Chapter Text
For nearly a week straight, Tommy doesn’t go home. He hardly leaves the couch for anything but coffee and food runs while Wilbur keeps himself holed up at his desk. Wilbur writes, Tommy reads, they make edits, Tommy reads it again, so on and so forth. It’s not complete. It’s not even halfway done. Tommy’s starting to think it will never be done, but he knows Wilbur wouldn’t react too well if he said that. So he just keeps reading.
At the end of the week, he receives a text from bee boy:
DINNER AT 10. IF YOUREL ATE IM DRAGGIN YOUR FROM WILBUR’S STUPIDU APARNETMENT.
Does Tubbo even know where Wilbur lives? It isn’t likely, but if anyone could figure it out it’s Tubbo. Maybe he’s got a tracker on Tommy. Or just did some weird shit on the internet as he often does. Tommy doesn’t understand the internet, but Tubbo treats it like his personal playground. Whether or not Tubbo actually knows where Wilbur lives, Tommy actually thinks dinner is a good idea. He’s missed Tubbo this week, and he’s also missed meals. Wilbur isn’t great with meals.
“Hey, do you want dinner?”
Wilbur does not respond. He just keeps writing. He’s always fucking writing.
“Wil?” Tommy tries. Nothing. Louder, he repeats, “Wilbur?”
“What, Tommy?” Wilbur finally responds sharply.
“Do you want dinner?”
“No, Tommy.”
Except that’s not the right answer. So Tommy stands, his legs fucking aching from being sat in the same position for ages, and avoids papers on the floor to stand next to Wilbur’s desk.
“Hey.” Wilbur ignores him, like a prick. “Hey!” This time, Tommy snatches the papers Wilbur’s writing on and finally gets some signs of life. They’re very pissed off signs of life, but they’re signs of life nonetheless.
“What do you want?”
“I’m hungry,” Tommy complains. “I’m tired of pastries.”
“You’re never tired of pastries.”
“Well, I am today!”
“We- I can order something?” Wilbur tries. “Or- you can go out, I’ll be here when you get back.” He makes a grab for the papers and Tommy holds them higher. Wilbur sighs, patience that he never had officially completely lost. “Will you stop being difficult?”
“Will you?”
“I’m not telling you that you can’t eat, Tommy! Just go!”
“When’s the last time you had a meal, man?”
Wilbur opens his mouth, but nothing comes out. His diet consists of mostly french fries, coffee, and the occasional pilfered chocolate from Technoblade. It takes a bit more back and forth, but Wilbur shrugs on his ugly trenchcoat and poutingly follows Tommy to he and Tubbo’s apartment.
When the door to Tommy’s apartment opens, he watches the smile on Tubbo’s face subdue when he sees Wilbur. He’s not quite frowning, but it isn’t joy the way it was when he saw Tommy. Sure, Wilbur wasn’t exactly invited, but it’s Wilbur.
“Nice to see you,” Tubbo says politely.
“You too,” Wilbur responds. It’s more stone than usual, but in Wilbur’s defense he’s hardly slept. Neither has Tommy. They’re both sort of the walking dead at this point. Stupid fucking deadline.
The dinner isn’t spectacular by any means, Tubbo isn’t really a cook, but Tommy and Wilbur gobble up the spaghetti like Gordon Ramsay was the one in the kitchen.
As they forget any bit of table manners, Tubbo amusedly questions, “Hungry?”
“Very,” Tommy answers with his mouth completely full. He keeps forgetting to chew and swallow before he adds more.
“We’ve been living off fries and coffee,” Wilbur explains before he takes another mouthful. Then his eyes widen and he slaps Tommy over and over on the arm.
“What, man, what! Just talk with your mouth full!”
Wilbur shakes his head vigorously, still slapping, then after a few seconds swallows the spaghetti dangerously early to blurt, “Potatoes!” What a confusing thing to beat a man over.
“What?”
“That’s what Pogtopia needs, Tommy! I know you like the carrots, but they’re too- they’re nutritious, sure, but they’re light. They need potatoes.”
“But the carrots-”
“No, no, listen to me,” Wilbur starts, and Tommy does. “I know what I’m talking about, Technoblade has a potato farm.”
“What?” Tommy finally swallows his horrible concoction of chew. “Can I see it?”
