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Wilbur kicks the front door open, his bloodshot eyes staring forward blankly. He turns, shutting the door quietly behind him as he remembers that he isn't home alone.
Tommy is asleep. He has to be quiet for Tommy.
He has to do everything for Tommy. He practically lives for the boy.
But it's okay! Because it's Tommy. Tommy deserves the world.
Wilbur's so tired.
He walks up to an old wicker chair, noticing Tommy's bubble bottle was left sitting next to it. Shaking his head, he slumps down into the chair with a sigh, and pulls a pack of cigarettes out of his jean pocket. He wasn't supposed to be smoking, but who was here to stop him?
Phil hadn't been home in ages, nor had Technoblade. It'd become a thing, just waking up to an empty house- save for a peacefully resting little boy, and a note.
It started with long notes. Notes full of "I'm sorry, Wilbur," or "Be home soon, Wilbur," or even an “I love you, Wilbur," and now?
Now he got the same three words. "On a trip." Wilbur doesn't even fucking know where they disappear off to for so long.
He opens it, grabbing a cig and plopping it in his mouth. He takes a deep breath, ignoring the burn, the way it makes his eyes water, the way it stains his teeth, the way the guilt-guilt-guilt builds in his chest-
He exhales, letting a puff of smoke fill the polluted night sky.
What the hell is wrong with him? Why is he complaining about Tommy? It's not like he can control the fact he exists, he's only eight years old.
But Wilbur's only sixteen. He should be in school, or out with his friends, or even just spending the night with his family.
He shouldn't need to work a part time job. He shouldn't have to buy groceries. He shouldn't have to babysit every waking hour, every sleeping hour, every fucking hour-
He doesn't notice he's zoned out until he looks down and notices he's only got a few cigarettes left. He leans back, gripping his hair tightly.
His chest burns. His body aches. He knows this shit is killing him, but he doesn't care.
At this point it's a game to see what will kill him first.
He grabs another cigarette, staring forward. The streets are quiet. He can see the neighbor's kitchen light on, but the rest of the house is dark and still. They're wasting power.
Wilbur wishes he can waste power like that. He can hardly afford the power they have now.
A bird chirps. The stars are there too, if he looks close enough, painting the sky somewhere behind the smog.
Wilbur can relate. He too feels like a bright star, blackened and hidden as the universe pollutes him.
He inhales-
"Wilby?"
He coughs, choking aggressively on the stimulant. His chest rattles. Horrible, closed off sounds escape violently as his body convulses.
"Wilbur?" Tommy repeats again, rubbing his eyes. He shuts the front door behind him, stepping onto the wood floors of the porch with too-long pajama pants trialing behind him. "What 're you doin'?"
"Go back inside," he orders, glaring at the confused child. He waves the smoke away with an aggressive hand flap.
Tommy stares at him with those big blue eyes. "What's that?" he drawls, pointing in wonder at his hand. Wilbur notices that he still has the cigarette clenched between his fingers, and quickly throws it on the ground to stamp it out.
Tommy flinches back slightly as Wilbur's boot repeatedly slams down on the porch. The brunette whips his head over to Tommy, his eyes blazing, before taking note of the sight before him.
He was scared. Tommy was scared of him. He was hunched in on himself, standing worriedly in front of Wilbur as is preparing for something to happen.
He can't help it. He doesn't know how else to process this, so he just laughs softly and sits back down. He pulls another cigarette out, deciding it was too late to shelter Tommy anyways. He takes a couple puffs, attempting to quiet his brain before he did something else wrong.
Somewhere, somewhere in his god forsaken mind, there is a voice screaming about the fact that his own baby brother fears him, and it's all his fault, but Wilbur washes these useless noises away with the relieving burn of nicotine staining his lungs. And teeth. And brain. And heart.
He sighs. "Go back to bed, Toms," he murmurs, still not looking over to the child.
"But 'm not tired," he whines, shifting his weight back and forth on his feet. "I can't sleep when Daddy's not here," he adds, dropping to a whisper.
Wilbur slams his hand down on the arm of the chair, opening his mouth to yell, before stopping himself.
He's become a monster.
"I'm sorry, but he's not here bud. He might not be back for a while."
"What about Tech?"
Wilbur sighs. "He's gone too."
"Why?"
"I don't know, Tommy."
They fall into a stiff, uncomfortable silence. Tommy sits down on his knees next to the chair Wilbur was sat on, staring forward into the inky night sky.
"Wilbur, can I try?" the eight-year-old asks suddenly.
Wilbur turns to stare at Tommy. "What?"
Tommy points to his cigarette. "I want to try."
"Absolutely not," Wilbur declares, spinning the cigar between his fingers like you would a pencil. "Fuck no. Never. Ever, do you understand me?"
Tommy pouts. "Why?"
"Because Wilbur said so," he dismisses. Another thick silence, until his fidgeting stumbles and he accidentally drops his cancer stick onto the floor.
Tommy swiftly reaches a tiny hand out, and Wilbur instantly smacks it away. He snatches it up, breathing heavily.
The little boy whimpers, scooting back a little. "Sorry, sorry," he mumbles, trying not to cry. He stares down at his feet guiltily.
Wilbur takes a deep breath, frowning. His eyes spot Tommy's forgotten bubble bottle nearby, and he comes up with an idea.
"Still want to try?"
Tommy's head snaps up eagerly.
Wilbur passes him the bubbles. Tommy looks up at him, his eyes a silent question. "Mine is just like bubbles, just a different color, yeah?" he explains, gesturing to the smoke.
Tommy excitedly grabs them, opening the cap and positioning the circular shaped stick in front of his mouth.
Wilbur puts a cigarette on his lips.
Together, they exhale.
One blowing bubbles; the other blowing away the forgotten wisps of his sanity.
