Archive of Our Own ^beta

Tommy stared at his phone screen for what felt like a decade.

The number was there, all punched in and ready to go. All he needed to do was click the big green button - how hard could that be? He'd already done the hard bit. He'd already sat there, crying, blood dripping down his forearms as the realisation sunk in that this wasn't enough - not this time. He'd already lay on the floor, questioning everyone and everything, finally deciding to pluck up the courage to google the number and type it into his phone.

In reality, he didn't think he'd ever faced anything harder in his life. But, the simple truth was, he didn't think he could take it anymore. He felt hollowed out; driven to madness by the constant cycle of guilt to numbness to anger to despair and back to guilt again. And the razors, sat on the cold bathroom floor. Wouldn't it be nice for it to just all be over, for once? His chest hurt. All the time. And his new apartment was so, so fucking lonely. The worst part was that there was no one to stop him. How long would his body rot there for before someone decided to check up on him?

So what if he called it? No one would have to know. He could just have a conversation with a complete stranger, let it all out, and then bury it down until it felt like he was going to explode. Again.

He dragged a hand across his face, groaning. His eyes drifted over to the medicine cabinet he could see through the thin shaft of light that the open bathroom door revealed, and his heart did a summersault. He could.

Nope. Yes. No. His fingers itched as he dragged his thumb across the screen, and before he knew it, he clicked the call button.

It dialled, and distantly, he was aware of the desire for no one to pick up. At least then he would have an excuse for going through with it. He looked for help, and then he never got it. Who would blame him?

"You have reached the National Suicide Prevention Lifeline, also servicing the Veterans service line. If you are in emotional distress or suicidal crisis or are concerned about someone who might be, we're here to help. Please remain on the line while we route your call to the nearest crisis center in our network."

The call cut to music, and Tommy stopped breathing for exactly 45 seconds until the call reconnected to someone. (He only knew that because he counted every damn second, determined to focus on something, anything else.)

"Hello?"

Tommy flopped backwards onto his bed, cringing at the desperation in his own voice, "hi... I uhh... fuck. I don't know how to do this."

The line went quiet, and Tommy blinked. Did he get disconnected? He wasn't even mad if he did, because, in all honesty, that would be really fucking funny considering the circumstances. Like, not funny at all, really. But also just absolutely hilarious. Especially considering-

"Tommy? Is that you?"

Tommy swore, dropping the phone onto the floor. He shoved a pillow into his face, wanting to scream and scream and scream. How was this fair? How, out of all the crisis volunteers in the area, did fucking WILBUR pick up the phone? Since when was Wilbur even a crisis call volunteer? Did he not think to mention?

"Tommy, I'm gonna need you to speak. Please."

Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck.

"Wilbur," Tommy breathed, his hand shaking. He gingerly picked up the phone and pressed it to his ear, "...Hi. Uhh, this is... Awkward. Not how I wanted to spend my Friday night, really."

Wilbur didn't laugh at his poor attempt of humour. Tommy could hear him swallow; could hear every note of anxiety ring out in his tone as he spoke softly, "just stay with me, okay? We'll work through this."

"Wilbur, I'm sorry. I'll just... You know what, it's fine." Tommy stammered, placing a hand on his heart as his breathing began to become more and more rapid, "stupid idea, forget I called."

"No- wait! Wait!" Wilbur was doing a poor job at disguising the panic in his voice, and Tommy squeezed his hands into fists, the guilt tripling with every syllable his older brother said to him in the darkness. "Just.. Breathe with me for a second, alright?"

Tommy nodded, then remembered Wilbur couldn't see him. He inhaled deeply, "okay."

Wilbur deemed it safe enough to speak again after a few minutes, "protocol says I have to transfer you-"

"Don't!" Tommy blurted, surprising even himself. Wilbur was the last person on earth he wanted to share this with, but now that he knew, he would find it difficult to look him in the eye again without even attempting to do at least a little bit of damage control, "I'd... I'd rather stay on with you, actually. If that's okay."

