Work Text:
August 8th, 2021
First entry? Dad said I should start a new hobby and google told me journaling. So here I am.
School is starting tomorrow. I fucking hope to god Tubbo and Ranboo have classes with me. Like it will fucking suck if I have go thru all 7 periods alone.
God that sounds depressing. I’m not actually depressed. Just. Wilbur left yesterday for college and won’t be back til fucking spring break. Spring break! That’s literally months away! What kinda bullshittery is that. Well I think he might be back for Christmas, but idk. Anyways since I’m not actually depressed and have an actual life and shit, gonna go now.
Tommy
Wilbur sets the journal down, shock riding through his veins. Opening the door to Tommy’s vacant room was meant to retrieve some lost papers for… for some legal matters. Yeah, legal things. Not for whatever the fuck Wilbur just stumbled upon.
Did Tommy document his story all the way until the accident?
He takes a deep breath, attempting to calm the nerves jittering up and down his spine. It would be an understatement to say it’s been a few hard weeks.
Wilbur moved back in after the accident, when Tommy was admitted into the hospital. His dad was frantic, running around and never leaving Tommy’s side.
Now Phil is not moving an inch. Always laying in his bed, only leaving for the bathroom and the few moments he remembers to eat. Wilbur’s afraid that by the end of the month, he’ll have lost two family members.
Should Wilbur continue reading the journal? It starts on the entry he just read, and a quick scan reveals the last is the night before the accident.
Maybe he should. Maybe it’ll give him some answers to why he can’t seem to feel anything. Oh, how Wilbur desperately wants to cry—to sob, to scream at the stars.
Instead he moves as if he has lead for bones. Water tastes like ash on his tongue and showering seems like the hardest thing in the world.
Is it truly fair for Wilbur to be alive when Tommy was only 17? Wilbur’s the one with the shitload of problems, not Tommy. Tommy has, well had, what was seemingly the life. Two close friends, a loving family, and the school updates were always positive. So why is Wilbur alive and Tommy not?
Wilbur leaves Tommy’s room with the journal in hand, abandoning the dust for another day.
–
September 2nd, 2021
Sup fucker. Can I call you that? Of course I fucking can you’re literally my journal.
Also I know I said I was gonna write cause Dad told me to but idk, just got distracted by school. I’ve got this huge fucking project due next Wednesday for Ms. Willows’ class and I found you amongst (among us) the materials that I need in my room. I’ll just procrastinate til later like always.
Ranboo and I were talking and they came out as nonbinary so now they use they/them pronouns. Pretty poggers if I do say so myself. There was an awkward silence after that so I told them I was aromantic and asexual. It was my first time coming out to somebody, not even Wil knows.
Also pretty cool history thing I learned the other day! I was reading up on how JFK died and there has to be two killers. Ain’t no fucking way Oswald shot him twice. His head literally flew back. Don’t worry I fucking rewatched the clip over and over again. I’ll figure this out even if it kills me.
Gonna learn how to crochet.
We are literally only a month into school and I’m already pretty fucking stressed out. Plus Wilbur and Dad convinced me to take like twenty honors classes so I am pretty stacked up there. Homework literally every hour of every day. This is gonna make me drop out or something.
I don’t really know what else I have to write. We had a fire drill yesterday. Tubbo tried to fit 32 grapes in his mouth. Idk life is boring. What's the point.
Tommy
“Wil, it’s time for dinner,” His dad calls from the kitchen.
Wait. Phil is in the kitchen. Wilbur bookmarks the journal and gets up, curiosity rising. He’s pretty sure Phil hasn’t stepped in the kitchen since Tommy died, nevermind made dinner.
“You cooked?” Wilbur asks. Is he dreaming? Is he dead too?
“Goulash,” Phil confirms, “Your favorite.”
Wilbur slowly pulls out a chair and sits down, warily watching his dad set a steaming dish on the table. “Yeah? But why?”
“You’re still my son,” Phil says. His voice softens, grief lacing the edges of his words, “Can’t fail both of them right?”
Wilbur spoons some goulash on his plate, “Right.”
They eat in silence for a few moments. The goulash is as good as Wilbur remembers, but something is holding him back. It’s perfectly cheesy but it’s lifeless, whatever grief his father is feeling was cooked along with the goulash.
For some reason it brings tears to his eyes. He blinks them away.
“What were you reading?” Phil asks, with a smile on his face but his eyes dull.
“Tommy’s journal.”
