Chapter Text
Wilbur roused with a start, nearly hitting his head on the wall beside him as he sat up from the sleeping bag he was resting in.
He winced a little, even though he’d not even knocked his head against the wall, but merely for the dramatic effect.
Running a hand through his tousled brown curls, Wilbur blearily looked out the window beside him, the fog settling over the Dome in the distance giving him a strange sense of comfort.
He smiled a little to himself and got out of bed, stretching.
Wilbur wasn’t really sure what the plan for today was.
Maybe he and Tommy would go around trying to get more people involved in their Dome cult through… intimidation.
Yeah. That was the right word for what they were doing.
(Tommy preferred the title ‘forceful initiation’, for the practice, which made Wilbur scoff.)
Walking over to the other side of the room, Wilbur leaned against the wall and allowed himself to fully wake up as he stared outside.
The fog was a bit worse this morning. It settled around the Dome like a blanket, completely swamping the bottom.
Plus, the clouds in the sky were darkening slowly, indicating an oncoming rainstorm.
Normally, Wilbur enjoyed the rain (it brought him a sense of comfort, a buzz in the background of his mind) but something felt a little off today.
In the very least, he could see the tips of an orange sunrise at the very beginning of the horizon, cascading a careful and warming glow against the top of the Dome.
Tommy probably wouldn’t be too happy about missing the sunrise. He liked watching it just as much as Wilbur did. Unfortunately, though, the kid wasn’t too big of a fan of rain, claiming it “dampened his spirits” or something.
Being a little ball of sunshine compressed into a person, it wasn’t hard to see why Tommy enjoyed clear skies more than oncoming storms.
They really were brothers, him and Tommy. The kid was the “yin to his yang”, as Phil had said last time they’d seen each other.
Speaking of Phil… if it was going to storm today, maybe he and Tommy should go visit the old man and Technoblade rather than trying to recruit anyone else into their cult for a bit.
Then again, it could be dangerous out there, especially in a storm. A chill ran through him as he remembered the last time he and Tommy had gone outside during a storm. Wilbur grimaced at the memory.
They had gone off towards a monument nearby (something other than the Dome) to scavenge and Tommy had nearly keeled over due to the downpour of rain (which made it all the more difficult to see where you were going).
Ever since seeing how badly the radiation poisoning had taken a toll on his brother, Wilbur vowed to not make him go through that kind of thing again and secured Tommy with a radiation suit, despite not having one himself.
It wasn’t a big deal, though, he’d reassured Tommy when the boy had given him a sad puppy dog eyed look. (Wilbur didn’t manage to deny the radiation pills, though, and every night Tommy would practically force them down the man’s throat).
With a sigh, Wilbur quietly clammored down the steps of his and Tommy’s tiny shared cabin, peeking around the corner of the stairwell.
He couldn’t really see his little brother, who had submerged himself entirely under the blankets of the sleeping bag, except for a few tufts of golden curls sticking out from the covers. It was actually pretty relieving to see the rise and fall of the blankets, even if it was strangely… shallow.
Wilbur decided to shrug it off, even though he felt a surge of concern. Tommy was never really a silent sleeper - he talked in his sleep occasionally (usually gibberish and quite a bunch of snoring), so it was a little off-putting how silent the kid was.
Oh, well.
Maybe the assistant sleeping pills they’d found at the last monument (something Wilbur said for Tommy to only use on nights he really needed them) had actually worked a little.
Wilbur wandered over to their shared locker that contained most of their items and rummaged through it a bit, wondering if he’d need anything if they actually did visit Tech and Phil today. Even though it hadn’t been confirmed yet, Wil was almost convinced they’d be more than ecstatic (maybe not Techno, particularly) of them visiting.
Humming a small, soft tune to himself, Wilbur placed back certain items they most likely wouldn’t be needing into the locker, running another hand through his curls. He pulled his bomber jacket around his shoulders, straightening it on his shoulders a bit. Some of the patches that adorned the sleeves and back had faded a little, but they still stood out amongst everything else. His favourite one was the newest; one that Tommy had done himself while Wilbur was out collecting supplies. It wasn’t exactly a patch, since it had been threaded in directly onto the jacket, but it was still his favourite thing on the jacket itself (even if he had been slightly angry the first time he saw it). A deep red circular shape had been sewn into his top left shoulder, with the word ’Dome’ poorly sewn underneath.
Wilbur rolled his eyes, huffing. He would’ve been angrier about it when he’d first seen it, but Tommy seemed so ecstatic about what he’d done that he couldn’t stay mad… until Tommy proceeded to call him a dickhead for not ‘appreciating his fine works enough’.
He then proceeded to whack the boy playfully on the back of the head, earning a sharp bristle, but nonetheless…
It was endearing, really.
