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Tommy nervously shakes his leg, too fidgety to focus on anything other than the wall in front of him.
He’s waiting for his foster father, Phil, as the man goes around the house, grabbing anything he thinks he might need.
Tommy never liked the doctors, but today was an exception, a bad one at that. He’d brushed his teeth, but luck didn’t seem to be on his side as a recent checkup showed multiple cavities that needed filling.
He’s just grateful that one of the, predictably, worse appointments he’ll have is with one of his favorite placements. Tommy could go on and on about how they respect him, and when he lets himself believe it, how they might even love him. (But he can’t believe that, because that’s damning the end of the beginning.) At 16, he’s had too many houses that let him think the foster system could ever work just to show Tommy exactly why it didn’t.
Tommy isn’t theirs, Tommy’s too much, he’s too old, too disrespectful, too loud, too playful- he’s too much of everything. He’s come to accept that. After so many people blame you for the reason everything falls apart, you start to believe them. Something about the repetition, the way the words cut when it’s from someone who’s supposed to know you best.
Tommy believed them, and he believes them. This is a wonderful placement, but it is and always will be that- another placement.
“Okay, I think I’m ready,” Phil calls, and Tommy can already predict that- yep, he’s got a beach bag full of everything necessary for survival.
Phil, the head of the Watson family, is notorious for his doomsday packing skills. Tommy can’t say he hates it after all the foster placements that seemed to forget that Tommy needs food to live.
Wilbur, one of Tommy’s two foster brothers, walks into view from the hallway. “You think you’re ready?” He directs at Phil, eyeing the great bag.
Phil scowls at Wilbur, Wilbur only smirks with a raised eyebrow. That is, until his gaze falls on Tommy.
He immediately softens, the snarky confidence shifting to concern.
“You’re gonna be alright, yeah?” Wilbur reassures with a small voice and hopeful smile.
Tommy’s heart flutters, but the butterfly quickly dies as he remembers. This is all just formalities, this is just niceties and politeness.
(You’re not that special, Tommy.)
Tommy takes a little breath, hoping no one notices the way his voice shakes. “Yeah.”
Wilbur’s worry doesn’t dissipate. In fact, it seems to grow. Tommy watches as Wilbur stiffens, as he seems to fight some inner conflict.
Tommy is too preoccupied with the war in his own head to speculate Wilbur’s. It all seems to be falling down- the need for consolation sparring with the need to feel safe. House #6 took away the privilege of having them be one in the same.
Consolation was earned, safety was earned, and Tommy never seemed to be enough for either.
Now that he appears to have been freely granted safety, he still doesn’t know if he’s done enough, if he is enough to deserve his comfort, yet. Sometimes, he thinks he never will.
But Wilbur… Wilbur treads that line.
Sometimes Tommy thinks he can imagine the brunet so easily leaning forward to give him that hair ruffle, pulling Tommy to his side like it was normal. Tommy wants it to be normal, but he isn’t, so nothing just gets to be normal.
“Tom?” Phil asks, leaning towards Tommy. “You ready?”
“Yeah,” Tommy mutters.
—
Tommy’s hands press into the car seat, his mouth parted in amazement at the car’s vibration. It completely distracts him from the pain in his mouth, though the anesthesia is probably responsible for that- Not that the car’s magical shaking doesn’t aid in drawing his mind elsewhere.
“Has it always done this?” Tommy heavily slurs his words, and Phil laughs beside him in the driver's seat.
“Second time you’ve asked that, mate, the answer is still yes.” Phil’s smile is infectious, so Tommy catches it and smiles too.
The words eventually catch up to him, but Tommy doesn’t remember asking the first time. Phil is old. He must be losing his mind.
“You need medication, Dad,” Tommy says, fairly concerned for Phil’s failing memory.
Phil’s old man lungs break for a moment as he chokes in a gasp. His hands tighten on the wheel and his lips purse.
“I do?” Phil clarifies, but now with the realization of his old age, he seems very distraught.