Wilbur breathed a sigh of relief, "I was... Really hoping you'd say that. Of... of course it's okay. Where are you right now?"

"In my bedroom."

Wilbur hummed in satisfaction, "that's good. Do you want to tell me why you called?"

Tommy pressed his fists into his hands, pressing down until black spots danced across his vision, "I don't... fuck. Do you not know already?" He figured DOOMED was written out in red on his forehead. He figured everyone saw him drowning, but decided it was best not to interfere. He was so trapped that it never even occurred to him that other people... Might not actually realise.

Wilbur's voice was soft, sad. "I need to hear it from you, if that's okay."

That wasn't part of the script they were given. That wasn't protocol. That, that was an older brother, speaking to his younger. Nothing more, nothing less.

Tommy's eyes fluttered closed. He held the phone close to his mouth as he murmured the words he never thought he'd be able to speak. Of course it wasn't okay. Of course he didn't want to tell him. But it's Wilbur.

"I want to kill myself."

Almost immediately, he regretted saying it. He'd hacked up red shards of glass onto the floor, and now he was leaving it to Wilbur to pick them up for him. How could h do that to anyone? To Wilbur, of all people?

Wilbur, for all his faults and flaws, didn't panic. His voice remained steady as he asked, "do you have anything to hand you could use to hurt yourself with?"

Tommy almost laughed. If he tried hard enough, he could use anything. "...No."

Wilbur didn't believe him. Disbelief was drenched in every note of his voice; he might as wel have grabbed Tommy's throat and screamed LIAR into his face. "...Are you going to hurt yourself? Please, please, just be honest with me."

Tommy imagined Wilbur hunched over his desk, clinging to the phone like it was a lifeline. He imagined his heart racing in a similar way, his hands going clammy like Tommy's were. They were brothers, for god's sake. Whatever was Tommy's was also Wilbur's.

His eyes drifted over to his hoodie, and the warm blood he could already feel seeping through the too-thin sleeves. It should've hurt, but he just felt numb to the world.

He didn't answer Wilbur's question, instead exhaling shakily. "Wilbur, this was a mistake. I'm sorry. Let's just forget this ever happened, okay? I'm fine. I won't do anything."

"Tommy, I have every right to call first responders to get to you-"

"NO!" Tommy yelped, panic coursing through his veins, "do not. I swear to God Wilbur if you do I'm never speaking to you again-"

"I won't unless it's necessary-"

"I'm fine!" Tommy snapped, "I'm fine, Wilbur. I just... I just felt lonely. I'll go to sleep, okay? I'm fine."

"You're not fine Tommy, but it's okay. Help is out there, alright? I'm going to help you. Let me do this for you."

Tommy's head was pounding, "I'd rather you didn't. Please."

Wilbur hesitated, "so why did you call, if you really didn't want help?"

Tommy paused, pondering. A reason to put the razor down? A reason to pick it back up again? A distraction, maybe. Some sign of hope? Or maybe just a reason to finally off himself after all. Maybe it was more acceptable to do it after at least trying to stop yourself first.

"Because it wasn't supposed to be you."

"Please, let me help you." Wilbur begged, "I'm here now, okay? I won't go. Ever. Don't hang up, and we'll fix this. I'll come over. You can come to me. Whatever it takes, alright?"

Tommy shifted uncomfortably, "I'm literally fine, actually. Other people need help, more than me. I'm just- I'm just gonna go. Don't worry about me. It's fine. I'll- I'll see you at some point. Bye, Wilbur." He tried his best not to make it sound too final.

"Toms-"

Tommy hung up, his stomach writhing into knots. He collapsed forward onto his bed, ignoring the calls that began to come through from Wilbur. His head was spinning. His hoodie was beginning to look less green and more red, but he couldn't even begin to find it within himself to care.

