Chapter Text
It just isn’t fair. Tommy Innit is a perfectly agreeable person. Just ask anyone!
…Tubbo. Just ask Tubbo! He’d vouch for Tommy.
…on second thought, maybe just ask Tommy. Tubbo’s a scoundrel and a liar, if you really must know. Tommy only hangs out with him out of the kindness of his massive heart. Why else would he willingly be seen with someone under 6 feet tall?
That’s right. Tommy is agreeable and kind. Just ask anyone!
So why the fuck does he keep getting thrown out by this horrible breed of demon called manager?
It’s especially frustrating because he needs a job, he really, really fucking does. Of course, he can scam and steal with the best of them, but Tubbo’s gone and got them an actual, factual apartment so Tommy has to pay rent. Rent! Stupid 5’8 Tubbo and his stupid, stupid rent. Scams of course are still on the table, but when you live in the same place for long enough, people start to know you as the prick on 84th street who scams people. And then they stop giving you money for diluted potions for some fucking reason.
All this to say, Tommy needs a job to supplement what his drug dealing cannot, except the longest he’s managed to work is a week, this week actually, and that’s because they gave him a shift on Sunday, and then his very next shift was today, the Sunday after. They fired him ten minutes after he walked in, citing that they normally wouldn’t fire someone like this, but corporate got a call that Tommy not only tossed a plate of ravioli on a man, but bit him when the man pointed a finger at him. Tommy lied to the man and told him there were no managers on duty, so he was really hoping there would be no repercussions for his very reasonable actions.
Apparently Tommy’s response of, “He was pointin’ and shit. Find that very rude. If I can’t bite, what’ve I got these for?” and chomping his teeth at them was not what they were looking for as an apology, and they tossed him out with a measly paycheck of 18 dollars. That wouldn’t even cover the ingredients for his next batch of potions! It was an outrage, it was.
For some reason, Tubbo was mad at Tommy instead of the establishment, and went so far as to kick him out of the fucking apartment until he found a job or died trying. Well, Tubbo didn’t say the bit about dying, but it seemed very much implied.
So here Tommy is. In search of a job that won’t get mad at him for biting customers. They’re apparently far and few between. It just doesn’t seem right that a man can point at him, get right up in his face over a cold ravioli, and he can’t let his chompers loose. He’s a simple man, Tommy is, who needs simple outlets. That’s what no one gets.
Unfortunately, as he wanders from street to street trying to find a single establishment he hasn’t already been fired from or rejected by, it begins to drizzle. It’s actually nice at first, not enough to make him feel wet but enough to cool the summer air. July has been far too hot, in Tommy’s opinion, and he wears a t-shirt and cargo shorts everywhere so that is decidedly too fucking hot.
Then, it pours. Tommy shrieks up at the sky that five minutes ago were not full of dark clouds trying to ruin his already so shit day. It earns himself a few choice looks from city-goers, but he thinks he’s allowed to complain, isn’t he? Loudly and violently if he so chooses. And he so often chooses.
After a minute of drowning and being blinded by the dastardly rain, he steps into the first building he comes across with an unlocked door. As he shakes himself, he thinks the place might be a law office. As he drips, the secretary eyes him warily. Without thinking, Tommy bares his teeth at her. He just hates a motherfucker who judges by appearances. Can they not hear the very loud, very pissy storm outside? Tommy hardly speaks two words to her before he is chucked back out into the rain. The fact that those two words were, “Fuck you,” means absolutely nothing.
“Don’t suppose you’re hirin’!” He shouts as the door slams shut on his face. Whatever. Whatever. He should just head home. Even Tubbo couldn’t turn him away with this downpour, yeah? No matter how cruel his best friend has become in his quest for shelter. But Tommy thinks of Tubbo’s face, that frustrated disappointment because this is the tenth job Tommy’s fucked up the entire month of June alone. He really doesn’t want to see that face again. With a groan, he kicks at the sidewalk. Just for a little longer, he’ll keep trying. For Tubbo.
The next shop he ends up in is… swanky’s the word, he thinks. It’s one of those places with stall after stall filled with a bunch of bullshit that makes Tommy’s eyes wide and hands grabby. Before he can lay his oh-so delicate and not at all sopping wet paws on anything, a deep voice says, “Don’t.”
Tommy freezes. He frowns. Looks over at a man, slightly shorter than him but a respectable not-Tubbo height. He’s got long, pink hair and an almost pink complexion, actually. Odd man. Even odder is the crown he wears. Is he some kind of royalty? Have they got kings in this server? Could Tommy scam a royal today?
“I’m a customer,” Tommy says snottily. “Am I not allowed to custom?”
