, haven’t been away from each other longer than an hour for as long as I can remember.” 

The statement was as simple as that; Wilbur cared for him, they were the only family each other had left, and Tommy had grown accustomed to that. Nothing more, nothing less. 

Tubbo made a face as if he was moving to disagree, but caught himself before he could open his mouth. He nodded instead. 

“Well, if you need anything, you have the compass and know where to find me.”

Tommy didn’t need to hear anything else to know that that was a goodbye. “Of course, Tubs. I’ll come pester you soon, probably. Like a little raccoon boy, I can live in your basement,” He cut himself off with a bubble of laughter coming from both the boys.

“Yeah, yeah. I’d believe it, and I’d join you too, like- like two partners in crime!” Tubbo smiled. 

“Exactly. You and me Tubs, partners in crime.”

“See you soon?” 

“See you soon.” 

Tubbo gave one final mock salute towards Tommy before turning down the path and running off. 

A part of Tommy desperately wanted to follow the boy. Wanted to chase after him and spend just a few more minutes together. He didn’t know why he felt like this, it just felt like something was wrong. 

The walk back to the church was worse than it had been on his way out. The culprit; it had begun to rain. At first, it was a gentle trickle, barely a mist, and just as fast as it had come, it was pouring. Huge, thick droplets of water worked like a wall over Tommy, and he had to bring his arm up to cover his face in order to see properly. 

In a normal circumstance, this surely would lead to a giant storm, perhaps even a hurricane, but there were no strong winds, no flooding (the ground soaked most of the rain up anyways. It never rained, and when it did, any signs were gone within the hour), only rain. 

And then, a flash of white that filled the entire sky, followed by a loud and vicious clap of thunder. Tommy held his breath and began to run. 

Thunder wasn’t a problem for him. He followed it in the night as a child and watched the bright flashes in awe. When it would get too loud, he would curl up with his mother, and when she was gone, he would curl up with Wilbur. 

He guessed that feeling changed when his stomach no longer hurt from fear of the noise, but instead fear of his brother waking up when he wasn’t there. 

The sky had only managed three more strikes of thunder before he was back at the church, and by then, he was soaked from head to toe. 

Tommy pushed open the door to the church, squeezed himself inside, and shut it behind him as quietly as he could. His hair was sticking to his forehead and water was dripping from a curl of strands directly in front of his eyes, but he was only focused on getting to his brother. 

His shoes squeaked dangerously with each step he took towards the mattress on the floor, yet he paid no mind. 

Letting out a breath he hadn’t known he was holding in the first place, Tommy fell to his knees on the opposite side of the bed. Wilbur was still asleep, he was still alive.

Carefully, quietly, Tommy let himself relax. Not fully, of course—never fully—but enough to stop the ache in his chest. 

At least, he tried to stop it. 

Something was wrong. He didn’t know what, and his knees were digging into the top of the mattress, surely soaking it through to the padding, and something was wrong.

He brushed a hand over the top of Wilbur’s forehead, moving the tangled mess of unbrushed hair out of the way. Everything was fine, everything should be fine, because he could see the slow rise and fall of his brother's chest, his lips barely parted enough to hold a finger above and feel a puff of air occasionally leave. And still, despite that, his gut was still churning in fear. 

Tommy pressed two fingers into Wilbur’s wrist to feel for a pulse, then his neck, then his wrist again. 

Knowingly, he had expected a steady and soft heartbeat, a gentle, constant thud inside his chest, but there wasn’t. 

His heart was beating, but Tommy didn’t have to be a doctor to know that a single beat every second wasn’t good. 

The fear churning in his gut returned tenfold and he was on his feet before he could realise what he was doing. “Wilbur?” He shook his brother's shoulders harshly, “Wilbur, come on man, this isn’t funny!”

Wilbur, as expected, didn’t move. 

Now it was Tommy’s turn to forget how to breathe. Wilbur was pale, his skin was clammy and there was a thin layer of sweat coating his forehead, a few beads dripping down his temples. Wilbur didn’t look this bad when he had first left, he was peaceful and almost looked like he was dreaming, a good one at that. 

Every few hours Tommy would wake his brother up and force some medicine down, that was routine for the past week, and Wilbur had obliged every time. It was difficult to get him conscious enough to even swallow the pills, sure, but he did. He always woke up, and now he wasn’t. 

Tommy continued to shake him, growing more aggressive with his force. “Wake up, Wilbur!” He shouted, hoping the change in noise would do something. 

This time, Wilbur did move. His lips parted in an O just enough for Tommy to realise what was happening, turning him to his side before he could choke in his own vomit. Wilbur still wasn’t conscious, his eyes weren’t even squeezed shut, just resting like they had fluttered down the night before. 

He still wasn’t conscious, and he was vomiting. It was putrid smelling and Tommy barely moved back in time to avoid it being splattered across his shoes. His body convulsed with its work—Tommy plugged his nose and shut his eyes. 

The sound of a loud splatter and violent gagging bounced off the walls, a plunging nausea finding its way into Tommy’s throat. It was disgusting and wet and everything he hated, everything he never wanted.

Perhaps it was funny to the universe, to whatever God that was looking down on them, because Tommy was, and always had been, petrified of throwing up. Emetophobia, the doctors had told his mother when he was just five years old—he was found in tears curled up beside the toilet that night and terrified to be touched.

He didn’t dare to turn back around until the noise subsided and Wilbur, again, went slack under his palm. Carefully, as if bracing himself to puke as well, he opened his eyes.

There was more blood than bile. 

Tommy was terrified of throwing up, but the fear of losing his brother overrode that in every sense of the way. 

“Wilbur, wake the fuck up!” The younger screamed, an ear piercing, blood curtailing, scream. Wilbur barely cracked his eyes open before they fell back shut again. “No, nope. Stay awake, you’re not falling back asleep.”

He pounced back to his feet, dragging his brother up with him and pointedly avoiding the puddle of vomit and blood spread across a good portion of the floor. Cleaning that up was the last of his priorities. 

Wrapping an arm around his waist, Tommy threw his brother’s right arm around his own shoulder. He couldn’t carry him if he tried, because aside from the poking and teasing he had always done, Wilbur was much, much taller than him, almost having an entire foot on him. 

They managed to stumble to the front door before Wilbur had slumped forwards again. In a moment of hesitance, Tommy brought his hand up to slap him across the cheek with as much strength as he could muster. 

Wilbur’s eyes flew open at that, hand twitching in a weak attempt to question anything that was happening, but his eyelids slid back halfway shut before he could. That was fine for Tommy, that was enough. 

“Sorry,” he whispered under his breath and swung open the door. Obviously, it was still raining. 

He didn’t bother putting on Wilbur’s shoes, not even his coat, because though he should have been cautious about the dangerously sick man in his arms, he was too worked up to realise. 

The only item he remembered to grab was Tubbo’s compass. He ran his thumb against the engraving of ‘Your Tubbo’ on the back. It was grounding, and even if it wasn’t true, Tommy could pretend, in that moment, that it had been written just for him. 

Wilbur just barely managed to hold his own weight, leaning it mostly on Tommy’s side and more so dragging his feet behind him than walking. Tommy didn’t bother with it, however—he could deal with the struggle, the heavy weight, until his brother was safe. 

In all honesty, he wasn’t quite sure where he was going. There were no doctors and if they were found on someone’s land, they’d be shot dead just like Blade had almost done to him. 

Just like Blade had almost done to him. 

Tommy quickened his pace as fast as he could, tripping over his own feet every few steps but catching himself just in time before they both went tumbling to the ground. 

The compass pointed North, he followed.

The only thing that kept them from collapsing was his spite against the world, his spite to prove that he was enough to take care of himself, be on his own and come out unscathed, and the understanding that if they hit the ground, there wasn’t a promise they would be getting back up at all. 

If anything, he owed this to Wilbur. He owed it to the brother that spent nights coddling him in bed, watching over him carefully and calculating his every move to make sure his little brother was alright. Because Tommy— would never —didn’t know that everything in the world was right when he was happy. 

The reminder that his last conversation with Wilbur was a fight crushed down on him fast, brick after brick and stone after stone. 

It hadn’t even been a good reason in the first place. Simple, stupid, and Tommy had been the one to initiate it. He had been the one to run off, he had been the one to scream at his brother, he had been the one to go to bed alone. 

These were all unrealistic guilts, Tommy knew that, but it didn’t rid the pinpoint pressure in the back of his skull telling him that if Wilbur was to die, if he was to suffer the same fate as Phil, Tommy would be alone. He would be alone, have to bury his own brother, and live with the understanding that Wilbur died thinking he hated him. 

Tommy decided, in that moment, he didn’t hate his brother.

All of this made Tommy walk faster, ducking into the trees on either side of the trail to shield their presence from any passerby. Not like he had much to be stopped for anyways, he didn’t even have his backpack or a gun, just Wilbur.

He didn’t want a hurdle in the road either way.

It was comical now, how he had complained so much about their hike to the church in the first place, yet he would give anything now to go back to that moment in his life. If he could freeze time, he would surely stay in the boiling sun, clothes sticking to his skin from sweat and not from rain, and bickering with his brother like always.

The rain beat down harder on the two, as if that was even possible, and Tommy had to grip Wilbur’s side tight to stabilise them both. 

A mile. An entire mile of walking, a mile of holding onto his brother as tight as he could, silently praying, again, that this was a dream—that he would wake up in the morning and Wilbur would be on the porch talking to their mother, or Phil. He would make his way to the bench beside Wilbur and curl into his side, and Wilbur would do the protecting, not Tommy. 

But that didn’t matter, he had no reason to work himself up over something that would never come true. This wasn’t a dream, Wilbur was still sick, and-

A puddle of mud splashed around them in a heavy step. His shoes were covered in mud, the cuffs of his jeans were soaking and caked with dirt, and Wilbur’s resembled the same. 

Again, the urge to sit down, to rest, was strong. But he clutched the compass in his spare hand and continued to walk. 

A lighthouse , Blade had said. They lived in a lighthouse. 

Maybe the thought was scary, terrifying, in fact, but the what-ifs of Blade going through with his plan, actually shooting Tommy through the back of his skull and mugging him of nothing, leaving his dead body to rot, or maybe throwing it into the forest just feet away, seemed more enjoyable than this. 

Tommy nearly cried when an opening in the trees revealed sand, rocks, and the base of a lighthouse looking over the tide. 

This, he realised, was the difference in adrenaline and relief. A spike of both led his feet ahead of his mind, not having the patience to stop and slap his brother awake again. 

Tommy managed to drag himself and Wilbur to a steel door at the bottom of the tower and bang his fist against the cool metal, loud and clear. His grip on Wilbur stayed unmoving. 

A sheer fear ran through him, sending a shiver down his spine. If Blade wasn’t here, if he kicked them out, they wouldn’t make it back to the church. If Wilbur hadn’t been dead from the radiation poisoning by morning, the hypothermia surely would.

He should have stayed at the church. Surely, he should have just waited until morning, but the mere possibility (that had grown worryingly substantial) of Wilbur not making it to morning stung to even imagine. If this led him to his death, if he was laughed at or scolded, at least he had tried.

Thankfully, the door opened before Tommy could continue to weigh the negative outcomes, revealing a shocked, and very confused, Blade. 

“Tommy?” Blade asked in a panic. Tommy didn’t want to worry the man, but he was practically carrying Wilbur at this point and they were both covered in mud, still standing in the pouring rain. 

“Can you-“ Tommy began, quickly cutting himself off when Blade pulled the two of them inside, Wilbur still pressed against his side. His hold on his brother only loosened when hands were prying at his own, taking an again unconscious Wilbur with them. “Yeah, thank you.”

From the look Blade gave him, the way Tubbo was dragging Wilbur into a room just in front of them, he knew he had been right. Something was wrong. 

