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“You’re magic Wilbur,” Tommy says, and it's like the tenth time Tommy's said it, but even still, hearing it makes Wilbur beam exactly the same as it did the first time.
They’re both sitting on the floor in Wilbur’s living room; Wilbur with a guitar in his lap and Tommy facing him, toes wiggling like little worms. Wilbur laughs, eyes squeezing shut, grin stretching wide.
“I’ve already told you Toms, I’m not the magical one here,” He says.
“You play like it,” Tommy amends, leaning forward. “Teach me?”
Of course, Wilbur does- putting the guitar in Tommy's lap and directing his arms, then hands, then fingers on the frets and strings. Wilbur is gentle and encouraging when Tommy falters and eventually Tubbo settles down at his other side to help instruct, with Ranboo moving to open the curtains and pull on the balcony sliding door to let the evening air in.
They’re all staying at Wilbur’s- or, well, he should amend to saying, Tommy is staying at Wilbur’s. Tubbo and Ranboo refuse to leave before they are forced to, wanting to stay to support Tommy as he waits for his parents and grandparents to get their shit together. Wilbur got the text from Tommy’s mother only two nights after he picked Tommy up from the train station- I’m so sorry Wilbur, I don’t mean to put a lot on your plate, but can you possibly keep him there for a little until we deal with this? I know you didn’t sign up for that, but at least if he’s with you I’d know he’d be safe. I promise that it would only be a few days at the most and we could certainly paid you for it. If you can't then he can stay up with his aunts on the other side of Nottingham.
When he read that, he had frowned, thinking of Tommy, yet again squishing himself down in his aunts' company. Thinking of Tommy being further and further away from him and the people who explicitly, unerringly care for him- it made Wilbur feel a bit sick.
Of course he would open his home, his space, his arms to Tommy- no payment necessary. Tubbo and Ranboo too. Of course he would- it wasn’t even a question. There would never be a doubt.
So now they’re kind of taking over, and Wilbur won't say it outloud, but he adores it.
“What do you guys want for dinner?” He asks in between Tommy’s slow, wavering string plucks.
“Anything is good,” Ranboo grins. “Oh Wilbur, can I-” He hesitates, ducking a bit, but Tubbo stretches his leg out to nudge him with his foot, spurring him on. “Um, can I look through some of your sigil books? I wouldn’t take long or mess them up or anything- it would just be a peek.”
“Dude, Ranboo, look in any book you please,” Wilbur encourages. “You don’t even have to ask. What’s mine is yours. Just- if you see a book labeled diary, do me a favor and don’t post the contents of it on Reddit.”
Tommy, the gremlin, perks up. “Oo! I fucking will if you won’t Ranboo. I'm no pussy!”
“That’s the wrong string, bossman,” Tubbo corrects gently, ignoring the rest of them. He redirects Tommy’s finger to the right string, and this time, when Tommy strums, it sounds heavenly. “There you go.”
“How about cauliflower pizza?” Wilbur asks, trying to remember all the ingredients for it and match them up with what's in his kitchen.
Tommy hums, squinting. “Can you save me some raw cauliflower to eat later?”
“Sure Toms.”
“Then yes.”
“Everyone else good with that?”
Tubbo nods and Ranboo, whose head is buried in Wilbur’s nature sigil books, just throws out a thumbs up, too busy drinking in all the knowledge he can. Eventually they all get up and head to the kitchen together, Ranboo telling Tommy about all that he read and Tubbo wiggling his fingers, warping the shadows away, excited to get into the kitchen. They cook together, with Ranboo testing out the sigils on the kitchen plants and Tommy throwing open the window to let the dying sun and early evening wind in. When they’re finished, they all sit around the kitchen table, eating, talking, and enjoying each other’s company.
“Movie marathon?” Tubbo proposes. “Did you know there are three Cars movies?”
“I am not watching Cars with you, Tubbo,” Tommy groans, scraping his plate into the trash.
“What about with me?” Wilbur asks, walking over and settling his chin on the top of Tommy’s golden curls. Tommy huffs and Wilbur knows him well enough to know he was thinking the word clingy.
“No, I’m not watching Cars with you either.”
“What about me?” Ranboo asks, poking his head up. Tommy looks at him, expression softening.
“Maybe.” He says. “Maybe, yeah.”
