Archive of Our Own

Tommy’s never had a problem with school. The opposite, really. In sophomore year with predominantly honors classes, Tommy is cruising through the first semester, easily passing all his classes with As and Bs to show for it.

Easily passing that is, without considering that Tommy studies like his life depends on it.

Tommy only got into honors classes this year because of his dedication as a freshman, and he’s not going to let his teachers, his family, or himself down.

Tommy’s entire family has something worth marveling- his dad, an esteemed software engineer. His two brothers, Techno and Wilbur, both graduated highschool and college with honors, and are now onto university, both only at 23. And, though Tommy never met his mom, he knows she was just as wonderful. The smile she still brings to those who remember her tells him as much.

Tommy’s not the greatest with sentiment, not a music genius or an aspiring author, not an engineer nerd or even anything at all. He’s just Tommy, and that’s why he has to do more, so that he can be more than just this. This isn’t worth bragging to friends about, this won’t impress his family. But, when Tommy studies, when he ignores his friends and forgoes his own wants and needs, then he can finally be enough.

With winter exams on the horizon, Tommy can’t afford to rest for even a second until he knows every equation by heart and every formula at the snap of his fingers.

So, he studies, more strenuously than he ever has, because he will not fail. The only thing that keeps him awake at four in the morning, staring at a textbook thicker than Wilbur’s skull, is imagining the pride upon his dad’s face once he sees how well Tommy’s done. His brother's congratulations, a nod to his hard work, a praise to his worth. He’ll stay up for days for just that.

Wanting to be enough keeps him going. It’s powerful, because it’s more than a want; It’s a necessity, a driving force that pulls his eyes open, a force that makes a shaky hand rewrite the same chemical compound over and over again until he knows it by heart.

Tommy won’t sleep until he is enough.

—

Or, Tommy won’t sleep until he passes out.

Tommy wakes up to his alarm blaring beside him, warm sunlight peeking out the window. Tommy picks his head up off his desk, the paper sticking to his cheek before he pulls it off. He ignores the drool stain.

His spine seems to want only to disintegrate, with every position and twist sending aching waves through his torso. Tommy grimaces, plopping his head in his hands as he tries to remember how to be alive again.

That’s when the headache hits.

Ever since Tommy started studying this frequently, he’s been downing painkillers to keep the annoying headaches at bay, or at least so they don't distract him while he studies.

Tommy sighs into clammy hands, realizing with nothing but utter disappointment how nauseous he is. But, these are just his mornings now. He isn’t sick, he knows. He has no fever, he hasn’t thrown up or done anything to indicate he’s ill at all, he just feels like death.

“Tommy!” A rapid knock on his door makes him flinch. “Up with the sun, sunshine!” Wilbur calls.

Groaning as loud as he can, Tommy tries to get across his disappointment that the creature which Tommy’s brother is lives another day.

“Me too, man.” Wilbur mutters, and Tommy hears Wilbur walk away.

Tommy lays his head back down on his desk before catching himself, jumping up way too fast and stumbling back. He can’t sleep. He has to go to school. No rest until he’s earned it. Just another five days of studying, then finals, and then Tommy can sleep as much as he wants during holiday break.

Tommy’s head spins, accentuating the throbbing pain. He winces, pressing a clammy palm to his temple, finding his forehead warm and his hands freezing.

Once he’s left his room, he stands in the hallway, feeling lost in his own home. The setting doesn’t feel right, or, Tommy doesn’t feel right. Everything is too bright and loud, like the clanking dishes coming from the kitchen.

Tommy follows that, finding his brothers and dad sitting at the table. Pancakes are laid out on each of their plates, the empty seat with a stack of pancakes, layered in syrup, are presumably for Tommy.

Phil, Tommy’s dad, pauses in the middle of his sentence when he catches sight of Tommy.

Phil frowns worriedly at Tommy. “…You feeling okay?”

Techno points at his own eyebags in reference to Tommy’s. “You look like a corpse.”

Wilbur scrunches up his nose, adding, “Like shit.”

Taking the empty seat, Tommy scowls at Wilbur. “You smell like shit.”

Wilbur scoffs. “You smell like-“

“When was the last time you showered?” Techno interrupts.

Tommy rolls his eyes. “When was the last time you…” Tommy squints at Techno as his brain malfunctions. “Uh…”

“Tommy isn’t quipping back.” Wilbur gravely tells Phil. “Call an ambulance.”

Tommy doesn’t realize Phil has even stood up before Tommy is leaned back and an arm is pressed to his head. It’s cold, and he leans into the sensation, closing his tired eyes.

“A little warm.” The arm pulls away, and Tommy suppresses a sullen frown. Phil bends down in front of Tommy, tipping the boy's chin up to face him. Phil scans Tommy’s plum colored eye bags, his pale cheeks and unwashed hair with that same worried dad frown. “I don’t like how you look, though.”

Tommy is let go in a smooth motion, and the boy catches himself before he tips forward. Phil returns back to his chair at some point, and Tommy realizes that now Wilbur and Techno are giving him worried looks, too.

Tommy sighs. “I’m fine. I can’t miss school, anyways.”

“You can if you’re sick.” Techno says.

“I can’t if finals are coming up.” Tommy counters, stabbing a pancake.

Phil interjects with an exasperated huff. “I won’t fight your stubbornness, I’d just rather you stay home if you’re sick. What about passing it on to other people?”

(Tommy knows he’s not contagious. He didn’t catch this, he’s farmed it after nights of no rest, no food, and no breaks.)

“It’s fine.” Tommy mutters. He stares at the sliver of pancake he’s cut for himself and feels the nausea rise in his stomach. The sickly sweet syrup, the dense pancake, the scent wafts straight to the bottom of his stomach, fermenting. “I… I’m not hungry.”

Tommy pushes his chair out with a screech, exiting as swiftly as a newborn fawn. He quickly changes in his room, swiping everything off his desk into his backpack before slinging the bag over his shoulder. The weight pulls him down, nearly toppling him, but he remains steady and trudges forward like he’s wading through honey.

Tommy passes the living room, granting well wishes before he leaves to catch the bus. Right at the front door, Tommy is startled to a painful halt at Wilbur’s shouting.

“Call me when you wanna be picked up!”

Tommy winces at the noise. Despite his throbbing headache, the throbbing pain called Wilbur deserves the sass. “I’m not gonna need to be picked up, fuck off!”

Tommy opens the door, and Wilbur’s annoying ass gets the last word.

“I’m serious, Tommy!”

