Work Text:
1
It wasn’t rare for Wilbur to fall asleep on Tommy.
Usually, it was the other way round. Especially when Tommy came out of training—not that Eret, his coach, made it too tiring for him. After a couple hours of perfecting jumps on the ice, he would lean into the closest person next to him and just fall. Eyes closed and face brushing against their shoulders, relaxed because he knew they would catch him.
He trusted them that much. More to any scale he could quantify.
But now, with Tommy and the rest of the SMP team hauled up in one of their hotel rooms, he was Wilbur’s personal pillow. Wilbur’s tucked-in legs laid across Techno and his head rested in Tommy’s lap. Knocked out asleep from his own practice earlier today, preparing for their weekend ice hockey tournament.
“Has he always been like this?” Tommy whispered as he tried to mimic the braids Techno once showed him. He weaved his fingers through the locks of hair like he was once taught but it just knotted.
“Like what?”
His lip twitched into a smile as Wilbur leaned into his hand, despite being dead asleep. He didn’t know how to put his question into words. His curiosity as to whether Wilbur was always this comfortable, so open with affection, leaning into cupped hands or bone-crushing hugs.
“If you’re asking if he’s always been this clingy, then no,” Techno answered.
Tommy frowned. He suspected the answer might be that, but not so bluntly said. Perhaps a, ‘Well it took a while for him to open up’ yet not with that look dragging down Techno’s face. A downcast drag of grief or something close. Something you’d rather not remember but can’t help to in times of the opposite.
“But that’s not my story to tell,” Techno added, clearing his throat. “Wil was just... very reserved when we met him.”
A wince sounded in the room and Tommy wasn’t sure who it came from.
“Reserved?” Schlatt repeated, eyebrow quirked, judging. “He was reserved?”
Techno sighed. “Not the greatest word to use but you get it.”
Schlatt scoffed and turned to face Tommy. “He didn’t associate touch with anything good and we had to change it for him. So no, he wasn’t always like this.”
The confirmation didn’t sit right in his stomach. That Wilbur could be anything but himself now. Without his seemingly natural inclination to call Tommy sunshine at any given moment, his stabling grip on someone's shoulders, prompt hugs, that beaming smile that told you everything you needed to know. So open with it all.
Tommy was glad he didn’t know Wilbur back then. But he would’ve liked to be part of the reason Wilbur learnt otherwise.
“When did he join you guys?” Tommy asked.
“Uh around April maybe?”
“March twenty-eighth,” George stated, gaining everyone’s attention. He shrugged, “I put it in my calendar app, sue me.” The looks narrowed. “I make sure to give him a card every year, shove off.”
“You celebrate the anniversary?” Techno asked as Tommy went back to combing the knots out of Wilbur’s hair.
“Might as well.”
“So you put that in your calendar app but not my birthday,” Quackity complained as he lounged over the arm of the other sofa.
“Quackity for the last time, no human being has two birthdays. I have your real birthday in there, not the fake one you invented.”
“What if I was born at 11:59 pm, then died but was babily resuscitated at midnight?” Quackity said. “I would have my birthday and then my reborn day.”
George looked at him with the most deadpanned expression. “I’m taking your actual birthday off the app now—”
“No!”
The shout caused Wilbur to jolt in his sleep. He grumbled nonsense and curled closer into Tommy.
“Back to the pressing matters at hand,” Tommy said, “and no, Big Q, it isn’t your hypothetical baby death day.” Quackity pouted. He sighed and continued, “What if I give something to Wilbur on his anniversary of joining this team?”
Sapnap yawned into his hand. “Cool idea, never thought of celebrating it before.” He paused and suddenly the tiredness washed out of him. He jumped up in his seat, hitting Quackity. “Holy shit, what if we bake a cake?”
“No way,” Techno shot down. “You mistook salt for sugar last time.”
“Okay, but did it kill anyone?”
“You made me give the spoon to Phil to taste test and he wouldn’t look at me after that. For two days!” Techno whisper-shouted. “He blamed it on me.”
“Well, you were the one to hand it to him so...” Sapnap trailed off and noticed Techno’s glare. “Fine, fine, what if we order a cake and just get him gifts?”
Gradual consensus filled the room.
Tommy glanced down at Wilbur again. For some reason, he always looked disgruntled in his sleep. Nose scrunched up and eyebrows furrowed. It didn’t look peaceful. But whenever Tommy twirled a piece of his hair around his finger, the harsh lines softened for a moment. It was as if Wilbur needed confirmation that you were still there. Even when asleep.
“What would Wilbur want?” he mumbled more to himself, but everyone else heard it.
What could he possibly give Wilbur to show everything? His love, appreciation, and affection. Not a single gift or phrase of words could do that. How glad he was that Wilbur talked to him, how he made him laugh or enjoy figure skating without a weighted pressure down his back leading all the way to the past sprains in his ankles. Wilbur showed him what fun was—something so foreign and distant, but now always at the ends of his fingertips whenever he wanted it.
