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Tommy slumps down in the chair that he’d taken in the cafe, all the way in the back where people wouldn’t have to jostle past him or anything, curled up with his knees to his chest. He was in a constant loop of scrolling through his phone, doing anything to distract himself from today’s events.
He was tired— achingly tired, as if every ounce of energy he’d previously had was siphoned out of him. It was the same feeling he’d had the time that he’d gone to the beach with Tubbo and they’d forgotten to drink enough water, resulting in the both of them sleeping in until noon or so and waking with pounding headaches.
Unfortunately, though, he has to stay awake, even if it means tapping his knuckles against his cheekbone every few moments or gritting his teeth together just to feel the uncomfortable click-ing it makes when connecting.
If there was one thing that was keeping him awake, it was Wilbur.
The guy was currently on his way to the cafe (hopefully not driving twenty miles over the speed limit like he’d done that one time when Tommy had passed out during a vlog). Tommy intended to stay at Wilbur’s house tonight, just until his flat was able to be inhabited again.
Hopefully, the flat would be ready tomorrow. He was really looking forward to setting everything up, from his new PC to the strings of fairy lights he had.
The thing was, though, that Tommy has only stayed at Wilbur’s house once.
It had been when he was feeling sick after a long day of vlogging as well, so the whole trip was pretty much blurred except for what they’d done in the vlog.
Them, Phil, and Tubbo had all gone into downtown Brighton for that vlog, filming something at the nearby arcade. Hence, it was pretty easy for Wilbur to just offer him the sofa instead of having to drive him all the way home with the potential of Tommy getting sicker.
(The only things that Tommy can remember about the morning after was his father picking him up with a concerned expression and Wilbur’s warm hug goodbye).
This will be the first time he’s ever stayed over at Wilbur’s upon invitation.
Well, this didn’t exactly count as an invitation.
Moreso, it was again like the whole ‘being sick’ situation. Tommy’s crisis was currently not being unable to stand on his feet, but rather that his newly bought apartment could potentially kill him if he stepped foot in it.
At first, Tommy just considered going home and stressing out about it on the train ride there, but he was already here, and catching a ride home while prepared to tear his hair out wasn’t in his best interest.
So, he was at a standstill, and the first thing he typically does with said predicaments is go straight to the person that always helps him the most.
Wilbur had, of course, invited him over, told him that it’d be alright, and extended his sympathies.
Now here Tommy was, waiting in a cafe just across the street from his dingy flat for his pseudo big brother to show up.
He’d be lying if he said it wasn’t utterly embarrassing. He could tell that the first thing Wilbur would do when he shows up is make fun of him for not actually viewing the apartment to begin with and he really didn’t have the energy to bicker with the guy.
He hopes, albeit distantly, that Wilbur will get here soon.
——
Someone’s shaking his shoulder.
Tommy hums a little, shifting his cheek from right to left, blinking one eye open. His head’s laying down on his crossed arms— just to rest his eyes, he’d thought— and the back of his neck aches with pain. That, though, isn’t the first thing that catches his attention.
Standing just beside him, dressed in that comfortable looking cow sweater of his, glasses perched on his nose, was Wilbur.
Tommy blinks a couple times, trying to rid his eyelids from the slumber dragging them down, and wrinkles his nose. He was still tired, and now he had a headache from the way he’d been sleeping.
“Hey, Tommy,” Wilbur says warmly, giving the boy a vague smile. He looks tired, clothes rumpled and form a little more dragged down than normal, as if he’d come here in a rush. “You alright?”
Tommy hums, easing out of the chair and slinging his backpack over his shoulder. It contained the essential stuff that he’d thought he’d need for his first night in his apartment— his toothbrush, deodorant, laptop, and other things that would make his first night far better.
He stumbles a little, head spinning, still caught up in that strange pause between sleeping and awake. Wilbur reaches out, grabbing onto him by the arms and helping him steady.
“Apparently not,” Wilbur teases lightly, and Tommy shoots him a glare.
“Fuck off,” Tommy grumbles, wiping his eye with the back of his hand. It does nothing to rid the exhaustion, but it should be fine. He’s done shit through a fog of fatigue before. This would be a piece of cake.
Smile still not fading, Wilbur wraps an arm around Tommy’s shoulders, tugging him close to his side.
“Have you got everything you need?” He questions while he steers the boy through the cafe, taking special care to manoeuvre him around anyone that’s walking past them. Instinctively, Tommy leans into his brother’s side, exhaling greatly before nodding.
He hears a snort, but ignores it. So what, he was tired? Wilbur’s called him in VC while half awake before; the fucker couldn’t say shit. Tommy could put him on blast at any given moment.
The cold air hits them when they exit the cafe, a gust of something fresh brushing against his cheeks, tangling in his hair. He hears the familiar welcoming bell on the door jingle and the ambient sound of people chatting quiets, quickly replaced with cars whooshing down the road and both of their footsteps.
Tommy almost expects Wilbur to speak, to joke around about how he ‘told him to view the flat’ and ‘if you’d had just listened to stupid big brother Wilbur, we wouldn’t be in this situation,’ me-me-me, the whole Wilbur’s being patronizing ensemble.
