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“I can’t believe you did that.”
Tommy shrugs, shifting in the passenger seat of Wilbur’s car, head resting against the seat. He’s tired— far more than he’d been earlier, finally succumbing to the exhaustion that’s been weighing him down for a couple days now. Streaming might’ve made it a tad worse, but at least Ranboo had been there to give him a sliver of company.
Now, there was Wilbur— the man who’d driven all the way from his house to the Brighton library, walking up from behind him with the biggest, shit-eating grin on his face that Tommy had ever seen. It was a fundamental moment, and Tommy had been far too exhausted to really get into a ‘bit mode’ with the guy despite being on stream.
Honestly, he was grateful, more than anything. The library was anxiety inducing, far more than it should be. People kept walking past him when he was speaking to Ranboo, a person stared him in the eyes while he was fucking around on the SMP— it was a shitshow, but it had made him feel a little better about his general situation.
“It was funny though,” he responds, voice low, and Wilbur snorts.
“Very funny,” Wilbur confirms, taking a sharp left. Tommy scrambles to hold onto the center console, shooting the man a glare. He earns an amused smile in return. “You know you’re a real idiot, right?”
Tommy huffs, rolling his eyes, settling back in the passenger seat. Fucking Wilbur.
“I’m an idiot- how so?”
“Well, for starters, you were in the most secluded part of the library,” Wilbur begins, holding up his pointer finger from the steering wheel, as though starting to list off different reasons. “There really was no reason for you to whisper—”
“I literally got told off, I told you that—”
“Second of all, you were at the library in the first place,” Wilbur interrupts, shooting Tommy one of his eyebrows raised looks that makes the boy shut up. “You do know that you could’ve just streamed at my place if you asked me, right? We could’ve done a funny bit where you steal my office again.”
Tommy sinks in the seat, blowing out a puff of air. That was something he’d thought of- going to Wilbur’s and asking to borrow his office for a small little stream or something, maybe get Ranboo to join, since he’d been free anyways.
There was a slight issue at hand, though.
He’d spent a couple nights with Wilbur already, sleeping on the mattress in the living room, back pressed up against the sofa. It was the worst sleep he’d probably ever gotten, besides the night before his first meetup with Phil and Wilbur in Brighton (which, as it was, happened two years ago).
The house was constantly freezing and there were no extra blankets so he was pretty much just sleeping on a bare mattress in the center of the man’s living room.
He had nothing to cover his legs, save the extra hoodie he’d brought just in case he needed to layer up for when he and Wilbur went on their ‘daily walks in the park,’ otherwise known as Crimeboys Bonding Time to Phil (whom they definitely did not spam with duck photos).
Not to mention, the mattress was a blow-up one that smelled of mothballs and other closet shit. He probably would've preferred sleeping on the floor if he had a blanket in exchange for the mattress or something.
“Tommy?” Wilbur speaks up, and Tommy blinks a tad, refocusing on the man. They’ve stopped at a red light and he’s now being frowned at, his pseudo brother’s eyebrows pulled together in deep thought, entire torso turned in his direction.
Before Tommy can even ask what’s wrong, Wilbur’s speaking again, voice tinged with worry.
“Have I done something wrong?”
Ah- Tommy probably should’ve seen this one coming.
Wilbur’s a worrier, just like he is. Anxiety came naturally to them, as though they were programmed with the emotion upon their birth. It was just another thing to add to the constantly growing list of ‘How TommyInnit and Wilbur Soot are Brothers.’
The truth was, Wilbur really had done nothing wrong. It wasn’t his fault that he didn’t have another bedroom for Tommy to borrow, or an extra blanket (well, that kind of was his fault- who the hell didn’t have several blankets on hand?)
“You didn’t do anything,” Tommy tells him, leaning the side of his head against the seat, scanning Wilbur’s expression carefully. The street lights press a gentle vignette against the side of the man’s face, illuminating his curls so that they look red.
Wilbur hums, eyebrows pulling together more, that wrinkle in his forehead appearing. The Wilbur-is-worried wrinkle.
They sit there in silence for a moment, watching one another, and then the light turns green out of Tommy’s peripheral. Wilbur lets out an exhale, turning in the driver’s seat and taking hold of the steering wheel again.