A gift couldn’t show that he loved when Wilbur hugged him or asked him for a hug too.
“Get him something pretentious,” Quackity said, nodding slowly to his own words.
“Like what?”
“A piggy bank.”
Tommy blinked at him.
“A piggy bank...?”
Quackity nodded again. “A piggy bank to put his coins in. Techno, you gotta support me in this,” Techno gave him a blank stare. He whacked Sapnap’s arm for assistance, only for Sapnap to raise his hands in faux surrender. Then he turned to Schlatt. “Schlatt? Buddy? C’mon, you must have some ideas.”
“What if I just give him polaroids of his own face?” Schlatt pondered.
“Of just his face?” Sapnap echoed.
“Yeah, there’s probably a Twitter account dedicated to that.”
Tommy shrugged. There probably was. And Schlatt was also probably a follower on his alt.
Quackity scoffed, glaring at everyone. “All of you are fake. You do not see my vision, my imagination.”
“Make a scrapbook, Tommy.” George interrupted. “You can put polaroids, written messages—”
“Dollar bills,” Quackity added.
“—and anything that reminds you of Wilbur, really.”
A scrapbook. Packed with reminders of Wilbur. It wouldn’t be hard as there were many things he could include. Like hot chocolate, the number two, bark on trees that didn’t grate at your fingers as you brushed down it, blueberry tastes, sunflowers and shoelaces tied like bunny ears. But how could he include all that in a scrapbook?
“Would he like that?” Tommy asked, quiet and hesitant.
Schlatt scoffed. “Kid, you could give him absolutely nothing but a single laugh and the bastard would thank you the most.”
Tommy opened his mouth to argue but the pointed look he received from everyone else made him close it.
“Alright, alright, don’t look so smug about it.” Schlatt got up and sat on the arm of the sofa, putting his arm around Tommy’s shoulder. “Now, let me show you this Twitter account to help start off your scrapbook—”
2
It had been three days since everyone had arranged to celebrate Wilbur’s anniversary and he had another two weeks before it was March twenty-eighth.
And he wasn’t any closer to completing his scrapbook. Despite the many pictures Schlatt had shown him and forced him to print out, there were still tons of pages he needed to fill out. Things with different photos that weren’t just public Wilbur images—he wanted ones and captured moments in which no one else knew of, not any social media or fan. Just him and Wilbur.
He scrolled through his photo album as he sat on the spare bench in the locker room, waiting for everyone to get their gear on for their tournament.
“Sapnap, for the last time, I did not touch your socks!” Tommy looked up from his phone to see Quackity yelling at Sapnap, who currently had no shoes on.
“You swapped them! This one was laid out on the right side for my left foot and this on the left for my right.”
“Why the fuck would I touch your socks? You never wash them.”
“It’s what makes them lucky.”
Quackity’s face twisted in disgust and he shook his head as he walked away. Tommy glanced over to see George busy with his noise-compressing headphones on and Schlatt wrapping his hockey stick in the way he liked. There was always something each SMP player did before any tournament, whether it be soaking in silence, listening to a playlist that went from Kayne West to Yung Gravy, a mantra or hair braiding.
Wilbur was different though. He never did anything preparing for the game, but right before it. As they all lined up behind the plexiglass, Tommy sitting in his usual seat which he shouldn’t really be allowed in but Phil always stuck his neck out so he could, he noticed Wilbur’s routine.
His eyes stuck to anything with a quantifiable and familial value. Wilbur scouted from each light hanging from the domed ceiling, which was always in the same position in every ice rink they played in. Then, he noted the lines across the court floor. Next, he took off his gloves and counted each finger, pressing each down and his hands shaking less each time he did so.
Techno nudged Tommy. “Talk to him before this starts,” he gestured over to Wilbur, who had moved back onto counting each border seal of the plexiglass sheets. “I say thank you to Phil before each game, you be Wilbur’s little good luck charm.”
“I’ll be his big good luck charm.”
Techno’s hand came down onto his shoulder to stop him from being on his tip-toes. “Sure, sure,” a smile made its way onto Techno’s face as Tommy scowled at him. “Now, bring him luck,” and he shoved him towards Wilbur.
It was the least he could do. To give Wilbur this, to give back the confidence Tommy felt on the ice knowing Wilbur was watching somewhere—whether in the stands or on TV. His phone always blew up before and afterwards, with messages of encouragement, mass amounts of emojis and a selfie of Wilbur watching. Verification he was there, to cheer him on.
“Wilbur!” he called as he stopped in front of him. Tommy grabbed his now gloved hands. “You’ve got this.” Wilbur grimaced and glimpsed quickly at the ceiling lights again. “I mean it, when have I ever lied to you?”