“You’re wet.”
“The rain’s doin’, innit?”
Exasperated, the guy says, “Just look. Don’t touch. And don’t go drippin’ all over my goods.”
Tommy looks in front of him. A box of records calls to him like the green goblin mask. He doesn’t think before he puts an arm out over it. In his shittiest rendition of apology, he says, “Oops.”
“Man, what is wrong with you?” Pinky gets up from his seat and Tommy makes a mad dash deeper into the store. It’s like a Labyrinth, so this guy will never catch him alive. Or maybe he will, but he’ll get awful slippery from all the wet.
After a hard minute or so of running, Tommy runs into a stall that makes his eyes turn to stars. A stall filled with nothing but chocolates? Don’t mind if he does, eh? He just got a work-out! Less than a minute later, the bitch finds him feasting on a box of chocolates and looks alarmed.
“Bro, that’s, like, 50 years old.”
Tommy frowns at the box in his hand. “Well, when do they expire?”
“About 50 years ago.”
“You should have a sign.”
“Are you serious right now?” The guy looks around, truly baffled by the sight of a teenager eating chocolates. He must not get out much. “Is this a prank? Am I gettin’ pranked?”
“Yes,” Tommy takes another bite of expired chocolate because it tastes fine and doesn’t seem to be harming his insides. He’s built different, anyway. “Walk away now, and you’ll get billions off my sick pranking video.”
Then, the man does something rather odd. He takes the box of chocolates out of Tommy’s hands.
“You’re very rude,” Tommy rambles as the man grabs him by the collar of his shirt, definitely stretching it out the prick, and starts pulling him toward the front. “What if I was going to pay? What if you’re about to throw a billionaire out on the street, and you’ll never get even a taste of my wealth?”
“I think I’ll be okay.”
“Wait!” Tommy shouts just as the man opens the door to toss him out. To Tommy’s surprise, he actually stops for a moment and looks at Tommy. “I forgot to ask. Are you hiring?” For some reason, the man’s bafflement grows to an absurd degree. He looks like he wonders if he’s even on planet Earth anymore. Tommy wonders that too sometimes, with the way people won’t hire him or let him steal their chocolates.
Then, Tommy’s back in the rain. The world must specifically hate Tommy because he’s just too good at living in it. That’s got to be it. In a fit of rage, Tommy decides to camp out on the steps of this terrible establishment. He’ll have his revenge by telling potential customers his tale of woe and they won’t want to step foot in a place that treats orphans as terribly as this. For good measure, he shouts, “I’m an orphan, by the way!” though has no clue if the man can hear him any longer. He won’t if Tommy has his way. He’ll stab his ears so that pink fuck can never hear again.
Then, from somewhere too close for comfort, a voice says, “I wouldn’t tell him that. He kills orphans.” Tommy does not jump. In a very manly move, his body bounces in an upwards position, is all. A man holding a yellow umbrella looks down on him with a tilted head. He’s also wearing a yellow sweater, and an incredibly orange jacket. Tommy squints. Is this man taller than Tommy? The only thing more offensive than a man under 6 foot is a man over 6’2.
“How many orphans has he killed?” Tommy demands. “I’ll bet I’ve killed more.” The man quirks a smile.
“An orphan killing orphan?”
“It’s a food-chain thing, you see. The better orphan survives. Eaten by the bigger crab and all. Like Amelia Earhart.”
The man blinks, then asks, “Was Amelia Earhart an orphan?” Tommy appreciates the man trying to follow his thoughts. Many people don’t.
“Dunno. She made a mighty big crab, though,” Tommy chips at the pavement he sits on. “Maybe she was just joining back with her family. It was a reunion, and she’s gone off to scuttle about with the people she loves.” The man laughs.
“I like your theory.”
“Thanks. I have more. I’m like if Chat GPT was based, and also not free.” Tommy holds out a hand. The second time today he’s made a man baffled. Perhaps the third, or the fourth, if he counts Tubbo and his manager. This man, however, seems like he’s leaning heavier toward amusement. Tommy likes people like that. If you take the world too seriously, you’re liable to lose your soul. Maybe that’s how managers become demons.
To Tommy’s own bafflement, the man actually digs in his pocket and pulls out his wallet. A 20 sits crisp in Tommy’s hand. This scam could be the next big thing.
“It’s raining,” the man says needlessly. His umbrella is protecting the both of them from the worst of it right now, but it’s still pretty fucking obvious. “You should come inside.” He motions towards Pinky’s shit-ass old-ass chocolate store.
