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“Hey,” Wilbur says, a month after Tommy’s moved in. “What’s your love language?”
Tommy blinks at him. “English?” he says slowly.
Wilbur muffles a snort. “That’s not quite what a love language is,” he says. Tommy wrinkles his nose. “No, no, you can’t hit me with a pillow for that—” Tommy bites back a snicker as the pillow bounces off Wilbur’s face. “Don’t bully me like this, gremlin.” He flops over to ruffle Tommy’s hair, and Tommy softens, though he still jabs an elbow into Wilbur’s ribs. “This is common knowledge, I’m serious.”
Tommy gives him a deadpan look. Wilbur rolls his eyes.
“No, really,” he explains. “So, people have these things called love languages, right? I’m not patronizing you, I’m actually explaining it this time. So there are five basic ones: giving gifts, quality time, touch, er … oh, yeah. Words of affirmation and acts of service.”
Tommy blinks at him. “I understood, like, half of those words.”
Wilbur laughs. “Relax. I’ll explain it.” He throws an arm around Tommy’s shoulders; Tommy bites his tongue, slumping into the back of the couch and inadvertently leaning his head on Wilbur’s shoulder. Warmth judders across his skin. “So, like, a love language is just a specific type of thing people do that make you feel loved. You can have multiple, but mostly people have one primary one. So mine is words of affirmation, ‘cause I’m an insecure bitch.” Tommy makes a noise of disagreement. Wilbur snorts. “That was mostly joking, but basically, I like being told that I’m important. I like to have confirmation that people, you know, like having me around.”
“I like having you around,” Tommy mumbles.
Wilbur beams. “Thanks, Tommy. See, that’s the point of a love language. It’s so that you can know how best to communicate with people you love.”
Tommy tilts his head, thinking about it. “Oh. Sounds too complicated.”
“Everything that has to do with socialization is too complicated,” Wilbur commiserates. “So, yeah, that’s words of affirmation. With giving gifts, you like to get things, because it reminds you that people are thinking of you—that’s Phil’s love language, by the way. With quality time—that’s Techno’s—you hang out with people one-on-one, or you do stuff with them. That’s why it means so much when Techno hangs out with you, ‘cause I’m an insecure bitch, but Techno’s an introverted bitch, so it means he really likes to spend time with you.”
Tommy thinks of lurking in Techno’s room, fiddling with his books and rambling in turns about the newest Minecraft update, and hums a realization.
“And then acts of service. That’s, like, helping people, even when it’s not necessarily convenient for you. And finally, touch. That one’s not really hard to explain.”
Tommy hums an agreement. “Okay,” he says. His mind drifts back to the beginning of the conversation, when Wilbur had thrown a Croc at his head before asking about fuckin’ love. “Why does this matter with me, again?”
Wilbur snorts. “So we can figure out how to love you best,” he says easily.
Tommy blinks.
“Not that we— I mean, we don’t love you, like, we do, but not in a creepy way or anything— I don’t want you to feel awkward around us— Okay, I’m just digging myself a deeper hole now. I’ll stop talking.”
“Oh,” Tommy says.
Wilbur laughs. “Sorry,” he says. “Just … it’s a good way to be able to communicate with you. No point in giving you gifts if what you really need is a hug.”
Tommy thinks about it. Wilbur’s arm is still around his shoulders. “Okay,” he says. “That makes sense.”
“Well, of course. I always make sense.”
Words of affirmation. “I mean, you do. Most of the time. You’re really smart. It’s weird.”
Wilbur’s eyes crinkle with a smile. “Aww, Tommy. Are you using my love language on me?”
Tommy flushes. “Wha— No! You bitch, I’m not—that’s not—”
“Tommy is bein’ sweet?” Techno pokes his head out of his door. “Where’s the flying pig?”
“It’s you,” Wilbur says cheerfully. He stands; Tommy instantly misses the warmth of his arm around his shoulders. “I mean, you’re the flying pig, considering you played Terra Swoop Force for five hours last week—”
“I still ended up beating Phil’s record.”
Wilbur nods solemnly. “And I respect you so much for it.” The corner of his mouth twitches as he bumps shoulders with Techno. “D’you wanna pick up pizza? Phil’s working late tonight. Then we can hang out.”
