Actions

Work Header

Rating:
Archive Warning:
Category:
Fandom:
Relationship:
Characters:
Additional Tags:
Language:
English
Collections:
Sixer's Dream SMP Favorites, Elite oneshots, pebble's curated, ctommy ctommy chomolo chommy, crimeboys chronicles, start reading, Completed stories I've read, one-shots, oh YES, Wilson's re-reads, Dsmp comfort fics for my bestie after I send her angst and pain, crimeboys solo fics!!, Sk1tats
Stats:
Published:
2021-04-28
Words:
2,412
Chapters:
1/1
Comments:
117
Kudos:
3,806
Bookmarks:
578
Hits:
29,642

i love you till the day i die (so don't die today)

Summary:

According to Tommy, death leaves you touch-repulsed and aloof. That's why it's so surprising that Wilbur Soot, post-resurrection, is one clingy, touch-starved motherfucker.

Or: Wilbur copes by cuddling. Tommy's the one who has to put up with it.

Notes:

To preface, this fic was entirely written to be self-indulgent. I know that, canonically, Tommy and Wilbur’s respective trauma would never allow room for fluffiness. I just thought it was a nice idea and I wanted to write it :]

Please make sure to mind the tags! There is one line that alludes to derealization, but it's nothing big so it should be okay. Stay safe anyway!!

Also, a recent edit: I don't support Wilbur Soot. C!Crime belongs to us as our collective OCs. I'm still very proud of this work and want to make it clear the characters I have portrayed here have no association with the creators in my mind. Thanks for reading!

Title is from Do you want to die together? by Stars

(See the end of the work for more notes.)

Work Text:

It's the dead of night when Wilbur turns to Tommy and says, "Let's dance."

The two of them are beneath Tommy's cramped dirt shack, in the basement where Tommy's chests used to be. He'd moved his jukebox down here a while ago; there's more space to listen with multiple people here than in the upstairs smooth stone room, and it also has the plus of being less burdened with bad memories.

But while neither of them tend to get much sleep, and therefore stay up doing their own tasks, Wilbur has never before requested to dance with him. 

Tommy looks at him, searching, and notices that Wilbur's posture is a little bit off, his head a little too lowered, like it's suddenly become too heavy for his body to hold. His fingers tap in stuttering intervals against the wall, off-beat to the disc trilling music.

There's something gleaming in his eyes, something fractured like starlight, and Tommy knows, all at once, that he needs this. 

And Tommy's not the kind of person to give in to other people, but there's a tug in his own chest; it's something like curiosity, and it's something like care, but mostly it's something like love, so he stomps forward almost defiantly and flings his hands out for Wilbur to take.

The stars in his brother's eyes seem to shift, somewhat, like a small piece of him is realigning. He grabs Tommy's hands in his own and starts to slowly sway the two of them together.

They dance. It's not a waltz or a foxtrot or anything organized and fancy. It's just the two of them, swaying, hands intertwined, to the soft, melodic notes of a disc.

It's all they need.

As the song slowly winds down, Tommy disentangles himself from Wilbur, whose gaze, though focused on him, is somewhere far. 

Tommy rocks forward onto his tippy toes and flicks Wilbur's forehead. His brother flinches a little, then blinks rapidly, and the gleam in his eyes is gone, replaced with something solid and warm.

"Hey," Tommy says.

Wilbur watches him quietly. "Hi," he whispers. 

Tommy tilts his head, and says, carefully, "You okay?"

Wilbur clears his throat. "Yeah. Yeah, I'm- I'm good."

"Cool," Tommy says, and removes Far from the jukebox.

 

 

There are three constants in Tommy's life:

  1. Safety is never permanent. It wasn't permanent in L'Manberg, it wasn't permanent in Pogtopia, it wasn't permanent in New L'Manberg, it's never been permanent in his dirt house, and it sure as hell isn't permanent in other people.
  2. Love isn't permanent. It wasn't permanent when he was street-bound and homeless, it wasn't permanent when he created a house in the fresh lands of a young SMP, it wasn't permanent in L'Manberg, it wasn't permanent in Pogtopia, and it sure as hell isn't permanent in other people.
  3. Wilbur Soot is permanent. Wilbur Soot is also an insufferable piece of shit.

No matter which stage of life Tommy's endured, one and two have never changed. Three, on the other hand, had; a third and final death seemed like the most stalwart end to permanence there could be.

Then a ghost showed up in the ruins of a nation his brother helped form. Then a spectre showed up in the overhang of a tree behind a bench. Then Tommy showed up in a void full of cards not meant for him.

Then Wilbur showed up, seated on a throne of lapis and gold and trinitrotoluene.

So, unfortunately, Wilbur became a constant. An insufferable constant.

A clingy constant.

As Tommy stares up at his matted dirt ceiling, he feels his expression flatten as the comforter moves. "Wilbur," he says, eyes trained on the few specks of grass he can spot, "I haven't been able to sleep by myself in the past week , man."

The bedsheets still in their shuffling. A quiet voice from the dark asks, "Do you want me to go?"