Wilbur sighed and clasped Tommy’s hands, covering them with his own. “Sorry, just nervous.”
“Well, I’m over there for all of it,” he pointed to the bench. “Right next to Phil, even though I’m not supposed to. But I’m there. For you.”
A meek smile broke out on Wilbur’s lips, just visible over his visor. “You always are, aren’t you?” Wilbur muttered, soft all of a sudden. Tommy nodded, matching his smile with greater strength. He laid out Tommy’s palm and pressed his gloved fingers against Tommy’s, counting them. Then when he finished, he let go. “Alright yeah, I can do this.”
And if Tommy yelled the loudest when Wilbur was called out to get into position on the ice, Phil didn’t say anything about it. Though, the fond look he threw his way said it all.
As violent as hockey seemed to be, the crowded hugs and fist bumps they gave each other after every score made Tommy fall in love with it. The whoops he could hear from Sapnap and Quackity, the ‘atta boy!’ from Schlatt. It made Tommy forget about the danger, the risk and shoves.
But it was very easy to remember.
With Quackity on centre, chasing away from the opponent defencemen, he passed the puck to George. George dashed and weaved before shooting the puck into the right corner of the goal, scoring the final point SMP needed to win this game.
Cheering flooded his ears, Tommy’s own deafening himself. He clapped until his hands ached, matching the feeling in the corner of his mouth from the wideness of his grin.
Yet then someone just had to ruin it.
Just as Wilbur skated from the first-line to join his team in their celebration, the right-winger on the opponent team hailed down on Wilbur’s helmet with a crack. His stick slammed down on his head, checking him, causing Wilbur to stagger on the ice.
Commotion, first cheering, now aggressive yelling and cussing, came from the crowd and benches. Phil approached the rink entrance, calling for a referee, and Techno directed Wilbur off the court.
Tommy didn’t know what happened to the player who illegally stick-checked Wilbur and he didn’t care. All he cared about was for that lost look on Wilbur’s face to leave. They were in medical, surrounding Wilbur who sat down with an ice pack. The expression on his face was one Tommy never wanted to see again.
It was muffled. A dazed curl in his eyes as if what he perceived around him wasn’t real. As if the floor panels he peered at weren’t what he really saw. A dissociative state where all he knew was the cold in his hands and the pain rattling in his head. No acknowledgement of the comforting words Techno kept whispering to him, the gentle touch carefully placed.
“Get Tommy out, he shouldn't have to see this,” Techno muttered. Tommy made a distressed sound, shaking his head. He wanted to stay, he wanted to try to provide whatever he could. He wanted to be there for his brother and—
Sapnap pushed him out, standing with him outside, but Tommy needed to be in there. He needed Wilbur to be okay, for the life to return to his eyes and to not look like that. Crouched over as if he were hit in other places too, not just his head.
“He’ll be fine, Tommy,” Sapnap reassured.
“But—”
“You’ll help him later,” Sapnap interrupted, eyes steady and unblinking. “Trust me, you will help him later.”
It took a while for Tommy to reach this later point. Hours had passed and they all lounged in Wilbur’s hotel room with room-delivered pizza. Usually, the SMP celebrated tournament wins at restaurants—which Phil was always forced to pay for. But instead, Wilbur was squashed in between Sapnap and Techno on one of the chairs with everyone else seated together around them.
He seemed better now. There was still that distant flicker in his face that wouldn’t stop appearing whenever there was a moment of silence. Wilbur coped on distractions and even with his family surrounding him and a hot plate in his lap, it wasn’t enough.
Wilbur kept glaring down at random areas of his body, wincing but he shouldn’t be. Phil had told them he wasn’t injured anywhere and his head should be fine now. Yet he continued to flinch as if bruises bled in those glaring places.
Tommy couldn’t help but just stare. He didn’t know how to deal with Wilbur when he was like this, not himself and completely somewhere else. Techno tapped patterns onto Wilbur’s arm to bring him back to here. But Tommy couldn’t do anything, couldn’t give back. Whenever Tommy froze up or remembered something he’d rather not, Wilbur was always there. To hug and hold onto.
He sighed and grabbed another pizza slice, noticing Wilbur’s empty plate. Without another thought, Tommy rearranged the pepperoni into a happy face and reached over to slide it on Wilbur’s plate.
Sapnap stopped his conversation with George and looked down at it. He laughed, “Did you do that with your grubby hands?”
“My hands are clean!”
“Believable.” Sapnap leaned over to ruffle his hair, causing Tommy to shriek. “C’mon, Wil, eat the pizza slice Tommy contaminated with his diseased fingertips.”
Wilbur blinked, no longer staring down at his forearm. He looked down at the pizza slice, at the badly arranged happy face marked with two whole pepperoni pieces and one torn in half to make a curved smile. And he smiled back.
He smiled back at it.
It was small, an inkling on Wilbur’s lips, but it was there. Tommy had made him smile. That stupid pizza slice got him to smile.