He glances back at Tommy and mouths Love language practice.
Tommy stares down at his feet and fights back a grin.
⸻⸻⸻
“Hey, Tommy?” Techno pokes his head in through the doorway. “What’s your love language again?”
Tommy blinks. He thinks about it.
A sticky, bitter feeling, like bile, creeps up inside him.
He imagines it. Touch, he’d say, physical touch, and already Techno’s eyes would be flicking away, disinterested and weirded out. And he’d nod and say, to be polite, Okay, I’ll keep that in mind, and Tommy would curl up and shrink and shrivel all over again.
You’re not making any sense, says a tiny voice in the back of his head. Tommy swallows hard and pushes it down.
He can’t run the risk. And he’s fine without it, right? Right.
“I dunno,” Tommy says, blustery as ever. “Maybe I don’t have one, hmm, Tech-no-blade? What do you think about that? Maybe I’m just so—just so supremely confident that I don’t need any sort of I love you. I’m simply—I’m simply built different.”
A beat.
“Okay,” Techno snorts, deadpan. He leans forward to ruffle Tommy’s hair; that beast in Tommy’s chest creeps up again, clawing at his rib cage, screaming to be let free. “Well, I hope you remain—what is it you said?— supremely confident. Have fun with that.”
He ducks out the door. Tommy swallows hard.
Alone again.
He’s cold.
⸻⸻⸻
He gets the idea soon enough. It’s Valentine’s Day soon—then again, Tommy’s never really cared about that, but. Still. The concept niggles at him, lurking in the corner of his brain, until he finally decides Fuck it and puts the plan into motion.
First: Phil. He’s not difficult.
“Hey, Phil!” Tommy shouts, as soon as his car pulls into the driveway. “I got you a present!”
Phil blinks at him through the window. Tommy beams and taps at it; Phil rolls it down.
“I got you a present,” Tommy repeats. He pushes his hands through the window; Phil’s eyes widen, just a bit, at the box in his hands. “I saw it and thought you’d like it.” Phil stays silent. Tommy fidgets. “Well—open it, Phil, I’m a busy man, I’ve not got all day—”
Uh-oh, drawls that little voice in the back of his head, and Tommy stamps it down. I bet he’ll hate it.
He swallows. “Do you … you don’t have to open it, I mean—”
Phil jolts. “Oh, no,” he says, “no, I’ve got it.” He tugs the ribbons off the box and lifts off the lid. “Oh, this is … I love it, Tommy.”
“It’s a paperweight,” Tommy says helpfully, although Phil probably already knows that. He fights the urge to google the nearest bridge and do a flip. “When you stick, like, colorful lights under it, the crows change different colors. I dunno how they’re really stuck in the glass—I didn’t ask, I mean—”
Phil sets a hand on his wrist. Tommy stills. “I love it, Tommy,” Phil says, beaming. “It’s beautiful. Thank you.”
Tommy nods. “Good,” he says. “That’s—that’s good.”
He grins privately to himself as he turns and heads back into the house.
One down, two to go.
⸻⸻⸻
“Techno,” Tommy says loudly. “D’you wanna go to that carnival downtown?”
Techno glances up from his desk. “Hmm?”
“The new carnival. Downtown. It looks really cool.”
Techno nods. “Is Wilbur driving? Tell him that if he tries, I’m going to drag him out of the driver’s seat headfirst—”
“No, it’s not—” Tommy clears his throat awkwardly. “I mean, it’s … just the two of us. Wilbur is going with his other friends.” Although that part may have been orchestrated by a scheming Tommy, but he’ll never admit it.
“So … you want me to take you to the carnival,” Techno says slowly.
“No,” Tommy says, perhaps a bit too honestly; “I want to go together.”
A beat of silence. Naturally, Tommy’s brain begins to shriek.
“‘Cause—I mean, well, foster brother bonding and all that—but you don’t have to! I know you have a lot of homework and everything—I can just … stay here …. Oh, you’re getting up. Okay.”
Techno casts one last mournful glance at his textbook. “I was being so productive, too.”
“Oh, I—sorry, I can leave. You don’t have to take me.”
“Nah. I’d rather go with you.” Techno scoops up the car keys from the side table. “Phil, Tommy and I are going to the carnival!”
