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Okay. Three things left. Tommy stuffs his favorite green shirt, unfortunately stained with pasta sauce yesterday, into his duffel bag and yanks the zipper halfway closed. He glances behind him again, checking the door, and winces when a glass shatters downstairs. Holy shit. They’re lunatics. This was a terrible idea.
It’s fine. He’s got things under control. They won’t even know he’s gone until it’s too late.
Next into the bag is his Switch. Maybe a bad idea to bring such an expensive console to somewhere like this, but it was worth it. He knows he would’ve gotten too bored without a screen to stare at all day. Turning his phone off to ignore Wilbur was the worst decision ever, but without doing so, he would have definitely alerted somebody to his location by now.
He’s been away from home for— shit. Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday— five days. Tomorrow would be the sixth (well, technically today, it’s past midnight), but he’s getting the hell out of here now. The heat of summer creeps in through the walls, stifling him, and Tommy shrinks into himself, wiping sweat off his brow.
He’s been keeping his things in George’s room, because he’s clearly the most sensible out of the three of them, but they make him sleep on the couch. He’s pretty sure George might have offered his bed if Dream didn’t cut him off with the couch mandate. Tommy doesn’t really care— well, he didn’t, when he first got here, but now his back hurts and he’s hungry and he’s way too hot and he’s…
Maybe homesick. Maybe just a little homesick.
Things weren’t supposed to go like this, but things have been going way fucking awry since Phil died. It’s been months, and Tommy’s still numb where the pain should be, a gaping void where the hurt from losing a father should go. Techno decided he was too good for them as soon as their dad died and fucked off across the country to live alone, and then it was just the two of them, just Wilbur and Tommy, and it just kept getting worse and worse and worse.
To be fair, Tommy supposes, he’s kind of done what Techno did, because the most recent time he fought with Wilbur, it sent him over the edge. He rang up Big Q, who rang up Sapnap, who asked Dream— who said he could hang with the three of them (the Dream Team, they call themselves for kicks) for a few days. To scare the shit out of Wilbur, Sapnap had said excitedly over the phone, and there was rustling from the other side of the phone, and George’s faint, scolding voice— No, to knock some sense into him. Jesus.
Now he’s ready to get the hell out of here. George is nice, but Dream is fucking crazy, and Sapnap is ear-splitting. It’s not like he hates them or anything, but one fight with Wilbur isn’t enough to move out. He’s not Techno. He wants to go back home. Maybe next time he’ll escape to Tubbo’s and he’ll be out of Wilbur’s hair but not out of the fucking state.
Washington. He’s in Washington— an hour and a half from his house in Oregon (and fucking three hours by bus, Jesus Christ, they run so fucking slow).
Tommy composes himself, eyes darting around the room for the rest of his things. George is not only the nicest but the cleanest of the Dream Team, and Tommy was more than happy to take up a single corner of the room with his stuff while he stayed. The only rule was waiting for George to wake up before he went in to get anything— that was it. Easy and simple. It seemed so nice compared to Wilbur’s thousands and thousands of chores and rules and stressors.
Now that he’s homesick, it seems less nice. He’s still mad at Wilbur, but considerably less so than when he hopped on a bus and fucked off to Dream’s house.
Once he’s certain he has everything, rifling through his things and triple checking them (because it would be really fucking annoying to have to come back for anything), he slings the strap of the duffel over his shoulder and pads over to the door, sliding his feet into his beat-up Converse without untying them. Tommy presses his ear to the cool wood of the door, and laughter floats up the stairs. Drunk or not, Tommy’s sure they won’t notice him leaving.
Carefully and silently, he turns the knob, pushing the door open and leaning out into the hallway. It’s nothing special— just a bunch of doors and a hole in the wall that Dream keeps insisting he’s going to fix. When he creeps out of George’s bedroom, Tommy makes a beeline for the bathroom, shutting the door quickly behind him.
He’s alone, not in the open; it’s comforting. The tenseness in his shoulders ebbs away as he pulls the mirror over the sink open to reveal the cabinet behind it, scanning the shelves for the shit that’s his. There’s the ibuprofen— he’s pretty sure they’ve been using that. There’s the adderall— he can only hope they weren’t using that.
Sweeping a hand over the shelf, he collects his toothbrush, razor, and swipes a box of band-aids (never hurts to be a little prepared) and then calls it good enough, dumping all the items into his bag. That’s everything. That has to be. With dread, he swallows, and checks through things again: there are his clothes, his electronics, his toiletries, and everything else. It’s fine. He’s fine. If he left anything downstairs, he can probably live without it.
Right. Bus money. He closes the toilet and sets his duffel bag on the lid, rifling through again. At first, he panics— where the hell is my wallet?— but it subsides after just a second when he finds it, emerging with it clutched tightly in his right hand. Okay. Jesus. Bus money. Stay on track. He yanks his wallet open, stuffing his hand into the big pocket for his crumpled bills—
He swipes at air.
What the fuck?
Blinking hard, Tommy yanks the wallet open wider for further inspection, but sure enough, when he leans down to peek inside, there’s nothing in it. His ID is there, of course, and his learner’s permit, and a few useless cards to different restaurants or arcades— but no cash.
Tommy’s stomach sinks. Wide-eyed, he checks again, and again, and again, sticking his fingers in every single pocket, and he comes up with nothing every time. It must have fallen out in his bag. He practically sticks his head into the thing to look around in it, displacing everything inside to run his hand along the inside of the bag and the bottom.
No paper. No money. Nada.
Feeling contempt build in his chest, Tommy whirls around to stare at the bathroom door. Someone took his fucking money. Seething, Tommy stuffs the wallet into his pocket and zips his bag up, slamming the cabinet closed and pressing the heels of his palms into his eyes. No point being quiet now— he’s going to have to go down there and figure out what the fuck happened to the last of the money he brought with him. The money that he purposely saved for the bus. Purposely saved to get back home. Would George steal from him? Probably not, he reasons. Would Dream? Would Sapnap?