Tommy hums, “Mhm.”
The car suddenly stops feeling like cool vibrations and more like sickening turns. Tommy’s face twists, and he grips onto his seat.
“I’m gonna…” Tommy pauses, trying to name the feeling in his stomach. “Barf.”
Phil’s grief of his youth is quickly replaced with frantic glances. “No, no you’re not. Anesthesia doesn’t make you puke, you’re fine Tom.”
“Mmm,” Tommy closes his eyes, “Yep.”
Phil snorts, “You’re fine?” He asks, slightly amused.
“Nope.”
Phil sighs, “Can you wait till we get home?”
“I wanna go home,” Tommy whispers.
“I know, we’re on our way, can you wait?”
Tommy pitifully sighs, blindly reaching for Phil instead of answering.
“Woah, hey, don’t-“ Phil stops when Tommy latches onto his arm. Tommy then leans over the armrest and lays down.
It should be uncomfortable, but Tommy nearly falls asleep before he hears a mumbled, “Oh, okay. Night, Tom.”
—
Tommy wakes up to his toy being pulled out of his hand. He says nonsense, trying to grab it back, but his body doesn’t work right and his head is too cloudy to decide where anything even is.
“No, no,” A voice- Phil’s- chides, “Let go, mate, I’ll come around.”
Oh, Tommy’s eyes are still closed. He opens them to see Phil halfway out the car (he’s in a car, how interesting), leaning inside to try and move away from Tommy.
“Don’t go,” Tommy says, looking up as his dad’s features seem to break. “Please.”
Phil’s voice quiets, “I promise, I’ll be right back Tommy. I haven’t broken a promise yet, have I?”
Tommy tries his hardest to remember anything specific, but it all feels like sludge. But, his dad doesn’t seem like the type to break promises, not the important ones.
Tommy shakes his head.
Phil smiles, putting a hand over Tommy and patting him. “See you in a second.”
And then Phil leaves him, and Tommy is alone.
—
Tommy doesn’t remember falling asleep, but he must have, because he’s standing in front of the door to his home.
No, no, you can’t sleep and stand, he reminds himself. The idea comes to him, and he nearly shames himself for not realizing the solution sooner- he obviously teleported.
Phil did too, because he’s standing beside Tommy. Or, well, under Tommy. Tommy is clinging to Phil, his arms around his dad’s neck and face on his shoulder. Tommy’s always been a tall kid, tall for an adult too, but even as Phil is an average height, Tommy still feels like a little kid laying on his dad’s shoulder.
Wilbur’s really the only person he met that’s been significantly taller than him, Tommy thinks. Tommy misses Wilbur.
The door opens, and Tommy is pulled inside.
“Hey Tommy, how was it?”
Tommy grins from ear to ear, picking himself up from Phil’s shoulder to find his big brother.
Lo and behold, there the man sits in the dining room, an easy going yet confused smile on his face.
“Toms? You alright?” Wilbur asks, a small laugh following the question.
Tommy’s smile slowly falls. He makes himself smaller subconsciously, his eyes beginning to water.
Toms, Wilbur said. Toms, a name for him and him only. A nice name, Tommy thinks. Wilbur is always so nice, so unwaveringly nice even when Tommy is mean and doesn’t deserve it.
Wilbur’s concern grows as Tommy's tears fall. “Oh, my dear, was it that bad?”
Tommy takes in a sharp inhale, nearly dragging Phil with him as Tommy barrels towards Wilbur on unsteady feet. Wilbur quickly stands, both ignoring how Phil stumbles after Tommy before he’s released in favor of Tommy falling into his brother’s open arms.
(Tommy doesn’t have the mind to understand that Wilbur’s arms were open in surprise rather than invitation. Tommy latches onto his brother like a leech for his love all the same.)
“This is new.” Wilbur says, and Tommy can hear his brother’s voice in his chest. He presses the side of his head over Wilbur’s heart, smiling through tears when he hears the beat.