Instead of trying to busy himself with the untangling of his hair, Wilbur grabbed the worn red beanie from a hanger in the locker, quickly pulling it over the back of his head. He could almost hear Tommy taunting him about it, calling him “emo” and shit.
With one final glance, Wilbur threw a potion holder around his chest, securing a couple bottles of radiation pills in the empty holes. Just for emergencies, of course.
As Wilbur secures the lock back onto the locker, he flinches a little at the sound of rustling, craning his neck around.
Tommy had turned over in the sleeping bag, rubbing his eyes a bit, but he didn’t exactly seem like he wanted to wake up, murmuring something illegible under his breath.
“Tommy?” Wilbur called, holding back a laugh. “Are you finally up?”
The boy’s reaction was instant. Tommy’s figure had frozen entirely, his hand poised over his eyes, and then he snapped upwards like a rubber band, sitting up in the sleeping bag, staring at Wilbur with wide, fearful eyes.
Wilbur paused, his heart sinking.
That… that wasn’t Tommy… right?)
The boy sitting in front of him looked just like his Tommy, but… not. Rather than the shining, curly blonde hair that fluffed over the side of his eye (something that Tommy had started doing, undoubtedly following in Wilbur’s footsteps), this Tommy’s hair had been pulled back into a tiny ponytail. He still had the bangs in the front, but they were a longer than Wilbur had remembered them to be.
This boy’s face was entirely covered in bandages; one was fitted over his nose, against his right cheek, and on his chin. Just barely in this lighting, Wilbur could see a light bruise grazing the other side of the boy’s cheek that hadn’t been covered with a bandage.
Instead of the normal, lively blue eyes that stared back at him with a sparkling excitement, Wilbur’s blood ran cold when he noticed… fear? before it was gone in an instant, outweighed by rage.
Tommy (or, not Tommy) had looked afraid of him.His big brother.
Not to mention, this Tommy’s eyes were a sullen gray. What the hell?
“Who the fuck are you?” Wilbur blurted out, almost instantly regretting the words as they left his mouth. The boy - Tommy? - flinched a little, eyes narrowing.
“Well that’s just fucking rude, big man,” the boy snapped, voice breaking a bit, and the bubbling anxiety in Wilbur’s stomach only became worse. That was Tommy’s voice. This-- this was Tommy. Undoubtedly and completely. That was his brother.
“No- no, no, no,” Wilbur’s voice cracked. He was surprised he’d even found the ability to speak again. He desperately wondered if this could be a potential cause from the radiation of the Dome, since their house was so close to the monument, but-- they weren’t close enough to experience the effects of radiation, right?
Plus, this hallucination was a little too real.
He clenched his right hand, trying to control his breathing.
Tommy’s eyes flitted to Wilbur’s hand and a flicker of fear passed in his eyes again, but it didn’t last more than a second. If Wil had blinked, he would’ve missed it.
(He wishes, ever so slightly, that he had.)
“Am I dead again?” Tommy exhaled finally, and Wilbur felt like the air had been knocked out of him all over again.
For one thing, the boy had asked the question so casually. For another thing, he had said the word ‘again’, as if dying was some natural cause for him to experience.
This was a little too much for Wilbur, the man was starting to realize quickly. He’d forgotten how to breathe again, unable somehow snap his eyes away from the strange, far off look on Tommy’s face.
”Again?” Wilbur croaked out eventually, once he’d found out how to speak again.
It’s really off putting how Tommy had just… sat there in silence while Wilbur pulled himself together, examining the place he was in, as though vaguely intrigued.
He hadn’t tried to move, hadn’t tried to run away, hadn’t laughed, nothing. He had sat completely still, a hand fidgeting absentmindedly with the blankets as he gazed around. The very sight made Wilbur sick to his stomach.
Tommy’s reaction to Wilbur’s question, though, only made him all the more nervous. He laughed. A strange, barking noise, full of exhaustion and a slight hint of annoyance.
“You’re joking, right?” Tommy rolled his eyes, sighing. “Look, Wil, I know I probably won’t be here for too long, you remember what happened last time, so why don’t you take a moment to explain where the fuck I am? Last time I was here, I think I told you, I was in fucking darkness. Just void and your stupid echoing voice following me like a leech wherever I went. Now I’m here, in some rural cabin, in warm blankets, and you- you--” Tommy stopped, and his eyes turned sad as he looked at Wilbur.
Wilbur, however, was in the middle of a little something he liked to call a literal mental breakdown. Tommy had to be joking, right? This was just a funny ‘haha’ that he was pulling on his elder brother, right? Maybe it was a prank for what he’d done last week, when he’d put Tommy’s sleeping bag at the very top of the Dome.
It had to be a prank, right?
(Even if it was… it was a little too much. Too real.)
