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It’s so fucking cold.
That’s Tommy’s main thought as he trudges aimlessly down a street he barely recognizes. He tucks his arms further into the concave pits of his arms, bare hands desperate for any sort of warmth. It helps a little, thankfully, shielding his fragile skin from the merciless air of Winter. Little snowflakes, the sharpness of glass and the size of pollen, skim his cheeks with violence. It leaves them stinging, leaves his eyes half-closed to protect them from the little crystals.
He’s absolutely miserable. The very definition of the word, perhaps. Here he is, walking down a random street, dressed in clothes that aren’t fit for negative twenty weather. He can feel it affecting him, his limbs and extremities having gone numb a long time ago.
That’s probably bad.
Every so often, not as commonly as usual, a car passes by. They follow the same ritual. They speed, they slow when they see him, and then they rush past. Every time, without fail.
At least there aren’t many people out tonight. Most are busy spending time with their loved ones, leaving out milk and cookies and carrots for a special fat man and his magical reindeer. And Tommy’s out here. Freezing to death.
There’s probably some kind of poetry there, but Tommy’s brain is too frozen to try and pick it out. Besides, that’s not his job right now. It’s Winter break, fuck school.
He swings his foot to the right, pausing momentarily to kick off a chunk of dirtied snow from the underside of a car. He kicks it as he walks.
“This is just fucking awful,” he mutters to himself, scowling at the chunk of snow that, with every kick, gets smaller. He has nowhere to go, either. He’s actually off to find a homeless shelter for the night until he can figure out what the fuck to do.
Yeah, not what his Christmas evening was supposed to look like. But his parents got all mad about a lack of presents dedicated to them, even though he told them explicitly that he doesn’t have money for gifts, and he was kicked out.
A very unfair reason, in his opinion. But, hey. What can you do when it’s not your house?
He shivers, nearly violently. He’s so cold, and he knows it’s only gonna get colder. He can’t wait for it. Currently, since he has no idea where a homeless shelter actually is, he’s walking towards this communal tree house a bit away from his own “home.” It’s not in his own neighbourhood, but he’s actually one of the people who volunteered to help build it.
It’s kind of his, in that sense.
Anyway, it’s no hotel, with no heater, but the thick wooden walls and lockable door will do for tonight.
. . . he really wishes he could call someone. He’d call one of the three who have shown him more kindness than he deserves. But he knows that will be rude.
It’s Christmas. They’re spending time with loved ones; each other. Tommy doesn’t fall into that group. He’s some random kid that, for some reason, Wilbur won’t leave alone.
Man, what he’d do for a Wilbur hug right about now.
He’ll survive, though. He knows he will. Maybe barely, especially with the temperatures right now, but he’ll figure it out. He always does. Today will be no different.
With no real reason, Tommy lifts his head to survey his surroundings. Despite trudging through a rather nice suburban area, he still knows to be wary. Even though anyone in their right mind would be huddling somewhere dry and warm for survival. He’s the only fool trying to get to a fucking tree house during Christmas Eve. Where the streets glow silently, and huge snowflakes flutter insistently from the sky.
His eyes, blurry with exhaustion, can’t see as much as they should be able to, but he sees most things. Everything is still and silent. It gives it the illusion of a stopped moment in time, which is broken every few minutes when a car purrs on by. Still, he can’t help but enjoy the peacefulness, the dampened sound from the snow covering the ground and falling silently through the sky.
He’s always liked Winter. He’s a Summer kid, through and through, but even he must admit Winter has its beautiful moments. There’s just something so ethereal about it, walking through a flurry alone, with the knowledge that he may not survive the night. That his family sucks. That he’s not enough.
With a slow, deep exhale, he watches a plume of his own carbon escape the threshold of his lips. He walks through the plume as it gently uses the still air to climb into the sky.
Gosh, it’s so peaceful. Yet so cold.
His body trembles as he walks, trying to pull his head downwards like a turtle can, into the collar of his sweater. It’s slowly becoming a bigger and bigger concern as his trembles grow more and more violent, his body desperately trying to retain warmth. His extremities are numb. Feet, soaked within the thin fabric of his sneakers that are crawling with slush and snow. His fingers, buried and curled together inside the pockets of his jacket.
None of it is promising. He can’t help the small burst of irate rage at his body’s exhausting limitations. It’s not its fault, and he knows that, but it’s frustrating nonetheless.
He’s almost to the tree house, though. Just a little bit longer.
With a huff of breath, his eyes drop back to the ground, watching his feet disappear and reappear as he uses them for mobility. It’s a comforting pattern he holds onto for some sense of control, some sort of comforting repetition he can always rely on.
God knows he can’t rely on much these days.
. . .
It’s cold.
He doesn’t really have a way to fix this, though, so he ignores his bemoaning and trudges onwards.
He’s almost there.
Almost.
With an irrepressible shiver, he flexes his fingers in the thin pockets of his sweater. He can barely feel them moving, can’t feel the fabric brushing the skin. With an odd numbness, he finds he can’t quite seem to care.
“That’s a little concerning,” he mumbles to himself, his voice so different from its usual boisterous tone that it doesn’t even sound like him. It sounds so grating and pathetic, it hurts his own ears to even hear it.
Soft and weak and sad.
Exactly how he’s feeling right now.
Beneath his feet, the snow squeaks and crunches with his shifting weight, gives him something else to listen to aside from his heaving breaths. He’s never been the most in-shape kid. It’s just a fact of nature.
