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Wilbur hands Tommy the genuine discs, and after a couple seconds of hesitation, Tommy offers a small thank you. Wilbur is quick to brush it off. Really, Tommy doesn’t need to offer him thanks ever again. Wilbur has fucked up enough in the kid’s life that he’ll always be looking for ways to make it up to him.
Tommy stares down at the discs with an indecipherable expression, unnaturally still and quiet. Wilbur shifts his weight awkwardly. There are still tear tracks on Tommy’s cheeks, and Wilbur wants to extend a comforting word or hand, but he was the one who caused those tears. Maybe Wilbur should just… go.
Perhaps the best way to make it up to Tommy would be to leave. Wilbur knows that Tommy can fend for himself, so that isn’t a concern - he tries his best not to think about why Tommy has already developed that skill. Wilbur is the one to blame for that too.
Tommy would probably be better off without him. Hell, the whole server would probably be better off without him. He hates how thoroughly he’s infiltrated the veins of the server, seeping in, contaminating land and player. Looking at Tommy now, Wilbur sees this: the most damning piece of evidence that Wilbur was here, that people looked up to him once, that he made mistakes, that he had plans and those plans went to shreds and people got hurt along the way. And most of all, that there is nothing he can do now to save those broken people, the people that he once held dearest to his heart.
Wilbur hopes Tommy hates him. But as the kid puts the discs away in the ender chest, he mutters another thanks, and again Wilbur refuses to accept the words of gratitude.
Tommy keeps standing there, and so does Wilbur.
Wilbur opens his mouth to say a parting word, but when Tommy looks up, Wilbur’s throat swallows down any words he was going to utter. His mouth shuts. His legs don’t walk away.
Wilbur isn’t leaving, and he hates himself for it. He knows that he’s hurt Tommy, failed him when he needed someone by his side the most, and Wilbur will only continue to do that. But the moment he considers turning to leave, it becomes clear that he doesn’t want to.
He wants to believe that the reason is not selfish, but Wilbur is a selfish bastard. Tommy’s words, uttered not even a full minute ago, ring loud in his ears - “Everytime, you make what’s mine about you.” Something bone deep within him is holding him in place, refusing to let him leave, and that thing, that hole in his chest, needs Tommy to forgive him. So that Wilbur can live with himself, so that he can sleep at night without the image of Tommy’s forlorn eyes haunting him. If he’s honest with himself, that’s what this string of apologies has always been, at their core. Selfish.
Wilbur needs to mend things so that Tommy doesn’t look like he wants to curl into a ball just by standing in his presence. He already feels like a monster.
He wants to make up for today, at the very least. Maybe he’ll just walk the kid home? Maybe the kid needs his help. Tommy’s clearly not doing well. His eyes are red. His hands are stuffed in his pockets, and his back is slumped, breathing as if he’s just swam a mile - surely he needs someone to stick around for the rest of the day, just to make sure he’s okay.
“You can go now.” Tommy’s first words to Wilbur aren’t a surprise.
“No, no, it’s really okay, I’ve got time. I can walk you home.”
“Wil. I don’t want you around right now. You- Okay, I get that you couldn’t tell me your plan but- but- it feels… I- I-” Tommy’s not meeting his gaze, and his words are quieter than usual.
“You can’t go home alone like this.”
Tommy picks up the ender chest and begins to haul it away, not giving Wilbur a parting glance. “Fuck off. I can take care of myself.” It’s not brash or biting, just worn.
Wilbur follows one step behind as Tommy lurches down the prime path, slowed by the bulky ender chest. It hits his legs with every step.
After about 30 blocks of walking in silence, Tommy finally looks over at him, sighing. “Don’t just watch. If you’re gonna be an annoying bastard, at least help.”
Wilbur grabs one handle of the ender chest. It’s much easier to carry with two people. They walk down the prime path side by side. The sun is high in the sky and the summer heat is making him sweat under his heavy jacket.
“Y’know,” Wilbur says, “the whole point of ender chests is that you don’t have to haul them around.”
Tommy doesn’t smile at the gentle jest. Just a tight exhale.
“Sapnap griefed my house last week, and I haven’t gotten all my shit back yet,” Tommy explains, voice tight. “Don’t give me that look, I’m sorting it all out, I’m gonna be fine.”
“Being so poor that you don’t have your own ender chest doesn’t qualify as being fine,” Wilbur says pointedly.
“Got one now, don’t I?”
They tromp through Tommy’s front yard. The flowers lining the path have been crushed. Patches of the lawn’s dirt are missing, leaving small craters behind. The garden looks like a tornado has run through it, vegetables pulled up and strewn everywhere. Someone is halfway through replanting the carrots and potatoes at one end.
