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“How’s the head, big man?” Tommy asks quietly, accepting his new fate as a head rest for his brother. He won’t ever admit how special he feels to be used as one.
Wilbur, draped across his knees on his stomach in order to not squash his wings, groans, face buried into Tommy’s legs, His large, dark wings lay tensed on his back, a great sign that his head is being a bitch.
“That bad, huh?” Tommy hums, more to himself, hand resting gently on Wilbur’s head, paying no mind to the greasy nature of the strands. He does avoid the white streak, but it’s more for his sake than his brothers.
This isn’t new. This caring for each other. After revival, it’s been tough on them both. Headaches, nosebleeds, times when just feeling the wind on their skin feels like fire. After realizing they both deal with this, they’ve turned to each other, since they know the other is the only one who knows how they feel.
It’s a strenuous relationship, especially with everything that’s going on, but it always comes first. If Wilbur’s in a heated rivalry with Quackity, or trying to wriggle his way into his brother’s and Phil’s life again, and Tommy comes stumbling along, shivering and shaking, red and teary eyed, he’ll drop everything to take care of him. And the same goes the other way. If Tommy’s having a bad mental health day, or building something to keep himself safe, or hanging out with one Tubbo or Ranboo and Wilbur comes, draping himself along his back with a quiet murmur of, “come on,” then they’re both off.
Today, it’s both their turn to feel like shit.
Wilbur’s skin is burning, he says, and a headache ravages his skull. So they’ve set up camp in Tommy’s old house, perched on the couch with Wilbur’s head on his lap, the blinds drawn to keep the chance of a sensory overload down. It’s quiet and calm in here, with the door tightly locked so chances of intruders are low, but never zero.
Tommy himself has a tissue shoved up both nostrils, slowly turning red from the blood steadily leaking from his nose. His head hurts too, but certainly not as much as Wilbur’s. If it did, he wouldn’t say anything, anyway. It’s rare that he gets Wilbur quiet and soft, albeit because of a headache, but his point stands.
There’s no need to talk in these moments, and for that Tommy’s grateful. His new skills at staying deathly quiet and still are useful in these moments. In some way he’s glad he doesn't have to fight himself to stay quiet anymore, since he knows if he were blathering on and on Wilbur would find somewhere else to hole up. In some way, it’s a blessing.
In others, he wishes nothing ever changed.
He hums a soft note in the back of his throat, eyeing the wings along Wilbur’s back, spanning the entirety of his back all the way to his tailbone. Wilbur rarely flies anymore, mostly using them as an extra defense, a sort of shield. Shield to what is anybody’s guess. Tommy often feels jealousy roil in his gut despite their state of unkemptness. They’re huge, and they were magnificent in their prime, but, now, his wings are dirty, untamed and almost mangled, but Tommy makes no attempt to offer preening support. Wilbur said, through smoky breath and lungs made of ash, that his wings hurt. He wishes he didn’t have them, that they’re painful reminders of something that could never be.
Tommy never pries, but he thinks he understands.
Anyway, the bottom line is Wilbur’s wings are just kind of there, and often hurt more than his skin does when the sickness hits. Or, whatever this is. Light touches are allowed, but never for longer than comfortable.
And so Tommy busies his hands with Wilbur’s greasy, matted hair, that looks a lot like his. Something neither of them acknowledge.
A twinge of pain zaps up his spine to the back of his neck and further, a sharp stab of electricity that takes him by slight surprise. He grumbles and attempts to shift his head and neck, but the position he’s in doesn’t allow much movement. He settles back with annoyance; he keeps quiet, praying the pain doesn’t get worse.
He wants to be useful, and making things worse is the exact fucking opposite of that.
It only continues to get worse, of course. He can feel the aching, burning pain spanning a larger area on the back of his neck, all the way down his entire spine that creaks with protest. Soon, it’s so bad even the disgusting state of Wilbur’s barely-washed hair can’t even keep his mind off of it. He shifts about slightly, biting the inside of his cheek as he carefully moves, mindful of the body laying on him.