Phil’s fork clatters on his plate. “His–the what?” Phil whispers, almost as if he’s scared Tommy’s ghost will come back and haunt them, or something.
Wilbur swallows hard, struggling to get past the lump in his throat. “Yeah. I found—He apparently started a journal before school started last year.”
“He did?”
Wilbur nods. His appetite is suddenly gone, and he doesn’t want to talk about Tommy anymore.
“For a little bit. I’m two entries in and he forgot to write for almost a month.”
“Of course he did,” Phil chuckles bitterly.
Wilbur pushes the goulash around on his plate, “Yeah and he–he said he is aromantic and asexual,” He stirs the noodles around, “Or he was.”
Phil doesn’t answer, and when Wilbur looks up he sees his dad staring down at his own plate. The conversation seems to be over so Wilbur takes his plate to the trashcan and scrapes the leftovers.
“Did he tell you? When… before—when he was alive?” Phil’s small voice cuts through the fork scraping the plate.
Wilbur freezes, taking a deep breath and scraping harder, “No.”
He walks out of the kitchen, leaving his dad at the table.
“No. He didn’t.”
–
September 30th, 2021
Remember how I said I was aroace? Well I told Tubbo and he said he was gay. Me and my friends truly have filled the rumors. Fuck you asshats, that’s what you get for harassing us and calling us gay every single moment of the day. It comes fucking true.
Also further JFK assassination investigation is going well! I read thru the Warren Commision and while I understand what the government was tryna do by settling the case and shit, make it more believable. Literally, it was all bullshit.
Ms. Willows’ really liked my project. She said not many students are as invested in her class as I am and she really appreciates that or something. Tommy from eight grade would literally kill himself if he saw me getting praised like that.
Wilbur said that—
Shit Dad’s calling me bye!
Tommy
Fuck. What did Wilbur tell Tommy? It could have been about anything—what he ate for lunch that day or some deep dark secret.
Besides the whole “Wilbur told me” thing, was Tommy being bullied? Wilbur was bullied in high school; he was the weird theater kid, of course he was. But Tommy? Tommy is likeable. He is–was always seen smiling, arms around his friends and laughing. Apparently the bullies went for the next best thing to make fun of.
He sighs, putting his bookmark in the journal. Finding out Tommy crocheted wasn’t a surprise, the bookmark was an alternating pattern of red and white yarn. Tommy had shyly given it to him, revealing a bashful side Wilbur had never seen before. And he’ll never see it again.
Wilbur lays back onto his bed and pulls the covers up to his shoulders. The hole in his heart only seems to be growing bigger with every word he reads, stretching further and further until the emptiness takes over.
His brother is gone. Gone. Wilbur will never ruffle Tommy’s hair again. Will never spend late nights pouring their hearts out to music. Will never simple buy him a fucking lollipop from the corner street.
A tear slips down his cheek, the first since the funeral. He spent days crying over his brother’s death, ignoring all questions and spending most of his time in the bathroom with a box of tissues next to him.
Wilbur didn’t cry at the funeral.
Instead, what was once a rushing stream carving into his face, turned into an arid canyon. He stared at the open casket, not quite comprehending that his brother was gone.
How unfair it is for Wilbur to cry when reading his brother’s words. How unfair he couldn’t cry at Tommy’s funeral but can cry at his brother infodumping in his personal journal. How unfair Wilbur is alive and Tommy isn’t.
He closes his eyes. It’s only mid afternoon but it’s a good time to sleep. Tommy will never have the chance for a peaceful afternoon rest. Wilbur might as well sleep for him then.
–
December 15th, 2021
Hey big man, life’s not so poggers at the moment. Wilbur just called and said he’s gonna be late for Christmas and Dad is having to work overtime ‘cause somebody quit or something. I’m coming home and the house is empty. It’s not too fun. The quiet is nice though.
And semester finals are next week. Like why do we even have to test for a semester bruh. I literally don’t care about my grades at this point. Wilbur’s the one with straight A’s to be fair.
Speaking of Wilbitch, it’s so unfair he had school fucking handed to him. People liked him without secretly calling him annoying, he wasn’t called gay as an insult, and he didn’t fucking fail tests after studying for them. God I’m so jealous of him. Luckily he’ll never read this journal ‘cause no fucking way I’d let him know I’m jealous of him.