Tommy drops his side of the chest to the ground with a thud. He swings open the wooden door of his house and trudges inside, leaving muddy footprints in his wake. The interior of the house is as torn apart as the outside. Sapnap must’ve been really pissed off. Wilbur yanks the heavy chest in through the entryway, and pulls the door shut behind him.
“Where do you want me to put it?” Wilbur asks.
“Next to the anvil.” Tommy points, and then disappears down the stairs into the lower level of his house. Wilbur knows it’s no good to try to follow - it’s a maze down there.
With some effort, he drags the chest into its proper place, and then sits on top of it, waiting for the kid’s return. It’s a shithole in here. He doesn’t understand why Tommy doesn’t just move out. Except, maybe he does understand - something about embassies and dreams long past and an eternal love for what will never be.
The ceiling is low, and the light is low, the sun filtering through a grimy kitchen window. It's cramped despite lacking a lot of the basic necessities of a house. The chest collection is piled high and could topple at any moment. It’s undeniably Tommy’s - the way it’s been constructed, the organization of the chests, the staircase that intrudes into the main room, the patchwork of materials that make up the floor and walls from being reconstructed so many times. It’s all so Tommy that Wilbur’s heart aches.
When Tommy trudges back up the stairs, his eyes are redder than they were before. Neither of them mention it.
“Have you, ummm, had lunch yet?” Wilbur’s hands twitch for something to do. An excuse to stick around for a little longer. He still feels so damn guilty.
“Wil, I’ve been with you all fucking day, of course I haven’t had lunch yet. You would fucking know,” Tommy snaps. He pulls out a chair at the kitchen table, scraping the wooden floor underneath, and collapses into it. Tommy’s movements are big and careless in his home.
“You sit right there. I’ll make lunch.”
Tommy just nods and drops his head onto his folded arms on the table.
Wilbur finds vegetables, eggs, and bread in a barely stocked cabinet, retrieves a pan from a chest, and turns on the stovetop.
“Do you have any meat?”
The no is muffled by the arms Tommy’s head is buried in.
Wilbur fries the eggs and thinks.
Wilbur had already known Tommy had changed after Wilbur died. But when Wilbur had first come back, everything had been so different, which made Tommy’s changes seem minor, especially since he had been so good at covering them up. Wilbur hadn’t realized the extent of it. He hadn’t realized what the changes meant - that they were borne from an exploded tent and an empty beach party, from being isolated and abused. Wilbur had been blindsided by the truth today in Logstedshire. He clutches the wooden utensil tighter in his hand.
He wishes he could’ve hurt Dream more.
He’d been able to yell at Dream, make demands, and revel in his enemy’s fearful expression, but it doesn’t feel like enough. Effectively, Dream lost his leverage over Tommy and Wilbur, which must’ve stung a bit. But Wilbur’s sure it didn’t hurt enough. It wasn’t what Dream deserves. Wilbur wishes his fists could’ve been involved. Somehow, it seems as if he’s hurt Tommy more than Dream in this whole debacle, breaking the kid’s trust again. Wilbur has seen Tommy cry before, and it was his fault then too, but that doesn’t make it any easier.
He wishes he didn’t have to hurt Tommy to trick Dream. He wishes the kid wasn’t constantly taking the fall in his plans, but it was the only option. Wilbur tells himself that over and over. It was the only option. It was the only option. Tommy has his freedom now, and Wilbur should just focus on that.
The sliced vegetables sizzle in the pan, and Wilbur straightens up the kitchen just to keep his hands busy. There’s junk everywhere, strewn about from the griefing. There’s a pile of clothing on the ground which he folds. He drapes a blue cardigan over Tommy’s slumped form.
Wilbur leans against the counter for a moment. “Why did Sapnap grief you?”
Tommy lifts his head a little, settling his chin on his folded arms, and shrugs. “I haven’t stolen any of his shit recently, so who fucking knows. Who even fucking cares at this point - they don’t need a reason anyways. It’s always because I’m annoying or I griefed their home five years ago or some fucking shit like that.”
“That’s frustrating.”
“No shit Wilbur.” Tommy’s words are no longer tired, regaining some of their former snark. Wilbur tries to remind himself that it’s a good thing that Tommy is bold enough to be irritating, that it’s so much better than a Tommy that’s silent and small and worried.
Wilbur’s received so much snark from the kid over the years, but… well, it had never felt like failure before.
“I’m just trying to be understanding.” He turns back to the stove. The food goes on two mismatched plates, and he scrounges up utensils, searching through at least five chests to find them.
Wilbur puts the food in front of Tommy, who pulls himself up into a more upright position, and then sits across from him at the small table.
Tommy makes direct eye contact, pinning Wilbur down. “Thanks for your pity food.”
Wilbur freezes in place for a moment. Tommy’s tone is harsh, and Wilbur doesn’t know what to do with that. He used to know what to do, always knew exactly what to say. But it’s been so long and Tommy’s so different now. He manages to unstick himself, and mutters, “Shut up dickhead, eat your damn meal.”