Tommy grinned, warmth buzzing in his chest.
Wilbur picked it up, eyes wandering over to Tommy and then back to the pizza. Then his smile brightened. “You made it happy.”
“Yep!”
Wilbur put the plate to the side and paused for a moment. There was a silence and yet his eyes didn’t gloss over again, he was fine with no blaring distraction. Instead, he focused on Tommy again and reached his arms out for him, a grabbing motion.
Tommy knew exactly what that meant and jumped. He landed on all three of them on the chair, who groaned at the sudden weight. Regardless, Sapnap sorted out his legs and Tommy settled himself deep in Wilbur’s side, cuddled into him.
Wilbur scoffed lightly, more life returned to his face. “You are a menace,” he said, smile beaming more real than before too. “A menace with pizza.”
“Well, did the pizza make you happy at least?” Tommy asked, head tilted and beaming back at him.
He quietened for a moment, gaze changing. Then, Wilbur hugged Tommy to his chest, wrapping his arms snuggly around him. He breathed in, just holding Tommy and exhaled a shaky, “Yeah.” Tommy buried his head into Wilbur’s shoulder as his chin rested upon his head. “Thank you, sunshine.”
“Now, eat your pizza.”
“No, you touched it.”
A laugh arose from both of them. Tommy reached over and rearranged the curved slice so the pizza frowned. “Look at what you did. It’s sad now.”
Wilbur laughed harder, tugging him back close to him again. The two stayed there, not moving an inch, arms staying around the other, exactly where they should be. Tommy smiled into the hold, basking in the heat flushing through him. A comfort only Wilbur could bring.
Tommy peaked over to see Techno looking at the two of them fondly. And then to Sapnap, who nodded. He was right then—Tommy had helped.
3
“Take him snowboarding,” Tubbo said, interrupting Tommy’s task.
He stopped glueing stickers onto the double page of Wilbur’s scrapbook. Tommy had asked Tubbo and Ranboo to call him on the final day of his stay at the hotel for the SMP’s tournaments for help with gifts for Wilbur’s anniversary next week. He peered at the FaceTime call with a frown.
“I don’t know how to snowboard.”
“Neither does Wilbur.”
His frown deepened. “So how will that be fun?”
“You don’t see the fun in tumbling down a mountainside?” Tubbo gaped.
Ranboo shoved him so he disappeared from the screen for a moment. “Ignore that. You said you liked it when you taught Wilbur some figure skating moves, right? And Wilbur likes it when you play hockey with them all. So, why not try something new so you both learn it together?”
“This will just end with someone getting hurt.”
“And one of us laughing,” Tubbo interjected. Ranboo cleared his throat. “Sorry, both of us will be laughing.” Tommy glared at them both. “If the injury’s not serious, that is! God, I’m not that mean.”
Tommy sighed and peered at the snow from outside his hotel window. There was a slight hill they could use, but would that be fun? He did like doing things with Wilbur, learning that he didn’t have to be the best at something to enjoy it, to find the fun in things.
“You might be onto something,” he admitted and rolled his eyes at the smug look on their faces.
“Good, so what way should I record this inevitable shitfest? I’m thinking horizontal so it converts well to YouTube—”
“No, I’m not snowboarding,” Tommy said. “I’m going to take Wilbur dog sledging with Apollo and Steve.”
Tubbo scowled. “That doesn’t involve a snowboard.”
“But it involves snow!” he laughed at Tubbo’s disdain. “Thank you for the amazing idea Tubbo and Ranboo. I now will disregard it and do exactly the opposite of what you suggested.”
“Credit us in the scrapbook at least!” Ranboo shouted just as Tommy hung up.
It took a bit of convincing for Phil to let Tommy take the dogs to the snow hills with Wilbur. As much as Apollo and Steve were the SMP’s pets, they were also support animals. Tommy made the argument that dog sledging was just a very weird therapy. Phil eventually agreed, but that may have been because he sulked and Phil instantly caved.
“Why is Apollo still wearing a Christmas jumper?” Tommy asked as Wilbur pulled the sledge across the snow with the dogs running beside them.
Wilbur leaned down to pet Apollo’s back. “He looks very sophisticated and stylish.”
“It’s almost Spring.”
Wilbur gave him a look. “What? He can’t look dripped out in Spring?”
“Phil should get Easter outfits for them.”
“Oh, I’d pay to see Steve in a bunny onesie.”
Tommy grinned down at Steve, who was known to be difficult with pet accessories. Quackity struggled for hours to put a single bandana on him. “You’d have to pay someone to get him in one.”
Wilbur laughed, breathy and doubled over. He shook his head with more laughter like he always did whenever he found something Tommy said funny. A smile stretched over his lips as he regained his breath.
As they reached the top of the snowy hill, Wilbur clipped the dogs’ leads to their collars and held the reins.