Just as he was beginning to think he should probably get up and do something, he heard banging on the door and jumped out his skin. He blearily lifted his head, disorientated for a second before he heard Wilbur's voice on the other side of the door. "Toms! It's me, please let me in."

Tommy swore softly, jumping out of bed and piling all his blankets haphazardly so it looked like he'd made at least a bit of an effort. He stumbled through into his tiny living room and swiped the food wrappers and diet Coke cans into the bin, clicking the light on and blinking, disorientated in the new light.

"Tommy!" Wilbur's pounding was getting more frantic, and Tommy cringed as he thought of the neighbours.

"I'm coming!" He yelled, frustrated.

He unlocked the door and it swung open. Wilbur was stood there, red-eyed and bordering on hysterical. Tommy shoved his arms behind his back as he grabbed his shoulders, smoothing his hair down and drinking in the sight of him as though he wanted to preserve every broken inch. "Gods, Toms. I thought- I thought-"

Tommy shifted uncomfortably, staring at his feet, "you didn't need to come over. I told you I'm fine."

What he didn't say was that he didn't want Wilbur to see him in that state. Not without warning. Not without inviting him in. The idea of Wilbur sitting in his apartment, getting him to spill all his secrets, made him feel ill.

Wilbur went to wrap his arms around him, but Tommy stepped back, dodging him. Wilbur's face fell, and Tommy felt like jumping in front of a car at the pitiful sight of him. "You scared me." Wilbur said softly, and the confession broke Tommy into pieces.

He opened his mouth to ask him something, but Tommy beat him to it, "I'm going for a pee." He said quickly, walking backwards into the bathroom, "I'll... I'll be back in a second."

Wilbur stood in the doorway, frowning as Tommy slammed the door shut. He pressed his back against it, shoulders heaving, as he slid the lock shut. He could hear Wilbur close his front door, could hear him walk to the kitchen and rustle around in the cupboards. Probably checking that Tommy was eating - which he was. He was suicidal, not stupid.

Although, saying that...

He felt in his pockets for his phone. He'd left his muddy trainers in the bottom of the shower, with the intention of cleaning them. That was almost a week ago, and the mud was caked onto them. He banged them together onto the floor, wincing at the loud sounds it caused.

"Tommy?" Wilbur was on the other side of the door, "what the fuck are you doing in there? We need to talk... Properly."

"Just a minute!" Tommy sank onto the floor, puling his shoes onto his feet. He dropped his head inbetween his knees, contemplating whether or not he really wanted to do this. This was the type of shit you see in films, not everyday life.

But if it was between having a heartfelt, honest conversation with his older brother and climbing over his sink out the bathroom window... Well. Tommy was going to take the latter.

Wilbur was sitting cross-legged outside Tommy's bathroom door, two mugs of tea gently placed on the floor in front of him.

He was staring at the painted wood, his mind racing as it began to think of every single possibility that could be occuring behind that door.

He edged forwards and kicked it, "I made tea."

No response.

"...It's getting cold."

He went over all the training he received in his head. Remain calm. Do not appear like you're afraid. Be comforting. Be empathetic. Don't jump to conclusions.

"Tommy?"

Silence.

Don't come to conclusions. Don't come to conclusions. Don't come to conclusions don't come to conclusions don't come to-

He stood, digging his hands in his jeans for a coin. He fished one out, in and amongst receipts, and clicked it into the lock, "Tommy, I'm going to open the door, okay? I need to know that you're safe."

He held his breath as the door swung open, hoping against hope that he was just being irrational, when he stepped into an empty room.

He frowned, his heart rate increasing steadily, "Tommy?"

It was only when he noticed the wide-open window and muddy footprints on the sink that he realised what had happened. He staggered backwards, fumbling in his pocket for his phone. Tommy's number immediately went to voicemail, and he let out a string of curse words his dad would have been very disappointed in him for. He pressed his back against the wall as he dialled a different number.

"...Techno? I need you. It's an emergency."