(Again, Tommy doesn’t realize how fast it’s going, how Wilbur’s breathing is stunted. He only knows it’s his brother’s, his brother whom he loves more than anything.)
“He bit a nurse, so they sedated him.” Phil apathetically explains, and oh, yeah, Tommy remembers that.
He remembers it so vividly, he has to poorly hide back a sob. He hates the dentist. He hates doctors. He hated being held down in that stupid chair while they forced him to breath in the weird smelling gas. He hates it.
(Tommy doesn’t notice how Wilbur stiffens when receiving this information.)
“He bit them?” Wilbur exclaims.
Phil sounds like he’s moving around the house, his voice sourcing from a different direction. “Kicked, too.”
Wilbur stammers, “Is he still rabid?”
“Nope, just all… this, now.” Phil sounds closer again, maybe the kitchen. “Nurses said he’ll probably be out of it until he wakes up tomorrow.”
Phil laughs softly, though it sounds a little sad. “They gave him a high dose, said he fought pretty hard.”
Tommy wants Phil to stop talking about that, now.
His attention is quickly diverted as, for the first time since Tommy crashed into Wilbur, there’s a tentative hand laid on his back.
Tommy doesn’t even realize that he hasn’t been hugged back since he’d thrown himself at Wilbur, simply just bursting into tears at the touch.
Even after all of Tommy’s coldness, all the times he’s pulled away, every time he’s shot down an attempt at simple human connection, Wilbur still loves him.
Tommy remembers Wilbur saying that, and he remembers not letting himself believe it. He doesn’t have to believe it now, because it’s right in front of him.
“I’m sorry!” Tommy cries, squeezing Wilbur tightly.
“Uh,” Wilbur says, “For what?”
It’s a dumb question, but Tommy answers it anyway. He hates to admit it. “For always being mean to you, I’m sorry, Wil. I’m-“ Tommy voice quiets, and he stuffs his face into Wilbur’s shirt to muffle the words. “-I’m scared, and I- I don’t wanna…”
Tommy isn’t sure what he’s trying to say. He wants to say it all- he doesn’t want to let go, he doesn’t want Wilbur to leave, he doesn’t want to keep pretending he doesn’t need love when this is the very thing that keeps him up at night.
He doesn’t want it to stop.
Tommy just cries into Wilbur’s shirt, melting when arms totally wrap around him and keep him there. Wilbur leans down, his face on top of Tommy’s head.
“It’s okay, lovely,” Wilbur whispers just to Tommy, “I’m here now. No scary doctors anymore.”
Oh, Tommy loves that. Well, the doctors being gone and Wilbur being here is nice, it’s perfect, but Tommy loves that- ‘lovely.’
Tommy hums contently, laying his full weight on Wilbur. Wilbur falters for a moment before scooping Tommy up more securely, just giving the older brother more vantage points to snuggle Tommy.
“Oh-“ Phil says when he notices Tommy’s abrupt collapse and Wilbur’s slight struggle. “-I can take him.”
Hands graze Tommy’s arms before he’s quickly pulled away from the touch by Wilbur, who’s hugging onto Tommy tighter than he needs to.
There’s a small pause before Phil speaks again. “You sure, mate?”
“I’ve got him.” Wilbur’s voice is firm, lacking the tenderness he spoke to Tommy with.
Tommy hiccups, and Tommy can feel Wilbur’s attention fall back on him as the arms around his torso tighten.
“You’re so nice,” Tommy garbles, “‘n’ I j’s never fuckin’-“
“Hey, hey, shh,” Wilbur softly murmurs, “It’s alright, you’re forgiven, little love.”
Wilbur’s hand weaves into Tommy’s hair, scratching idly.
“I’ve got him.” Wilbur softly says, but it’s not directed at Tommy because it isn’t dripping with pure adoration.
There’s something said, and footsteps walk away, but Tommy has a hard time listening as the warm fuzziness on his skin blooms under Wilbur’s touch.
