Chapter Text
Did you sleep at all last night?
It’s a simple question, but the answer really depends. If the question were ‘did you sleep well at all last night’ then the answer is a definite no, but technically, he slept for a total of one hour the past night, although dispersed across ten minute bursts where his eyelids would simply glue themselves shut. Wilbur would shake him awake, pouting about how he missed the best part of the story.
“Ranboo wanted me to get some sleep,” he’d mumble, but it wouldn’t really help. Wilbur would pretend like he hadn’t heard it, and Tommy wouldn’t repeat it either. Any sleep is good sleep, right?
His hands are nearly grey with all the dust from yesterday’s work, and as he looks around he thinks it’s going to continue. More stone. More building. More grandiose speeches about ‘healthy competition’ and ‘camaraderie’ and ‘freedom’. Frankly, the repetitive lessons were getting boring and tiring.
The bright rays of the newly risen sun sting Tommy’s eyes as he exits the house and approaches the little pond ahead. He bends down and looks over his reflection in the still surface. Dark circles, pale cheeks, smudges on his cheeks. His hair looks a mess and the light streak reveals just how long it's been since his last wash. Usually, he cuts it before it ever grows that long, and the dirty blonde does a good job at hiding the layer of grime he carries with him wherever he goes.
Tommy eases his hands into the cool water and lets the ripples ebb out across the small pond. The dust comes off almost instantly and mixes with the water, turning it murky where it had been clear up until a second ago. He doesn’t think he’s washed his hands in ages, and realises it’s sort of counterproductive. All he has to dry them with are his clothes which are in dire need of a wash anyway, so his hands are likely just going to go right back to the way they were. Nothing ever changes, it seems. Ranboo was right, history is doomed to repeat itself. So why fight it? Why wash your hands when they’re just going to get dirty again?
Nonetheless, he unties the green bandana he wears around his neck and dries his hands off. They’re clean. It’s always odd to see them that way, so he gets stuck on it for a moment, and his thoughts begin to drift as they often do. Tommy thinks about leaving. He could leave. He could just go back to his house and not open his door for anyone. Maybe then there’d be some peace, and maybe Wilbur would find someone else to do the heavy lifting.
.-::-.
“Did you see Phil’s face as I took the bell?” he asks through dying bouts of laughter.
Tommy shakes his head, mumbling through a mouthful of bread. It’s dark, and there are raw breadsticks roasting over the open fire. Half the dough is still waiting to be wrapped around one of the sticks they cleaned for this purpose. Some of it has already been loaded onto their respective plates, a clump of butter slapped on next to it. For all the weird and stupid shit Wilbur comes up with, Tommy has to admit that there are sparks of genius in there. On occasion.
“Man. If I were still a kid I’d get grounded for that. You still might.”
He swallows the final piece. “He’s not my dad. Old man can’t do shit to me.”
“True, true.”
They go silent for a moment as the fire crackles between them.
“Should we steal it again once he replaces it?” Tommy asks.
Wilbur waves the idea away and shakes his head. “No, no. That would be far too much.”
Another moment of silence that stretches on, and a small smile tugs at Tommy’s face. He waits another moment before locking eyes with Wilbur and instantly bursting into uncontrollable laughter. They grab their stomachs, nearly rolling on the floor, only stopped by the fact that one of them would most definitely accidentally catch on fire. Tommy hasn’t laughed like this in what feels like centuries.
.-::-.
“What were you thinking about?”
Tommy nearly jumps out of his skin and looks away from his hands, instead looking up at Wilbur. He stands looking over their haphazardly made statue, and then further, over the tall buildings that make up Las Nevadas. A plume of smoke exits his mouth as he exhales and he takes another drag.
He shakes his head and then looks up at the freshly lit cigarette.
“Oh. Sorry. Do you want me to put it out?” Wilbur taps the butt of it with his thumb, and a few specks of ashes, still glowing, land softly on the surface that has already grown almost completely still again and instantly dissolve.
He shakes his head again and stands up. There’s no way he can leave now.
Wilbur gives him a quick smile and then ruffles his hair. “You’ve grown taller, haven’t you? Can’t believe I only just noticed. Almost taller than me.”
Tommy shoves his hand away and attempts a smile as well. “Yeah, yeah, whatever.”
He holds his breath as the light breeze blows the smoke his way and hopes Wilbur doesn’t notice. Even though he says he’ll stop if Tommy wants him to, his hands shake when he goes too long without a cigarette between his lips. Tommy knows that you don’t pick your poison, not really, but it sure as hell isn’t gonna become his poison. He knows he won’t get the stench out of his clothes, though, so he resigns himself to the worried questions from everyone he meets and then points them towards Wilbur. No one really asks any more questions after that. Eventually, it’ll stop bothering him, right?
“Ready to get to work?” Wilbur asks as he lets the cigarette drop onto the ground before stomping it out with the heel of his boot.