“I just got kicked out,” Tommy grumbles. “You eat one 50 year old chocolate…”
The man shrugs. “I know the owner. And I’ve eaten more than my fair share of 50 year old chocolate.”
Tommy perks up. “So it won’t kill me?”
“Probably not. I’ve got an iron stomach, though.” Then, he puts out a hand. Tommy gladly takes it. As he pulls Tommy up, the stranger becomes less as he says, “I’m Wilbur.”
“Tommy. Innit. Careful, Danger, Kraken."
“Lot of names.”
“Lot of man.”
As Wilbur laughs, Tommy pushes open the door. Bitch boy over at the counter looks murderous.
“Nuh uh,” he points at them. “Out.”
Wilbur pushes past Tommy to lay his umbrella on the counter. “I’m vetoing you.”
“You can’t veto me, Wilbur, this is my store.”
“He’s an orphan, Technoblade,” he tosses a thumb toward Tommy, who takes the initiative to close the door and step a little closer. “If you think about it, I’m just bringing another poor soul for you to slaughter.”
“Can you not kill me?” Tommy asks oh-so politely. “I just rather like being alive, is all. I can get parents. The people love me.”
Disbelieving, Technoblade asks, “What people?” Well, that’s just rude. Tommy is beloved.
“All of them. Everyone. You included. You’re delighted by my presence, Technoblade, I’m like the son you never had.”
“Nah, I’m gettin’ an abortion.”
“You can’t do that!” Tommy shouts while Wilbur snickers. “I’m 16, you can’t abort a 16 year old!”
“You can if you try really, really hard. With a sword.” Tommy’s eyes go wide as Technoblade brings an actual, factual sword up on the counter. It’s blue and glowing and shit. How’s he got an enchanted sword on a server that doesn’t allow PVP? Not that Tommy’s ever followed that rule in his life. With a charming, nervous smile on his face, Tommy puts his hands up in placation.
“Boy oh boy, Blade, you sure live up to the name, eh?” He laughs, short and stunted. “How about we call it a draw? My muscles, your sword, who’s to say, really?” Because he’s a bitch, Technoblade unnecessarily brings out a knife as well. “Oh, that’s just not fair! I get Wilbur, then!”
“Wilbur’s useless,” Technoblade informs him and Tommy’s stomach drops. “He couldn’t beat a six year old in an arm wrestle.”
“Oh, will you shut up?” Wilbur shoots a curt look Technoblade’s way. “I let him win.”
“That’s a real story?” Tommy shouts in disbelief. “Like, factually, you got your ass beat by a six year old?”
“An arm wrestle! That I let him win!”
“You’re a very sad man,” Tommy says, matter-of-fact. “Technoblade, what if you kill him instead, eh? A sacrifice, him instead of me?”
“Hm,” Technoblade ponders while Wilbur makes pathetic noises of indignance that will not save him. “The Blood God likes that.”
Hastily, Wilbur says, “The Wilbur does not.”
“He called himself the Wilbur. Sic him, Blade.”
“I’ve a lot of regrets in my life,” Wilbur intones as Technoblade raises his sword. “But the worst is letting you into this fucking store.”
Tommy shrugs, hands splayed almost apologetically. “Not the first time I’ve heard that, believe it or not.”
Technoblade does not stab Wilbur, rather puts the sword and knife back where he grabbed them from. Then, he does something awesome. He tosses Tommy the box of chocolate he confiscated before.
Tommy whoops while Technoblade tells Wilbur, “You’re payin’ for it.”
“I just gave him 20 dollars!”
“What a coincidence. This chocolate’s twenty-one dollars. Cough it up, Wilbur.” Grumbling, Wilbur pulls more money out of his wallet. Is Wilbur rich? Are they both rich? How much robbing can Tommy do before he’s got to book it? Tommy decides that’s a question for after he finishes his chocolates. As he snacks, Technoblade asks Wilbur, “Why are you here, anyway?”
“I was on my way to Niki’s. Got caught in the storm when I saw a very angry, wet orphan on your steps. Figured it’d up my chances of getting into Heaven if I got him dry.”
“I’ll talk to God for you,” Tommy promises, spraying chocolate bits everywhere. Wilbur scrunches up his nose. “You’ll get a special room. I’ll visit, even.”
Technoblade says, “Not soundin’ like Heaven to me.”
“Not a problem, Technoblade, not a problem!” Tommy says sweetly. “I’ll assure your place in Hell.”
“Is this how you talk to all potential employers?”
“Yes.”
“And are you at all strugglin’ to find a job right now?”
“And keep one.”
“Y’know, I think I know what your problem is.”
“That I haven’t found anyone based enough to pay me yet?”