Tommy closes his eyes, tipping his head back to lean into his brother’s hand.
Wilbur airily chuckles, and Tommy loves the feeling of it. “You’re so sweet, darling.”
Tommy feels as light as air at the fond name (and it’s certainly not because he was drugged).
“So nice.” Tommy mutters.
The hand on the back of Tommy’s head pushes him against Wilbur’s chest, fingers acting as gentle pressure points that only serve to encourage Tommy to never leave his brother’s warmth.
Wilbur’s head dips down again to Tommy’s hair, and Tommy can feel Wilbur smile. “Thank you, sweetheart.”
“Nice names, too.”
“Wilbur?” Wilbur clarifies.
Tommy scoffs, “No, definitely not.”
Wilbur laughs, a wonderful feeling to Tommy. “When you hugged me, I’d thought they’d replaced you with someone else- but nope, certainly still you.”
Tommy sadly sighs, giving Wilbur another little squeeze. “I’m sorry I didn’t do it sooner.”
Wilbur presses a kiss atop Tommy’s hair, but Wilbur holds him so tightly that when Tommy’s arms weaken, he’s completely safe. “Enough apologies, why don’t we go sit down, bubbas?”
Tommy rests his chin on Wilbur’s chest so he can put on a pitiful face that the man can see. Tommy groans in protest, then in complaint, “My legs hurt.”
Before Wilbur can ask, Phil, who apparently never left the room and is sitting at the dining table, adds, “When he kicked the doctor, his leg hit a counter.”
Wilbur looks back to Tommy, an unreadable expression on his face. “Oh.”
The odd look is then smothered with love as Wilbur consoles Tommy. “Oh, my poor sweet boy.”
Tommy can’t help the bright smile that forces its way through.
“Can you still walk, little darling?”
Tommy nods, still smiling. Wilbur slowly backs away, the arms around Tommy turning into hands on his shoulders, then his elbows, then just a hand around his.
Wilbur smiles down at Tommy, asking, “Alright, do you wanna watch-“
Tommy’s legs give out, but before Tommy can even reach for anything to keep himself up, Wilbur has grabbed him by his underarms and leant Tommy back over his chest.
“Okay,” Wilbur sighs, and then Tommy is hoisted up with minimal difficulty, but still successfully.
Tommy feels like a little kid again, being carried around by an older brother, by someone who he’s always wanted and finally has. Tommy is hardly in the mind state to fully process that- Wilbur is the love he’s craved, and now he can easily access it with a simple request.
So long this has been unachievable, but now it’s been handed to him, and all Tommy wants to do is hold those hands forever.
Tommy wraps around Wilbur like a starfish, chest to chest with his head on Wilbur’s shoulder. Though, Tommy doesn’t need to hold on too tightly, as it seems Wilbur wants to break Tommy’s ribs via hug. Tommy smoothly sways with Wilbur as his brother walks, and Tommy vows to make Wilbur carry him more.
When they get to the couch, Wilbur gracelessly plops down, yet keeping his cargo undisturbed in gentle hands. When Wilbur settles in, Tommy stays in his spot, tightly nestled into Wilbur’s chest.
Tommy closes his eyes, sighing contently as he can’t help but feel sleep pull on the coherent thoughts he has left.
“Or no movie,” Wilbur breathes, picking up Tommy’s head.
Tommy feels Wilbur’s forehead align with his, a hand holding him steady and close.
“Goodnight, precious.” Wilbur wishes with a kiss to Tommy’s temple.
Tommy hums twice in succession, a lazy goodnight in reply.
Tommy falls asleep with his face in Wilbur’s hands, kisses dotting his hairline.
—
Wilbur knows it’s a horrible thought. He knows that, and this all should make him feel sick to his stomach- but it doesn’t.
Wilbur wishes Tommy were sedated all the time. He wants this cuddly boy, happy to love, even happier to receive it. It’s the Tommy that Wilbur always knew was hiding behind that confident facade, and now that Wilbur’s seen it, he wants it for the rest of time.