Whatever. Christmas break is after finals are over and then Wilbur will be home. Hopefully Dad too but idk if he’s actually going to be home for more than three hours. Wilbur doesn’t know about Dad being more absent and shit. I’m not gonna fucking tell him either lol. Especially since it seems to have started after Wilbur moved out. Oh well, I’ll still get the two bitches presents ofc.
I should probably go and study for finals. I just really really don’t want to, like holy shit. But I’m gonna do it. Okay byeeeee.
Tommy
Wilbur is not the golden child Tommy seems to think he is.
He drinks irresponsibly, flunks assignments carelessly, and has gotten high more than once. To be fair, though, he was stressed.
So, Tommy—Tommy who was far more the better child than Wilbur ever will be—calling him the golden child? Wilbur will never, never be able to live up to what Tommy did in his short life.
And God? Isn’t that something to think about? Tommy will never live again, not for another second. He will forever be in that grave Wilbur watched him enter a few weeks ago. His Instagram account will never be posted on again. Tommy will never have to worry about finals again.
As sick as it is to say it, Wilbur wishes it were him.
That the casket was lowered with his lifeless body instead of his little brother’s. Phil would be weeping in grief for Wilbur, not Tommy. Yet here he is, hunched over Tommy’s journal like it holds the secrets to the universe.
He throws the journal onto his unmade bed, letting out a sigh of frustration as he runs a hand in his hair. He could really use some alcohol pouring down his throat and making him forget everything if only for a few hours.
Maybe he should buy some.
His keys are next to the lamp on his dresser, sitting innocently. Wilbur pulls his jacket on, not glancing at his keys as he grabs them. This is probably a bad idea.
Wilbur takes a step down the stairs. This is a bad idea. Should he drink away everything?
He takes another few steps, a quarter of the way down. This is a bad idea.
A half-step, faltering mid-air. This is a bad idea.
Lingering on the stairs, two sides warring in mind. This is a bad idea.
“Wilbur?”
“What?” Phil’s voice startles him out of his trance. He lightly runs down the rest of his stairs, pocketing his keys into his jacket.
Phil’s head pops around the corner of the kitchen, headphones around his neck, “Did you just get home? I didn’t hear you.”
“Uhhh,” Wilbur stalls, “Yes?” He takes his jacket off and hangs it on the hooks next to the front door.
“Well, dinner’s ready. Hopefully spaghetti is okay.”
“That’s fine,” Wilbur says, walking into the kitchen. The smell of tomato sauce permeates the air. It smells delicious, as all of Phil’s cooking does.
He pulls a chair out of the table, sitting down. The table has five chairs, three meant for the family and two for when they have guests over. Now it seats only two as they never have company anymore.
They sit in silence, the only sound is the scraping of their forks. It’s not awkward, uncomfortable, sure, but not awkward. Wilbur wishes someone was here to break the silence.
–
February 7th, 2022
Hi. Haven’t written in a while but I wasn't motivated to. Or motivated to do anything lately. I don’t really know why. I think it’s ‘cause I haven’t seen Wilbur in a while, and junior year is really getting to me. Mx. Charlie assigned like fifteen assignments in a row, Ms. Willows (although she is wonderful) gave us ANOTHER project, and Miss. Catherine is giving us two mini-quizzes this week.
WHAT THE FUCK!!!!!!!!
I literally fucking hate school, its the worst. Might just kms to get outta of it at this point. So fucking stupid. Yeah, and Wilbur had to leave his christmas vacation two fucking days early so it’s been so fucking long since I’ve seen him. I’m getting so tired of everything and not seeing my brother is honestly making everything so much fucking worst.
The bullies stopped a couple weeks ago ‘cause Ms. Willows and Mx. Charlie told ‘em off for picking on me, Ranboo, and Tubbo. They’ve been kinda keeping their distance but I’m scared we’re gonna let our guards down and the shit will be worse. Whatever. School will be over in a few months and then I can coast thru senior year. If I ever make it there lol.
I’m not sure if I’ll make it my senior year, not gonna lie. It’s been getting really, really hard to get out of bed and to even fucking brush my teeth. I’m sure it’ll pass.
I should really be going to the library to work on my shitload of assignments. Byeeeeeee.
Tommy
“Hey Phil?” Wilbur calls, leaning back in his chair to shout out his bedroom door, the journal laid flat in front of him. Phil walks into his room, setting down the towels he was folding onto Wilbur’s bed. “Was Tommy okay?”
As if a light switch was flipped, Phil’s expression dims. Wilbur can’t help but wonder what was so wrong with his question.