“We haven’t the time!” Without a second to waste, Wilbur pushes up from the table. “Tubbo, thank you for a lovely dinner, but we’ve got to get back.”
Tubbo starts, “But-”
“When it’s all over, I’ll do the same for you,” Wilbur promises, already heading for the door. “Well, I’ll take you out to eat, probably. I haven’t got your skills.”
“He sauces pasta like a champ,” Tommy agrees, then shovels a huge bite of spaghetti into his mouth and stands. Tubbo frowns. Tommy just shrugs. He did what Tubbo wanted. He came, he ate, he conquered. Getting a meal in Wilbur’s stomach was a feat in its own, and considering nearly the whole plate is cleared? Tubbo should be patting himself on the back. The deadline on this book is too soon to care about anything more.
Two days later, Tommy gets a call. He was asleep on top of some pages, and when he wakes up Wilbur is still hard at work. The second he notices Tommy is awake, he shoves some papers his way and Tommy groans but gets to work himself, the ringing phone forgotten. It’s only a few hours later when there’s a loud rapping on Wilbur’s door that Tommy remembers there’s anything outside of L’manburg at all.
Wilbur waves a hand, so Tommy pushes up from his place on the couch and answers the door. To his surprise, it’s Tubbo and Niki on the other side with matching frowns. They almost look… worried? The only people who know the exact date of the deadline are Wilbur and Tommy, so he doesn’t know what the Hell they’re so worried about.
Before Tommy can get a word out, Tubbo says, “You didn’t answer my call.”
Niki says, “And Wilbur hasn’t answered any of mine.”
“Oh.” They’re this bent out of shape about phone calls? He and Wilbur are practically drowning in pages. “Yeah, sorry, we’re, like, really busy, guys. We can- the book’s due in like four days, actually, so maybe we can talk after?” They look more worried. Good. It’s a worrying fucking thing, this deadline.
“Tommy, this is crazy!” Tubbo yells for some reason. “You’re both acting crazy!”
“What? We’re just-”
“Tommy,” Niki interrupts. Niki pleads. Tommy doesn’t understand why they’re acting so odd. “I don’t think Wilbur’s well. Can I please just-”
Niki cuts herself off as someone towers over Tommy’s shoulder. He doesn’t even look. Just watches Niki and Tubbo’s worry go from his face to Wilbur’s.
“The deadline is in less than a week,” Wilbur says, tone even but definitely bordering on aggravated. “Could you two stage this intervention a little later?”
“Wilbur,” Niki starts, voice quieter than before. “I’m just worried. Phil says you haven’t called him in over a month and-”
“You’re talking to Phil about me now?” Wilbur laughs, a bitter thing that matches his shit smile. “I’m allowed to have a part of my life you don’t touch, Niki.” Her face crumples from worry to something terribly sad.
“But why won’t you let me? You- you’ve always acted strange over the book, Wilbur, but since you met Tommy-”
Tommy shouts, “Hey! I’m helping him!”
“You’re enabling him!”
There is no sadness in Niki’s words to Tommy. It’s all anger. What’s that even mean, enabling him? Tommy’s spent nearly five fucking months doing nothing but helping Wilbur. Every day Tommy’s at his side, writing and laughing and wandering. Sometimes Wilbur’s odd, or sad, or even a little mean, but Tommy sticks there like a fucking parasite. He stays and he fucking helps.
…He is helping, right?
“Enabling me to do what, Niki?” Wilbur echoes Tommy’s thoughts with a laugh. “Fucking write?”
“Can I see the book, Wilbur?”
“Niki, stop.”
“What the fuck are you writing, Wilbur?”
“Niki!”
She shouts, “Just tell me you’re okay!”
The four of them stand there, just staring at each other. Niki worried beyond belief. Tubbo’s worry turned to something almost emotionless. Tommy feels smaller than he thinks he ever has. Wilbur finally says, “I’m very stressed. I have a deadline I’m struggling to meet. I have a story I love very much and I’ll be happy to let you and everyone else read when it’s done. It’s my unfinished symphony, Niki, you can’t-”
Tubbo speaks. “Why did you let Tommy read it? What was so special about him?”