Tommy brought his gaze to Blade’s open mouth, moving as if he was speaking, but no noise came out. At least, noise that Tommy could hear. The sound of words, of a concerned voice above him, was drowned out by the sudden ringing taking its place in his ears. 

Just as fast as the ringing had begun, his vision was spotted with black dots. The room was spinning before he could respond. He was swaying and falling forwards before he could say what was wrong. 

And he was unconscious before he could stay by Wilbur’s side. 

Chapter Text

“Take that, bitch!” Tommy giggled, bubbling up his throat and into the air. 

Wilbur had always made a conscious effort to remind him that his laughter was beautiful, his happiness was enough to make flowers grow. Each time, Tommy would swat him away and groan in embarrassment, hating the warm feeling in his chest from being coddled like a child. Love. 

Wilbur swung forwards, stepping out to hit Tommy’s shoulder with his makeshift sword. Their mother didn’t trust them with real wooden swords, so they resorted to the next best thing: cut up pizza boxes taped together sloppily.

In Tommy’s eyes, they were the best damn swords he had ever seen. Sure, there was still splotched grease in some spots, and sure, they were drooping forwards from the force of each brother’s attacks, but they were his. Tommy loved them for that reason and that reason only.

They had been grounded for nearly an entire week afterwards, being caught awake at midnight, huddled under a blanket on Wilbur’s bed with a flashlight to guide their hands. Still though, even if he wasn’t allowed to watch TV or eat dessert for a week, Tommy wouldn’t change it at all.

“Too slow,” Wilbur grinned, moving to swat at Tommy’s side again. Tommy didn’t give himself the grace of reacting or cursing him out, instead swooping below the sword and rolling out into the dirt dramatically. Surely, he’d need to wash off with the hose before he was allowed to step inside again, but it would be worth it.

Wilbur, however, didn’t stop at this. He bent down, dropping his sword to the side, and reached out for Tommy. Tommy knew what was happening immediately and before Wilbur could attack him like a maniac, he was kicking and writhing on the floor like a squashed bug, waving his weak toy sword around like it worked as actual protection.

“Stop stop stop-” he wasn’t quick enough. Wilbur stretched out his hands and attacked Tommy’s sides and stomach with tickles, making it his mission for the younger to surrender, Tommy was sure.

Tommy curled into himself, still wiggling around on the floor, and shouting curses that were barely coherent from his overwhelming laughter. The kind where the air is knocked out of your lungs and your left gasping for air, clutching your stomach in pain afterwards with tears in your eyes. The best kind.

Eventually, Tommy was forced to surrender if he wanted to get a solid breath in at all, so he did so begrudgingly. “Fine- okay! I surrender!” He barked out between giggles. “You win, you win! Stop it!”

Wilbur stood again with a shit-eating grin on his face, staring right at Tommy with the mix of fondness and victory that only a sibling could have.

Chest heaving with the force of his previous laughing fit, Tommy managed to pull himself back to his feet and kick his brother in the shins, bursting out into even more laughter when he nearly fell onto his ass unexpectedly. 

But, maybe that wasn’t Tommy’s smartest move, because once he had finally wiped the tears out of his eyes and caught his breath, Wilbur was staring at him like a lion ready to pounce. “You little-”

Tommy screeched, loud and sharp and enough to make someone cry, he was sure, but Wilbur was used to this, so it fell upon deaf ears with him. He swerved out of the way and sprinted directly down the stone path leading to the side of the yard, right where the back door was, steps faltering in just the slightest when he had to catch himself over his untied shoelaces. Wilbur used this to his advantage, reaching out and nearly snatching the hood of Tommy’s jacket, when:

“Boys! What did I say about playing rough?” 

“Sorry mom,” Wilbur stilled and dropped his hands to his side in defeat. 

Not even bothering to apologise, Tommy pumped his fists into the air and cheered, “I win, I win!”

“Tommy,” their mother warned, voice monotone and stern. Tommy, too, dropped his hands and slumped forwards. “Play calm with each other, alright? I don’t need either of you breaking a bone.”

“But that’s no fun,” Tommy groaned loud and clear in protest. Wilbur gave him a sharp glare from the side as a warning.

“I don’t care if it’s not fun, I’m your mother and if I say to do something, you listen.”

Tommy let the cardboard sword fall out of his hands and tumble to the grass at his feet, frowning but failing miserably to try and seem upset. He couldn’t do that when Wilbur was around, not his big brother. Just seeing him after school was enough to cheer Tommy up. 

Following Tommy’s lead, Wilbur lowered himself to the ground and leaned his back up against the trunk of the oak tree towering above them. He tilted his head up towards Tommy, gesturing besides him silently. Tommy obliged, dropping beside him letting his head fall into Wilbur’s lap, back turned and facing the grass.

If he focused hard enough, Tommy could see the bugs working their way through the dirt and burrowing into the grass. Wood lice, specifically. Those were Tommy’s favourite bugs–mainly because they were Wilbur’s too, but that went unsaid–and he couldn’t count on two hands the amount of times he had snuck out at night to watch them crawl around and exist.

Carefully, Tommy reached out the hand not held to his chest and twirled a blade of grass between his index finger and thumb, pulling it out and tossing it to the side before starting again on a fresh piece of grass. He was far too focused on bothering the grass to notice the grin that grew on Wilbur’s face. It wasn’t often that Tommy was this calm. This quiet and occupied, and even though minutes ago he had been screaming his head off, stumbling around like a newborn deer, he was calm now. Presumably, he had worn himself out.

Tommy was perfectly happy like this. Wherever his brother went, he would follow. No matter what, to the ends of the earth or not, his brother, truthfully, was the best person Tommy had ever known.

Careful, calloused fingers made their way into Tommy’s hair, weaving through the unbrushed, wild nest on his head and scratching gently, as if they were petting a stray cat. Unwillingly, his eyes fluttered shut and a shiver wracked his spine. 

“Wilbur…” Tommy whined, stretching out the last syllable. “Stop it, you’re making me all sleepy.”

A second hand scooped the bottom of his cheek up wordlessly–the one rested in Wilbur’s lap–and Tommy felt his words die on his tongue. Slow and tiny circles were traced along his cheek with Wilbur’s thumb and, as if he could read Tommy’s mind, he hummed contentedly.

“You’re not gonna make me fall asleep. I’ll stay awake to spite you, bitch,” the kid mumbled, words slurred with the edges of sleep already.

Wilbur didn’t respond, just sighed knowingly and settled further into the tree he was leaned against.

“You are my sunshine,” his voice was quiet and low, singing just loud enough for Tommy to hear, “my only sunshine.”

Tommy’s shoulders slumped at the noise, body aching with exhaustion and begging to sleep. He wasn’t avoiding it, really, but if he fell asleep, this moment would end. He would be carried inside and put to bed and he would much rather stay here than his and Wilbur’s room.

“You make me happy when skies are grey,” Wilbur twirled one of Tommy’s curls around his finger and watched as it uncoiled itself, barely tugging on the boy’s scalp.

Honestly, Tommy couldn’t remember the last time his brother had agreed to play outside with him. It was far too dangerous, that was for sure, and he wasn’t sure their mother had told him to either. He pushed the thought down, leaving it for future Tommy, not current Tommy. Current Tommy was happy, the sun shining down just enough to keep him warm but being shaded enough to keep from sweating, and Wilbur’s voice was soothing. 

He would never say it to his face, but Tommy thought Wilbur was the best person in the entire world. Out of everyone, he would always choose Wilbur.

“You’ll never know dear,” the fingers began to press a steady, and barely noticeable, rhythm into his scalp. The feeling had Tommy slack in his brother's arms. “How much I love you.”

The world could be crumbling at his feet and Tommy wouldn’t mind, as long as his brother was by his side, everything would be okay. It always had been.

“Please don’t take my sunshine away,” Wilbur’s voice dropped into a whisper and Tommy found himself straining to hear. 

If he was more awake, he would complain, but alas.

“Toms?” Wilbur broke the silence carefully, like lifting a glass cover off their well preserved comfort.

Tommy hummed in question.

“Let me go.”

The glass fell and the silence shattered.

Tommy woke up slowly. Painfully slowly. He didn’t jump up gasping, demanding to know where he was, he just opened his eyes and stared at the perfectly smooth, concrete ceiling above him. It was a stark difference from the one at the church.

Looking around, he could see he was in what looked to be an old storage room, empty shelves still lining the walls and his cot in the corner of the room. It was cold, freezingly so, and Tommy blamed it on the concrete walls surrounding all sides.

He also noted that he was alone. The door was cracked open just enough so that he couldn’t see out, but it was obvious that anyone could see in. It felt as if he was being examined like some lab experiment. And truthfully, he very well could have been, he didn’t know Blade or Tubbo that well at all, but a small, barely noticeable glint of hope settled in his gut told him otherwise.

His urge to climb out of bed and figure out where the fuck he was, was cut off by the sound of approaching footsteps, a voice saying something he could hardly catch and dipping down again before it was in his line of hearing.

The door creaked open abruptly, making Tommy jump and push further into the pillow below his head. Distantly, he noted that it was a real pillow and a real blanket he was using. Clean ones as well, nothing like the rolled up coats or thin sheets that Wilbur had just barely managed to remember upon leaving Phil’s house. 

“Oh, good, you’re awake,” Tubbo called cheerily from the now open door. From here, Tommy could see the faint outline of another person, too tall to be Blade but too short to be Wilbur. 

Tommy craned his neck up carefully, wincing at the obvious crick that had been left from an uncomfortable position sleeping. “Yep, rising and grinding, you know how it is,” he tried, and failed miserably, at a joke.

“How’s your leg?” Tubbo shuffled into the chair beside the cot, reaching out to tug at the part of the blanket covering Tommy’s leg. Tommy shifted back and he frowned to himself.

“Fuck do you mean how’s my leg? It’s a leg, innit?” 

Tubbo tilted his head to the side, again, reaching out to grab the blanket. This time, Tommy didn’t flinch away.

Being as careful and gentle as he could, Tubbo pulled the blanket away to reveal an abundance of freshly wrapped bandages around his thigh. Tommy squinted his eyes in confusion, using his palms to sit himself up and see his leg properly.

Then, Tubbo peeled away the bandages, still keeping them on a quarter of the way to easily put them back on afterwards. 

The sight made Tommy want to gag a little, honestly. A wound, probably the size of a pencil, was stitched up nice and clean, working in a zigzag that was perfectly straight at the same time. The outsides were red and swollen, like it had been irritated before but cleaned out before it could cost him his entire leg, and it was oozing from a few openings between the stitches.

“What happened?” Tommy asked with wide eyes, voice equally as confused and frightened as Tubbo seemed.

“I don’t know, you came here and passed out and then when Blade finally got you to a bed, your pants were soaked through with blood. Freaked everyone out, that’s for sure.”

Tommy bustled in the cot slightly, inching forwards again to take a better look.

“You seriously didn’t feel that?” Tubbo asked with a quirk of his lip and Tommy shook his head. “Guess the numbing cream works then. I was sure it wouldn’t do anything ‘cause it’s like, two years expired, but I guess it does.”

The thought scared him, slightly. Because if he hadn’t felt a gash in his leg from who knows what, and he hadn’t noticed the blood most likely soaking through his pants, he didn’t know what else could happen to him that he wouldn’t notice until it was too late.

It also scared him because these were things he never had to worry about, Wilbur was always the one taking the reins when it came to injuries or keeping him safe. Tommy never had to be overly observant like this, though it should have been obvious, because that was Wilbur’s job, not his.

Tubbo pressed the bandages back down onto the stitched shut wound. Now that he had made notice of it, Tommy could feel it much worse and had to bite down on his bottom lip to keep from making a sound.

Thankfully, Tubbo seemed to notice this and sat back as soon as he had the blanket back around Tommy’s legs. “How did you not notice that until now?”

Tommy furrowed his eyebrows together in thought, trying to come up with a decent reason that would explain it to himself as well. When he couldn’t think of anything, he told the truth.

