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“Come on—” Wilbur’s voice seems faint, disturbed by the wind. Tommy can barely hear him. He lifts the phone to his ear, squinting, and recognizes his own voice come shortly after. Rewatching clips of the second Paris vlog while he walks has been a fun but unproductive pastime, and he’s gotten absolutely zero steps closer to figuring out where in the fresh fuck he is.
He’s tried everything, but this part of Brighton’s got real shitty service, and Tommy can’t quite get his Google maps to work, get any texts to go through, or look anything up, so that’s already fucking annoying in and of itself. To top it all off, he doesn’t recognize any of the street names around here, and he has no fucking clue how to get back to the bus stop he came from.
So really, one could say his night is going fantastic.
Tommy turns his face to the moon, eyes wide as he drinks in the sight of the big white plate in the sky staring back down at him. It seems to taunt him, bathing him in moonbeams and washing out his skin. He didn’t know it was possible for him to look any paler, but here he is, alone and stupid on the sidewalk.
In his defense, he wasn’t even supposed to be out this late. The original goal was to go pick some shit up from Tesco for his apartment, because he’s out of bread and butter and milk and some other shit. Since they don’t close until late, he put it off until late— and then proceeded to get distracted window shopping in other places as time ticked on until he found himself absolutely baffled by his surroundings.
Again, Tommy turns in a circle, fluffing up his hair and sliding his grocery bag further up his arm and blowing a sigh out. His mum was worrying about some shit like this last time he visited home, predictably, but he waved her off and told her… probably something along the lines of being a huge man and never getting lost or any such outrageous ordeals.
Now he looks like a real idiot. There is no way he’s going to let her hear about this, absolutely not— she’d worry and fuss and scold him. It’s like refusing to wear a coat when she says it’s cold, and then getting too chilly— he can’t admit she was right, or else he looks dumb.
So, stubbornly, Tommy turns in another circle, quirks his lips in thought, and then continues down the sidewalk, taking in streetlights and a nice overpriced yellow jumper in an H&M window and even a few cars passing him loudly by, though few and far between—
Hang on.
Tommy squints, tilts his head at the road, and then picks up speed, staring down at his phone and desperately trying to get at least one single bar. Wilbur has a new car! It’s a nice one, a Ford-something (Focus? He’s pretty sure it’s Focus), and he’s been bragging about it nonstop, especially in their latest 4/4 call.
Naturally, this leaves a barrage of understandably related thoughts rolling through his head: Tommy’s lost. Tommy can’t find the bus stop. Wilbur lives close. Wilbur has a car. Wilbur can come get him.
Of course, it’s past midnight, but Wilbur’s always up late, anyway, and if Tommy can figure out where he is and get into an establishment to try and use their phone instead, he can beg Wilbur to come pick him up. He glances at the street name once, moves on, and then immediately forgets it, turning to check again. Fuck’s sakes.
Once he’s sure he’s got it down pat, Tommy hustles his way down the sidewalk, picking up the pace to look about like a middle aged man headed to the hardware store. He passes countless stores with their lights dimmed or all the way off, crossing the busier streets and making sure to look both ways before he does.
He doesn’t like to bother Wilbur like this, usually. Tommy’s favorite form of bothering is the annoying, talk-too-much and plan-too-much kind. He likes to smother Wilbur in ideas or stories or conversations until Wilbur’s all tuckered out, or repeat a joke or line over and over until Wilbur says it isn’t funny anymore.
Tommy’s bothersome natures and habits are the repetitive kind, the sun-stained cheeks and smatterings of freckles kind, the branches waving in the breeze kind, the race through the river kind. Tommy bothers people by forcing them to be around him until they’ve either had enough or they like him more. Usually, it doesn’t backfire.
But he’s afraid it will.
He’s afraid if he asks for one too many favors, or creates one too many scenarios where Wilbur has to bend over backwards to help, things will start to fall apart. Wilbur assures him that it’s fine, it’s okay, he can help with most anything Tommy needs, but he can see it in the brunet’s tired eyes after a whole day full of filming. He can see it in the way Wilbur’s eyebrows creep further towards his eyes on the hotter days or in the colder moments. He can see it in the way he frowns a bit too often or laughs a bit too infrequently.
So it’s on his mind the entire time he’s ducking carefully into a secluded petrol station with his bags bumping against the doorframe, politely (and sheepishly) explaining his situation to the cashier, and sliding awkwardly behind the counter to use the phone hooked to the wall.