It takes Wilbur aback. It takes Tommy too. He’s never really thought about it before. Wilbur let him read it ‘cause he was interested. Wilbur let him read it ‘cause he’s awesome.
Then, with venomous clarity, Wilbur hisses, “He’s my brother,” and slams the door shut. There is nothing but silence on the other side. This side too is feeling a little stifled. Without a word, Wilbur walks back to his desk and rubs at his face like he can take it off. He leans over the desk with his hands laid flat. Like the weight of the world holds him there.
After a moment, Tommy calls out, quieter than he means, “Wilbur?” Wilbur’s back tenses further. “Are you alright?”
“Why wouldn’t I be?” Wilbur asks in a disturbingly cheery tone. He still doesn’t look at Tommy.
“I-” Tommy hesitates. He sticks his hands in his pockets. He doesn’t know what to do. He doesn’t even know how to feel. “Is there a reason Niki’s so worried?”
Wilbur looks at him now. Still hunched, he turns just his head and looks at Tommy with something in his eyes that Tommy can’t quite determine. It’s either something scary or something scared.
“Why? Do you think there’s something wrong with me?” Wilbur asks the words slowly, not-quite carefully, like a hiss of a balloon.
“What? No, I was just-”
“Because I don’t have time for traitors, Tommy.”
“Hey!” Tommy shouts. Wilbur stands tall now. “I’m not a fuckin’- don’t be a dick, alright, I’m just worried. You work yourself to death and- and you’re driving yourself nuts with this book and- and-”
“It’s important to me.”
“It’s important to me, too! If you hadn’t noticed!”
“Good,” Wilbur sits and picks up a pen. He’s always sitting and picking up a fucking pen. “Then let’s get to work.”
Tommy just stares as Wilbur starts to write. Niki’s words echo in his head. You’re enabling him! So do Tubbo’s. I just don’t think I like the way he treats you. For the first time, Tommy realizes that things might be a little fucked. Him and Wilbur are sort of fucked. That’s his boss. That’s his friend. That’s his president. That’s his brother. That’s a man on the verge of collapse. That’s a man seconds from pressing a button. Is Tommy stopping him? Or was he leading him all along?
Deciding something, truly deciding something for the first time in at least five months, Tommy says, “Just give them the original.”
Wilbur pushes back in his chair with a terrible shriek of wood against floorboard, whirling around with a face like Tommy’s just slapped him.
“What?”
“Wilbur,” Tommy tries for gentle, but he thinks it just comes out harried. “You’ve- you’ve got to give them something, haven’t you? And this, this is good!” The first draft is somewhere within the wreckage of papers in Wilbur’s apartment. Fuck, it really is a lot of papers, isn’t it? Tommy can hardly take a step without getting his footprints on paper.
“But you’re-” Wilbur struggles, clutching his hands open and closed like a child with nothing to hold. “It’s wrong. It’s missing pieces.”
“Maybe that’s okay. It’s a story, Wil. It hasn’t got to be perfect.”
“It’s our story, Tommy. Ours!” Wilbur’s hands go to his hair, his eyes go to the floor. “They can’t- they can’t take that from us.”
“Wilbur, we know. We- it doesn’t have to be-”
“This is what I have, Tommy!” Wilbur stands suddenly, hands hitting the papers on his desk with a force that makes them fall to the floor. “This is what I am! This is- this is-”
“Ugly.”
Wilbur’s anger pauses. His eyes find the papers on the floor. He looks very small all of a sudden, and Tommy wishes he hadn’t said a thing. Tommy wishes Tubbo and Niki had just minded their fucking business. Tommy wishes L’manburg was meant to be.
“Yes,” Wilbur finally says in a quiet voice. “Yes, it is, isn’t it?”
Without another word, Wilbur leaves the room. It takes a minute for Tommy to process that Wilbur’s gone and he needs to fucking move. Terrified, Tommy rushes out of the apartment and wonders where the fuck Wilbur would even find TNT this time of night, wonders if he should be looking inside the complex or out of it, wonders if he even knows Wilbur well enough to know where the fuck he’s gone.
But Tommy steps outside, and Wilbur stands at the bottom of the steps with a lit cigarette in his hand. Tommy is too scared, too aware that they stand on a precipice, to smack it out of his hand. They just stand there in silence for a minute. Both are shaking. Tommy wonders how Wilbur even lit the cigarette.