Tommy swings the door closed, setting off with the pace of a snail and the enthusiasm of a sloth.

Tommy scoffs at Wilbur’s insistence that he couldn’t get through the school day. It’s only six-ish hours, and after accidentally falling asleep for more than two hours last night, this should be a breeze.

—

Rackety old school buses that lurch if someone so much as looks at them, Tommy finds, are not a good prescription for a queasy stomach.

Tommy practically crawls off of the bus and onto the school’s campus, surely looking as ill as he feels. He stares at the floor and lumbers through the hallways, arms wrapped around his middle as he puts all his energy into keeping it in his stomach.

He’s doing perfectly fine (but he knows if he opens his mouth, it’ll all be over) until he walks past the cafeteria. The open doors drag out the odor of stale, tasteless foods that one couldn’t even bite into, coupled with an overpowering scent of doughy pastries made slimy by frosting that was closer to the consistency of condensed milk. Those disgusting, gooey cinnamon rolls lathered up like a Christmas ham, squelching and leaking saccharine frosting.

Tommy then proceeds to run inside the cafeteria and throw up into the trash can.

School doesn’t start for another fifteen minutes, but all the early students are waiting in the warmth of the only open building during this frosty winter- the cafeteria. All eyes are suddenly directed to the door, where there stands a shaking, crying boy who hardly even has anything to throw up.

Everyone watches.

Tears are slipping down his cheeks, his face a disgusting display of mucus, saltwater and god knows what.

Then, his stomach lurches with nothing to show for it, just the rancid smell leaking from his mouth. Everyone watches that, too.

Tommy’s been in public school his whole life. He knows that for all of today, he’ll be the only topic of conversation, he’ll be the kid who threw up and cried about it. The thought only makes him more queasy.

Tommy somehow finds the nerve to be self conscious while he fumbles for his cell phone, yanking it out of his back pocket. He hesitates, staring at the black screen and furiously wiping away tears.

Tommy isn’t sick, he just got sick. Tommy doesn’t need Wilbur (Tommy only wants him).

Tommy flinches as a hand falls on his back.

“Let’s get you to the nurse.” Tommy recognizes the teacher’s voice behind him, and he pockets his phone.

He’s gently pulled by Ms. Puffy’s arm, but all the resistance he gives isn’t enough to stop her from dragging him along.

They arrive at the front desk, where Tommy again dry heaves into a small trash can that’s handed to him. At least here, the staff leave him be. Ms. Puffy and the receptionist chat, and Ms. Puffy relays the information she has while Tommy is seated, clutching the empty waste bin in his lap.

“We’re calling your dad, Tom.” Ms. Puffy says, and Tommy nods.

The memory pokes its way to the front of Tommy’s mind, and he repeats it aloud without thinking.

“Wilbur’s supposed to take me home,” Tommy mutters, but with his eyes closed and body slumped over the bin, it sounds a lot more like, “W’bur’s s’pode ‘a ta’y me ‘ome.”

“Is that your dad?” Ms. Puffy inquires.

Tommy shakes his head. “Bru’dder.”

The receptionist hums. “…He’s not listed with a number-“

Tommy pulls out his phone, lazily tapping away until he finds Wilbur’s contact. He hovers over the call button, knowing he’s dooming his own fate. Whatever way this goes, it’d be Wilbur picking him up, but it feels… worse, if Tommy were to call Wilbur. If Tommy admits he needs help.

Tommy presses the call button, shoving the phone at Ms. Puffy while it’s still ringing. Tommy doesn’t think about how the contact name was ‘Wilbutt’ until after he hands her the device.

Ms. Puffy has the audacity to keep their conversation off speakerphone, so all Tommy hears is a clipped explanation, agreements, a few declining statements, and her ending it all with a polite, “See you soon.”

Ms. Puffy gives the phone back to Tommy. “He’s on his way, he says he’ll be here in a few minutes.”

Tommy would laugh if he could, knowing Wilbur hasn’t left for work yet and their house is almost twenty minutes away. Tommy only nods, pocketing his phone and leaning back over the can, closing his eyes.

Wilbur was right, and rather than vomit, tears fall into the bin below. Wilbur was right, Tommy isn’t enough, Tommy can’t do this, and now he has to go home with his tail tucked between his legs.

Tommy is going to miss a day of school, and for what? Because he got sick? No, Tommy isn’t sick, he only feels sick. That means, since he’s not contagious, he can still go to class, right?

“Mi’z?” Tommy meekly asks, “C’n I stay t’day? ‘M no’ sick.”

Ms. Puffy raises an eyebrow before airily laughing. “Tom, you are sick. It’s okay to take some time for yourself, kid.”

Tommy shakes his head, hugging the waste bin less out of necessity and more out of the need to have something to hold.

Ms. Puffy sighs, shooting Tommy a sympathetic look. To Tommy’s surprise, she joins him, taking the empty seat beside him. She folds her hands in front of her and leans forward to meet Tommy’s eyes.

She warmly smiles, and Tommy is reminded that she’s not just a teacher, but a mom too. “It’s okay, Tom. You’ll feel better before you know it.”

Tommy’s cheeks grow hot and his hands shake as he continues to cry in front of his teacher. His throat hurts, his voice wavering and cracking. “Can’ miss school, though.”

Ms. Puffy frowns. “But what about you?”

Tommy shakes his head.

“You’re important too, Tommy.”

Tommy hums in disagreement. A hand lays on his back, gently resting. It’s too comforting, and despite his churning stomach, trembling frame and pulsing headache, his eyelids are pulled down.

“Do you trust Wilbur?” Ms. Puffy whispers.

Tommy suppresses a smile, humming his agreement, “Mhm.”

“You should tell him how you feel, okay?” Ms. Puffy suggests, but Tommy’s too far gone.

The rim of the trash bin digs into his forehead from where he’s made himself a pillow. Tommy’s throat still has that sensation like there’s something in it, something he needs to swallow but can’t. More tears fall, and Tommy doesn’t even realize he’s falling asleep, bent over a bin and dripping in sweat and tears.

—

Tommy pulls at Wilbur’s clothes, using the loose sweater to shield his face from the bright lights that seem to be everywhere

Wilbur stops talking, and the arms carrying Tommy shift. There’s one arm hooked under Tommy’s legs, another wrapped around his shoulder, and both are now raising Tommy to be closer to Wilbur.

“Are you awake?” Wilbur whispers, and the hand on Tommy’s shoulder moves to scratch the side of the boy’s head.

Tommy shakes his head with a whine, trying to bury into Wilbur’s clothes.

