Chapter Text
His gradual descent is indubitably an accident. Tommy can wholeheartedly attest to this. He'd just gotten so damn busy, and keeping his head above the sea of deadlines, meetups, and all the packing to move out results in a sacrifice of his own well-being. Tommy never realised how much time he lost in a day to eating until he began cutting out meals and, well, his work output skyrocketed. It was nothing but blue skies in Tommy's mind.
It didn't stay one meal for long. His deprived body began gunning for more sleep, which he discovered after the third day of waking up well after lunch, despite how he could've sworn he set an alarm. Two meals a day quickly became whatever his father made for dinner and a snack if Tommy remembered to head into the kitchen at some point. Sometimes he'd be out with mates, and they'd offer him a chip, and Tommy would stare at the inoffensive fry and struggle to think about the last time he ate something.
So, sure, it was a slight concern, and Tommy can't say he didn't realise, at least on a base level, what was going on. But the positives continued to outweigh any negatives, and so time went on with no change.
When you eat a few pitiful snacks and a maximum of one meal a day, you'll lose weight, and your stomach, in turn, will lose elasticity. Tommy is oblivious to all of this, but he knows something has to be up when he's eight hours into a sleepover with Tubbo and Ranboo and feels like he's about to fucking explode.
"Where are you goin'?" Tommy grumbles after he's jostled off of Tubbo's shoulder. Ranboo is too occupied with picking a film to acknowledge either of them.
"Getting snacks," Tubbo mumbles as he reaches his arms above his head to stretch aching limbs.
"More? " Tommy asks, voice pitching in disbelief. "We had pizza like three hours ago." Tubbo's eyebrows furrow, and he tilts his head at Tommy.
"Yeah...? For dinner. That was ages ago, man. We gotta get more fuel if we wanna stay up all night." Tommy wants to argue that he's stayed up much longer without the help of pizza and a million snacks but decides that probably won't be well-received, so instead, he shrugs and slumps back against the couch. He must've missed Tubbo saying something because when he looks up to ask the brunette why he's yet to move, Tommy's met with an expectant stare.
"Sorry, what'd you say?"
"I asked what snacks you wanted. Ranboo wants chocolate, and I'm gonna grab some popcorn."
"Oh... I'm alright," Tommy's barely said a word when Ranboo turns to stare at him, too. He picks up on the fact that he's meant to ask for something right now. "Just get some extra popcorn for me?" Tubbo nods and heads off, and Ranboo turns back to the tv.
"What would you say to a horror?"
"I'm not even going to bother answering that, idiot. Oh, wait, go back; that one looked kinda cool."
Tubbo returns shortly after with enough popcorn to feed an army. Tommy has two pieces and can't quite ignore the concerned glances that both Ranboo and Tubbo shoot him throughout the evening. Nothing is said, but Tommy has to acknowledge the spike of something euphoric in his veins whenever he notices his friends' worry for him. He kind of wishes he hadn't eaten any of the popcorn so they'd be looking at him even more.
---
Tommy has to admit it's a bit more calculated when Phil finds out. He's finally moved into his flat in Brighton, and during the past few visits back home, Tommy's parents haven't been shy in voicing their concerns about his weight. He wants to see if the other trusty parental figure in his life notices anything too. He doesn't eat dinner the night before the vlog. Tommy's discovered recently that his stomach inflates a lot after dinner now. A lot more than it used to when he ate. He wants to look appropriately small when he sees Phil next. Dinner also isn't an everyday occurrence now, anyway. Since he'd moved out of his parent's place and into his own, there's been a lot less drive for Tommy to have such a meal.
The wetsuits are black and tight. Tight enough that if Tommy twists at just the right angle and situates himself beneath the fluorescent overhead light, he can see the outline of the valleys and mountains that are his ribs. He tries out several different stretches that accentuate such bones before exiting the bathroom. Now Tommy just has to think of ways he can incorporate those poses into casual movements when he's out with his friends and, more specifically, Phil.
Phil's eyes are on him for 50% of the filming, but that's not enough. Tommy wants- needs consistent worry and care. He isn't starving himself for bottom-of-the-barrel levels of attention. He decides to watch Phil whenever he can't feel the man's eyes on him, and Tommy is substantially disappointed but not surprised.