“I don’t think it’s ugly, Wilbur,” Tommy says finally. Wilbur’s shoulders drop. “L’manburg and- I mean, I think- I mean, it’s wonderful, innit?”
“Things aren’t one thing, Tommy,” Wilbur says miserably.
“Then why’s it all ugly?”
“Because-” Wilbur cuts himself off with a sigh. He takes a drag of his cigarette and leaves Tommy to flounder.
This isn’t what Tommy’s good at. Tommy is good at silly, at pissy, at pissing someone off ‘til they’re either chasing him out or laughing with him. There’s never been a single time in his life he had to look at something, really look at someone, and know exactly what to say because they’re on a ledge and he’s the only thing keeping them from the other side of it. It’s terrifying. It sort of makes him want to run and hide, a feeling that is not particularly familiar to Tommy Innit outside of police chases, and even then he’s wont to stick around and screw with the cops. But Tommy won’t run, not from Wilbur, and he doesn’t have anywhere to hide, Wilbur’s already seen everywhere Tommy would.
Finally, Wilbur completes the thought, and of course says the most annoying thought he could ever have. “Because, Tommy.” As if that’s fucking that. As if that means a fucking thing.
“‘Cause it’s you?”
“Tommy-”
“Your stupid brain thought a few sad things, so what, it’s bad?”
“Do you want to read the ending?”
The world feels like it’s collapsing on itself. Everything is fucking collapsing. It’s all going to Hell. Is it Tommy’s fault?
“What?”
“I’ll let you read the ending.” He says it so casually. Like it’s not what Tommy’s wanted for months. Like it’s not something Tommy’s begun to dread because with every word he reads, with every page they turn, the ending is starting to feel like the end.
“No.”
In Wilbur’s shock, he drops his cigarette. The bit left burns on the concrete.
“What?”
“No, Wilbur.”
“I-” Wilbur sounds hurt. Tommy’s hurt him. “I thought you wanted to.”
“Do you think I don’t know what it means?” Tommy wraps his arms around himself, shivering in the cold and trying to find something like comfort. “You think I’m stupid?”
“No, Tommy,” Wilbur says quietly. “I wouldn’t have let you touch L’manburg if I thought you were stupid.”
“Why did you, then?” Wilbur doesn’t look at him. Just shrugs. “No, come off it, you told Tubbo I was your brother, but I wasn’t yet, so what’s the reason?”
“Does there need to be one?”
“Is there one?”
Wilbur looks up toward the sky. Tommy follows his sight, desperate to understand. Desperate to get an answer, even if he has to read it in the stars. The clouds cover each and every one.
“I knew something was missing. And I knew no one was going to know what it was. They wouldn’t notice, or if they did, they wouldn’t want to tell me. They wouldn’t want to hurt my feelings.”
“But… you knew I would?”
“No. I just knew I didn’t want you to go away. And the second you told me what was wrong with my story, I knew why.”
“‘Cause I’m awesome?” Tommy jokes weakly. Wilbur manages a smile and lowers his gaze to Tommy as he nudges him with his shoulder.
“Yeah, bro. ‘Cause you’re awesome.”
Wilbur stomps out his cigarette. He turns to head back up the steps to his apartment building.
“Wilbur,” Tommy starts, though isn’t quite sure what to say. He isn’t quite sure where they’ve left things. Wilbur stops. He turns to face him. “Does- I mean, you’ve written the story, like, three times and- and- does he always press the button?”
Wilbur gives him a secret little smile. “Yes, Tommy. But that’s not what kills him.” Without a second of pause, Wilbur turns again and walks into the building. Tommy almost doesn’t want to follow, but he does. If he isn’t following Wilbur, he doesn’t know where he’s going.
When they get to the apartment, to Tommy’s upset, Wilbur starts writing again.
“Is-” Tommy clears his throat. “Are you changing the ending?”
Wilbur doesn’t answer him. He just holds up a stack of pages. The same ones they were working on before. With no clue what to do, Tommy takes the papers from his hands and begins to read.
They work until they can’t. They don’t leave their places for anything. They order in food when they remember, but it’s hardly a thought when every second is another wasted. It’s 3am on November 16th when without preamble Wilbur tells Tommy, “Go home.”