(Techno somehow wins the unwinnable ring toss game. He gives Tommy the enormous, fluffy elephant that they gave him as a prize. Tommy names her Tabatha.)
⸻⸻⸻
Wilbur gets home from Mock Trial one day with a stormy look on his face. He doesn’t say anything, just heads straight down the hall and shuts the door to his room with a thud that isn’t quite a slam, but just close enough to one to make Tommy wince.
“What happened?” he asks Techno, who emerges in the doorway. Techno shakes his head silently and mouths Ask him.
Which is very helpful, and Tommy would undoubtedly rib him for it, but currently he’s got another bro— a friend in distress down the hall.
He traipses awkwardly toward his room; knocks awkwardly on the door; clears his throat, you guessed it, awkwardly, and calls, “Uh, hey, Will?”
All he can make out is a shuddering breath. Fuck, Tommy really hopes he’s not crying. He doesn’t deal well with people when they cry.
“Will,” Tommy repeats, “I—er—you said words of affirmation were your love language, right? I don’t really know how to do that. But I think I can try.” He swallows; pushes down the lingering thoughts of is this okay is this okay is this okay, and leans against the door. “I don’t really know the full story, so I dunno if there’s anything specific I should say, but. Well.”
Here goes nothing.
“You’re really smart. Well, obviously. I don’t know how you balance all the shit that you do without, like, actually dying. You should tell me your secrets. Also let me borrow your concealer ‘cause Techno told me that you barely use it and clearly I’m a very high priority here.” Hang on, that’s not Words of Assassination. Or something. “And you’re … you’re really nice. You’re a good br—foster brother. A good foster brother. And I don’t want you to be sad. So. Yeah.”
The door opens so abruptly that Tommy yelps and tumbles sideways. Wilbur catches him, both arms wrapping tight around Tommy’s shoulders, and it’s so inexplicably right that Tommy’s eyes flutter shut. It’s warm, warm, warm.
“Thanks, Tommy,” Wilbur mumbles into his hair. “That’s … I needed that. Thank you.”
Tommy hums. “Of course, Will.” His tongue feels a bit thick, his mind fuzzy and slow. It’s not a bad feeling. “You okay?”
“Yeah.” Wilbur sets Tommy back on his feet, grinning weakly. “I’m good. Just … shit day, you know? And I fucking hate cross-examinations.”
Tommy nods sagely. “Yes,” he agrees. “I hate … cross exams.”
“Good enough.” Wilbur’s eyes crinkle with his smile, and he ruffles Tommy’s hair. “Thanks, Toms.”
⸻⸻⸻
“So, Tommy,” Techno says, “did you ever figure out what your love language is?”
Tommy’s voice is caught in his throat.
He clears it, through the thickness of memories, warm warm warm and before that cold cold cold. The first sparks with potential. The second stabs like a warning.
“I …” Tommy swallows. His eyes bore into the book in his lap. “It’s … I mean …”
Wilbur tilts his head. “Tommy? You alright?”
“It’s touch,” Tommy blurts, and then flushes bright red.
Phil makes a querying noise. Tommy ducks his head and coughs.
“Not that—I mean, you don’t have to, obviously. I don’t wanna be—be awkward. It’s probably better if you just don’t touch me, you know, ‘cause I’ll probably be leaving this house pretty soon and I don’t want to—”
“Do you want a hug, Tommy?”
“—make things weird.” Tommy’s voice cuts off in his throat like a snapped thread. “Huh?”
“A hug,” Wilbur repeats. A smile tugs at the corners of his lips. “You know, I put my arms around you, you put your arms around me, everyone’s happy. I’m pretty sure you’ve had one before.”
Tommy’s face feels like it’s on fire. He’s sure that he’s bright red. “Uh,” he says, intelligently.
For once, the stupid little voice in the back of his head is quiet.
Tommy shoves his book to the side and flops into Wilbur’s arms. He hums against Wilbur’s shoulder. “This is nice.”
“Love you, Toms,” Wilbur says softly. On either side, Techno and Phil join the hug, and Tommy just barely manages to swallow down a squeak of pure euphoria. (Is this what love languages are like? Naming your emotions actually works?) “Or—er, sorry, that’s probably too soon—”
Tommy laughs weakly. “No,” he says. “No, this is perfect.”