Wilbur. Taller, naturally thin and always a little frail looking, Wilbur. Of course, he earns Phil's worry without even trying. Wilbur could be having the time of his life bouncing on a cloud-like marshmallow, and people would still expect him to snap in half. Tommy wonders why, when he's so much younger, no one looks at him with such care.
"Oh, woah," Tubbo mutters as Wilbur is knocked off of the course for the third time.
"What?" Tommy almost doesn't ask, fearing it's some statement about the fragility of his brother that will do nothing but make Tommy undeniably jealous. He's taken aback when Tubbo reaches towards him and gently touches his upper arm.
"When did you get so tiny, man? Your arm looks seconds away from breaking." Tommy's mouth falls open in shock, and he glances down at the aforementioned body part.
"Oh... I dunno. Maybe I'm growing?" Tubbo hums, sounding unconvinced, but drops the subject at that. Tommy thinks he sees Phil glance over at them, but he says nothing. A glance doesn't count. A glance isn't the kind of attention Tommy is striving for.
They're packing up to leave, and Tommy thinks he's failed. He's slouched beneath the weight of defeat as he powers off the camera and stashes it in his bag when Phil comes and kneels next to him on the grass.
"Hey, Tommy. Great job today. That's gonna make a really fun vlog." Tommy grins and nods in agreement, zipping up the bag. Phil doesn't move to stand, so he glances up to see the older gazing at him with troubled eyes. "I just wanted to ask how you've been, moving out and all. I know it can be a big adjustment." It's so, so close to what he wants. Tommy opens his mouth to reply with some non-answer that would hopefully only provoke more questions and worry, but Phil continues before he can. "Have you been eating enough? I don't mean to be overbearing, but you're looking rather thin." Finally, it's all worth it.
Tommy has to duck his head to hide the smile that creeps onto his face as he assures Phil with some vague promise of health and self-care, denouncing his concerns with explanations of how moving has been hard on his system, and he's just been very busy. He hopes Phil doesn't believe him.
- - -
Tommy's never been to a buffet before. He approaches the dining hall with childlike excitement, fascinated to gaze at all the options on display. He grabs a plate and shuffles down the line next to Ranboo, greeting his friends one by one as they stumble into the room and fall in line behind him. Tommy reaches for the tongs several times but always hesitates and retracts his hand. A twisted idea has started forming in his mind, and he can't let it go. Tommy can't help but think what it would be like to go sit down with an empty plate. To settle amongst all of his friends who've undoubtedly piled theirs as high as they can go, and to not touch a single piece of cutlery as he gazes at their meals with an immense disinterest and disgust, as if the mere thought of digesting something calorific unsettles him to his core (it does, it really fucking does). Tommy daydreams, he plans, and then he performs.
The ceramic makes a quiet sound as he places it on the table. Tommy makes a show of reaching for cutlery that's stashed in a holder in the centre of the table and then glances at his barren plate and retracts his hand with a sheepish smile. This gathers the attention of Tubbo, who glances at Tommy's plate, frowns, and opens his mouth to say something but is annoyingly interrupted by the entrance of Wilbur and Phil to the table. They exchange loud greetings with the teens already sat, and Wilbur settles on Tommy's left. Tommy hates how his stomach growls at the waft of fresh pastry coming from Wilbur's plate.
He switches between being aptly attentive, waiting for someone to mention his lack of food, and zoning out to focus entirely on what people are eating. It's possible that Wilbur spots this behaviour because he offers Tommy what looks like the nicest chocolate croissant he's ever seen, and Tommy physically can't say no. Ten minutes later, Wilbur throws a sausage his way, and Tommy scarfs that down just as quickly. He doesn't realise just how hungry he is until he starts eating.
Tommy is halfway through a second croissant from Wilbur when he catches the concerned look Phil has fixed on him. He doesn't understand why Phil appears to be getting uneasier the more that Tommy eats. It's two bites later when Phil speaks up, interrupting Wilbur and Tubbo's mindless chatter.
"Hey, Wil, this French toast is really good. You gotta try it." Phil doesn't wait for an answer before grabbing a piece and reaching over to place it on Wilbur's plate. Tommy watches as Wilbur leans back and takes his dish with him, staring at the toast as if it's poison.