Down the road, behind him, there’s the deep rumbling purr of a throaty engine. It sounds almost familiar, but he can’t be sure. Like the other times, he finds himself tensing as the sound grows closer. The headlights grow brighter and louder as it nears him, golden and bright, splashing yellow over Tommy and his surroundings.
This’ll be the sixth car that’s passed him tonight. It’s kind of nice to know he’s not the only fool out here at this time of night, but at the same time it just makes him depressed. He can’t even drive yet.
Just another thing for his parents to hate him for.
He tilts his head downwards as the car grows closer, eyes glued to his shuffling footsteps. He hates making eye contact with people both in a car and outside. It’s just so- awkward. And so his eyes remain on his feet, waiting patiently for the person to pass him.
The worst thing on planet Earth happens.
When the car reaches him, it starts slowing. Right down to a snail's pace. Crawling away right at his side. He can practically feel the person inside staring him down, for whatever reason cataloguing his appearance.
Aw, shit. Tommy really doesn’t wanna have to run through the snow. On the bright side it would at least warm him up.
He tries to quicken his pace, legs already beginning to burn, but the car keeps pace with him beyond easily. All he’s doing is wasting precious stamina.
As he’s preparing to take off at the slightest sound of a door cracking open like a startled deer, the window rolls down. Even this is a red flag, and Tommy’s about to kick himself into third gear to start jogging away, when someone, with a very familiar voice, calls his name.
He pauses, blinking to the right and to the car which has stopped with him. Inside the car, shadowed with just enough features that Tommy’s able to make out, is the familiar face of one Wilbur Soot. He’s idling his car, leaning slightly out the window as he stares Tommy down with a whole lot of emotions Tommy doesn’t know how to even begin translating.
“Wil?” He says back, for lack of anything better to say. He looks left, and right, and turns his body in Wilbur’s direction. He’s never had a history of hallucinations, but you always gotta start somewhere, right? Warily, he keeps his distance, watching Wilbur look him over.
“What’re you doing out here?” Wilbur asks, looking very confused. And similarly warily, though Tommy doubts it’s for the same reasons as him. Tommy shuffles uncomfortably under the stare he’s being given, glancing down the sidewalk, where he’s no longer making progress.
He’s getting colder.
“Uh, same as you?” Tommy asks, grabbing for anything and everything he can use as an excuse. It feels weak, leaving his tongue like a gentle breath. He winces, and waits for it to be deboned like a fish.
“You’re getting Christmas decorations?” Wilbur says dubiously, raising a brow. Tommy blinks at the answer, glancing into the back of the car. He can see, just through the tinted windows, the glitter of tinsel and little ornaments and such. He’s keeping Wilbur from returning home, he realizes, his heart clenching painfully.
He tries to just be thankful Wilbur’s not like him and he actually has a warm, loving home to return to.
“. . .Yes,” Tommy says through grit teeth, halfway through the slur of indecision that he might actually want to convince Wilbur. It’s too late, though, and the older man is looking him over again, more worriedly.
“Your hands are blue,” Wilbur points out through a gasp. Tommy follows the man’s eyes downwards, and finds his fingers, a tint of dark blue within the shadows of night. He tries flexing them, and all he gets is a little twitch.
Okay, it’s getting worse.
“Yeah, I should be getting back,” he says, taking the excuse of blue hands immediately. He flashes a nervous grin, shoving his prickly hands deeply back into the pockets of his sweater. “Too cold to chat, eh?”
The man inside the car stares him down until Tommy feels picked apart and raw. He feels see-through, like a glasswing butterfly. He feels just as delicate, too, prepared to crumble at a moment's notice. His eyes fall downwards, avoiding those gleaming eyes of Wilbur’s who’s watching him shuffle nervously with silent shadows.
He’s been found out. He doesn’t even know how. But he can feel it in how Wilbur’s staring him down, can feel it in the silence that’s choking him out. And Wilbur’s next words do nothing but confirm it.
“Your parents kicked you out,” the older man states. It’s not a question. It doesn’t need to be. Wilbur knows how his parents are, knows the fragile and strenuous relationship Tommy has with them. Tommy always laments, under the guise of a joke, about how one day he’ll be kicked out. It’s his only way of getting the fears off his chest without outright telling anyone, but it seems it’s backfired anyway.
He whistles a high note through gap-teeth, eyes pinned on his feet. His cheeks feel red with shame, though the cold hides it well, leaving them rosy red for other reasons.
“Yeah,” he whispers, quiet and hesitant. “Yeah, I’m. . . kinda homeless.” The words don’t feel good to say. He feels like an almost tattle tail, or like a child when he’s nearly an adult. He should know how to deal with this situation, surely? He should know where to go, he should have a backup plan. But he doesn’t and he’s freezing to death.
He shivers involuntarily, even though the cold has put a stop to those jerky movements a long time ago.
Wilbur sighs, too. It sounds thick with disappointment, and has Tommy curling in on himself,
refusing to look up and see what terrible expression is on the older man’s face. He doesn’t think he’ll be able to take it.
“Get in the car, Tommy,” Wilbur says.
It goes right over Tommy’s head at first, the boy having expected some sort of interrogation first. His mouth opens to begin explaining, but the earlier words register and leave him staring at Wilbur with wide, dinner-plate sized eyes.
