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Sometimes when Tommy is overwhelmed he states the things he knows are facts.
(Puffy didn’t teach him that, Phil did, when he was little)
. His brain is so muddled from all the lies and manipulation sometimes sifting through his thoughts feels like trying to wade through honey. Sometimes Tommy has no idea what is real and true and solid, and what is entirely fake.
It helps, in times like those, to remember that some things are undeniably the truth. That some things are irrefutable. Tommy likes to make a list of those things in his head or on paper. The list most often includes stuff like,
His name is Tommy, he’s seventeen years old, his eyes are blue, his hair is blond/white, his favorite color is lavender.
He was a soldier at nine and lost two of his lives at war
(his brother lost all three)
.
Tommy clutches his quill tight and stares at the crossed out line. Breeze ruffles his hair and he sighs, leaning against the large oak behind him. The grass surrounding him is decorated with blossoming sunflowers, poppies, and tulips of all shapes and sizes. Tommy recalls the countless days spent in this flower field; searching for bees with Tubbo, laying in the grass and listening to Wilbur play melodies on the guitar, Techno teaching how to sword fight, picking dandelions for Phil’s biscuits.
He misses those biscuits. The last time
his dad
Phil made them for him must have been during L’manberg, when Techno and Phil still wrote letters and Wilbur still wrote back. Tommy remembers Tubbo bursting into the camarvan, grinning wildly and clutching a box wrapped with a pretty ribbon in his arms. Wilbur had found the two, crumb faced and giddy when he returned from a day in the forest. He’d scolded them and tucked the few remaining biscuits away for later. Secretly, Tommy thinks he was amused.
His communicator beeps, he doesn’t pick it up. It beeps three more times before going silent. Tommy closes his eyes, feeling the wholeness of the memory encompass him before fading away completely.
The grass shifts underneath him as someone sits down next to him under the oak. Tommy opens his eyes and turns his head and there is Wilbur, all gray streaked hair and scarred face.
“Asshole,” Tommy mutters, “I was just mourning you.”
The man next to him grins, “awe, Tommy. Still miss me? I’m right here, you know.”
He whispers something, voice lost entirely to the wind.
“Hm?”
“I said you fucking suck, loser.”
Wilbur throws back his head and laughs a terrible, nightmarish laugh. Tommy tries not to shudder. When he’s done, Wilbur finally notices the book and quill in Tommy’s hand.
“What have you got there?” he asks, pointing.
Tommy presses the book protectively to his chest, “nothing. A list. Fuck all the way off.”
“A list?” Wilbur asks, turning his body to face Tommy and crossing his legs like a little kid. “What kind of list, Toms?”
He breathes in and out trying to ignore how casually Wilbur uses his old nickname. The wind blows through his hair, whispering in his ear.
“It’s like–I don’t know, things I know. Um, stuff that’s real? It-it helps. When I feel too much, I guess.”
Wilbur is quiet for a moment, pressing his lips together and thinking hard. Tommy lets himself drown in the silence, drinking it up. Then, the older man holds out a hand and says, “may I see it?”
Tommy hesitates. He wants to scream no, at first. To tell Wilbur that it’s private and none of his business and to go fuck off. Instead he just nods meekly, handing over the book but keeping the quill clenched tightly in his hand.
His heart thumps as Wilbur reads, muttering slightly sometimes, or mouthing the words he sees on the page. When he finishes and hands the book back, Tommy takes a huge breath and lets his shoulders deflate.
They are still, for a moment. Feeling the air and the grass underneath them, grounded in the moment. The first to speak is Wilbur, and he asks a question.
“Your–” he exhales softly, “your favorite color is lavender?”
Tommy is completely thrown off by the question. However, he is grateful for the normalcy of it, and responds shortly, “yeah, uh, yeah.”
Wilbur bites his lip. He closes his eyes and Tommy wishes he could see inside his brother's head, just for a moment.
“Oh. That’s a pretty color.”
It’s not, or well, Wilbur doesn’t think it is, at least. He hates purple, but the gesture is kind, Tommy supposes. He gives the man a small smile and leans against his shoulder slightly. And it’s nice, sort of. To be able to lean on someone and not have the fear of being pushed away. Because Wilbur doesn’t push him away, he simply rests his head on top of Tommy’s and hums.
And so they sit, under the oak tree, a gentle melody on Wilbur’s lips and a silent prayer on Tommy’s.
Oh how they’ve missed this.