"Oh, no, I'm alright, thanks," he says rigidly, a forcefully polite smile on his face. His eyes don't leave Phil's outstretched hand, watchful gaze weary.
"You sure?" Phil presses. "Even just try a bite of it. I want your expert opinion." Please. Tommy prays the intensity of his stare aids his telepathic communication with Phil. Stop pushing. He doesn't want it. Phil's hand inches closer to Wilbur. He makes no move to show he's heard Tommy's telepathic attempts at stopping him. Wilbur's fingers twitch around the ceramic he's holding in a death grip.
"I'm sure, Phil. If I wanted the French toast, I would have taken some myself. It's an open buffet, after all." Wilbur sounds and looks ready to run. Or fight. Thankfully, Phil retreats.
"Alright, that's fair," Tommy remembers, as Phil retracts his hand and drops the now cold toast back onto his plate, that Phil only got one piece of French toast. He has yet to try it himself. Why was he so adamant about giving it to Wilbur? As Tommy snags a slice of apple off of Wilbur's plate, he preens under the man's elated grin but quickly shrinks when he glances up and meets Phil's less-than-happy stare. Wilbur leans closer to Tommy and murmurs, beneath the hum of casual conversation being exchanged by their friends around them:
"Try the pancake. I snagged it just as they were placing down a fresh plate." With his brother's permission, Tommy takes the pancake. It goes unnoticed by most of their friends. Not Phil, though.
"Don't you think Tommy would've grabbed a pancake himself if he wanted one, Wilbur?" Tommy freezes, fork halfway to his mouth with a decently sized chunk of pancake. Wilbur nudges Tommy's arm up to his mouth, and he obediently chows down as Wilbur defends the both of them.
"No, Phil. The dork wasn't proactive enough to grab anything. He literally came and sat down with an empty plate. My bet is he's still half asleep." Tommy rolls his eyes, and the conversation is dropped, but he doesn't take anything else from Wilbur after that. Wilbur's plate remains untouched for the rest of the morning.
- - -
It doesn't take a lot for Tommy to gain the concerns and questions from the rest of his friends. Most didn't even need him performing intentional displays of his disordered behaviour. He shouldn't really be surprised; Tommy has dropped a significant amount of weight and eats noticeably less than before. It's been around three months since this whole thing started. He's gone from the slim side of healthy to sporting a dangerously thin form, but Tommy is yet to experience any true consequences. He was well and truly exhausted before this whole thing started, so there's hardly a lack of energy to notice. Besides, he hasn't much of a need for food when he eagerly feeds off the shock and worry of those around him.
So, he collects their anxiety like pokemon and inhales every "are you sick" and "have you been seeing someone?" like it's his oxygen, and Tommy survives. He lives off of it and feels like he needs nothing else but the outward acknowledgement of his rapid decline.
It's enough until it isn't. It is enough until Tommy realises there's one important person in his life who is yet to say anything about his decaying body.
- - -
Wilbur has always made it clear that Tommy can talk to him about anything. On more than one occasion, he's told Tommy brief stories about his own teenage stupidity and explained that he never wants the blond to go through the things he did and feel like he has no one to talk to. Wilbur has always been a promise of open arms and pre-emptive forgiveness. Tommy just wishes the man could be a little more observant.
Him, Phil and Wilbur are on the floor in his apartment. They're relaxing after a couple long hours spent trying to find Tommy better curtains because the ones in here right now don't do shit to block out the streetlights, and Tommy really struggles to sleep without darkness. Wilbur leans back against the couch and closes his eyes when Tommy makes his attack. He presses both his hands on Wilbur's face, and the man's eyes fly open as he shrieks, kicking Tommy away. Phil cackles behind them.
"Holy shit, get those grim reaper hands away. What the fuck-" Tommy joins Phil in a boisterous fit of laughter as he rolls onto his back. His 'grim reaper hands' rest on his stomach, and he notices the way Phil's chuckles die down as his eyes fall on Tommy's protruding ribs beneath his shirt. He turns his head to Wilbur, but the older only looks at Tommy's face, eyes narrowed in challenge. "I'll get you back for that, you fucker. And after everything that I did for you today."