“Shut up, fuckin’ loud.” Tommy breathes, never opening his eyes.

“Oh- I’m sorry, sunshine.” Wilbur covers the side of Tommy’s face with his hand, hiding Tommy’s eyes from the light and cupping his ear. “You can sleep, darling.”

After a moment, Wilbur continues talking, now in a much lower volume. Then, Tommy starts swinging as Wilbur begins to walk. A strike of primal fear shoots through Tommy when his arm slips down, and Tommy is quick to cling onto his brother.

“I won’t let you fall, Toms.” Wilbur reassures.

Tommy hums and his arms loosen around Wilbur, but don’t fall back into place. They just stay there, hugging.

—

Tommy forcefully wakes up, eyes snapping open and body slamming against the seatbelt as his stomach flips. The car he’s apparently inside jolts to a stop, and that’s when the nausea properly sets in.

Wilbur sits in the driver's seat, completely unbothered until he notices that Tommy is awake.

They catch each other’s gaze, and a quiet moment is shared before Wilbur speaks up. “Sorry, didn’t mean to wake you.”

Tommy unwillingly winces; It’s like as the car lurched to a stop, Tommy’s brain slammed against the inside of his head, and now he has to fight the cosmos to simply not cry from the pain.

“You wouldn’t have, if you could fucking drive.” Tommy mutters.

Since Techno has tried and failed numerous times to get his license, Tommy supposes Wilbur is his best driver option brother-wise. Still, Tommy believes he’d be safer in a car with a driver who calls pedestrians ‘points.’

Wilbur doesn’t give the usual retort to Tommy’s abrasive comment, and by that, Tommy knows something’s off.

Tommy looks out the window, past the driveway and at their house. Neither belong here at this hour. With Wilbur supposed to be working alongside Techno at the diner and Tommy having his attendance at school, Tommy’s inability to smell cafeteria food without puking doesn’t seem like enough to rush home for.

Tommy scrunches up his nose. “I’m fine, y’know.”

Wilbur just dismisses Tommy with a hum as Wilbur exits the car. Tommy roughly exhales, unbuckling the seatbelt.

The car door on Tommy’s side opens, and Wilbur is leaning in, reaching out his hand to Tommy. Tommy scrutinizingly glares between the offer and Wilbur’s hopeful smile. Tommy slowly pushes the hand back to Wilbur with all the sass he can muster into a single motion and successfully gets out of the car himself.

There’s no cues given to Wilbur that Tommy’s vision goes dark when he stands, that everything becomes muffled and his legs feel like they’re floating. Tommy just focuses on scowling at Wilbur until the feeling subsides, then he walks towards the house like all is normal.

Wilbur hides his frown and follows Tommy inside.

Tommy had grabbed his backpack from the car, a decision he’s regretting as it feels closer to dragging an anchor through his home. Tommy trudges through the house, aiming for his room to deposit the weight… then take said weight apart and study the contents.

What else is he to do? He can’t just waste the precious time he has on anything, and studying will hopefully mean something for the entire day he’s missing.

At the entrance to the hallway, Wilbur shows up out of nowhere and stands in front of Tommy, effectively stopping the boy (which, admittedly, isn’t hard to do when Tommy doesn’t know the difference between walking and standing).

“Ay- where do you think you’re going?” Wilbur asks, his hands raised like Tommy would try to tackle him.

Tommy would, but for now he chooses to hold back his almighty strength and mumble, “My room, piss off.” While staring at the hardwood.

“Mhm,” Wilbur hums, an eyebrow raised, “To do what?”

Tommy’s frown deepens and his fists tighten around the straps of his backpack. “Sleep.”

Wilbur holds out his hand, palm up. “Then give me your backpack.”

Tommy pauses. “No.”

Wilbur already knows he’s won. Tommy can tell by the above-average smugness. “Why not?”

Tommy stares at Wilbur with a vacant expression. “My phone’s in there.”

“Then take your phone out.”

“…So’s my computer.”

Wilbur purses his lips. “Tommy.”

Tommy makes an ugly face back up at Wilbur. “Wil-bitch.”

Wilbur sighs. “Give me the backpack or you can sleep out here.”

Tommy glares at the couch, then back to Wilbur.

Even if Wilbur isn’t likely to fall asleep, which would allow Tommy to sneak away, he is also aware that the man has the attention span of a toddler. All it’d take is one shiny rock and Tommy could get back on track- in the meantime, Tommy could rest for a moment, but only because there’s nothing better to do.

“Fine.” Tommy stomps over to the couch, grimacing when he throws himself on the cushions without thinking. His stomach does a barrel roll and Tommy instinctively draws inward, covering his mouth (which still smells horrid, thanks to the cafeteria incident).

The nausea doesn’t fade away. The anticipation adds sweat to his already moist skin, and pain to the ever present headache. Tommy hardly holds back a whine at just how terribly his body is failing him.

A tap on Tommy’s knee gets him to open his eyes.

Wilbur sympathetically smiles at Tommy, gently tucking the family’s throw up bowl under his chin. Wilbur is crouched by Tommy’s legs, frankly, a dangerous position to be, at the moment.

“‘M fine.” Tommy says, but he doesn’t really know who he’s saying it to.

“You’re not. I don’t mind, though.” Wilbur softly speaks under his breath, a melody to Tommy’s migraine.

But, nothing good ever likes to last, and Tommy squeezes his eyes shut as the pain in his head worsens. Wilbur is quick to soothe the boy, a hand falling on his shoulder and another pushing the hair out of Tommy’s face.

“I’m not gonna puke.” Tommy loudly states, ending his sentence with a frown directed at Wilbur.

Wilbur pauses. “Okay.” Wilbur puts the bowl on the opposite side of him, then he slides up and onto the couch, cozying into Tommy’s side.

Wilbur wraps an arm around Tommy’s shoulders, swinging the coffin door closed and trapping Tommy inside, though the boy barely felt alive to begin with.

Unlike every other time Wilbur has pulled Tommy into his arms, Tommy remains rigid and wide awake. Tommy tries his best to keep his mind on actually important things like schoolwork and not fucking cuddling, but it’s hard when Wilbur seems to be shaped so perfectly to hold Tommy.

“Relax, Toms. I promise not to bite.” Tommy can hear the smile in Wilbur’s voice. “…This time.”

“This isn’t productive.” Tommy mumbles, finding himself getting too comfortable, and he tries to wriggle away from Wilbur.

Tommy’s attempted escape only gets him pulled into Wilbur’s lap, fully caged by loving arms that stuff his heart with far too much sugary comfort.