“What?” He asks, blinking at the man behind the wheel.
Wilbur’s looking at him now, jaw set and eyes hardened behind those wire-rimmed glasses of his. That stare has Tommy frozen in place. “Get in the car, Tommy,” Wilbur reiterates, slowly and more pronounced, ensuring there’s no way Tommy could think he said something else.
“Wha- No!” Tommy yelps, taking a wary, still shocked step backwards. He knows how this works. Some random adult doesn’t want to deal with him, so they take him back to the only place that will take him. Even though Tommy’s parents have made it abundantly clear that he’s not welcome back. His stuff, soiled and shoved deep into the bin, is a testament to this. He can’t let Wilbur take him back to that place, he won’t allow it. “I- I don’t wanna go back home!”
Wilbur looks pained. His face screws up, eyes scrunching slightly in sympathy. “Toms, you- I’m not taking you back there,” he struggles to get out, running chilled hands through that mop of coffee brown hair. “You’re coming to my home.”
Tommy pauses again. Not for the last time either, most likely.
“You- seriously?” He asks, blinking slowly at the man cautiously.
“Tommy,” Wilbur starts, seriously. He leans out the window slightly, his breath leaving his lungs in little plumes and disappearing. “I am not leaving you out here. You’re going to freeze to death, and I’m not letting my favourite little brother escape that easily. Now, come on. I was supposed to be home with these things twenty minutes ago.”
Favourite little brother.
He said the thing. The thing Tommy’s been trying to get Wilbur to say for the better part of six months. And it’s been said. Whilst he’s currently freezing to death, too. Makes it. . . more meaningful?
He smiles to himself, a pleased little thing. But he still pauses. “But-” he licks his lips, unsure of himself. “What about everyone else?”
Wilbur’s eyes soften, a little fond smile curling at his lips. “You’ll be their early Christmas present,” he says gingerly, the nearby streetlamps glittering in his eyes.
“You’re calling me an object, huh?” Tommy can’t help but prod, smiling slyly.
“Get the fuck in the car before I come out there,” Wilbur snaps, but there’s an amused smile on his lips and he looks nearly relieved that the conversation has shifted into something a little lighter.
“Alright, alright, only because you asked so nicely,” Tommy drones, trying to hide the tremble in his hands. He’s not just getting inside because he’s fucking freezing. That’s only part of it. Wilbur rolls his window up as Tommy rounds the front of the car, the engine revving just to scare the shit out of him. He retaliates by smacking the hood as hard as possible, a satisfying clang resounding through the metal. As he hops inside, Wilbur’s scowl greets him.
“You’re gonna scuff the paint,” he points out, monotone and upset.
“You were threatening me,” Tommy replies, sighing in abject relief as he pretty much melts into the seat. He tugs the car door closed behind him, and sighs again as warm air begins immediately enveloping him in its wonderfully warm embrace. His eyes droop, safe and beginning to warm up.
“You were walking too slow,” Wilbur replies, as if threatening someone with their car is a completely normal and not deranged thing to do. Tommy doesn’t reply, however, too busy merging with the car as one, enjoying the wafting heat so much he can’t focus on anything else. He doesn’t realize Wilbur is watching him until the older man muses, “cold, hm?”
Still, the words take a second to register, and by then there’s a warm hand gently palming his cheek. Tommy, out of it, leans into the touch with a hum, eyes hooded and seeking more of that delicious warmth the hand on his face provides.
“Lovebug,” he thinks he hears Wilbur mutter to himself. The hand slips away.
“Dick,” Tommy replies, forcing himself to lean away, curling up in the corner of his seat to prove a point to- someone.
Wilbur hums to appease him, clicks some buttons and begins driving. One of those buttons ends up being a seat warmer, and it’s the highest setting. Tommy’s butt warms up immediately, and he only further sinks into the near burning warmth. He can already tell it’s gonna become too much really soon, can already feel an uncomfortable itch in his skin, but right now he can enjoy it.
Wilbur switches on the radio, and jovial Christmas songs come through, gentle and merry. He doesn’t turn it too high, mindful of the nearly sleeping boy in the passenger seat, but just to provide a gentle ambience.
“Is that Mariah Carie?” Tommy mumbles, blinking at the radio.
Wilbur side-eyes him momentarily before his eyes are then back on the road, fighting to concentrate. “ABBA, actually,” he corrects, gentle even though he’s internally wondering how you mistake ABBA for fucking Mariah Carie.
“Abba doesn’t play Christmas music,” Tommy says, frowning.
“You wanna call up the radio station and complain?” Wilbur offers, taking a slow turn around a snowy corner. His hands visibly tighten as the car drifts slightly, the ice making traction more difficult than usual.
Tommy watches them get a little too close to the curb, his nose pressing against the cold window, exhaling over it. They just barely avoid the curb, and swerve slightly once more as they try to straighten out. He sits up, turns to Wilbur, and tells the man bluntly, “you are an awful driver.”
“I know,” Wilbur whines instead of defending himself, his face scrunching up into a distraught wince. “I shouldn’t even be driving this fucking thing but OH, Phil said it should be fine. Yeah, Phil, this is fine. This is FINE.”
“Phil is trying to kill you,” Tommy says seriously, trying to break the news semi-gently to the man in the driver's seat. “Sorry for your loss.”
Wilbur glances at him, still horribly distraught, and then nervously back to the road, which is looking rather threatening right about now. “Stop bullshitting, Tommy,” Wilbur pleads, desperate. “My poor heart can’t take it.”