He can’t say the same for them. Enraged, Tommy yanks his bag up and throws the bathroom door open.
“Dream!” he yells, thundering down the stairs, and somebody’s laughter cuts off abruptly. There’s a show blasting loudly from the television; when Tommy gets down to the hallway and rounds the corner to enter the living room, all three of them look up from what they’re doing to stare at him. He squints, trying to sus them out— are they drunk or not?— but from here, he can’t tell, not without hearing them speak.
“Hey,” says Dream, and Tommy surveys the coffee table. It’s littered in trash: napkins, three pizza boxes, aluminum cans, and the whole nine yards. “You need something?” the man asks him, pulling his attention back, and Tommy feels frustration boiling in his chest.
“Yeah, I—” He forces himself to stay calm, rubbing his hands against his khaki shorts and taking a breath. “I had some money in my wallet and it’s not there anymore,” he accuses calmly, trying too hard to hide the irritation. “Was wondering if any of you guys saw it. Maybe I fuckin’— I dunno. Dropped it or something.”
Sapnap and George exchange a glance and look uneasily back at Tommy. Dream, on the other hand, giggles like he’s just made the funniest joke in the world. Definitely drunk. Tommy cranes his neck to look past him, and sure enough, there are taller beer cans sprawled across the glass table. “That? I used it for pizza, man,” Dream replies lazily, and Tommy sees red.
“You used my money?” he gapes, mind whirling, and Dream shrugs.
“Well I—” he hiccups— “I was gonna tell you, and shit. In the morning. I—” The show on TV catches his attention, and his eyes flit to the side. Finally, though, he seems to remember what he’s talking about, turning his gaze back to Tommy. “I’m goin’ to work on… ah.” He squints. “Monday. I was just gonna pay you back then.”
Dream shrugs, and nausea rolls in Tommy’s stomach. “You’re kidding,” he mutters, heat rising to his face. It’s Saturday night. If he has to wait until Dream gets off of work on Monday, that’s almost two whole days. The phone in his back pocket grows heavier and heavier with every word that falls from Dream’s mouth. I’m stuck in a house with three wasted guys and no fucking money. This is fantastic.
“Not kidding,” Sapnap chimes in unhelpfully, gesturing to the pizza boxes, and Tommy serves him a dead look, running agitated hands through his hair.
“Dude— shut the fuck up.”
“Sorry.”
Tommy collapses into the seat diagonal from the couch, which isn’t being used, and leans his head back against the fabric, groaning. Dream immediately becomes invested in the TV again, shouting something about the stupid fucker on the screen, and it takes all of Tommy’s strength not to rear back and kick him in the balls.
He’s not just stuck with three (?) wasted guys. He’s stranded. And even if George isn’t as out of his mind as the rest of them, Tommy can tell from just a single glance that he doesn’t have any money on him, either. The TV grows louder— Tommy glances over to find Sapnap turning the volume up— and the room grows hotter, and things start to fall apart.
He can’t be stuck here for another two days, but calling Wilbur would be the worst idea possible in the history of ideas. In fact, Tommy’s not even sure that his brother would answer. Tommy didn’t say anything when he left— just up and ran while Wilbur was looking the other way, catching the bus and skipping town. Maybe Wilbur’s worried, or maybe he doesn’t care. Either way, Tommy doesn’t want to find out quite yet.
Then, before he can wallow any further to the tune of the fucking rager commencing in Dream’s living room, it hits him: Quackity. He can call Quackity. He lives around here, right? Maybe he can get him out of this mess. Swallowing his nerves, he pulls his phone out and holds the power button to turn it on. This is the next best option. He just has to hope nobody else realizes he’s got his phone back on before he can get ahold of Quackity.
Sapnap hits Dream’s shoulder, laughing loudly at something, and Tommy shrinks into himself, rocking back and forth in the recliner. There’s still broken glass on the floor on the other side of the table; it was a glass of water, it looks like. Tommy’s eyes hook on the pieces, and they glint under the stuffy light, taunting him from across the room. It’s hot. It’s loud. He has a stomachache, and he wants out desperately.
When he glances back down, his lock screen stares back up at him. Gratefully, Tommy swipes his phone open, inputting his password and then guiltily ignoring the hundreds of missed calls and texts from Wilbur, his friends, and anyone else. As he passes by Wilbur’s contact, he tries not to look at the preview of the latest message (from yesterday, actually), but he can’t help it, skimming over it.
I hope you’re safe. I'm keeping an eye out. I love you.
Swallowing bile, Tommy hurriedly scrolls past, ignoring everything else and thumbing through his contacts to get to Quackity. It doesn’t take him long to find ‘Big Q’ in his phone and hit call.
He glances up at the Dream Team as it rings in his ear. Sapnap and Dream are absorbed in each other’s idiocy, swaying back and forth and laughing so hard it looks like they might be sick. George chuckles, but makes eye contact with Tommy, brow creasing. He’s definitely not as drunk, then, Tommy decides.
He tries not to let George’s concerned glance make him feel bad. Instead, Tommy looks away quickly and stonily, pulling up his bag and standing from the recliner. He doesn’t say anything, backing out of the room and into the kitchen as the phone keeps ringing.
When Quackity finally picks up, it feels like it’s the last ring. “Tommy!” he exclaims, drawn-out and exaggerated, and Tommy’s heart instantly shoots into the soles of his feet.
It’s fine. He’s like this all the time. “Sup, Big Q,” he greets, summoning happiness and leaning on the counter. “I got some good news and bad news. What d’you wanna hear first?”
There’s a loud commotion in the background, clinking and voices, and Tommy strains and finally realizes he’s hearing dampened music. “Ahh, news,” says Quackity, and then: “Hey, don’t touch— I said—” His voice trails off, further from the phone, and Tommy swallows. He must be busy. He can only hope he’ll make an exception.