Surprisingly, though, he doesn’t.
The only thing that Tommy hears from the guy as they’re walking to the man’s car is the slight humming underneath Wilbur’s breath (Perfume, Tommy recognizes with a fond curling in his chest. That was his song, copyrighted and everything).
Unfortunately, the comforting moment ends too quickly, and the beeping of a car being unlocked forces Tommy’s eyes to open.
He frowns, staring at the familiar car— a blue thing, exactly Wilbur’s favourite colour, that he remembered going with him to buy. He’d been so excited that day, practically bouncing on his heels and poking Tommy in the side every few moments, the way the former does to him when happy.
That was a nice day.
“Tommy,” Wilbur says abruptly, and Tommy glances up to glare at the man. His glower only worsens, too, when he sees the giant fond smile on the guy’s face. It reaches all the way up to his eyes, which crinkle at the edges like the pages of a book.
“What?” Tommy grumbles, hoping that his expression looks irritated enough for Wilbur to shut up again.
“You do realize you’re gonna have to let go of me if you want to get in the car and go home, right?”
Glaring, Tommy pulls away from Wilbur’s side, wrapping his arms around himself. He hadn’t worn the proper clothing today, just his old maroon hoodie and khaki pants. To be fair, though, he hadn’t expected today to go the way it had.
He opens the passenger car door, wincing when a car whizzes past down the road. From the other side of the car, Wilbur shoots him a sympathetic look.
“I see why you like America so much now,” Tommy mutters as he slides into the carseat, shifting a little so he can toss his backpack into the backseat before buckling himself in. “They’ve got— got their cars all wrong. Opposite. If we were there, I’d be on your side, and you’d be over here. I’d have been perfectly safe, but not you.”
Wilbur hums in amusement, turning the key into the ignition until the car hums to life.
“You’re so right,” he says, pulling out of the parking spot, leaning over the steering wheel a bit to get a good look at the road. “I only like America because the roads are different and I don’t have to be stuck nearly getting hit by a car when I hop in shotgun.”
Tommy clicks his tongue, crossing his arms over his chest, “You hear that? You’re even talking like them, too. Fuckin’ ‘shotgun.’ Who says shotgun? Americans, that’s who. You’re a real freak, man.”
There’s a gentle pause, and for a moment Tommy’s afraid he might’ve gone too far this time, but Wilbur speaks again.
“You would like it there,” he murmurs, tone something purely warm, nothing sort of malice. Tommy’s shoulders unwind a tad, but he makes an indignant noise anyways, as though the man had said something strange.
“Where? In America? No, no thank you,” he comments, leaning his head against the seat to watch the street fly by.
The sleepiness was prickling up his neck again, but he ignored it. It was usually easy to fall asleep when he was listening to Wilbur speak, even though he did his best to stay awake and hear what his brother said. He always seemed to talk about the most interesting stuff.
“Mmm, I still think that you’d like it,” Wilbur repeats, taking a turn on one of the roads. A slight pause, and then he adds, “Besides, next time I go, I already plan on taking you with me.”
Immediately, Tommy perks up at this, turning his head like a bird.
“I beg your pardon?”
He’d known this already— Wilbur had made a bit of it on stream once— but it hadn’t quite registered, not fully, anyways. Plus, it had sounded more like a joke than anything.
Knowingly, Wilbur’s face morphs into a grin.
“I’m taking you with me,” he repeats, not even glancing Tommy’s way. “Remember? I told you that I would over call while I was there.”
Tommy frowns, sinking a little into the carseat. He had no clue what Wilbur was talking about. The only time that Wilbur had mentioned this before, as far as he could remember, was when he’d made the bit on stream. It was on call, but Wilbur hadn’t been in America at the time.
“I don’t remember that,” he states aloud, blinking a little. “Surely you mean someone else?”
“You were really tired that call,” Wilbur responds, pulling into the car lot for his apartment. “I remember you said you wanted to stay up and wait for me. Fell asleep not even five minutes after I picked the phone up— it was quite funny, actually.”
Oh.
Tommy recalls when Wilbur had recently gone to America, not even a whole month ago, and he’d had a tiring day with his own stream and joining Phil’s afterwards. He’d made a whole point of asking Phil directly after he had ended his own stream to call Wilbur with him later that night, but Wilbur hadn’t been available until three am their time.
“It’s not funny,” Tommy grumbles, narrowing his eyes at a particular area on the dashboard. “Why didn’t you tell me again? In the morning or something?”
A laugh, one of those little high-pitched, classic ‘Wilbur Soot’ hehehe laughs.
“Why? Do you want to suddenly go now that I’m the one inviting you?” He teases, parking the car into one of the empty spaces.
“No, fuck you, I just was saying, if you were being serious, it’d make sense if you fucking asked, you prick—”
“No, no, you totally want to go now that big brother Wilbur Soot is asking—”
“Fuck you, fuck you, I hope you die,” Tommy seethes, glaring daggers in his pseudo brother’s direction, who is doing that silly fond smile he always does when he’s around Tommy or another Sleepy Bois member.
It’s the one that’s so dripped in everything sweet that it’s practically melting off the edges. It makes Tommy positively sickened.