“Yeah. Yeah, man, that’s exactly what I was gonna say.” Technoblade looks at Tommy like he’s a particularly cranium-destroying headache. Wilbur watches on with a smile.
“Thought so. I’m right in all things.” Then, Tommy turns to Wilbur because he seems like the better fellow in this whole thing. He demands, “Where do you work?” Wilbur’s smile drops and his eyes go a little wider. “Get me a job there. You’ll have all the theories you could ever want.”
Wilbur laughs, something quieter than before. “I’m a writer,” he says apologetically. Tommy groans.
“Man, c’mon! Are you good, at least?”
Immediately, Wilbur answers, “Yes. I like to think so.”
Tommy asks Technoblade, “Is he?”
“I don’t know how to read.” It’s said so deadpan that Tommy struggles to tell if he’s joking. Then, Technoblade explains, “He writes crap I don’t care about.”
“It’s not crap,” Wilbur immediately defends himself. “And you like politics.”
“I like real-world politics. Never in my life have I thought, man, y’know what my life is missin’? A book about a confusin’ political system that doesn’t exist and I gotta decipher from some crazy author who forgets people don’t live in his head.”
Wilbur pouts. “You haven’t even read it.”
“I’ve heard you explain it. I think I’ll stick to biographies about actual political activists, thanks.”
“I’ve been politically active.”
“Call me when you’re makin’ pipe bombs.”
Excitedly, Tommy asks, “Do you make bombs?” Technoblade looks over to him like he forgot Tommy was there. That’s offensive. Tommy lights up a room, he’ll have you know.
“No,” Technoblade answers. “And that’s what I’ll tell the cops too.”
“I would never talk to the cops. They’ll arrest me.”
“For what?”
“Nothing. And I’ll tell ‘em that too.”
As the three of them bicker, the rain goes back to a nice drizzle. No matter how nice, Tommy doesn’t really want to be on his way just yet. Despite his rudeness, Technoblade is funny, and Tommy thinks Wilbur is rather swell. It’s been a while since he met someone who laughs this hard at his jokes. Even Tubbo doesn’t give it up like he used to. It’s nice.
Then, Wilbur grabs his umbrella. “I should be off.”
“Why?” Tommy demands. “We’re having a nice chat.”
“We are,” Wilbur agrees. “But I’ve got a friend waiting on me.” Then, he gives them both a nod, and Tommy a smile, and makes his way outside. Tommy hates when people have friends other than him. It should be illegal, in his opinion, for someone's attention to be anywhere that he isn’t. It’s why he hates that stupid Tubbo’s got a job now too.
Despite his disappointment, Tommy goes to speak to Technoblade, because surely they’re on friendly terms now, what with chocolate given and Wilburs sacrificed, but Technoblade says, “You got ten seconds ‘til the sword’s back out.” Oh, it was a sham, was it! Pink little Technoblade was just playing nice because Wilbur was around. Technoblade never even asked for his resume, which Tommy does not have but can recite by heart because all it really reads is his name and how much he wants to be paid, which is always heavily ignored by these cruel, cruel establishments. Disappointed, Tommy dashes out of the store. Wilbur’s a lot cooler, anyway, so he follows the direction he thinks Wilbur was headed and catches up quickly.
When he’s right behind Wilbur, he asks, “So, what’s your book about, anyway?” Wilbur jumps in a not manly fashion. No one can be quite as manly of Tommy, of course.
“Have I got a parasite?” Wilbur asks warily, though a smile on his face.
“Yes. Now answer my question.”
Apparently Wilbur is fine with parasites because he does just that. His novel is about a man, a hero, who builds a country with his friends and son. Then, a dastardly man appears to stop him, but they prevail, until another dastardly man comes along to steal the country right out from under the president. Lots of dastardly men. It’s interesting, though. Tommy doesn’t remember the last time he was interested like this in something that wasn’t his own mind. Wilbur’s in the middle of explaining something about their government, something Tommy doesn’t understand enough but finds fascinating enough to want to, when Wilbur suddenly stops in front of a bakery.
“This is my stop,” Wilbur interrupts himself. Tommy frowns and does not make any move to leave, so Wilbur opens the door and Tommy follows him in. A woman with a kind smile perks up at the sight of them. She’s blonde, but not as blonde as Tommy, though Tommy does not know of anyone who is. Except maybe Tubbo. But Tubbo definitely just copies Tommy by being blonde and blue eyed, and Tommy will have no talks of genetics or parentage or anything like that. Tubbo’s just clingy.
“Wilbur!” The woman’s voice rings, delighted by his presence. “You said you wouldn’t make it.”
