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He calls Wilbur a few seconds after the Zoom meeting ends. His fingers find the man's contact with involuntary muscle memory, his brain on autopilot. Predictably, the man picks up on the second ring. Tommy lowers his volume hastily before the inevitable--
"Tommy!" Wilbur greets with an audible grin. "Hi, sweetheart. What's up?"
Tommy connects his airpods. "Hi, Will," he says back, voice just a little too dull. "I just finished up with my psychiatrist. She's putting me on Prozac."
"Yeah? What dosage?"
"Ten milligrams. One per day," Tommy answers. "It's, um, it's like the one Lovejoy song," he says, aiming for humor but just sounding breathless. "A couple Prozacs and now I'm pumping dopamine or something."
Wilbur laughs anyways. "Lovejoy did invent Prozac," he says. Tommy giggles, but gets back to what he was saying.
"If it doesn't do anything, they'll raise it, but they want me to get acclimated since I've never taken antidepressants."
Wilbur hums, and then his camera comes on. He's sitting in his room, laying back against an unnecessary amount of pillow, damp hair split into a middle part as he talks to Tommy. "Good," he says. "Some psychiatrists, especially American ones, prescribe way too much at first, and that only makes you feel worse."
Tommy nods, something in his chest weighing him down. He feels... weird. Bad weird, eerily empty. Like his heart isn't beating like it should be, or his organs aren't doing their work. He wants to go lay in bed for hours, but the thought doing anything that isn't sleeping makes him uncomfortable. He wishes he could just not exist for a moment.
Wilbur grounds him. "Tommy?" he calls gently. "Are you alright?"
He isn't. He knows that, and he knows Wilbur knows, too. "I just–" He takes a deep breath. "What if the Prozac doesn't fix me?"
Wilbur's eyes furrow, hand coming up to rest his chin on. "What?"
Tommy winces. "What if I stay like this," he gestures vaguely to himself, to his tired eyes, unwashed clothes, and messy apartment, "forever."
"You don't need to be fixed," Wilbur says, horrified. "You have a chemical imbalance in your brain, darling. That doesn't mean you're worth any less. When you met me I was struggling with depression– did you think I needed to be, quote unquoted, fixed?"
"No, of course not. But you're you," he says, trying to convey the meaning.
Wilbur blinks. "I need you to elaborate, love."
Tommy sighs. How can he explain it? They're different, his and Wilbur's depressions. Wilbur's is excusable– he still talked on the phone every day, managed to get up and take care of himself even slightly. His flat wasn't a mess of strewn clothes and unopened curtains. "You functioned," Tommy explains. "I'm not-- I can't..." he trails off.
Wilbur picks up the pieces. "You can't make yourself work," he finishes, watching Tommy nod. "I functioned, yeah. Because I was on meds, darling. Before my medication, I was a fucking mess. Meds aren't meant to fix you, they're meant to give you want you lack. Like an upgrade."
"An upgrade," Tommy echoes. "What if the meds don't give me the upgrade I need?"
"Then you go back to your psychiatrist," Wilbur says firmly. "And you take me with you, and I'll make sure you get what you need. I'm your big brother, after all."
Tommy cracks a smile. "You'd do that for me?"
"I'd do anything for you, Toms," Wilbur assures. "Now, when do your meds come in?"
Tommy sighs, fidgeting with the sleeve of his sweatshirt. It's Wilbur's latest merch-- he'd worn it to his session with the psychiatrist as a semblance of comfort. "Two days from now," he says. "Which is good. There's side-effects, or so I've been told. Nausea, headaches, blah blah blah. Just until my body gets used to them."
"Do you want to come stay with me for a little, dove?" Wilbur asks gently. "I don't think you should be alone."
Tommy could be just about anywhere right now. He's like a stuffed animal; you could put him down on any bed and he would stay. Still, he quite likes Wilbur's bed, the sheets are comfy and they smell very Wilburish, so he nods. "Yeah, that'd be nice. Pick me up?"
"I'll be there in twenty," Wilbur says, already getting up.
"Alright. See you later, then."
"See you-- oh! Tommy!" Wilbur quickly calls before the blond can hang up.
Tommy freezes. "What?"
"I love you," Wilbur reminds gently. "And I'm proud of you. You're stronger than you think."
That... wow. Tommy can feel something warm spread in his chest, a part of his brain he didn't know needed reassurance oddly validated. "I love you, too," he says. Wilbur grins at him and hangs up.
Tommy sits at his desk for just a second, controlling his breath and working up the energy to move, and then finally gets up to pack.