“That’s okay, Toms,” Wilbur says, turning the car off completely and tossing the keys towards the boy. He snickers a little when he just barely catches them. “Even if you didn’t want to go to America, I’d drag you there with me, anyways. You and Phil both. I don’t think I could last another week or so there without you two.”
Scoffing, Tommy shoves the keys into his hoodie pocket, “You’re such a fucking sap. I hate it. Sap— Sapbur. Sappybur. Seek help.”
Wilbur leans over, flicking Tommy in the forehead lightly.
“You’re one to talk, Mr. I’ll tweet photos at Wilbur while he’s away of me hanging out with Phil and my friends to try and make him come back early,” the older teases, shifting away from Tommy so he can grab the boy’s backpack from the seat behind them. “And to put it, just for the record, no, that shit does not work.”
Ah, a sore spot.
Tommy smirks.
“It totally does, doesn’t it?” He questions, clicking the handle to the door when Wilbur shoots him a glare. These are dangerous waters he’s trekking. He’s going to need a quick and easy escape route for this one. He’s never one to have that much of a good self preservation record, though, so he tacks on, just to piss the guy off, “Next time I go somewhere with you, I’m gonna do the same thing there. I’ll take Phil and— and Gogy, maybe, and livetweet our silly little adventures.”
He’s joking, of course, and clearly Wilbur can tell, cuz the man just scoffs.
“You absolutely will not replace me with Georgenotfound,” Wilbur grumbles, tossing the backpack at Tommy and opening his door to leave the car. “Not only would it fuck up the family dynamic, but Dream would probably kill you. Think of the Dream Team, Tommy.”
Following in suit, Tommy gets out of the car, backpack tucked under his arm.
He grins sharply at Wilbur over the top of his car, closing the door.
“Exactly. My intentions with this plan is to wreak as much havoc as possible, you know. I want to dismantle a government, and by government, I mean Twitter.”
Wilbur rolls his eyes, closing his own door as well.
“You dismantle Twitter just by hitting ‘Go Live,’ Tommy,” he says, and Tommy preens immediately.
“I totally do, don’t I?” He says, a high-lilt to his tone as he trails behind Wilbur, making their way towards the man’s flat.
It would be a lie if he said he didn’t think about that for the next few hours or so.
——
It’s been three hours or so since Tommy’s been in Wilbur’s flat, and somehow, he’s already grown accustomed to it.
Just like when he first stayed at Tubbo’s place, he was a little apprehensive at first, frowning at everything and doing his best to tone it down a little. (It was different with Jack, though. They’d known each other for a long time and, honestly, he couldn’t care less how loud he was around Jack. The two were practically the same, perfectly orbiting one another in equalness, if being overly verbose was the space between them).
Tommy is slumped on the sofa beside Wilbur, feet tucked against his side, leaning his full weight against the man. His excuse was that the guy kept it absolutely freezing cold in his apartment so a little extra warmth never killed anyone. Maybe his reputation a tad, but hopefully Wilbur wouldn’t blackmail him too hard.
Lilo and Stitch is playing on the television, a movie picked exclusively by Tommy, who had practically choked over dinner when Wilbur told him he hadn’t seen it. That in itself was a crime, as was the food Wilbur had made.
(He had no clue how to cook. It ran in the family, apparently).
“That reminds me of you,” Wilbur comments at one moment out of nowhere, his chest rumbling with a laugh at the aghast noise Tommy makes.
“Are you talking about Lilo?” Tommy whispers, eyebrows pulled together as he stares up at Wilbur, who grins right back at him. “I’m not Lilo, you idiot, I’m Mr. Bubbles. I’m that super badass, ominous guy that like, steals kids or some shit.”
Loud, barking laughter comes quickly after, and Wilbur has to clutch his chest to keep from potentially falling off of the sofa. Tommy leans back a little, nose wrinkling, even as there’s pride curling at the bottom of his stomach.
He was always proud when he somehow made one of his best friends laugh, especially when it was Wilbur— he just had that sort of contagious laugh that infected you.
Still, though, Tommy leans away, grimacing as he wipes off the front of his hoodie, despite knowing that there was nothing on it.
“Stop laughing at me, ew, you’ll literally infect me with your weirdass germs, you ass.”
Wilbur just shakes his head, looking at him fondly with his head tilted.
“You’re absolutely ridiculous, you know that? Ridiculous child. Come back over here.”
“Alright, but just for you, king,” Tommy says in a sing-song voice, tucking himself back into Wilbur’s side, “Just for my hero, you know, the lead singer of Lovejoy? You know him? My hero. I’d die for him, actually.”
“Oh, shut the fuck up. Don’t say that shit, I will cry,” Wilbur grumbles, putting an arm around Tommy and tugging him closer, settling his chin against the top of his head.
A pause, and then, quietly, “I’m your hero?”
Well, shit.
He’d picked up on that, apparently. Tommy probably should’ve expected that he would. That was the thing with Wilbur— nothing really flew over his head, especially nothing that Tommy said.
They were one in the same with that one, excluding the few times Tommy has passed out and forgotten he’d even had a conversation with Wilbur to begin with.