Tommy stares at him. He’s forgotten the meaning of the words.
“Tommy,” Wilbur stands in front of him with a smile. One of the nice ones. One of the ones Tommy sees less and less these days. “Please. Go home.”
Tommy stares at the pages in his hands. What’s the difference between L’manburg and Pogtopia? What makes one a home and the other not? His brother is here, isn’t he?
“Tommy,” Wilbur keeps an even tone. Jovial. That silly, jovial man that Tommy met all those months ago. “ You can go home. I don’t need an editor for this last bit.”
“What about a vice president?” Tommy asks. “What about a brother?”
“Tommy, please, just-”
“Take off your armor, Wil. You don’t need it anymore.”
Defeated, Wilbur sits in his chair and slumps across his desk.
“This isn’t how it’s supposed to go,” he says pitifully.
“I don’t like bein’ told what to do.”
Around 9am, Quackity arrives at the apartment. They haven’t finished. They’re not close to done. Wilbur blocks the door with his body while Tommy speedreads like his life depends on it.
“Quackity, you see, I-”
“We’re done, Wilbur.”
No preamble. No grace given. Quackity just leaves without another word and leaves Wilbur dumbfounded. Tommy caps the pen he was using to edit.
“What do we do, Wilbur?”
Wilbur looks to Tommy with pinched eyebrows and his mouth slightly open. “I… don’t know.”
“Can’t we just give him the original?”
“It’s not right.”
“WIlbur, can’t we please just-”
“Stop!” Wilbur shouts. Tommy pushes up from the couch with clenched fists.
“I think you’re being really stupid!”
“And I think you’re being very short-sighted. He’s but a drop in the industry, a- a- not even a pond, Tommy, but a raindrop that I- we- we don’t fucking need him, alright? Him or Schlatt! They’re both bastards and we don’t need them! This is good, Tommy!”
“What do we do, then?”
“God, can’t you wait just a second?” Wilbur puts his hands over his ears. “Can’t you be quiet, be calm, just fucking stand there for a fucking second?”
One singular second later, Tommy asks, “What about now?”
Wilbur slams his head into the wall and Tommy’s desire to piss him off shrinks to shame and fear. Tommy doesn’t have words, just hands put out to try and stop him, but apparently Wilbur only wanted to beat his head into the plaster once and now he’s laughing, non-stop laughing, he hardly breathes he finds the whole thing so fucking hilarious apparently. Tommy doesn’t know what to do. Wilbur doesn’t know what to do, so Tommy definitely doesn’t know what the fuck to do.
“Wilbur, I-”
“I need to see Phil,” Wilbur decides. “I need to see dear old dad.” Then, he leaves Tommy standing alone in his apartment. What the fuck is Tommy supposed to do? He doesn’t even know how to be. Angry? Worried? Scared out of his fucking mind? Tommy stopped him from pressing the button but the button doesn’t kill him.
What fucking kills him?
Tommy turns to the pages on Wilbur’s desk. It’s not in the main pile, but after a few minutes of desperate searching, Tommy finds a folder with a tab very plainly titled The End. Tommy snatches the pages and reads them as quickly as he can, sick to his stomach and numb everywhere else, and every moment he spends reading is another Wilbur could be dead and the president is back in the button room and suddenly his dad is there and-
Tommy drops the pages with a jolt. Is this guy fucking serious?
It takes too long to run to Niki’s bakery, and when she sees him, she turns away from him. When he shouts, “Wil’s gonna fucking off himself, where’s his dad live?” she stares at him in terrified shock and stutters out the address. Tommy wants to say something, anything, a sorry or a fuck you or an invitation to help him save Wilbur, but he just runs. Every second matters, and right now Niki does not fucking matter. The only thing that matters is Wilbur and his stupid fucking story and every awful thing that culminates to its ending.
It’s a little funny. Tommy gets to the bus stop, desperately searching for the desk where he can get a ticket, and he can’t fucking find it and he’s so fucking scared, and it’s only when he sees Wilbur’s big, stupid head that he realizes Wilbur is as human as him. He doesn’t have special privileges that will get him to his father faster. Just a 15 minute head start while Tommy read the book. That stupid fucking book. If Tommy didn’t love it so much, he would hate it.