“Why didn’t you just call me, then?” Wilbur murmurs after a moment of only the air conditioning running and car’s rumbles filling the ambience. “You could’ve stayed at my flat again.”
Tommy hums, fumbling over some sort of excuse other than blatantly saying ‘I fucking hated sleeping at your flat,’ even though he was certain the man had long since picked that up from his stream.
“I didn’t really wanna bother you,” he says instead, watching the cars pass out the window, “I’d pretty much overstayed my welcome at your flat, anyways.”
Wilbur makes a wounded noise.
“Tommy, you’re not— mate, you’re never bothering me, you know that, right?” He begins, glancing over at the kid, who’s gazing out the window. “You’re my brother, it’s physically impossible for you to ‘overstay your welcome’ when my home is your home.”
Oh.
My home is your home, Tommy thinks, blinking a couple of times.
Wilbur Soot was going to be the death of him, he’d decided. What a freak, just coming out and saying that sappy ass shit.
“Right, okay, your home’s my home, or whatever the fuck,” Tommy clears his throat past the mirth growing there, shaking his head a little. His shoulders relax slowly, the way they do when he’s coming out of ‘bit mode.’ “I don’t know, I just- I feel bad, I guess.”
His excuse was true, but not entirely. He felt bad for overstaying his welcome at Wilbur’s and for forcing the man out of bed for breakfast at what he deemed ‘ungodly hours’ (when it was really nine am), but most of all, he fucking hated his sleeping arrangements.
Wilbur thinks this over for a moment, tapping his index finger atop the steering wheel. Tommy can hardly see his expression in the night, pardon for whenever they drive underneath a streetlight for a few seconds. Even then, though the man’s entirely unchanged.
It’s slightly uncomfortable in that ‘This is going to turn into a family discussion, isn’t it?’ sort of way.
“Tommy, if you don’t want to stay at my flat again, you can just tell me, lovely,” Wilbur says finally, tone all soft, pressing against the air like a diffuser made of honey and sugar. He’s doing that stupid fond tone of his, the one reserved for Tommy and Tommy alone. “It won’t offend me or anything, I can take you to Jack’s again, or even Ash’s, I’m sure he’d love to—”
“I love staying with you,” Tommy interrupts, keeping his tone as quiet as possible, as he’d done in the library. He shifts uncomfortably, wrapping his arms around himself. The guy even kept it cold in his fucking car. Maybe he really is some sort of lizard. “It’s just, y’know. You haven’t got any extra blankets and your house is fucking freezing.”
Wilbur snorts, shaking his head fondly. They take a right on a road that Tommy recognizes— he’s certain they’re just down the street from Wilbur’s by now.
“So all of this fuss was over a blanket? That wasn’t some bit for the stream?” The man turns his head, giving Tommy a side grin in the dim illumination coming from the overhead street lights.
“I never do bits,” Tommy insists, glaring at Wilbur, “I only tell the truth on twitch dot tv slash
TommyInnit.”
“Oh, sure, you don’t. You’re the sweetest, kindest, most truthful boy on Twitch,” Wilbur teases, pulling into one of the empty car lots in front of his flat.
Tommy flushes a tad.
“Incorrect,” he insists, tone a tad bleak, “I’m the biggest man on there, number one— but yes, I am truthful.”
Wilbur just huffs, taking his car key out of the ignition. He turns in his seat, flashing Tommy a gentle smile, the same that he’d worn the very second he’d walked up to him in the library. All sleep-rumbled, as if he’d just woken up from a nap and immediately gotten into the car to pick Tommy up.
Tommy half expected him to be agitated, but he wasn’t. His eyes had crinkled the very second he leaned against the computer desk, looking at the boy as though he was the first flower grown after a harsh winter.
----
Wilbur’s house is warmer than it is outside, for once. Tommy shudders from the sudden wave of it the second they walk in, cold hands rubbing up and down his own arms to try and coax the warmth into them as well, the fabric of his sweater providing a bit of extra comfort.
The older man walks ahead, tossing his keys onto the kitchen counter and removing his big jacket, folding it over the back of one of the chairs.
Tommy follows close behind, trailing behind Wilbur like a duckling following its mother, the way he always did when he was in a house he hadn’t grown accustomed to yet.