Tommy was halfway down the street when the first phone call came through. Guilt twisted in his stomach as he ignored it, switching his phone off shoving it as deep into his pocket as it would go. With every slap of his foot to the pavement, he felt worse and worse. First responders was circling around his mind like an irritating fly, and nothing he did could swat it away enough to make him calm down. He knew he looked manic. He didn't even know what he was doing.

He picked up the pace, running, running, until he reached the first signs of civilisation, in the form of a busy city centre. It was a Friday night, and the streets were heaving. Normally, that would leave him dizzy, overstimulated. But tonight, it provided a welcome distraction, allowing him to slip in easily with the steady flow of people meandering down the street.

He'd always loved living so close to the centre of a busy city. No matter who he was, no matter what he was doing, he could easily blend himself into the hoards of people. He could become unknown, and that was about as close to disappearing off the face of the earth as he could get.

He pulled his hood over his head, crossing his arms over his stomach so no one could see the bloodstains. The air stank of alcohol, and he wrinkled his nose in disgust as he passed clubs and bars and pubs.

A woman was stumbling in front of him, her head thrown back as she howled in laughter at one of her friends. She was gripping two other girls by the arms, who were also giggling at something Tommy wasn't privy to. He felt a white-hot surge of jealousy rush through him as he shoved past them.

Living just came so easily to some people. He was young, for God's sake. Young and free. That should be him - drunkenly stumbling along in the streets as he howled in laughter at some dumb thing his friend was saying. Instead, he was running away from one of the only people in the world who still cared about him, trying his best not to cry or just dip into a bar and drink himself into oblivion.

He felt like he was choking on some deep, immeasurable grief that had been weighing him down for as long as he could remember. He found it stupid that suicidal people were branded as selfish for wanting to die, because how were other people not selfish for wanting him to live? They didn't have to deal with a heavy weight on their shoulders all day, every single day. They were not the ones who had to deal with his own stupid mistakes; no. That was all Tommy. So what if he wanted it all to just end? Couldn't people just be happy for him that he'd finally found a solution to it all?

He'd almost made it to the far side of town when it started to rain. Before he knew it, people were squealing and ducking into bars to shelter themselves from the downpour.

He could barely even see, the water was dripping down his forehead and into his eyes. But he kept walking, no clear destination in mind, just far. Far enough away that he could destroy himself in peace.

He jumped at a loud clap of thunder and ducked inside a newsagents for cover. He bought a tea from the self-service machine and hovered by the door, cupping it in his hands and staring blankly out the window. A stoned guy not that much older than he was had fallen asleep behind the counter, and he sunk down onto the floor, his back pressed against the ice cream freezer.

It was only then that he allowed himself to cry.

Big, fat tears snaked their way down his cheeks, blending in with the rainwater that had already soaked him through down to his bones. He held the tea tight to his chest, imagining a world in which the warmth of the liquid seeped its way into his aching heart. His shoulders shook with the efforts of keeping his cries silent, for fear of waking the staff member he'd unwillingly dragged into his own personal tragedy.

He finished his tea slowly, finishing the last few drops as he decided to switch his phone back on.

Immediately, he wished he hadn't looked.

Hundreds of missed calls. Hundreds and hundreds. He scrolled down the list, feeling bile rise up his throat when he spotted Techno's name. Messages full of concern from his friends. It was dizzying.

For a second, he was almost tempted to call back, because all he wanted was to collapse into Wilbur's arms and cry, and let his big brother take care of everything for a while, so Tommy could just sit and sleep and allow his stupid head to run this cycle so he could get back to normal. he wanted to be warm. He wanted to feel safe.

But of course he couldn't do that. Because what kind of person jumps out their bathroom window just to escape a difficult conversation? What kind of person runs away into the cold when he could have simply sunk into his brother's arms and allowed himself to break, knowing he would be there to help pick up the pieces?

The empty cardboard cup clattered to the floor as his fingers curled into fists. He couldn't do that, because he'd fucked everything up. Just like he always did. He would be better off dead, because at least then this whole charade would finally stop, and everyone could live in peace without the burden of his very existence.