--
It's a late night in the Soot household. Two brothers are in their kitchen at three in the morning, one sitting on a counter cross-legged and the other urging him to get off, you little gremlin. They're eating cereal-- Lucky Charms, because Tommy's not eighteen just yet, and can legally eat those as a child-- while discussing some of the most random things in the world.
"Wheels or doors?" Tommy asks at some point, watching as Wilbur's face contorts in confusion. "Like, are they more wheels or doors in the world?"
Wilbur blinks. "Is- is that an actual question? Wheels, obviously. Think of how many cars there are in the world, and rolling chairs, and bikes, and toy cars."
"I think there's more doors," Tommy says, a complete lie. He just likes to be a little shit sometimes. "I have more doors than wheels in my flat, so."
"Well, why would you have wheels in your flat, Tommy?" Wilbur asks, exasperated. "You can't fit a car in there or anything." Tommy eats a big spoonful of cereal, rubbing off the excess milk at the corner of his mouth with his sleeve. Wilbur wrinkles his nose at his behavior, chiding, "I have napkins, you know."
"Don't need 'em," he replies. "I could have a spinny chair. I don't. I have more doors, so I'm on the door team." He says it proudly, even though he doesn't believe a word he's saying. Wilbur groans.
"That makes no sense."
"You make no sense. Idiot. Bitch. Dumbass."
Wilbur grins. "You're like a little kid who just learnt what cuss words are. Tiny little baby."
"And you're like a big adult on his midlife crises. You're gonna die soon," he informs. "And I will piss on your grave when you do."
Wilbur giggles. "You called me a big adult. You respect me," he teases.
"No, I do not."
"You want your big brother Wilby to give you some life advice, Tommy? Is that how you see me? A huge, strong man teeming with wisdom?"
Tommy throws a Lucky Charm at him. "No, I don't!" He protests loudly, although he does come to Wilbur whenever he needs advice with anything, so the man's half-right, "I don't! Shut up, dickhead. Die."
"Aww, Tommy!" Wilbur coos. "Come give big brother Wilby a hug, Toms. Tiny little baby brother!"
"I hate you," Tommy deadpans. "You'll die at my hands one day."
"You wuuuv me," Wilbur croons with his best baby voice. "My darling, wittle brother--" he's cut off by Tommy throwing his milk-splattered spoon at him, cackling as it hits him on the chest. "You threw your spoon at me!"
Tommy sniffs. "And I'd do it again."
Wilbur's still giggling. "How will you eat, Tommy? Riddle me that."
Without breaking eye contact, Tommy lifts the half-full porcelain bowl and lifts it to his mouth, tilting it back and drinking the milk directly.
Wilbur hums, impressed. "Touché."
--
Wilbur's having a good day. He's humming something by Los Campesinos! under his breath, he'd woken up early this morning and had a good, healthy breakfast, he was wearing his comfiest clothes, and now he's doing laundry. A perfectly good, perfectly productive day.
He hasn't seen Tommy, but he can only assume that's because Tommy's still asleep. The blond is staying with him for a bit to record the newest Tom Simons vlog; Bothering Wilbur Soot for a Week! The crimeboys fans will eat it up, and it's not like Tommy and Wilbur don't have fun together. It's day three, and it's been a blast so far. Tommy and Wilbur feed off of each other, going out all day and sleeping in all morning.
Today was a change of pace. Wilbur woke up early, around nine in the morning. He holds the laundry basket tight in his arms, opening the door with his foot clumsily, and enters the laundry room. He sets the basket down on top of the machine and turns around to flip the lights on.
There, sitting on top of the dryer, is Tom Simons himself. He's staring wide-eyed at Wilbur, a blanket draped over his shoulders loosely. Wilbur feels his heart skip a beat at the boy's sudden appearance, blinking rapidly.
They ask the same question simultaneously; "What're you doing here?"
Tommy stares at him. "I just– I didn't think you'd come in here."
"Why are you in here?" Wilbur inquires, bewildered. "This is my laundry room. How– how long have you—?"
"I haven't, um, gone to sleep," Tommy admits. "And your spare room– your spare room was too big, and I don't like big spaces, I like small spaces, and then I found this room, and I felt safe, so."
Wilbur leans against the doorframe, something worried building in his chest. "That's alright, darling. You're all good. Mi casa es tu casa or whatever. Go anywhere you want if it makes you feel safe."
Tommy swallows, hands fidgeting with the hem of his shirt frantically. "I just– I couldn't sleep. I was so worried about... everything. I couldn't breathe, I could feel my heart pounding in my chest, and every single bad thought I've ever had in my life kept rushing to me–"
Wilbur shushes him gently. "You're okay, you're okay. Breathe, lovely. Can I touch you?" At Tommy's nod, he leans forward, wrapping his hand around Tommy's cold one. He winces. The laundry room is colder than every other room in the house. Tommy must've been in here for a while. "You're freezing, precious. Let's go somewhere else."