The tone is plain enough, but the words are edged with something fragile. Tommy closes his eyes, huffs a breath, then lifts the sheets impatiently.

Wilbur climbs in next to him, silently curling toward him. He stays completely frozen like that, but Tommy knows better.

"You can hug me," he says, just a touch exasperated.

The words have barely left his mouth before Wilbur's pulling him toward his chest, one hand on the back of his head and the other snaked around his chest. In any other situation, it'd be funny, Tommy thinks, just how clingy he is. With how vicious and sharp-edged Wilbur is during the day, who knew how badly he craved contact when secluded with people he trusted?

It'd be funny, but in this situation, it just makes Tommy… well, sad. A little protective, too, if he's being honest. When he'd come back from the dead himself, he'd been touch-repulsed; it'd been the most sickening thing in the world, being unable to handle hugs from Tubbo or even fistbumps with Michael.

Tubbo and his family had helped him, though, had shown him such patience in their small touches, letting him get used to it again. He owes Tubbo a lot, he knows, as well as Ranboo and Michael.

On the other hand, he owes Wilbur nothing, but his loyalty has always gotten the better of him. His love has always gotten the better of him, and seeing how touch starved and fractured his older brother is hurts in ways utterly indescribable.

Wilbur's fingers start carding through his hair. The touch is soft, and gentle, and Tommy pulls up his knees and butts his head into Wilbur's chest.

It's mutualism, Tommy thinks. That scientific thing Tubbo had described to him before, using bees and flowers. It's mutualism as he curls into a feather-light touch and it's mutualism as Wilbur soaks up his warmth. 

It's mutualism, but it might be love, too. He doesn't really know anymore.

 

 

It's nearly evening when one of Tommy's front doors slams open, plumes of soil fanning out from the impact. He winces as Wilbur storms through it; then, once he catches sight of Tommy, he stalks toward him, expression thunderous.

As Wilbur looms over him, the boy flinches back, sword instinctually manifesting in his hand.

There's a beat.

"...Sorry," Wilbur mutters, and draws away. He looks aimless, standing there, hands clenching and unclenching.

Tommy dismisses his sword, sucking in a deep breath to calm his racing heart. "Fuck you," he says, without fire. "You okay?"

Wilbur nods, slightly, and opens his mouth. A small, wrecked sort of noise escapes him, and he rubs his face and leans against the wall. "Talked to Phil," he croaks.

"Well, fuck," Tommy says. "You- You want a hug? Or something?"

" Please ."

Tommy nudges him over, then slides down the wall. Wilbur joins him on the ground, sliding an arm over his shoulders. He rubs Tommy's arm up and down, like Tommy's the one who needs comfort and not him.

"That's what I was-" Wilbur starts, then stops, hand stilling in its movements. He leans his head against Tommy's shoulder. "That's what I was going to do. Hug you, I mean. When I came in through the door."

"Oh."

"Yeah."

Tommy twists his face into the crook between Wilbur's shoulder and neck and picks at the fabric of his jacket. "Shouldn't've looked so fuckin' grumpy, then."

Wilbur laughs, small and tired. "'Grumpy'," he echoes. "Is that what I looked like?"

Tommy nearly keeps his mouth shut. But things are changing, these days, so he admits, "You looked dangerous." 

There's a small bout of silence. Then Wilbur shifts, arm slowly retracting; the instant Tommy notices, he kicks the side of Wilbur's ankle.

"Ow," Wilbur says flatly.

"Stop it. We're cuddling."

Wilbur sighs. "Tommy, if I scare you-"

"You don't, prick," Tommy hisses, and is surprised to find that he means it. "It's just- when you look like that, you do."

"Okay," Wilbur murmurs, after a beat. "Okay, I'll- that's good. That's good to know."

"All about…" Tommy yawns. "Communication 'n shit. Least that's what Puffy says."

"Communication 'n shit," Wilbur agrees. There's something wry in his tone when he adds, "Y'know, for a guy who used to be President, I've always been horrid at that."

Tommy nods in sleepy agreement. "Real shit."

Wilbur laughs. Tommy falls asleep with the ghost of a smile on his face.

 

 

Tommy's outside planting carrots when Wilbur places his chin atop his head and refuses to move.

Tubbo's sitting on the dirt ledge, Ranboo next to him. They both watch Wilbur with some surprise; Tubbo's never seen him this openly affectionate since his revival, and Ranboo...

Well, Wilbur and Ranboo are… a bit standoffish, to each other. While Wilbur seems to think Ranboo is nice enough, it's clear Ranboo doesn't know what to make of him in return. He eyes Wilbur with no small amount of confusion as Tommy bickers with the man. 

Tommy pretends not to notice his and Tubbo's gazes. He's not too sure what pointing out Wilbur's clinginess will do, and the affection feels too nice to risk it.

Wilbur follows him around as he plants, sticking to Tommy like a shadow. Eventually, Tubbo and Ranboo strike up conversation again, casual enough to not force Wilbur into it but also to not exclude him. 

"Here," Tommy says, after some time, holding out a basket of carrots to Wilbur. "Take those inside. We can cook with 'em, probably."