“He loves lying,” Tommy says before Wilbur has a chance to speak. “I’ve noticed this about him.” Wilbur shakes his head, and the woman looks to Tommy with confusion.
“Hello,” she says hesitantly, in a more customer servicey voice. Tommy’s never been good at that voice. He’s been told that he can be heard greeting customers halfway across the server, and he does not sound pleased. “Who’s this?”
Wilbur answers, “Tommy. Innit. Careful, Danger, Kraken. Tommy, this is Niki.”
Amused, Niki says, “Odd name.”
“Odd kid.”
“I’m not odd!” Tommy shouts. “I’m delightful. Wilbur is delighted by my presence. So delighted he’s going to buy me the biggest, fluffiest pastry in the joint.” Wilbur half-glares at Tommy before conceding with a sigh and a nod toward Niki. Tommy grins. He’s awfully good at this parasite business.
Niki hands Tommy a giant cinnamon roll, and Wilbur hands her a ten. “Your teeth are going to fall out,” Wilbur warns him.
“Worth it,” Tommy answers, bits flying out of his mouth. Wilbur’s nose scrunches again. Tommy thinks Wilbur’s a bit of a priss. This cinnamon roll is his prize, and the second thing he’s eaten all day. It’ll be more filling than those old chocolates, too.
“Anyway,” Wilbur says pointedly and turns back toward Niki. “I wanted to see how you were. I know it’s been a minute since I last visited.” His voice takes a sorry tone.
“I know you’re busy,” she pats his hand and gives him that kind smile. “How’s the book coming along?”
Tommy interrupts, “Oh, it’s wicked! I don’t know if Wilbur’s told you, but there’s going to be a pit where people beat each other to death. Like Hypixel.”
Niki’s smile turns amused. “I’m excited to see it.”
“It’s going fine,” Wilbur answers vaguely. “I’m almost done with the first draft, just-” with a nervous laugh he admits, “My editor quit on me.”
“Not again!” Niki cries. “Wilbur, what happened?”
“Same old, same old,” he sighs and taps the counter. “Creative differences and all.”
“Why?” Tommy asks. “Your brain’s creatively good.”
Wilbur smiles. “He just didn’t like where it was heading.”
“Did he not like the death pit?” It gets a laugh from Wilbur.
“No, no, it wasn’t that.” He doesn’t elaborate. Tommy hates when people do that. He’ll find a way to make Wilbur tell him. Tommy’s quite persuasive, if he does say so himself.
“Stupid,” Tommy says.
Wilbur agrees, “Stupid.”
The three of them chat for a little while longer, until another customer comes in and Wilbur bids Niki adieu. Tommy should probably leave now too. It’s not raining at all anymore, just puddles as far as the eye can see, and he still needs to find a job by the end of the night lest Tubbo kill him with guns and knives and shit. When Wilbur leaves, though, Tommy follows.
“How long’ve you written for?” Tommy asks as they walk. Wilbur makes a considering sound.
“My whole life, probably. Only recently managed to make something that makes sense, though. Unless you’re Technoblade,” he ends bitterly.
“Technoblade’s a wrong’un.”
“The worst of the wrong.”
“I’ve always thought this.”
Wilbur smiles at him, then stops walking. He still smiles, but it looks a little different now. He starts, “Listen,” and Tommy’s mood dampens. This is where Wilbur’s gonna tell him to fuck off, isn’t it? They’ve had a nice day, but Wilbur’s got adult shit to do, and Tommy’s some random teenager bothering him up and down the street. That won’t do at all. Tommy already has a series of increasingly irritating things to do and say that will surely convince Wilbur that Tommy should stick around, and barring that, he can just stab Wilbur and steal his wallet. Easy peasy. Then, Wilbur says, “We’re close by my apartment. Do you want to read what I’ve been working on?”
It strikes Tommy silent for a moment, eyes wide and mouth open a little. He doesn’t even have to trick this guy. He’s gonna get what he wants and not even scam him to do it. That’s an odd feeling. After a few seconds of silence, Wilbur says, “Unless, of course, you’re expected somewhere else?” He sounds a little disappointed saying it. Tommy hits him in the shoulder and Wilbur looks down at his shoulder with a confused frown.
“No, no, Tubbo- he told me not to come home ‘til I found a job, so, I’m free all day! Possibly for the rest of my life, actually,” he says thoughtfully and Wilbur laughs. “I- I’m not much of a reader,” he admits. “I like a good story, but I like a good picture, eh? But yours sounds- I like it. I want to read it.”