The older’s Just Chatting streams were what practically got Tommy through the day. He listened to them constantly, always eager to pull one of them up when doing editing work, or simply just needing some type of background music. He always heard everything Wilbur said, too— from the random anecdotes he told about his childhood, to even the facts that he knew that normally would pass through one of Tommy’s ears and out the other.
Tommy thought about this a lot, about how similar the two of them were, both alike in mind and in personality (although he’d deny it to his grave). It was like they were meant to be brothers, as if the universe had originally decided that, despite not being biologically related, they were family.
The concept, apparently, was of soulmates.
Soulmates were not something Tommy thought that much about, or anytime at all. They were one of those terms that he’d heard about in passing, maybe questioned once, and then didn’t think about it again. There was no reasoning for his words, just the prodding at the back of his head, the memory of Phil mentioning once that he and Wilbur were pretty much ‘stuck at the hip.’
It didn’t quite feel that way, though. It felt more like this; they were tethered, Wilbur being Tommy’s anchor on most days, Tommy his on other’s, as though a string was wrapped around both of their wrists and directly led towards the other.
Wilbur took care of him constantly, always helping him balance himself out, always a pair of open arms willingfully open, like a great big ocean ready to swallow Tommy whole. It was annoying to admit it, but Wilbur truly was Tommy’s big brother, even if it wasn’t by blood terms.
The realization hits him, all too forcefully, and he can’t help but blurt it out.
“Do you think that soulmates are real, Wil?” Tommy blurts, leaning further into the man’s side again. His words are heavy and carry far more meaning than he’d meant them too, but his eyelids have begun to droop dangerously once more. The sticky feeling of exhaustion has made its return at the worst hour; he hopes that he doesn’t just randomly nod off during the best scene of Lilo and Stitch, or Wilbur’s answer, for that matter.
(He knew Phil’s answer: a simple yes, and a bright, knowing grin tossed his way. Tommy had promptly hung up the Discord call).
Wilbur snorts at the question, and Tommy can picture the confusion spreading across his face. It wasn’t abnormal for Tommy’s mind to ping pong between topics like this, though, so Wilbur didn’t seem to mind.
“Oh, so we’re changing the subject, is that what this is?” he jokes a little, clear mirth in his tone.
Elbowing Wilbur in the side, Tommy huffs, putting on a frown.
“Yeah, that’s exactly what we’re doing. Now answer the question, dickhead. Slash force.”
Wilbur hums a little, the corners of his mouth upturned, considering this for a moment.
Out of his peripheral, Tommy can see one of Wilbur’s hands reaching up to coil through his own hair, brushing it absentmindedly from his eyes, the way he does when he’s really thinking hard about something. Wilbur’s tells part three, a book written by Tommy Innit, the first page? Hair ruffling.
“Soulmates,” Wilbur repeats, clicking his tongue, tasting the foreign word. “I’m not sure, honestly. You might have to elaborate on that one, Toms.”
Tommy rolls his eyes, wishing that Techno were here to laugh at Wilbur’s idiocy with him.
“Elderly, you are,” he comments, shuffling a little so he’s pressed further into Wilbur’s side. “Even Phil knew what soulmates were.”
Wilbur turns at this, expression surprised.
“Phil? You’ve spoken to Philza Minecraft about the possibility of soulmates existing?”
Tommy shrugs, a sinking feeling forming in his stomach. “Maybe once or twice. He’s pretty knowledgeable, you know, with his old age. Gotten wise n’ shit. The peak of actually being old is that you know stuff.”
There’s another moment of silence after this, and Wilbur tilts his head, pressing his cheek against the top of Tommy’s curls.
“Why are you asking me about them, then?” he questions, tone light, and Tommy bites the urge to jab his elbow into the man’s sternum. “Since Phil’s already told you so much.”
“I’m just wondering, big man,” he defends, crossing his arms protectively over his chest, glaring at the television screen. “There doesn’t always have to be a reason for the things I do, you know.”
Wilbur snickers, the hand in Tommy’s hair ruffling it again.
“I know that, kiddo. I just like irritating you, you know.”
“Well, quit it,” Tommy jokingly smacks Wilbur’s hand away, leaning away from him and into the sofa cushions, sending him a glare. It’s quickly met with a teasing, offended look, the man’s eyebrows furrowed. “And stop looking at me like that, you weirdo.”
“Like what?”
“As if you’re reading me like I’m one of your— your fuckin’ song lyrics. It’s so annoying.”
The wrinkle between Wilbur’s eyebrows relaxes, replaced quickly when one of them lifts a little, the corner of his mouth twitching.
“I read you that easily?” He questions, tone fond, and Tommy glares at him.
“Of course you do,” he says, gritting his teeth to keep from adding a curse to it. He was going to be sappy, for once. “Very easily, actually. Sometimes— sometimes it’s kinda fucking scary how well you know me. Like, like today— you picked me up from the cafe without more questions than just, ‘What happened?’ and ‘Where are you?’”
Wilbur smiles at this, “And I’d do it again in a heartbeat, you know.”