He’d been over to Wil’s multiple times, of course, and he’d stayed there before, but it still felt out of place to be alone in one of the rooms. At least, that’s what he said, but he never acted that way when he stayed at Jack’s or Tubbo’s— sure, he stuck to them like glue (not really Jack as much as he did with Tubbo), but it was worse with Wilbur.
Phil had commented, once, when he’d come down to stay for a vlog, that it was as though Tommy had ‘imprinted’ on Wilbur. It was an obnoxious bit, one that had Tommy nearly taking a taxi home due to embarrassment, but it sort of made sense.
Tommy wasn’t a bird at all-- he was human, he was normal, and so was Wilbur; and yet, it made sense. He thought of Wilbur as something between brotherly and borderline parental- he’d follow the man to the ends of the earth if he just asked him to.
He follows him through the kitchen, the living room, before stopping at the threshold of Wilbur’s bedroom. Another thing that he didn’t like doing; walking into others’ bedrooms without being invited in. Even though he’d literally walked into their homes before without asking (showing up randomly at Tubbo’s house was a pastime for him), it just made him uncomfortable to walk into their sanctuary without being allowed to.
Tommy rocks back and forth from the tips of his toes to the heels of his feet, watching Wilbur scavenge around his mildly messy room— it’s not all that bad, just a couple sweaters and papers tossed around the floor— for a moment. It’s kind of funny, watching Wilbur mutter to himself, picking through his wardrobe.
“What’re you doing?” Tommy blurts out after a couple seconds pass, frowning as Wilbur pulls out a couple sweaters from his closet. They’re some of his favourite ones, too— the most recognizable to anyone that watches his streams. Just barely, from where he’s stood, Tommy can see the imprint of the cow one tossed over the crook over his arm and the yellow plush one underneath it.
“I’m accommodating to your needs,” Wilbur responds simply, as though it was something that didn’t even need a second thought. He crosses the room, turning the lamp off and exiting, closing the door behind him.
When Wilbur deposits the various sweaters into Tommy’s arms, he blinks, staring at him in bewilderment.
“You’re what?”
“Accommodating to your needs,” Wilbur repeats, reaching his now free hand up to ruffle Tommy’s hair. “You said you were cold, right? You could’ve just asked for a jumper or something— you know I’ve got a whole closet full of them. I’m also going to give you my bed for the night with all the comforters and shit. I was them every day, so don’t feel worried about like, ‘cooties’ or whatever the fuck. I can take the sofa, I don’t mind the cold as much as you do.”
“I- what?” Tommy says again, still pretty much blanking, pushing against the hand coursing through his curls.
Wilbur huffs, amused and fond, pulling his hand away. Tommy has to hold back a frown at the loss of contact.
“You’re ridiculous, you know that, right? Absolutely stupid, insolent, dumbass—” Wilbur begins, and Tommy’s eyebrows furrow, coming back to reality from where he’d been previously blue-screening.
The older snickers when his arm is smacked indignantly.
“I hate you,” Tommy declares, tossing Wilbur another glare, bundling the abundance of jumpers closer to his chest, as if tucking them away to his heart. “You’re horrid, terrible, disgusting, and- and you’re a freak, too, you and your cold-blooded—”
“Yeah, yeah,” Wilbur interjects, flicking him in the side of the head, “I love you too.”
Tommy’s nose wrinkles, swallowing the urge to shower the man in every curse word he knows. His shoulders sink, though; it was difficult to stay so ‘TommyInnit’ around Wilbur when he so wholeheartedly welcomed ‘Tom Simons.’
“Fuck off,” he resorts to muttering, shoving Wilbur with his shoulder. He pauses, for just a moment, before he drops the sweaters to the side and wraps his arms around the man’s torso, leaning his head close to Wilbur’s neck, nestled just against his collarbone. The older’s arms come around him immediately, holding him close, a chin dropping down onto his curls. Just to save his steadily declining reputation, Tommy adds on, “I hate you.”
Wilbur huffs against his hair, “Really? What’s this hug all about, then?”
Tommy considers this for a moment.
“It’s a threat,” he decides lightly, squeezing Wilbur tighter, making the man cough with laughter and vague concern.
