Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The first day of Tommy‘s fall break starts with a scraped knee and a bruise in his face.

“I’m not mad”, Phil says as he kneels in front of him, touch gentle yet stinging as he presses the disinfectant on the wound, “I just wanna know what happened.”

“Nothing”, Tommy insists. Phil doesn’t believe him. He doesn’t expect him to. It’s the fifth time in two months he’s come home with more injuries than he left with. The being-shit-at-riding-a-bike starts losing it’s effect.

“You know you can always talk to me, don’t you?”, Phil says.

“Hm.”

“I’m worried.”

“Yeah.”

“Tommy, please tell me if something’s wrong.”

“I will.” Tommy pushes himself off the chair and up the stairs. The lights hurt his eyes. He just wants to lay down and die a little. He’s not in the mood to talk, not even to Tubbo, who’s called him three times in the past twenty minutes. He’s clingy like that.

U ok bossman?, one of his messages reads. Tommy’s phone flashes in his hand and promptly dies. Awesome.

His room is dark because he didn’t bother to draw the curtains this morning, and he doesn’t do it now, either. He just shuts his door and lets himself fall onto the messily made bed, groaning under his breath. What a shit day. What a shit life.

He didn’t plan to run into Dream, he really didn’t. He never does. But somehow the green bastard always shows up no matter where he goes, and that was the case today, too. He just wanted to go to the arcade with Tubbo! Nothing wrong with that, right? Why then had Dream to ruin it?

He’s mad. Of course he’s mad, the bitch stole his earpods again, but for the most part he’s mad at himself. Dream is a fine guy if you don’t let him get to you. He should’ve just ignored him, shrugged his shoulders at the teasing. Eventually Dream and his friends would’ve left, maybe even given him his stuff back. But then they’d started talking shit about Tubbo…

To be honest, Tommy doesn’t really remember that much. He knows that one moment he was calm and collected, just like Wilbur always tells him to be, and then suddenly there was a fist in Dream’s face and two more in his own stomach. Despite the pain it felt good to see the asshole stumble backwards, holding his bleeding nose. He didn’t cry. Sadly. He didn’t call for his mother, either, and maybe, maybe Tommy would regret his actions if it wasn’t for the sight of his tormenter fall onto his butt in the most ungraceful way possible. Hard to believe that’s the guy who almost beat Techno at fencing.

Tommy’s own fall was even less graceful, though. They literally threw him on the ground. There’s a huge bruise where that guy who likes to set cars on fire, Sapnap, gripped his arm. A slight pain pulses from his cheek. He’s going to walk away with this for a few days. Nasty.

But at least he protected Tubbo.

At least he did that.

“Tommy?”

He groans once again. Wilbur knocks at the door, hesitantly, and his voice is very, very soft. It sounds like back when both of them were younger and Tommy would come to him because of a bad grade or a cut from helping at dinner. He’d always go to Wilbur, never to Phil.

“Can I come in?”

Tommy hums. The door opens with a slight creak. He squints against the lights. A moment later the bed sinks next to him and a hand starts carding through his hair.

“Phil said you fell from your bike again”, Wilbur says gently, in that tone that indicates that he knows there’s more. His breath smells like nicotine.

“Yeah”, Tommy says, “rode it against a tree.”

Wilbur chuckles. “You’re really shit at riding, then.”

“That I am.”

“You’re not even denying it?”

Tommy raises his head a little and looks at Wilbur. He looks tired, these days. There’re always bags under his eyes and his smile edges to something sad. Tommy wonders why. He’s already dropped out of college and just sits in his room all day, how can he be stressed?

“I’ve always been shit at riding a bike, Wil, you know that”, he huffs, “no need to rub it in my face.”

The hand goes from his head to his back, scratching a sore spot. Tommy tries not to lean into the touch.

“You sure that’s all there is?”, Wilbur murmurs.

“Hm.”

“You can always come to me if there’s something wrong.”

“I know. Phil said the same.”

“Yeah, but sometimes there are things Dads don’t understand.”

Tommy closes his eyes. Wilbur’s hands are a bit rough, calloused from hours spent hunched over his guitar, but they’re warm. It’s very dark in the room. He sighs.

“It’s just… It’s nothing, really. Dream just likes to mess with me sometimes.”

“The green boy?”

“That one.”

Wilbur hums. His hums used to be the best, soothing and strangely melodic. But lately they started sounding cracked.

“I wanted to just ignore him, I really did! But then he started insulting Tubbo and I kinda…”

“You defended your friend.”

“Yeah.”

The sheets rustle. Tommy moves a bit so that Wilbur can fit, and then they lay there, breathing. Wilbur stares at the ceiling. His hand doesn’t leave Tommy’s shoulder.

“I think that’s very brave of you.”

“It’s stupid, that’s what it is. I got beaten up again ‘cause of me not shutting up.”

“No, it’s really brave. Tubbo is lucky to have such a good friend.”

“If you say so.”

The alarm clock on his nightstand blinks in red letters. It’s 6 pm.

“If Dream continues to trouble you, you should report to the school principal or to Phil”, Wilbur says, “it can’t continue like this.”

Tommy pushes himself onto his elbows. Wilbur meets his eyes, dark and warm and everything he’s ever known. Sometimes he hates those eyes.

“Don’t tell anyone”, Tommy pleads, “not yet. I’ve got it.”

He doesn’t admit that he’s scared of going to school. He doesn’t admit that his ribs hurt like hell.

Wilbur nods.

“I won’t. But if it gets worse, I might have to. You don’t have to fight every battle, alone, Toms.” He smiles. He looks sad.

“Yeah, we could just start a rebellion against him again”, Tommy jokes, “like last time.”

“Like last time.”

“We’d call it ‘Pogtopia’.”

Wilbur snorts and swats at his head. Then he gets up from the bed. Tommy watches him cross the room, slightly swaying and clumsily, and open the door. The empty space besides him feels cold.

“Wil”, he says when his brother is illuminated by the hallway lights, and squints against the migraine, “thanks.”

Wilbur just nods. He doesn’t turn around. The click of the door being shut again is too loud.

Tommy begins searching for his charger.