"We didn't even find curtains, man. You didn't do shit," Tommy snarks. He reaches his arms above his head, pretending to stretch. Wilbur's eyes don't move from his face, and Tommy gives up shortly after. He pushes himself up on frail elbows and takes a quick glance towards the windows to his left. They're closed. "Is anyone else feeling really cold?"
"My face is, thanks to you," Wilbur grumbles, head buried in his phone. Phil just frowns and shuffles over to hold one of Tommy's hands.
"Shit, man. That's like ice." Tommy smiles proudly and shrugs his shoulders.
"Can't help it. I'm just that cool." Both his friends groan at the pun, but Phil's fretting doesn't stop there. His eyes dart between Wilbur and Tommy.
"I really don't think you should be this cold, Toms. It's not normal. Are you sure you're eating enough?"
"Oh, yeah," Tommy responds instantly. "I'm all good, man." Much to Tommy's disappointment, Wilbur doesn't once glance up from his phone.
- - -
It's mid-afternoon, and Tommy is trailing Wilbur to his apartment to watch a film. He's invited to stay the night. It never needs to be said; Tommy knows.
They enter the flat, and the first thing Wilbur says is, "help yourself to anything in the kitchen, you know that." Tommy hums in response, a little annoyed it wasn't more of a question or blatant offer. He declines anyway.
"Oh, I'm not hungry. Thanks, though." Wilbur nods, and then that's it. They move to sit in the living room, and the man begins pulling the curtains shut and closing the windows.
Three hours later, Wilbur stretches and rolls himself off of the couch. They're forty minutes into a second movie, and Wilbur has been getting restless for the last twenty. Tommy is honestly content to mould into this couch and become one with the furniture, but Wilbur turns to look at him, and there is an anxious energy about him that Tommy knows means activity.
"I, uh, may go out for a little. Are you alright chilling here? You can obviously spend the night. I just feel bad leaving you." Tommy blinks in surprise. This hasn't really happened before, Wilbur leaving him alone at night.
"Oh... yeah, that's fine. Where are you going?" Wilbur hums absentmindedly as he stands and stretches, making his way to his bedroom.
"Just out for a walk. I won't be too long," he calls over his shoulder. Tommy watches him disappear into the room and come right back out with a jacket. "You're welcome to come if you want?" Tommy considers, but when he leans forward to stand, the room has already begun darkening before he can leave the couch. He blinks away the black spots and smiles at Wilbur, who's now hovering in the hallway, watching him.
"I'm alright here, thanks. I'll hold down the fort while you're out." Wilbur huffs a chuckle and nods.
"Sounds good, man. I'll be back before you know it."
Wilbur isn't back before he knows it. Wilbur isn't back for a long, long time. Tommy puts on an episode of whatever show he's been trying to watch recently and zones out throughout the entire thing. He gets up when it finishes and begins to pace around the apartment. He goes to the window that overlooks the street, hoping he'll see Wilbur walking up the road towards the building. He doesn't.
It takes three laps of the flat before Tommy reaches the kitchen. He decides he'll just have a look around, just for curiosities sake. He opens the pantry and stares blankly at the shelves.
They're empty. Way emptier than he expects, considering Wilbur isn't currently on tour or travelling out of the city. He goes to the fridge his eyes fall on a container of pasta. He recognises the logo; it's the restaurant they all went out to the other night. Tommy had picked away at a dry, cheeseless salad, and Wilbur had apparently taken most of his dish back home with him. He takes it out and opens it, curious to see just how much is left.
The box is full to the brim, sauce covering the lid when he removes it. Tommy wonders what was so wrong with it that Wilbur has hardly touched the thing. It leads him to locate a fork and hesitantly stab a piece. He's just trying it. It's fine. Wilbur has told him he's welcome to everything in here, and Tommy is only going to have a little. It's cold, anyway. It's not like he's heated it up and is sitting down to eat a meal. It doesn't count. It's fine.