“See? You’re such— you’re an asshole,” Tommy leans forwards to put his face in his hands, running his fingers through his own hair. “You can read me like… so easily. I don’t get it. You’re always caring for me, and I just… I don’t know. I have no clue if what I do is enough to make up for it. I know that you say that we’re brothers, but I never know if you really mean it. It’s— what if one day I’m not cool enough to be your pseudo brother, or you and the others get tired of me? What do I do then?”
Beside him, Wilbur tenses, but Tommy ignores it. The questions have been digging at him for a little— not enough to send him spiraling, but enough for him to question it.
“Tommy,” Wilbur begins to say, tone low, the way it gets when he’s serious. Tommy doesn’t want to see that; to see him frowning at him.
“Tommy,” he repeats, this time tone softer, as if he’d known exactly where the boy’s thoughts were going. “Hey, will you look at me, please?”
When he doesn’t respond, Wilbur reaches out, lifting his face from his hands carefully. Tommy leans gratefully into the hands, all the whilst glaring up at the stupidly soft expression on the guy’s face. He looks far fonder than he had ever been before, and it’s obnoxious.
“What?” He grumbles, his frown deepening when Wilbur lets go of his face to run a hand through the front of the boy’s curls.
“You do realize that you can read me that well, too, right?” The man questions softly, reaching out to press his index finger into the center of Tommy’s forehead, laughing when the boy halfheartedly smacks it away. “I always assume that you’re a little mind reader, you know? I’ve told Phil this a bunch of times, but you’ve genuinely always been there for me when I needed you most— waking me up before one pm, forcing me out of bed, telling me to eat, all of it. It’s as if you have an inner working clock for both yourself and me all at once.”
Tommy’s heart clenches and he lowers his head a little once more, bangs brushing his eyelashes.
He wants to say something, maybe a few curse words, maybe smack the guy upside the head for being this sappy while he’s tired, but he can’t seem to form any words for it.
It doesn’t take long for Wilbur to catch on, as the man continues after a long pause, his tone featherlight, “Now that I’m thinking about it, Tommy, I’d have to say yes.”
Another punch to the gut, but Tommy holds his ground.
“To what?”
“Soulmates,” Wilbur responds simply, reaching a hand out in front of Tommy’s face in offering, lowering it so it’s in his vision. Hesitantly, Tommy takes it, throat too full of mirth to deny, chest too full to smack it away. “I think that they’re real. Maybe not quite the soulmates that are shown in most media, but perhaps the ones tied to family.”
Wilbur holds up their intertwined hands, shifting it to the side so that he can lift his pinky in the air, Tommy follows suit, and Wilbur hums.
“If it were visible, it’d be right there, I think,” he says, nudging his forehead against the side of Tommy’s head for emphasis. “The soulmate strings, one wrapped around your pinky, the other one wrapped around mine. Beside them, on each individual finger, I’d like to think we’re connected to Techno and Phil, too. I get the pinky, though.”
Despite himself, Tommy laughs wetly, trying to speak over his choked tone.
“Why the— the fuckin’ pinky?” He whispers, waving his own pinky in the air a little, “It’s the stupidest one. The small one.”
Wilbur shrugs a little, careful to not jostle Tommy too much.
“It’s the promise finger, kind of like the ring finger is the one for marriage, I think the pinky’s the one for friendships,” Wilbur states, as if he’d been thinking this theory over for a long time. “I’ve seen you and Tubbo making pinky promises before, always linking them together. That’s the finger you do it with, that’s the one I want. We’re brothers, till the end, sunshine— no bits, no laughter, I’m being completely real with you. There’s no getting rid of me now that you’ve got me.”
Tommy shakes his head, laughing a little once more. This was too much.
There are so many words crawling up his throat, so many that he wants to say, but all that seems to come out is tears, so he keeps his mouth shut for a moment. Blinking away the stinging from his eyes and both silently thanking and threatening himself, he finds the ability to say a simple sentence.
“You’re like a fucking disease,” he references, because it’s quite literally the only thing he can fathom, and Wilbur snorts.
“I project into my music, king, didn’t you know?” He teases, and Tommy sighs softly.
“Shut the fuck up,” he whispers, shaking his head and falling further into the man’s side. “Shut up. Shut the fuck up. You’re so awful for all that shit you said, you know. I hate you.”
“Right,” Wilbur presses a kiss into Tommy’s hair, lightly, just at the crown of his head. “I love you too, Tommy.”
Tommy hums, rubbing his eyes with the palms of his hands. His mind is whirring, never a still thing.
“Were you serious earlier?” He asks, quietly, as to not disturb the comfortable silence that has fallen between them.
“Hmm, about which thing?” Wilbur inquires.
“The whole ‘I’m taking you to America with me’ thing. Were you actually serious about that?”
Rumbling laughter, and a flick in the back of the head. If he weren’t so tired, Tommy would slam the crown of his head into Wilbur’s chin hard enough that the guy saw stars. He’s done it before, he’s just— tired.
“I was completely serious,” Wilbur responds, tapping his freehand against his thigh, “I don’t want to leave you— or Phil, for that matter— in London again. You’re both coming with me, even if I have to drag you onto the plane.”
Tommy laughs a little, lightly.