And it’s on his mind as he sets his bag on the counter and fumbles to type Wilbur’s number in, having to restart it twice.
But it’s less on his mind when someone across the street screams something, and someone else screams back, and his heart rate quickens, and he realizes maybe that’s the reason he doesn’t have service here. Maybe this isn’t the best place to be walking alone at night.
When Wilbur doesn’t pick up on the first ring, Tommy immediately assumes he’s fucked. A nervous glance out the front of the petrol station window, into the pitch black night, tells him absolutely nothing. He turns around to find that the friendly cashier, thank god, has already migrated to give him some space, organizing shelves further back in the store.
The phone rings three times. Four times. Five times. Then, Wilbur’s voicemail starts up, and Tommy slams the phone back down on the receiver the second the familiar tone and cadence begins. He recognizes it like the back of his hand after spam calling Wil a few too many times.
Tommy swallows, glancing behind him. What the fuck’s he going to do? It’s not like he’s never been lost before, alone, and he could probably ask for directions, but…
Tommy leans to peek out the front window again and, at the sight of nothing but vast abyss, dials Wilbur’s number again.
He pulls the phone to his ear, staring at the ceiling and begging and hoping and praying with each ring, and then on the fourth, he is saved with a click and a breath. “Hello?”
“Wilbur!” Tommy exclaims, so loudly that the cashier looks over, and Tommy has to lift a hand and shoot her an apologetic look. After that, though, he grabs onto the phone with both hands, curling around it and speaking quickly and quietly into it. “Wilbur, I’m at this—” he lowers his voice even more, feeling guilty— “dirty ass petrol station and—”
“Tommy?” Wilbur replies, voice crackling slightly from the other side of the phone. Tommy can tell the connection isn’t very good, but he’d forgotten that he wouldn’t show up as Tommy (or ‘annoying’ or ‘rat bastard’ or whatever Wilbur has him saved as in his phone) on Wilbur’s caller ID. He’s at the dirty ass petrol station in the middle of nowhere in Brighton. Of course Wilbur wouldn’t answer a number he doesn’t recognize.
“Yes, yes, it’s me,” Tommy rushes out, all strung together, “listen. I’m in this dingy petrol stop in Brighton and I don’t know where the fuck I am but there are some people doin’ shit outside,” he says, too quickly, and Wilbur pauses. A moment passes, and Tommy panics, thinking he’s lost him. “Wil—?”
“Tommy,” says the man tiredly, “it’s nearly one in the morning. If this is about the video—”
Oh, shit. “No, no!” Tommy interrupts, shaking his head even though Wil can’t see it. “Swear, Wil, really— I— I actually, uh. I kind of…” Tommy swallows, pushing hair off his forehead and crinkling his brow as he thinks. He holds the phone with his shoulder, fidgeting with his hands and trying to come up with some normal way of saying it.
How does one ask for help in these sorts of situations without feeling like a massive idiot?
“Spit it out, Tommy, Jesus,” says Wilbur, sounding the tiniest bit groggy, and Tommy’s really hoping he didn’t wake him up or anything, but at the same time, he’s rejoicing that Wil isn’t already asleep.
“Uh,” Tommy says, smaller than he’d like. “I’m, uhh.” He swallows. “I’m lost. And I need, like… help.”
There’s a long stretch of silence, throughout all of which Tommy desperately wants to strangle the petrol station phone. He swallows, eyes darting to the window and back, and hears shuffling from the other side. The next time Wilbur speaks, he sounds much more alert. “Where are you?” is the first question coming out of his mouth. “Please tell me you know where you are, you chaos harbinger.”
“Of course I know where I am,” Tommy says defensively, standing up straight and crossing his arms over his chest. “What do you take me for? A bitch?”
“Yes,” answers Wilbur easily. “A bitch who got lost in the middle of the night. Seriously, where are you, Tommy?”
“Uhh… good question,” Tommy mumbles, cheeks heating up. He’s forgotten the fucking street name again. “Brighton.”
“Yeah, I got that much,” Wilbur snorts, though Tommy can tell it’s a little stilted. “Come on, use that pea brain of yours and figure it out. If you’re in a petrol station, you’re bound to have street signs somewhere close.”
And— right, the street sign. Picturing it helps, thank fuck! Tommy squeezes his eyes shut and recites the word to Wilbur, praising all things holy that he stopped to turn back around and look at it.