He doesn't know what happens, but one piece turns into two, and then ten, and then half the container because he can just flatten out the rest to make it look decently full again and-
Tommy's fork scrapes against plastic, and he stares at a lone piece of pasta, hiding in the corner away from his destructive rampage. He's eaten the entire container. Cold, too. Cold, three-day-old pasta that he's just shovelled into his mouth while standing at Wilbur's counter not even sitting down or grabbing a plate or anything. His heart sinks when he realises Wilbur may have been planning to eat this later. It's not his food. So what if Tommy's had a few nights where he's put a little more butter on his two pieces of toast for the day, or he's eaten half a bag of cereal in under twenty minutes. At least that was his fucking food. At least he didn't steal from anyone else. Cause that's what he's done, really. Tommy has stolen Wilbur's food, and now Wilbur's going to get back from his walk and march straight to the kitchen, intending to heat his pasta up for an easy dinner and probably even offer Tommy some because there was so fucking much. Tommy feels sick. Or, he doesn't. Tommy feels a dangerous, creeping need crawling up out of the depths of the chambers of his heart to be sick. Tommy has taken something that isn't his without even intending to, and now he wants it out.
- - -
He doesn't brush his teeth or bother looking for mouthwash afterwards. He does a ten-second, pisspoor job at washing his hands, and then he stumbles out of the bathroom and towards the guest bedroom. He lies in bed and stares at the home wallpaper of his phone, unmoving. His throat burns and his chest aches from where it was pressed hard against the ceramic bowl. He hisses out a burdened sigh and winces at the unpleasant stench of vomit that ricochets in his face. He's never done that before.
He calls Phil.
"Hello," the older greets warmly, almost singing the word. Tommy can hear soft ramblings in the background and can almost see Phil settled on his downstairs sofa, watching telly before bed. He wonders if Phil had been dozing off to whatever mindless show was playing and Tommy has just woken him up.
"Hi, Phil." For his ego's sake, Tommy pretends his voice doesn't shake like a leaf on the two words. "D'you have a minute to talk?"
"Yeah, of course." Phil's concern is poorly disguised. Tommy sees right through his facade of a pleasant tone. "What's up?"
"I think there's something wrong with me," Tommy says and instantly snaps his mouth shut. He hadn't intended for that to come out. Tommy's been experiencing a great lack of control this evening, and it seems this conversation isn't exempt. "I... I think I need help."
"I can help," Phil replies, far too quick and optimistic. "We can get you help. There's help out there for you, Tommy. Whatever you need." He doesn't ask what's wrong, doesn't ask for further explanation, or what kind of help Tommy needs. Phil knows, and Tommy knows that he does. It makes it all easier, in reality.
"I just... I want it, Phil. I really want help, but I'm so scared that if I get it, I'll be left alone." Tommy doesn't know where these words are coming from, but once he speaks them into existence, they make so much sense. "I'm so scared that the only reason people talk to me or hang around me these days is to make sure I'm alright and that once I am, they'll all leave."
"Alright," Phil breathes the second Tommy stops speaking. "That's alright, Tommy. I hear you. You're okay." Tommy laughs weakly at the poor choice of words.
"I'm not, Phil. I'm really not."
"That's alright, too. We'll sort this out. I- Everyone loves you, Tommy. You know that, don't you?"
"Yeah, it's not that. I know that." Tommy's just endlessly worried that they'll stop.
"Good." Phil takes several short, aborted attempts at breathing. "Tommy? You deserve to eat, okay?" The words are watery, and it's only then that Tommy realises Phil is crying. Holy fuck, he made Phil cry. At 10PM, when he should be winding down and relaxing before bed, he's crying over Tommy and his... whatever it is.
"I have to go, but I'll... I'll talk to you in the morning, okay? Goodnight, Phil."
"Goodnight, Tommy. Take care of yourself, please."
Wilbur gets back an hour later. He's huffing and puffing when he enters the apartment, and Tommy hears him stagger through the rooms in search of him. Eventually, clumsy footsteps stop outside his door, and there's a quiet knock. "Tommy?" He murmurs, voice hoarse. "You asleep, man?" Tommy curls further up on his side and buries his face in the duvet. The door creeps open, the hallway lamp shines through the crack, and he can feel it on his closed eyelids. Tommy prays the light doesn't show the tears on his face. He wonders if Wilbur has noticed the missing pasta yet. Wonders if Wilbur would wake him up to interrogate him about it. The shadow looms in the doorway for ten more seconds, and then there's the sound of creaking hinges, and Tommy is once again shrouded in darkness.