And then Tommy smiles. It’s small, and it shouldn’t feel this monumental, but Wilbur is finally able to release the breath he’s been holding since he’d lied about not having a flint and steel. The kid can still smile. Tommy’s gonna be okay.
“If your cooking skills haven’t improved since Pogtopia,” Tommy starts as he picks up his fork, “then I’m worried my intestines are going to reject this.”
“Well, considering that I was dead for most of the time between now and then, I haven’t had an overwhelmingly abundant amount of time to practice. And to be fair Tommy, I haven’t had the best selection of ingredients in either place.”
Tommy looks skeptical. “If I vomit onto your beautiful, clean, gorgeous, high value brown trench coat, I just can’t be blamed for it Wil.”
“I most certainly can blame you.”
“No, no. You simply cannot. My stomach is so strong, but it may have met its match today.” Tommy says as he digs in.
Wilbur smiles, a small exhale through his nose, almost a laugh - Tommy’s ferocity as he shovels a pile of eggs to his face would entertain anyone. Tommy looks up at the noise with a confused look, reminding Wilbur of a goldfish.
“What’s so fucking funny?” Tommy asks through his mouthful.
“You’re disgusting man.”
Tommy thankfully swallows down the food before his retort. “Am I the one who hasn’t showered in two weeks? When was the last time you washed that yellow sweatshirt?”
“What!? Like, four days ago?”
“Right, right. Am I supposed to believe that when you have stains all around the collar?”
Wilbur looks down. It does appear as if the sweatshirt has dark blotches, which he tries to swat off to no avail. The yellow doesn’t hide anything. “They’re recent stains.”
Tommy releases his signature burst of laughter. The tension in Wilbur’s lungs lessens another notch.
“Is that what you tell all the ladies?” Tommy pitches his voice up, “Oh darling, don’t worry about my recently obtained gross and horrible-”
“I don’t want to hear the end of that sentence.” Wilbur cuts in.
“I think you’re a dickhead, Wil. You sound just like a dickhead.”
“Oh shut up.”
---------------
They finish lunch, and Tommy doesn’t throw up. Wilbur stashes their dishes in the sink. Tommy tells him about how he needs to finish replanting his garden, so Wilbur follows him outside. Tommy works and Wilbur sits across the garden bed, writing in his small poetry journal, occasionally breaking the silence with ponderings about the journal and about the garden and about life. He asks questions about the stuff he’s missed since he’s been gone. It’s light, mindless chatter. They exchange insults with no bite.
Wilbur can tell that Tommy hasn’t had company in a long while, in his eagerness to talk. He has always been chatty, but there’s something extra today, something a tad frantic.
This Tommy is not the same Tommy that slumped at the kitchen table, looking a couple minutes away from disintegration. Wilbur wonders where that Tommy has gone and whether he’ll return. The current one shows no signs of emotional turmoil. This Tommy plucks up the not-yet-ripe carrots from their haphazard piles and reburries them in the dirt. He carries buckets of water from the well to moisten the soil. This Tommy laughs occasionally, and everytime he does Wilbur’s chest gets lighter and lighter.
The afternoon wind brushes against Wilbur’s skin, ruffling his shaggy hair - it’s gotten too long but he hasn’t worked up the energy to cut it. The sun isn’t quite as bright as the afternoon settles in, and it cools to the perfect temperature. There are grasshoppers jumping in the high grasses next to the garden bed, and one lands in Wilbur’s lap. Tommy names the small fellow Geronimo, but it jumps away, clearly declaring that it does not want to be a pet.
The moment feels sticky and soft, the way summer feels when you’re young and excited by fireflies. Wilbur is happy to be here with Tommy. He’s still feeling guilty, but he can overlook that for now, instead soaking in every burst of happiness when a joke lands.
It’s almost like the first few years they knew each other, but not quite. That time has passed. They’re both a bit more careful about the topics that come up. They dance around things that aren’t to be mentioned - flags and uniforms and anthems and striped walls.
They say the names of their fellow players in new ways. Tommy gives Tubbo’s name a special weight, which Wilbur doesn’t understand. Ghostbur’s memories only provide him with hazy details of a compass, but the ghost had thought it had been a positive symbol of their friendship - it’s clear to Wilbur that his ghostly counterpart had been missing some context. Wilbur yanks at the grass he’s sitting on and balls his fists when he hears that tone. As if Wilbur has any right to be mad at Tubbo after everything Wilbur has done, after all the pain he’s hand-delivered into Tommy’s life.
Once he notices, Wilbur can’t stop hearing it. The closer he looks, the more weight he can see resting on Tommy’s shoulders, even though he’s trying not to let it show. Wilbur can see it even though Tommy keeps the conversation light, refusing to tell any negative stories.
