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Tommy has always valued himself as a soldier: Wilbur’s right-hand man, commander of their only unit, the one Wilbur trusted the most. He was the vice president before a commander, a commander before a soldier, a soldier before a brother, and a brother before a child.
He gave his life to L’Manburg, and he was proud of it. He was proud because it was home, it was safety. It was where the flowers sang, the grass bright and lush, and laughter bright in the air. It’s where Tubbo lived with his bees, and where Fundy played in the river with Eret watching nearby. It’s where Wilbur would ruffle his hair, eyes squinted from his smile, and the words “I’m proud” were spoken as easy as breathing.
Tommy would give everything he had to hear those words again, to see the people he loved smile as bright as they did on those days. Three lives, two taken in the span of one day, and he wouldn’t hesitate to give the third one away too— not if it meant Wilbur would stay proud of him.
“I did good, right?” Tommy asked the night after L’Manburg won their independence, the night he traded his most prized possessions away, the ones he struggled and battled to protect and keep. He had to believe it was the right thing to do; everyone fought so hard for this land, to have this spot of protection with black and yellow walls cradling them. It was worth it; dying for L’Manburg, sacrificing for it.
It had to be, but the grim expression on WIlbur’s expression had him doubting his decisions.
Tommy continued when Wilbur blinked at him, eyes wide but expression unreadable. Wilbur was hard to read, sometimes, and Tommy was still figuring out the puzzle pieces that made his mentor tick. “You’re not mad, right?” Wilbur was furious when Tommy challenged Dream to the duel only to lose, but Tommy still won their independence. It was a close call, and Tommy thought Dream was going to say no with how long he took to answer. A dumb, impulsive child is what Wilbur called him, but it worked! He was able to negotiate their independence, so why did Wilbur still look pensive?
“Toms,” Wilbur sighed, taking Tommy’s hands in his own. He stared at the bandages, and Tommy twitched at the urge to hide them. “I’m not mad,” Wilbur continued. “I just—“ he breathed out uneven, shaky and dare Tommy say it, scared “—I should have never put you in a situation like this.” I’m supposed to protect you went unsaid, but Tommy heard it by the way Wilbur squeezed his hand as if he needed the reassurance Tommy was still breathing, was still here.
But Wilbur forgets Tommy has been on his own longer than he’s known the former and has long gotten used to fending for himself with no one to rely on besides himself. “You haven’t always been, been here,” he reminds the older man. “I do-don’t need your protection or pity.”
“Tommy—“
“No,” Tommy interrupts. “These are my decisions, and I, I don’t regret it. I, I wou-would do it all over again if, if I had to.”
Tommy’s words only seem to stress Wilbur out further. “You're just a kid. I’m supposed to look after you, keep you safe.”
“Like, like a big brother,” Tommy teases out of habit.
Wilbur rolls his eyes, but Tommy counts it as a win when Wilbur’s lips twitch upwards. “Yes, like a brother,” Wilbur jokes, reaching out to ruffle Tommy’s hair.
Tommy squawks undignified, but leans further into Wilbur’s side, letting his weight lean onto him. Wilbur shifts to a more comfortable position to support the extra weight and Tommy shuffles closer to the comforting warmth.
It’s quiet when Wilbur whispers, “Seriously Tommy, never do that again. I don’t think….we’re like brothers right? As your big brother I can’t…I can’t see you throw your life away like that again.”
“But Wilbur,” Tommy whines, not fully processing the serious tone Wilbur carries in his words. “Danger is my middle name. It’s literally part of my description.”
Tommy shifts so his words are muffled by Wilbur’s shoulder, barely audible if his head was not right next to Wilbur’s ear. “Plus, I can’t be, be in serious danger if you’re there with me. Tubbo says you're like my impulse control.”
Wilbur’s grip tightens at the words, and there’s a slight tremble to his voice when he speaks. “Just promise me Tommy.”
“So you are mad,” Tommy says instead, voice clogged in growing fatigue. Tommy can’t say he’s surprised, but he thought this would be different.
Wilbur sounds tired when he sighs again, and Tommy winces at the knowledge it’s caused by him. “I was terrified,” Wilbur mumbles, and Tommy blinks at the honesty. “You’re only fifteen and already on your last life. I promised I was going to keep you safe, but I’m only leading you to your death.”
Wilbur says this with all the conviction one says the sky is blue. If Wilbur thinks he is the sole reason Tommy died, then it must be true.
Maybe if Wilbur was better at strategizing, they would have won the war. Maybe if he took advantage of his connections to those who serve Lady Death, Eret never would’ve felt the need to betray them. Maybe if he was less trusting, less naive, less optimistic, no one would have died. Maybe if he was better at fighting, Tommy never would’ve felt the need to duel Dream. Maybe if he was a better negotiator, Dream would never have looked at the young boy he keeps failing to protest. Tommy, his younger brother who keeps giving away parts of himself when Wilbur has yet to earn that devotion.
“I’m supposed to look after you, and look at how well that’s going.”
Tommy hums. “I don’t think you're doing too bad.” He blinks languidly when Wilbur traces patterns into his arm. ”You gave me a home.” Tommy thinks of white walls, machine beeps as his main company and tubes full of liquid that birthed him. He thinks of a young demon and his family, and the grief with the knowledge he will never see them again. He thinks of a cabin in the woods, and one boy desperate for company and the other waiting to be loved.
“You gave me a family.” He thinks of mud on his knees, shirt torn and blood dried on the end of his pants. He thinks of that lonely boy that took one look at him and immediately offered him bread, hand reaching out with words describing a place warm but empty, safe and quiet, promises of company and a warm dinner.
Tommy doesn’t need Wilbur to be as grand as the Angel of Death, or as intimidating as the Blood God. He needs Wilbur to simply be here, singing his dumb tunes, fishing with Fundy and looking for rocks with him. He doesn’t need anything else but for Wilbur to stay, like he promised all those years ago.
Tommy yawns, and it takes longer for him to open his eyes when he blinks. He feels the blanket being nudged closer to him, and Wilbur let’s instinct take over as he tucks Tommy into them. Tommy hums with a smile. “Seems like,” another yawn interrupts him, “like you’re doing just fine. Being a big brother and all that.”
Wilbur never responds, but he never leaves either. Tommy falls asleep to the beating of a steady heart and a hand gently carding through his hair, curls being detangled occasionally.