Tommy is silent for all of thirty seconds.
“You know, I’m just now realizing, you don’t have a driver's licence,” he comments, hiding his terror remarkably well.
Wilbur doesn’t answer.
“Wil, I would like to walk-”
The doors lock.
“We’re dying together, kid,” Wilbur says with a wry grin, looking away from the road to grin at the boy in his passenger seat. Whilst looking, the car drifts to the left, right into the path of an on-coming semi.
“Wilbur. Car,” Tommy blinks, mouth screwed up in mild distress. He lifts a finger, pointing through a cracked windshield.
Wilbur looks back, screams bloody murder, and swerves. Aggressively. Almost sends them into a lamp post, and then swerves again because he’s a jumpy motherfucker and the semi behind them roared its loud ass horn at them.
They play the quiet game the rest of the way to Phil’s house. To let Wilbur try and focus. Once Tommy is done trying to distract the man, he actually calms down, and is much more fluid in his movements. The second Tommy tries to ask an admittedly dumb question they’re right back to panic. So he keeps his mouth shut for most of the drive.
Eventually, and by nothing short of a miracle, they make it to the Craft household.
Wilbur pulls into the rather wealthy-looking house that Tommy could never afford. The car shuts off, and both boys exhale, both for different reasons.
Tommy sits anxiously in the car, watching Wilbur reach for the door, crack it open, and get one foot hanging out the side. He wets his lips, uttering a meek, “Wilbur?”
He watches his older brother pause, looking immediately concerned as he twists back around, giving Tommy all of his attention and then some. “What’s up?” He says gently, eyes searching Tommy’s avoidant eyes. He can tell there’s anxiety there.
“Am. . .” Tommy licks his lips nervously, and tilts his head up, meeting Wilbur’s eyes. “Am I really allowed to join you guys tonight?”
He can’t help but ask, just once more. This is a huge step for him. He’s only ever been to their house to hang out. Never for something special like a family dinner, or Techno’s fencing matches. He’s been invited, but up until now he’s never come along.
This is family. This isn’t his place.
Wilbur grabs his hands, which are trembling, and encases them in his own huge hands. They’re warm and calloused, and his similarly huge thumb rubs circles into Tommy’s hand. It’s warm and all encompassing.
“Tommy,” Wilbur starts, his voice serious and firm yet no less gentle, as though he’s dealing with a terrified animal. “You are always welcome. We’ve been trying to get you to come to a gathering for- for months, dear. You always manage to slip away from us,” there’s a note of something possessive in the man’s tone, eyes glinting in a way that has Tommy shivering, uncertain. “But you’re here now, where you belong. And you’re going to have a wonderful time. Okay? Can you believe that for me, lovely?”
The pet names are constant and unyielding, bringing about a flush to Tommy’s newly calmed cheeks. Instead of the cold, Wilbur’s words are the things bringing an apple red flush to his face. He nods slightly, distrusting his own tongue.
Wilbur won’t let that slide.
A hand escapes the mingling of their combined hands, and gently cups Tommy’s face, a fingertip filled with unused power tilting his chin upwards. Tommy’s unable to do anything but meet the eyes peering at him from above, all-encompassing and encouraging.
“Words, dear,” Wilbur requests, devastating.
Tommy swallows, flushes deeper, and opens trembling lips. “I’ll have a good time,” he whispers, unable to escape the gleam of Wilbur’s brown eyes. “I belong here.”
Wilbur’s thumb swipes over his bottom lip, the feeling ticklish with how light the touch is. “Good,” he says simply, smiling pridefully. “Now, shall we?”
Tommy can only nod dumbly, watching Wilbur slip away from him, out into the dark cold, taking the warmth with him. Shakily, he follows suit.
He lets Wilbur take the lead, following the man’s shadow as he gathers all the Christmas decorations, food, and sweets. Tommy takes a couple bags as well, the plastic handles cutting a little into his palms. Up the stairs they walk, and Wilbur kicks the bottom of the door a couple times, calling for Phil.
Tommy, without even really realizing it, is hiding behind Wilbur’s tall figure, just barely peeking out from behind his arms. There’s a suffocating amount of anxiety inside his body right now, even though he’s been here going on countless times. But this is different. He’s not just here for hanging out, he’s also here during an important day of the year. This is new, and for some reason Wilbur’s been very insistent on his joining.
He jerks his eyes up from Wilbur’s snow-covered shoes to the door as it creaks open, and Philza Minecraft himself appears in the open door. He’s the epitome of Christmas-y. With an ugly Christmas sweater, all the reds and greens and whites of Christmas colour palettes, with little lights in the shirt that twinkle out of sync with each other. It’s awful. On top of his head sits a Santa hat. Made with fake velvet, the very tip of the hat is missing an important puffball.
“Wilbur!” Phil greets, jovial and cheerful. Tommy shuffles a little further behind Wilbur even though he knows that’s not his best idea, but it does go to shit quite quickly. Wilbur, with an arm carrying a small bag of food, swings his arm around and behind Tommy’s shoulders, pushing the boy up and next to his side.
“Look who’s joining us,” Wilbur says with a cheerful, biting smile. Tommy misses the absolute pride and delight in the man’s eyes, beyond happy that Tommy’s in his clutches, and not in his awful home.