He’s held back so often, resisted loving his little brother for the sake of keeping that fragile trust (which wasn’t much to begin with) preserved.
Tommy snores. Just a little, and very softly, but Wilbur knows that now. He knows it because his baby brother is sleeping comfortably sprawled on his chest, as perfectly as Wilbur always knew he could be.
Wilbur can’t let Tommy go again, not after this. Tommy will run, and Wilbur will have to let him. He has to respect Tommy’s wishes… but isn’t this what Tommy wants? Isn’t that what he said in the dining room, that he was only scared before?
Wilbur couldn’t imagine why, but he hates to think it’s something he’s done. He can’t stomach thinking his Toms is scared of him. He loves Tommy too much.
The restraint it’s taken Wilbur to not pull Tommy into his arms, especially after seeing his brother so scared those few hours ago. And then, when Wilbur finally had Tommy where he wanted him, Wilbur could hardly believe it. He hesitated. God, he’s grateful Tommy was too loopy to notice that; Maybe Tommy would have drawn away in a more present state.
Wilbur can also hardly believe how distressing the idea of giving up Tommy to his dad was. His dad who he trusts and loves, and yet giving away Tommy is… simply not an option.
(Wilbur is all Tommy needs, not Phil, not Techno, not anyone else; Wilbur will keep his boy happy)
Wilbur is not cruel. He is not possessive or anything like that, never to his Toms… he only wants to be.
Wilbur gently plays with Tommy’s hair, enough to make the boy smile in his sleep, but not enough to wake him.
This will do. He’ll feed the monster these moments, pretending they’re all his own, that Tommy is something between his brother, his son, his person. That Tommy is his.
Tommy is so unbearably sweet, and Wilbur can’t help but wholly and utterly treasure it. He guesses his sweet tooth finally got the best of him.
After this taste, Wilbur knows he can never let his sweet boy run from him again.
—
Tommy loves this placement. Or, he thinks he does.
His foster mom is everything he’s desired in a person- which really all just boils down to simply not being a horrible human being. (It’s all he’s ever wanted, to be hugged by someone who isn’t downright horrible.)
Tommy lets himself try to enjoy this, as these fragile moments are all too sparsely earned. It started off with simple chores for a few minutes of bonding, a fair enough trade just for her praise and love. That’s how it is, with most houses. It starts off promising, but there’s a reason this is house #6. Even his parents here wordlessly traded affection for service- good grades, chores, a plastic smile to make them look better than they are. It was ultimately never enough, because Tommy never is.
House #6 ended up sending Tommy back, just like all the others.
This isn’t house #6.
Tommy stiffens in the arms he’s cradled in, holding his breath as he racks his brain. His thoughts are hardly coherent, and he doesn’t know why. If it weren’t for the air suspended in his lungs, he’d be choking on his own breath.
He can’t think of anything he needs to, drawing blanks on the smell he knows is familiar. He knows this person, he knows the dim setting he can see, he just can’t think.
An unwelcome tear rolls down his cheek. Why is he so emotional?
It’s hard to hold back once he’s started, the salty drops dampening his hands and staining Wilbur’s sweater.
Wilbur.
How could he forget Wilbur? How is he held in Wilbur’s arms?
Tommy tries to take level breaths, matching Wilbur’s in an attempt to feign sleep.
Tommy doesn’t know how he got here, but he knows that he doesn’t want to be here anymore. Even if once- or many, or countless times- he has wanted exactly this, he doesn’t now. Not when he can’t fucking remember anything.
Tommy carefully begins to move away from Wilbur, first pulling back the arm he’d apparently thrown over the man. With both of his arms by his chest (and effectively sandwiched between him and Wilbur), Tommy gently backs away from Wilbur, pushing against the arms fastened around him.
Wilbur doesn’t budge.
The arms tighten.
Tommy is trapped.