“I’m glad to hear that,” Wilbur says, with a smile that borders between relieved and grateful. Tommy and him walk another two blocks, and Wilbur holds the door open for Tommy to enter the building. It’s nice. Not rich or anything, but nicer than the shit Tubbo’s found. It’s a place Tommy could see himself couch surfing but he probably wouldn’t try to rob.
As Wilbur unlocks the door to his apartment, Tommy suddenly says, “Don’t try to kill me, by the way. That would be annoying, ‘cause I’d have to tear your throat out, and I’m awful tired of scrubbin’ blood out of my clothes. All those orphans, and all.” Wilbur huffs a laugh.
“You’re probably stronger than a six year old. You haven’t got much to worry about.”
Sure of his might, Tommy steps inside Wilbur’s apartment and finds that it’s a bit of a fucking mess. Not the messiest place he’s been in, but there are papers and books on every surface, including the floor, and they both have to meander carefully not to trip over anything. Wilbur does not seem embarrassed by the mess. He moves a bunch of papers around, muttering that his manuscript is here somewhere.
“So,” Tommy looks around and notes a few plastic bits around the place, the kind that usually hold Slim Jims and the like. “What was the editor’s problem anyway?”
“I wouldn’t let him read the ending,” Wilbur says with a wave of his hand. “He said that was the most important part, and he couldn’t work without it.”
“I thought you said it wasn’t finished.”
“It’s mostly finished,” he admits, and makes a little aha! noise as he pulls up a fat stack of papers. “As you said before, Tommy, I like to lie.” Tommy laughs and Wilbur gives him a grin. “He didn’t quit, either. I fired him.”
“Why’d you tell Niki that, then?”
“I’ve fired them all,” Wilbur explains as he separates the last twenty or so pages into a pile. “I don’t want her to worry.” Wilbur hands Tommy the stack, seemingly without the ending and Tommy is a little disappointed but too excited to let it affect him. It’s the first time he’s been excited at the prospect of reading in… well, ever, probably.
Tommy doesn’t waste a second, parking himself on the couch and flipping to the first page.
At the beginning of everything, there was a tree.
Tommy’s hooked.
It isn’t until his ringer goes off that Tommy notices there is a mug of cold tea on the coffee table in front of him. It isn’t until Wilbur’s voice shouts, for probably the 100th time, “Tommy!” that Tommy notices his ringer is going off at all. Tommy looks up from the pages, blinking, and notices that the window overlooking Wilbur’s desk is looking rather dark. Wilbur has lost his jacket, and his hair is much more of a mess than it was before, like he’s been running his hand through it without stopping.
Tommy looks at his phone and picks up with a shout of, “And look who came crawling back!”
“Are you seriously this down on your luck?” Tubbo questions, rather judgmentally. “It’s 10 o’clock, Tommy, has no one even taken your resume?”
Before Tommy can correct Tubbo on the state of his resume, he’s struck by the first half of that sentence. “It’s fucking what?” He shrieks. Sure enough, his phone reads 10:16pm. The past four hours of his life were spent on a stranger’s couch. Reading. He knew that one teacher who insisted he had ADHD was a moron. “Shit. Sorry, Tubbs, I- I got a little distracted and-”
“Did you even look?” Tubbo sounds on the edge of his fucking rope. Not Tommy’s fault he’s frayed.
“I did! I went to a lawyer’s office and some old people store and- and a bakery and- and- and-” well, Tommy’s sort of out of places but he’s sure if he keeps saying and he’ll think of something.
“And what?” Tubbo shrieks after one and too many.
“And I was kidnapped!” Tommy shouts, earning him a frown from Wilbur. “I was kidnapped, Tubbo, you have to believe me.”
“Right, and the kidnappers let you keep your phone?”
“Well, they’ve given it back, you see, they decided they want to let me go.”
“Because you’re so annoying?”
“Out of the goodness of their heart, you dick!”
“Who in their right mind would kidnap you?”
“Everyone!” Tommy stands up from the couch, moving his free arm wildly. “I’m of high value to kidnappers, Tubbo, they all want me in their dark, scary basement to ransom my loved ones, and you’re just jealous they don’t want you too!”
“Oh, you’re unbelievable.”
“Here!” Tommy shoves the phone in Wilbur’s bewildered hand. “Wilbur, tell Tubbo how you’ve kidnapped me and are incredibly happy for it. I’ve given your life meaning. Tell him. Tell him now.” Wilbur slowly brings the phone to his ear.
“Yes, Tubbo?” Wilbur asks politely. Tommy does not hear what Tubbo says. “No, I did not kidnap your roommate. I did, however, distract him from his goal of finding a job,” he explains apologetically. “You see, he wanted to read my book so we’re at my apartment. Yes, he did. Yes, I swear to you he did. What do you mean you’re calling the police?” Tommy grabs the phone back.