“Sleeping is productive,” Wilbur argues, “Putting off your needs for silly books and emails won’t help you at all, love.”

The arms tighten around Tommy, making him catch his breath.

The coffin is closing, begging Tommy to just lie down inside of it, sleep through the day and laze within the security of its walls. But, the coffin doesn’t think about the maggots outside, about how quickly they can tear through the wood and through Tommy. The world outside can’t be forgotten, or it’ll eat away at him until there’s nothing left.

Tommy can’t waste his time with these stupid arguments and debates. He’s failing with every second he’s lazing about, and he’s hardly even fighting it. Assignments will pile up, sections and units will grow as Tommy falls behind, and it’s all because he decided to take a nap he doesn’t need.

His whole family is so valuable. All Tommy has to do so he can proudly stand alongside them is study a little more. It’s not so hard, when he makes the right sacrifices. No great accomplishment comes without those sacrifices, so what if he misses some sleep here and there?

No, nothing is more important than being worth something.

Tommy can’t fade into the background all because he traded homework for a meal, for a nap. He needs to be loved, but first he must do something worth loving.

“Those are more important than a fucking nap, Wilbur,” Tommy heatedly spits, pushing away Wilbur’s arms. “Let me-“

Wilbur scoffs, pulling Tommy back in. “Oh, yeah, sorry, it is more important than your health.”

Still trapped in his older brother’s arms, Tommy shoots a scowl up at Wilbur.

“I’m older-“ Tommy gapes, knowing all too well where Wilbur is going. “-So I make the rules, and I say your well being is more important than a dumb letter.”

Tommy sputters, finally pushing himself away from Wilbur and landing on the other end of the couch.

After the split second it takes for Tommy’s vision to clear, Tommy shouts at Wilbur, “It’s not a dumb letter! It- it means more than that!” Tommy hides the grimace from his increasingly pounding headache with a harsh frown. With the way Wilbur doubtfully stares, Tommy isn’t sure he looks as mad as he does wounded.

Wilbur rolls his eyes. “I’m not arguing with you on this- Not when you’re like-“ Wilbur waves a hand at Tommy. “-this, either.”

Tommy reels back, offense drawn on every feature. “Fucking, excuse me? Not when I’m- Oh, fuck you!”

In a quick motion, Tommy shoves himself off the couch and onto his feet.

“You think you-“

A strangled noise escapes Tommy’s throat as he slaps a hand over his mouth, curling over. The vile odor trickles up from his stomach, landing in his mouth and warning of what’s to come. Tommy hardly falters when he feels the bowl pressed to his chest, only brusquely shoving it away.

Tommy takes the hand from away from his mouth, fists curling at his side. Wilbur stands there, patience clearly wearing thin, but still there.

Even as Tommy raises his voice, it doesn’t stop the trembling. “I said piss off, man! I’m fucking- fucking-“

Tommy squeezes his eyes shut, turning away to hide the pained grimace. His head seems like it’s trying to split itself open, and all Tommy can do is push on his temple to try and keep it closed.

“You can take medication, at least,” Wilbur whispers, and Tommy doesn’t have to see his brother to know the worried look on his face.

When Tommy breathes, it’s in rough gasp that’s nothing less than the precursor to a sob. Tommy covers his mouth again, trying to just behave normally.

“Oh, Tom-“ Wilbur breathes, but Tommy’s already grabbing his bag.

Wilbur stands to follow Tommy out of the room, still keeping a healthy distance away from the blonde.

“Tommy,” Wilbur calls, “You need to sleep-!”

Tommy at least has half the mind not to slam the door behind him for the sake of his screaming migraine. Only for the hell of it, Tommy locks his door with unnecessary force just so Wilbur can hear it.

Tommy storms off, throwing his bag down and seating himself at his desk as he waits for the symptoms- feelings, to subside. With his head in his hands and tears in his eyes, he mutters curses under his breath as his stomach rolls.

Every single part of him aches and creaks with every breath, and every beat of his pulse echoes in his brain like gunfire. It’s all so loud and painful and sickening and all Tommy wants to do is… study. He wants to study.

Choking back tears, Tommy limply fumbles for his backpack, pulling out his computer and books.

He doesn’t know why he has to fight so hard to simply not cry on the paper below him. It’s not like he bottles up his emotions or anything, it’s just that now, he’s crying like someone’s died when he doesn’t even know why he’s crying at all.

Tommy presses the tip of the pencil to his notebook, watching as it shakes.

Wilbur doesn’t know anything. Tommy knows his limits; If he needed sleep, he would sleep. If he needed something, he’d do it. And besides, what about all the sacrifice business? He’s got to work for this, and he’s ready to. He’s been working on this for weeks, and he won’t give up now, not when he’s so close.

Tommy grips the pencil tighter, taking in long breaths. No matter how hard he tries, the tears won’t stop. The pencil glides over the paper, avoiding wet circles made by tears, and Tommy copies the formula.

He can cry until his eyes are dry, kick until his legs are broken and scream until his voice is hoarse, but no matter what, he will be enough.

—

The hunger hits him like a freight train.

Tommy doesn’t know how long it’s been since he’s started studying, but it must be past lunchtime with how his gut twists itself into a painful knot. The hunger pains keep pulling his focus from his homework and right to his aching stomach.

Slowly, carefully, Tommy temporarily leaves his desk to forage for food. He can’t study at all when the only thing on his mind is a ham sandwich.

Tommy passes by the living room, choosing to ignore Wilbur who’s sat on the couch, staring Tommy down all the while. Tommy untenses when he’s finally out of Wilbur’s view and continues on with his life, a life full of ham sandwiches.

Once Tommy is in the kitchen, he lays out the dry ingredients, then goes rifling through the fridge. In the back of the fridge, there’s an old jar of mayonnaise that supposedly expired yesterday, and ‘careful’ isn’t Tommy’s middle name for nothing.

While crouched down by the open fridge, Tommy unscrews the mayonnaise jar, revealing perfectly good contents. Tommy takes a whiff and-

“Oh shit-“

The mayonnaise is expired. It is very expired-

The jar drops to the floor as Tommy jumps up, and in two quick steps he’s hunched over the sink, taking labored breaths in an attempt to quell the way his stomach tries to rise.

Then his visions blurs until it blackens, and Tommy squeezes his eyes shut.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck!” Tommy swears under his breath, holding onto the sink for dear life.

Over the ringing in Tommy’s ears, he can hear a tentative, “Tommy?” From the other room.

