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it's been two weeks since they put glass in their windows and a door to their front. it's been three weeks since they left, and three weeks since wilbur tried to kill himself.
the house is small and crooked and wilbur's old trenchcoat has to serve as a carpet, but it's home now.
sometimes, tommy looks at the fire and sees explosions, and sometimes the rain outside is a little too loud and he feels like he's drowning again.
he paints the walls and wil writes songs to sing quietly at night when he thinks tommy's asleep. he never is, not when he knows there's a chance to hear the soft strumming of a guitar from somewhere beside him.
there's flowers growing on the windowsills, dandelions. wilbur calls them weeds and says tommy shouldn't take up their window place with those "ugly little things" but he never takes them away.
today, wilbur had gone mining and brought back diamonds. on instinct tommy thought of making an axe, but really, what do they need it for? There's no fight left in him. there doesn't have to be, even if he sometimes finds himself reaching for a weapon that isn't there.
tonight, there's a storm raging outside. with every crack of lightning he can feel the electricity course through his veins and burn his bones again, with every rumble of thunder that follows he can hear the dull thump thump thump of tnt hitting a crater again and again.
tommy buries his face in wilbur's worn yellow sweater and keeps his eyes closed shut. a hand is combing hesitantly through his hair. wilbur's breathing is even, a slow and steady rhythm that keeps tommy grounded.
there's no heartbeat. there never is.
he remembers bright sunshine over a camarvan and backs pressed to a wall. huffed out breaths. frantic heartbeats. enemy soldiers just outside, pacing the grass, swords drawn.
he remembers the endless dark quiet of a world after death. no air to fill his lungs. a heart that stopped three days (months) ago.
when he wakes it's to rain pressing against the glass so harshly that he thinks it will break.
mind foggy with sleep and distant nightmares tommy presses a hand against the glass to feel it tremble and shake.
he freezes.
beside him the mattress is cold, the blankets pushed to the side to cover tommy, leaving the space empty where wilbur should lay. his hands are trembling.
its the middle of the night where would wil even go- unless. unless hes gone again. like last time when he- when he– he promised. he promised that he'd stay. that he'd never leave tommy again, but what if–
he thinks of a silhouette bright against the sunset of a crater.
he crawls out of the tattered blankets. the rain's too loud in his good ear.
and what if he's gone again.
what if tommy's alone once more, in a house (a nation) that won't feel like home without his brother. what if this little cottage is just another broken promise that tommy was naive enough to believe would last.
stupid enough to trust in someone just because, to forgive simply because he didn't want to loose him.
there's tears pooling in bleary eyes and he's so tired, so exhausted, stumbling over the sleeve of a coat that still holds the ashes of a nation in it's stitches.
the hallway is dark and droplets of rain seep through the roof. wilbur should've built it better. the floorboards creek under his bare feet.
"why are you up, toms?"
and suddenly he feels so stupid. stupid for waking up from a simple dream of things that don't matter anymore (exile - tower - blackstone rooms -), stupid for crying over the mere thought of being alone again, because wil promised.
wilbur is wearing the stupid oven mitts that tommy made for him. he's holding a piece of half-burnt bread. his hair is messy, white streak grey in the dark. (he looks older, he looks more tired.)
he tilts his head to the side curiously, taking a step towards tommy. "are you okay?"
he puts a hand on tommy's shoulder gently, concern on his face, and tommy thinks his legs will give out.
"you weren't there," he says softly, "i thought you- i thought you'd done it again."
they both know he's not talking about just leaving.
"oh tommy," he sighs, and pulls him close. he buries his face in wilbur's sweater. it smells of bread and decay and home. "i'm so sorry," he mutters, pressing a kiss to the crown of his head as tommy cries softly into his chest. he doesn't know if it's tears of relief or not. "I'm not gonna leave you again, i promised that, didn't i?"
tommy doesn't know if he believes him.
they sit on the worn trenchcoat by the cold fireplace, eating warm bread that tastes like salt and numbness.
wilbur tells him that he's been baking some nights, just like niki did back in the ravine. tommy thinks that there's worse ways to cope.
he falls asleep slumped against wil's shoulder. when he wakes up they're still there. when he wakes up, the rain has passed and grey clouds streak the sky. it's no false sunshine, but it's no storm either.