Phil’s eyes flash the same feelings, gone as soon as Tommy looks up with a shy little smile. “Hi, Philza,” he says quietly, nervously.
Phil chuckles gently, stepping to the side, allowing the pair entrance. “Just Phil, mate, please,” the man requests fairly, just like all the other times when Tommy’s called him by a title no one really understands.
Wilbur’s arm on Tommy’s back forces him to walk when the other man does, encouraging him to walk with Wilbur who steps inside the welcomingly lit house. Inside, he can hear distant laughter that grows louder and more audible as he gets inside, familiar voices that have him perking up slightly. His eyes are drawn to the hidden living room as he gets further inside, idling on the carpet, answering, “Phil. Hi, Phil, hi.” The words are stilted and a little awkward, only made worse by his combined distraction and desire to be “normal”. Wilbur snorts, which doesn’t help.
With a scowl, Tommy juts the corner of his elbow into Wilbur’s side, trying to keep on smiling at Phil’s amused smile as the man at his side squawks like some sort of fucking bird. Wilbur’s arm falls from him, and Tommy only realizes why when he turns and finds the door closed.
His exit is cut off.
“Thanks for having me over,” he turns back to Phil with a little bit of a strained smile, a little peeved with the door locked. His voice has the mildest tremor in it, but he likes to think he hides it decently well.
“It’s our pleasure,” Phil says kindly. Tommy, the child that he is, has no idea what that means. Before he can make some sort of “joke” about his ineptitude, Phil’s attention is back on Wilbur, who’s dropped the bags to the floor while he waits for Tommy’s and Phil’s conversation to finish. “That didn’t take long,” the older man comments, pleased, “did you get that reindeer decoration I wanted?”
Tommy shuffles a little to the side so he can see both Wilbur and Phil and he’s not trapped between them like a monkey in the middle, zeroing in on Wilbur who’s beginning to crouch.
“Nah,” he says, rifling through one of the paper bags filled to the brim with obviously Christmas themed items. “No one had that. So I got something that kind of looks like a reindeer.” He makes a victorious noise as he finds what he’s looking for, and a very ugly reindeer ornament is tugged up and out from the bag. It sits in his palm, Wilbur smiling way too proudly for what’s in his possession right now.
It’s a flat, 2-D ornament. Made from styrofoam and fabric, sewn messily together. The reindeer itself has a huge, cartoonish smile, with wide black eyes that look like they're peering into his soul. The antlers weakly bob with every movement Wilbur makes, unable to hold their weight properly.
All in all, it’s so fucking ugly.
“Wilbur, that is so fucking awful,” Tommy comments, frowning in distress at the reindeer.
He almost feels bad at the kicked-puppy look he gets, but another glance at the horribly made reindeer justifies his actions.
“What?” Wilbur whines, standing a little shakily. “He’s adorable! Look at him!” The reindeer is shoved into Tommy’s face by an excited twenty-six-year-old man. Little bells on its antlers ring merrily as its shaken, almost musical.
Tommy’s face scrunches up even further, so much so that his eyes, scrunched, nearly can’t see Wilbur’s horrible and beloved ornament.
“Mate, no,” Philza Minecraft himself says, giving Tommy the needed push to side with the wisest man ever, nodding along.
“He needs a bag on his head,” he seconds, like a little shit. He almost feels bad when Wilbur’s face turns into a pout, but the older man doesn’t seem as upset as he seems to be trying to convince the pair.
“Neither of you understand perfection,” Wilbur announces, prim and unwilling to accept their Grinch-like attitudes. He turns around, dropping to a squat to begin rifling through the many paper bags of various Christmas-like items he has.
Tommy watches with thinly veiled amusement, jumping near violently when a warm, not-Wilbur palm plants itself gently, lightly, on his bony shoulder. He twists, eyes wide and flighty, only to find Phil smiling all gentle and coaxing, his teeth blinding in the various lights littering the house. The barren house, mind you. It definitely needs a Christmas Spirit touch.
“Sorry, mate,” Phil apologizes, that stupid smile of his never once faltering. “We’re happy to have you here. It’s good to see you.”
Tommy splutters, fighting for words as an unneeded little flush dusts its way across his cheeks. He can feel the warmth, and can only pray it doesn’t get so bad that it crawls down his neck and up to his ears. “Th-thanks,” he manages, smiling back. It’s small, but Phil seems delighted to see it. “It’s nice to be here. Thank you for having me.”
“Of course,” Phil replies, gentle.
It hits like a boulder all the same.
Tommy’s grateful for the distraction Wilbur provides, tugging on his trembling hands, giving him a needed out as he asks, “help me?”
They end up in the kitchen first to put the perishable foods in the fridge and cupboards. Tommy finds himself a little too focused on emptying one of the grocery bags, not exactly seeing what he’s actually taking out. Out of the corner of his eye, Wilbur’s tall figure shifts, and his hip bumps into Tommy’s.
He jerks, yelping dramatically as a small Santa Claus figurine that doesn’t belong in a grocery bag nearly tumbles from his grasp. He twists with a snarl, biting, “careful, asshole!”
The faux anger he’s pulled on as a mask cracks when he takes in the too-soft expression on Wilbur. It’s entirely directed at him, and the heat of it already has a blush returning, after he got a moment to relax. Tommy scowls, but it doesn’t get rid of the red across his cheeks.
“Don’t look at me like that,” he says snappishly, but it’s much weaker than he means for it to come out.
