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lt started with little messages while they were apart, sweet little ‘ hope you’re alright ’s peppered in dm’s, the occasional random little fact thrown in with a sappy ‘ <3 ’ at the end. Notes to find each other after it, a light thing for both of them to cling onto. Eventually, it was easy to get used to unlocking their phone and to have a message waiting. It was like coming home.
And then, Tommy came to stay with Wilbur for a couple days.
Things were easy, after all, they had been invading each other’s space for years now, knew how to step in time with each other, living and moving like they were meant to be together.
And then came the sticky note with doodles and a little <3 on it. The messy drawings of each other, the little skids of led that created a jaw, and then eyes, and then something else entirely. Always savored, pocketed. And then those doodles morphed into little notes being left for each other, even when they weren’t leaving.
It became a game of some sort. Sticky notes strewn about the house, growing in population. Blue and pink and yellow. Drawings and love notes and something for the space in between heartbeats.
Because that’s what they were, love notes. Made for the heart. Made to tuck a little piece of love in em. Nothing romantic, no. It was just- apart of them now.
One day Tubbo came to visit. He was silent, observing it all, lifting up the sticky notes and the occasional paper, notecard, whatever. Eyes sliding over them, never reading, always knowing they were much too personal for that. Finding them all.
He sat the two down and said, “You both are psychopaths.” And Wilbur doodled his cat for him on a green sticky note and Tommy offered him some milk and that, too, was alright.
Tubbo still thought they were crazy. Ratted them out on stream as well. Talked about how their place with stack full of notes to each other, drawings and whatnot, and that it felt like walking into a whole nother world not made for him.
So yeah, the notes kept popping up, even so that Tommy would fall asleep in Wilbur’s arms and wake up to him humming and doodling his eye on a notecard. Somewhere along the way, it had become the new normal for them, a way to reach and not quite touch, but still hold. Cradle.
The rest of Lovejoy got a real kick out of it. Teasing the two of them and laughing and poking at how sweet it was. Told them how adorable it was, and Wilbur would flush and tell them to piss off. And if he was being honest, it was really nice.
(Of course, the two later slapped sticky notes everywhere on the rest of their instruments, so fair game.)
Leaving Wilbur was very very frustrating. Their goodbye was mostly spent with holding each other for like five minutes, switching between muttering how it was very not fair and being completely silent. Eventually the older had to pull back, one hand resting on his cheek, seeming to resist physically pulling him back into his arms. “You know I’m never going to be able to get all your sticky notes out of the house by the time you visit again.”
And he brightened; more so by the reassurance that he was indeed coming back, soon guessing by the way Wilbur was looking at him. “Good.”
The first week was spent with a temporary switch over to constant FaceTime (cause Discord on a phone was splotchy with connection at best and at worst Tommy got stuck taking multiple screenshots of the other’s frozen face for ten minutes), calling each other frequently through the day. It was a good thing they had accidentally agreed on a schedule of never streaming unless Philza Minecraft himself emailed them (and it did happen. Terrifying). Otherwise their chat would just have to deal with Tommy making absolutely terrible jokes and having no perception for his face being too close to the screen and Wilbur mostly just humming along to whatever he said and spamming the screenshot button on his phone whenever he thought it would capture Tommy’s ugliness well.
So yeah; Tommy would be playing animal crossing, humming Lovejoy under his breath, and think hey, I know the guy who made that song and then spend five hours or more in call with said guy.
It was an incredibly comfortable arrangement, like having Wilbur in a little pocket-sized version to carry around and bother whenever. Probably not healthy, to wake up and immediately call his best friend, hang up after a couple hours, and not too much later end up on call with him again, but it’s life. Didn’t leave much time for streaming, or Tubbo ( Tubbo ) or anyone else for that matter. But their calls did consist of the occasional guest star: Betty and Walter, for example, schoolwork also made a frequent appearance, as did parents and flat mates and just normal mates or (on the occasion) band mates. There wasn’t a lot of need for notes when they were with each other 24/7. It was the equivalent of a Wilbur Hug for him, or in said man’s case, Tommy Cuddles. That went on forever.
So a good deal. Great deal, even. Except there was one problem.
Tubbo was prone to kidnapping. Very inclined in case to Tommy, but if he tried real hard and shoved his supposed “best friend” under the rug he could technically kidnap Wilbur. By all legal means. So that meant when Tubbo showed up on his doorstep, his mum seeming entirely unsurprised by this, he immediately knew they had been conspiring behind his back. Traitors.
“Wilbur,” he bemoaned dramatically, glaring at evil little Tubbo currently sitting innocently in his living room. “Did you know there’s a traitor among our ranks? Hint: Starts with T and ends with ubbo .”
The man gasped, the audio tinny and a little bit crackly from the phone as he shifted in bed, blinking wide eyes through his glasses, “No. Sudely not.”
“Yes.” He directed the phone to point at Tubbo, who noticed, waving. Disgusting.
“Well Tommy,” he said as he turned the phone back around, resting his hands in his lap. “Guess it’s time for plan B. Eliminate bee boy.”
“Bye bye,” Tommy said, fake wistfulness caught in his tone.
“How touching,” Tubbo said, making his way over, plucking the phone from his hand easily. “Hi Wilbur. Stealing your sad, pathetic little Tommy right now. You don’t mind, right? Thanks, bye.” And just like that, he ended the call, pocketing the phone. Tommy stared, utterly betrayed.
In shock, he reached out, a forlorn look replacing his bewilderment. “No, Wilbur, come back.”