And then Wilbur says, “What?!” and there is a maximal amount of shuffling from the other end of the line, and Tommy’s stomach starts to sink as he goes on, a little urgently. “What did you say earlier? About the people outside?” A beat. “Tommy, seriously, this isn’t funny. What did you say?”
Tommy swallows, but the lump in his throat doesn’t go away, and shattering glass floats his way. “I said,” he whispers, uncertain, “they’re really loud outside. I think something just broke.” He waits for just a second to mitigate his quivering heart; it’s not that bad. He’s fine. There’s nothing wrong. Even so, his voice comes out tiny and uncertain when he adds, “I think people are fighting.”
His cheeks heat with embarrassment at Wilbur’s silence, and he runs a hand through his hair. Tommy grew up a straight white boy in a good neighborhood. Tommy grew up privileged enough to evade this kind of thing every day, and now, he’s not familiar enough with “dangerous” parts of cities to act normal. He swallows, fidgets with his shirt, feels like an old Christian white lady— but then he can hear wind through the speaker; Wilbur’s outside.
That was quick. Maybe he should be worried.
“Don’t go anywhere,” Wilbur warns, and Tommy’s heart drops into his shoes. “Stay in the petrol station, I’ll come get you.” He sounds out of breath. “I can be there in ten if I speed.”
“Don’t speed,” says the blond absently, “that’s stupid. Am I—?” Tommy stops himself, catching his breath. “It’s fine, right? Like— it’s not that big of a deal if I don’t bother anyone.”
“You shouldn’t be alone out there,” is Wilbur’s reply, and Tommy swallows hard.
“Oh, god,” he mutters. “Oh, fuck. Fuck. I didn’t even mean to get lost. I was just… swear, I didn’t think I’d even gone this far. I mean, I’ve never been over here before. Like, at all, not even in the day— I didn’t really even know this place existed, Wil. I just thought—”
“Tommy,” Wilbur interrupts, and he can hear an engine in the background, hear the Ford Focus (he thinks) getting ready to pull out. “You’re rambling.”
“Oh,” Tommy says faintly, staring at the wall with worry creeping throughout his face. “Yeah, sorry.”
“You don’t have to— fuck my life, Jesus— be sorry,” Wilbur replies, with some difficulty, it seems. “Really, Tommy, it’s okay. I’m sure you’ll be perfectly fine. It’s just— ah, fuck. That’s my turn.” Tires screech on pavement, and Tommy sucks in a breath.
“I can hang up,” he says, standing up straighter, and he hears a gentle sniff of surprise from the other end of the line.
“Are you sure? I can stay on with you.”
“I’m sure.” Tommy pauses, and then plasters a grin on his face. “You’re going to crash, dipshit.”
“I don’t crash. I stay dipped.”
“Oh, are you dipped, king?”
“Oh, so dipped, king, you wouldn’t even belie—”
With a click, Tommy sets the phone back against the wall, grinning (albeit still a little nervously). He picks up his grocery bag with finality, sliding it back onto his arm and letting it rustle. Things are fine, and he’s fine, and nothing bad ever, ever happens to TommyInnit, so he has nothing to worry about. Everything is fine, and he shuffles across the store and thanks the cashier and apologizes for his language and volume, because he does that everywhere, and he browses the store, even though he doesn’t need anything more, and he buys a single candy bar, just to make up for having to use the phone for so long, and then he has no appetite so he puts it with all his other groceries and thanks the lady and peers past the door and is too afraid now to step back outside into the dark.
And nothing bad ever, ever happens to TommyInnit, which definitely has nothing to do with the reason he ends up paralyzed just past the door, one single step outside, and finding himself unable to move.
He can’t turn around and go back in, but he can’t take a step farther past the door, but he can’t sit down, and he can’t keep walking, so he stands. Tommy stands, and the breeze sends a threatening chill down his spine, and amber shattered glass glints from across the street, and he’s so going to get shanked. He’s going to get shanked in the middle of this sidewalk. Someone’s going to walk right up and spit in his face and—
—and a Ford Focus turns onto the street, and Tommy feels himself ascend, sprinting down the sidewalk to meet it in the middle.
Wilbur rolls to a stop with his window all the way down, and he’s trying to say something, but he gives up and pulls to the side of the road with the car still running and throws his door open, and it’s two steps and then he’s right there in front of him. He’s grinning in relief.