“My brother usually takes care of this stuff. He’s overprotective as hell, but we see what happened there.”

Shrugging carefully, like Tommy would snap back at the wrong move, Tubbo said, “It just sounds to me like he cares about you. Doesn’t want you hurt, you know?”

He wanted to say that Tubbo didn’t understand, that Blade let him be his own person, learn things alone, and Wilbur didn’t. He wanted to make his point clear that he didn’t dislike his brother, he knew it was out of care, but it was still unfair. 

Tubbo never knew his siblings, if he even had any, let alone his parents. Tommy decided against bringing it up. 

He frowned and slumped back against the wall behind his head. “He’s a real prick is what he is.”

“Big brother duties probably.”

Tommy snorted at the probably. He would give anything to live in a world of not knowing how much an overbearing brother sucks. 

“How long was I asleep for anyway?” He focused back on picking at the skin on the beds of his nails. Wilbur would get onto him for that, he was sure.

“Sixteen hours, I think.”

At that, Tommy shot his head up, squinting sharply in confusion. “What?”

“Yeah, I wanted to wake you up so you could check on your brother but Blade told me to let you sleep. Said you looked like you hadn’t slept in ages.”

Like a whip had cracked in the air, cutting it in half and letting it disintegrate into nothing, a flip switching in his brain, Tommy pushed himself up. 

His brother. 

“Where is he? Is he okay? I need to-“ Tommy threw the blankets off his legs, nearly face planting when he managed to wriggle free and find solid ground. 

“Tommy, wait!” Tubbo called after him, jumping to his feet to follow him out the door. Tommy ignored him, continuing forwards despite the burning, searing pain in his thigh.

His knees wobbled under him with each step he took, like a doe without its mother, and he surely would have continued on like that until his legs decided to give out or he somehow made it to wherever Wilbur was, despite having no guidance. But, Blade appeared in front of him before he had the chance to.

Tommy glared sharply, words coming out as venom in the best way he knew how. “Where’s my brother?”

Out of the corner of his eye, Tommy could’ve sworn he saw someone else moving, bustling towards him and Blade and being stopped only by Tubbo’s arm swinging out in front of them, but he wasn’t focused on that. He was focused on getting to Wilbur and nothing else.

“How’s your leg?” Blade worried, ignoring Tommy’s question completely. 

“That’s not- I said where’s my brother?” Tommy asked again, this time more demanding and angry. He raised his voice enough to make himself heard. To make sure that Blade knew he wasn’t a stupid kid who couldn’t take care of himself. 

Blade frowned slightly, tilting his head to the side, looking almost as if he was observing Tommy more than anything.

That, specifically, irked Tommy.

“I’m right here,” he narrowed his eyes, looking at Blade like he was a child learning the colours of the rainbow all over again. Like he was an idiot.

Blade, again, didn’t respond. It didn’t take long for something to click in Tommy’s brain, scattering his thoughts into a jumbled panic.

He barely knew this man, they had met twice, and the first time had been with a gun to his own head. It wasn’t an unfamiliar feeling, the tell tale feeling of sterling steel digging into his scalp, but it still had happened. Yet, here he was, challenging him like he was any taller than 5’7. Like he could win a fight he had picked.

It didn’t matter how unrealistic he was being, however, because Wilbur was in the other room– one of the other rooms–and Tommy wasn’t. Wilbur was by himself, sick and cold, and Tommy was on his own two feet, perfectly warm. Wilbur was dying and Tommy wasn’t.

Wilbur was dying for him. 

If Tommy had to be brave, learn how to swallow his fear or heart beating out of his chest, just for Wilbur, he would.

Tommy puffed out his chest, doing everything in his power to make himself seem even slightly more intimidating. Surely, he looked like an idiot; he was fourteen and scrawny, not Blade. 

Another beat of silence passed, of Blade staring at Tommy like a bug in a glass jar, before he shook his head to himself. “Yeah, here. Follow me.”

Almost immediately, Tommy jumped forwards, stumbling to follow Blade on his tail. Honestly? Tommy was convinced it would take a lot more reasoning than a simple because I want to, but he wasn’t complaining.

Blade guided him to a door just down the hall, past the kitchen and across the hall from the bathroom. He moved to open the door and Tommy froze, the feeling of a hand grabbing the back of his shirt tightly.

“Please be careful. He’s really- he’s not doing good. I don’t want you accidentally hurting him or something.” 

Tommy squirmed in Blade’s hold, nodding furiously in agreement. 

Of course he wasn’t going to jump all over Wilbur and act like he wasn’t sick, it didn’t take a fucking genius to figure that out. Internally, he flipped Blade off with both hands.

Blade’s grip loosened and Tommy wriggled free, catching himself on the door handle and swinging it open just as quick.

Lying on the bed, a blanket and spare sheets tucked around him tightly, was Wilbur. There was a faint ring of red around his nose and ears, what Tommy could only assume was dried blood. Tommy’s breathing hitched and his stance faltered.

“We were able to stop the bleeding early on, his ears were bleeding, nose, gums. I think his eyes are bloodshot too.” Blade interrupted his thoughts suddenly.

Tommy didn’t know if that made him feel better or worse. He wasn’t sure what he had expected, but it sure as hell wasn’t… that.

A small, intangible part of him wanted to scream. To get mad at Blade for looking away from Wilbur for even a second. But again, he had only met him twice and he was doing this for free. 

Or, what Tommy hoped was free.

“Thanks,” Tommy muttered, swallowing hard to rid the lump in his throat. He turned back to look at Blade, tell him to leave them alone for now, but Blade was already turning down the hall by the time Tommy had looked over his shoulder. 

So, instead, he shut the door behind him, walked to the side of the bed, and stared.

Maybe he should be a bit more concerned, more cautious about this whole situation, but anytime he tried to think about anything, his mind supplied him with the thought of his brother dying and only that. 

He was so close to turning back. He almost didn’t take Wilbur to the lighthouse. The daunting realisation that if he hadn’t, Wilbur would be dead, continued ringing in his ears. 

This was all too much. Everything was too fast and he was afraid and Wilbur was asleep and he had been bleeding just like Phil had been and he didn’t have anyone other than Wilbur and his ears were ringing so loud, so so so fucking loud and he wanted everything to stop, just for a moment, so let him catch his breath and be told it was okay, that he was doing all that he could, and-

A sob bubbled up from Tommy’s throat before he could catch himself.

Slapping his hands over his mouth, eyes wide with fear, Tommy understood that the man laying before him, pale and chest almost concaved, was more of a corpse than his own brother.

Once the tears started, he couldn’t seem to make them stop. He hadn’t asked for this. He was good, he always used his manners and did his chores like he was told, he listened to Wilbur even when he didn’t want to. Yet still, despite it all, his brother was dying and he was left to watch on the side.

“Please,” he whimpered, falling forwards to rest his head on the empty space at Wilbur’s side. “Please, please, please.”

Begging wouldn’t work. He had tried already. Begging, praying, hoping, bribing, everything he could do, he had tried. It never worked.

“You can’t-” he gasped. “You promised me that we would be okay.” There was a sudden surge of rage crashing through Tommy, like waves on the shore. A high tide in the middle of the night, encouraged by the moon until it turned to a storm. “You swore on it!”

It was unrealistic for him to be so angry at Wilbur for this, so upset and sad, but Wilbur had never broken a promise before, and this time, it seemed it would be his last.

The storm rolled on outside, thunder cracking in the sky and a flash of white illuminating in its trail. It seemed fitting for the worst weather to be on the day his brother was dying.

Tommy, as carefully as he could, crawled into the small empty space beside his brother, halfway falling off the side of the bed but he didn’t mind. He wanted to scream at Wilbur, tell him how much he hated him for leaving him behind, but he didn’t. He chose to stay quiet and listen to the whistling breaths Wilbur let out ever so often.

Sniffling, Tommy curled around his brother even closer, hand gripping Wilbur’s tightly.

“Please be okay,” he whispered.

Wilbur couldn’t hear him, Tommy knew this, but accepting it didn’t make him feel any better.

“Please.”

For the first time since he had gotten lost in that forest at eight years old, Tommy went to bed afraid.

Chapter Text

The second time Tommy woke up was much quicker than the last. Before he had peeled his eyes open, he reached out a hand from under him to rest on his brother’s chest and feel the tell-tale heartbeat that should be beating. Slow, but still there. 

To his shock, Wilbur wasn’t there. His hand was met with an equally scratchy and soft fabric and his eyes shot open immediately. He was in a new room, lying on a dark green sofa with curtains and wooden boards covering the windows. In front of him, a plastic fold out table was placed with shreds of magazines, newspapers, and comics littering the top.

Distantly, he could recall being lifted out of the bed Wilbur was staying in and carried somewhere. Whoever had been holding him was extremely tedious, walking quietly and slowly as to not jostle him awake.

He fell back asleep before he could open his eyes and see who it was.

Now, however, he was panicked, eyes blown wide and breath already coming out in quick huffs. Wilbur. He needed to find Wilbur.

Before he could stand up and make a scene to demand someone tell him where his brother was, he quickly leaned forwards and grabbed a handful of newspaper scraps from atop the table and shoved them into the front pocket of his hoodie.

Huh, his hoodie. He was ninety percent sure he didn’t even own a hoodie, let alone had come here in one. But his brain had been foggy that day so he wouldn’t put it past himself to have guessed wrong.

“You don’t have to steal, you know.”

Tommy startled, heart dropping to his stomach and snapping his head up to meet Blade who was leaned against the doorframe. This time, he didn’t look like he was blocking the exit. 

“I wasn’t stealing,” Tommy defended weakly, voice still wavering with sleep. As soon as he caught it, he cleared his throat harshly. “Why would I be stealing?” He said again, this time sounding less like a child caught in a lie. 

“Because I literally just watched you pocket fifty dollars worth of newspapers,” Blade retaliated. 

And, well, that wasn’t wrong. He had just stolen Blade’s newspapers, but he did it for a good cause. Tommy wasn’t sure how long he would be allowed to stay. Wilbur was sick, horribly so, and Tommy had barged into Blade and Tubbo’s home—or, lighthouse to be specific—without warning. If it were him, Tommy would’ve already kicked himself out. 

Well- maybe not kicked him out. He wasn’t a completely heartless bastard. 

But, Tommy hadn’t stolen, and failed miserably at doing so, Blade’s newspapers for nothing. No, he had done it because if, and when, he and his brother were sent back where they came from, Tommy needed to have enough on him to keep Wilbur alive. If that meant medicine, bandages, clean water, a new blanket, anything. 

If it wasn’t in a supply drop, it was sold by another shop deeper in town. The shops that were always overpriced and far too hard to steal from.

He needed it to save his brother, but Blade wouldn’t know that, so he kept quiet. 

Vulnerability, honesty, never got them anywhere.

Tommy was left with nothing to do but change the subject, a futile attempt at Blade forgetting this whole ordeal in the first place. “Why’d you say dollars?” The painful try at sounding American went very noticed.

“Because that’s what it’s called…?” Blade answered as more of a question than anything else.

“It’s called pounds, not dollars, you fuckin’ American.”

Blade raised an eyebrow in equal parts confusion and concern, leaning his weight off of the door frame and onto his opposite leg. He looked almost as if he was studying Tommy, like he was put under a microscope and Blade was watching him from afar. Tommy hated it.

“Stop looking at me like that,” he quipped, arms folding over his chest as he pulled himself to his feet to try and seem more intimidating. It didn’t work, obviously, no one was scared of a five foot, seven inches tall fourteen year old who looked like he could be blown away by one strong gust of wind. The thought was what counted though.

“Like what?”

“Like I’m not standing in front of you. You look like you’re looking at a squashed bug or something.”

“I’m just looking at you,” Blade stood up straighter and Tommy could immediately see how scary he looked. He was tall, probably an inch or two shorter than Wilbur, and had muscles like he carried boulders around every day for the fun of it. Honestly, Tommy wouldn’t doubt that.