“So, why dog sledging?” Wilbur asked as he sat down on the sleigh.
“I thought it’d be a nice thing to do together,” he mumbled, hoping the hesitancy of his words got lost to the wind.
Wilbur gestured for him to sit in front of him. “Well, let’s have some fun then,” and sped off as soon as Tommy stepped on the sleigh. He slipped, crashing into Wilbur’s chest, grumbling as he felt the vibration of Wilbur’s cackling.
They sped down the hill, Wilbur yelling with his laughter as the speed picked up. Tommy clung to the sleigh, eyes burning but the rush was worth it. The adrenaline he felt on the ice whenever he landed a jump or spin that took weeks to perfect. It was the same, maybe less stressful but the same.
For an hour, the two kept going up and down the hills, rushing through the snow. Their smiles grew at every repeat. It ended with Tommy soaking wet, as Wilbur pushed him off at some point and the snow melted when he refused to get up without Wilbur picking him up.
Despite how his clothes stuck to his skin, hearing Wilbur’s laughter made it all better. His laughter as he hauled Tommy off the floor and on his back as they walked up the hill again for another go.
“Have you stopped complaining now?” Wilbur asked as they pulled the sleighs back up to the hotel entrance.
Tommy kept his arms folded and glared.
“Oh, sunshine, come on, I helped you up in the end!” Wilbur said, muffling more laughter as Tommy’s glare narrowed. “What if I get us hot chocolate when we’re inside?” his glare disappeared. Wilbur shook his head, amused and threw an arm around his shoulder.
Phil met them at the doors and Steve jumped up at him. Apollo stuck by Wilbur’s side, nosing his hand.
“You boys have fun?” Phil asked, eyeing Apollo. Tommy frowned and grabbed Wilbur’s other hand. He was shaking. He hoped it was because of the adrenaline.
And with the big breath Wilbur took before he poured description into description at how fun it was, Tommy sighed in relief. It was just the adrenaline, a misread from Apollo.
“Phil, Phil, Phil, you don’t understand, Apollo went so fast and then—” Wilbur kept pausing to regain his breath but still smiled the same, a shining smile, red-cheeked and wide-eyed. “And then Tommy fucking fell!”
“You pushed me,” Tommy grumbled.
“Gravity pushed you, I was just its willing contestant.”
As Wilbur walked ahead to put the sleighs away, Phil stopped Tommy from following. He slid something into his hand. “Thought you’d want a picture of it.”
It was three polaroids. One of Tommy and Wilbur on the sleighs, the next with Tommy tumbling in the snow. And the last was a selfie picture of Phil’s disorientated face.
“Oh, I didn’t mean to take that last one.”
Tommy huffed out a laugh through his nose.
Phil ruffled his hair. “For the scrapbook.”
He smiled down at the polaroids, especially the one with Wilbur’s beaming smile, mid-yell and his hands clasped around Tommy’s shoulders. It was exactly the type of photos he needed to give something back to Wilbur.
4
Four days before Wilbur’s anniversary of joining the SMP team, a thought came to Tommy.
“I need a nickname for Wilbur,” he announced, startling Schlatt, who was in the middle of playing his truck driver simulator game.
“Where is this coming from?” Schlatt asked as he spared him a look.
“Wilbur has a pet name for me and I don’t have one for him. And others have nicknames for Wilbur too. Like, you call him Soot.”
“And occasionally a bastard.”
“That doesn’t help,” Tommy dismissed. “He calls me sunshine and I have nothing to call him back.”
Schlatt put down his controller. “You could literally call him the wrong name and he’d be happy.”
Tommy groaned. “You are not helpful.” He got up and walked into the other room to see Wilbur and George talking. “Where’s Quackity and Sapnap? I need them.”
“They’re on one of their boba not-dates,” George answered, grinning.
“What?”
“Don’t question it, they’ll be found out soon enough.”
Wilbur squirmed on his chair. “I want boba.” But all he got was a cushion to the face from George.
Tommy mentally added boba to his list of what to give Wilbur. Yet, before that, he needed to figure out this nickname business.
It was only when Tommy and Wilbur visited Shubble’s house for the weekend that Tommy got anywhere with this problem. No matter the searches he did of popular nicknames and pet names for friends and family, none of them fit Wilbur. Not like sunshine did for him. It had to be special, moulded and chosen specifically with Wilbur in mind—a name to represent everything Wilbur meant to him.
And that was impossible.
“Shelby Shubble! James Marriott. Do you have nicknames for Wilbur?” he asked when Wilbur went out to collect the food they ordered online.
“I’m not swearing in front of you,” James said, shaking his head. Tommy sighed. Then looked at Shubble as if she was his saving grace.
“I compare him to a cat sometimes,” she said offhandedly. “But that’s not a nickname. Why?”
“Wilbur has a nickname for me and I don’t have one for him.”