Tommy doesn’t think he’ll throw up, but he’s still nauseous, and the pain in his head is pounding tenfold. His body aches, he can hardly see anything, he’s sweaty and shaking, his empty stomach is doing backflips like Tommy is doing backflips, and he’s… he’s tired, he’s exhausted of everything. He’s trying so hard to be enough, and even now, at the cost of his health and sanity, he’s simply incapable of being any more than he already is.

He’ll never improve, he’ll never be better than this. He’s reached his limit, flown as high as he could, and now all there is for the little Icarus to do is fall.

Tommy won’t be anything, anything at all. He isn’t anything, he never has been, even when he tries. He’s a worthless wannabe, a smudge to the family name, and he can’t even fix it himself. He’s tried. That was him trying his hardest, and his hardest wasn’t enough.

He can’t be better for himself, for his family, or for anyone.

He is incompetent and incapable, and he is not enough.

The only thing he truly is, is tired.

Dipping his head down, Tommy sobs, “Wil.”

God may work fast, but the bamboo pole of his brother works faster. Not another tear can fall before Wilbur is there, tilting Tommy to face him.

Tommy meets Wilbur’s sympathetic gaze and melts, gasping, crying and throwing himself onto Wilbur, expecting his brother to hold him up.

It’s hardly a question, as Wilbur lifts Tommy up by his shoulders, hugging him more than holding him. Wilbur does that a lot- he turns touch that should be simply necessary or routine into something affectionate and tender.

Wilbur could hold Tommy up by the boy’s shoulders and inquire what happened, but that wouldn’t be Wilbur. Instead, Tommy is lovingly locked to the man’s chest, one arm around Tommy’s middle and a hand pressed to the back of his head. It all serves to hold Tommy, but more than that, Wilbur so effortlessly achieves the sidequest of warming Tommy’s heart until it melts.

Wilbur’s face is tucked into Tommy’s hair, as it often is, making the question muffled. “What happened here, sunshine?”

The kitchen probably looked like quite the odd scene to walk in on, Tommy realizes.

Thinking about the mayonnaise jar, Tommy twists his face in disgust. “Smelled bad.”

“Yeah?” Wilbur face lifts from Tommy’s hair, now propping his chin on top of Tommy’s head.

Tommy’s hums, and exhaustion turns his arms limp from where they’re hooked around Wilbur’s waste.

“Tommy, love, when was the last time you ate?” Wilbur asks, just above a whisper.

“This…” Tommy’s tongue nor mind seem to function together, struggling to get out anything more than little cries. “Last night.”

“The last time you slept?”

“Car,” Tommy mumbles.

Wilbur exhales a soft laugh. “Before that?

“Night.”

“For how long?”

“Mm…” Tommy pitifully moans, probably more dramatically than necessary. “Two, somethin’…”

Wilbur begins to pet Tommy’s hair, and Tommy contently sighs.

“Showered?” Wilbur asks.

Tommy does his best to shrug his shoulders.

“Okay…” Wilbur mutters, “Nothin’ we can’t fix, yeah?” Wilbur smiles at Tommy.

Through his sluggish brain fog, Tommy finds himself thinking, ‘Nothing, besides me.’

Wilbur pulls away from Tommy, studying the blonde. “First, let’s get some food into you.”

Tommy doesn’t really feel like he can disagree, but he doesn’t find any great urge to, either.

Wilbur half carries Tommy to the living room, where he’s sat on the couch and then fussed over by Wilbur. Tommy lets it all happen, it’s not as though Wilbur is going to care this much after he sees how badly Tommy failed.

“I’ll be right back, okay?” Wilbur reassures, brushing Tommy’s hair back.

It’s been days since Tommy’s showered, so he knows his hair is greasy and gross, but with the way Wilbur treats him, Tommy could be fooled into thinking he’s made of gold and diamonds.

“I love you.” Wilbur kisses Tommy’s forehead, and Tommy closes his eyes as his shoulders sag. Wilbur softly laughs, “I’ll take that as, ‘I love you too.’”

Tommy’s hair is given a good ruffle, and then it’s gone. Tommy doesn’t open his eyes, sinking into the couch like he could become the cushions.

There’s a certain kind of tiredness that makes home feel like heaven. Tommy knows he’s hit that level of exhaustion when the scratchy, old couch his dad bought feels like a blessed mattress, and when Wilbur’s curses and gags just fade into the background.

Wilbur found the mayonnaise, then.

Tommy doesn’t even remember laying down, he only remembers feeling content for the first time in a long while.

—

“Tommy,” Wilbur whispers, “Sunshine, I bring food and libations.”

Frowning, Tommy hums his discontent. It isn’t until deli meat and mustard pass by his nose that Tommy even opens his eyes.

Wilbur takes in a dramatic, quiet gasp. “There’s my handsome boy!”

Tommy grumbles again, blindly reaching out for wherever the hell his sandwich is. He’s smelled it, now it’s too late to take it back.

“No- Sit up, Toms.” Wilbur says, and through squinting eyes, Tommy can see the man using his serious face.

Relenting, Tommy whines again, sitting up on his elbows.

His body is still… exactly the same, but now there’s a sacral ham sandwich before him, so at least the hunger pains are being satiated.

From Tommy’s awkward position, half laying down, he scoops up the sandwich and immediately digs in. Tommy’s just grateful that his sudden scent sensitivity isn’t bothered by this delectable, divine cuisine.

Tommy is so busy chowing down, he doesn’t even notice Wilbur had ever left until his brother returns with a medication bottle in hand.

Tommy scarfs down the last of his sandwich, then makes grabby hands at Wilbur while putting on the most pitiful, heartbroken face he can muster.

“Aw, poor Toms-“ Wilbur coos, crouching beside Tommy, handing over the pill bottle and glass of water.

“Shut up, I’m actually dying, Wilbur.” Tommy retorts before taking the painkillers.

“Mhm,” Wilbur hums, and Tommy almost chokes on his water when a hand cards through his hair.

“Can you shower, darling?” Wilbur asks, his hand drifting from blond curls to cup Tommy’s face. Tommy’s cheeks heat up, but he’s sure the stoic expression he wears makes it unnoticeable.

“Why wouldn’t I?” Tommy incredulously replies.

Wilbur softly smiles, cherishing Tommy in his hands. “Just worried, is all, love.”

“Hmph.” Tommy finishes his water and pouts, shoving the pills and empty glass into Wilbur’s chest before pushing the man away. “I can shower, dumbass.”