And a part of him wanted to be afraid, to cower and stay behind, obeying Blade’s every order until he and Wilbur were free to go, but Wilbur was in one of the rooms just outside the door Blade was blocking–even if it didn’t seem like he was doing it on purpose this time. So, Tommy mustered up the strength he could, clenched his jaw, and charged onwards.

“Where’s my brother?” Tommy asked, this time less of a question and more of demanding order. “What did you do to him? Why’d you take me away from him, I was fine where I was.”

Blade, again, gave him a look of pity. The same look as yesterday when he had asked about Wilbur. Tommy would be lying if he said it didn’t make his stomach churn just a little bit. 

“He’s still in the room, I had to move you because I didn’t want you rolling on top of him and collapsing his lung even more,” Blade tried for a joking tone but quickly stopped himself when Tommy turned his full focus to stare at him in fear.

This- holy shit. This was real. 

“What do you mean collapsed lung?” Tommy’s eyes widened once more.

“Oh,” Blade sucked in a sharp breath through his nose and squeezed his eyes shut for a moment, only to open them again a second later. “Yeah, he- come with me.”

Blade turned away and had begun walking down the hall before Tommy was given the chance to protest. So, without a choice, he ran after the man, ignoring the still-burning feeling in his thigh.

His feet hit the concrete floor harshly, cold stone seeping through his socks and making a pitter-patter noise with each step. Someone must have taken his shoes off in his sleep–or maybe he did that himself. Was he even wearing shoes when he left the church?

Tommy quickly caught up to Blade, heart pounding in his ears at the words lung collapsed. He wasn’t a doctor, not anywhere close to it, but he knew that that didn’t sound good at all. 

Once, when Tommy was much younger, his teacher called out of school for the rest of the year and he was left with a substitute teacher in her place. They never said what exactly happened to his original teacher, but he had overheard another teacher saying something about her dad dying and it being because of something collapsing. He had quickly turned away, it wasn’t his business to intrude on no matter how nosy he was.

That was the first radiation poisoning case, and it just so happened to be in his city. 

Blade continued down the hall and to the room that Wilbur had been in the night before. He opened the door and Wilbur was still there. Thank God.

Tommy rushed forwards, ducking under Blade’s arm and into the room to stand beside his brother’s bed. His eyes were already watering just by looking at him. 

Wilbur looked the same as the night before–or, well, he should have looked the same. There was a sheer layer of sweat on his forehead and his cheeks looked a little more dull in colour, but Tommy chose to blame that on the fever, nothing else. 

Carefully, he lifted a hand and placed the back of it on Wilbur’s forehead to feel the temperature, frowning when it was still just as warm as it was in the church. He wasn’t an idiot though, he knew that Blade or Tubbo weren’t to blame for this–not that he would blame Tubbo for anything ever, that was his twin, blood or not–and they had willingly kept him and Wilbur for this long, knowing full well that Wilbur was sick. Tommy was disappointed, but not towards them. 

“Is he doing any better?” His voice was timid and quiet, like he had been around his brother for the past week and more. He was afraid, he knew that, and he could only hope it didn’t show in his voice.

Seemingly, it did. Blade frowned at him and crossed his arms over his chest. “You want the truth or want me to sugar coat it? ‘Cause I can get Tubbo in here to tell you if-”

“The truth. I’m not a baby, I can take it,” Tommy interrupted, tone stern and serious.

“Okay,” Blade took a heavy breath out. “He’s getting worse, a lot worse. His left lung is collapsed, Ponk almost had to insert a breathing tube just to get him to breathe on his own,” he motioned to the pillows propped up around Wilbur’s head. “And that’s only from being here for three days.”

Okay. Maybe Tommy should’ve picked the sugar coating option. He felt sick.

“Who- Who’s Ponk?” Tommy forced the words out of his throat and they burned like sandpaper. 

“They’re a doctor. He was the one to figure out all this shit was wrong with your brother in the first place.”

The wording of that should’ve bothered Tommy, but the world was turning beneath his beat, everything was blurry, he couldn’t breathe, and Wilbur was getting worse. If Wilbur died, Tommy knew he wouldn’t be far after himself.

But this? Tommy couldn’t let Blade know he was afraid. He couldn’t put down the facade that he knew all of this all along and didn’t come here as a last resort, that he was perfectly fine and not worried in the slightest. That could be used against him, just like Wilbur had always told him.

He swallowed the bile crawling up his throat and ignored his heart beating so fast that he could hear it in his own head. He wiped his sweaty palms on the sides of his trousers and walked towards the door, not bothering to look back at his brother out of fear that when he did, Wilbur would be dead for good and it would be all Tommy’s fault. 

“Cool, I’m done,” he nodded, ignoring the slight shake to his voice. “Can we go now?”

“Uh, yeah, sure,” Blade frowned again (Tommy made a mental note to tell him if he kept frowning, his face would get stuck like that forever) and pressed his back against the door to let Tommy by. 

For once, Tommy had never been more grateful to hear the sound of a door clicking shut. 

“We’ve got people checking in on him, if you want to as well,” Blade offered, walking ahead of Tommy and waving for him to follow. Tommy obliged. 

“People?” He was on the agenda that only Blade and Tubbo lived here, no one else.

“Yeah, people. We’ve got Niki, Jack, Ponk, and Tubbo,” Blade stopped to peek around a corner and continued after, presumably, the path was clear. “Ponk’s got a dog, too. Fran, she’s really sweet.”

“Oh, nice.”

It wasn’t a bad thing that there were more people here, it just meant there were more people he couldn’t trust. He had to be careful, and that was fine.

“And-” Tommy cleared his throat, “no, I’m good. I don’t really wanna- it’s not in my interest to see him like that every day, so no thank you.”

Blade nodded wordlessly. Though Tommy could only see the back of his head, he could tell that this was something the man understood. He got it beyond the loss of a loved one to old age or a quick accident; somehow, Tommy knew that Blade knew what it was like to watch someone he loved die from radiation poisoning and be completely and utterly helpless. He wasn’t sure if that made him feel better or worse about himself.

It was only once they had passed the room with the sofa he was on when he woke up that Tommy realized they were walking somewhere new, somewhere he hadn’t seen before. And as if Blade could read his thoughts, he supplied the answer to that. “You’re still following me, so do you wanna see the storage room?” 

Tommy’s cheeks and neck burned hot red with embarrassment. Oh, Blade had expected him to stop following behind. He had half the decency to be shelled with humiliation, and he was very close to bolting upright and saying no, he didn’t want to see the stupid storage room. But that would have been an obvious lie, and they were already at the entrance to the spiraling stairs, so he stayed silent.

Blade must have taken the lack of a response as an answer in itself because he took one look over his shoulder at Tommy before opening a latch to a door just under the base of the stairs. Without another word, he lowered himself to the ground and slid off the side carefully, beginning his descent down the fire escape ladder attached to the wall below.

This was an odd fucking lighthouse, Tommy noted. 

Assuming he was supposed to follow, Tommy followed behind in suit and clambered his way down the ladder as soon as Blade had made it to the ground. 

An important issue he had forgotten, however, was his deathly fear of heights. Not being high up itself, but falling from heights. In the blink of an eye, his shoe had slipped from the bar below and he only caught himself with the sweaty grip of his hands. His heartbeat picked back up and his chest heaved with fear.

“You’re okay, I’ll catch you if you fall, I promise,” Blade–or who he assumed was Blade–called from below. Tommy shakily nodded in response and took another, very careful, step down the ladder. 

Once he reached the bottom, just like Blade said, his arms were out and the small drop to the floor was cut by Blade catching him by his underarms, setting him on the floor carefully. “You okay?” He asked, voice dripping with concern.

“Yeah, sorry ‘bout that, big man,” Tommy took a few deep breaths to calm his shaking hands, working to no avail as always. If Wilbur were here, he would probably remind Tommy of whatever mental exercise they did to ground him.

But, even without Wilbur here, he liked Blade’s approach to his random burst of panic. Blade simply hummed in response and walked towards a large shelf on the back wall, knowing Tommy would be close behind.

“This is where we keep the important stuff. It used to be labeled because Tubbo’s a perfectionist or somethin’, but eventually we all got too lazy.” Tommy followed Blade’s hand pointing to each cardboard or plastic box with various items in it. “You can look if you want.”

Immediately, Tommy took that offer head on, jumping to the first box and rifling around at the random junk. In the first, there was bullets and ammunition for things Tommy didn’t even want to begin to imagine. Then, in the next box, there were plastic gloves, some sort of wiring, and neatly folded aprons. 

Yeah, that was fucking terrifying.

He ignored that box and moved onto the next; water bottles that were both empty and full. That wasn’t fun to look through. The next box, however, was interesting. Thrown in a pile without care were plastic straws with a single, sharp metal blade taped to the end. He picked one up curiously and turned it over in his hands.

“What’s this?” He eyed the thing in his hands like it had personally offended him. Misdirected anger, but it was better than taking it out on Blade and getting kicked out.

Blade stifled a laugh, coming out as more of a huff, and focused back on whatever he was searching for in the higher up boxes. “It’s a razor, we had to get innovative so we work with what we got.”
Tommy tilted his head in confusion, settling the thing back into the box and moving onto the next. “What’s a razor?”

This time, Blade stopped, turning to face him. “You’ve never heard of a razor before?”

“No?”

“Like- for shaving your face and stuff,” Blade raised an eyebrow at Tommy’s perplexity.

“Well, yeah, Wilbur shaves in the mornings but he just uses a blade, not the straw thing.”

“How does he manage that?”

Tommy shrugged, “I ‘dunno, I don’t ask him. He hasn’t taught me how yet, said I need to go through puberty first. I beat him up when he said that though so I don’t know what any of it means.”

Blade stared at him dumbfounded, blinking at him in silence for a few moments. “Okay, I’m not having this conversation with you.”

“What?” Tommy scrunched his eyebrows together, beyond confused at Blade’s baffled expression. 

“Just- nothing. Never mind. Wanna see the greenhouse?” 

That got Tommy’s attention. He knew flowers still existed, obviously, after he and Tubbo planted one, but other plants as well? Holy shit, today was one of the luckiest days of his life. Well, ignoring the news about Wilbur, which he was definitely going to continue doing.

He nodded quickly, bouncing on the back of his feet and snapping his head up to meet Blade’s gaze. “Follow me,” Blade called, already walking ahead. Tommy followed.

On the opposite side of the room was an opening where a door should have been, but in its place, a black curtain hung from a rod on the top. He wasn’t exactly sure what he was expecting, but a room so warm that it left sweat dripping down the sides of his forehead almost immediately was not that. 

“Why the fuck is it so hot in here?” Tommy wiped the back of his hand across his forehead and pulled his sleeves up to his elbows.

Blade, busy flickering with a switch in the corner, answered absent-mindedly, “It has to be or nothing will grow. The radiation works so strongly that it makes the growth process of most plants work backwards, I don’t know, Tubbo’s better at explaining it.”

Finally, the switch worked and the lights faded on enough for Tommy to see his surroundings. There were multiple make-shift blacklights hanging from the ceiling and below that was a divet in the cement with an array of plants deep in the soil.

From here, he could see a mix of tomatoes, strawberries, carrots, potatoes, herbs. In the corner of the room was an apple tree, a fucking apple tree. 

“How- what?” Tommy crouched down to get closer to the plants and make sure he wasn’t imagining this all to himself. He touched a leaf on one of the tomato plants and it was real.

“This is all Tubbo,” Blade said with a small smile forming on his face. Tommy looked up at him expectantly and he continued, “The second month of Tubbo living here, I came home to a makeshift black light, made out of a flashlight and some permanent marker, hung over the basement table with some electrical tape. Didn’t believe for a second that he knew what he was doing but then the third month came around and there was an apple tree at half growth and three tomato plants lining the cement walls.”