“And that matters because...?”
“Because he needs one too!”
He didn’t understand why no one else got it. It should be obvious that Tommy needed to give back to Wilbur in this way, to return the sentiment so it made him deserving of the pet name to begin with. He did nothing to acquire sunshine, nothing at all and yet Wilbur still gifted it to him. Chose it for him. It was theirs. And Tommy wanted something like that for him.
“What about something in another language?” James suggested, noticing Tommy biting at his fingernails.
“Quackity once tricked me to say I was a little baby in Spanish, this won’t work on me.”
“Don’t worry, that won’t happen,” Shubble said, giving James a quick warning glare. “Wilbur speaks French. What about a French nickname?”
Before he knew it, James shoved his phone in Shubble’s direction, grinning. She squinted at the screen and something washed over her face. A smile. James typed on his phone and then showed Tommy a different screen, a typed word in his Notes App.
“Call him that.”
Tommy read it. Ma moitié.
“What does it mean?” he asked, trying to sound the word in his head. “How do I even pronounce that?”
“It would mean something special to Wilbur, trust us.” James replayed a woman pronouncing the word from Google Translate until Tommy got close enough to how it sounded. “Come on, say it to him.”
“Say what to who?” Wilbur walked in with a Subway pickup bag. “I got us food.”
James elbowed him and Shubble followed with an assuring look.
“Tommy, what did you end up ordering, I can’t remember—”
“Ma moitié.”
Wilbur immediately stopped. He didn’t even breathe. Everything about him ceased. A blank expression on his face, as if he reset. The Subway bag dropped to the floor.
“Please don’t tell me I called you something Schlatt or Quackity would approve of.”
Wilbur’s lips parted, still in shock. His cheeks flushed slightly, his ears reddening. He stared down at Tommy, just surprised. “Say that again.”
“Ma moitié,” he repeated, unsure of the pronunciation.
Regardless of how broken he pronounced it, Wilbur’s cheeks flushed completely red and his eyes beamed misty.
“Okay,” Wilbur exhaled, voice strained. “Yep. Um.”
“You’ve broken him,” Shubble said.
“We broke him,” James corrected.
“What did I just say?” Tommy asked, curious at what word reduced Wilbur to this.
“Read for yourself.” He grabbed the phone and scrolled up to the translated search.
Ma moitié - My other half.
“Oh.”
His own face reddened. Wilbur’s other half. He hated how his chest squeezed at even the suggestion because it felt too nice to be true. A dream, almost.
“Um, anyway, James! Yes, James, shouldn’t we prepare drinks?” Shubble said with a clap.
“No, they can do it themselves—” he winced as Shubble shoved him into the kitchen.
Tommy stayed seated, scared to even get up because his legs shook. He didn’t know what to do with Wilbur who kept looking at him and not saying a word. Still shocked and wide-eyed. He wasn’t sure if the shock was good or bad. If Wilbur was so appalled at even being associated with Tommy this way or amazed. Either way, it scared him.
Wilbur cleared his throat and stuttered out, “Would you have called me that if you knew what it meant?”
Tommy gulped. Wilbur’s other half. It rebounded in his head, the words and implication. Along with the tightness in his chest and warmth all over. The same warmth he felt whenever he was with the team; when they made him laugh and his reply caused them to laugh harder.
It just fits. Being Wilbur’s other half. His brother and family.
“Of course, I would,” he whispered back, meaning every word, “ma moitié.”
Wilbur groaned as his face flushed red again. Tommy giggled at how he rubbed at his cheeks to hide it.
“I hate you.”
“How could you hate your other half, Wilbur?” he joked, giggling more. Wilbur rushed forward and tackled him to the sofa, whacking him with the pillows. “Wil, you’re beating yourself up! Technically! As your other half, I am a part of you, so you’re hitting yourself.”
Wilbur paused for just a moment, pillow in hand. Absorbing every word Tommy had just uttered. His face changed, still red, but adorned with so much care in each crease. Fondness riddled his brown eyes, a look Tommy never wanted to go away.
“You’re right, what about some self-love, huh?” Wilbur said before tackling him again, but this time in a hug. Tommy shrieked yet let him hug him anyway. “My other half, branleur.”
“What did you call me?” Tommy asked, smiling.
“I called you a wanker.”
Tommy whacked him around the head with a pillow, smothering his laughter.
5
It was the morning of March twenty-eighth and Tommy was beyond nervous. He had finished with his scrapbook, he even put a bow on the front. Now he had to wait for Wilbur’s reaction and he feared that the most.
Sapnap burst into the kitchen, making everyone jump. “Okay, so the cake I ordered is coming in an hour but wouldn’t it be funny if we made little cupcakes too?” he slammed a cupcake mix box onto the kitchen counter.
Tommy frowned at the Peppa Pig cupcake box.
Techno gave him a look. “Is this targeted?”