The only thing to Wilbur’s name apparently is a lighter he flicks on and off to entertain himself. Tommy’s entrance is smacking the stupid plastic shit out of his hand. Wilbur looks up in shock. Maybe Wilbur forgot he was human too.
Tommy didn’t really have time to decide what to say to Wilbur when he caught up to him, outside of please don’t fucking kill yourself, so in the moment Tommy lands on, “You suck so much.”
“Thank you, Tommy. Very helpful.”
“Why would you say that?” Tommy’s voice shakes. “Why would you- you knew I’d fuckin’ read it, right? Couldn’t you have just said, like a normal person, I want to die and I need help?”
“I don’t need help. And I don’t want to die.” Tommy thinks he’s aged a thousand years in this second.
“Okay. You’re actually pissing me off now.”
“I don’t want to die,” Wilbur insists. He sounds so sure. “It’s just- Tommy, do you understand? Why he had to die?” He sounds so desperate to be understood but Tommy never fucking will.
“No.”
“Don’t lie to me.”
“I’m not. I don’t see why he had to die. I don’t see why you do either. I don’t want to bury you.”
“You don’t bury me.”
“Just ‘cause you say it doesn’t make it true, dickhead.”
“It just makes sense,” Wilbur says, sounding truly baffled. Like he can’t grasp why Tommy’s so upset. Like he can’t grasp why his death would possibly upset another person. “Tommy, it just makes sense.”
“Not it doesn’t, man! Walking back with me, gettin’ Chinese, and watching a movie, Wilbur, now that makes sense.”
“That’s not a good ending.”
“Because it’s not a fucking ending!” Wilbur stares at him. A look of almost disgust on his face. A lack of comprehension because despite how big his head is it’s just filled with stupid. “It’s just-” Tommy groans. “It’s just an on and on. We keep going, on and on, and sometimes it’s shit. Right now it’s shit. But we go, Wilbur, on and on and fucking on.”
“I-” Wilbur pinches the bridge of his nose, eyes closed like Tommy’s giving him a headache instead of talking him down from suicide. “It’s not that easy, Tommy.”
“For you.”
Wilbur snaps, “Yes, Tommy, for me.”
“Well, it is for me. So,” Tommy puts out his hand. “Guess I could teach you a little something.” Wilbur just stares at the hand. He can’t even understand a fucking hand.
“It’s over, Tommy. The book is dead. Schlatt’s killed it. I can’t pay you.”
“Do you seriously think I give a shit?” Tommy doesn’t wait for Wilbur to take his hand anymore, instead grabbing Wilbur’s shoulders and pulling him up. They nearly both go down, but he keeps his grip and shouts in his face, “You think I give a single fuck about the money, man?”
“You should! Tubbo will!”
“Tubbo doesn’t know you, Wil! Not like me!”
“You shouldn’t,” Wilbur tries to push him away. Tommy’s always been the stronger of the two. “You shouldn’t, Tommy, really-”
“Bit too late, isn’t it?” Tommy bites.
“I don’t know what I was thinking,” Wilbur laughs, something strangled. “Followed by some annoying teenager, why not make him the editor of my book?”
“I know what you were thinking, Wilbur,” Tommy squeezes his shoulders. “You were thinking, fuck. This kid is awesome.”
Wilbur laughs. So does Tommy. They’re just two idiots holding onto each other for dear life as they laugh too loud in the middle of a bus station.
The walk home is a little quiet. The adrenaline is wearing off and Tommy feels like he’s gonna drop at any moment. He wonders how Wilbur’s feeling. He hasn’t gotten much of an inclination since they left the bus station, side by side. All he really knows is that Wilbur’s alive, and that Wilbur’s going to stay alive as long as Tommy has a say, and that’s pretty much all he needs to know… but he is a curious fella.
Tommy asks, and maybe he shouldn’t, but he does. “Why Phil?”
Wilbur makes a thoughtful noise. “I think… that’s what he’d do. If he could see me. The ugliness.”
“He sounds shit, then.”
“Not shit. Just scared.”
“I’m scared too. I still- I’m here.”
“You and Phil are very different people.”
“I think that’s the easiest way to love someone. Just be there.”