Tommy goes to sit up, an achingly slow process. It doesn’t help that Wilbur’s found his way back to holding Tommy’s face.

“But I thought you were dying?” Wilbur mocks, but the genuine smile he dons suggests nothing but fondness.

Too enervated to form a quip, Tommy just groans. God, he’s too tired to insult Wilbur, the man who’s entire existence is an insult to himself- what has Tommy been doing?

Leaning on Wilbur, Tommy pulls himself up, leaving to go to the bathroom.

“Call me if you need me!” Wilbur shouts from the living room.

Tommy rolls his eyes, collecting a change of clothes and towel. “Clingy!” Tommy accuses.

Just as Tommy closes the door, Wilbur replies, “I love you!”

“Fuckin’-” Tommy grumbles and sighs. “Love you too!”

Tommy closes the door, throwing his stuff on the counter.

With his hands on his hips, Tommy peers at the shower like it’s an opponent. He can do this. He just needs to be tediously slow and careful. He can do this, it’ll just take time.

…Not unlike his brothers, Tommy has a small problem with impatience and impulsivity.

—

Even though Tommy has to sit on the counter to brush his teeth, he never calls for Wilbur’s help. After what feels like days, Tommy finally exits the bathroom, completely and totally clean.

Well, except for his hair, that is.

He’s washed it of course, but he doesn’t dry his hair besides shaking it out, a fact Wilbur is well aware of.

So, when Tommy leaves the bathroom and Wilbur appears, Tommy doesn’t fight it this time. He’s too tired, Tommy knows it, and Wilbur knows it, too. By the way Tommy sighs, how Wilbur smiles in response, it’s all too tiring to fight.

Tommy doesn’t even get to go to his room before Wilbur is behind Tommy, Wilbur’s hands falling on the boy’s shoulders. Tommy looks up to see the man looming over him, reaching over Tommy’s shoulder and grabbing the towel from Tommy’s hand.

“Do you have to?” Tommy whines as Wilbur turns the blonde around, leading them to Wilbur’s room.

Wilbur frowns at Tommy, faux concern leaking from his pouting lip. “But you’ll catch a cold!”

When they get to Wilbur’s room, Tommy obliges, sitting on Wilbur’s bed. “You know that’s not-“

Tommy’s muffled complaints are trapped under the towel covering his face, but Tommy doesn’t even kick. He curses, he sighs, he waits, and Wilbur only giggles.

After a period of silent compliance on Tommy's part, Wilbur takes away the towel to reveal a very grumpy Tommy.

“Don’t look so gloomy, sunshine-“ Wilbur throws the towel on Tommy’s head, hands gently ruffling sopping blonde curls with the fabric. “-I know you love me.”

“Hey! Don’t put words in my mouth!” Tommy tries to glare at Wilbur, but it’s hard when that very same person is lovingly drying his hair. “At least I’m not bald! Or ugly! Or old!”

Tommy throws recriminations one after the other, but Wilbur doesn’t even spare him a glance. Wilbur hums, carefully scrunching Tommy’s hair with the towel.

Tommy crosses his arms. “You’re just ignoring me because you’re scared of the truth-“

“-You know, your hair would look much better if you dried it like this.” Wilbur interrupts, laying down the towel to fluff up Tommy’s hair with his hands.

“Hm. You suggested it…” Tommy taps his finger to his chin, peering at Wilbur. “…So no.”

Wilbur huffs, roughly tousling Tommy’s hair. “How are you feeling, flower?”

That’s a new one.

After Tommy’s eyes widen, he quickly clears his throat and shakes off the surprise. “Uh, meds took away the headache.”

“Good.”

“Still pretty-“ Tommy waves a hand by his head, indicating his dizziness. “-though.”

Wilbur’s hand moves to rest on Tommy’s shoulder, anchoring the boy to the earth. “My room or yours?”

Sinking under Wilbur’s affection, his shoulders slumping, Tommy’s sure Wilbur already knows the answer. “I don’t wanna get up.”

With a light chuckle under his breath, Wilbur sits on the bed, crawling in and dragging Tommy under the blankets. “Tired boy.”

Tommy worms his way right into Wilbur’s chest, closing his eyes and just about passing out there.

He’s clean, medicated, fed and about to be well rested, but he can’t take any of these in stride without guilt pooling in his stomach. He knows he’s sick, to some degree, but he’s only like this because he dragged himself to this point by his own lack of care, his own poor prioritization.

Wilbur doesn’t need anyone to tell him to take a shower or eat. Wilbur does everything by himself, everything and more because he helps Tommy.

“I don’t wanna be like this.” Tommy quietly says, cringing afterwards.

Wilbur doesn’t even falter. “Like what?”

“Like someone who can’t take care of themselves.”

“…Toms, fifteen year olds are not supposed to take care of themselves.” Tommy frowns, but Wilbur continues. “Not fully, I mean.”

Tommy sighs, ignoring Wilbur’s comment. “I just- I want to do things, Wil. It’s hard. I try and I- I fail. I’m gonna fail.”

Wilbur shuffles down, kissing Tommy on top of his damp curls. “You’ll learn.”

Tommy bites his lip, swallowing the sudden lump in his throat. He doesn’t know why he can’t agree, what’s prodding at him to prolong this argument, why he has to tell Wilbur at all. (He wants to be honest- completely, wholly honest. He can fail at everything else, but he refuses to fail at being the best brother he can.)

Tommy takes a shaky breath, gripping a little tighter onto Wilbur’s sweater. “I’m gonna fail because of the days off.” Tommy winces when his voice breaks. “I don’t wanna fail.”

Wilbur’s reply is simple. “You aren’t failing.”

“I will.” Tommy inisists.

“Then what?” Wilbur counters.

“Then- then I’ve failed.”

“Okay. Then what?”

Tommy hesitates.

(“Do you trust Wilbur?” Ms. Puffy whispers.

Tommy suppresses a smile, humming his agreement, “Mhm.”

“You should tell him how you feel, okay?”)

Tommy trusts Wilbur.

The words come out as small as he feels, an ant among an army, a drop in a storm. “I don’t wanna fail you guys.”

And now, the drop that Tommy is within the storm of his mind is revealed. He’s opened the door to the horrid winds and rain, showing Wilbur the violent skies and torrential downpour.

He can only hope that Wilbur doesn’t look at the brutality and find humor in it. So often it’s easier to laugh off a hurricane than admit it’s beating the door down.