“Not everything is about you,” Sapnap scoffed. “Also yes, this is very targeted. I could’ve chosen Dora cakes but this would be more appreciated.”
“You sicken me.”
Sapnap grinned and opened the box. “Tommy! Help me make the pig cupcakes. You are in charge of everything involving flour and sugar, we don’t want a repeat of Quackity’s failed birthday cake.”
“I’m just sayin’, that was all your fault,” Techno said. The two began to bicker as Tommy got everything out of the box and followed the instructions for the cupcakes.
As Tommy finished icing the cupcakes, the front door opened. Quackity and George entered with a massive sheet.
“You made a banner?”
Quackity made an effort to hide the back of the sheet. “Technically yes, but this is a poster of mine that we’re borrowing the back of. The writing in Sharpie still needs to dry,” he said. “And George stopped me from drawing a dick on it.”
“Actually I said to do it in another colour,” George corrected.
“I only have black Sharpie!”
“Then no drawing!”
The door opened again. This time, Phil and Wilbur walked inside. Sapnap screeched and grabbed his hoodie to cover it over Wilbur’s face. “Wilbur! What are you doing here?”
“Sapnap get off me!” he struggled and Sapnap kept him in a headlock. “You fucking asked me to come here!” Sapnap waved at Quackity to put the banner up.
“Okay, okay, sorry I just felt like doing that.”
“You felt like suffocating me?”
“You know how it is,” Sapnap laughed awkwardly and took the hoodie off Wilbur’s head when it was all finished. “Anyway, happy anniversary!”
Wilbur turned to glare at him. “I’m not married.”
“You’re married to the team, dumbass.” Wilbur frowned and Sapnap twisted him around to face the living room. George first shoved a card into his hand and Wilbur finally understood.
“Oh.”
A similar expression adorned him. The same as when Tommy called him his other half. Red eared, parted lips and glassy eyes. As if it surprised him that anyone cared.
“You...” Wilbur trailed off as he took in each decoration. The banner, the cake on the table and cupcakes surrounding it, then the wrapped gifts. His eyes stopped on Tommy. Lowering at the bowed scrapbook in his hands.
And then he cried. Happy tears, thankfully. But Wilbur rubbed at his eyes to keep himself together. He kept blinking as if he was making sure this was real, that this was really happening.
“Oh come on, Wilbur, no tears on the team marriage,” Schlatt teased as he swung an arm across his shoulder. “Believe it, it’s all for you. Maybe the cupcakes are for Techno, I am still not sure why they are pigs. But everything else is yours!”
Wilbur laughed wetly, wiping his tears with his sleeve.
“Thank you guys,” he said, voice cracking. He stepped forward, focusing back on Tommy and the item in his hands. “So what’s this?”
Tommy gave it to him. “For you.”
He watched as Wilbur undid the bow and went through it. Eyes flickered across each segment of the page before he turned it to another, taking more time as he progressed.
The polaroids from their dog sledging day—Tommy drew a golden frame around Phil’s accidental selfie. Pictures of random times he captured between the team, like them all hugging after scoring on the ice, when Wilbur broke the seal of his boba tea and it got all over him, and Quackity managing to flip off the camera at every single group picture. Then there were the badly cropped printed photos Schlatt had sent him with the Twitter handle ‘hourly Wilbur Soot’ still in the frame. Finally, the scratch stickers that smelt of hot chocolate and blueberries, pressed flowers Shubble helped him with and little notes of their meanings.
“For me?” Wilbur whispered, tears back swelling in his eyes as he gazed back up at Tommy.
Tommy bit his lip and nodded. “Yeah.”
Wilbur kept repeating himself, louder and brighter with his question. Tommy was more ecstatic each time with his reply too. Because Wilbur liked it. Wilbur really liked it.
“Really?” he asked for the last time and Tommy nodded, his grin as wide as it could be. “I love it.”
And that was all Tommy needed to hear. He had succeeded, he had done it right. Tommy had given back to him all that Wilbur gave first. The stability, the love, everything he wouldn’t have held close if it wasn’t for him introducing it to him. If it wasn’t for Wilbur latching onto him and exposing him to it all. To the team and their wide affection, for everything that came along with it.
His own eyes began to water.
Wilbur opened the scrapbook again to a certain page. The one with everyone’s signatures and notes that Tommy made them all write in different colours. A tear rolled down his cheek, running past his glowing smile.
“Thank you, sunshine,” and Tommy keened at the words.
“Now! Can the rest of us give him shit now or what?” Quackity shouted as he ushered a box into Wilbur’s chest.
Tommy didn’t miss the smile sent his way as Wilbur twisted to deal with everyone else.
+1
As much as Tommy trusted Wilbur, he was a bit sceptical to break into an ice rink with him. He still went with him but that didn’t mean he felt good about lock-picking the door.