He stood, slowly. The rain was beginning to slow, it was now just a steady flow of it as opposed to torrential downpour that threatened to drown him when he was simply walking down the street. He slipped his hood up, and ducked back out into the street, sure, for the first time, where he was heading.

Wilbur wasn't sure when he started crying, only that he'd started and now he was certain that he wouldn't be able to stop.

His head pounded as he circled Tommy's empty apartment, every sign of his brother's existence producing a new, fresh wave of tears. He called him, and the first phone call morphed into the second, which turned into the ninth, which was soon the sixtieth.

He washed the mugs he left outside the bathroom door. He straightened the pillows on the sofa, drifted through to his bedroom to make the bed. He pulled the blankets back, and was busy shaking them out when he spotted the razors tucked away half-hidden under his pillow.

The room shifted, and his stomach lurched. He picked them up, slowly examining them, touching them, trying to convince himself they weren't real. He stumbled through to the kitchen, his vision slipping, thrusting them into the bin and burying them under mounds of trash. He never wanted to see them ever again.

He'd just finished throwing up when Techno opened the door to the apartment. Wilbur could hear him step through into the living room, "Wilbur?"

Wilbur attempted to call his name, but the only sound that came out of his mouth was a feeble groan. Techno appeared in the doorway, his eyebrows knitted together in a mix of shock and confusion. He stared at Wilbur for a second, like he was picking between a million things to say. Eventually he settled on, "well. You've looked better."

Wilbur stared at him, open-mouthed. How long since he'd last seen his twin? Sure, he lived a city over, but had it really been that long?

"Your hair."

Techno's hand drifted up to his head, to his shoulder-length shock of pastel pink hair, and if Wilbur knew him any less, he would say that was self-consciousness that was all over his expression. But it wasn't that - it was more like satisfaction. He was proud of himself. Satisfied that Wilbur had noticed. "Fancied a change."

Wilbur nodded, "suits you."

"Thanks." Techno shifted uncomfortably, "uhhh... Are you okay?"

Wilbur laughed. It was a coarse bark that was devoid of any warmth, any humour. Techno crouched down next to him, placing a steady hand on his shoulder. Wilbur's head flopped forward onto Techno's chest, his breaths so choked it sounded like he was dying. Techno hesitated for a second, before threading his fingers through his brother's hair, "breathe. It's okay."

"It's not. Because if he... If he..."

"He won't." Techno said firmly.

"But if he does-"

"He won't."

"-Then it'll all be my fault..."

Techno shook his head, "shush, Wilbur. Don't spiral."

Wilbur wanted to laugh. Easy for him to say. He didn't think he'd ever seen Techno cry in his life. "I don't know where he'd be."

Techno frowned, "at a friend's?"

Wilbur shook his head, "he's not just run away, Tech. He's gone to-" he swallowed, closing his eyes. He couldn't even say it. "Tubbo and Ranboo are out of town. He was bitching about it to me the other day."

Techno nodded, sucking his teeth. Eventually, he stood and offered Wilbur a hand. Wilbur took it, and Techno pulled his brother to his feet. "Let's just start driving, alright? We'll figure it out. We always do."

Wilbur nodded, "I really hope you're right."

Tommy hoisted himself up onto the cobbled bridge, swinging his legs over the edge.

The water had risen with the rain, and it was rough. Dark and choppy and deep and cold.

All it would take was one push. One slight movement forwards, and he could hurl himself into its murky depths and he would be forgotten forever.

He closed his eyes, and tilted his head back towards the stars, drinking in the rain. He wasn't sure how long he stayed like that for, only that the sounds of the water beneath him were getting louder, and the urge to pitch forwards was getting stronger by the second.

When it came down to it, he wasn't sure what stopped him immediately from doing so.