“Terrifying,” Wilbur tells him, still sounding overly fond and not at all scared. It’s nice to pretend, though.
They both stand like that for a moment, relishing one another’s warmth, each other’s existence. Tommy exhales, closing his eyes. A rush of something far too sappy washes over him, forcing his face further into the fabric of Wilbur’s jumper, taking in the smells of cinnamon and lavender shampoo.
“Thank you,” he tells him, voice lowered into a whisper despite there being nobody else in the apartment except the two of them. There are no librarians watching him over their computer screens, no pedestrians walking past. It’s just him, it’s just Wilbur.
“For what?” The older murmurs in response, lowering his voice just as Tommy had. A hand brushes a curl behind his ear.
“For coming,” Tommy supplies, pressing his cheek to Wilbur’s jumper, blinking his eyes open to stare at the wall, tracing over the bumps in the plaster. “You didn’t have to, y’know. I could’ve gotten an Uber or something. I’m rich enough for it.”
Wilbur’s chest rumbles a little as he laughs, lifting his chin from the top of Tommy’s head. The man pulls back a bit, lifting Tommy’s face and cupping it in his hands, giving him that stupidly fond look that he had on before again.
“I wanted to come get you, darling,” he tells him, poking him in the nose with his thumb, “You were being all whine-y on livestream, it would’ve made for a funny bit. Plus, my little brother senses were going off, I guess you could say.”
Tommy snorts, leaning into Wilbur’s hands. They’re warm, just like him.
“I wasn’t whining,” he insists, glaring up at the man.
“Oh, you weren’t?” Wilbur grins, “I’m pretty sure that me and 77k viewers all caught you in 4K having a mental breakdown, king.”
“That’s such a terrible thing for you to say, Wilbur, you shouldn’t make fun of mental breakdowns,” Tommy reprimands, when suddenly something clicks, and he can’t help but grin.
“You said that your little brother senses were going off,” Tommy begins, his tone lifting in a way that makes the older’s face fall. “Is that, per se, the Wilbur Soot version of the Marvel Universe’s trademarked ‘spidey sense?’”
Wilbur’s expression darkens and Tommy has to fight a bark of laughter.
“Must you make everything about Marvel, Toms?” Wilbur asks, bordering on the dramatic sort of hysterical tone he takes whenever Tommy talks about Spiderman again (he’d gotten blocked on Discord over it when No Way Home was released, too).
“Yes, absolutely,” Tommy chirps, his eyes slipping closed a tad when Wilbur brushes the pad of his thumb against his cheek. “Spiderman’s my hero, I have to be just like him, which means talking about him literally as often as physically possible.”
Wilbur gasps in mock offense, “I thought that I was your hero.”
“Nah, you’re like, in third place.”
Wilbur sniffs, eyes still fond. He leans forwards, pressing a kiss to Tommy’s forehead.
“That’s alright,” he tells him, “I know I’m your favourite brother, anyways.”
“Mmm, nope, that’s Techno,” Tommy responds after a moment, blinking tiredly up at the man.
Wilbur exhales, shoulders downturning.
“I’m gonna leave you at the library next time, you prick,” he tells him, shaking his head wearily.
Tommy just grins, following Wilbur as the man heads towards the living room, pausing to pick up the sweaters he definitely did not drop in his haste to hug the man.
“You won’t, though. You won’t,” he says, tailing behind the man, nearly tripping over his own feet to keep up with Wilbur’s long strides.
Wilbur just exhales, flopping down on the sofa and picking up the television remote, shifting to the side when Tommy plops down beside him.
“I would, I’d leave you right there, in the cold, all alone,” Wilbur insists tiredly, leaning back into the sofa cushions and turning the television on.
Tommy frowns, “No, you wouldn’t, because if you had, I’d still be at the library right now instead of home.”
The corner of Wilbur’s mouth twitches, overcome suddenly with something that softens him.
“You’re right, I wouldn’t. I’d bring you right back home,” he admits heavily, before tossing the remote into Tommy’s lap. “Now pick something, child, and if it’s a Marvel movie, I’ll have your head.”
Tommy grins, eagerly scrolling through the different apps before pressing on Disney+. They're definitely going to watch a Marvel movie.
“Sure thing, Wil.”