Tommy’s maneuvering through this conversation with careful tiptoes instead of sharp elbows. He’s keeping secrets, and Wilbur wants to squeeze them out of him. He wants to ask and prod and hear every bad thing, and then find whoever is responsible. He wants to go back and hurt Dream, and everyone else too. Wilbur wants to tear this whole server to shreds.
---------------
Wilbur’s poetry journal has been laying dejectedly in the tall grasses for an hour now. They’ve been talking and talking. The sun is setting now, painting the sky orange and pink.
“Tommy, all I’m saying is Dream could be totally taken down if you could just-”
“No way Wil! No fucking way.”
“You gotta listen to me. I think-”
“I don’t care what you think. I don’t care!”
“I-”
“No! Listen to me Wil. You do this every time. You demand my trust. You demand that I listen and follow and- and- devote my life and I’m not your fucking vice president anymore. I’m not devoted to you anymore. I’m done. I’m done with people bossing me around.”
“Tommy, listen to me, I swear, I really mean it, this time, we can-”
“Wilbur.” The tone is steel, glinting in the shadowy glow of twilight. It’s sharp, cutting his ears.
Tommy stops and Wilbur stops. They’re still. Wilbur holds his tongue, because Tommy is letting him be here and that’s still precarious.
Tommy’s eyes are firm, Wilbur’s flit away under their weight.
The kid starts again, quieter, “You always push and push until I can’t anymore, and I’m not letting you do that, okay? You can stay, but you don’t make plans for my life or my things. You can’t do that.”
Wilbur reels. He feels guilty - he hates that he’s pushed Tommy too far, he hates himself, hates hates hates, wishes he could take back any time that he’s used Tommy to further his own plans - and yet there’s still something within him, this very moment, that is convinced that his plan would work. Convinced that if he concocts a few more sentences, wielding words as weapons that hit their mark, Wilbur could make Tommy understand. He could make Tommy bend into the shape of Wilbur’s desire, and then they’ll be able to hurt Dream more than ever before. As revenge. For Tommy, and for Wilbur, because Dream was the first antagonist in Wilbur’s life and he hasn’t forgotten that. Perhaps, in recent months, he’s been confused about who Dream is, but Wilbur has his head on straight now.
“Tommy,” Wilbur pleads.
“No,” Tommy immediately shuts him down.
But it seems as if Tommy won’t understand. Wilbur blinks. Tommy’s eyes are steely, and for the first time ever, Wilbur sees - Tommy’s not a kid anymore.
He’s grown up and he’s not taking any of Wilbur’s shit.
A breath. “Okay,” Wilbur says.
“Okay?” Tommy asks, barbed, and Wilbur hates this.
“I said okay!”
There’s silence between them, and Wilbur isn’t sure he wants to stay anymore. He had come here to make sure that Tommy was doing okay. As an apology. It’s pretty clear that Tommy isn’t doing well, but it’s also clear that Wilbur can’t help with that. He’s blown it, and Tommy’s angrier than before, and he can’t apologize now. Tommy doesn’t trust Wilbur with stories from his past. Tommy doesn’t trust Wilbur’s plans. Tommy barely trusts Wilbur’s cooking, and that’s all he has to offer. Nothing is as it was, and though Wilbur wasn’t expecting it to be - he knows it’ll never be that simple again - he wasn’t expecting the chasm between them to be so big.
He scoffs at himself mentally. Wilbur betrayed Tommy’s trust today, and he wasn’t expecting the chasm between them to be that big? What a joke.
Tommy’s eyes are unfocused, looking out to the middle distance, into the setting sun. Wilbur stays quiet.
Tommy takes a few more moments, before shaking his head, looking around, taking inventory of the garden, and standing up, apparently done with gardening for the day. He brushes his dirty hands on his trousers, and then he extends one of them to Wilbur. His arm spans the garden bed, outstretched in an offer, a silent request, crossing the chasm that Wilbur was hesitant to approach.
Wilbur must look uncertain, because Tommy says, “Come on big man. If you don’t get up, who’ll be there to ruin dinner?”
So Wilbur lets himself be hauled to his feet, practically tugging Tommy to the ground in the process. He collects his journal and they head inside.
---------------
Dinner’s dishes are piled on top of lunch’s in the sink. It’s dark outside, evening pouncing with claws extended. Tommy is telling him about how he takes care of his new pet spider. Honestly, Wilbur thinks that Shroud looks threatening, looming in the tank above his head. Tommy assures him that Shroud wouldn’t hurt a fly, but Wilbur is dubious, given the nature of spiders’ diets.
Tommy has to climb up a step ladder to get to the tank. At the top, he gestures for Wilbur to pass up the supplies that he needs, which includes food - insects that Tommy collected from the garden during the day - and fresh water. Tommy opens the lid, giving the spider its daily provisions and cleaning its tank. Wilbur keeps his eyes locked on Shroud the whole time. He doesn’t trust that creature one bit.