Tommy listened in awe. It had been years since someone talked to him like this, like they were talking to him and not at him. He learned very quickly that there was a prominent difference between the two.

“He said it was something about genetic engineering or whatever, I just know my kid’s beyond smart.”

Tommy blinked, “Your kid?” How the fuck was that even possible. “Not to be rude or anything but like- you look a little young to have a fourteen year old kid.”

“He’s not actually my kid, he’s like more of a little brother than anything, but I found him so he’s my kid.”

“You make it sound like he’s a stray cat you found in a dumpster.”

Blade rolled his eyes but there was no sign of malice behind the gesture. Tommy smiled at that, warmth blooming in his chest. 

Just as fast, however, he stomped the feeling down and focused back on the plants in front of him. He wasn’t an expert or anything, but most of the books he found in abandoned houses or stores they stopped at were nature related, words too big for him to comprehend. Wilbur would always read those to him, usually before bed or when he got bored. He never read them willingly, Tommy had to practically beg him, but he always caved.

And every time that Wilbur would say no, coming back with a snarky remark or something to poke at Tommy with, he would pretend it was like shooting a brick wall. It wasn’t though, not anywhere close to it, because it always hurt. Maybe it was bad that he was living in the end of the world and relied on validation so heavily, but he did it anyway and he hated it equally as much. It felt like pouring gasoline onto an already burning fire.

Fake confidence, it had worked this far and would keep working until he decided it wouldn’t. If he could have control over one reign in his life, this would be just that.

“When’s the last time you brushed your hair, by the way?” Blade suddenly asked, throwing Tommy a few steps back at the topic change.

“Uh- I don’t know, why?” Truthfully, he was pretty sure it had been three months. Wilbur used to have a hairbrush and Tommy was caught using it once, that ended horribly, of course, and the brush ended up snapping right in half. Wilbur didn’t talk to him for a week after that. Tommy didn’t eat that entire week out of spite. Neither of them liked to talk about that.

It was probably petty to be waiting for an apology from something so long ago, but Tommy did it anyway. Wilbur owed him more apologies for shit he thought Tommy was over and he wasn’t than Tommy could count.

“No reason, your hair’s just a mess.”

“Fuck you, I look perfect!”

“Yeah, sure, you keep telling yourself that,” Blade didn’t bother hiding his smile, and again, Tommy felt that same warmth fill his chest as before. He had done something right, made someone smile, that felt good.

“I’m gonna tell my brother everything rude you say about me when he wakes up. He’s gonna beat you up, just trust me, he’s the biggest man ever and he-” Tommy cut himself off when he looked up to see Blade frowning again, the same look he gave anytime Tommy talked about his brother. It was getting pretty fucking annoying. “Why do you keep looking at me like that? If you’ve got a problem, say it to my face,” he bit.

Blade continued to stare and suddenly the room felt much, much hotter. Tommy’s heart was beating fast again, he could hear his own breathing, and the walls were closing in around him. He needed out, he needed Wilbur to wake the fuck up and get out of there with him, and he needed to go home. 

Wherever that was, Tommy needed to be there.

“Tommy,” Blade started, tone sounding sorry. 

He had been having so much fun, he was happy and Blade was nice and he was being trusted in the storage room, and then it all crumbled. Tommy didn’t know when or how, but it had.

“Wilbur’s dying.”

Chapter Text

“Techno- Techno!” A man who looked early into his twenties, wearing a medical mask that wrapped around his face and bandages covering the rest, leaving only his eyes to be visible, burst into the green house suddenly. Would this even be called a green house? Did this count? It didn’t require sunlight or misters, just backlights and heat, so technically it wasn’t—by textbook definition, at least.

Tommy startled to his feet, snapping his head back at Blade with narrowed eyes. The man with the bandages on his face had said Techno, not Blade. He must have picked up on Tommy’s confusion because he gave a quick, curt nod in Tommy’s direction, leaving him even more confused than he had started as.

“You need to- okay, he’s awake,” the man explained, urgency still seeping within his tone, “but he’s blinking in and out of consciousness and his lung is getting worse, I’m not sure what happened, but it’s bad.” 

Oh. Tommy hadn’t expected that. He knew his brother was getting worse with each passing second, but he didn’t know it would happen this fast, let alone now and here. His head still hurt from Blade’s reminder that Wilbur was dying, and now he had confirmation of that.

Tommy wanted to cry.

Blade screwed his eyes shut for a moment, deep in thought, before opening them again. He nodded once and the man with bandages turned on his heel, rushing back through the curtains and into the storage room.

“Come on,” Blade’s voice was just above a whisper, seemingly worried himself. That didn’t bring Tommy any comfort—not like it should have in the first place, either way. 

Tommy followed behind quickly, taking long strides to keep up with the man, chewing the skin on the inside of his lip until he tasted copper, then moved to a new spot and continued the process. “What’s wrong, where are we going?”

“You want to talk to your brother, don’t you?” Blade turned to face him at the bottom of the ladder. Tommy nodded sharply. “Then you’ll be able to talk to him.”

Tommy tilted his head slightly, frowning at the way Blade phrased it with such finality. Like it was a you want to say goodbye to your brother, don’t you? And nothing else. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

He only received a hum in return, neither accepting nor denying. Tommy didn’t push because he was far too afraid to. His ears had already begun to ring, a sign of dissociating, floating off into space and watching his own body move without say from an outsiders perspective. 

It was common for him, dissociating. It had been something that happened since the night he had his first nightmare, and Wilbur had been the one to guide him through it. 

But Wilbur wasn’t here now. He was upstairs, in a bed that didn’t belong to either of them, with a collapsed lung and a panicked voice directing them his way.

Blade reached his arms out as if to gesture towards picking Tommy up. At first, Tommy blinked at him with a bewildered expression on his face. But, then he tried to reach the first bar of the ladder himself and failed miserably, even with standing on his tippy-toes and jumping as high as possible. He pointedly ignored Blade’s gaze as he held his arms out to his side for Blade to grab.

Without another beat, Blade placed his hands under Tommy’s under-arms and hoisted him up, holding him in the air until he had grabbed onto the third bar and secured his feet on the bottom two. 

Tommy took a deep breath, ignoring his sweaty palms that told him if he slipped—grabbed one bar in the wrong way or was too loose with his grip–he would fall and crack his head open, if not his spine as well.

“You’re fine, I promise. Just go, climb up there and I’ll meet you at the top.”

He didn’t respond before climbing the fourth bar. Then the fifth, and the sixth, and eventually, he was pulling himself up onto the sturdy ground above the storage room. He peeked his head down to check and Blade had already made it half-way up the ladder. 

Either he was slow as hell, or Blade was a fucking super-hero.

Trying to be of any help, Tommy waited until Blade had made it to the top of the ladder, and offered a hand down for him to grab and pull himself the rest of the way up with. He probably didn’t need the help, especially that of a fourteen year old, but he took the hand anyway, tugging gently until he had his footing. Whether it was out of pity or not, Tommy still felt helpful, like he had done something right again.

Blade lifted the door to the storage room and dropped it back into place, a loud crash sounding from its fall and leaving Tommy with his shoulders pinned to his ears. He messed with the latch until it clicked. Then, he continued down the hall, waving behind him for Tommy to follow.

The walk wasn’t long in any way, no longer than two minutes at most, but to Tommy, it felt like a lifetime. His own two feet and how fast he could walk were the only things keeping him from getting to his brother and hearing a coherent voice from him for the first time in a week.

Tommy was sure he was being clingy, attached in all the ways Wilbur said were for the worst, but he couldn’t find it in himself to pretend to care. Without his brother, Tommy was nothing. For the past six years, he had talked to Phil, Wilbur, and whatever store merchant they passed. That didn’t count in Tommy’s eyes, however, because Wilbur forced a hazard mask over his face and a hood over his head to block his face from anyone who could see him. 

It annoyed him, but eventually, Tommy learned to stop fighting it. Wilbur would always win.

By the time they reached the door in-between him and Wilbur, Tommy’s ears were ringing louder than they had in weeks. The last time it had been this bad, Phil’s dead body was feet away from him. It was funny, in a way, how he had managed to gain everything and lose it overnight.

Blade stopped at the door, hand on the doorknob as if he wanted to turn it and let Tommy in, but he was stopped by the barely visible fog clouding over Tommy’s eyes. He snapped once, then twice, trying to break him out of the fog, but Tommy was already working on that.

After each nightmare, Wilbur would force Tommy to stand with his back against the wall and clench his hands into fists, curling them up as tight as they could go. With each finger he unraveled, Tommy would count with it, working slowly until he reached ten fingers. By then, the fog was usually cleared and he was back on earth, but if he wasn’t, Wilbur made him recite each item in the room with the same colour. It was slow and tedious, usually taking all night, but it worked. It got Tommy back into his body and able to function without another meltdown.

So, he did that now. Slowly and carefully, he curled his fingers into fists and held tightly until his hands were visibly shaking. Then, he counted up from ten, working much faster than usual, and letting a finger fall back down with each count. By the end, both his hands were by his sides in open palms, pressed against the side of his pants.

“You- uh, are you okay?”

Tommy shot his head up, almost forgetting where he was and who was next to him. But blade still had his hand on the doorknob and a worried look on his face, so Tommy nodded and waited for the handle to turn. 

It did, and Tommy’s heart was pounding. 

He pushed past Blade, squeezing through the gap between the opening in the door and Blade’s side. Again, as he had been just an hour before, was Wilbur. If you ignored the purple bruises making their way up his arms, the bloodied cotton beside the bed, and how sickly pale he was, you might have assumed he was just resting, taking a nap after a long, dreadful day.

Tommy knew otherwise. He knew his brother wouldn’t make it through the night.

“Wilbur?” He squeaked, settling down in the chair placed beside the bed, almost as if it had been put there specifically for Tommy.

It took a moment, a second of silence, but eventually, Wilbur’s eyes fluttered open half-way. Tommy could’ve sworn he could have started crying on the spot. 

“Wilbur.” The name slipped out in one breath and Tommy’s eyes had already begun to water again. He blinked back the tears stubbornly. The last thing he wanted was for a barely alive Wilbur to worry about him because he started crying inconsolably. If anything, he needed to stay strong for Wilbur, even if it was fake, he needed to be okay.

“Hi Toms,” Wilbur croaked, voice scratchy and unused. Despite the piles of blankets on top of him, he was still trembling like a leaf. Tommy brought the blankets higher on his chest and tucked them around him tightly.

“You really scared me, you know?” Tommy sniffled, still doing his best to hold back the tears prodding at his waterline. 

Wilbur hummed sadly, turning his head to face his little brother easier. Slowly and carefully, he pulled an arm out of the blankets and placed his open palm on Tommy’s cheek, rubbing his thumb up and down, caressing it softly. To Tommy, it felt like the hug that Wilbur couldn’t give.

“I’m sorry,” Tommy pressed further into the touch, relishing in it and doing his best to ignore how freezing cold it was. This room was hot and he was already wishing there was an air conditioning unit somewhere in this lighthouse, but Wilbur seemed cold to his bones. Like no matter how many blankets or hot water bottles were placed on him, he was still cold.

A small part of Tommy feared that he would never be warm again.

Tommy’s eyes fluttered shut and he bit his bottom lip with as much force as he could muster, nearly piercing the skin through. He had tried so hard. He did everything he could, went to supply drops, went into town along for the first time, carried him to Blade’s and Tubbo’s house, yet still, he ended up so sick that he was chill to the touch.

The same Wilbur that he would curl up to as a child, laid on his chest and hiding his face in Wilbur’s sweater, was cold.

It was a type of cold that Tommy couldn’t fix, no matter how hard he tried. That hurt the most.

A tear fell down his face, barely catching on his cheek to roll down in time before hitting Wilbur’s wrist, still pressed against the side of Tommy’s face. He didn’t realise it at first, too focused on staying in this moment, his brother by his side and breathing. But then another fell. And another and another, and before he knew it, he couldn’t control the sobs tumbling out of his throat. 