“No, Tommy,” Wilbur puts an arm around Tommy’s shoulders. “The easiest way to love someone is to run a sword through their heart.”
They get Chinese food. They sit on Wilbur’s couch and watch a shit movie that they make fun of the story and effects and everything between. When the clock hits midnight, when it is November 17th, Wilbur abruptly stands and goes to his room with a slam of the door. Tommy forgot he even had a room. He never used it when Tommy was here. They were too busy writing or shooting shit. Maybe it was easier to just pass out at his desk, but Tommy thinks five steps to his bedroom wouldn’t have killed him.
Tommy waits, finishes the movie, and puts the rest of their food in the fridge. When there isn’t anything else to do with himself, Tommy sits with his back to Wilbur’s bedroom door. Wilbur spends hours in there, so quiet Tommy gets scared sometimes that he’s managed to kill himself after all, but every so often Tommy is filled with relief when he hears, very faintly, the distinct sound of crying. Neither get much sleep that night.
Tommy doesn’t know how to leave Wilbur alone so he doesn’t. When Tommy has to go home the next night, to face Tubbo after nearly a week of ignoring every call and text, he makes Wilbur tag along. Wilbur is annoyed and embarrassed, but Tommy thinks Wilbur knows he would stay in that little apartment forever if Wilbur did too, so they step out of it together.
When Tubbo opens the door, he looks at Tommy like he’s seeing a ghost. He looks at Wilbur like he’s seeing a terrorist.
“What the fuck happened?” Tubbo demands.
“We lost the book deal,” Tommy shrugs. “And, uh, I sort of lost my job.” Tubbo looks to Wilbur who just smiles miserably. “Do you have any spaghetti?”
Tubbo does not, in fact, and the three dine on instant ramen. Wilbur pokes at his, but Tommy keeps kicking him until he eats a substantial amount. Wilbur glares the entire time. Tubbo also glares but into his soup.
“So,” Tommy starts when the silence is starting to grate on him. Convincing Wilbur not to kill himself was less awkward than this. “What’s new with you?”
“I’m dating someone.”
Tubbo takes a casual bite of ramen like he didn’t just drop a nuclear bomb on Tommy.
“What the fuck?” Tommy shouts. “You- what the fuck? Who?”
“You don’t know him.”
“You’re dating someone and gay?” Tommy stands up from the couch and starts pacing. “Why the fuck wouldn’t you tell me?”
“You were too busy babysitting a grownass man!” Tubbo shouts. Then, politely toward Wilbur, “No offense.”
Wilbur just looks terribly tired. Perhaps bored. Tommy guesses Wilbur doesn’t care if Tubbo is gay and in a relationship.
“Is he cooler than me?” Tommy demands. “Could I beat him to death?”
“He’s a twiggy loser. You could swat him like a fly.”
Tommy falls back against the couch in relief. “Thank fucking God.” Wilbur smiles into his soup.
“But,” Tubbo continues. “Since you lost your job, I’m gonna do what I’ve been putting off because I couldn’t talk to you about it and ask him to move in.”
Tommy jumps up again. “What if I hate him? What if our vibes don’t mesh?”
“They probably won’t. You’re very different people.”
“This sucks, Tubbo, this sucks!”
“Sorry, king,” Tubbo takes a slurp of his ramen. “What you get for losing your mind for five months.” Tommy pouts.
“I lost my mind,” Wilbur defends him. It’s practically his first words of the night. “Tommy was just… along for the ride.”
“Right. How’s that going, by the way?”
Wilbur looks away from Tubbo with a shrug as embarrassment takes over his features. “I’m eating soup,” he mumbles.
An hour later, Wilbur goes back to his apartment. Tommy was totally, completely chill with this, and was not at all silently freaking the fuck out about it. Of course, this turns into Tommy not-so silently flipping shit so bad that he’s the one who calls Wilbur at 3am this time. They’re both exhausted, but Wilbur lets him upstairs and they talk for a little while about nothing at all until Wilbur passes out at his desk and Tommy passes out on the couch.
Neither have really slept in the past couple of days. Or, well, week. Or, actually, kind of the past five months, really. So it’s about 6pm the next day when Tommy wakes up to Wilbur gathering a bunch of shit from around his apartment.
“What are you doing?” Tommy asks groggily. He thinks he could sleep a thousand more years.