He’s wrapping Tommy up in his arms and exhaling.
“You’re okay,” Wilbur mutters, “yeah?” and Tommy can’t find it in him to reply, so there they stand for a few seconds, just like that, Wilbur’s arms keeping him stable, and Tommy’s ear pressed to his chest, his cheek smushed against Wilbur’s jumper.
Finally, after he thinks it’s been enough bothering and standing out in the wind, Tommy’s the first to pull back. He’s the first to look up at Wilbur, relief reflected in his eyes, and slouch where he was standing anxiously rigid just a few seconds ago. “Hey,” he murmurs. “Yeah. No, I’m— I mean, nothing happened,” he stumbles over his words, and Wilbur nods towards the car. “I’m perfectly fine.”
“You looked a little freaked out,” Wilbur confesses, coming around with him to pull the passenger side door open for him, and Tommy rolls his eyes, clambering into the car and setting his bag down inside.
“Well, you sounded a little freaked out, which made me freak out. So actually, you are the problem here— hey!” he exclaims as the door is slammed in his face, and when Wilbur reappears on the other side of the car, he’s laughing.
“Sorry. Couldn’t help myself.”
“I hate you,” Tommy says, and Wilbur snorts.
“You could never.”
He pulls back out onto the road, and Tommy pulls one leg up to sit on top of it, eyes searching the interior of the car. He’s not been in it since Wilbur bought it, but it’s really nice. Smells nice, too. Instead of conveying any of this sentiment to Wilbur, he says, “Your new car makes you look like a fuckin’ Tory.”
“I’ll kill you,” Wilbur says, reaching over to make a grab for his shirt with the other hand still on the wheel, and Tommy screeches, slamming against the side of the car to escape Wilbur and erupting into shrieking laughter. “You watch out, gremlin,” Wilbur spits, and Tommy rolls his eyes.
“No need for pandering, Wilby. I’d like to introduce you to something called Not Twitter.”
This makes Wilbur laugh in turn, lifting weights off Tommy’s chest until he feels that breathing is, in fact, possible. They keep on like that, back and forth, until the next red light, where Wilbur turns and breaks the blanket of comedy with a somber look.
“You’re alright, yeah?” Wil asks, giving Tommy a full once-over, and Tommy squirms a little in his seat at the scrutiny, fidgeting. It would be fine if it were anyone else, but he hates Wilbur inspecting him; the man can always see right through him.
“Dunno,” Tommy says with a shrug. “I mean, yeah. I’m fine. It was just weird.” He shifts and then sinks into his seat, eyes pinned on the floor of the car, and for a moment, it’s silent. For a second, he’s afraid Wilbur will press him about it. That really would suck.
Then: “Weird,” Wilbur echoes, raising a single eyebrow. “You know what’s weird? Fucking Uncle Nasty. I hate that prick, I’m telling you—”
“Uncle Nasty is an integral part of this family!” Tommy gasps, aghast. “How dare you! No, fuck you,” he speaks overtop of Wilbur trying to shout, “I’m gonna tell him you said that, fuck you—”
“—having a single clue about the duplicitous activities he gets up to—”
“Well, you’re a fucking dickhead, and joke’s on you anyways, ‘cause nobody knows what the fuck that means,” Tommy shouts, and then Wilbur turns the radio up so loud it makes the entire car vibrate, and Tommy shrieks with laughter again, tossing himself back and forth in the passenger seat as they drive around blasting shitty pop music at half past one in the morning.
And if, when they finally do pull up to Tommy’s apartment complex, Tommy stalls before getting out, that’s nobody’s business. And if, when Tommy finally does decide it’s time to go inside, Wilbur insists on walking him to his door, that’s nobody’s business.
And if, when Tommy gets to his apartment door, and it’s time for them to part ways, Wilbur wraps him in another stupid hug for just the right amount of time and then yanks his hood over his head, pulling it over his eyes, that’s nobody’s business.
And if Phil shoots Tommy a DM on Discord the next morning to ask if everything is okay, and Tommy pretends not to be embarrassed that Wilbur snitched and admits to Phil that he was a little scared, nobody will ever have to know.
—
Technoblade Today at 4:59 PM
Heard you almost got absolutely obliterated at a literal gas station last night
L
L
TommyInnit Today at 5:01 PM
NOT YUO TOO
FOR FUCKS SAKE
DIE
Wilbur Soot Today at 5:02 PM
LMFAOOO