He wakes up to his heart beating out of his chest. Or, that's how he feels. He's disorientated, half-asleep, and, holy shit, is he having a panic attack? Tommy hasn't had one in months, and he sure as hell has never been woken up by one before, but his heart is doing that unpredictable fluttery thing it does, and he is feeling rather panicked. He starts trying to take deep breaths but then faces a second issue; Tommy's respiration is fine. He isn't struggling to breathe, and there's no invisible vacuum stealing the air from his lungs. He's fine.
Oh, fuck.
He isn't fine. He isn't fine at all- is he dying? His heart will not get the memo that nothing is wrong, and Tommy feels like he's just run a marathon. Or, no, he feels like he is running a marathon. He couldn't sit stiller if he tried. He doesn't know what he can do to stop it. Tommy doesn't understand why this is happening.
He pulls out his phone to distract himself, mindlessly scrolling and responding to messages to keep his brain occupied and away from thoughts of death and demise. Eventually, his heart slows down (so slow he thinks it may stop, but Tommy ignores that nagging thought), and he thinks he may be able to go back to sleep. It's then that Tommy is made aware of how cold he is.
He drags himself out of bed and tiptoes from his room, staggering to where he believes the hall cupboard to be. Tommy tries his best to open the door quietly, but it's one of those cursed ones that refuse to be anything but loud in its movements. He winces and makes haste to locate and snatch out a few of the softest feeling blankets.
"Tommy?" He freezes at the unexpected interruption, turning to find a dishevelled Wilbur leaning against the wall. "Everything okay?" Oddly, there's no sleep in his tone. Tommy wonders if his heart had been beating so loudly it had woken Wilbur up, too.
"Yeah, sorry. I'm just grabbing a couple blankets."
"Oh." Wilbur frowns, eyes skirting over the pile in Tommy's arms. "Are you cold?"
"... A little," Tommy says slowly, feeling like that was kind of obvious.
"I'm sorry. I swore I put extra blankets on the bed already, and we're in quite a sheltered area, so I didn't think it got..." Wilbur shakes his head, clearing the thoughts from his own mind. Tommy doesn't bother to respond. "Did the cold wake you? I can make tea or something if that will help."
"Oh, yeah, that'd be nice, actually. If you don't mind." Wilbur shoots him a smile and begins to slowly walk into the kitchen. Tommy follows behind him. "And no, don't worry. It wasn't the cold that woke me. My heart just..."
"Your heart? What's wrong with your heart?" Wilbur spins around and freezes where he stands, eyeing Tommy up and down in worry. Tommy probably shouldn't have said that.
"Nothing, it's- Wil.." Wilbur has grabbed his wrist and is pressing his fingers against it, searching for a pulse. Tommy stops talking as it becomes apparent Wilbur's attention has gone elsewhere. He has a feeling he won't be getting tea. Tommy watches Wilbur's eyes dart between his wrist and the wall clock behind them. Tommy doesn't know how long they stand there like that. He assumes it's roughly a minute. Wilbur's hands are shaking when he pulls away.
"Okay," he breathes, stepping back. "Okay, hold on. I just need to..." Wilbur staggers around the kitchen, flicking a switch that casts out a blinding light. Tommy only now realises they've been wandering in the dark this whole time. "Alright," Wilbur returns moments later, a familiar red object in his hand.
"Is that..."
"It's to check your pulse, yeah. Give me your hand, please?" Tommy holds out his right arm without question. Partially because he hates how scared Wilbur looks but also because, fucking finally, he's earnt Wilbur's concern. "C'mon, let's sit down." Wilbur leads him over to the counter, where he pulls out a stool for Tommy to settle on. He doesn't sit himself, instead choosing to hover anxiously as he tries several times to clip the monitor onto the nail of Tommy's ring finger. It's after the third failed attempt that Tommy gently takes the monitor from him and puts it on his own hand. Wilbur is trembling too much to be of any help with something like this; they both know it. Several moments pass, and the machine doesn't beep like Tommy knows it's supposed to. He tries it two more times before giving up and holding it out to Wil.
"Is it dead?" He asks when Wilbur takes it from him, examining it with a frown.