“Never been on a plane before,” he admits, “It sounds horrifying.”
“Mm, you’ll be alright. Might want to bring some motion sickness medicine, though. Just in case.”
“Motion sickness sounds lame. For losers. I haven’t got that,” Tommy begins, although he knows full well he does. One moment he’s standing up too fast, the next moment he’s on the ground.
Knowingly, Wilbur just shrugs. Tommy can practically see the smile on his face. Asshole.
“If you say so, Tommy.”
——
Mornings always come easy to Tommy.
They’re a whirlwind, a rush after years of growing used to the same routine that it’s practically robotic the way he wakes up. Always he gets up to a nine am alarm, despite not having college anymore, and floats around his bedroom, doing whatever he’s got planned for the day.
Normally, it remains like this even when he visits friends’ houses. At Tubbo’s, he’s always the first one awake, what with Tubbo sleeping until practically one in the afternoon if it weren’t for Tommy’s presence. With Jack, though, it’s the only time his routine is slightly skewed— the guy wakes up thirty minutes earlier than him and always takes it upon himself to make as much noise as physically possible in the kitchen while he’s making breakfast. There have been multiple instances with Tommy waking up groggy, standing in the doorway of the kitchen and chucking one of his shoes at the fucker.
The morning at Wilbur’s house is completely different.
When Tommy wakes up, he isn’t in a rush to get up. The sunlight pours in from the blinds just above the sofa, etching gentle warmth on his cheeks and his arms, pressing against his neck. It’s not an uncomfortable thing, either, and Tommy almost feels like a cat basking in the sun.
Another difference, too, was that Wilbur had actually given him a mattress to sleep on so he didn’t have to use the sofa. He caught the whole thing of the man carrying it downstairs on camera, practically choking in his laughter while Wilbur almost tripped several times on the journey down the steps.
Tommy feels, distinctly, lethargic.
It’s not like the kind he’d felt the day before, the one that pulled his eyelids down and threatened to pull him into the ocean of unyielding sleep, but rather the welcoming kind, as though he’s being taken into a hug, or biting into one of Kristin’s pastries. She always made the best food when he visited— the apple turnovers were his and Wilbur’s personal favourite.
A series of footsteps, at just the right time, come from down the hall. Despite wanting to remain in the warmth forever, Tommy sits up instinctively, blinking through the lingering tiredness clinging to his eyelids.
Wilbur, rather sleep rumpled with bags clinging to the underside of his eyes, smiles at him from the hall.
“Hi, sunshine,” he says automatically, voice still rough with sleep, leaning his frame against the wall connecting from the hall into the living room. “Sleep well?”
Tommy returns the smile, leaning back against the sofa that the mattress is pressed against.
“Fine,” he responds, “I’m still sort of tired though.”
Wilbur snorts, walking over to ruffle his hair playfully.
“Last time you stayed over, you left before we could even have breakfast,” Wilbur says, tone bordering on a complaint, but it’s teasing.
Nose wrinkling, Tommy leans into Wilbur’s hand, still too far in between sleep and being awake to smack it away.
“Good. I don’t want to have to suffer through your absolute ass cooking,” Tommy rebuttals, shivering at the very thought. Wilbur had once nearly burned Phil’s house down when he’d offered to cook for them, as an ‘honorary guest’ should do. He was never allowed to cook there again and ends up pouting in the corner of the room every time he’s reminded of it.
Tommy got the whole thing on video, too. It’s hilarious.
Rolling his eyes, Wilbur pokes the end of Tommy’s nose irritably.
“We’re not eating breakfast here, dumbass,” he says, standing up straight again and offering his hand for Tommy to take. “We’re going to a diner, like the classic 90’s families do.”
Tommy snorts but takes Wilbur’s hand anyways, quickly being pulled to his feet.
“Alright, well, I’m here for breakfast now,” Tommy states, letting go of Wilbur’s hand and nudging him in the arm. “Take me to the diner, king. I want to order every item off of the menu so I can use up all your hard earned, people’s streamer money.”
“You say that, but I have a feeling that I know exactly what you’re going to get,” Wilbur responds, pretty much unphased.
Tommy smirks a little.
There’s no way that Wilbur knows what he gets. The guy probably thinks he gets something weird, like chicken and waffles or beans on toast. He’d probably rather slam his face into a wall than get either of those.
“You have no clue what I’m gonna get,” Tommy says in a sing-songy voice, walking past Wilbur to pick up his backpack. He didn’t bring an extra change of clothes since he’d thought that he’d be staying at his flat until his parents were able to bring his boxes (which was supposed to be this morning), which is pretty unfortunate, but he couldn’t really care less.
“Oh, really? I don’t? Not a clue?” Wilbur questions, voice lilting. Tommy has to resist the urge to chuck the ziplock bag containing his toothbrush and toothpaste at the man’s forehead.
“Not a single clue,” he continues to say, rummaging around in his bag a little more.
There’s a pause, and then a hum.
“Tommy, did you bring an extra change of clothes?”
Tommy sighs, leaning his head back a little. Can’t he go a moment without this guy putting him on blast? The whole ‘being platonic soulmates’ thing was making more and more sense, but he didn’t want to be soulmates with a guy who just wanted to smack cam him every second that he got.