Maybe it was the rain in his hair. The distant sounds of traffic and birds in the sky; wind in the trees and people chattering from far away. Maybe it was the ache in his chest or the weight of the phone in his pocket. All reminders that, despite everything, he was alive.

His phone was buzzing again.

He thought of Wilbur, and his concerned face when he opened the door to find Tommy in such a mess. He thought of Techno, and his immovable, stoic way of showing he cared. He thought of the way Techno never broke, and the way Wilbur always did.

He began to recognise the heavy weight settling on his chest as guilt. Guilt that made his stomach twist and made him want to pull his hair out one by one.

Fuck, if he was gonna kill himself, the least he owed them was a phone call.

He swiped on the screen, his hands shaking as he brought it up to his ear, "Wilbur," he breathed softly, his voice hoarse.

Wilbur let out a sound halfway between a laugh and a cry. It was loud. It made Tommy wince. "Tommy, oh my god. Oh my god. What's happened? Are you okay? Shit- where are you? Are you safe? What do you need?"

Tommy breathed out slowly, tears burning in his eyes again. Why did he have to care so much? Why did that make it so much harder? "I'm sorry." He murmured, gripping onto the phone tighter, "Wilbur, I'm so fucking sorry."

Wilbur's voice increased its pitch, the way it always did when he was scared, and Tommy's heart constricted. "It's okay, it's okay. Tommy, please, please just tell me where you are."

Tommy could hear the sounds of a car radio, and a familiar voice that made his stomach twist. "I wish-" he swallowed, sweating despite the cold, "I wish I could've been better for you. To you. I wish I could've been the brother you deserve."

He could've sworn Wilbur stopped breathing. "Why are you saying that? Tommy, why are you- fuck, stop. Please."

Tommy said nothing. He couldn't make his mouth move.

"Tommy? Shit, Tech- I think he's-" Wilbur's voice was muffled, and Tommy heard, to his terror, Techno's sudden panic as the phone was passed over.

"Tell me where you are," Techno was doing a terrible job at concealing it, and it was so un-Techno like that he froze, "Tommy, tell me where you are."

"I can't." Tommy's eyes squeezed shut, and it felt like someone was squeezing his heart over and over again, "don't make me. Please don't make me."

"I can hear a river. Is that where you- shit, Toms. Shit."

"Techno, please," Tommy begged, "please, please just leave me-"

The phone was handed back over to Wilbur, and Tommy heard the telltale squeal of tyres as the car was turned around from wherever they were, "stay on the phone with me Tommy." Wilbur was crying, because he was Wilbur, and Wilbur cried at everything, "stay on the phone. You're okay."

Tommy went to answer him, when the phone was suddenly disconnected. He looked down at his phone screen, unsurprised to see it had died. Clearly Wilbur's hundreds of calls had drained what little battery it had when he left the house.

He looked down into the unforgiving waters below him.

He took a deep breath.

Wilbur swore when the line cut off.

Techno's mouth was pulled in a thin, straight line as he ran a red. "It's fine," he said calmly, more to himself than to Wilbur, "that was definitely a river. It's deafening when it rises with the rain."

Wilbur clung onto the door handle as they went round a corner so quick the car almost tipped, "shit, Techno. All the times I saw him, and thought something was wrong, and I never thought to do anything about it. He's impulsive, and irrational, but, shit, he's happy, isn't he?"

Techno's eyes were so focused on the road that, for a second, Wilbur was sure he hadn't heard him. But then he shook his head and sighed, "Wilbur, please. I'm-" he exhaled shakily, "this fuckin' close to losing my mind right now. I don't know. I don't fucking know!" He was gripping the wheel so hard his knuckles were slowly turning white, "we're close. It's around the corner. I just hope-"

His voice dropped. He didn't have to finish the sentence - Wilbur knew exactly what he meant.

Tommy's hands lifted from the wall. His heart was hammering, and adrenaline was coursing through his veins. His forearms ached, and the stone beneath him was beginning to dig in uncomfortably. Now or never.