"You mean you can burn down your house with them." Ranboo snickers at the look Tommy throws him, while Tubbo tilts his head thoughtfully.

" Can you burn down a dirt house?"

" Ohhh my Prime , Tubbo, will you-"

Wilbur swats his head as he passes by. "No bullying Tubbo." 

Tommy nearly freezes out of pure shock; there's affection dripping along Wilbur's words, so potent and saccharine Tommy's cheeks flush with embarrassment. He can spot Tubbo and Ranboo staring at Wilbur with wide eyes, though, so he quickly straightens and shouts "Fuck you!" as Wilbur disappears inside.

The three left outside idle for a moment. Then Tubbo throws a glance Tommy's way and says, softly, "He's different."

“Maybe,” Tommy mumbles, scuffing a shoe against the ground.

“Do you guys-” They both turn to Ranboo, who hunches his shoulders. “Do you guys, y’know… trust him?”

A moment passes in which they both contemplate this.

"No," Tubbo admits, slowly. "I mean, I- I can't. Not yet, at least."

Tommy desperately wants to say the same, because how pathetic would it be, already trusting Wilbur by this point?

But he finds that he can’t.

Tubbo and Ranboo watch him like they know , so Tommy turns around and says, loudly, “C’mon, let’s make those carrots into something that actually fuckin’ taste good!”

Ranboo says, “But carrots are good,” and Tubbo says, “You can’t even cook, Tommy,” and the conversation’s forgotten, for now. 

 

 

It’s a bad day, Tommy knows.

Maybe there’s something in the weather, something in the air. Maybe the SMP’s just cursed. Whatever it is, it has Wilbur snappy and sharp, Tommy anxious and on-edge. From the moment he’d woken up by himself, Tommy knew that Wilbur planned on avoiding him for the day, and that was a plan he was wholly okay with. The idea of even being perceived right now makes him nauseous. 

So feeling Wilbur’s eyes on him from where he’s leaning against the wall, watching as Tommy mindlessly sorts through his enderchest, starts to piss him off.

“Can you fuck off ?” Tommy finally snaps, whirling around to face him.

Wilbur blinks slowly, like he’s coming out of a stupor, then shoots Tommy an icy look. “I live here too.”

“Yeah? Well, I fucking wish you didn’t , asshole! Do you even know how much sleep I’ve gotten with you around? Huh?” He walks forward and pokes a firm finger into Wilbur’s chest. “Go on, guess!”

There’s no response as Wilbur glares down at him. Then, quietly, “Why don’t you kick me out, then, hm?” His tone turns nearly acidic as he adds, “I’m sure Phil and Techno would love to have me.”

It’s bait. It’s so clearly bait, because whatever Wilbur and Phil had said to each other earlier this week clearly hadn’t been friendly. It’s bait, so Wilbur expects him to take it.

The problem is that things have changed. The problem is that some people have changed. So Tommy just huffs out a short breath and wraps his arms around his brother.

Wilbur’s arms hover around him in surprise. “...Tommy?”

“You’re a fucking idiot, y’know,” Tommy says, and while he’s still on-edge and he’s still a little pissed off, he’ll admit that these past few weeks have shown him the appeal of hugging. The simple action of it has fuckin’ magical properties, or something, because he can feel Wilbur slowly deflate as he returns the hug.

Tommy leans his weight against Wilbur, forcing him to slide down so they’re both sitting on the ground once again. This time, Tommy presses his cheek against Wilbur’s chest, listening to the slow beats of his brother’s heart. Something about it is calming in a way he can’t describe.

Wilbur lets out a long, slow breath, melting around Tommy. Just a couple days ago, Tommy had thought it sad, how aching for physical touch he was. Now, he still finds it sad, but he lets his amusement leak in a quiet giggle. It’s a little funny, the way Wilbur’s gained a guaranteed off-switch.

Tommy’s drawn out of his thoughts as Wilbur says, almost confidentially, “Sometimes, I think you’re the only thing that’s real.”

“Sometimes,” Tommy says, “I think everyone’s a dream.”

Wilbur presses his face into his hair and murmurs, “More like a nightmare.” Tommy scoffs. It’s a little wet, a little too vulnerable.

They stay there, entangled, for what feels like hours. Tommy thinks about dancing, and he thinks about constants and mutualism, and he thinks about communication, and he thinks about trust.

He thinks about love.

Tommy thinks about love, so he whispers, like it’s the most awful thing in the world: “I love you.”

Wilbur’s breath hitches. “You shouldn’t,” he mutters, but it sounds a little like a sob.

“Maybe,” Tommy agrees. “But I do anyway.”

Lips press against his forehead, dry and chapped. A quiet humming starts.

Wilbur doesn’t say it back, but Tommy thinks, from the way he’d danced, and the way he clings, and the way he clears his throat of the cracks in his voice, that he can hear the words anyway.





Notes:

Thank you for reading!! I've read all of the comments so far and you're all so sweet I love you guys!! Consider dropping a kudos if you enjoyed, they do help!