As Tommy works, he talks. “It’s not that I don’t want Dream to be gone. I wish for that every day. So I understand where you’re coming from Wil. I really do. I’ve thought and thought about it. When I was first revived, when I was so angry and afraid… I would lay awake most nights, thinking up plans to kill him, or trick him, or some shit like that.”
A pause. Wilbur’s throat is tight. He had thought they would drop this. He thought that his ‘okay’ meant they were done talking about it.
“Cuz, really, everyone would be better off without him. Dream doesn’t need to be alive. We don’t need that stupid fucking revive book. Fuck, the two of us, we’re living proof of that - we’re so unnatural and warped.”
“What?”
“Not that I don’t want to be here now, Wil. I generally like being alive. It’s just… When I finally lose my last life, I’ll be gone, and this server will move on, and that will be what’s right. Dream won’t be able to play his games anymore.”
Wilbur’s brain is on high alert. Tommy says this all so casually, like his inevitable oblivion is a forgone conclusion. What the fuck?
“I understand.” Wilbur starts, trying to mollify. He pauses, considering his words - “That would be freeing. But Tommy, I don’t want you to think that death is the only way to gain freedom from Dream. I want you to feel free in life. I hate that you’ve ever had to live in fear of him. I hate that nobody stood up for you while you were in exile.”
Tommy’s eyes sharpen, “Get off your high fucking horse. Where were you? You were the first one to leave me.”
“Dammit, yes, I left you. I was the traitor. I know! But I never meant for you to bear the weight of everything alone. I never meant for any of this to happen! You were supposed to have Tubbo, and Phil, and the rest of L’manberg’s people too! Friends! The server was supposed to move on after me, not spiral into darkness.”
“Well, you don’t exactly get a say when you’re dead.” Tommy bites out, arms crossed.
“But I’m not dead anymore. I’ve been gifted this life now, and though Dream thought he could use this new life to his advantage, I am going to use it to gut him. I am done with it all.”
“Wilbur! Listen, you prick! I hate it too,” Tommy shouts, “But as I laid there night after night, considering my leverage, considering all the possibilities, I realized that I can’t kill Dream.”
“But we could,” Wilbur argues, throwing out his arms in wild abandon. “Tommy, we could. I know it seems impossible, but if we work together, we-”
“What leverage do we have? I have the discs, I have my connections with players on this server. I have Spirit, but I don’t know if Dream still cares about that.” Tommy pets Shroud on the head. The spider is docile, leaning into the touch.
“Okay, okay, that’s a great start,” Wilbur soothes, trying his best to be both calm and encouraging. “Dream knows he can’t kill either of us because he needs us for his plans, so that’s something too.”
“He can still kill us, because he can always just bring us back to life.” Tommy’s voice is taut.
“That wouldn’t suit his plans.” Wilbur presses on. “We had him scared today. I’m sure we could do it again.”
Tommy puts the lid on the tank and descends down the step ladder, standing in front of Wilbur. Tommy is almost as tall as Wilbur, but he’s curled in on himself, which makes him seem shorter. He’s staring down at his feet, an arm wrapped around his torso.
“Wil, I-” Tommy starts, and then stops.
Wilbur almost intejects something in the silence, but he draws up short right before he does. He doesn’t want to make Tommy angry again, and moreover, there’s something about the Tommy who has appeared in front of him now. Wilbur’s never seen this Tommy before - not when Dream’s forces surged over the walls of L’manberg during the revolution, not as they were fleeing from Schlatt’s exiling decree, not in the depths of Pogtopia’s ravine when Wilbur cried night after night, not when he saw Wilbur revived for the first time. Tommy’s never looked quite like this. He clutches himself, and there isn’t any fight within him.
Tommy’s always had fight. It had seemed to Wilbur that he had an inexhaustible supply of it. It’s what made Tommy a good right hand man in war times, and it’s what made him a good friend outside of that. Wilbur’s a little scared to see a version of Tommy, stripped bare of that fire.
“Wilbur,” Tommy starts again, finally looking up, “It’s not worth the risk. I would rather just be… safe. If there’s a fight, let somebody else fight it. I’m fucking done with it all.”
Tommy takes a deep breath, fiddling with his cardigan sleeves, and continues on. “You’ve got to understand, I have my house. My garden. Shroud. I’ve finally got the discs safe in my ender chest. I’ve got all I could want, and- and I don’t want anybody to take that stuff from me, and if we try to kill Dream, he’s gonna-” A breath, and then Tommy whispers the end of his sentence: “he’s gonna take it all away again, and Wilbur, I can’t, I can’t handle that again.”
Tommy exhales and squares his shoulders, attempting to regain his mask of unflappability. “So,” he says firmly, “if you’re only here to try to recruit me for your next fucking scheme, then just go now.”