Since Quackity didn’t really answer, Tommy just goes with both at the same time. “Well, I’m ready to go home,” he declares, and then lowers his voice (not that Dream or Sapnap would be listening, but he feels bad talking shit about them where George can hear). “But fuckin’ Dream stole my money to buy pizza and shit, and now he’s out. And I don’t have anything for a bus ticket.”
There’s a loud shout and laughter from over the phone, and then Quackity’s voice comes back to the surface. “Sorry, what—? You don’t have any money for a bus ride,” Quackity quickly amends, and then seems to realize the implications. “Oh, shit! You’re stuck!” Relieved, Tommy nods, and then remembers Quackity can’t see him. Before he can get a word in, the dark-haired man is going on. “Don’t worry about it, man, I’ll venmo you thirty. All good.” Something clacks, rolling— where the fuck is he? Are those pool balls?
And then it clicks, and Tommy gapes. Oh. Oh, no. “Ven— venmo— Big Q, I don’t have a bank account.” A rattling breath, and Dream yells something from the couch, and it’s hot, and Quackity’s background noise screams in Tommy’s right ear, and the world is too much for him. “I was just—” fuck, oh, fuck. “I was just, um. I was actually wondering if you could… you know.” His voice grows small, and he clears his throat awkwardly. “Come pick me up, maybe.”
The line crackles, and Tommy hears Quackity shout something, laughing. It’s contagious; Tommy feels a few hysterical giggles bubble up in his chest as his hopes sink further and further into the ground, like he’s in on the inside joke, too. Soon, he swallows the frantic chuckles. Please, please say yes.
“—need a ride? I c—” Quackity calls into the phone, cutting in and out, and Tommy nods frantically, opening his mouth to reply, and the world moves slowly, and the house shakes, and—
—and the line goes dead. And Tommy’s alone in the kitchen, ears ringing as he slowly brings the phone away from his ear and stares in disbelief at the screen. You have got to be fucking kidding me.
There’s a noise from the doorway, and Tommy glances up, throat tight with anxiety and the weight of holding back frustrated, desperate tears. Standing there, looking guilty as hell, is George. “Hey,” he says, “I just need to grab a glass of water,” and Tommy practically hangs his head, staring at the marble counter as the greys and blacks blur together.
“Yeah, whatever,” Tommy mutters, sliding out of the way and towards the hall. He doesn’t look back; Tommy’s pretty sure George had more to say than that, but at this point, he doesn’t want to fucking hear it.
Blinking to clear his vision, Tommy plops down on the bottom step, exhaling. Dream and Sapnap are out of the question entirely. George probably won’t drive so far and back at this hour. Quackity is completely unreliable.
This leaves Wilbur. Tommy unlocks his phone in defeat.
He doesn’t want to look at the texts Wilbur has sent, however many of them there are (and judging by the spam that takes up his screen and notification center, there are a lot). Instead, Tommy ignores them entirely, ignores all the I’m sorrys and the come backs and the I miss yous in favor of thumbing out his own message. It takes him a few tries.
wilbur i’m sorry i’m scared can y
Too desperate. Too accepting of his defeat. Too honest. Tommy can’t remember the last time he’s been so vulnerable with his older brother. He backspaces it all.
wilbur i’m at dream’s can
Too quick of an admittal. Too rude. Too upfront. Tommy deletes that, too, frustrated, and comes up with about a million other stupid combinations of words, typing and deleting and typing and deleting over and over. Finally, frustration blinds him, and he pastes his location into the bar from Google Maps. Before he can get cold feet, he hits send.
At first, the message doesn’t go through. Then delivered shows up under the message, and Tommy freaks out immediately.
Oh shit. Oh fuck. Piss, wank, balls. He’s smarter than this. He should have found some other way. He should have just waited until Monday. He should’ve, he should’ve, he should’ve. He’s an idiot. There were so many better ways to do that. Finally, Tommy swallows, staring hard at Dream’s address in his messages with Wilbur. Fuck, he can’t just leave that there. Again, Tommy begins to type, regretting every word he puts down on the screen.
wilbur i’m sorry i miss you
Send. Fuck. Repeat.
i don’t have any money i cab’t get home
Send. Fuck. Repeat.
please pleasw help i don’t know wgat to do
Send. Fuck. He breaks the cycle. Tommy drops his phone like it’s burning hot, letting it tumble into his lap and then lifting his gaze to stare at the front door, wide-eyed. He’s going to puke. This was a terrible idea. Actually, every decision he’s made in the past five days has been a terrible fucking idea. He wants to go home.
Tommy swallows, glancing back down at the phone. Nothing. No typing, no ringing, nothing— until the delivered disappears, replaced with the word read. Tommy holds his breath.
Wilbur does not type. Wilbur does not reply. He’s going to leave him here.
Instantly, Tommy hits the call button, panic rising in his throat. Please come get me. Please, please come get me. I don’t want to be here. I want to be home. I’d rather get yelled at every night for a month than this. The phone rings and rings, taunting him, and when it finally cuts out, when Tommy waits in agony for Wilbur’s voice… he gets the voicemail.
Fuck. He calls again. Voicemail. Again. Again. No answer every time. Is this how you felt? he thinks guiltily, shrinking in on himself. Wilbur’s not going to help him. Wilbur’s decided that he’s had enough. Wilbur’s decided Tommy isn’t worth driving an hour and a half for. Wilbur’s decided Tommy’s got to deal with this one on his own.
Monday, Tommy thinks miserably, standing and swaying and picking his bag up. No escape until Monday. There’s no way of getting home until he’s got money, now. Techno’s all the way across the country, Phil’s six feet under, his best friends are too inexperienced to drive so far out, Quackity’s trying to send him money to a Venmo that doesn’t exist— and Wilbur doesn’t care anymore.
He starts back into the kitchen and swallows. At least he can play his Switch until he falls asleep— but at this point, sleep feels like it’s going to be escaping him for a long time to come. A quick glance at his phone screen tells him it’s already half past one. He predicts sleep to come at four, at the earliest. Maybe three thirty if he’s lucky.