“I didn’t, no,” he admits, pursing his lips and preparing himself for a witty comeback that definitely won’t end in him saying ‘fuck you.’
It doesn’t come, though.
“Do you want to borrow some of mine, then?” Wilbur asks instead, and Tommy’s eyebrows raise.
He’s borrowed Wilbur’s clothing once before, but it’s usually just his sweatshirts or something. He’s never actually borrowed an outfit or anything from him.
“Seriously?” He turns around, meeting Wilbur’s eyes. “I can borrow your clothes?”
“I mean, yeah, as long as you give them back to me tomorrow or something,” Wilbur simply shrugs, reaching up to run a hand through his still rather sleep ruffled hair. “It’s not like your flat’s far from my work office, anyways.”
Tommy blinks, then grins as something clicks.
“This is sort of brotherly of you, you know,” he begins, tone lilting the way it always does when he does their little ‘we’re like brothers!’ bit (although it isn’t a bit in the slightest anymore). It’s always funny seeing the way the corners of Wilbur’s mouth turn down in an instant when he does this sort of thing, so Tommy continues, clicking his tongue, “Giving me your clothes, letting me borrow them, almost like they’re hand-me-downs, Wilbur. That’s awfully big brotherly of you, you know, almost like you love me or something.”
Wilbur’s eyes narrow, but his face softens.
“I do love you, you know,” he says warmly, giving him a small smile. “My little brother— of course, you can borrow my clothes. Just don’t get your fuckin’ snot or anything on it and make sure to wash it. I don’t want Tommy grime on my favourite jumper.”
Tommy huffs, “And here I thought you were gonna go all clingy n’ shit again like you did last night. But no, you’re a fool, and I hate you.”
“Mhm, alright,” Wilbur turns, heading towards the hallway, “Let me grab some clothes for you and then we can leave, alright?”
“Yeah, yeah, go get my clothes, bitch!” Tommy calls after him, grinning sharply. “
Wilbur pauses, turning to raise an eyebrow at the boy.
“You even talk like a kid who gets chocolate chip pancakes,” he teases, and Tommy’s face falls immediately.
Immediate call out.
He’s starting to regret calling Wilbur the day before after all.
“Fuck you. I actually hope you trip and fall on the way to your bedroom and like, break your face or something. I hate you. Go away. Get away from me, freak,” he immediately spouts, turning away from him and angrily rifling through his backpack again, just to have something to do with his hands.
Wilbur laughs, like the bitch he is.
“I’m going, I’m going.”
——
The diner that Wilbur picks is cozy— one of those ones that on the outside doesn’t look all that, but turns vibrant depending on who you go there with. Tommy would probably not come here if Wilbur hadn’t taken him.
They sit in a booth beside a window, across from one another so that Tommy can pull the wrapper off of his straw on one end and blow the other end at Wilbur just to piss him off.
It’s all too domestic, being in this sort of setting with his older brother. The early morning light coming in through the cracks of the blinds, the ambience of people speaking in the background and silverware clattering with plates.
“I’ve never been here before,” Tommy admits aloud once they’ve ordered their breakfast (trying to sway the conversation from Wilbur’s smug look when Tommy had, in a whisper, ordered the chocolate chip pancakes topped with powdered sugar). “It seems nice.”
Wilbur hums, leaning his chin in his palm, resorting to scrolling through his phone as he typically does while they’re eating.
“I come here pretty often if I wake up early enough for breakfast type food,” he responds absentmindedly, “The food’s really good.”
“You got a grilled pancake, bro,” Tommy deadpans, raising an eyebrow. “How good can it be?”
Wilbur giggles, looking up from his phone to face Tommy, “Please tell me you did not just call a waffle a grilled pancake.”
Suppressing a grin, Tommy leans back against the booth seat, arms crossed over his chest.
“I said what I said,” he states proudly, holding his head a little high.
Underneath the table, he receives a jab in the ankle harshly, a swift kick that makes him shriek, slamming his hands against the tabletop. Surely, everyone’s looking in his direction now, but he could care less— Wilbur is grinning widely at him.
“You fucking— you prick, you absolute shithead!” Tommy hisses, lifting his feet off the floor and laying them across the booth seat. He glowers in Wilbur’s direction, shifting so that his back is against the wall beside them, his feet completely inaccessible. “Fucking dickhead, actually the worst ever. I hate you. Terrible older brother, the worst. I’m gonna definitely replace you with Georgenotfound after this.”
Wilbur’s still dissolving into laughter, shoulders shaking.
“You’re such a dumbass, Toms,” he tells him, grinning widely. “You’re lucky that you’re going home to your new flat soon, otherwise I’d throw you into the community pool when we get home.”
“No, no, you simply wouldn’t,” Tommy quips, holding his finger up and tilting his head from where it leans against the windowsill. “I’m too big and strong and manly n’ tall for you to pick up. You’d simply— you’d simply fall over, actually.”
Wilbur scoffs, leaning his chin back into his hand again.
“Tubbo can pick you up, king,” he tells him, eyebrow raised. “I’m sure that I could pick you up without a problem in the slightest.”