The only thing he can think to do is wake Wilbur up, get him out of the stupor he’s in so he’ll let Tommy go. No fully conscious person would willingly do this- Tommy just hopes Wilbur isn’t too upset.
Tommy taps on Wilbur’s shoulder, holding back tears with a croaky voice. “Wil, wake up.”
Wilbur pushes Tommy’s head to fit under his chin, and Tommy freezes in fear. “I’m up.”
Tommy doesn’t think much before his body reacts.
Before Wilbur can stop Tommy, Tommy quickly pushes himself away, jumping up onto wobbly legs. The blonde staggers back, watching his feet in horror as they just don’t work.
His limbs move like limp noodles, and they feel like it too, as if his bones are jello and his nerves simply don’t exist. He can hardly feel his feet, much less move them in any coordinated fashion.
Tommy takes in a broken gasp as the realization dawns upon him that he can’t run.
Tommy looks back to Wilbur, who’s now standing and approaching Tommy like the boy is some scared animal. He’s talking, and Tommy isn’t listening. Tommy is trying to think of how to escape, and Wilbur is trying to cage him once more.
Tommy can’t run, so he begs.
“I’m sorry, I-” Tommy chokes on his tears, shuddering when his back hits the wall.
“No, no, you’re okay, darling. It’s alright,” Wilbur consoles in a soft voice, condescendingly pitched.
Tommy fruitlessly disagrees with a shake of his head. It’s never alright. Love is a currency, and Tommy has just robbed a bank.
“Yes, Toms, baby, it’s okay. I promise.” Wilbur is close enough to reach out and grab Tommy if he so pleased. He doesn’t. His hands are raised at his side, displaying empty palms, showing no intent of harming. If Tommy weren’t so biased, he might even believe it.
Tommy can’t move as Wilbur closes the space between them, he can’t breathe as he presses himself into the wall and as Wilbur reaches up to his face.
“See?” Wilbur’s hands delicately hold Tommy’s face, brown eyes scanning the wet mess like it was liquid gold. “I promise, dear, I love you.”
Tommy shakes his head again, an odd feeling with Wilbur’s hands on him, a burning one that sends shivers down his spine.
Wilbur lightly laughs, thumbing away a tear on Tommy’s cheek. “Oh, yes, I love you- and you’ll never understand just how very much I do.”
The unwavering conviction Wilbur ends his sentence with leaves Tommy too scared to disagree.
Tommy trembles as Wilbur frowns.
“You’re panicking, angel.”
“I’m sorry.”
Wilbur gives Tommy a sad smile. “Copy me.”
Wilbur takes in long breaths, and Tommy doesn’t realize just how little air he’d been getting until he mimics Wilbur.
“So good, love,” Wilbur praises. Tommy’s chest grows hot, and he feels it nearly burst when Wilbur lays a hand over his heart. “Just like this.”
Tommy tries to shrink away from Wilbur, but between the man in front of him and the wall, there isn’t much space for Tommy to escape to. So, the hand stays firmly, chokingly, over his heart.
It’s not long before Wilbur’s hands snake around Tommy’s shoulder and back, tugging him towards the man. Tommy tries to resist, but the weakness in his muscles makes him nothing but a limp doll for Wilbur to hug how he likes.
“You’re perfect, sunshine,” Wilbur whispers, guiding Tommy's head to rest under his chin. Wilbur gives Tommy a soft kiss atop his head, one that burns with the sun’s fury.
Tommy doesn’t want this. He does, he always does, but not like this. He doesn’t want to be loved when he never asked for it, when he doesn’t feel safe to (but will he ever feel safe enough?). Tommy can’t pull away. He’s tried, he’s trying now, but his body is lagging behind, stuck in some useless state where the most he can do is stagger in place.
Tommy hates how much easier it is to stand when Wilbur is holding him up.
When Wilbur backs up with Tommy held close, Tommy makes himself devolve into dead weight. He desperately tries to scream let me go without ever saying the words, without ever opening his mouth.