“Do not call the fucking cops!”
“But you’ve been kidnapped!”
“No, I haven’t!”
“So what, you actually just went to some stranger’s apartment to read a book?” Tubbo shrieks incredulously.
“I read!”
“When?” Tommy thinks. He thinks some more. “Well?”
“I’m thinking!” Tommy shouts. “And- well, Wilbur’s story is just really cool, man! There’s this awesome guy, he’s like a general and a president, well trying to be president, and-”
“I don’t care about the novel! I care about you, idiot, and I was getting really worried!”
“Oh,” Tommy feels a little bad. “Well, can I come home now?”
Tubbo sighs, then grumbles, “Fine. But you’re out first thing tomorrow looking for another job, alright?”
“I can live with that. Bye bye, bee boy.” Tubbo hangs up on him without saying goodbye. Rude. Tommy puts his phone in his pocket and looks to Wilbur who has been watching the conversation with a mix of amusement and concern.
“Are the cops coming?” Wilbur asks.
“Nah, I convinced him you’re the nicest kidnapper ever. But I’ve got to go.” He holds up the manuscript. “Have I- can I take this or-”
“Go ahead. That’s a copy, is all. It was for my editor, actually, but,” Wilbur shrugs.
“It’s really good,” Tommy says quickly. “Like, I think- seriously, it’s, like, the best thing I’ve ever read.”
“It sounds like you haven’t read much.”
“So you know the ones I did must’ve been well good.” Wilbur smiles. “I did... uh, I did have one note, though.” Wilbur’s smile freezes. He considers Tommy for a moment.
Hesitantly, he says, “Alright. What is it?”
“I don’t think he should be alone.”
Wilbur’s face falls to confusion. Defensively, he starts, “He’s not. He’s got friends and a son and-”
“No, I mean,” Tommy taps his foot, trying to put his thoughts to words. “Everyone else is outside his head, yeah?”
“...yes.”
“I think you need someone in there. Like, someone who’s got a little more… hope, I guess.”
“What, like a moral compass?”
“He doesn’t need morals,” Tommy argues. “He needs- what he needs is-” Tommy knows what he means in his head, he really does, but the words feel stuck. He’s not one for stuck words. “His friends are splintered, yeah? They want safety. They want- they want something from him and they can’t get it ‘cause he won’t give it to ‘em.”
“That’s true,” Wilbur gives him.
“He needs someone who’s gonna be there anyway. Who doesn’t let him get lost in his head ‘cause- ‘cause they’re layin’ breadcrumbs.”
Wilbur taps his desk, something thoughtful. “Someone who doesn’t care about safety?”
“Someone who cares about his safety, above- even if he’s not particularly safe. Does that make sense?” Tommy wonders if he’s overstepped. Wilbur has this pinch to his brow that makes Tommy feel like he’s overstepped. It’s something Tommy does, often, and loudly, and without a care. But he thinks he cares about this.
Then, Wilbur smiles, and declares, “He needs a brother.” Tommy doesn’t know how, but that’s the piece that was missing from the translator between his mouth and his brain. It’s laid out perfect now, not another word needed. He needs a brother. Maybe Tommy just didn’t have the words because he’s never had one before.
“Yeah. That’s- yeah.”
Wilbur hums. “I’ll have to rewrite the whole thing.” He doesn’t sound too terribly fussed about it, though.
“Sometimes you’ve gotta do that,” Tommy says apologetically.
“Sometimes,” Wilbur agrees. Then, “Do you need help getting back to your apartment?”
“It’s not too far,” Tommy admits. “Just a few blocks from here, I think. But you should walk me anyway so I can fix your book in every way. It needs me, Wilbur.” It gets a roll of his eyes, but Wilbur grabs his ugly orange jacket and leads the way out. Tommy follows.
As they walk, they do in fact discuss the book. Tommy has a thousand thoughts, a thousand ideas—”You ever thought about drugs?” “In the abstract or-” “In the now, Wilbur.”—and Wilbur likes them, or he doesn’t and says so candidly, but Tommy thinks it’s awesome that Wilbur listens to him at all. When they get to Tommy’s apartment, Tommy finds he’s disappointed he has to go.
“We should talk more,” Tommy says with a nod. “I’m proper excited.”
“Not tonight. I’m old and you either have school in the morning or at least should.” Tommy shrugs. School is for losers. It’s something nerds get addicted to, but Tommy’s got better shit to do. “But we should.” Tommy grins.