Tubbo tutted, started to drag him away and outside. “No, no Wilbur today. Just you, me, and the dirty crime-filled streets of Nottingham.”
Oh the horror. How could he be subjected to such cruelty? And by his own friend ? Really shows who you should trust in a social order like this.
It wasn’t that bad actually. He managed to convince (beg) Tubbo to get him some fast food, in which they strolled through the streets, laughing and cracking jokes and okay, Tommy really had been in some desperate need for vitaminan C. And Tubbo. He has unknowingly been in need for big supply of Tubbo, and now that he had it, he was not letting go. Clingy? Maybe. But all who reach, never pull back empty-handed.
He did coax Tubbo into letting him plaster a sticky note onto an unassuming McDonald’s door, ‘ Wilby Scoot ’ written in chunky letters. He took a picture, fully intending to send this to Wilbur, especially considering how he was blowing up his phone with notifications. One might assume he had died.
After all was said and done, Tommy was satisfied with leaving Tubbo with an awkward hug and a pebble thrown at his head. His brain. Ha, Pebble Brain. Oh he missed Wilbur.
He dialed his number, humming along as it rang out, a smile spreading across his face when it picked up. “Wilbur, Wilbur, Wilbur.”
“Tommy,” said man breathed, “hello. Hi. You were not, uh, defenestrated? Then, good. I like you alive. Very much so.”
“Yes, yes, all good,” he brushed him off, leaning back against his wall, bubbly glee spilling in his gut uncontrollably. “Hold up, I’m going to send you something.”
He skipped off to their messages, humming the Pokémon theme song under his breath as he did so, content to listen as the other talked.
“According to recent events, I need to steal you. Lock you away in my house. Dungeon? Dungeon. My reputation precedes me, I’m afraid, I need to be a protective big brother. Maybe not a good one, but pot, kettle.” Wilbur rambled, turning over a fidget toy in his hand, pressing down happily.
Tommy made a noise in agreement, “Sure, look at what I sent you in dms. Messages. Whatever. You know, jealously doesn’t look good on you.”
There was a very obvious sound of contempt. “I am not jealous .”
“What was it you said? Pot, kettle? Mhm, that. But you most certainly are, I know you, Wilbur Soot. You are practically turning into that green monster in your heart.”
A huff. Defiance. And then a laugh, clearly he had seen the photo.
“Oh, I like that. I do. Thanks for thinking of me, I feel so appreciated.” Wilbur’s eyes crinkled are the edges with the force of his warm smile, and Tommy leaned back, satisfied. That’s what he wanted to see.
“Well,” he drawled, turning his grin to the ceiling, “I do love you.”
“Oh,” the other mumbled, a flush crawling up his ears. Then, “No you don’t.”
He was clearly pulling his tail. Didn’t mean Tommy didn’t click his teeth together, frowning sadly, “Yes I do , ye o’ little faith.”
On a roll now, the other continued gleefully, propping his chin up on his hands, fluffy curls shifting with the movement. “Oh, you don’t. Liar, liar, liar. There’s no way you love me. You never show it, asshole.”
“Fine,” Tommy conceded, “I don’t love you. You’re the worst and I hate you.”
A frown tugged at Wilbur’s lips, dropping all sense of indignity to instead look like a kicked puppy. “You do?”
“Oh my god, shut up you dumbass .”
And so came a new normal; being on call with Wilbur, and also being dragged off by Tubbo and Ranboo randomly. It was basically the best bet any of them could get. And he was very content with it.
Being back at Wilbur’s place felt like coming home. Not as much as actually being in his arms again, but pretty damn close. The man hovered by him like a clingy oversized cat, and he welcomed it fully, not minding the brief cheek pecks when passing by or the occasional hair ruffle. It was very domestic-y, and the more he tasted the word on his tongue the warmer he felt at the notion. He had a home here, here with Wilbur, and he very much intended to keep it.
The love notes started up again, and Tommy didn’t exactly save every one, but a certain fondness filled him at every careful letter, pooling in his gut sweetly and making an absolute wreck of his heart. It was very tempting to just never leave Wilbur at all. Incredibly tempting. Even when certain things did get under his skin.
(“You quoted poetry at me. Kipling. Hymn of Breaking Strain, 1935. You don’t even like poetry.
" Abide the twin-damnation, to fail and know we fail , yes, I’m aware. More importantly, how did you know what that was?”
“Pot, kettle. Get out of my business asshole.”)
So life happened like that, the two of them, grocery shopping or watching movies or just together, peacefully, living, loving. They had made an indent in each other, something that can’t be fixed, and they weren’t too sure they wanted to. Fix it, I mean.
Sometimes, time passed like molasses, thick and slow and getting nowhere. This time, the end of Tommy’s visit drew to an end far too soon for either of their likings. Wilbur was very obviously not happy throughout the day, avoiding his gaze and murmuring under his breath and acting like a fool. Breaking his heart. Fuck him.
When they finally got to leaving, Wilbur held him, rested his lips on his hair. Pleaded for him to stay. Stay stay stay . Don’t go. Never go.
Tommy exhaled; “I’m not leaving.”
Pulled back. Let the older’s fingers gently skid over his face, tracing his jaw and cheekbones and the bridge of his nose. Brushing a love note into his simple touch.
Even when he had to go, had to achingly pull away, he wasn’t leaving. He had a home now, with Wilbur, flourishing in love notes around a house and hour-long calls and something very very human.
He had a home, and he intended to keep it.