The small movement barely helps, takes the pain back down a notch for maybe a minute, but then it’s back in full and Tommy knows he can’t deal with this for much longer. He needs to figure something out.
He shifts, wincing when Wilbur shifts in turn, feathers ruffling to show his displeasure. His neck is really starting to burn something terrible, though, so Tommy can’t find it in himself to pause, continuing to slowly shift about and move his head to different positions on the back of the couch, desperate to find somewhere that won’t result in pain.
He moves a bit harsher than he means, both jolting Wilbur and the couch, and that’s the last straw.
“Stop moving,” Wilbur demands, his voice rough with exhaustion and annoyance.
The words crack against Tommy like a whip, and he falls immediately still, eyes wide as he stares down at his brother. “Sorry,” he whispers, quiet and strained, deciding he can probably deal with this, and then get up a little ladder under the lie of the washroom.
Something in his tone catches Wilbur’s attention, sadly, and Tommy watches as Wilbur turns to peek out at him from his lap, eyes narrowed slightly, figuring him out.
Tommy freezes.
“What’s wrong?” He asks eventually, his tone knowing. Though Tommy strains, there’s no annoyance there, like there should be.
“Nothing,” he replies quickly, smiling. “My neck just hurts a bit. I’m fine, though, Wil,” he says, fighting back the urge to apologize for something. Wilbur’s been on his back about that, and that on top of everything else isn’t something they need.
“Why didn’t you say something sooner,” Wilbur groans, joints popping as he uses his hands to push himself up, ignoring Tommy’s panicked attempts at getting him to lay back down.
“Wil?” Tommy asks quietly when Wilbur’s upright, a little confused, a lot worried. Wilbur doesn’t answer him, just rumbles a quiet, “c’mere,” with hooded eyes and grabby hands and leans forward, wrapping arms around him and then pulling them down.
Tommy tries not to fight it, cradled to Wilbur’s chest as wings join in and wrap around him like a chick’s mother. Tommy gasps quietly at the sight and feeling, forced to lay down on the wing underneath him, the other tucked behind him like a dark, full blanket. He’s pinned between the cushions of the couch and Wilbur, who pushes against him like a cat, a hand guiding Tommy’s own head into his chest, where he’s then held.
They fall still, Wilbur with a pleased rumbling sigh, settling mostly on top of Tommy, as though he’s trying to protect him with his bulk. However little that might be. It’s a little suffocating, actually, but a lot more flattering.
Tommy lets a second go by, eyes darting every which way, even though all he can see is black and the barest hint of definition in Wilbur’s dark wings. This isn’t new, but it’s been a long time since Tommy’s found himself wrapped in the secure wings of his brother. He’s hit with a wave of nostalgia that makes him want to curl up and cry, but he forces it away, focusing on the confusion that’s practically attacking him.
“Wilbur?” He asks quietly, searching for answers.
“Shush,” Wilbur mumbles, curling more securely around the boy in his arms, wings tightening their cocoon.
“I- I just,” Tommy laughs, crazed and panicked, a noise he makes a lot these days. “Your wings, man.” He points this out with panic, shying away from said wings as he makes his point, even though he’s literally laying on one and the other is draped across him like a blanket.
“It’s fine when it’s you,” Wilbur replies, humming and soft, obviously eager to get back asleep, but he’s still calming Tommy’s worries first. “Go to sleep, I’m tired.”
Tommy giggles, a little more relaxed, pushing into Wilbur’s possessive, protective grasp. “That’s not how it works,” he points out, though he makes no move to fight the forced cuddle session, already feeling sleep begin to take him over. Hopefully the tissues in his nose don’t fall out.
Wilbur coos, done with talking, clawed fingers running through Tommy’s hair gently, no chance of skin getting pricked. It’s gentle, and a reminder Tommy’s safe. There are so many dangers out there, but right now, he’s safe.
Sleep comes quickly.