When he passes through the kitchen and back into the living room, Tommy tosses his bag onto the ground carelessly, rifling around for his Switch and then flopping down onto the recliner. George is back in the room. Tommy holds back from shooting him a dirty look— even though he couldn’t give less of a shit if George takes offense. After the brilliant display of half-concern half-guilt in the living room and the spectacular two-sentence conversation about water in the kitchen, George deserves it.
Haven’t any of them ever been upset before? Haven’t any of them worked for their own money? Tommy still can’t believe he essentially got robbed by a guy that’s, like, six fucking years older than him. He side eyes the couch again, eyes locking on Dream. He’s supposed to be an adult— he can legally drink, drive, and do about a million other things, but apparently, those things do not include keeping one’s hands off of kids’ money.
Jesus Christ. He’s bitter. Tommy shifts, glancing away from the three of them, and sighs. They’re going to be up for a long time; he might as well be, too. No harm in sticking around to make sure nothing else goes missing, as insufferable as it is down here. Tommy’s at his fucking limit anyway. What’s a little more?
He leans into the recliner and ignores his phone, curling his hands into fists and then releasing them. He doesn’t want to answer Tubbo and Ranboo. He’s pretty sure there was even a message or two from Techno, too. Tommy boots up Mario Kart 8 and ignores the shit out of all of them.
Time ticks by. Guilt crawls all over him like spiders, violating his personal space and sliding across his skin. It’s unbearable; Tommy finds himself shifting in his seat over and over to try to get over it. Every time he glances over to the other three, George catches him looking. Every time Sapnap or Dream yells something, Tommy exhales shortly. Every time the house sways and creaks and settles, Tommy drives off the track and waits for the fucking turtle guy with the glasses to reset his cart on the road.
He notices that George does not pick up a drink for the remainder of the time Tommy’s seated there, wriggling around in the recliner. He notices that Dream shoots him a few glances in the way. Finally, Tommy breaks, reaching down for his phone again. He can’t do this. He has to try again.
Dream and Sapnap don’t shut the hell up, elbowing each other, and Tommy hits the call button next to his brother’s name again, holding the phone up to his ear. It rings, and rings, and rings, and then cuts out. Tommy swallows hard, trying again. This time, he clears his throat and pipes up, irritated once again: “Hey, guys.” They all glance over at him, and suddenly, he’s in the spotlight. “I’m trying to call Wilbur. Could you… you know.” He waves a hand, and Sapnap shrugs loosely.
Dream, on the other hand, does not agree so quickly. “You’re callin’ your brother?” Tommy nods rawly, vulnerable, and Dream squints one eye. “I mean, didn’t you leave ‘cause he didn’t care?”
It stings. Tommy turns his face away from Dream, back to the phone, and his cheeks burn with humiliation. “Fuck you, man,” he shoots back, thumb hovering over the call button. His mind floats back to his last conversation with Wilbur, doors slamming and silverware clattering on the table as they screamed back and forth at each other about family and ties and everything being wrong, wrong, wrong.
It’s been hell since Phil and Techno left them together, both in different ways yet both gone all the same, and Tommy’s tired of living like this. It’s no better in Dream’s house, though, sloppy and messy and disorganized in a different way. Tommy hates both. He can’t stand Wilbur’s pressure, Wilbur’s insistence that Tommy get up at a regular time every day and do a million fucking chores and do a summer class and go to the park and stop eating out so much and stay at home for once instead of leaving to Tubbo’s every fucking day because—
Tommy grits his teeth. Because what? Because he hated it there? He doesn’t hate Wilbur. He can’t. Tired, he sinks into the couch. Wilbur’s just doing his job. Wilbur’s just being a brother. If Tommy’s lucky, maybe Wilbur’ll forgive him when he gets home. He hits the call button, and the phone rings.
“I’m just saying,” Dream goes on easily, quite a rude interruption of Tommy’s reverie, and the blond looks up to lock eyes with him as the phone buzzes and rings. “You sure he even cares?” Tommy’s lungs lose their breath. “I dunno if he’ll answer. Maybe you shouldn’t keep calling.”
It’s a strike directly to his heart. Tommy feels hurt flash across his face as Sapnap roars with laughter, smacking Dream’s arm and cawing something about rude and out of pocket.
“Dream,” George mutters uneasily, glancing back towards Tommy, but he doesn’t care anymore. The damage is done. First Dream takes his fucking money, and now he says his own brother doesn’t care about him—
Tommy hates this guy. He needs to get out of this house. The phone plays Wilbur’s voicemail again, and Tommy drops it onto the carpet, returning to the switch.
Minutes pass. Hours. He’s not really sure what time it is anymore. Dream and Sapnap move on to Mortal Kombat, so blood is spraying across the screen just feet away from where Tommy’s sitting, which is always great. They’re getting louder and louder, and he’s considering retreating to George’s room, just giving up and taking his bed by now. What could go wrong?
Sure, he’s been the nicest to Tommy all evening, but he hasn’t actually done anything. Tommy’s sure if he asked, Dream would happily give him liquor (or anything else, probably), but he doesn’t want it. All he wants is some fucking peace and quiet— and after that, to go home.
His stomach growls, so Tommy slides out of his seat, grabs his phone, and pads into the kitchen. He’s gotten into the habit of just pulling the fridge door open like it’s his, thanks to Dream’s insistence (he’s a lot nicer when he’s not shitfaced, to be fair), so that’s what he does, scanning the shelves and drawers for something to snack on.
Ultimately, he picks a cheese stick and sits at the island in the middle of the kitchen. One of them gets completely slaughtered in Mortal Kombat— probably Dream, if the volume is anything to go by— and Tommy unwraps his cheese stick, peeling strings off to eat.
It’s fine, nicer than in the living room, and he’s watching YouTube on his Switch now, watching some guy build a life-size house out of popsicle sticks folded into lattice. He almost thinks he’s content— almost— and then somebody raps on the door, shutting them all up real quick.