Wilbur doesn’t listen, and Tommy is brought right back to the couch, surrounded by heat he doesn’t want.
How cruel of a joke it is to finally have this, yet fear it more than the lack of? How cruel to have this and not fucking want it.
Wilbur sits up with Tommy trapped in his lap, the brunette burying his face in blonde hair. Wilbur lets out a sigh that travels down Tommy’s neck, rattling the boy’s spine at the reminder of how awfully close this all is.
“Shh,” Wilbur soothingly hushes at the shakes traveling through Tommy. “I’ve got you, baby boy, it’s okay.”
Tommy’s chest caves as he holds back a sob.
“I know, it’s hard, love, you’re doing so well.” Wilbur moves around to kiss the side of Tommy’s face, giving him an affectionate nuzzle. “My brave little boy.”
The sob breaks through, and Tommy stops resisting. He collapses in his brother’s arms, his head falling forward as he pulls his shoulders in, trying to shrink in the tightening hug.
Wilbur takes the opportunity of the brother melting in his arms to scoop up each ounce. He endlessly cherishes the blubbering boy like the treasure Wilbur believes him to be. “It’s okay bubbas, I’m here.”
“I don’t- Let me go,” Tommy inanely whimpers, “Please, I don’t want a hug.”
“No, no, it’s okay, lovebug, you don’t have to pretend anymore. I’ve got you, safe and sound.” Wilbur tips Tommy’s chin up, allowing the man room to press scalding kisses onto Tommy’s forehead.
Tommy furrows his brow, gazing up at Wilbur in genuine confusion. “What do you mean, ‘pretend’?”
“Oh,” Wilbur breathes, watching Tommy’s face morph from confusion to suspicion. “You- you don’t remember?”
More tears fall, all caught by Wilbur’s hands.
Tommy’s voice breaks. “Remember what?”
Wilbur’s features shift to pity, his voice reflecting the same. “Oh, dear, you were given anesthesia at a doctor's appointment. Apparently you were really scared, so they gave you a high dose.”
Tommy’s blood runs cold.
He had a doctor's appointment, he knows, but the only thing he remembers about it is that it happened. Nothing else.
“Breathe, love.”
Tommy’s body is hardly his own anymore, controlled all too easily by a simple command and a sweet name.
“What happened then?” Tommy forces out, staring at the wall adjacent to Wilbur.
“Oh, you were so sweet, sundrop, the sweetest,” Wilbur coos, tilting Tommy’s head to face Wilbur again. There’s a hint of sadness in Wilbur’s smile, a drop within the sea of unadulterated adoration. “I don’t know how you pretended to be anything else for so long.”
What Tommy would give to remember what happened, what made Wilbur like this.
“Please let go,” Tommy tries, yet his body is lounging over Wilbur’s, the polar opposite of his request.
“Tommy, it’s okay. You don’t need to be scared anymore.” Wilbur’s thumbs brush under Tommy’s eyes, a comforting smile on the man’s face. The consolation has an undertone of desperation as Wilbur says, “I’d never hurt you, my love, never.”
Nothing Wilbur is saying quells the instinctual fear in Tommy. Right now, Tommy holds no power. Wilbur is stronger than Tommy, Wilbur is faster, and he is more capable.
Tommy can’t fucking stand up right.
“It’s okay,” Wilbur whispers, and Tommy hadn’t even realized he’d started crying again.
“I don’t-” That's all Tommy can get out, choked ‘I don’t want’s and ‘let go’s.
Wilbur kisses Tommy’s forehead, something he’s been doing a lot of. “Anesthesia makes you emotional, honey.”
Tommy pitifully sobs, his head falling on Wilbur’s chest as the man rubs his back. The methodical movement rouses a familiar nausea in his stomach, one he’d been ignoring since he woke up.
Tommy mutters with a wince, “I feel like I’m gonna puke.”
Wilbur pauses, pulling Tommy away to study the boy. Wilbur’s hands are firmly gripping his arms, preventing Tommy from trying to draw away further.