“Hey, hey, what’s wrong?” Wilbur tried to sit up but was quickly pushed back down by the man with bandages on his face, gently judging his shoulder. He rolled his shoulder back and glared to the side.

Still unable to catch his breath, Tommy curled closer, whimpering like an abandoned kitten when Wilbur tried to pull his hand away. He was overwhelmed and nothing was going his way. Tommy was certain he sounded spoiled and stuck up at that request, but he didn’t mind either way. He needed his brother, and the most Wilbur could give him was a hand on his cheek. 

He was so fucking tired.

“I can’t-” he stuttered over his words, failing to force a complete sentence out without being interrupted by a hiccup or a sob. It was embarrassing, honestly, how this was the second time he was at his brother’s side, crying so hard he could hardly breathe, and all because he couldn’t handle acting his age–or, what he assumed normal fourteen year olds acted like. He didn’t have much reference besides Tubbo, but not many fourteen year old boys were left to survive the end of the world with nothing but their brother as a guide.

Maybe it was unrealistic thinking, but a deeper part of Tommy wished that he had been the one to die instead of their mother, or at least be the one dying of radiation poisoning, not Wilbur. Then, at least, Wilbur would be okay right now. He wouldn’t be in a strangers home with no explanation, and Tommy wouldn’t be left alone for the first time in his life.

It had always been him and Wilbur, Tommy couldn’t imagine a universe where that was different.

“I thought you died, Wil. I thought- you wouldn’t wake up and I had to drag you here and-” Wilbur frowned at him, taking his opposite hand and pressing it against Tommy’s forehead. He was checking to see if Tommy had a fever himself, the fucking irony of that. “I was so scared.”

The confession hurt worse than Tommy thought it would, burning like acid on his tongue. The words I was afraid. Telling Wilbur that he couldn’t live on his own, he didn’t know how. Tommy didn’t want it to be true, but it was. There was no point in running from the truth when it was inevitable either way.

Wilbur squished Tommy’s cheek lightly with his thumb and index finger, still keeping his palm pressed against it for Tommy’s sake. “But I’m not, I’m alive, Toms,” Tommy peeled his eyes open, locking them with Wilbur’s, and nodded shakily. “I’m gonna be okay, trust me. You know I would never leave you out here on your own.”

Being reassured like that was sweet, something Tommy hadn’t known he was craving. The promise by the one person who had never broke a promise, the one person who stayed. 

“I promise,” Wilbur smiled softly, hand falling to his chest and crossing his index and middle finger over the other, pressed tightly to his heart. 

That, in a childish way, calmed Tommy’s ever-racing heart. It let him breathe a deep breath in and out again for the first time in over a week. Wilbur never broke those promises. Never. If he said he would be okay after promising like that, he meant it.

But it didn’t help the weariness still settled deep into his heart. He had seen his brother’s near lifeless body multiple times. One promise wasn’t going to burn out that feeling for the better, it kept on like a lit match in a dark tunnel, but with Wilbur’s promise, there was an opening at the end. A light shining through to guide him out.

Until then, however, he was still in that tunnel.

“Are you sure?” Tommy asked meekly.

“I’m alive in this universe, aren’t I?” Wilbur held onto his brothers hands as best as he could, grip shaking, with a soft smile on his face. 

Tommy pulled a hand away and placed it on Wilbur’s cheek, sighing at the feeling of cold skin instead of warm. “Yeah,” he nodded heavily, “you are. We- we both are.”

Wilbur pressed into the touch and leaned forwards to press a kiss to the boys forehead, something he had done since he first held Tommy in the hospital room he was born into and something Tommy always squirmed away from. However, Tommy didn’t move away this time. He stayed put, gripping his brother’s hand tighter as if he would turn to dust the second he looked away.

“Don’t… just- don’t leave yet,” he kept a hand on his brothers cheek and allowed the other to be gripped onto tightly. “Please,” his voice squeaked and the word came out pleading, desperate. A child who had been missing someone guide them away from the world.

Wilbur hummed and leaned forwards again to press another kiss to the crown of Tommy’s head, leaving his face buried in messy and dirty curls. To Wilbur, it was a hum of pretending that everything was going to be alright. Like he hadn’t just promised his brother something he wasn’t sure he could keep. But to Tommy, it was a hum of approval. A way out and a safety net to catch his fall.

But nothing nice like this ever lasted, at least for Tommy. Because as quick as their conversation had begun, it ended with Wilbur’s hand still holding Tommy’s, falling unexpectedly limp. 

“Wil?” Tommy tried, panic growing in his chest once again. 

“Fuck,” the man with the bandages on his face mumbled under his breath. “He’s been like this the past hour, he’s getting worse.” He worked to move Tommy’s hand off of Wilbur’s, but Tommy stayed put, cementing his spot in the chair by his brother’s side. He was not leaving Wilbur again. “Tommy, I need you to move. We need to get your brother stabilised before his body rejects treatment, alright?”

Again, Tommy didn’t move. 

“Just do whatever you need while I’m in here, I’m not in your way!”

“Techno-”

“Already on it,” arms were wrapped around Tommy’s torso before he could protest, and without having to look, he knew it was Blade.

“Let me- Let me go!” Tommy writhed in Blade’s hold, gripping his forearms and clawing at them with his fingernails. Blade continued to tug him away, lifting him into the air and against his own chest. 

And to think things had been going decent.

Tommy kept his eyes locked on his brother as he was carried out of the room and back into the hallway. The door wasn’t shut behind them, but he wouldn’t have noticed either way. He continued to kick and scream, digging his nails into Blade’s arms until it broke the skin and a few small beads of blood made their way to the surface.

“Wilbur!” Tommy screamed as loud as he could, “You promised! You promised you would be okay!” It was a desperate attempt for Blade to let him go. He needed to get back to Wilbur. The last time he had left him safe in bed, he came home to his brother nearly choking on his own vomit. 

Of course, there was a doctor there now–or, whatever counted as one. Tommy wasn’t exactly aware of a doctor existing in the middle of the apocalypse, but clearly there was–but he didn’t know them well. He hadn’t met them longer than twenty minutes and he wasn’t even sure he could recall what he looked like aside from the bandages covering his face.

It was terrifying and Tommy wanted out.

Blade set him on a cool surface suddenly, causing him to jolt up at the new feeling. Immediately, he tried to stand and run, but Blade was already two steps ahead of him and had his arms firmly pressed onto his shoulders. Not suffocating him, but blocking him from running. Either way, Tommy hated it.

“You fucking-” he lunged as far as he could, hitting his fists against the man’s chest and kicking his shins repeatedly. “My brother is in there, I need to be there with him.”

“Tommy, trust me. You don’t need to see what they’re doing.”

Tommy paled. “What does that mean?” He stilled in his spot and his eyes widened with fear. “What are they doing to him?”

Blade shuffled onto the bench beside him and with the clear view ahead, Tommy could see they were in the kitchen now. It looked more like a school cafeteria than anything—it was large and there was more empty space than not, but there were multiple tables lining the walls as if more than ten people lived here.

“Listen, I’ll answer any of your questions, you just have to promise me you won’t freak out and run. Okay?” Tommy nodded quickly and Blade removed his hands from the kid’s shoulders, slow and reluctant. 

For a moment, Tommy was tempted to defy that promise and swerve from the hands that would surely grab him. Make a bee-line to his brother’s room and see what they were doing to him. But there was a new person standing in the corner of the room, leaning against the doorway with a scowl on his face, and thought he was clearly shorter than Tommy and just as scrawny, he decided not to test his luck. 

Instead, he nodded at the new person and pressed his lips into a tight, thin smile. It wasn’t real, more friendly and just a kind gesture---because as much as he wanted to be rude and brash like usual, Wilbur had taught him to be kind around strangers. They never knew if someone was working for the government, sending people out to look for him specifically as the test subject that had somehow made it away from their radar. But, the person smiled back. It seemed just as forced, so Tommy took it as an offering of peace. 

Whatever that meant.

“What do you wanna know?” Blade asked, a hand idly tapping the tabletop beside him.

Surprisingly, Tommy didn’t find himself yearning to know everything about his brother first. Surely, it should have been his first priority, but he very well could have led him and Wilbur into a death trap and not even know it, so he was more focused on picking the man in front of him apart. Picking this whole building apart.

“That guy with the bandages on his face, who was he? And why’d he call you Techno?”

Blade nodded and pursed his lips in thought. Tommy waited patiently. “He’s our doctor. Well- they’re not exactly a doctor, they only made it through a year of medical school and a few seasons of Grey’s Anatomy before shit hit the fan, but he’s as close as we can get to a doctor.”

Tommy hummed, bringing his knees up to his chest to rest his chin against as Blade continued, “her name’s Ponk. They fixed up Tubbo when I brought him in, Niki and Jack. Basically- anyone being tracked by the government for experiments, he’s helped out.” 

And that? Well, she seemed like a good person, helping people with nothing expected in return. But Tommy was still weary, and rightfully so. Maybe, if Blade hadn’t nearly killed him the first time they met, Tommy would have a much easier time trusting him, but that wasn’t the case.

Because of course, the world never seemed to work in his favour. It couldn’t be that simple.

“Right, that doesn’t explain why he called you Techno though,” Tommy leaned further into the side of the table. It dug into his ribs uncomfortably but it gave him the reminder he was there and alive.

Maybe it should have concerned him more about his need for that reminder far too often as of late.

“It’s a nickname,” Blade lied through his teeth and it was painfully obvious to Tommy. Silently, he seethed and wanted the truth. No more lies, no more broken promises, just somewhere stable and steady again.

He was convinced he had that with Phil. And then Phil fucking died.

Yeah, that summed up his luck perfectly.

However, Tommy didn’t push for the truth. It wasn’t worth the fighting or bickering back and forth until someone eventually gave in. He was too tired for that. It was an exhaustion that was bone deep, something he couldn’t shake if he tried. It didn’t matter how many hours of sleep he got, how oblivious he pretended to be, it would always be there.

The world was fucking ending right before his eyes. He was fourteen, his mother was dead, and his brother was following close behind. Then, the one person Wilbur allowed him to trust died as well. Nothing stayed in this world. 

Perhaps, in another universe, at least, there was another version of him and his brother. A different, happier and safer version of themselves with nothing to worry about besides what they were going to wear the next day or how their hair looked to impress their crush. 

That wasn’t this universe though, and as much as Tommy wished it was, wishing had got him nowhere. There was no point in trying when it worked as beating a dead horse.

“Who’s he?” He pointed to the new person in the corner of the room and grimaced as a scowl made way onto their face. It was probably a bit too brash, in hindsight.

“I’m right here,” the new person barked back, crossing his arms over his chest. Tommy used everything in himself not to flinch at the volume. 

“I can see that.” Tommy turned his focus to the new person and narrowed his eyes in discomfort. “Who are you?”

“I’m Jack. You’re Tommy?” 

Tommy nodded once. If he was closer, he would have shaken the man’s hand, made the situation a little less awkward, but he wasn’t, so he stayed put.

“Anyways,” Blade interjected, catching Tommy’s attention again. “Yeah, that’s Jack. He and Niki do the majority of stock-keeping. If we run out of something, they’re the one’s going on trips to whatever loot drop is closest.” 

Though Tommy had never met Niki, he assumed she was nice from the way Blade didn’t tense at the mention of her name. 

“And what about Wilbur? What are they doing to him?” 

Blade paused, expression going blank again. Tommy tapped his foot on the concrete floor anxiously, keeping a steady pattern to occupy his thoughts and keep them away from whatever was going on in the room just down the hall. He wanted to avoid thinking of his brother, avoid the guilt that came with every passing second, but it was inevitable and he had grown used to that fairly quick.

“His lung is collapsed pretty bad. That’s not something that fixes itself, it needs surgery to be reconstructed. It takes some time to heal, and Ponk had enough knowledge to try.” Tommy opened his mouth to protest, but Blade continued, “It’s either that or he’s dead for sure. At least with this, you would know you did everything in your power to save him.”