Reluctantly, Tommy got off of the dryer and made his way to the door. Wilbur wrapped an arm around the small of his back, guiding him to the nearest bathroom. The blond was quiet, leaning his weight onto Wilbur and stepping blindly. When they get to the bathroom, Wilbur sits him down on the closed toilet lid.
"I'll get you some clothes. You're gonna have a nice, warm shower, and then you're gonna change into your pajamas and we're gonna watch Community all day," Wilbur instructs gently, cupping Tommy's face with one palm. "How's that, Toms?"
"What about the vlog?" Tommy asks.
"Fuck the vlog, I can record something for it on my own later. A little Lovejoy teaser or whatever to hold people over," he strokes the kid's cheek with his thumb, "you're more important, alright? Don't worry."
Tommy looks unconvinced, but he mumbles, "Okay."
Wilbur smiles victoriously. "Okay. I'll go get you some pajamas. You know which way is hot and which way is cold, right?" Tommy nods. "Good. You're doing great, Tommy. I'm proud of you."
Tommy smiles, finally, cheeks flushed and eyes adoring. "Thank you, Wil. You're a good big brother."
"And you are the sweetest little thing," Wilbur returns, dropping his hand and pressing a kiss to the top of Tommy's hair. "I'll be right back."
He leaves to go get fresh clothes, setting a mental reminder to make the kid breakfast while he showers. He prepares himself for a day full of cuddles and lullabies.
--
Tommy's sitting in his flat, scrolling lazily through TikTok as he tries to find something to do. It's a rest day– or, well, it was supposed to be a streaming day but Tommy couldn't find the motivation to start up his computer. He pushes it to tomorrow, instead, promising Animal Crossing on Twitter and leaving it alone.
All of a sudden, there's a knock on his door. Tommy jolts, eyes shooting to the source of the sound. "Hello?" he calls out. There's more incessant knocking. Tommy gets up, checking the peephole before sighing and swinging the door open. "Hi, Wilbur."
"Get dressed," Wilbur commands, barging in. "We're going out."
Tommy blinks. "Huh?"
"Lovejoy rehearsal in an hour. Have you eaten lunch yet? We can probably do lunch real quick," he's planning animatedly, not even looking at Tommy as he googles something on his phone. "Mhm, there's a Spanish cafe a few blocks from here. We can probably walk, but if you're too tired we can drive. We have to take the car anyways to get to the studio, so–" he glances at Tommy, finally. "Is that what you're wearing?"
It's Sapnap merch, the comfy hoodie with the red logo in the middle, and fuzzy light blue sweatpants. He answers, astonished, "I was just chilling at home, yes this is what I'm wearing!"
"Well, change!" Wilbur orders, "We have to go, you little prick. Did you take your Prozac?"
"Yes, I took my fucking Prozac," Tommy mumbles, knowing damn well he'd forgotten to. He goes to his room, uncapping the bottle and popping one of the capsules into his mouth. He swallows it dry. "Did you take your Prozac?"
"I have an alarm set," Wilbur says. "Cause I'm not stupid."
Tommy huffs. "Whatever," he starts changing, trying to find some clothes fitting for a Lovejoy rehearsal. One of the shirts Wilbur had bought him, a pair of jeans, and sneakers would do. He also swipes a beanie he'd stolen from Quackity. He goes out to the living room when he's done, looking for Wilbur's approval. "Good?"
"You look great!" Wilbur says, "You're putting the fashion in fashionably late."
"We're not late, Wilbur, Jesus Christ," Tommy rolls his eyes. He grabs his keys, his wallet, and his phone. "Let's go. You said something about lunch?"
"I very much did, prick," Wilbur responds, guiding him out of the doorway.
Tommy grins. "And you mentioned it was your treat, right?"
Wilbur shoots him a look. "Don't push it."
"What'll the waiter say when they give us our check and you immediately push it towards the seventeen-year-old, hm?"
Wilbur pauses. "Fuck."
"Fuck," Tommy agrees, giggling.
--
They're sitting in Wilbur's flat, having a little Gravity Falls marathon draped in sunlight one afternoon. Wilbur's arm sits lazily over his shoulders, holding him close as they intermittently comment every so often.
After the fourteenth episode ends, Tommy checks his phone and gets up. Wilbur makes a confused noise, tracking the boy's movements. "I have to go meet with Scott," Tommy explains. "Remember?"
Wilbur whines. "It's your day off, though."
