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Tommy is happy.
Tommy is happy, and that means Wilbur should be happy too. He should be happy that his best friend has found someone that makes his heart race or his face burn with that damnable blush that never fails to make Wilbur want to take Tommy’s face in his hands just to see the pale skin of his hands contrast the flush of red.
And, in some ways, Wilbur is happy. Every time he sees Tommy smile, regardless of who the brilliance is directed at, Wilbur’s stomach flips and his expression softens because Tommy deserves the world two times over.
It’s just… well, Wilbur wishes he could have been the one to give Tommy the world.
Instead, Tommy has James. James, the perfect boyfriend. James, the apple of Tommy’s eye. James, the man who’s everything that Wilbur can never be, and Wilbur can’t even hate the bastard because he’s nothing but gracious, kind, and full of good humor at every turn.
James is probably as close as someone can come to deserving Tommy. He’s certainly closer than Wilbur is.
That’s why when James shows up at his front door, an anxious look in his eyes and ring box in his hand, Wilbur doesn’t scream or cry or rage about how unfair this all is. He only sighs and opens the door wider, letting James inside.
“I love him,” James says before Wilbur can so much as offer the man drinks.
Wilbur raises a brow, “I would certainly hope so.”
“Shut up,” James huffs, no bite to his words as he starts pacing across Wilbur’s living room, “Will, I can’t fuck this up. Not with Tommy.”
“James,” Wilbur says sharply, his expression softening when James looks up at him, “You won’t, mate. Tommy knows how much you care about him.”
James stops his pacing, pursing his lips before sighing and collapsing into the nearest armchair, staring down at the small box in his right hand.
“You’re right,” James says, “You’re right, of course you are. You’re always right when it comes to Tommy.”
Wilbur swallows the comment like cough syrup, hating the taste even as it soothes his throat, and takes a seat across from James.
“Exactly,” Wilbur says, “So stop worrying, and tell me why you’re at my house at 11am.”
“I already have a reservation for our favorite restaurant on Friday. A private room, but nothing fancy. Tom wouldn’t like it,” James starts, “I just… it doesn’t feel like enough y'know? I get that Tommy likes things simple, but this is the start of the rest of our lives, Will. Shouldn’t it be something more special?”
“It’s special because it’s you, James. Not because you rented a beach for a day,” Wilbur says, “If this is what you both want, nothing is going to get in the way of making it perfect, no matter what happens.”
“...okay,” James mumbles, taking a slow breath, “Okay.”
They sit in silence for a moment as James calms down, and Wilbur tries not to feel too nauseous about the event.
“I didn’t, um, I didn’t just come here for advice,” James starts, and Wilbur turns his attention back to him, “Look, Will, everybody knows that you’re pretty much the most important person in Tommy’s life--”
Wilbur opens his mouth to argue, but James shuts him down with a dry look.
“Don’t even start, Wilbur. It’s obvious,” James says, shaking his head with a small smile, “And normally I would tell his parents that I was planning to--” He lifts the ring box, “Y’know, but I think, for Tom, this conversation is a little more fitting.”
The gravity of what James is saying dawns on Wilbur and he blinks in shock, fumbling for words for a moment.
“You’re…” Wilbur laughs but it feels more like a nervous reaction than genuine amusement, “You want to ask me for permission. To marry Tommy.”
James doesn’t seem swayed by Wilbur’s laughter, a serious expression on his face as he nods, “Yes, Will. I want to ask you.”
Wilbur’s throat feels tight, and he breaks eye contact with James in an attempt to avoid the tears he can feel burning behind his eyes. He scrubs his hands over his face, and a wave of bitterness drags him under.
How is this fair? Isn’t it enough that Wilbur has to watch Tommy live his life with someone else? Does he really have to fucking give Tommy away as if Wilbur has ever had Tommy in the first place?
“I--” Wilbur grimaces at how rough his voice sounds, and he swallows, replacing the expression with a soft smile, “Of course, James. Of course it’s okay. You make Tommy happy, and that’s all I can ask for.”
Tension drains out of James’ shoulders and he returns Wilbur’s smile.
“Thank you,” James says, as horribly genuine as he always is, “It means a lot to me to know you support us.”
Wilbur nods, but his eyes are glued on the coffee table now as James stands.
“I won’t waste your time,” James says, “Unless you’ll let me treat you to some drinks? God knows you’ve earned them after dealing with my mess,” James laughs, and Wilbur tries to chuckle with him.
“Ah, no thanks,” Wilbur says, forcing himself up and mechanically walking James to the door, “Good luck, man. I wish you both the best.”
James takes another deep breath and gives a shaky smile, “See you at the wedding?”
“See you at the wedding,” Wilbur echoes with a smile that stays stuck on his face even after the door has shut and the tears that have been building finally spill over.
He lets his forehead knock onto the wood of his front door, squeezing his eyes shut.
“Fuck,” He whispers to himself, “Fuck.”
----
Wilbur doesn’t drink Friday night.