Tommy remains silent as Dream bitches and moans about the neighbors, stubborn and determined not to help. Apparently, they’ve gotten noise complaints called on them before, according to what Dream’s whining from the living room. Tommy blinks and then freezes: if they’ve got a noise complaint, it’ll be the cops at the door.
He scrambles out of his seat, clutching his phone to his chest and then pressing himself to the other wall of the kitchen. From here, he can’t be seen from the front door. From here, he can listen to the conversation without being spotted. He exchanges a glance with Sapnap, who’s still sprawled over the couch, and the other is the first to look away.
Tommy realizes his head pokes in view of the kitchen’s front window, so he ducks, folding himself into a shape that can’t be seen (not unlike how he is on the inside, anyway). Dream mutters as he steps towards the door, and Tommy curses himself for leaving the duffel bag and Switch over by the chair, and then the door creaks open, and:
“Look, man, I get it if we’re loud—”
“Where is Tommy?”
Tommy’s blood runs ice cold and then warm as the humid air outside in his veins.
Instantly, he throws himself around the corner before Dream can get halfway through calling for him, hair wild and string cheese abandoned on the counter. Standing in the doorway with a glare as cold as ice is his older brother, donning a coat despite the weather and looking as if he hasn’t slept in days.
Knowing Wilbur, knowing how he is, it probably has been days. Immediately, ten tons of guilt crash over his shoulders. “Wilbur,” he greets breathlessly, darting to the chair for his bag. Wilbur stares back at him wordlessly, bags dragging his whole face through the dirt, and Tommy looks away, swallowing the lump in his throat. Definitely no hug, then.
He yanks his bag up and over his shoulder and elbows past Dream towards the door, and it’s over so fast. “Did you get everything?” George asks faintly, from back behind them, but Tommy doesn’t reply with much other than a quick fuck you, dude thrown over his shoulder at Dream just for some closure as he walks out the door.
He does care, Tommy thinks triumphantly. He does, and you stole my fucking money, anyway.
It’s cooler outside than Tommy expected it to be; it was probably so hot in that shithole because Dream doesn’t have the money to turn the air conditioning on yet. Monday echoes in his head, and Tommy shudders, glad he won’t have to deal with it for another two days. Wilbur grabs his sleeve as they walk, though, and Tommy ducks, shoulders coming up like a guilty dog. He knows what he’s done, and Wilbur knows, and he’s obviously not gonna let it go that easily. Tommy can already tell his phone and his Switch are going to be surrendered by the end of the night, if nothing else. Oh, well. He can always run to Tubbo’s in person instead to tell them he’s back.
Or… maybe not. Maybe he’ll be grounded. Scratch that— he’s definitely going to be grounded. Tommy grimaces.
Dream’s driveway is long as hell, and Wilbur’s parked on the other side of the street, so the walk is long and awkward and painful. Wilbur looks both ways enough times for the both of them combined. It’s not until they finally reach his brother’s car, a dirty old Jeep with a crack in its windshield, that he loosens his hold on Tommy and then abandons it, walking around to the other side of the car. Tommy opens the back first, tossing his bag in, and then pulls himself into the passenger seat. Both doors slam in succession, and there are two clicks of seatbelts, and then there is silence.
Wilbur doesn’t start the car. He doesn’t slot the key into the ignition and turn it, doesn’t flick on the headlights, doesn’t take the car out of park; instead, he leans forward, his forehead pressing against the top of his steering wheel.
Tommy shifts, again feeling nauseous. There are several things happening within him. The best of them, the greatest feeling in the world, is relief. Wilbur is here, they’re going to go home, and whatever trouble Tommy will be in will probably be more bearable than the stupid fucking Dream Team’s house for another two days. Next in line is dread: dread at Wilbur’s punishment, dread at Wilbur’s reaction in general, dread at the idea of explaining to his friends why he went absolutely off the grid for five days in a state that didn’t even belong to him.
But the primary, frontmost feeling in his gut is guilt.
Tommy side eyes Wilbur and then glances away out the passenger side window, examining the siding of the house across from Dream’s that they’re parked in front of and minding his own business. The worst part of this all is the guilt, the crushing remorse that accompanies his terrible decisions and the haphazard plans to run blindly into the night, looking for a path to follow.
It makes his chest so tight that he can’t stand it, regret coiling around his ribs and squeezing tight until they snap. If he could do it all over again, he’d call up Tubbo and ask to spend the night and offer to help him clean when the excuse was his dirty room. If he could do it all over again, he’d scream a little less loud at Wilbur, throw the silverware a little less far across the room, slam the door a little less hard.
If he could do it all over again, he wouldn’t do it at all.
“I’m sorry,” come the first words out of his mouth, raw and squeaking against the stark silence in the car. His brain is muddled, mixed together and jumbled, and all he wants to do is go home and sleep. Tommy leans his forehead against the cool glass of the window to mitigate the heat in his face, and it’s then that Wilbur inhales sharply. It’s then that Tommy freezes in dreaded anticipation of what Wilbur is going to say to him as a first greeting.
“Sorry? You’re fucking sorry?” Wilbur snaps, sitting up from the steering wheel and rigidly upright. He turns to look at Tommy, staring with piercing eyes, and Tommy stares back, pressing his lips into a thin line. Wilbur’s not done; he doesn’t want to answer yet. “I’m afraid sorry doesn’t fucking cut it.” There it is. “I had to call the fucking cops, Tommy. I had to call the cops to report you as a missing person.”
Hostility hangs in the air. Tommy opens his mouth to reply, but doesn’t, closing it again. There’s a wild, furious look in Wilbur’s eye, and for a second, Tommy is afraid. For just a split second, Tommy’s spine screams to curl in on itself, and he itches to throw his hands up, to shrink away, to protect himself. Then he comes to his senses, and there is nothing but sad left.