Wilbur’s stubborn and he’s selfish, he’s made mistakes and he’s left Tommy too many times. But Tommy doesn’t completely hate him, even though the guilty part of Wilbur’s brain whispers that he should. How is Tommy only looking for reassurance - Wilbur doesn’t understand, it doesn’t make sense, why is the bar for staying so low? Why isn’t Tommy screaming at him, demanding apologies he deserves to hear? Instead, he only asks for reassurance. And though Wilbur doesn’t understand why, he isn't going to question it any longer. He’s going to stay, if Tommy will let him.
Wilbur reaches out and puts both hands on Tommy’s tense shoulders. “I’m here for you. Not for any scheme.”
Tommy crumples. He slowly leans forward into Wilbur, who wraps his arms tightly around Tommy’s frame. Tommy’s hands clutch at the front of his shirt. Wilbur tucks Tommy’s head under his chin, and brings a hand up to the back of his head, burying his fingers in the short curls, holding him close close close. Tommy’s crying again, and Wilbur rubs small circles into his back. He shushes and whispers comforting words, and wishes there was more he could do.
They stand there until Tommy’s breathing stabilizes, and then they stand there some more, Tommy shifting his head to the side, pressing his wet cheek into Wilbur’s chest, and they keep standing there, holding onto each other. It’s quiet, apart from Tommy’s sniffles.
Eventually, Tommy pulls away, and Wilbur lets him go. “I fucking hate you,” Tommy mumbles, scrubbing at his cheeks, “my brain always feels so frazzled and tired when I talk to you.”
Wilbur smiles softly, “Long day.”
“Long fucking day.” Tommy agrees, then leans back against Wilbur again. Wilbur throws his arm over Tommy’s shoulders, pulling him in tight for a side hug.
“Bed?” Wilbur asks. Tommy nods.
Wilbur walks them both to Tommy’s room, gently pushes him towards the bed.
“I can make some tea. I’ll be back.”
Wilbur searches for the kettle. There are still items scattered everywhere in the kitchen, despite Wilbur’s best efforts to straighten it up.
He finally spots the kettle on top of a stack of chests in the back corner. As he goes to retrieve it, he hears glass crunching beneath his boots. Looking down, he finds framed pictures mercilessly knocked from the wall, glass shattered and strewn across the floor. Wilbur carefully disposes the large pieces of glass and then retrieves the photos from the ground. The frames are in terrible condition. Wilbur suspects this isn’t the first, or even second, time they’ve fallen off the wall.
His eyes sting to see L’manberg. Its soldiers standing in a disorderly line, all with wide smiles. Its walls, still proudly standing high in the sky. One picture depicts a scene from within the Camarvan, all gathered around the center table, faux serious expressions on their faces, clearly staged. Wilbur doesn’t remember when this was taken, but there he is, front and center, hand on chin and staring out into the middle distance, like a pompous arsehole. His fingers curl around the wooden frame, knuckles white.
Well, he supposes it’s only right - this is the embassy afterall. Any proper embassy would have photos of its nation. He props the frames on the table, and returns to the business of making tea.
It’s truly dark outside now. The stars wink at him through the kitchen window, and Wilbur’s chest is suddenly tight. His day with Tommy is drawing to a close, and he’s said so much, but not the right things. Not the important things. At this point, he’s afraid to try, worried he’ll just mess it up. His chest pangs. He hates that he’s a coward. He hates this moment, in the dark kitchen, where it all feels unsolvable. Tommy will never know freedom, and Wilbur can only watch. Tommy doesn’t trust him anymore, and Wilbur can’t blame him, but it still stings.
The kettle whistles, emitting puffs of white steam. Wilbur decides to pour two cups.
It makes the house smell of mint, and he can’t find a sugar bowl, so he hopes Tommy’s okay going without.
As he turns to return to Tommy, his eyes catch the framed photos of L’manberg, and he pauses. They are proof that Tommy trusted him, once, in a time long since passed. Wilbur yearns for that time, and his chest aches with the feeling. He wants it back so desperately.
Tommy wasn’t clueless, and he had understood by the end that Wilbur wasn’t good. But he was the type of person to hope and hope and hope, to make inside jokes and laugh loudly and poke and prod and call them brothers. He was incessant. Tommy was good, incessantly good, and he stood by Wilbur long after he should have - perhaps out of stubbornness, or perhaps out of a love that does not wish to see the bad. A love that blinds.
Wilbur walks down the hallway, two mugs clutched tight, and a boa constrictor wrapped around his lungs. He tentatively pushes open the door to Tommy’s room.