He wants to--God he wants to--but Tommy had gotten on his ass about his drinking habits a few months ago, and every time he opened the cabinet to grab the vodka he’d bought in a moment of weakness two weeks ago he hears Tommy’s voice in the back of his head and ends up just laying on the couch being horribly sober instead.
The proposal is all he can think about. Every couple of minutes the thought that Tommy has a ring on his finger and a happy life ahead of him that’s entirely void of Wilbur himself makes Wilbur want to start crying all over again, and nothing he does seems to distract him.
Games, shows, even a few attempted phone calls with other friends all end in Wilbur just as miserable as before.
For a while he wonders if this is what the rest of his life is going to be like. Nothing but the echoes of an empty house and the man he loves in someone else's arms.
Wilbur scoffs to himself. Could he get any more melodramatic?
Eventually he gives up on pretending he’s fine and drags himself over to the box stuffed into the bottom drawer of his bedside table filled with all of the shit he and Tommy have collected over the years.
He takes it back to the living room and starts scattering the items on the table--the vlog gun, dozens of polaroid pictures of the pair, the stupid stuffed rat that Tommy had gotten him a year ago. Maybe if Wilbur had just been different, better, it would be him taking Tommy out to dinner tonight instead of James.
Maybe Wilbur shouldn’t be blaming the universe and shoulder a bit of the responsibility.
One picture out of the set catches Wilbur’s eye and he fishes it from the mess.
It’s an older one, taking before Wilbur had fully grasped the depth of his feelings for the blond but not so far back that Wilbur hadn’t started having suspicions. He’s standing behind Tommy, caging him in his arms with a wide grin as the younger flips off the camera as best he can with his arms pinned. As unhappy as Tommy is clearly trying to look, Wilbur can see the crinkle of a smile around his eyes, and a fond edge to his frown.
Wilbur wonders when the last time he held Tommy was.
After Tommy had started dating James Wilbur had stopped the casual affection. It just didn’t feel right when Wilbur knew he was viewing the touch as so much more than Tommy was.
Now he wishes he would have kept it up. Then he’d at least have the memory of what it feels like instead of this chasm of nothing that’s made its home in his chest.
Before he can follow that train of thought far past its stop, a persistent buzzing sounds.
He tugs his phone out of his pocket, freezing when he sees the caller ID.
Sunshine
Why the hell is Tommy calling him? Shouldn’t he be halfway to paradise by now?
Wilbur stares at the phone as it rings, debating whether he should pick up.
On one hand, Wilbur doesn’t think he could stand a conversation about how happy Tommy is about the proposal, but… what if something went wrong? What if Tommy needs him?
He sighs and answers the call, projecting as much normal energy as he can manage.
“Tommy? I thought you were out with James tonight.”
“I was.”
That… doesn’t sound right. Tommy doesn’t sound happy, or nervous, or excited, or any of the things Wilbur had been expecting.
“Okay,” Wilbur says slowly, “Did something happen? Are you alright?”
"He proposed," Tommy says, that strange flatness in his voice only worsening.
Wilbur pushes down the ache in his chest, forcing a smile into his voice, "That's amazing, Toms! Congratulations--"
"I said no."
The answer shocks Wilbur into silence, and he grapples with his words for a moment, "I... what? Why?"
Something that sounds suspiciously like a sob comes through the line, but when Tommy speaks it’s as unaffected as before.
“I don’t wanna talk about it,” Tommy says, “Please.”
“I… okay, Tommy,” Wilbur says, “Do you need me to come get you?”
“No,” Tommy takes an audible breath, “No, I’m already in an uber. I just wanted to ask if I could come over. I… I really don’t want to be alone right now.”
“Of course,” Wilbur says immediately, “Do you want me to stay on the line until you get here or--”
“I’m alright,” Tommy says stiffly, “I’ll, um, I’ll see you soon.”
Wilbur purses his lips, a thousand reasons why Tommy sounds so wrong running through his head, “See you soon.”
The line clicks as Tommy hangs up and Wilbur is left in the silence of his living room once again, staring at his phone in disbelief.
Tommy is coming here. Tommy is coming here on the one night that Wilbur thought he was losing Tommy entirely.
Maybe one of the gods actually listened to his stupid pleas.
Wilbur feels guilty the second he thinks it. Clearly something went wrong. He should be worried about Tommy, not happy that Tommy’s relationship might be falling apart.
The turn of a key in the lock startles him out of his thoughts and he stands, reaching the door just as it swings open to reveal Tommy who doesn’t say a word as he pushes past Wilbur into the house, walking straight to the kitchen.
“Wha- Tommy,” Wilbur trails after him, surprised to find him yanking open Wilbur’s cupboards until he finds the vodka Wilbur had been avoiding all night.
“Tommy,” Wilbur says again, stepping over to catch his wrist before he can pour the drink into a glass.
“What?” Tommy snaps, but Wilbur doesn’t flinch, inspecting Tommy’s expression for any hint of what’s going on.