Wilbur has plenty more than sad. It sounds like he could keep going forever. “A missing person. My god— I had no idea where you were. I talked to Tubbo and Ranboo, and they didn’t know, either. I talked to fucking Techno, Tommy,” Wilbur cries, his voice breaking, and Tommy’s heart shrivels and dies right there in his chest. “And he said he’d heard nothing about you. I had no idea where the fuck you were, and then when you finally text me, you finally send me your location—” Wilbur cuts himself off, wrapping his hands into fists, and Tommy takes a shaky breath. It wasn’t supposed to be like this. It was never supposed to get so bad, but there’s only so much he can do when the house starts to feel like a prison.
“I didn’t—”
“You knew what you were doing!” Wilbur yells, and Tommy cringes, going silent again. “I looked for you for five days, Tommy. I didn’t work, I barely ate, I barely slept— I worried and panicked and cried over my baby brother for almost an entire week, and when I finally fucking show up, you’re here at Dream’s house, probably doing drugs and getting wasted and god knows what—”
“I’m not fucking doing drugs, Wilbur, Jesus Christ!” Tommy explodes, and that’s the last straw, the final weight that tips the car over the teetering edge. Tommy forgets his guilt, forgets his hurt and remorse and homesickness, and instead remembers why he ran away in the first place, why he so desperately needed a break from the life that was slowly crushing him from the inside out. “This is the exact reason I fucking left, you stupid fucking—”
“How was I supposed to fucking know that?” Wilbur shouts, and Tommy lunges forward, ferocity dragging him halfway out of his seat to shout back just as loud.
“The only reason I left is because you’re fucking insufferable to live with!” Silence. Wilbur actually looks shocked, for once, and it fills Tommy with a spiteful smugness that he can’t shake. He’s winning. He’s winning right now. It doesn’t matter if he’ll lose eventually, or if he scared the shit out of Wilbur by running away— he’s winning now, in the moment, and it feels so fucking good to hold something over Wilbur’s head after all these months.
“I can’t stand it, Wil,” he goes on, wrath twisting in his chest, and he imitates his brother’s voice. “Do this, do that, blah, blah, blah. Don’t let your grades slip. Don’t let your room get too messy. Don’t talk to him, don’t be friends with her, stop reading this, stop watching that, JESUS!” Tommy screams, throwing his hands up in the air. “I’m not your fucking baby brother, man! I have my own life! I can’t do this anymore— why don’t you fucking get it?”
Wilbur smacks the console, and Tommy jumps, hard. When he replies, it’s so loud that it makes Tommy’s ears hurt— even louder than Sapnap or Dream or the blood on the television. “Because I’m trying to protect you, Tommy! I don’t understand why you can’t see that, but it’s not my fucking issue if you’re too blind to see it! I’m your older brother, Tommy, I—”
“You aren’t fucking protecting me!” The car is heavy with jagged breaths, Wilbur catching his and Tommy finding his own, too. “You’re stifling me! You’re fucking killing me like a bug! I’m dying, Wilbur, I can’t live like this—”
“Oh, please—”
“Don’t pretend like you’re not happy to see me like this!” Tommy interrupts sharply, leaning forward in his seat and craning his neck to get a good look at him. “If you’re so fucking obsessed with controlling everything I do, you must like it when I’m fucking miserable, right?”
Wilbur slams the heels of his palms against the steering wheel once, twice, three times, and Tommy recoils at the banging. “I’m the only family you have left! I’m trying to be here for you!” The car falls into silence again and Tommy chokes on air, chokes on the words Wilbur has dropped at his feet in a tidy little bag that he doesn’t want to keep. “I hope you got what you wanted, Tommy. I hope you found some fulfillment from all this, because it is never, ever happening again.”
Tommy’s ears have started to ring again, and he spaces, staring at nothing and slouching painedly in his seat. Wilbur is the only family Tommy has left. He’s right. Wilbur’s only here because he has to drag Tommy along behind him.
If Wilbur decides he doesn’t want to take care of a kid, if Wilbur decides he doesn’t know how to raise a child, if Wilbur decides Tommy is too much, too bad, too disobedient, he’s just going to get rid of him. If Wilbur decides he doesn’t want to have a brother hanging onto him like a leech anymore, he can dismiss him with the simple snapping of his fingers.
Oh, god— Tommy’s going to be sick. Wilbur doesn’t even care. Maybe it’s too late. Maybe Dream was right. Maybe Wilbur’s done. Running away was the straw that broke the camel’s back— or driving out here to get him was. Wilbur’s done caring, done dedicating his life to a boy who doesn’t appreciate all his hard work, and now, he’s going to give Tommy away. He’s going to drop him like a hot potato.
Panic rises in Tommy’s throat, and he claws for a hold on something, gripping the armrest of his seat and leaning forward. He can’t lose like this. He can’t be discarded so easily like this. If he beats Wilbur at his own game, if the tempest grows in his chest and washes the whole thing out, if he lets the anger and ignorance fester, if he screams to let it out and addresses the elephant in the room before Wilbur can, he wins. He’ll be first. He’ll come out on top. Something rattles angrily in Tommy’s chest— a tiny drizzle, or maybe an earth-shaking thunderstorm— and he sees red, gripping the armrest with white knuckles and— and—
“You just wish I was dead instead of fucking Dad,” Tommy screams, burning his throat raw with the emotion that starts to pour down his cheeks. It’s been plaguing him for weeks, the notion that his brother would replace his soul for Phil’s in an instant. He’s right. He knows he’s right. All of them would be much better if he were dead, anyway— Techno wouldn’t have left, and Wilbur wouldn’t have a kid to take care of, and Phil would be alive. It eats at him at night and follows him like a shadow during the day, through every clean your room and every don’t be ungrateful that tumbles dutifully from his brother’s mouth.
Wilbur flinches as if hit, which only serves to solidify the accuracy of Tommy’s jab, and things seem to pick up again. The argument comes back. The brooding, pained silence of realization is banished. His brother’s eyes betray his feelings, furious and deeply wounded, and when he opens his mouth, Tommy knows he’ll scream louder. He’ll always be able to. “Tommy, I thought you were fucking dead! Don’t you fucking give me that look, I thought you were!”