“Tommy,” Wilbur starts, and Tommy holds his breath. “You know I love you, but you are so stupid, my little brother.” Before Tommy can even process what Wilbur’s said, Wilbur is talking again. “You don’t need to do anything besides be here to be enough.” Wilbur declares, squeezing Tommy’s shoulder.

Tommy’s heard that a thousand times before, but he also knows that his ‘being here’ is so wildly different from the rest of his family’s. Unlike their bare minimum, his mere existence is not enough.

“I wanna impress.” Tommy mumbles, suddenly feeling trapped by Wilbur’s arms.

“You do, every day.” Like every reply, it’s immediate, easy, given like nothing.

To Tommy, it is nothing. “That doesn’t mean anything to me.”

The words could be nicer, he knows, but right now half of his energy is spent wriggling in Wilbur’s arms, trying to escape.

“Okay,” Wilbur brings Tommy back to his chest, and Tommy is too tired to fight the older. “Doesn’t mean it’s not true.”

Once Tommy stops fighting, their conversation lulls. Wilbur doesn’t let go, and Tommy doesn’t know how to tell him to. Truly, Tommy doesn’t know what he wants.

He wants to be good, to impress, but how can he when it seems he wasn’t born to be anything but helplessly average. No amount of hard work can help him, yet he tries, and yet he fails.

Does he really want this if he can’t even find the discipline to achieve it?

“You’re a good little brother, you know.” Wilbur assures as if he can read Tommy’s mind.

“I j’s wanna be better for you.” Tommy mutters, dipping his head down in shame at the admission.

Closing his eyes, he’s too tired to hide. Too tired to not spill his guts like he intended to all along. “I just wanna be enough.”

Tears spring into Tommy’s eyes. He doesn’t wipe them away, he doesn’t try to blink them back, he doesn’t do anything but let them fall down his face and soak Wilbur’s shirt. Tommy takes in small gasps, his fingers gripping Wilbur’s shirt in some attempt to disappear in the cloth.

“Hey, hey,” Wilbur shushes, “You are enough, darling. I promise.”

Wilbur pulls Tommy up, just enough for the man to more easily bury his face in Tommy’s hair. He holds the shaking boy, gently rubbing Tommy’s shoulder as Wilbur speaks muffled nothings.

“It’s so sweet of you to try to be more, but I don’t want you to be anything but yourself.”

Tommy frowns, stammering over his own small gasps. “You-you want me to fail instead of- of being a little stressed?”

“A little-?!” Wilbur cuts himself off with a huff, squeezing Tommy. “Fucking, yeah, Toms. Yeah, exactly that.”

“Oh.” Tommy breathes.

Even when Tommy’s cries fade into shivers, and shivers into sighs, Wilbur doesn’t let go. Never for a moment do his arms loosen, nor does Wilbur dare go for more than a minute without telling Tommy how loved the boy is, how very enough he is. Still, the tears never stop.

The morose ache in Tommy’s chest weighs him down to the bed, further into Wilbur’s arms and deeper into sleep. When a new round of tears arrive, dripping without warning or prompting, Tommy cringes (as much as he can with what little motor skills he still has).

“Gonna get y’r p’llows we’” Tommy mutters, eyes firmly closed.

“Don’t care.” And by the time Wilbur’s hands find their way to card through Tommy’s hair, Tommy is already out.

—

The bus ride home is no longer than usual, but as Tommy patiently waits for his stop, his report card sitting in his backpack like an envelope stuffed with rocks, the ride seems to drag on for hours.

It’s been two weeks since he ‘burnt himself out,’ as his family says, and he’s spent those two weeks studying his ass off… significantly less than before.

He’s still taking his free time to work as hard as he can to get ahead, but now that free time has been limited to just an hour or more a day. He can’t forgo sleep, meals, hygiene or family time to study, making him a much happier, yet less productive boy.

Even if Wilbur says he’ll be proud no matter what, even his whole family promises him that they’ll love him the same because his grades are not him, Tommy can’t help the frantic thoughts that zip around his mind.

He knows he’s failed history. He’s certain of it, just by the way his teacher looked at Tommy today. Tommy is confident that he didn’t come anywhere near passing.

History was Wilbur’s finest subject, and well… everything was Techno’s finest subject. Surely, something that his older brothers could pass without any difficulty would at least be questioned. Yes, then Tommy would have to explain that he simply didn’t try hard enough. And then what? Then his family will be proud he failed?

No, they won’t. Nobody will. Tommy will continue to fail again and again until they stop hoping he’ll succeed in anything, and then Tommy will eventually fail to be a productive part of the family.

Tommy sighs.

He’s failed.

The bus lurches to a stop and the doors clang open. Tommy gets up from his seat with his backpack and exits the bus.

He can already feel the tears trying to form in his eyes.

“You’re fucking fine,” Tommy whispers to himself, closing his eyes. “Everything is fucking fine.”

Walking as slowly as possible down the road, Tommy arrives at his house. Wilbur and Phil’s cars are both in the driveway; Everyone is home.

Tommy nervously hums, pursing his lips.

It’s not like they’ll bite his head off, Tommy reminds himself. They’ll only hate you.

That’s it.

Tommy opens the door and steps inside.

Wilbur’s in the dining room, smiling at Tommy when he catches sight of the boy. “Hey Toms! How was school?”

Tommy doesn’t meet Wilbur’s eyes.

Tommy closes the door, shrugging off his backpack. “Got my report card today.”

Phil steps into view from the kitchen, beaming at Tommy. “Well, let’s see it then!”

Phil’s smile is infectious, but Tommy’s gloomy gaze is the plague. Phil tilts his head, concern showing in his furrowed brow. Before Phil can ask, Tommy is opening his backpack and pulling out the envelope.

He tears it open, pulling out the printed paper and scanning the words written.

He passed four classes.

And failed two.

Science, math, English, and photography are all shaded in light grays, bold As and Bs beside each category. Then there’s Spanish and history, both in dark shades, a D next to Spanish and an F besides history.

The silence Tommy has cultivated is shattered.

“Tommy?” Wilbur asks. “What is it?”

Biting his tongue, Tommy walks the paper over to his dad, a tight grip wrinkling the neatly folded report. Tommy shoves the report card towards Phil, who gingerly takes it from Tommy’s hand.

The paper crinkles as Phil reads the contents, and Tommy winces.

A tear falls before he can stop it, and Tommy bows his head.

Tommy jumps as Wilbur shouts, “Holy shit Tommy! A plus in math, you’re a genius!”

“A plus in photography, too.” Tommy can hear the smile in Phil’s voice.