“Like what?” Wilbur says, eyes boring into the side of Tommy’s head. He sounds light and pleased, well aware of just what expression he’s adopted.
“Like- like you’re gonna eat me,” Tommy splutters, grabbing for words and turning up with that awful amalgamation. “Focus on not- not dropping things” He dips his head downwards, trying, and failing miserably, to focus back on his assigned job.
Wilbur moves, and Tommy’s too slow to react. Wilbur, almost teleporting, ends up behind him, arms slithering around Tommy’s waist, interlocking atop his tummy. A chest comes curving over his back, and a chin perches atop his fluffy curls. Much stronger than Tommy, though it doesn’t take much convincing, Wilbur nudges the two of them into a simple side-to-side sway, molded to him completely.
“I’m just happy you’re here, lovely,” Wilbur replies softly, the genuinity in his words embarrassing.
Tommy’s hands shake as he tries and fails to continue taking out the food and decoration contents. Whenever he manages to get back his motor functions, he gets suddenly sucked back to Wilbur’s warmth, and he freezes up all over again.
This is. . . a new position.
Not unwelcome, at all. It’s warm, and Wilbur feels like a weighted, living blanket. Tommy’s hands shakily come down to rest on the arms keeping them pressed together tightly.
He exhales shakily, a nervous sound he’s gotten better at hiding. Wilbur always manages to get the worst parts of him, though. And then insists that they’re the best.
Carefully, he edges backwards, his neck bending as he shifts his head backwards. Wilbur hums a confused note, but then practically purrs his delight as Tommy’s head finds its resting spot on his shoulder. Giving in.
“I’m happy, too,” Tommy breathes, quiet and gentle. His eyes peer upwards, at the popcorn ceiling of the kitchen. He avoids looking at the light, but it still makes his eyes squint slightly, creating a vignette. “Thank you.”
Wilbur’s nose dips down to nudge at his ear, and he presses a gentle little peck of a kiss to the underside, right where his jawbone juts. It creates a pleased shudder, and Tommy hums a small noise. “Sap,” he says, mostly to save face.
“Little love,” Wilbur shoots back, his exhales and inhales tickling the skin of Tommy’s neck.
Before Tommy can react improperly, and probably do something to ruin this horribly soft moment between him and his brother, Tubbo and Ranboo come bursting in, followed by a tired Technoblade. Tommy immediately tries jerking out of the hold, but Wilbur’s grip turns firm and unyielding the second he tries resisting, swinging them around on sliding socked feet to face the trio who have entered.
Tommy’s face flushes as Wilbur greets the trio, simple and smug. Tommy’s left to scowl petulantly, resisting the urge to turn and bury his face into Wilbur’s neck, and make it even worse.
The conversation, that Tommy is ignoring, goes something along the lines of some shitty teasing, and then everyone just- decides this is normal. They tell them they’re gonna decorate the tree soon, and the rest of the house, and that they should hurry up.
Wilbur smiles, all sharp teeth and possessiveness, and tells them they’ll be along shortly.
Tubbo sends Tommy a thumbs up, and Tommy replies with the bird.
He’s left to fend for himself.
“Wil-bah-h-h,” Tommy whines, his feet slipping and sliding as Wilbur’s strong arms heft him backwards, further into the kitchen. Away from delighted giggling coming from the living room. His arms scrabble to get a hold on the arms under his own, knowing he won’t be dropped but fearing it anyway.
“Yes, sundrop?” Wilbur hums, idly shuffling them around the linoleum floors of the kitchen. He seems entirely sated with this, and also seems to have no intentions of stopping.
Tommy makes a noise that sounds, and feels, a lot like a huff, even as he leans into Wilbur’s chest and lets the man move them around the kitchen. Like a penguin waddling with its young. He tries not to think about how much he likes that comparison.
“I wanna go decorate,” he mumbles, tiny. He does. But he also kind of wants to stay in this limbo with Wilbur forever. Maybe instead of unpacking groceries they could be baking, though. Thing is, if Wilbur said no and kept him here, he wouldn’t put up a huge fight.
As it is, Wilbur did say they would join in a few minutes. And unless they want to be checked on, they’ll be going soon.
Wilbur sighs, his stomach shrinking. Tommy feels the movement.
“Yeah, alright,” the older man says, reluctant. His arms squeeze around Tommy’s midriff in a weird hug for a moment. “Let’s go decorate, love.”
And so they decorate.
The tree is nearly done when they come meandering around the corner, pressed together though Tommy is no longer trapped in Wilbur’s embrace. After a mild amount of arguing, they’re welcomed into the fray, and Tommy’s allowed to place the star atop the tree.
But not after a whole lot of arguing considering Tommy’s worry about doing something so. . . familial. And then fucking TUBBO picked him up and forced him into putting the glittery star on top of the fake tree. It’s frayed with use and age, but it’s obviously been well-loved.
Tommy might like it more than his own family’s all out-ness. They always got a live tree. And dumped it right afterwards. He never liked that.
And so he puts the star on it, gets placed down on his feet, and Wilbur ruffles his hair, and Techno pats him, and Phil rubs the top notch of his spine, and his best friends high five him and he feels welcome.
Afterwards, they just kinda spend time in each other’s presence. Tommy branches out a little, and gets more and accustomed to being in a house, which is gradually becoming warmer and warmer the longer he stays. In his chest, a hearth flickers to life.