“You still haven’t explained why we’re doing this, Wil.”
Wilbur hummed and continued to drag him inside the empty ice rink stands. It was dark, the lights not yet turned on and Wilbur didn’t make any move to do so anyway. As they reached the entrance to the ice, Wilbur shrugged his bag off his back and unzipped it.
“I have something for you.”
He frowned, glancing down at the bag. Wilbur pulled out a pair of ice skates.
“Wil, I already brought my skates—”
“These are new ones.”
Tommy stilled. He squinted at the pair in Wilbur’s hands. They were white, like all of Tommy’s skates, but there was something underneath the heel of the skate. Wilbur grinned and pressed down on it.
It lit up.
The ice skates lit up blue. And then red, then purple, then green and yellow. It flickered between every colour, flashing the rainbow.
Tommy gasped at them.
“Are these yours?” he asked, his hand reaching out to skim across the lights.
It fascinated him, as it interchanged between colours, all reflected on ice skates. He always associated skates with work, practice and routines. Gold medals, everything less and more. It never used to be scuffed hockey scrimmages with the SMP or chasing them around the ice. Before, it was harsh work, no play. No enjoyment or fun. And these light-up skates went against that in every way possible.
“They’re yours,” Wilbur revealed, smiling softly at him. “For you.”
It had only been a day since Wilbur’s anniversary celebration so that phrase made him freeze. For you. Said so easily and yet they both knew the weight it carried. What it truly meant.
“Come on, put them on.”
Wilbur put on his own, his smile as bright as the lights reflecting in the dark as Tommy rushed to put them on too.
Together, they raced. Running lap upon lap on the ice. Tommy skated, knowing that each dash of his leg shed an illumine glow to his location, a different colour reflecting the same brightness he brought out in others and himself. He twirled and spun, laughing as free as his movement.
And Wilbur watched. Clapped with each move Tommy made, with every landing and slide.
“I’m guessing you like them!” Wilbur called as Tommy leapt in the air, blue trailing him high, and landing on a purple.
“This is so cool!” he yelled back, giggling again as he watched the ice below him shine. “Wilbur! Wil, come here, spin with me. It might go all the colours at once if we watch the floor as we do it fast enough.”
Wilbur grabbed onto his hands, trusting him, and Tommy pulled him along. Soon enough, they were spinning, racing circles and circles, the colours bleeding into the next, a ring of flares and gleams.
“Alright! Alright, stop, stop, I’ll throw up!” Wilbur cried out, still laughing in time of Tommy’s own.
They slowed down yet their laughter did not. It echoed in the empty rink, bounced off the walls and stands. And showed no signs of stopping.
The two stayed on the ice, hand in hand. No rush to it, just a peaceful feeling shared between them both. Tommy kept glancing down at his skates, still mesmerised by the reflecting shades. But Wilbur’s next words froze that peaceful feeling.
“I know what you’ve been doing Tommy,” Wilbur said as the laughter faded.
Tommy’s back straightened, uncomfortable. “What do you mean?”
Wilbur sighed. “All these days out, the things you keep doing for me, looking out for me, and the scrapbook. It’s different to what we normally do,” he said, lips thinning. “And…”
Tommy waited for the words. For the, and I don’t like it. Or, and stop doing it. The rejection raining as cold as the ice and boiling as his skin. The confirmation that this was for nothing, unwanted gifts and redirected attention.
“...and you don’t have to do this, y’know,” Wilbur whispered. His soft tone dismissing any doubting thoughts. “You don’t have to give me things or prove anything. I need you and that’s it. That’s all I need from you, always. Nothing special or planned. Just you.”
Tommy swallowed down the lodge stuck in his throat. “But you made having a pet name good. You made me sunshine, you called me that and you took it from him.” He shivered and gripped tighter at Wilbur’s hands. “I wanted to give you something back because you’ve done so much.”
“Oh, Tommy...” Wilbur murmured. “You think you haven’t done the same for me?”
He pulled Tommy close, wrapping him up in his arms.
“You are everything, you are everything to me, to us, to anyone you love.” He threaded his fingers through Tommy’s hair. “I love you, I began loving you the second you laughed as I fell when you taught me a beginner move on the ice. You don’t have to show me you feel the same because I know. We both know.”
That was all it took for Tommy to break. For the tears to shed and his cries to muffle against Wilbur’s chest. He heaved in Wilbur’s grip, grasping him with his shaking hands. Each tear crumbled that part of him that doubted everything, the part which second-guessed if he deserved this affection, these people around him. Yet every word that left Wilbur made the answer as clear as day.
“You’re my brother, okay?” Wilbur whispered into his hair.
“Love you too,” Tommy mumbled as he sniffed.
He continued to hug Wilbur despite the cold creeping up his legs. Hugged him even with the strain in his arms from holding him this long. With just one recurring thought to stay with him forever.
All Tommy needed to give was himself.