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Tommy wasn’t happy.
In fact; He was far from it. And it was all Wilbur’s fault.
Picture this, Tommy is minding his own business. He’s sitting inside the house, messaging Tubbo. They’re having one of their moments where they decide to mess around and- jokingly- send each other death threats.
Then Wilbur walks in.
“Hey Tommy, I need you to- holy fuck what the hell is this shit-“
Tommy sits up upon hearing Wilbur’s voice, startled by the man. “The fuck do you mean, it’s my room??” His head turns from corner to corner, then finally making eye contact with his brother after trying to figure out the problem.
“Yeah no shit, Tommy, I’m not an idiot. But walking in here it looks less like a room and more like that- creepy ass door in Coraline.” Wilbur sighs, walking further in and picking up empty coke cans Tommy would ‘throw away’ after drinking. “Do you know what a trash can is?”
“of course i know what the fuck a trash can is-“
“Do you?? Really?? Let me count how much shit is on the floor, hold on, one-“
Tommy groaned loudly “okay, I get it, Rooms a shithole, maybe i like it this way, ever think about that? Wilbur? Big W? Big brother. Older B-“
“Don’t care.” Wilbur shrugs “This is more of a mess than both of our mental healths combined.”
“no wait what the fuck-“
“Can you please clean it today?” He sighs “I’ll even pay you to clean it. No more than 20, no less than 10. It’s not that I wanna inconvenience you, it’s more I can see broken glass on the floor up in the corner and that is a health concern.”
Tommy once again, groans in annoyance.
“yeah, yeah, complain all you want that I feel like helping you live. Clean it. I actually beg of you.” Wilbur says, looking at Tommy, then turning and closing the door as he leaves.
This leads to Tommy deciding to himself, why the fuck should he listen to Wilbur?
Which then leads to the current situation at Tommy’s hands.
He’s laying in his bed, moving around far more than he does when he’s awake and energetic, all because he’s the exact opposite.
He’s questioning why the fuck he listened to Wilbur. Because apparently, listening to Wilbur means getting sick.
“Wilburrrrr…” Tommy calls from his room, soon regretting it when he realizes the longer he speaks and holds his voice the more it feels like it’s tightening around itself, and deciding to stop doing as such.
“Yeah?” Wilbur soon replies, followed by the sounds of footsteps trailing up wooden stairs, and then the quick yet slow creaks of a door opening.
“I did the shit.” Tommy’s voice is lower and scratchier, sounding more like he was dying rather than trying to argue with his brother. “Pay up bitch, 20, and please for the love of fucking god get me some Tylenol-“
“…You sound like death as a human being.”
“Fuck off and get the shit.”
Wilbur then leaves, and brings back some money, Tylenol, a warm drink, tea knowing him, and proceeds to speak. “I brought you extra, and I’m working on making you soup. Question though, how did this happen?”
“I dunno.” Tommy whines “I was cleaning. So allergies n shit started acting all up, and then is just- kinda escalated yknow? After i got done. Now it feels like my brain is being stabbed by millions of needles from the inside, my throat like it was scratched but also tightening around itself, and i cannot breathe through my nose without feeling pain.”
“…What are you, allergic to cleaning?”
“…yes.”
Wilbur chuckled slightly, soon proceeding into a sigh, then nodded. “Alright then. I’ll be back with the soup, got it? Put on a movie or something on your TV to keep yourself occupied and just- I dunno, don’t fucking die?”
“Helpful.”
“I know.” Wilbur smiles upon his younger brothers sarcastic tone, and he once again leaves.
Tommy puts on Tangled, it was the first movie he thought of, then about ten minutes after it starts, Wilbur walks back in. He sets a bowl of soup and a spoon on the table next to Tommy, then sighs.
“…Move over.”
“what?”
“Prick, I said move over.” Wilbur says, then suddenly Tommy can feel a dip next to him in the bed, and arms around him.
“…What’cha doing there, big guy?”
Wilbur laughs softly. “I’m comforting you. You’re sick. And when you’re sick, you get all fuckin’ clingy.”
“I do not!-“
“You do.”
“oh fuck off, Wilbur! Of course you’d know clingy, you fucking prick-“
Wilbur listens to the young boy ramble on with insults for a while longer, then proceeds to shush him.
Tommy takes great offense to this of course, but he says nothing.
“As much as I enjoy hearing you insult me for twenty minutes straight, I need you to either eat your food or go the fuck to sleep.”
“Wha-“
“Don’t ask, just pick your battle. You’re still sick, idiot.”
Tommy opened his mouth to speak against his brother, but just mumbles a complaint and makes his choice.
Wilbur would have to reheat that soup later.
But for now, he relaxed as Tommy slept, curled up against him with Wilbur’s arms wrapped softly around the boy. There was no request or need for him to stay, but Wilbur felt as though it was nothing more or less than his own responsibility as the elder sibling to stay and look after the younger, blonde and energetic boy he kept close to him.