Wilbur thought he was dead. After five long days, with no word from any police or friends, Wilbur thought Tommy was dead. For a second, Tommy considers it, running it over in his head as his shoulders shake from the sobs. If Wilbur disappeared for five days, would Tommy assume he was dead? If Wilbur fucked off across the country like Techno without saying anything, would Tommy think he was gone for good? Would he ever expect to see him again? Will he have a family past the age of eighteen? Is Wilbur going to kick him out?
The tears are hot on his face, intolerable in the summer heat. It’s unbearable in this car as a whole, stuck in a confined space with Wilbur without even so much as a fan to blow the tears right off his face. He can feel the Dream Team fucking watching them from the windows across the street, stuffing popcorn into their ugly faces and using Tommy’s fight as entertainment. He can feel them placing bets. He can feel Dream whispering that maybe Wilbur never did really care. It digs under his skin and worms its way into his head, and Tommy wrings his hands, and it hits him then, a tirade of hurt and fear and insecurity that washes him out until he’s nothing. Nobody.
All eyes are on him. Tommy sobs, the only thing breaking the silence (for Wilbur is a silent crier), and clenches the material of his shirt in his hands, trembling. The weight of their father’s death removes the numbness, the void, from Tommy’s heart, and it gets him right where it hurts, right where he’s been unfeeling for all this time.
It shocks him when it appears, grabbing his insides and wrenching hard, and Tommy can’t do anything but sit back and play victim. The sobs wrack his body, and he hunches over himself, guilt and hurt and death following him around and piercing him like needles. His father is dead, and his brother ran away, and he’s rapidly ruining his relationship with his last remaining family member. Wilbur said it himself: he’s the only one left. If Tommy fucks this up, he has nothing— and he already has.
Wilbur wants to say something, but there are unwelcome thoughts bouncing around in Tommy’s head, the kind of thing he’d get in big, big trouble for ever joking about. Only this time, it’s not a joke. This time, it’s real, and it’s fresh, and it’s so scary that he has to tell somebody, has to blurt it to Wilbur between sobs: “Maybe I— maybe I fucking wanted to be.”
Wilbur’s expression changes drastically, his face dropping and paling several shades, and Tommy knows he’s fucked up.
“What?” Wilbur asks quietly, and Tommy folds his arms over his chest, shaking. Wilbur is relentless, reaching over for his shoulder, and Tommy hits his hand away, shrinking back from the touch. “Tommy—”
“I didn’t mean that,” the blond mutters weakly, voice cracking and dissolving into pieces before them. He is a little tablet dissipating in water, a little strip of paper torn apart by the molecules moving so quickly back and forth. Tommy is sinking into the dirt, seeping into the ground to stay there forever. The only one who can drag him out is Wilbur. The only one who can save him is Wilbur. “I didn’t mean it, just— fuck off.”
“Tommy,” his brother says seriously, “look at me,” so Tommy does, tears in his eyes and a sharp ache in his stomach. Wilbur’s not fighting anymore, not hitting things and shouting and trying to prove a point that Tommy will never agree with— the only thing left over from their screaming match are the tears. “I’m serious,” Wilbur murmurs, and Tommy pulls away, pulls back, flattens his hands against his thighs.
“I’m fine. It’s fine.”
“Tommy.”
He glances up, looks to Wilbur, and finally, instead of a monster, he is a brother. Finally, instead of a villain, he is the only one who can help, the only hero left to save Tommy from this dark abyss. Finally, he is the hand reaching down into the cave, and he is the light at the end of the tunnel, and he is the savior that Tommy always needs him to be, the older brother that Tommy always wants him to be.
Tommy purses his lips, but they quiver anyway, and within seconds, he is reduced to nothing but his tears again. “I’m okay,” he says through tears, showing Wilbur his hands face-up. “I’m fine, it’s fine. It’s okay.” He’s not sure which one of them he’s trying to convince. Even still, after everything, his brother reaches over the console with trembling hands, wiping tears from Tommy’s face and fixing his hair and then pulling him in.
From across the console, Wilbur pulls his head forward, and Tommy drapes himself over the thing to get to his brother faster. Finally, Wilbur’s forehead touches his, and it’s such close proximity, such blatant sensory input, that Tommy closes his eyes, pressing his lips into a thin line. “Tommy,” Wilbur whispers, and it doesn’t help the crying, doesn’t help the huge, jumbled mess in his head.
“I will always be here for you,” Wilbur promises, squeezing his hands as he cries. “I drove all this way. I drove all this way for you because there was nothing else I could do.” A shaky breath; Tommy keeps his eyes closed, but migrates, slotting his head against Wilbur’s shoulder under his chest. “I couldn’t wait for anybody else to do it, police or not. I was so scared, Tommy— and the house was so quiet without you—”
There’s silence when Wilbur breaks off, nothing but Tommy’s small hiccups left. Tommy is fine. He’s stitching himself back together inside, stitching himself back together with one rekindled word at a time. Finally, he opens his eyes, pressed to Wilbur’s chest despite being halfway across the console. He doesn’t hold his weight well, Wilbur supporting most of him instead, and he shivers.
“You can tell me if something feels wrong,” Wilbur whispers, pushing hair out of his forehead as Tommy hiccups and gasps and fights the tears that blaze deep trails down his cheeks. “You can tell me if you don’t feel right, Tommy, that’s what I’m here for.” There’s a pause, and finally, one of Wilbur’s sobs is audible. “I’d do anything for you, Tommy.”
He doesn’t believe it. He can’t believe it. The missed calls, and Dream’s words, and Phil’s death— he can’t afford to believe it, can’t take another heavy hit to the heart. “You want me gone,” he croaks, “want me dead,” and Wilbur inhales sharply, his hug tightening. There’s a long stretch of silence, and Wilbur still cries back, however quietly. They’re brothers in that way, if nothing else, the contagious crying.
“Tommy,” Wilbur prompts as he has a thousand times before, and the blond leans back over the console to his side of the car, messing with his fingers. His brother gives him a once-over, and Tommy cringes— he’s a total mess, hair every which way and clothes rumpled and breathing broken and uneven. “Tommy, I would never want you gone.”