It’s much lighter than the kitchen. His bedside table has a lamp that floods the room with a deep gold. It’s perfectly warm and cozy in here, though similarly cramped and a bit worn. It’s been lovingly decorated with photos of the Queen, Vikkstar, Oogway, and Mexican Dream. The corners of the prints peel off the wall, haphazardly taped. There are photos of Tubbo too, but they’ve been damaged quite heavily, wrinkled and warped over time. Tommy is sagged against the pillows. His blankets lie in a crumple by his feet. He blinks up at Wilbur, clearly sleepy. Tommy’s face is not unwelcoming, but he can’t quite read the expression.
Wilbur stops in the doorway. He doesn’t know if Tommy wants him in here, in his private space. This space is cozy, meant for sleep and comfort and it’s nice in here, and Wilbur doesn’t fit. It’s night, Tommy probably wants him to go. Wilbur’s been foolish, he feels like an idiot. An idiot standing in the doorway with one too many mugs in his hands.
But then Tommy waves Wilbur over, reaching out for the tea. He grabs it and practically sloshes it over his lap.
“Careful.”
“I’m always careful bitch! It’s my middle name.”
Wilbur delicately sits on the corner of the bed, and Tommy scooches over to allow him more room. Wilbur sets his own cup on the bedside table so that he can unknot his boots and shed his jacket onto the floor.
“I thought your middle name was ‘Danger,’” Wilbur says as he settles onto the bed further, leaning back against the pillow next to Tommy and retrieving the tea from the nightstand. It warms his palms.
Tommy talks about the most recent scam he’s been running - delivering milk and wheat to Niki’s bakery but charging her twice as much by inventing heroic tales of the obstacles he had to overcome to procure and transport the supplies. Wilbur laughs softly at all the right places in the story. He would guess that Niki can see straight through Tommy’s absurd stories but goes along with it just to entertain him.
Tommy does end up spilling his tea with one particularly wild hand gesture. He uses the blanket to mop it up and laughs, loud and uncaring. His movements are loose, easy, free, and he’s laughing to himself, almost as if Wilbur isn’t there. Wilbur watches, and he’s so grateful to be able to see this Tommy. This one feels truest of all. This one is rambunctious, throws the damp blanket onto Wilbur’s lap with a devious grin, and flops back against the pillows, returning to Wilbur’s side, making the whole bed bounce. Wilbur transfers the blanket onto the floor, complaining continuously about its moist texture.
Tommy tells more stories, about building his hotel, and the ensuing debacle with Jack Manifold. Halfway through the account, his posture begins to melt, the bed sheets pulling him in. His body clearly wants to be horizontal, but he’s fighting it all the way. He talks like Wilbur may disappear at any moment. And in the middle of one story, suddenly Tommy’s head leans against Wilbur’s shoulder. Wilbur is still for a moment, and then puts his arm around Tommy, adjusting them to a more comfortable position. Tommy keeps talking, his voice quieter, exhaustion dragging out his syllables.
Tommy’s mug is empty. Wilbur takes it from Tommy’s hands and puts it on the bedside table.
Wilbur’s throat is tight. It’s as if Tommy’s head weighs a thousand pounds, pressing down on Wilbur’s chest. His lungs still inflate and deflate in its familiar pattern, but it doesn’t feel like they should be. It feels as if the moment demands he be still. It demands he ache, and so his body does without his permission.
The goddess of sleep is beckoning to Tommy, and he is unable to resist her for much longer. He’s going boneless, and his story is quieter and quieter, and the words really aren’t making much sense anymore. And then it’s just the sounds of breathing.
Wilbur’s throat is even tighter now. But if he can’t say what must be said now, in the calm and quiet of night, he’ll never be able to do it in the harsh illumination of day. Tommy’s head against his chest offers him a bit of comfort - even if the kid is mad, maybe he’ll love Wilbur anyways. Even if he’s never forgiven, maybe, just maybe, he’ll still be allowed to stay.
“Tommy?” He asks, a whisper. If Tommy is already asleep, he’ll do it tomorrow. Or later.
The kid hums an acknowledgement. He’s still awake.
“Tommy, I’m sorry,” Wilbur’s voice is still low, barely above a whisper, because if it was louder, then it would feel real, and his courage is flimsy.
Tommy hums again. When Wilbur doesn’t continue, Tommy shifts his head a little and asks, “For what?”
Wilbur says, “For today, and for…” For a lot more than just today, he wants to say. For lying. For using Tommy. For betraying L’manberg - he knows that hurt Tommy the most. For not being there in exile. For the pit in Pogtopia. For being gone for too long while the world shredded Tommy to bits.
He presses on, “I’m sorry that I left you. And I’m sorry that I broke your trust. I never wanted…”
A long pause. They’re both waiting. Tommy waits to hear what Wilbur wants to say, and Wilbur waits until he’s strong enough to say it. A couple seconds, and then,
“I’m sorry I wasn’t the brother you needed.”