"No. It might be that, uh, your hands are too cold. There's not enough blood flowing to your fingers for it to work. Here, let me..." Wilbur takes one of Tommy's hands and envelopes it in his own, and suddenly his already cold hands are enveloped in a hug of glaciers and frost. Tommy lifts an eyebrow and bites back a snort, and Wilbur releases him, cheeks colouring slightly in embarrassment. "Okay, that's not going to work, then." Tommy silently wonders just how Wilbur managed to have hands even colder than his own. He doesn't have the energy to ask. "Would you eat something for me if I asked?" Wilbur queries quietly, uncertainly. He's looking far deeper into Tommy's eyes than he ever thought someone could.
"I..." Tommy feels obligated to agree, but he doesn't want to lose Wilbur's eyes on him. This undying attention is what he's been vying for, what he's wanted for so long, and if he eats, he feels like he'll lose it.
"Okay." Wilbur appears to take his silence as a negative. "Alright, uh," he steps away from Tommy and goes to put the pulse monitor away. The opening and closing of the drawer don't hide his sniff like Tommy imagines he hoped it would. "I want to take you to the emergency clinic because I don't really know what I'm doing, and I'm worried about your heart." Tommy stares at him. "Is that… can you come get in the car for me, Toms? I'll drive us there." Wilbur is watching him with a pleading, wide-eyed look. Tommy realises that Wilbur is terrified he'll resist him. But Tommy's already confessed to Phil. He has no reason to fight Wilbur anymore, and Tommy doesn't want to die. He nods and draws in a shaky breath. Wilbur nods back at him and exits the room to grab a coat.
The rest of the night passes by in a disorientating, guilt fuelled blur. Tommy feels like there are whole pieces of him that aren't there. He doesn't know where they've gone. Wilbur is an unstoppable force. He drives them there in complete silence, with eyes fixated on the road ahead the entire time. Tommy head checks for him because he really doesn't want them to hit a bicyclist just because Wilbur is excessively anxious and in a rush. They exit the car, and Tommy has a brief moment of panic where he wonders if he'll have to explain to the nurses what's going on because he really hasn't got a clue. Wilbur takes care of all of that too. He opens the door and lets Tommy go in first, and then promptly marches them up to the counter and begins talking. It's fast, and Tommy can't pick up on all of the words, but there are a couple sentences that make his battered and bruised heart drop.
"We need to get his heart checked, please," is what he expects. He isn't surprised when that's Wilbur's opening line. "He's underweight and may need a further medical examination," has Tommy blinking in shock, mouth falling open as he stares at Wilbur's profile. That isn't the kicker, though, not really. The one that gets him is "he hasn't been eating enough for a long time. I don't... It's urgent, please. Whatever you can do to make sure he's okay." The receptionist has them sit back down and hands Tommy a form to fill out. Wilbur gently takes it from him and does most of it himself, softly asking for confirmation on several details and having Tommy sign the dotted line. Tommy feels numb. Wilbur knew? How long has he known? Why didn't he say anything? The thoughts bounce around in his mind and leave him feeling tetherless and undeniably lost as he's taken from room to room. Sometimes alone, sometimes with Wilbur by his side. It makes no difference. Tommy still feels abandoned.
"I ate your pasta," he confesses after the nurse has completed an ECG, and they're both sitting in the room, awaiting further instruction. He's still lying down on the bed because when he tried to sit up, his head spun several ways, and the nurse was able to tell, coaxing him back down. He stares at the ceiling, refusing to look at Wilbur.
"What?" Wilbur asks after a moment. His voice sounds foreign to Tommy's ears. It's a tone he doesn't recognise.
"The pasta in your fridge. I ate it."
"Oh, that's... That's okay. That's fine, Tommy. I wasn't going to... Uh, no, that's completely fine," Wilbur says clumsily.
"Sorry," he mumbles quietly.
"Don't apologise. You don't need to," Wilbur responds instantly, with newfound strength. Tommy's hands twitch where they lie on the rubber mattress.
"...Could you?" Wilbur hums quizzically, and Tommy lets his head fall to the side to look him in the eye. Tears are pooling above Wilbur's waterline. "Could you apologise?" Wilbur doesn't ask what for. He squeezes his eyes shut, and water cascades down his face. He bows his head in shame and whispers in a voice so quiet Tommy almost doesn't hear him.
"I'm sorry, Tommy. I'm so sorry."