Tommy grimaces, “Yeah, but Tubbo’s literally cracked, Wil. He could pick up anyone if he wanted to and you know it. Your arms are sticks, big man. You could not.”
“Hm, do you want to test this theory?” Wilbur questions. It sounds like a threat.
“Haha, no thank you, actually,” Tommy holds his hands up in mock defense, “I would not like to test this theory. I’ll bite the shit out of you, maybe take out your legs or something if you even try to pick me—”
His phone rings, rudely interrupting his continuation of threatening his older brother.
He glances down and grins at the contact name, holding it up for Wilbur to see.
“It’s my landlord,” he says excitedly, shifting in the booth so that his feet are placed on the floor. He hits answer, putting his phone to his ear, shooting Wilbur grins that are easily returned with fond smiles.
A couple moments pass and, progressively, the smile slips off of Tommy’s face, replaced with concern, something sad, and then pure dread.
Right on cue, their waitress returns and places their plates of food on the table, making sure to quietly set them down when she notices that Tommy’s on the phone. Wilbur silently thanks her with a nod and a smile, before turning back to his growing concern towards his little brother.
“Right, right,” Tommy nods solemnly, hand shaking as he holds the phone to his ear. He won’t meet Wilbur’s eyes, tracing a shape on the tabletop. “I get it, yeah. No problem— uhm, when will…?”
A pause, and Tommy nods again, biting the inside of his cheek.
“Alright, thank you,” he murmurs, keeping his tone the cherry sweet thing he always does when speaking to someone— the classic Tommy’s not in bit mode one.
When Tommy pulls his phone away from his ear and clicks it off, Wilbur reaches his hand out and Tommy takes it immediately.
“What happened?” Wilbur questions, tapping one of his fingers against the back of Tommy’s hand. “Is everything alright?”
“I, uh, have to stay out of the flat for a couple more days,” Tommy explains, shrugging a little, “It’s still got the whole— the whole thing going on.”
“You can stay at my house,” Wilbur says automatically, not even with a second thought. Tommy looks at him immediately, eyebrows raised, so Wilbur continues. “It’s nice having someone over. Not so lonely anymore. You wouldn’t be a bother or anything, and I can drive you to pick up your boxes and clothes from your house, if you’d like.”
Tommy blinks, warmth filling his chest. He squeezes Wilbur’s hand twice, smiling a little.
“Really?”
Wilbur returns the squeeze and the smile, warm and comforting.
“Really, Toms. I’ll be happy to take you to go pick up your things. You’re never a bother to me, okay?”
Holding their intertwined hands up, Wilbur lifts his pinky finger with a grin, “Brothers, remember?”
Tommy rolls his eyes, lifting his own finger as well, “Yeah, yeah. Brothers, the string— you’re so stupid, Wil.”
Wilbur chuckles, lowering their hands and letting go. Tommy has to bite back the immediate reaction to frown.
“Plus, now that you’re staying over again,” Wilbur begins, pulling his plate of waffles towards himself that had been pretty much ignored until now, “I get to live up to what I’d said. I can properly throw you into the pool now.”
Grimacing, Tommy rips off a piece of his pancake barehanded (pointedly ignoring the disgusted stare Wilbur gives him). He usually ate with a fork and knife but recently he’s learned that eating with his hands will piss Wilbur off so, obviously, he must do that.
Plus, it was kind of fun.
“You will not be picking me up,” Tommy states, popping the piece of pancake into his mouth, suppressing a loud bark of laughter at just how much Wilbur physically recoils at this. “Once again, I am simply too elusive for you to grab. I am quick, speedy, like the famous hedgehog.”
“We’ll see about that,” Wilbur grumbles, stabbing his fork aggressively into another piece of waffle, “Just you wait, Tommy. You’re going to be tossed like a fucking football into that pool.”
Tommy snickers, ripping off a small piece of pancake and throwing it at Wilbur from across the table.
“You’re such a mean brother,” he complains, throwing another piece of pancake, laughing when it lands in Wilbur’s hair and the man lets out a short shriek. “Horrid brother.”
“Throw one more piece of pancake at me and I will literally tackle you from across the table,” Wilbur threatens, batting Tommy’s hand away when he reaches across the table to put another piece of pancake in the man’s hair. “I mean it. We will fight right here and now.”
Leaning back into the cushion again, Tommy grins, holding his hands up.
“Okay, okay…”
Wilbur shoots him another glare, clearly hearing Tommy’s underlying tone.
In an attempt to show the man he won’t throw anymore pieces of pancake at him, Tommy reaches over the table and takes Wilbur’s fork. He lifts it up, the man’s piece of waffle doused in syrup.
Clearly, though, Wilbur sees right through his act, because his face remains a total deadpan.
“Tommy,” Wilbur says, tone serious, “Don’t even.”
“I won’t, I won’t,” Tommy says with a grin, pulling the waffle away as if going to eat it.
Wilbur continues to stare at him, not at all convinced.
“Tommy.”
A pause, quickly followed by Tommy bursting into laughter, the clattering of plates, and a child’s high pitched screaming.
They end up getting banned from the diner.