He clambered from his feet, swaying slightly in the breeze. He closed his eyes, and lifted his foot-

-Only for someone to grab his hoodie and cling to it, warm fingers twisting the fabric.

Tommy yelped as another pair of arms wrapped around his stomach, and he only had a second before he was being pulled away from the wall. His arms windmilled as he tipped backwards, and he landed sprawled on the pavement, his face in a mess of pink hair.

...Pink hair?

He lay there for a second, panting, until gentle hands were helping him up, pressing over his face, his head, his stomach. He protested weakly as Wilbur picked up his arms, rolling back his sleeves and letting out a string of curse words.

The pink-haired stranger grabbed his face with warm palms and Tommy's eyes widened at the sight of Technoblade, "Techno-"

"Do not-" Techno's throat was bobbing, and his eyes were so lost, yet so relieved, "ever, ever, do that to me again."

Tommy gaped at him, "I'm sorry," he stammered, "I'm sorry, I'm sorry-"

Wilbur threw his arms around him, "we thought you were- Jesus, Tommy. I was so scared. So, so fucking scared."

"I'm wet," Tommy said, his addled mind thinking only of his clothes, "I'll get you soaked. Your- your clothes, they'll be ruined-"

Wilbur pressed his face into Tommy's shoulder, "ruin them. I don't care. Not if it's you."

They stayed like that for a while, Tommy surrounded by the embrace of his two brothers as all the emotions of the past few hours came pouring out all at once. He felt wrung out, drained, numb. He felt like he would die if they let go of him for even a second.

"You didn't have to do this," he admitted quietly, shamefully, "it's okay."

Techno's hand was still twisted in his hoodie, "it's always been you, Toms. Everything in this world comes back to you."

Tommy shivered at the words, at the world, at every single moment of his life that had led him to that moment, and Techno immediately threw his hoodie around him, "let's get you home."

Tommy was sat slumped forward on his sofa, eyes staring at nothing as Techno gently cleaned him up. The blood-stained hoodie he had been wearing had been thrown out, at his own request, and he'd kept Techno's on instead, the hood pulled all the way up. It smelled just like him, and yet it did little to soothe him.

Wilbur was sat on the armchair, biting his nails as three mugs of tea slowly went cold on the coffee table.

Techno snapped the first aid kit shut, and sat back with his arms folded, communicating with Wilbur in the secret twin language Tommy never figured out how to decode.

"I don't want to go on medication."

They were the first words he'd spoken since he'd been bundled into the car, with his head pressed against the window in the backseat and Wilbur's head leaning on his shoulder. He'd kept his hand wrapped around Tommy's wrist, thumb brushing the spot where his pulse was. Almost as if he wanted to make sure, with every second, that his little brother was still alive.

Wilbur blinked robotically, "Tommy, that's a very difficult conversation. It's very nuanced-"

"I don't care. I'm not doing it. And you're not locking me up in a psych ward somewhere." He pulled his knees up to his chest and fingered a loose thread from one of the bandages, "I really will jump if you fucking plan on doing that."

Wilbur winced at his distasteful sense of humour, "Tommy, you scared the shit out of us-"

"Why?"

Both of them turned to look at Techno, who was curled up and staring at the ceiling.

Tommy flinched at his tone, "what?"

Techno turned to look at him, his face pale and aged. "Why didn't you tell me where you were?"

Tommy stared down at the floor, suddenly feeling like he was about to throw up on his carpet. "Because I didn't want you to find me." He said quietly, "I didn't want you to see me like that."

"Tommy," Techno leaned forward and put a hand on his knee, "you were about to throw yourself off a bridge."

Tommy's blank eyes met Techno's impassive ones, "yeah."

He wanted to say more. He wished he could say more. Justify it to them, somehow. Give them a reason. Tell them that no, he wouldn't have done. Because surely a pretty lie was kinder than the ugly truth.

To his utter shock, Techno's lip began to wobble. "Do you know what would've-" he swallowed, holding a fist up to his lips, "fuck, Tommy."