“You didn’t ask to be a dad,” the blond mumbles, and Wilbur shakes his head.
“I’m not one. I’m just trying to fill the spot.” There’s a shaky breath, and Wilbur offers his hand. Though his throat is still raw from screaming, Tommy can’t help but place his hand there, can’t help but trust the brother he’s been taught to love his whole life. “I’d make a shitty dad, Tommy, I can’t—” A breath. “I’m doing it all wrong.”
Tommy perks up at this, eyes widening. Something he’s said sticks out above every other comment Wilbur has made, nagging and pulling at him: I’m doing it all wrong. “Wrong,” Tommy echoes hollowly, and Wilbur is the one to shrink, still holding onto him.
“Wrong,” he affirms again. “If I’m stifling all your interests and dictating your life, I can’t keep you safe, Tommy. Your safety includes your happiness.” Tommy purses his lips, swallows, and the regret hits him like a speeding freight train:
“You’re just saying all this because I’m—”
“Stop,” Wilbur scolds gently, pulling him back closer again and resting his head against the top of Tommy’s. “Stop it. I care about you.” He pauses, and Tommy closes his eyes again, resting his ear against Wilbur’s shoulder. “I’m mad at you right now, Tommy, so mad. I’m hurt. I missed you. I worried about you— I still am.”
“I know,” Tommy manages, near a whisper. He’s supposed to be funny, loud, boisterous, supposed to be the problem child and the bright rays of sunshine in the morning, but he has broken down to scraps of fabric and shards of glass. Tommy is reduced to a sniveling mess, and he hates it, but it’s the most honest he’s been to anyone in months. “I thought it would… make shit better. Make me feel better.” He takes a breath, meeting Wilbur’s gaze, no matter how terrifying it is. “And then it didn’t make anything better. I’m just sad and angry.”
“That makes two of us.”
It’s almost scary, how quickly things have gone from rolling thunder and lightning to Wilbur pushing Tommy’s hair off of his forehead and providing comfort where he didn’t know he needed it. “I fucked up,” says Tommy tiredly— it’s so late, he’s lost track of the time entirely— and Wilbur hums in agreement.
“You did fuck up.” It’s like nails on a chalkboard, and Tommy freezes, opening his eyes, but Wilbur’s not going to scream anymore, not going to lecture him. It’s too late for that. Neither of them have the energy anymore. “You fucked up, and I fucked up, and both of us don’t know what’s going on anymore— but things are going to be better now.” Tommy nods, and Wilbur glances away, back towards the windshield, and quiets. “You can tell me how you’re feeling, Tommy. You can tell me if you aren’t okay.”
“I was okay,” Tommy murmurs. “I was. Really. And then I just… wasn’t.” It’s not a lie, either. Things were fine. He could fake his contentedness all he wanted, hang out with his friends all he wanted, pretend his chores weren’t getting the best of him and whatever rejection-sensitive dysphoria they said he had wasn’t bothering him— but all good things come to an end, and Tommy was jumped by a great, looming sense of claustrophobia.
It must be relatable, because Wilbur swallows and falls silent, and the car sits in stagnance for another few seconds. Even so, Tommy’s comfortable, pressed against Wilbur’s bony shoulder, and he feels something more than the vague discomfiture that has plagued him all week, something far greater than the awkwardly friendly conversations with the Dream Team and the couple of rushed calls with Quackity, something more meaningful than the echo of hollow bones that has followed him around for days.
He’s back. Wilbur’s back, the real Wilbur, and finally, Tommy knows what it’s like to breathe clean air again. Finally, he remembers that Wilbur has not morphed into the monster Tommy thinks he has. He remembers that Wilbur’s dad died, too. Wilbur has new responsibilities, a new person to take care of, a job to do, a house to run— all before he was ready for it.
“It’s okay,” Wilbur says finally. “You’re okay. And if you’re not, you’re going to be, and so am I— but please, Jesus— never do anything like this again.”
Tommy curls against him, wrapping a hand in his shirt. “I don’t want to,” he finally admits. “It’s better at home. I missed you.” The homesickness returns tenfold, and Tommy wants so badly to crash on his own couch, leaning against Wilbur and watching some shitty soap opera to make fun of all the dolled-up actors behind the screen. “Dream picks his nose.”
When his brother laughs, it’s a beloved symphony. “I missed you, too,” Wilbur says, “you brat,” and things start to feel normal. Things start to fall into place. “I’ve been… I haven’t been the kindest to you, Tommy.” He’s choked, pressed for words he can’t say, and Tommy knows the feeling all too well. When Wilbur speaks again, it’s wavery. “I’ve been a shit brother, Tommy.”
It takes all he has, all the strength inside him, to reply, but Tommy’s done trying to win. Tommy’s done fighting for something that never mattered in the first place. “I have, too,” he murmurs, leaning into Wilbur across the console. It’s hot. There are fireflies past the cracked windshield. “I can’t believe I did that.”
“Took the cake for the craziest thing you’ve ever tried, I think,” Wilbur sighs, shifting and smoothing his shirt down, and Tommy doesn’t let go, burrowed into his side like a frightened cat. He feels Wilbur smile against his skull, feels the warmth flood from one brother to another. At least he’s stuck with Wilbur instead of Techno. Techno would never hug him like this. He pushes the bitter thought away and focuses on the good, the present, the now.
Things are right in the world, thinks Tommy, even though he’s going to be grounded as hell when they get home. Things are right in the world when he’s with Wilbur instead of Dream, and when nobody is screaming, and everyone is pleased. Things are right in the world when Tommy has a brother again.
“I’m sorry,” Tommy says, the start and the end to the conversation, and Wilbur’s grip tightens on his shoulder, presses in on his back and tucks him into a shape he finally wants to be again.
“It’s okay.” Tommy smiles, watery, into soft fabric as Wilbur runs a hand through his hair. “It’s gonna be okay.”
And the dust finally settles.