In the distance he sees Purpled walking along the perimeter. Not a threat, but a reminder that the place is defended. Tommy doesn’t like the fact that everyone is on the defensive here, but he supposes it makes sense. People tend to be scared of Wilbur since his return. They don’t know what he’s up to, what he’s capable of.
“Yeah.”
And they get to work.
.-::-.
He wakes up to the sound of smashing glass and clattering pots and pans. Whatever dream he’d been having is long forgotten and he quickly throws the thin sheet he calls a blanket off, sliding barefoot into his boots and then hurrying towards the source of the noise. It was dark when he fell asleep, and it’s equally dark now, he doesn’t think he’s slept long. The one night he’d stood his ground and firmly stated that he was going to get some sleep has to be the one where something goes wrong, naturally. Just his luck.
“I can’t find them!”
Tommy can barely make out the shape of Wilbur in the pitch black room, but what he can make out reveals a room in shambles and a broken window. There are things scattered everywhere, a nightstand table thrown on its side against the wall opposite to where it previously stood. The man tears at his scalp, frantically turning around and grabbing the nearest object and hurling it. Tommy only just fails getting out of the way and something hits his shoulder before bouncing onto the floor.
“Ow! What the hell are you doing, Wil?”
“I can’t find them!” he repeats.
He takes some comfort in the fact that Wilbur likely wasn’t aiming for him, at least, but he still rubs his shoulder in an attempt to soothe it. “Can’t find what?”
“My cigarettes! They’re gone, Tommy! They’re—” He clutches his head and bumps against a wall, releasing a bellow before sliding down. “I’m going to die. I’m going to die again, what do I do, Tommy? I don’t wanna go back there, not now. You have to help me.”
The display of anguish doesn’t set off any sense of urgency in him, if anything, it just makes him sad. Another part of him, that he hates, feels a little bit prideful as he gets to be the sane one for once. The one with all his shit together.
His eyes have slightly adjusted to the dark now and he takes a look around the room. What little torchlight is reaching in through the windows lands on a small metal box and reflects back into the dark. It’s familiar shape makes Tommy sigh deeply, and he pads across the room to pick it up before crouching down in front of the still hyperventilating Wilbur.
“Wilbur, can you count to ten for me?”
“Tommy—”
Tommy shakes his head even though Wilbur can’t see it. “Come on. Just like you taught me. Remember? Just count to ten. I’ll help you. One.”
“One,” he mumbles, still nearly tearing at his scalp.
“Great. That’s great. Remember to breathe, as well, yeah? Two.”
“Two.” He takes a few deep breaths. “Three.”
“Yup, that’s it. Go on.” He takes a hold of the collar on the old trench coat. It seems to do something.
“Four.” Wilbur lets go of his head, but leaves the hands up there.
And so they continue until they’ve gone all the way up to ten, and by then, Wilbur is sitting straight, head leaning against the wall as he looks up into the ceiling. There’s coffee splatter up there, somehow. Tommy sits down next to him and hands the cigarette box over.
“You must’ve dropped it while you thought you were putting it into your pocket or something.” He looks into his lap. “Have you slept at all?”
Wilbur accepts the box and quickly plucks one out. It’s lit with the familiar, well-worn, well-used lighter, and then he puts them both in his pocket. He does it slowly, as if making sure they’re both there before taking a drag.
“I’m sorry, Tommy, I’m really sorry.”
He waves the apology away. “We’ll fix it all tomorrow. Windows can be replaced and stains can be washed. All that shit.”
“We?” he replies, eyes wide and pleading like a fucking puppy.
It grosses him out, to be looked at like he knows anything about anything, but it also makes him feel like he isn’t a completely worthless human being, so he’ll take it. It’s Wilbur, after all. They’re always there for each other when they need it most. And they both need it right now.
“Yeah, dumbass. We. ”
Without warning, he’s pulled into a side hug with one shaking arm, and despite the odd angle, Tommy gives into it. The hand squeezes the hurt shoulder, but he makes no comment. Instead, he closes his eyes and inhales the scent of the coat. It’s all the things that make him want to throw up until there’s nothing left, and also all the things that are so intrinsically tied to Wilbur. It’s comfort and discomfort all in one, and he relaxes into it, wrapping his arms around Wilbur’s chest as if he’s the one being comforted right now.
“I’m sorry for being such a mess,” he says. He sounds like he’s close to tears, but then he laughs.
“Stop talking, Wil.”
He wakes up alone and with about a thousand cricks not just in his neck, but just about every joint known to man. There’s sunlight streaming in through the window and hitting the side of his face. It’s day, he realises. He hasn’t slept for that long since...well, he can’t actually remember. He gets up, and he feels more ready to start his day than he’s ever felt. He wonders if Ranboo would be proud of him for getting some sleep. Maybe he should speak to the guy sometime soon.
The smell of Wilbur’s coat lingers on his shirt, and he smiles despite himself.
He finds Wilbur staring at Las Nevadas, as per usual. Once he hears the door creak open, however, he turns around and grins.
“So, I came up with this plan...”
Tommy thinks it’s going to be a good day.