Tommy dares to look up, frowning in confusion as he sees Wilbur and Phil smiling at the report card. They’re grinning like it’s a gift of Christmas morning, but in reality, Tommy’s just presented himself as a bag of coal. Still, they smile. Tommy can’t wrap his head around it, but Techno’s already being called over to share the duo’s enthusiasm.

“Tech! Get over here!” Wilbur calls, and Techno saunters over from the living room.

Techno hums in curiosity, peering over Wilbur’s shoulder.

“Hey, good job kid,” Techno says, looking up to Tommy.

Tommy freezes under his brother’s gaze.

Good job? For failing?

“You did excellent, son,” Phil chimes in.

“The best.” Wilbur smiles.

Tommy stammers, looking between each of his relatives as his hands shake.

Surely, they haven’t read the part where he’s failed yet, otherwise they’d take it all back. Does Tommy bring it up, then? He has to, doesn’t he? They’d find out one way or another, anyways.

“But I- I failed.” Tommy softly admits.

“Mhm.” Phil nods. “And you also tried your damn hardest.”

Tommy shakes his head, wringing his hands. “But-“

“Tommy-“ Wilbur steps forward, laying a hand on the boy's shoulder. Tommy is compelled to stare back at Wilbur, tracking the man’s focused eyes. “Your best is enough.”

Tommy’s jaw quivers. “I fai-“

“It’s enough.”

The saltwater soaking Tommy’s cheeks is wiped away by Wilbur. “You’re always enough. Okay?”

Wilbur holds Tommy’s face steady, keeping the boys blue eyes focused on brown. Teary, blue eyes focused on honest, collected browns.

“You’re- you’re not mad?” Tommy whispers.

“Oh kiddo,” Phil steps forward, squeezing in to lay a hand on Tommy’s shoulder. “I’m proud. I can’t think of another sophomore who can ace math.”

Tommy’s brows furrow. “What?” he looks between his brothers, “You guys didn’t…?”

Techno bows his head, and Wilbur shakes his.

“Oh,” Tommy utters.

Phil proudly looks between his boys. “And I’m still proud of them-“ Their dad squeezes Tommy’s shoulder, kindly nodding to the youngest of the family. “Just like I’m proud of you.”

At that moment, Tommy makes a connection. Their smiles are all dripping with pride.

“Oh.” Tommy throws himself forward, latching onto whatever he touches. Phil and Wilbur hold Tommy up, hugging him as well as each other.

A weight settles on Tommy’s head, and Tommy chuckles as Techno leans into the hug.

Tommy’s going to stub his toe later for being so sappy, but since he’s already crying in his family’s arms, he doesn’t know how much his choked out, “I love you guys.” will change.

Naturally, all he receives is equally reciprocated love.

—

When Tommy leaves the shower that night, hair dripping and shoulders slouching, he’s in no state to defend himself from the attack.

Literally, an attack.

Since Tommy’s been taking care of himself more regularly, he’s been fighting back against Wilbur’s demented acts and occasionally winning.

But tonight, before Tommy can even check his surroundings, he is tackled to the floor by a cackling madman. Tommy writhes and shouts as the towel is ripped from his arms and thrown over his head, pulled tight to cover his face.

“Surrender!” Wilbur demands, pressing Tommy’s face to the ground.

Tommy aimlessly flails, landing a harmless slap on Wilbur’s forearm. “Never, bitch!”

Wilbur leans in beside Tommy’s ear, whispering, “Then die.”

Tommy screams and kicks as he’s dragged by his legs, and Wilbur’s maniacal laughter starts up again.

“Simmer down!” Their dad shouts from somewhere in the home.

“Dad-!” Tommy cries, but it’s too late. Tommy is thrown into Wilbur’s room, the door is shut, and Wilbur is pulling Tommy to the bed.

Tommy plays dead weight, his last resort, but Wilbur is no fool to fall for the same trick twice. He doesn’t falter, picking Tommy up and dropping him on top of the covers.

Wilbur unfurls the towel. “We can do this the easy way, or the hard way.”

Tommy pouts, crossing his arms.

Wilbur sighs, “It won’t kill you, Toms.”

“It’ll kill my dignity.” Tommy grumbles.

“Oh, c’mon, you big baby-“ Wilbur throws the towel over Tommy’s head, making the boy yelp. “-It’ll only be a minute.”

True to his word, and mostly because Tommy has short hair, it only takes a few minutes of scrunching and tussling until Wilbur stands back, satisfied. Tommy’s dripping hair is dry, and Wilbur’s satanic impulses have been appeased.

Tommy, on the other hand, still has his arms crossed and dons an expression that could rival a thunderstorm.

“Come off it, darling,” Wilbur coos, picking Tommy’s face up. “Don’t you love me?”

Tommy’s eyes widen and he looks away.

Wilbur giggles then abruptly sighs. “I’m tired.”

Eyes still wide, Tommy looks back to Wilbur. “Hey- No, no, no-!”

Wilbur jumps onto his bed, hooking an arm around Tommy and bringing the shrieking boy down with him.

Wilbur hums, snuggling Tommy close as he pulls the covers up. “Teddy bear.”

“I’ll bite you!” Tommy warns, trying to incline his head to Wilbur’s arm.

“I’ll still love you.” Wilbur gets himself comfortable under the covers, now more lazily hugging Tommy. Though, Tommy is certain that if he tries to escape, those noodle arms will become iron.

Tommy accepts his fate, reasoning that in the dead of winter, the extra warmth isn’t so bad.

The sleepier Tommy gets, the less warm he feels. The more distance there seems to be without ever moving an inch, and the more he wants to wrap his arms around something too.

Still caged beside Wilbur, Tommy twists around so they’re chest to chest, and he hugs his brother back.

Wilbur softly croons, running a hand through Tommy’s damp hair. “My clean boy.”

Tommy makes a noise of disgust, hugging Wilbur tighter. “You’re so weird, go away now, bald man.”

Wilbur presses a kiss on top of Tommy’s head, smiling into the locks.

Tommy doesn’t need to see Wilbur’s face to know. Maybe all the times he’s heard it have finally gotten through to him. Maybe it’s the way Wilbur hugs Tommy that’s given it away. Maybe it’s the gentle kisses and cafuné, or perhaps it’s finally something Tommy has come to instinctively know.

Wilbur is smiling with pride.

Tommy falls asleep, having made his brother proud. Tommy ends the day being enough, and tomorrow he will wake up in his brother’s arms and still be worth it all.

Tommy hasn’t failed his family, and knowing them, he never will.