After a quick exchange of numbers, Tommy mopedly makes his way up the stairs to his apartment. Then, Wilbur calls out, “How much are you looking for? For a job, I mean.” Tommy turns to look at him.
“I dunno. Enough to make rent. I can steal pretty much everything else.”
Wilbur smiles. “How much is rent?”
“Split between us it’s, like, 500 a month I think.”
Wilbur nods. “How would you like to become my editor?” Tommy stares at him.
“I-” he’s very taken aback. All he can think to say is, “I dropped out of high school.”
Wilbur waves him off. “I don’t care about grammar. I’m not worried about- about punctuation or anything like that, I just-” he stops for a moment. Hands pulled into his pocket, he speaks like he’s admitting something, “I get lost, sometimes, in my own head. I need someone to help make sense of it.”
Tommy thinks this is the first time in his life he’s been told he makes sense.
“That sounds pog,” is his answer. It sounds a little dumb for an editor but Wilbur knows who he’s hired. Wilbur salutes, and Tommy returns the gesture, then watches Wilbur walk away. Tubbo is not gonna fucking believe this.
Tommy races up to his apartment, almost knocking an elderly man right down the stairs but Tommy has a mission now, a purpose, and if a few people have to die, what’s it really matter? The door to his apartment slams open right smack into the wall and he shouts, “I’ve got a job!” Tubbo looks up from the couch, definitely about to yell at him about the door because they’ve already gotten complaints in the less than two months they’ve lived here, but he’s stopped short in his shock.
“Seriously?”
“Seriously!” Tommy flaps the manuscript. “Wilbur’s asked me to be his editor.”
Tubbo stares at him. “You dropped out of high school.”
“Oh, that doesn’t matter, man! Not to Wilbur!”
“Is-” Tubbo does not seem as excited as Tommy thought he’d be. Tommy literally got a job. One of the coolest jobs ever, possibly the only cool job ever. What’s his issue? “Are you sure this is sustainable?”
“Dunno,” Tommy shrugs, throwing himself on the couch. He lands on Tubbo’s feet, who pulls them up with a shout and a scowl. “Wilbur, he- well, this book he’s writing, it was supposed to be done, but now I’ve come along and he’s got to rewrite the whole thing. So I’ve definitely got at least, like, six months of a job, yeah?” That seems about the time it takes to write a book.
Tubbo continues to just stare at him for a moment, before breaking to shake his head. “You’ve got to be the luckiest guy in the world.”
“It’s because God loves me so much,” Tommy knocks Tubbo’s leg with his fist. “But seriously. This novel’s gonna be awesome. I- the main character’s seriously so- so fucking- I don’t even have the word, Tubbo, he’s grand, it’s all grand. I’d let you read it but I dunno if Wilbur would like that.”
“You actually care what your employer thinks,” Tubbo sounds perplexed. “You actually care what another human being thinks.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Tommy grouses. “I care what you think.”
Tubbo corrects, “You care about me. You’re too much of an egomaniac to care what I think.”
“I wouldn’t do whatever that means. It’s not within my nature.”
“You’re going to be a shit editor.” Without thinking, Tommy smacks Tubbo with the manuscript, then actually thinks better of it and sets it down on the coffee table, far away from their fight. Tubbo stares at the manuscript, wholly confused. “You really care about this.”
“I just think it’s good! Why’re you all weird?”
“I showed you my prized possession,” Tubbo starts, and Tommy rolls his eyes. This shit again. “I worked on that redstone engine for two years. And you broke it. And when I cried, you told me I should be grateful because it meant I had something to do for the next two years.” Tommy crosses his arms and sinks into the couch.
“I also threatened the man at the shop to give you all the redstone you needed. With a knife!”
“Which got me banned for life.”
“Okay!” Tommy shouts. He doesn’t need the little pinpricks of guilt this whole thing brings him. He doesn’t really feel guilty, anyway, he just feels a bit bad. “What’s this got to do with Wilbur?” Tubbo shrugs and tosses another look toward the manuscript.
“Dunno. Just think it’s interesting, is all. I hope it works out,” he says honestly. Then, he turns on the TV.
Tommy pouts beside him. He really did feel bad about the engine. And getting Tubbo banned. It’s just not his fault that he’s too mighty for this world, so why would he apologize? Tubbo gets it. He must, or why would he let Tommy hang around this long? Tubbo watches some shitty, boring talk show and Tommy wants so badly to watch something cool, like Power Rangers, or even one of those nature documentaries he and Tubbo meet in the middle on finding awesome. But he doesn’t. He lets Tubbo watch what he wants because Tommy’s that nice of a guy. It has nothing to do with the fact that he grabs the manuscript and starts to read again. Nothing at all.