"I have other friends," Tommy laughs. "You can come, if you want. Everyone knows we're kind of a package deal. Kind of like--"
"No," Wilbur warns.
"--brothers," Tommy finishes with a grin. Wilbur groans, eyes fond and the corners of his mouth quirking up. "Lend me a coat? It's cold out."
"You have coats," Wilbur says. Tommy stares at him expectantly, beaming when the man sighs. "Fine, whatever." He takes off his hoodie, extending it towards Tommy reluctantly.
Tommy takes it with pride. "Thanks! So, are you coming?"
Wilbur squeezes his eyes shut, tiredly laying back against the bed's headboard. "Too tired. It's a beautiful day to stay inside, Tommy, did you know?"
Tommy sighs. "I should've never watched Inside with you."
Wilbur gasps, offended, "I showed it to you! Know your place!"
Tommy snorts, pulling the hoodie on. "Alright, then. I'm leaving. I'll come back tomorrow, though." He starts walking towards the door, but pauses as a hand curls around his wrist.
He glances at Wilbur quizzically. "Stay," Wilbur pleads. "It's so boring without you. I need my little brother."
He sighs. "I promised Scott--"
"Fuck Scott," Wilbur interrupts. At Tommy's look, he backpedals. "Okay, that's unfair. What I meant is, fuck your plans. Just stay. Come on, you have more fun with me anyways."
"Arrogant," Tommy chides, something warm
Wilbur smiles. "I'll UberEats some McDonald's fries," he offers. "We can watch anything you want, no limitations."
Tommy considers it. "Arcane?"
There's a beat, and then, "Fine."
Tommy cheers, already picking up his phone. "You've got yourself a deal, then. I'll tell Scott I can't make it."
Wilbur tugs him close, forcing him to lay back down. "You didn't take much persuading."
"I kind of wanted to stay, anyways," Tommy admits, sending the text and putting down his phone. "You're my brother. I love you."
Wilbur grins, hooking his arm over Tommy's shoulders once more. "You're just an absolute sweetheart, aren't you? My darling little brother."
"My asshole older brother," Tommy returns, stealing the remote to set up Arcane. "Now, let me tell you about Jinx. If my Dream SMP character ever has a villain arc, it's going to be exactly like hers. I fucking love Jinx."
He settles back, eager to enjoy one of his favorite TV shows with his favorite person.
--
"Wilbur, Wilbur, let's make each other Spotify playlists!"
"Aww, Tommy–"
"No, hear me out, prick! I make you a playlist, and then you and the rest of Lovejoy cover every single song on there."
"What do you do with the music I send you?"
"I listen to it."
"Okay, so my band has to recreate every single song you like and you just have to listen to my music taste."
"Yes."
"..."
"..."
"No."
--
A bell rings over Tommy's head as he walks into the store. The first thing he notices is the sheer amount of plants. They cover the shop wall to wall, rows and rows of different flowers and succulents. Tommy stares, wide-eyed with awe, at the vegetation.
He breathes out a small, "Wow."
Next to him, Wilbur chuckles. "What did you expect, Tommy? It's a plant shop."
"This," Tommy starts slowly, "is fucking awesome. I'm gonna purchase so much flora, Wilbur. And then I'll grow my own vegetables, and I'll be self-sustainable."
"Baby steps, sunshine," Wilbur advices, leading him through the store. "Let's get you a succulent or something."
Tommy giggles. "Suck," he echoes.
Wilbur shoots him a fond look. "A child," he says, exasperated, with a roll of his eyes. "A literal child." Tommy sticks out his tongue at him. It only proves Wilbur's point.
They wander around the store for a bit, Tommy excitedly pointing out every plant he thinks is pretty and Wilbur trying to convince him to not buy the whole store. Apparently, it's not a good use of his money or whatever. There's a plethora of hanging vines, vibrant flowers, sharp succulents, and petals Tommy longs to touch that Wilbur won't let him.
Eventually, they come across a simple succulent; it's just a few inches tall, with pretty green leaves in a circle around it. It looks a bit like an artichoke more than a plant. Tommy loves it.
He checks the label, noting it's official name (Echeveria Sabrina), and then takes it to the register, where Wilbur was already paying for a succulent of his own. It's a tall thing that'll probably require a lot of water and sunshine. Tommy feels the urge to steal it.
He pays for his own succulent and then they're walking out of the store, thanking the cashier and talking animatedly about their new plants.
"Mine's name is Artie," Tommy boasts. "We're best friends now."
Wilbur makes a faux-wounded noise. "What about me?"
"You can't hang out with us. It would lower our reputations. Sorry, not sorry."