Tommy realized that Wilbur hadn’t come up with an answer quickly enough, so he speaks instead, clearing his throat (although it does nothing to help the raspiness of it.)
“You look different this time,” Tommy whispered, not meeting Wilbur’s eyes.
“I look different?” Wilbur scoffed, voice lilting a bit. He wanted to cry. He wanted to dash out of the house to the Dome and hide underneath one of the boxes covered in leaves and sob.
Tommy frowned a bit, face mixed with confusion.
“You alright, big man?” He asked, although his voice had a bitterness edge to it, as if he didn’t actually care. It only hurt Wilbur all the more to hear, but he surprised even himself when he just laughed in reply, putting his hands to his face to try and suppress the anguished laughter from growing louder. When he finally met Tommy’s eyes, his stomach churned at how unsurprised Tommy looked at the outburst.
“No, Tommy, I’m not fucking fine,” Wilbur croaked out. “Why would I be fine? I don’t--”
Wilbur ran his hands anxiously through his hair, taking a breath.
“Look, okay, if this is some sort of prank for what I did last week, I already said I was sorry, this-- this kind of thing isn’t fucking funny.”
Tommy’s face contorted again, as if realization was passing over him.
“What the fuck are you talking about?”
“What do you mean, ‘what the fuck are you talking about’? I could ask you the same thing! What the fuck do you mean when you say, ‘am I dead again’? What the hell do you mean ‘again’, and if you died, why would you…” Wilbur trailed off, blocking off a sob sizzling up his throat. He gulped it down, but couldn’t help the burning sensation in the corners of his eyes.
Tommy was quiet for a long time. It was a little too long for Wilbur’s liking, but it gave the man time to stabilize himself, sniffling a bit.
Tommy was looking at him with a weird expression for a while. Wilbur could see the wheels turning in the boy’s head, as if he was really thinking about something intently.
(Unlike the Tommy from before, his Tommy, this one wouldn’t look into his eyes at all, always looking off to the corner of the room).
Tommy’s jaw then clenched, and he averted his eyes to the ground from where they had been gazing at Wilbur’s bomber jacket, hand twitching.
“I’m going to clart that green son of a bitch,” he blurted out suddenly, rage passing over his face, nose scrunched in a way so alike Wilbur’s Tommy that the man let out a bark of laughter.
It was such a Tommy thing to say; clart.
Tommy’s shoulders relaxed a bit when he heard Wilbur’s laugh. Even if he did put his hands together, rubbing the inner corners of his eyes as if coaxing out an incoming headache, he still seemed vaguely content all the same.
Wilbur took this as a win.
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” Tommy muttered finally, and even though Wilbur normally would’ve appreciated an apology coming from the boy who quite literally never actually apologized, it made his anxiety work up a bit again. “I didn’t-- alright, look. This fuckin’ green bastard named Dream - don’t know if you’re familiar with him - probably sent me here to tormet me or some shit. I don’t actually know-- no, no, we’ll get into that later, let’s start with this. Where the hell am I, and is this a dream?”
Wilbur frowned at the words coming out of Tommy’s mouth. He considered if he could afford going through a mental breakdown in this situation, before deciding that it was most likely not the best idea.
Maybe later, though, when he’s figured everything out. Especially if this is just one of those dumb radiation-related hallucinations again.
“This isn’t a dream,” Wilbur began, sinking against the wall and leaning his head back against it. He taps his fingers on his leg as he continues, “At least, uhm, I don’t think it is.”
Wilbur clears his throat a little, glancing at Tommy before continuing, fingers idly playing with the sleeves of his bomber jacket, “Uh… I’m not really sure how to explain where you are, because we weren’t really sure ourselves when we arrived here. To put it in the vaguest way I can possible, you’re currently in a cabin that Tommy — well, you, but… other… you, I guess — built with me by this giant red circle we call the Dome…”
Rambling was one of the things that Wilbur had quickly realized helped relieve the bubbling feeling of anxiety.
Not that he minded, though. He liked talking a lot, and never found it outwardly bothering others. Besides, even though it shouldn’t be this way, Tommy was, for once, a good listener.
(Wilbur decided to push how ingenuine that was away for now. Another thing he’d probably unpack later.)
After Wilbur had finished rambling, and Tommy had watched him with those dull eyes and a tilt to his head that reminded Wilbur way too much of his brother, the boy grimaced.
“You’re actually my brother here?” he inquired. There was that bitter tone again.
“Yep,” Wilbur replied, chuckling nervously. He rubbed the back of his neck a bit, reminding himself that this wasn’t actually his brother. That he shouldn’t feel partially offended.
Tommy nodded, humming in response.
“That must suck for this version of me,” he commented with a composed tone. Wilbur narrowed his eyes.
“What the fuck is that supposed to mean?”