Wilbur can feel Tommy freeze next to him. And though it was Wilbur's intent to say more, his mouth has quit, done with uttering syllables and sentiments, and because Wilbur is a weak man, he can do nothing to stop it. He hopes Tommy understands. He hopes Tommy can hear the unspoken thoughts rattling around Wilbur’s head, stuck stuck stuck. They ache, they rot in his synapses, and yet they refuse to make themselves known, refuse to meet the golden warmth of the bedroom, refuse to spill off his tongue, because the words are soft and Wilbur’s not sure he deserves to have that anymore. Is he allowed to have this good thing, is he allowed to have a soft head against his chest when Wilbur is a bad man and always will be?
Tommy throws an arm around him for a side hug. A couple breaths later - “Thank you.”
It’s not an ‘I forgive you.’ It’s not an ‘It’s okay.’ It’s not an ‘All is well now.’ Tommy doesn’t say those things because he doesn’t lie about things like this, things important and weighty. Tommy always has his heart on his sleeve. He’s genuine, and Wilbur aches at being allowed to see something true. It burns to touch, but Wilbur clutches all that Tommy can give.
In this small, golden room, Tommy falls asleep, and Wilbur tries to stay completely still, tries to make his shoulder and chest as comfortable to lean against as possible, and his heart begs for forgiveness. Wilbur knows he doesn’t deserve it, that the warmth and the light of Tommy isn’t his, and maybe never was, and that forgiveness is hard, but he hopes for it anyways, and holds Tommy tight.
His heart wants to scream out, wants to release the pressure that’s building within him. This hope feels painful. It doesn’t make any fucking sense. Wilbur knows a better man would not allow himself to hope like this, because this, this, is fucking ridiculous. That he’s holding Tommy, that they’ve spent the day together, that Wilbur is allowed to stay, that Tommy has made an effort to communicate things, that they’re both trying to mend what was broken. Wilbur does not deserve this, he knows that acutely, and the kindness of it all sears him, red hot, and the hope is too much to hold in his hands but he must, he must, because he is not letting go.
He is hoping for something he has not allowed himself, but somehow, if Wilbur is interpreting the situation correctly, something that Tommy is freely giving. That hope feels like a knife right now, but hopefully, in the future, it will feel right.
He doesn’t understand Tommy - he doesn’t understand how it was so easy for the kid, how this is allowed, but the hungry thing within him that snaps and snarls is soothed as they lie here together, close as can be, warm warm warm.
Wilbur’s tears drip into Tommy’s hair. He tries to keep his breathing regular so he doesn’t jostle Tommy’s head, but it’s getting harder to do that every passing second, so he holds his breath to keep himself under control.
And then he slowly releases the breath, drawing in another slowly, achingly, as if sipping through a straw. Tommy’s head remains undisturbed, and Wilbur brings his hand up, slipping his fingers through the curls.
Another slow breath.
And another.
His fingers reach a tangle, and he uses both hands to gently untangle it.
He has stopped crying, and his chest does not feel like bubbling lava anymore.
Wilbur closes his eyes, a wave of exhaustion hitting him. He tries not to think anymore - he doesn’t think he can deal with any more today.
He puts on his boots and jacket and slips off the bed. He turns and bends down, tucking Tommy under the covers, making sure he’s comfortable. Tommy opens his eyes, looking up at Wilbur with eyes that are trying their best to focus. “Back tomorrow?”
“Yeah, of course king,” he croaks. Tommy nods back, something small and happy, and closes his eyes. Wilbur turns off the lights in Tommy’s room and gently shuts the door. He slumps against it, drawing in a deep, shuddering breath.
He brings the mugs to the kitchen, and places them in the sink, now piled high with dishes. He will do them tomorrow.
Wilbur slips out the front door, locking it behind him, into the chilly night air. The breeze makes summer feel like a traitor, so he pulls his jacket tighter around himself as he walks through the trampled dirt to the prime path, away away away.
Tomorrow morning, he’ll return. He’ll knock on Tommy’s door, a dozen eggs as an offering, and he’ll help make breakfast. He’ll make conversation, he’ll inquire about the schemes of the day, and he’ll make Tommy laugh. He’ll help weed the garden. He’ll pretend to get along with Shroud. He'll roast Tommy’s outfits, which are all suspiciously similar to one another. He’ll play the poorly tuned piano in the back room, and Tommy’ll dance, like he did at the beach today, except his face will have a large smile instead of a small one.
Maybe one day they’ll talk about L’manberg, and they’ll heal that wound, that crater in their chests. Wilbur hopes that day will come. Now that he’s allowing himself to hope for things, he hopes for this most of all: that mending what has been broken comes as easily to him as it does to Tommy, now that he is courageous enough to reach out his hand.
He’ll keep apologizing with actions. He doesn’t think he’ll ever stop apologizing. He’ll keep showing up, and maybe one day, it’ll be okay.
Someday, Tommy will be okay, and someday, Wilbur will be too.