"You brat. And after I show you my favorite succulent store, too. The audacity. Have you no shame?" Wilbur sniffs.
Tommy shakes his head. "No shame. Only fertilizer. When the women see my fertilizer, Will, oh my god–"
"Don't say that," Wilbur chides, laughing.
"What? Why?" Tommy asks, grinning. "What's wrong with women wanting me to fertilize them–?"
"Tommy!" Wilbur interjects, in a fit of giggles. "Shut the fuck up."
Tommy shares a look with Artie. "Human society is so weird, Artie. Teach me your ways."
Artie's leaves don't move, but Tommy can sense that the plant is agreeing with him. They call him TommyInnit, Plant Whisperer. He clutches Artie's pot closer to him, smiling at Wilbur's wheezing.
--
It's nine in the evening, and Tommy has done nothing today. He took the Prozac, he had breakfast, and then he got in bed and did nothing. It feels weird– like the day hasn't even begun and he's already going back to sleep. Like he's wasting his life away in bed.
He's ignoring messages from everyone. Niki, Tubbo, Ranboo, Phil, Wilbur, and even Techno have all messaged him good morning. Tommy doesn't even have the energy to respond. He just stares up at his ceiling as he lays on his back, hands perfectly centered on his chest as he reminds himself to breathe. Someone once told him that when you breathe, you exhale all the negativity in your body and inhale all the positivity. Tommy wishes he could have that mindset.
He's just.. tired. He's been pushing himself relentlessly, vlog after vlog, video and video, and why? Surely a hiatus would be alright– just to get things sorted out with psychiatrist, just to ask her why his dosage is too low and why he still feels like every breath in a chore. Maybe she can tell him why he can't get out of bed in the morning and why he can barely stomach the thought of going outside.
He used to be better, he used to–
He's interrupted by loud knocking at his door. He sits up, startled, and heads to his doorway, brain slowly reactivating.
The door opens, and low and behold–
"You've got to stop dropping by unannounced," Tommy deadpans, letting Wilbur in. "It's scary, man."
Wilbur grins lopsidedly, stepping in. He's holding a bag. "I brought you soup," he says. "Chicken noodle."
"I'm not sick."
"I know," Wilbur says quietly, putting the bag down on the table. "I know what's happening. What, um, what you're going through. That's why I came."
Tommy stares at the bag. "Oh."
"When I was," Wilbur pauses, trying to find the word, "struggling, let's say, you were always there for me. You would drag me out of bed and make me laugh with you at the stupidest shit– my little bundle of sunshine. Suddenly I wasn't going through the motions of life anymore, I was enjoying myself."
Tommy flushes. "Of course, man. I love you."
"You need someone right now," Wilbur continues. "You need stability. You need nurturing. I can do that. I brought you soup, Tommy."
Tommy stares, just a little surprised, and stammers, "I– thank you, Will, that's really nice of you."
Wilbur smiles, unwrapping the soup from its plastic container. "When I was living alone and struggling with depression, the only thing I could cook was soup. It was all I knew, and so it was all I ate. It was terribly unhealthy, I know, but it was the only thing that gave me comfort. I was so cold all the time, and the soup was easy to make and warm and tasty. I– I'm not encouraging only eating soup for a week–"
"A week?" Tommy echoes, something worried building in his chest. "You only ate soup for a week?"
"What've you been eating recently?" Wilbur shoots back.
Tommy hesitates. "Chickpeas," he admits. "A lot of chickpeas and toast."
"Exactly," Wilbur says. "You need more meals. Take this soup. It's homemade. And then we're going to watch a movie, and have a good night's rest, and tomorrow we'll go on a walk."
"I don't feel like going on a walk," Tommy mumbles.
Wilbur looks at him with a strange sympathy in his eyes. "I know," he says softly. "I know. But we're gonna go, because I love you, and I won't let you do what I did. Give me your phone, I'll answer your text messages for you."
Tommy blinks. "How did you know I haven't been answering–" he pauses. "Oh. Right."
Wilbur smiles a little ruefully. "We're like brothers, Tommy, aren't we?"
"Yeah," Tommy agrees, laughing mirthlessly. "We're like brothers, alright."
They stares at each other for a second, and then Wilbur's wrapping his arms around the blond, tucking him close under his chin. Tommy leans into the affection greedily, glad to finally be held. "I've got you, sweetheart," Wilbur whispers into his hair. "I've got you."
Tommy leans into the hug, almost dropping his entire weight. This is what he'd needed. This is all he's ever needed, and it brings tears to the corners of his eyes. "Thank you," he says quietly, voice emotional. Wilbur holds him tighter.
When Tommy breathes in, he finds that the air doesn't seem so heavy anymore.