“Will you?” Wilbur asks, drawing small circles with his thumbs on Tommy’s shoulders.
The question feels like too much to answer. Only a few times has the anxiety gotten to him that badly, but it’s hard to tell when there’s still that purring half of him that’s preening under every touch.
He doesn’t know. Maybe he could pretend to, so Wilbur could let him go- not that Wilbur would ever do anything to hurt Tommy. Those two ideas are endlessly wrestling in Tommy’s mind, one that believes Wilbur would never lay a disparaging hand on Tommy, and the other side that screams Wilbur is stronger.
Wilbur is kind, and Wilbur is coordinated. He is loving, but how quickly can that love fade?
Tommy is safe, but when will it end?
Tommy doesn’t know, so he cries.
Wilbur hesitantly pulls Tommy back into a hug, holding him close, surrounding him in body heat that only makes him feel more ill.
“Too much.” Tommy muffles, his head pressed into Wilbur’s shoulder by a steady hand.
Tommy feels Wilbur slowly shake his head, and the hug tightens. “Not enough.”
Tommy is given no room to do anything but cry in his brother's arms. His tears seem endless, his gasps scratching at his throat and his shuddering exacerbated by every consolation.
But, the longer Tommy is held safely, the longer he believes it to be just that. The longer it is that Wilbur only warmly reminds Tommy how much he loves his baby brother, and the longer it is that… nothing happens.
Tommy stops trying to swat away the hopeful thought that maybe, just maybe, Wilbur really does want to hug Tommy. No favors, no chores or good grades, just a hug. Just love.
Tommy doesn’t know how to feel when Wilbur whispers, “I’ve got you, sunspot.” And Tommy doesn’t doubt it.
He even thinks he likes it.
He knows he does, and he knows he shouldn’t, but now, in possibly the worst way he could’ve gotten a damned hug, Tommy finally appreciates it.
With a shaky exhale, Tommy relaxes rather than limply lays, tentatively cuddling up to his big brother.
“There you are, sweet thing,” Wilbur praises, a hand carefully running through golden hair. “It’s all okay, now, I promise.”
Tommy’s heart has always sung at the sugary names Wilbur freely gives, at the gentle praises and soft looks, but now, when Tommy can experience them all so close, they mean so much more.
Wilbur does want Tommy to be family, Tommy assumes. If this isn’t a trick, Wilbur probably already sees Tommy as his little brother. (For far too long by Tommy standards, Wilbur has already been dubbed his own older brother.)
‘But what of respect?’ A nagging thought wonders, and Tommy is all too quick to reply, ‘Do I really care anymore? If it’s at the price of feeling some semblance of love, do I care?’
Tommy used to do anything to feel loved. Why begin to draw boundaries now, not when this was the best trade he’d ever been offered (or forced into).
Wilbur would never do anything bad, just this. Tommy can take just this, because even if he hates it, even if he fears it, he loves it and he needs it. Even if his autonomy isn’t his own, he’s cherished like he never has been, entirely and boundlessly.
Warmly, lovingly, and freely, and only for the price of his freedom.
Tommy can be a doll, so long as he is a loved one.
Besides, Tommy thinks he’ll freeze if he’s let go again.
Tommy snuggles closer to the heat.
Wilbur maneuvers around to kiss Tommy’s temple. “My perfect prince.”
No, Tommy can’t freeze, not now, not after this. Tommy’s already grown accustomed to the heat of another person. He’s let himself go, even if it was under sedation, and this is where he’s brought himself to.
This was Tommy’s mess, and god, he doesn’t think he’s ever loved the feel of the broken glass in his hands more.
It’s so warm here, so alive and breathing and moving and real. If Tommy lowers his head, he can feel a heart beat for him, a pulse that’s singing I love you.
Tommy had this once, but back then it was never warm. Now, it’s scorching. It’s white hot metal searing his skin.
(So hot, he might as well just let it burn.)