“What? What? Hey, don’t get mad at me big man, I’m just the messenger,” Tommy held his hands up, as if what he’d just said made any sense in the slightest.
Wilbur’s head buzzed. His headache was building up again. He feared he might have to go scavenging for some kind of Advil.
“I’m just… I’m just gonna ignore that,” Wilbur muttered. He pulled his beanie off so that he could push his hair back a little bit; Tommy seemed a bit crestfallen at the sight. Wilbur decided to take this opportunity to change the subject. “You uh- you said I looked different, right? When you woke up. Then uh- what did I look like? Where you’re from… wherever the hell that is.”
Tommy, surprisingly, laughed.
“You’re such a fuckin’ weirdo, man. That’s seriously the question you’re asking me? Not, ‘where the fuck are you from’ or ‘why the hell are you here’? What’s wrong with you?”
“I’m just trying to not overwhelm you, you child,” Wilbur hissed, voice lilting a bit jokingly.
“First of all, I’m not a fuckin’ child, Wilbur. Second of all, you’re nothing like the Wilbur from where I’m from,” Tommy retorted, holding a finger up. Then, his face fell a bit, and he put his finger down as he added quietly, “at least… not anymore.”
“Anymore,” Wilbur repeated, intrigued.
Tommy shrugged.
“You weren’t always the guy that destroyed L’Manberg,” Tommy mused nonchalantly, and Wilbur’s eyebrows shot up. He did what?
“What the fuck are you talking about?” He whispered, voice raising an octave.
“Wow, you really don’t know shit,” Tommy looked at him now. “Okay, well, before I answer any further questions, I kind of want to figure out how the fuck to get out of here. I have some personal unfinished bidness’ to take care of back where I’m from, none of which involves you or your baldness.”
What the actual fuck. First he accuses Wilbur of somehow destroying some random place (what was ‘L’Manberg’, anyways?), and then he criticizes him for having a bald head. Which he doesn’t, by the way. He just has a large forehead.
“You-- you--” Wilbur hissed indignantly, waving his hands around, unsure of how to phrase some sort of insult. Tommy’s eyes sparkle with amusement at his struggle. There’s so many things Wilbur wants to say to Tommy’s claim, but decides to just splutter out, “I’m not fucking bald!”
Tommy sucks in his teeth a bit, leaning away from Wilbur, looking off at the wall. He takes this moment to peel the covers of the sleeping bag off of himself and rise, dusting his pants off. They’re a deep beige colour, with patches in multiple different places and tattered at the ends. Paired with the turtleneck he has on - something Wilbur hadn’t actually noticed at first - was a deep brown trench coat that was a bit too big for Tommy, creasing around the elbows and falling off of the shoulders a little. It, too, has a lot of patches on it.
(In all honesty, it looks big enough to fit Wilbur).
“You know, Wil,” Tommy began as he wandered over to the locker curiously, poking the lock on it with a frown. “Denial’s the first stage of grief.”
“I beg your pardon?” Wilbur murmured incredulously, voice raising an octave again.
Tommy fumbled with the lock for a minute, before raising a finger into the air and commenting calmly, “Anger’s the second stage, Wilbur. Seems like you’re trying to speedrun grief, big man.”
Wilbur clenched his jaw, taking the couple moments to savour how frustrated it makes Tommy to try and unlock the locker they share without even knowing the code. It’s hilarious, really, watching the kid struggle
“Do you need help with that?” Wilbur asked, exasperated.
”No, fuck off.”
Wilbur scoffs, rising to his feet slowly, crossing his arms and just leaning against the wall, waiting.
While he does, he allows himself to toss everything that’s happened so far over in his head. It’s all overwhelming. Wilbur decides to just mark it as a fever dream and go with it. For now, at least.
Maybe when he wakes up, his brother will be back, big smiles and golden curls and words of excitement for recruiting others into their “cult”.
Maybe he will be back to bouncing around their small cabin, hands tight around the guitar they’d found, jeering Wilbur to sing him something.
Maybe this is just Wilbur’s punishment or something, even though he can’t really think of a reason why he’d need to be punished this terribly.
Oh, well. At least it’s still… a figment of Tommy, if anything.
(At least he’s laughing, and still bickering with him like brothers do, even if it doesn’t feel entirely genuine).
Eventually, Wilbur is snapped out of his thoughts again when Tommy turns to him with a rather angry (but otherwise defeated) expression after failing to open the locker.
Snorting, Wilbur walks over, hands reaching for the lock.
He holds back the urge to ruffle the kid’s hair like he normally would as he walks past him, (a habit that had grown over the past months of living together).
Wilbur doesn’t know what he’d do if Tommy flinched away from him like a wounded animal.
Just get through this, he reminds himself, fingers fumbling around the dial of their shared locker. Just for now.