Techno drags him over to the big wooden dining table so many different foods and appetizers sit on, a night full of different treats. Between his fingers he’s skillfully shuffling a pack of cards, and has this look in his eyes that has Tommy wary.
It turns out, as Tommy takes a reluctant seat and begins snacking on a Philza-Minecraft-baked sugar cookie to calm his nerves, that Techno just wants to teach him this game called 41. It’s kind of tradition to teach it to whoever doesn’t know it on Christmas Eve, and that just turns out to be Tommy.
The others join, which makes it more stressful, and they all toss a dollar into the center. Tommy, broke, tosses a sugar cookie.
No one seems to complain.
Anyway, the whole thing is a mess.
Halfway through they switch to Go-Fish, and someone at the table takes it upon themselves to take all the money. Based on the sugar cookie being ground up by Wilbur’s incisors, he can guess who it was.
Go Fish is a much easier game that’s more Tommy’s speed, and he feels lighter with it. The other game, uh, 41? Yeah, that one was too hard. He could feel Techno’s frustration which had Tommy consequentially trembling from fear.
Wilbur’s the one who suggested Go Fish, with an easy going smile and a sugar cookie between his teeth.
Techno, stressed, agreed.
During the third or fourth round which has turned into Uno, Phil disappears from the table to fiddle with the speakers and turn on some wonderful, jovial Christmas music. Tommy’s dragged into a dancing mix, everyone flailing wildly. Tubbo and Ranboo are swinging each other around, entirely unaware of the valuable things around them. Philza and Techno are doing a fun dance together, hands held and everything, and Wilbur is forcing Tommy to swing his limbs with him.
“Wilbur,” Tommy whines, a little embarrassed. His eyes drop, looking at the other dancers who are entirely focused on their partners, laughing widely with grins. Wilbur, in front of him, swings his arms and limbs without care, dancing and spinning along to good oldies.
“Dance with me, Toms!” Wilbur calls, his hands grabbing for Tommy’s, forcing him to move his arms. “Come on, baby. Give me something!”
Tommy feels his flush just worsen. But he tries. He doesn’t want to make Wilbur look sad, and he can already tell that’s where this is heading if he doesn’t do something. He tries to tentatively step this way and that with a slow swing to his hips. It’s barely anything, but it makes Wilbur grin like the sun just woke up after fifty years of silence.
“That’s it!” Wilbur encourages, copying his movements but putting more flair into it. Tommy tries to follow along, momentarily entirely focused on Wilbur without even realizing it. He’s stuttering in his movements, a little jerky, unused to this, but Wilbur looks so fucking happy that he’s even trying that makes him want to keep going.
Gradually, a shaky little smile manages its way across Tommy’s own face. He glances upwards, from his messy feet, to Wilbur’s blinding smile. He grabs back onto Wilbur’s hands that gently cradle his own, and then there’s an almost synchronized sway to them, a push and pull.
Tommy feels good.
“That’s it, Toms!”
A familiar voice to the right calls out, hollering over the joy of laughter and pittering of muffled footsteps. Tommy stumbles to a flustered stop, blinking wide eyes over to Tubbo, who’s teetering from his place on Ranboo’s shoulders. The boy flashes Tommy two thumbs up, and Tommy can only manage an anxious smile, shoulders hunching.
He’s newly nervous, especially now that Tubbo’s made it clear other people aside from Wilbur can see Tommy making a fool of himself. That’s definitely not cool.
“Ah, ah!” Wilbur’s chiding voice calls, a sweaty hand leaving their interlocked fingers to tilt his red cheeks to Wilbur, eyes anxious and desperate to leave. “Focus on me, love,” Wilbur tells him with a gentle smile, leaning in further, hand returning to intertwining with Tommy’s. “It’s just you and me.”
Their hands begin swinging again, and Wilbur’s socked feet clip Tommy’s toes, urging him to move his feet.
Tommy, gradually, with his eyes glued to Wilbur’s, copies the man.
“There you go,” Wilbur says, that blinding, prideful smile returning as Tommy gets less reserved with his movements, trying to match the freeing movements of Wilbur. “You’re slaying, King.”
And Tommy’s giggling now, high-pitched and nervous but he’s trying and Wilbur is so proud.
“Wilbur!” He shrieks as his hands are tugged, and he’s pulled into Wilbur, and then Wilbur raises their hands and he spins Tommy and, in one smooth motion, has him dipped. Tommy’s one hand tears itself free of Wilbur’s hand to clutch onto the man’s Christmas sweater, terrified of being dropped. Wilbur, of course, doesn’t.
He’s pushed back upwards, swung around but backwards this time, and they end with one arm connected, their others reaching behind them.
Their dance party takes them nearly to midnight, and Phil merrily suggests they squeeze one, or two, Christmas movies in before Tubbo, who has a penchant for getting tired, goes to bed.
They all agree. And migrate to the couches in the living room.
He gets seated between Techno and Wilbur, with Phil on the other side of Techno. Ranboo and Tubbo are literally attached to each other on the old single chair just a little bit over. It’s Phil’s, but the man graciously allowed the two ruffians to ruffle the fur blanket draped over the leather.
Tommy finds himself sitting all stiff, relatively quiet as he nibbles on some extra sugar cookies from the platter in the kitchen. He’s got a napkin with him to catch the crumbs, content to watch small arguments break out over whatever movie is best.