Tommy glanced at Wilbur, who was wearing the exact same expression he was. "Techno," Tommy's voice was shaking, "Techno, it's fine. See? I'm fine."

Techno rose suddenly, his chest rising rapidly up and down. "I'll- I'll be back in a minute," he said quietly, stumbling past Wilbur into the kitchen. Tommy could see his silhouette lean over the sink; could hear his great, shuddering breaths as he tried to calm himself down.

He dropped his head back onto the wall, resisting the urge to clamp his hands over his ears. His vision had suddenly taken on a hazy effect, and he pinched the bridge of his nose as his head began to pound.

"See?" He said, more to himself than to Wilbur, "this wouldn't have happened if-"

"Don't you fucking finish that sentence." Wilbur sounded tired. He sounded angry. He sounded completely devastated. "Tommy, if you were ever near this kind of thing, ever, you could've talked to me, you could've-"

"I'm fucking sorry, Wilbur!" Tommy snapped, "but in case you couldn't tell, we're not exactly the most functional family in the world!" He gestured manically to Techno, who he could hear dry heaving over his kitchen sink, "and you don't- it's so fucking lonely in this apartment! And I feel... I feel everything, all at once, and it feels like my head is gonna explode, or my ribcage will collapse and my stomach will cave in and I don't even know how I could begin to voice that, let alone fucking ask for help!"

Wilbur's face dropped, "you didn't have to run away!"

"I couldn't bear to even LOOK at you!" Tommy yelled, fists brandishing in the air, "I couldn't stand to even think you'd seen me like that Wilbur, because you're WILBUR and I'm-" he took a great shuddering breath and collapsed back into the sofa, all of his energy zapped out of him, "a fucking mess. I didn't want you to worry about me. I couldn't do that to you. I couldn't stand telling you anything, because there's nothing I should even be sad about. And yet, when someone asks me how I am, I feel sick. I feel like if I told them the truth then they'd hate me. They'd think I was a burden."

Wilbur's eyes were shining with tears, "you could never be a burden to me. You're my brother."

"Pretty shit excuse for a brother," Tommy mumbled.

Wilbur crouched down in front of him, taking his face in his hands and running his thumbs over the bags of his eyes, "I love you now and I'll love you when you're sad. I'll love you when you're angry and when you're manic and when you're mean and cold. I'll love you when you're on the other side of the world. I'll love you if you decide to never see me again. I'll love you when you're standing on a bridge and I'll love you when I'm in the ground. Okay? I need you to understand this. It's so, so important to me that you understand this."

"Because that's what we do," Techno was in the doorway, clearly having accepted the fact that nothing he could do would prevent the tears from falling. "That's what it means to be a brother." He crouched down next to Wilbur and took Tommy's hands in his own, for the sole purpose of holding him. "I wouldn't change a single thing about you. It doesn't matter who you are, what you like, what you feel. You're mine. You're Wilbur's. We will always be yours."

Tommy had no more tears left to cry.

"You really mean all that?" He whispered, "all of it?"

Wilbur pressed a kiss to his forehead, "Sunshine, you're never getting rid of us. Ever."

They pulled him closer, and Tommy breathed it all in, smiling for the first time all night. Smiling so hard his cheeks ached and he felt something bloom across his chest. Something that tasted of ice cream in the summer and hot chocolate in the winter. Something that smelt like Wilbur's car and Techno's hoodie. Something that sounded like Techno's soft voice he used when he was reading poetry; Wilbur's singing in the moonlight. It felt a lot less like the agony he'd grown used to and a lot more akin to hope.

"Okay," he whispered. "I believe you. I promise."

The road to recovery was long. It was hard and it was full of mistakes and tears and screaming and joy. It was full of fear and setbacks. Moments of sweetness and moments of regret and hopelessness and futility.

But it started with this; three brothers, intertwined with one another. And a promise.

A promise Tommy vowed with all his heart to keep.