Tommy tried to ignore the way he changed perspectives mid-way through, like he could read his thoughts perfectly clear.

So, he switched topics. “I don’t want to think about that anymore,” Blade nodded reassuringly, like he understood the reason why.

“Can I ask you something then?” 

“Sure,” Tommy shrugged and shrunk further into himself again, the thoughts of Wilbur being sliced into, opened up and hopefully fixed up before he died in pieces on a cold bed. 

Surely, that was inaccurate, but Tommy was a kid and the most medical information he knew was from a book about the skeletal system that Wilbur has given him for his sixth birthday. 

Breathing out, Blade asked, “How did you find this place so fast? You said you went home and straight here but Tubbo came home thirty minutes before you got here. Did you just remember the path super well, or…?”

“Oh,” Tommy straightened up, reaching into his side pocket and pulling out a small compass. It was about the size of a pocket watch and the cool feeling of engravings on the back of a name not his own was soothing to him. “Tubs gave me this when we met.”

Blade reached out a hand as if asking to hold it and Tommy obliged, setting the compass in his hands carefully. Tubbo had given this to him, and he liked Tubbo, so he treated it like an ancient artifact meant to be kept perfectly pristine.

He watched as Blade ran his thumb over the back, frowning to himself slightly, and handed it back to Tommy just as fast. Tommy took it and shoved it back in his pocket like it would be taken from him forever or grow legs and run away. “I didn’t know he was ready to give that up.”

Tommy tilted his head, confused. 

“Before I met him, he had a really good friend; Ranboo. They were inseparable I guess, from the way Tubbo describes him.”

Something panged in Tommy’s gut at the words were inseparable. They used to be inseparable. 

“Why aren’t they anymore?” 

“He was shot in the chest on his way home. Tubbo knew him pretty much his whole life.”

Tommy frowned, mind rolling at the understanding that this was fresh. But it made sense. Tubbo got him, he understood personally how Tommy felt because he had been through the same. If Wilbur were to die, he would be exact like Tubbo.

True twins. The thought cheered him up slightly, in a terribly grim way.

“Oh. That’s- yeah, that sucks,” Blade nodded in agreement. “He trusted me enough to give this to me though?” 

Again, Blade nodded, and something struck Tommy in the heart, nearly sending him into tears again. Someone trusted him enough to make up for that empty space in their heart for someone they loved. Of course, Tommy would never replace Ranboo, he couldn’t imagine it, nor did he want to in the first place, but he was trusted enough to stand side by side to that gaping feeling that never truly left. 

That was reassuring in more ways than one.

“That’s nice.”

“You should talk to him about it. He’s worried about you.”

Tommy let the thought turn over a few times in his head, and eventually, he agreed. Tubbo would never replace Wilbur, not by a long shot, but if he could make room for another safety and constant in his life, and if that person was Tubbo, Tommy would take it without question.

“Yeah. I think I will.”

He smiled to himself, something small and barely there, but a smile nonetheless. Because somehow, in the midst of Tommy’s world crashing around him as it stood, he found something to hold the walls up a little longer. 

Chapter Text

A plate was set in front of Tommy and he eyed the food like it had personally wronged him. It wasn’t that he wasn’t hungry, because he was, he hadn’t eaten in days and his stomach rolled uncomfortably at its emptiness, but it just looked… wrong. 

Maybe it was because his brother was in the other room and he couldn’t eat, so it made no sense for Tommy to either. 

He poked at the pile of mash potatoes and steamed carrots. If it were a different situation, he would’ve dug into the food and not bothered with eating his veggies, because surely Blade wouldn’t mind. This was different, though. Tommy had never wanted to hear Wilbur’s annoying eat your vegetables, or I know it’s gross but you need protein, more in his life. 

He wanted his brother and he wanted everything to be okay again. 

Well, as okay as things could get given their circumstances. It was never really okay, but Wilbur made it seem okay. 

In the ways he brushed Tommy’s hair or listened to the kid’s pointless rambles about bugs and flowers. In the ways he tucked Tommy in at night and sang the same lullaby their mother had all those years ago. In the ways he never broke a promise. 

In the ways Tommy knew he was safe as long as Wilbur was there.

But that wasn’t his life now, and Tommy knew it would never be like that again. 

If—no, when, he reminded himself—Wilbur recovered and they could walk out of this lighthouse together, he would surely be ten times more overbearing and protective than before. There wasn’t a chance in hell that Tommy was being let out of Wilbur’s sight for at least the next year. 

And honestly, Tommy found himself not minding that idea all too much.

He scooped up a forkful of the potatoes and plopped it back down onto his plate again.

“Are you gonna eat that?”

Tommy shot his head up at the voice.

“Uh- I don’t really like potatoes,” he lied. Potatoes were one of his favourite vegetables, but there was only so much powdered mashed potatoes that one man could take before it quickly became unbearable. 

Tubbo clicked his tongue on the roof of his mouth, pulling his legs up to swing around the bench and sit across from Tommy. “Thought so.”

He set something wrapped in cloth on the table and slid it across, right towards Tommy. 

Tommy quirked an eyebrow, sitting up to have a better view. “What is it?” He gestured towards the poorly wrapped cloth on the table in front of him.

“The fuck does it look like? it’s a sandwich, obviously.”

“Well- I know that, prick! I mean what kind of sandwich?”

Tubbo tilted his head to the side, eyebrows scrunched together in thought, but finally, he straightened up with a loud, “Ohhh! You meant what’s in the sandwich, got it.” Tommy stared at him in bewilderment but didn’t bother. “It’s peanut butter and banana.”

“That’s all…?” Tommy carefully unwrapped it and pulled the top piece of bread off to look inside. “I mean, it just sounds unhealthy.”

“Why would you care about something being healthy or not? It’s free food.”

“I’m just shocked Blade would let you have that, my brother would kill me if that was all I ate. He’s all, mememe, I’m your big brother and what I say goes, eat your veggies, Tommy, you’ll get sick, Tommy.”

“You complain about your brother a lot,” Tubbo retorted, leaning back on the bench with the palms of his hands.

Tommy rolled his eyes. “Because he’s a bitch.”

“I mean,” Tubbo blew a piece of hair out of his eye with the corner of his mouth, “he’s your big brother, right?”

Tommy nodded. 

“Then it’s his job to be a bitch. He like- has to make you hate him or something because it’s the only way to keep you safe.”

Tubbo had told him this the last time they saw each other, and the time before that as well, yet, it still felt a fresh wound being ripped open again. A fire being lit after hours of work to put it out. 

Like it had been the past few days, Tommy felt the burning rage, the frustration that he couldn’t rid himself of, burrow deeper in his chest. He didn’t speak on it, there was nothing to say either way. 

“Hey, are you okay?” Tubbo interjected abruptly, keeping his voice low enough for just the two of them to hear. 

Tommy frowned at that, pulling his head up again to look around, and of course, Jack was still standing in the doorway looking as menacing as a bald man could. It was honestly a little comedic.

“Sorry, you don’t have to answer that it you don’t want to, it’s none of my business-“

“No!” Tommy cut him off, presumably a little too loud from the way Niki stopped mixing whatever was in the bowl in her arms and Tubbo jumped back, just barely noticeable. “I’m sorry- no, it’s- you’re fine, sorry.”

“You’re stuttering, stop freaking out.”

Tommy furrowed his eyebrows. “Fuck’s wrong with stuttering?”

“Nothing,” Tubbo rolled his eyes again. “Just, you were stuttering, so it means you were working yourself up. You’re fine, boss man.”

It was in the way Tubbo worded the reassurance that stuck with him. The way he said it so pointedly, like Tommy would he stupid to think otherwise. 

Wilbur was good at keeping his promises but to be as good as he was, it meant making very few. He only made promises he knew he could keep, and right now, Tommy needed a promise that he was okay, even if it was sure to be broken.

So, he clung to Tubbo’s words as tight as he could.

“I’m fine.”

Tommy hated lying, especially to people he cared about, and it just so happened to be that Tubbo was one of those people. But, it didn’t count as a lie if it was half-the-truth.

He continued anyway, “Just worried about Wilbur, you haven’t heard anything, have you?” 

Tubbo shook his head sharply, seeming all the less worried. “No, but Ponk’s got it handled, don’t stress it.”

Tommy huffed a small laugh that came out in far less of a joking tone. “You try losing the one thing keeping you afloat. It’s not that easy, Tubs.”

“I have,” Tubbo mumbled under his breath, still keeping his eyes locked with Tommy. The tension in the air suddenly made itself apparent again.

And in that moment, Tommy swore if he could, he would’ve kicked himself until he fell to the ground. Of course he would forget about Ranboo, of course. 

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it like that.”

Tubbo waved a hand through the air quickly, “It’s fine, I’m over it.”

The way it was phrased made it inherently clear that he was lying, but Tommy knew what it was like to watch someone lose themselves to guilt, and Tubbo wasn’t there yet. He didn’t bug for that reason.

“We can share,” Tubbo offered. 

Tommy tilted his head and frowned. “What?”

Not waiting for an answer or providing any explanation, Tubbo reached across the table and tugged the cloth towards him. Then, he grabbed the sandwich and ripped it in half, somehow managing to keep both sides decently equal. 

“Here,” he held out one half of the sandwich, already taking a bite into his own.

Tommy reluctantly took his half and forced a smile—as best as he could—to push his gratitude across. Tubbo must have taken it as such because he offered the same gesture back. 

And again, for the third time that week, Tommy found himself thanking the stars for giving him at least one good thing. For giving him Tubbo.

He was in his room—-or, where he was sent to sleep at night. Tommy didn’t like to think of it as his room, because he didn’t have a room. He had a room at Phil’s house and he had a room at his mother’s, but not here—-when he got the news. It was hot and humid yet the hoodie that stuck to his skin with sweat seemed not enough. It was hot and humid, but Tommy was still cold. 

A knock sounded from the other side of the door separating him from the outside world. It was slow and quiet, almost like whoever was knocking didn’t want to disturb him, but then there were hushed voices and the knocking returned. This time, much louder and panicked. 

Tommy didn’t bother calling out, choosing to let them in by hand instead. 

He shuffled around, setting the map and marker he had been circling camps with on the table beside his cot, and climbed out of bed. The concrete floor was cold, as expected, and the contrast against  the stickly hot air sent a shiver down his spine.

If he had been counting correctly, it was mid-December. 

Mid-December and so hot that spending longer than an hour in direct sunlight could leave third-degree burns. Radiation was to blame for that, warping the weather so bad that despite it being the dead of winter, it felt like a summer day. 

But, somehow, this was the coldest winter Tommy had ever experienced. It wasn’t snowing, there was no frost covering the windows and no hot cocoa served in the streets, and still, it was so, so cold. 

These were the memories he wanted to forget, made in the coldest winter.

Tommy padded across the floor and to the door, the person behind it still knocking rapidly. The part of him still mourning a man who was still breathing wanted to shout back and match the noise. He didn’t, however. He stayed quiet. 

He reached out and twisted the doorknob until it opened with a click, and before he could open it himself, the person on the other side pushed through, tunneling forwards and nearly sending him to the ground. 

“What the fuck?” Tommy furrowed his brows while steadying himself again. 

“I’m sorry,” Ponk huffed out a breath of air before regaining his composure. “Wilbur’s awake, he’s asking for you.”

Tommy stood up straight immediately, locking his attention on Ponk again. “Really? Is he okay?” 

Ponk nodded heavily, stepping back and gesturing towards the open door. “I can tell you everything after, just- please, he really wants to see you.”

That was all it took for Tommy to agree. Of course, it wouldn’t have taken convincing anyway, because this was Wilbur and he would do anything for him.

Ponk didn’t say another word before turning around and walking back out into the hallway, through the doorway left open. Tommy followed silently.