Wilbur is similarly quiet, and he doesn’t even realize this until a familiar scent invades his senses and Wilbur is leaning into his space, whispering, “they fight like an old married couple.”
Tommy watches Philza and Techno, and can concede that they do.
“We’re their sons,” Tommy whispers back, his eyes tracking the figures of Phil who’s trying to keep the remote away from Techno’s clawing paws.
Wilbur nods, his hair casting shadows over his face. He looks alert, though, compared to Tommy’s sluggishness. “Brothers,” Wilbur says, with this smug little look on his stupid fucking face, knowing just the power his words hold.
Tommy can’t help the near-gape of his own face, having not expected two of the brotherly admissions tonight.
He smiles, red and grateful.
“Brothers,” he says, and locks a pinky with Wilbur.
He’s not sure what they’re promising each other, but it certainly feels important.
Eventually, the fighting pair end up on Elf, and put it on without consulting any of the others in the room. Tommy himself isn’t complaining though. He’s got good memories with Elf. When his parents cared, when he was their child and not a decoration.
He snuggles into the encompassing couch behind him, sighing a small vent of contentment. It’s warm here, and his belly is warm and full. He’s surrounded by friends and family, and a good movie is playing its intro.
The lights dim, and that’s the final cherry on top.
He’s never felt this safe, legs curled up to his chest tightly, warm and sated. When he got kicked out earlier, he was expecting his night to end with frostbite and lost limbs. This was certainly much preferred, but certainly not expected.
He finishes off his last cookie, lets Wilbur have the last bite, and polishes off the crumbs littering his sticky fingers.
Barely even thirty minutes have passed and he can feel the exhaustion lining every inch of his body trying to take over. He puts up a valiant fight, in his opinion, but he can tell he’s slowly losing. His eyes droop, itchy and desperate to close, and he often forgets to move any part of his body to try and stay awake. His mouth is gaping, he’s just barely aware of it.
With another shake of his head, he tries tapping his fingers against his knees, blinking wildly to clear his face of its haze. It works for a minute, and then he’s back to fighting for his life.
Everything around him is going quiet and muffled, lights streaking across his vision. Everything is going round and soft, and, like an insect in sap, it’s swallowing him whole. Immovable and determined.
The napkin in his lap is unfolding gradually, at risk of spilling its crumb contents over Tommy’s lap and the couch. He may just be staying awake for that, honestly. That and it feels terribly rude to fall asleep on a couch. He hasn’t forgotten the fact he doesn’t live here. Surely he’ll be leaving soon.
His head tilts slightly, spit pooling in the curve of his bottom lip. He reminds himself to get up and throw out the napkin, but he can’t find the fight inside of him for it. The decision is ultimately made for him as it’s plucked from his loose fist. His eyes tear themselves open, surprised, and find Techno smiling fondly as he leans across the small gap to place the napkin on the table.
He blinks as the panic in him leaves, sinking back into the couch as Techno leans back.
“Thanks,” he mumbles, missing the very soft look Techno has adopted.
“Toms,” a familiar version of his name is whispered, taking him from Techno’s attention to glance dizzily to Wilbur. He looks gentle and inviting, slouched into the arm of the couch, his arm closest to Tommy raises slightly.
It almost looks like a suggestion.
He blinks at Wilbur’s face, lost. He doesn’t want to assume, no matter how badly his brain tells him to throw himself into Wilbur’s lap.
Wilbur just smiles, patient and understanding. “C’mere, you,” the older man continues, his raised finger gesturing towards himself. The meaning is clear, and suddenly Tommy is more awake and nearly ready to bolt.
He swallows, his throat working around the lack of moisture in his internals. “Really?” he dares to ask, blinking wide and disbelieving.
Wilbur’s head tilts, his smile knowing and urgent. “You’re gonna fall off the couch otherwise, baby,” he croons, words a soft purr against Tommy’s ears. It’s welcoming, and has him desiring to just fall into Wilbur’s open embrace. “Come here, Toms.”
It’s a request. And one Tommy has no qualms with following.
With lanky limbs that are sluggish with sleep, he maneuvers himself carefully towards Wilbur’s leaning figure. He hesitates slightly when he deems himself close enough, not entirely sure how to proceed. Wilbur helps him.
He tugs the boy closer, sandwiched between Wilbur's body and the couch, and helps him get comfortable on the older man's chest. He pushes Tommy’s head down when his neck tries to stiffen, and presses it there as he hums a simple praise of, “good.” This has Tommy malleable and easy, eager to be good.
He’s pretty much in Wilbur’s lap, slumped into the man like he’s a chair, clutching weakly onto the man. Wilbur leans back, takes him with him, and has a hand on his spine and head the entire time. The way the touch burns makes Tommy think Wilbur will leave a branding mark in the shape of his hand on Tommy’s skin.
. . .
Tommy might not mind.
He curls up tightly in Wilbur’s lap, feeling like a cradled baby with the way Wilbur holds him. His brain is sluggish and slow, and he can’t quite figure out his limbs, but Wilbur seems to know what to do. Has him soft and compliant, whispering these sweet little things into Tommy's fluffy curls.
“You can sleep,” Wilbur tells him, his chest rumbling into Tommy’s body.
Tommy makes an incoherent noise he hopes no one ever asks him to translate, and slumps completely into his person.
He falls asleep warm and safe, with the murmur of a good movie in the background. He feels like he’s home.