“Talk to me,” He says softly, and Tommy squeezes his eyes shut before yanking his arm out of Wilbur’s grip and pouring the drink.
“Fuck off,” Tommy says, but the heat has drained out of his voice, “Can’t a man have a drink without being fucking interrogated?”
“I’m not interrogating you,” Wilbur says calmly before reaching up and grabbing another glass and setting it next to Tommy’s, “And I’m certainly not going to stop you from drinking away your problems. In fact, I’ve had kind of a shit night too. A drink sounds fucking amazing.”
Tommy’s jaw clenches, and Wilbur can see the pros and cons behind his eyes. There’s a flicker of doubt and Wilbur pushes his advantage.
“Are we getting drunk tonight or not, Toms?” He asks, “Your choice.”
Maybe it’s unfair to use Tommy’s insistence that Wilbur stop drowning his sorrows against him, but Wilbur can’t find it in himself to care. Not tonight.
“Fuck you,” Tommy mutters, but he shoves the bottle and glasses away, scrubbing his hands over his face.
A wave of relief washes over Wilbur, and he lays a hand on Tommy’s arm, tugging him in the direction of the living room.
Tommy doesn’t resist, but when they get to the room he doesn’t sit, choosing instead to lean his arms on the back of the couch and stare at the flickering fireplace with a blank expression.
“You wanna tell me what the hell that was?” Wilbur asks after a few minutes of silence, and Tommy takes a slow breath.
“Not really,” He says, “But I think I have to.”
Wilbur doesn’t respond, letting Tommy gather his thoughts instead. Sure enough, Tommy starts again a few moments later.
“James didn’t do anything wrong,” Tommy says, and a weight lifts off Wilbur’s shoulders, “It’s… it’s me. I’m not good for him.”
“Tommy…” Wilbur trails off, and Tommy shakes his head.
“You don’t get it, Will,” He pushes off the couch, turning away from Wilbur and running a hand through his hair, “James thinks the world of me and I… I’m not like that.”
Wilbur frowns, "Tommy, anyone could see how much you love him--"
"But I don't!" Tommy says, his voice breaking as he spins to face Wilbur. His eyes are already brimming with tears as he runs one hand over his face, "I don't, okay? Not like he loves me, and I fucking tried, Will. I tried so fucking hard. But it turns out that even when the most perfect guy in the world is down on one knee, I'm too fucking broken to say yes."
"You're not broken," Wilbur says, quiet but fierce, "You're not broken, Tommy. You are perfect, and if James isn't the right one then okay, we try again, but believe me when I say anyone would be lucky to have you."
Tommy sniffs, wiping away tears, and then, in a voice so timid Wilbur almost doesn't hear it, he responds.
"Would you?"
"What?" Wilbur says, and Tommy meets his eyes, looking so tired that Wilbur wonders how he didn't see that something was wrong earlier.
"Would you be lucky to have me?" Tommy says, "Because from where I'm standing you would be far luckier getting rid of me while you still can. Just look at what I’m doing now. I show up at your house unannounced, try to drink your booze, then complain about a perfect relationship. I’m a leech, Wilbur. A parasite--what are you doing?" Tommy stops as Wilbur crosses the distance between them, “Will?”
Maybe it’s because Wilbur had just spent hours wishing he could change things, or because of the bitterness in Tommy’s eyes that reflects Wilbur’s own soul, or maybe it’s a billion other things.
Whatever the reason, Wilbur walks over to the man he’s always loved and never thought he could have, takes his face in his hands and kisses him.
It’s like breathing for the very first time. Spectacular yet completely ordinary. One breath of what will become thousands.
He pours every minute of longing, of pain, of admiration, love, and heartbreak into that one press of lips, holding Tommy captive in the hopes that Wilbur can undo everything wrong about what Tommy said with nothing but this, and by the time that he pulls away, Wilbur has as many tears in his eyes as Tommy does.
“Shut the fuck up, Tom Simons,” He says, and Tommy gives a startled, wet laugh, “Of course I would be lucky to have you.”
This time it’s Tommy who drags them back into a kiss, and Wilbur never wants it to end. He could kiss Tommy for eternity and never get tired of it.
“I love you,” He says the second Tommy pulls away, “I… I love you.”
Tommy dives into a hug, shaking with quiet sobs as Wilbur pulls him tight to his chest, whispering assurances into his hair until the sobs have turned to nothing but the occasional sniffle.
When it’s over Tommy takes a shuddering breath and pulls away, looking at Wilbur with red-rimmed eyes, “I love you too, you stupid fucking prick. Why didn’t you tell me sooner?”
Wilbur laughs but sobers quickly as Tommy’s question sinks in.
“I didn’t think I could make you happy,” He confesses quietly.
“You were wrong,” Tommy says, and Wilbur laughs again.
“I’m starting to get that,” Wilbur says, and when he kisses Tommy again he thinks that maybe, just maybe, Wilbur isn’t quite as unlucky as he thought.