Wilbur was- well, from the tone of Ponk’s voice, Tommy couldn’t tell whether Wilbur was okay or not. For his own sake, however, he assumed Wilbur was alright.

Whenever they got out of this place —-together—- Tommy was never going to let Wilbur live this week down.

Although, Tommy had acted the same way when their mother died. When they spent the first two years sleeping wherever they could, losing so much weight that at one point, Tommy could see his ribs poking through his skin. During those first years, he was stubborn as all hell, and though Wilbur wasn’t exactly the same, he was still being stubborn as well.

Maybe, if he just got better, if his body just accepted whatever stupid medicine they were feeding him, then they wouldn’t be in this situation.

And maybe, if he hadn’t been left with the burden that was Tommy himself, Wilbur would be happy and safe in some camp that didn’t kick them out after a day or two. Phil might even still be alive, too.

But none of that happened and none of it ever would, all because Tommy had the misfortune of existing.

Being awake, being alive, on this cold, dark night was a serious and terrifying thing, and Tommy wanted nothing more than to wake up from whatever nightmare he had been thrown into that was coincidentally called life.

The pair turned a corner, wrapping around to the same door Tommy had been to twice before, but this time, it was left wide open. 

From here, he could hear a strained voice, low in volume and desperately trying to stay calm. However, the obnoxiously loud and angry shouting worked against it easily.

It didn’t take long for Tommy to realise that the loud voice belonged to Wilbur.

“You’re- Wil?” He shoved Ponk out of the way, just barely catching the sound of his back hitting the doorframe, and stumbled to the corner of the room where Wilbur was-

He was standing. Wilbur was standing, despite the IV connected to his arm and the bandages covering his chest instead of a shirt.

Tommy wasn’t a doctor, but he could assume from Ponk’s panic that Wilbur wasn’t supposed to be up. 

“Oh my god, Toms,” strong, sturdy arms pulled him closer until he was pressed against his brother’s chest with a hand cradling the back of his head protectively. 

Like Tommy was the one who needed protecting.

“Wilbur,” Tommy whispered, tears already springing to his eyes. “Wilbur, Wilbur, Wilbur, Wilbur.”

“I’m here, I’ve got you, nothing’s gonna hurt you.” The way Wilbur phrased it sent a chill down his spine, but truthfully, Wilbur being a possessive and overbearing freak was the last of Tommy’s worries right now.

Nothing mattered except the fact that Wilbur was there, alive and breathing, and Tommy was too. They were here, together, breathing the same air with two seperate, constant beating hearts.

Tommy ducked his head further down and set his forehead against Wilbur’s collarbone. He reeked of rubbing alcohol and copper, almost sending Tommy to the ground gagging, but he stayed up anyway.

Wilbur pressed his palm to the nape of Tommy’s neck and carded his fingers through the short hairs within reach. He kept his nails longer, Tommy bit his own, so the gentle scratching against the base of his scalp was beyond calming.

The hand is quickly removed from his head and he fights back the whine building in his throat, focusing on the calloused fingers gripping both sides of his face instead. 

“Did they hurt you? Are you alright?” Wilbur glances him over once, then twice, then three times as if looking for any apparent injuries or bruises. Any reason to kill the two people who have kindly let them stay and kindly stopped him from dying.

If Tommy had the energy, he would’ve fought back. 

“I’m fine, they didn’t hurt me. I brought you here,” Tommy leaned further into Wilbur’s right palm. Like a cat desperate for warmth.

Wilbur frowned, eyebrows furrowing in confusion. “Why would you bring us to a stranger’s base, have you not learned anything from the past fourteen years of your life?”

“They’re not strangers,” Tommy straightened up suddenly, not completely, but enough to get his point across. Wilbur’s grip loosened and Tommy had to bring his own hands up to hold them in place and stop them from falling back down. “That’s Blade, I met him, uh- I got lost one day. He helped me find my way back to the church.”

Wilbur nodded, rubbing his thumb over the scar on Tommy’s cheek. 

“And that’s Ponk, he did… whatever to fix you. You would’ve died without them.”

Tommy meant for his tone to come out sharp and assertive but instead, it deemed itself weak and timid. 

He really missed his brother.

“I wouldn’t have died, Tommy, don’t be overdramatic.”

“Overdramatic?” Tommy scoffed. “I had to drag you here in the middle of a storm while you were barely conscious, and then when I finally did get here, I passed out too!”

Really, he hadn’t meant to get so angry that quick, but it was done and over with now, so there was no point in taking his words back. Not when they were true.

Wilbur slouched forwards at the admission, frown deepening from one of confusion to one of guilt.

He opened his mouth to speak, closed it, and opened it again. “I would have been fine.”

Tommy wasn’t an idiot, but if he was, he would have guessed that Wilbur wanted to apologize.

“Wilbur, please get back in bed, you have fresh stitches,” Ponk seemed increasingly exasperated, desperate to get Wilbur to listen.

“No, don’t fucking tell me what to do,” he whipped his head back to glare in Ponk’s direction and held an arm out to block Tommy, and for what wasn’t the first time, Tommy felt cornered.

However, he made no effort to push Wilbur away. He easily could, no hassle would be made, but he was so used to being protected and for a week, he was the one doing the protecting himself. This was a nice change, even if it had repercussions. Tommy could deal with that later.

Wilbur was clearly taller than him, so from where he was stood, Wilbur’s back was blocking his line of sight. Tommy was sure he should move to have a better view, to help out Blade and Ponk as they became more and more desperate, but for once, he let himself cherish this moment. Even if it ended horribly, he was here now, and that was what mattered.

“Who are you and what the fuck did you do to me?” Wilbur shouted, tensing under the palm Tommy had placed on his back.

“The kid said it himself, we saved your life, be a little appreciative,” Blade sounded angry, which, rightfully so, terrified Tommy. He needed to de-escelate the situation before it got worse. Blade had a gun, he wasn’t afraid to use it, and though he trusted Tommy, it was obvious the same didn’t go for Wilbur.

Tommy grabbed the back of Wilbur’s shirt, scrunching it up into a ball and tightening his hold. Wilbur seemed to notice because he twisted his arm down to grab Tommy’s shoulder. It wasn’t careful and gentle, but instead, tight and uncomfortable.

The weight of every problem but his own weighed heavily on his chest, pushing and pushing until a figurative rib would pop out of place and leave him screaming for help. He grinded his teeth silently, leaving no room for assumptions of any sort on his internal battle. 

Tommy felt as if he was the last remaining survivor of a ship wreck, dead bodies of the people he loved floating around him, a shark circling in the depths of the ocean, and a life vest that was slowly losing air.

In short, he felt helpless. Tommy hated feeling helpless.

“I didn’t ask to be saved,” Wilbur spat, tone sharp.

Tommy’s grip on his brother’s shirt loosened.

“The fuck do you mean you didn’t ask to be saved?” If the air wasn’t tense before, it definitely was now. “Of course you didn’t ask, you were practically dead already! You couldn’t ask anything.” 

Wilbur stiffened and Tommy let his hand drop the rest of the way, falling back to his side as if he hadn’t just been desperate for comfort seconds ago. “What if I didn’t want to be saved, Tommy?”

And in that moment, that small, minuscule moment, the world was silent. No bugs scattered through the dirt, moths forgot to fly outside, and a breath was not taken. The world was still for one horrible moment.

“What?” Tommy asked just above a whisper. The fear in his tone, utter anticipation, was clear.

Wilbur caught on immediately and shook his head wildly, as if denying any accusation of what he had just admitted. Tommy didn’t buy it, however, because he was afraid. “No, no, that’s not what I- no, I didn’t mean it like that.”

Tears pricked at the corners of Tommy’s eyes and he was sure he had never felt this terrible in his life. Fuck Wilbur getting sick and him coming home to his brother barely alive, fuck watching his mother die in front of his eyes, fuck the man who had kept him and Wilbur safe for four years, this was the scariest moment of his life.

The moment where his brother admitted to wishing he was dead.

“You know that’s not what I meant, I wouldn’t do that to you.”

I wouldn’t do that to you, rung over and over in Tommy’s head, repeating itself and overlapping the words until it was nothing but a jumbled mess of warped voices. But what about you? Tommy wanted to say. What about doing that to yourself? Why have you just stayed alive for me?

But he couldn’t say that, because Wilbur was Wilbur and that meant he would never understand, nor would he listen. He had this ideology that being the big brother meant never needing help, and Tommy was only fourteen, but even he knew that wasn’t true. He could tell the infallible lie coating Wilbur’s every move.

“No, Wil, I don’t know that.”

Tommy didn’t let himself go weak in front of this group, and especially not Wilbur. Not now, at least.

“Tommy, drop it,” Wilbur ordered, and the way he worded it had Tommy flinching back, but still, he didn’t back down.

“I’m not dropping it, are you insane? You just said you didn’t ask to be saved, how am I supposed to take that lightly?” Tommy could feel himself getting angry to a point of no return and chose to ignore it. If Wilbur was going to act like that, so was he. “What was I supposed to do if you had died, huh?”

He paused for a moment and Wilbur stayed silent.

“How the fuck did you think I would survive without you? I would have died too, you fucking prick!” It was vulnerable for a moment, covered up by angry swears, but Tommy knew that Wilbur understood what he meant. If no one else did, at least his brother had taken those words for their exact meaning.

Wilbur shut his eyes, resting a palm against the wall to stabilize himself. For a moment, he swayed, and for a moment, Tommy wondered if he would drop back to the ground like this conversation had never happened.

He didn’t.

“I think I need to lie down,” Wilbur mumbled, screwing his eyes shut before opening them again. This time, he locked eyes with Tommy and kept it that way.

And almost, almost, Tommy regretted what he had said. But then Wilbur was guided back into bed and Ponk strapped something back around his arm, and Wilbur didn’t look half-dead this time—he had gotten into bed willingly— and any form of regret was lost on him again.

“I don’t even know how he got out of bed so easily, he hasn’t even been stitched up for six hours,” Ponk was clearly distressed, working quickly to reconnect wires and whatever make-shift tubes he had to Wilbur again.

Blade snorted. “Probably the adrenaline. Like when a mom moves a car off her kid with superhuman strength out of nowhere.”

“I’m not his kid, dickhead.” Thankfully, Blade took the joke as such and Tommy swore he could see a small smile tugging at his lips afterwards.

But, Tommy knew Blade wasn’t too far from the truth. Wilbur was as close to a parent as Tommy could get. He hated admitting it, but it was true.

And of course, the moment had to be ruined in some way. The universe wasn’t that kind to him.

“You need more gauze. Blade, stay with him,” Ponk rushed, gathering a few bottles into his arms. The syringe on the side table quickly became apparent, no longer blocked by anything, and Tommy winced.

Thankfully, Ponk noticed this and slipped it into the top drawer, sliding it shut afterwards. It was still there, but it was out of sight, and that meant Tommy could pretend that giant needle hand’t been inside of his brother at some point.

Blade nodded and the three watched as Ponk slipped out the door. Once he was out of sight and around the corner, Blade wiped his hands on the front of his pants and sighed. “I’ll step outside and give you guys a minute if you want.”

In unison, Tommy shook his head and Wilbur nodded. Blade took Wilbur’s answer and shuffled out the door just as fast.

“Tommy, stay,” Wilbur reached a hand out and grabbed his wrist. Tommy stopped, turning to face him again. “I don’t trust these people, just- stay for now, I’ll be fine in the morning and we can leave.”

Everything in Tommy was protesting the idea, screaming no and begging to stay where he felt safe for the first time in ages, but these decisions never had been his own. They were always Wilbur’s, and Tommy had learned to accept it.

It wasn’t unfair, because Wilbur was doing everything to keep him safe, but that didn’t make it hurt any less.

“Okay,” Tommy nodded, hesitantly. “I trust you.”

Wilbur smiled. It wasn’t forced.

“Thank you, Tommy. Thank you.”