Chapter Text
It was 3:45 AM when Tommy woke up to his door slamming shut. Wilbur was leaning against it, chest heaving, and eyes shut. Tommy hadn’t even changed out of his pajamas before Wilbur was scooping him up and running out the door, he wasn’t sure of the rest, Wilbur said it was best to forget that night and Tommy had listened.
Helicopters, however, he did remember. Three of them flying low and Wilbur gripping his head against his shoulder. And his mothers dead body, he still has nightmares sometimes.
That night was the first time Tommy had been sure he would die.
Tommy ran down the stairs, a book he had read over and over again in hand, “Wilbur!”
A smile bright as the sun was spread across Tommys face. He had worked on this present all night, almost getting caught awake under the covers multiple times, but it was worth it because it was for Wilbur.
He was determined to make as many old person jokes as he could in one sitting; 18 was old. Wilbur was old.
Tommy never got to make those jokes, or give Wilbur his present. Phil was on the kitchen floor, fingertips gray, and blood directly next to his head. Radiation poisoning: practically a death sentence from the start.
Phil was nice, to put it short. Tommy and Wilbur had jumped from abandoned house to abandoned house, sometimes an empty store or a nice campsite for a few months, if they were lucky, and that was fine. Tommy was contempt, albeit a little annoyed when he would get attached to something and have to pick up and leave the next week, but this was how life was and that was fine.
Tommy had broken his wrist falling out of a tree two years back and Wilbur found the nearest person for help; Phil. Phil took them in, gave them their own rooms, cooked dinner every other night. He was good, Tommy was happy.
And now Phil was dead.
“Phil! Phil please!” Wilbur was begging, shaking his arms, but he wasn’t crying. By the time Wilbur noticed Tommy standing in the doorway, he had thrown up everywhere, dribbling down his chin and onto the tile floor.
A sob bubbled from his throat and Wilbur was immediately in front of him. Wait right here, or, i’ll be right back, Tommy could barely register the voice because Phil was dead. He was dead and he really wanted to give Wilbur that present.
Wilbur dropped Tommy’s vomit covered shirt onto the floor and replaced it with the sweater he had been wearing. He didn’t bother picking it up. Before Tommy knew it his arms were being maneuvered through the straps of his backpack and he was being picked up.
Tommy was eight when the world began to crumble. He was eight when Wilbur dragged him away from their mothers dead body, and he was thirteen when Phil died.
“Wait, no Wilbur wait- Phil, we have to go back for him,” Tommy looked at Wilbur like—well, he had just witnessed a murder. “Let me go, you fucking prick!” Tommy was loud, very much so, and Wilbur knew there was no chance in getting Tommy to shut-up, so he ran. He clung to Tommy like his life depended on it and didn't slow down until they were at least half a mile away.
He had screamed and kicked for an hour straight and Wilbur stayed silent the whole time, holding him against his chest with two hands and not stopping to rest. Tommy only quieted down when his throat grew sore and his head started to hurt.
The sun was setting and Tommy shivered. It was hot during the day, enough to make your skin melt right off the bone—at least it felt like it—and the second the sun began to set, it was cold again. Cold, cold, cold. Wilbur had said it had something to do with radiation and Tommy was sure that was right. It never used to be this bad.
He was set onto the ground suddenly and Wilbur kept a death grip on his hand, like he would run away. “Will you be calm now?” Wilbur stared down at him and Tommy nodded. He turned his backpack around and bent down, Tommy jumped onto his back immediately.
Tommy hated this. He hated this and he wanted his mom—or Phil—and he was tired. The back of Wilburs shirt was balled in his fist because he hated him. He hated how Wilbur hadn’t said a word since they left, he hated how Wilburs eyes were dead set in front of him, he hated how Wilbur wasn’t crying and Tommy was.
He hated him, so he laid the side of his head against Wilburs and shut his eyes. This was a dream and when he woke up everything would be okay.
When Tommy woke up everything was in-fact, not okay, and Wilbur was hunched over himself crying in the corner of—wherever they were.
Tommy shuffled the jacket laying on top of him off, Wilburs jacket, he would get cold without it. This was probably some abandoned shelter someone had made weeks ago and left behind. (Tommy didn't like to think about the fact they were most likely dead) “Will?” Tommy was quiet as he walked up to his brother, holding the jacket out like some offering of peace. Wilbur jumped at the noise, putting a hand over his heart and sighing.
“You- you scared me, Tommy,” his voice wavered, almost, “why are you awake?”
“You’re crying,” he shrugged. Wilbur quickly rubbed a hand over his face, “Nope, just got dirt in my eye and it’s been irritating them like crazy.” An obvious lie, even Tommy could tell.
Tommy shoved the jacket towards him, “You’ll get cold. And sick, that’s gross.” Wilbur nearly smiled at the gesture.
“No, no, you need it more than me. I’m fine.”
A hum of approval, “You promise?” Wilbur held his breath and nodded because, well—it wasn’t technically a lie. Tommy would be safe and that meant Wilbur would be okay. He just didn’t know when, exactly.
“Pinky promise.”
Tommy nodded, repeating the words back to Wilbur. “Well, take it anyway. It’s itchy,” It really wasn’t itchy, Tommy wore Wilburs clothes more than his own, despite the major height difference, because they felt like a hug.
“Fine,” Wilbur huffed in amusement at Tommys… perseverance. The jacket wasn’t even over Wilburs shoulders fully before Tommy was barreling forwards into his chest. Wilbur sat there, his half asleep brother in his arms, afraid. But that didn’t matter now and never had, he would be resilient for Tommy, he always had been. Always for Tommy.