“Wilbur, you… you do know that–” Phil cuts himself off, running a nervous hand through his hair. It seems Wilbur and Tommy picked the motion up from their father.
Phil sits down on his bed, on the corner farthest away from where Wilbur is sitting at his desk. It’s not silent, no, Wilbur’s fan is whirring and the sound of cars rushing down the street interrupts. He’s breathing out of his nose, and he can hear Phil also breathing hard, both struggling to get the damn words out.
Wilbur hears a throat swallow, and he closes his eyes, tearings pricking the corners and beads of sweat forming on his forehead. He doesn’t understand why, doesn’t want to understand why he’s on the verge of a panic attack and why his fingers are surreptitiously pulling at each other. But he does.
And it’s spelled out in the letters of Tommy’s words. In the pages worn through the corners and the smudges of ink forgotten in the margins. It’s laid out in front of him, words on the pages, but Wilbur can’t seem to read them.
He gets out of his desk chair, picking up the journal and showing it to his father. “Are what’s written on these pages… true? Did that actually happen?” He knows the answer, yet he wants, no needs, Phil to confirm it. That what Wilbur thinks actually happened did.
Phil stares at the pages, eyes scanning them frantically as Wilbur tries to hold the journal still. He hands won’t stop fucking shaking.
Phil swallows once, “It’s true.” His father’s head hangs, “It’s true.”
The journal drops, falling to the ground and pages bending awkwardly.
“Get out.”
Phil jerks, taken aback, "Wha—? Wilbur?”
Wilbur kicks the journal across the room, rage enveloping his entire body. “Get out!” He throws a hand to the side, and Phil flinches. “Get the fuck out!”
A hand reaches for him and he knocks it away. “Wilbur, I— I don’t think it’s a good idea to leave you alone.” Phil says, ever a good father.
Wilbur doesn’t care. “Just get out.” What was previously anger-filled screaming changes to heartbroken begging. “Please just go,” he whispers, eyes glistening.
The bed creaks under Phil, and the moment his dad leaves, Wilbur collapses. Tommy didn’t kill himself did he? There was no fucking way he did. His journal entries are happy other than a few depressing sentences. But everyone thinks those, right?
Oh god, it’s all Wilbur’s fault, isn’t it? Obviously, him being away at fucking college affected Tommy, to the point he fucking killed himself. He starts subconsciously rocking back and forth, seeking comfort from whatever pressure he can get.
It’s all his fault.
Tommy would still be alive if Wilbur had done more. Done… something or whatever. His little brother would still be alive and not six feet under. Tommy would have never killed himself. Wilbur’s heart is pounding, and he can’t breathe.
Wilbur passes out, lifeless as Tommy was in his hospital bed.
–
April 5th, 2022
Long time no see, but that’s normal. There isn’t much to update on ‘cause I haven’t been doing anything.
I’m turning 18 in a few days and if that isn’t the scariest fucking thing in the world. I’m scared I’m gonna end up doing what Wilbur did. Still is, actually. Get wasted every night, lying to dad about shit, kinda being shitty in general. It’s whatever though.
I’ve actually thought about–
I doubt I’ll go down Wilbur’s path anyways. I’ve got all this good shit going on. So obviously, there’s something wrong with me. I shouldn’t feel like fucking killing myself. Who knows. Maybe I will soon. I don’t know yet.
There’s a good chance–
Bye.
Tommy
Tommy committed suicide; and it’s not Wilbur’s fault.
He decides this when Tommy’s friends, Tubbo and Ranboo scold him for forgetting how their best friend and his little brother died and then cry with him after seeing Tommy’s old record player. He decides this when he looks in the mirror and only sees the person who should’ve died instead before changing his mindset into something more positive.
He decides this when Phil asks him to come down for dinner, and he can’t leave his bed, so Phil joins him for dinner in his room.. He decides this as he talks to Puffy, his new therapist, who encourages him to go out and do things in remembrance of Tommy.
He decides that maybe, just maybe, he should live for Tommy. Not die for him. His brother is already dead, so what would Wilbur dying make a difference? He’s been told to believe that it’s not Wilbur’s fault, nor Tommy’s fault (that was a long session), nor Phil’s fault. That Wilbur should go on, if not for himself, than for the life Tommy never will have. That’s Puffy talking, to be honest.
Wilbur will continue living, and Tommy’s journal will sit on his desk as a relic of the past.