“Well, I’m going to run out of money,” Wilbur says with a sigh. “And I’d rather have a bit of a cushion before I have to get a real job. I suggest you do the same.”
Tommy doesn’t think he has much to sell, if anything at all. He asks, “Do you have to get a real job? Do you think you could write something that didn’t hurt you? That didn’t matter so much?” Wilbur picks up a snowglobe with a pinched brow.
Quietly, he answers, “No.”
Wilbur gets about 500 for his troubles, and Tommy thinks Technoblade definitely gave him more than all that junk was worth. To Tommy’s surprise, Wilbur puts it in his hands.
“I never paid you for this last push,” he explains.
“Don’t you need it?”
“My dad pays for my apartment. I can get food. Take the money, Tommy.” So Tommy does. Maybe he can keep Tubbo’s fuckass boyfriend from moving in for a little longer.
A few days later, Tommy and Wilbur attempt to clean up the room of endless papers, or at least they were, and now read old versions of their beloved story with silly voices and shrieky laughter at mistakes in both writing and Tommy’s early attempts at editing not only story but grammar. He got better at it as time went on, but in the beginning he just marked every word he didn’t understand and told Wilbur to fix it. The dictionary Wilbur pulled out helped Tommy develop out of this habit for the most part.
As Wilbur does a dramatic reading of the president and vice president being exiled from the country they formed, there is a knock on the door. They look at each other, confused, not sure who it could be. Wilbur hesitantly opens the door, and Niki stands at it, eyes filled with fire and tears.
“Tommy said you were going to kill yourself,” she says, voice thick. “No one told me if you were okay.” Oops. Tommy sort of forgot. In his defense, he used all his brain power talking Wilbur down from killing himself.
“I- I-” Wilbur struggles. “I didn’t know he told you that, Niki, I-”
“You still haven’t come by. You still haven’t seen me.”
“Niki-” she pushes past him into the apartment. The fire in her eyes is still there, but as she looks at the terrible mess of papers that have definitely not even been half-cleaned, the flames are stamped out by how stupified she is.
“How do you live like this?”
Wilbur shares a look with Tommy, then answers, “Very, very poorly.”
Days become weeks. Night becomes day. Things are not easy, but things are not bad. Tommy used to think easiest was best, but he thinks he’d rather be there than shove a sword through someone, so sometimes he’s got to put a bit of work in. Wilbur’s learned similar, except the opposite a bit. When things get hard, he’s just got to take it fucking easy a little bit instead of losing his damn mind. At least that’s what Tommy thinks. Wilbur would tell him he’s a child, but he’d probably leave his mind for a minute at least.
They sit in a meadow eating pastries that Niki now makes them pay full-price for. She still doesn’t love Tommy, he thinks, but there’s a moment where they both sort of realized it was Wilbur she was mad at, so things aren’t as bad. Though things between Wilbur and Niki are a tad awkward. Not horrible, though. Imperfect, but (even though Wilbur thinks he’s so fucking special) most things are.
It’s rather early in the morning, but nowhere near 3am. The sun rises above them as Wilbur munches on a piece of almond bread and Tommy devours a cinnamon roll. Wilbur has a job interview in an hour, and Tommy was happily asleep before Tubbo and Ranboo woke him up by flirting outside his bedroom door. Because they suck. But he saw a text from Wilbur that read, do you want to get breakfast? because of it so Tommy guesses they don’t suck that much. Ranboo is much more palatable than expected, anyway. Though sometimes Tommy wonders if this whole boyfriend thing is just a ploy on Ranboo’s end to become Tubbo’s very best friend. Wilbur thinks that’s a rather insane theory, but Tommy thinks Wilbur has no right to call him insane.
Cat plays in the background as they watch the sun and eat their pastries. Its delightful little tune is a good early-morning pick-me-up, Tommy thinks. They sit in mostly silence, but both hum along to the song. It’ll probably be stuck in Wilbur’s head the whole job interview. The thought makes Tommy smile.
Wilbur stops humming to wonder, “Is this on and on?”
Tommy nods. “The on and onnest. Imagine you killed yourself and never saw this sunrise. How embarrassed you’d be.” Wilbur snorts.
“Suppose I would.”
And on and on it goes.