So they end up starting Cars, settling into the living room. Tommy obnoxiously leaning all into Wilbur’s space, pulling Tubbo and Ranboo in close. Wilbur waits for the three of them to settle, Tommy with his head on Wilbur’s lap and Tubbo curled into Wilbur's other side. Ranboo sits on the floor, leaning back against Wilbur’s legs. Wilbur feels like a mother bird or something, surrounded by his chicks. And he feels like it too- almost choking on the sudden warmth and intense need to see them safe and happy and cared for for the rest of his life.
“This is nice,” Tommy whispers, around the middle of the movie.
“Yeah? Are you happy?”
Tommy doesn’t even need to stop to consider. He just nods, pushing his head into Wilbur’s hand so Wilbur can run it through his hair. “Yeah. Yeah, ‘m happy. I'm happy here.”
“Good.” Wilbur says. “Now hush and watch Lightning Mcqueen pave this road.”
...
lovejoy
(7:02 am) mark : when are we recording vocals?
(7:04 am) ash : I can't do this Friday
(7:04 am) mark : hey Wilbur, isn't Tommy still with you for the week?
(7:05 am) wilbur : yeah, for however long he needs
(7:05 am) ash : uh oh big brother Wilbur
(7:05 am) mark : uh oh big brother Wilbur
(7:05 am) joe : uh oh big brother Wilbur
(7:06 am) Wilbur : joe where did you even come from
(7:06 am) joe : your mom
(7:06 am) mark : haha come.
(7:07 am) wilbur : you're so lucky Tommy loves this band otherwise we'd be through
(7:07 am) ash : cool, so we're recording next friday?
(7:08 am) joe : sure
(7:08 am) wilbur : yeah
(7:08 am) mark : haha come.
wilbur kicked mark from lovejoy.
…
Wilbur yawns, coming from his bedroom to the hallway. He stops when he hears quiet music. He peeks around the corner, into the kitchen, to see Tommy and Tubbo huddled together at the counter, by the stove. Wilbur's egg carton is open and his green onions and cheese and bell peppers are out.
"Okay, okay," Tubbo is saying, lightly hitting Tommy's shoulder, drawing the boy's attention away from snacking on the sliced bell peppers, "pay attention, look."
" Tubbo," Tommy whines, "why can't you just make it for me?"
"I'm teaching you!"
Tommy groans, slumping playfully, half smiling when Tubbo pokes his face and keeps poking until Tommy waves him away and sits back up.
"Okay, okay, go on then Tubbo, go on, I'm listening."
Wilbur feels unreasonably fond of these kids- even Ranboo, who is still asleep under all the blankets in the guest room- so much so that he can't even make himself go in there and stop them from burning cheese all over his new pans. So much so that he doesn't mind the left out milk or the way Tubbo somehow managed to use three knives to cut one bell pepper?
It's all fine, Wilbur realizes, because he'd replace a million pans and buy triple the knives and make two trips to the farmer's market a week if it meant the three of them would stay this comfortable in his space. If it meant Wilbur could be the place they feel the most loose, the most loved.
He isn't stupid, he knows that Ranboo couldn't wait to come down to the UK to be here instead of up there- just like how he knows Ranboo still has a flicker of uncertainty when someone prompts him for his opinion on a topic, magical or otherwise. It's the same hesitant half step that Tommy takes when showing his magic or asking for help from a person he doesn't explicitly trust. It's the same in the urge to overcompensate that Tubbo exhibits when challenged- far too willing to push people away for fear of getting hurt.
They've been hurt before, betrayed, cast aside, told they weren't worth everything that they are. And at some point- probably between the time that Tubbo accidentally let it slip that he was magic only to hastily block Wilbur on every social media before Wilbur could respond, to the time that Tommy, tucked into his side like he was hiding, told him about his magic with shaky hands- Wilbur realized he needed to protect them. He was going to protect them. No ifs about it.
Maybe it was a bit much, but they deserved it. Actually, in his opinion, they deserved way more than that- but Wilbur can’t go into the past and change that for them. He can’t change what was- all he can do is make their right now as warm and comfortable as he could.
The window is open, and the wind blows through, ruffling Wilbur's hair gently and blowing in the smell of the outside- grass and dirt and magic. Wilbur grins, remembering when Tommy introduced him to mother wind- standing in the field at sunset, watching Tommy turn in a sporadic magical dance with the wind.
"Hello," Wilbur whispers. The wind tickles his nose. "Look, there they are. Safe and sound."
He can't hear her, but imagines her gentle caress against his cheek is accompanied by a Thank you.
…
“Make sure you zip your coat,” Wilbur says, unable to help himself.
Ranboo blinks at him and the look that Tubbo gives him makes Wilbur realize that he’s actually quite dumb.
“Of course Wilbur,” Ranboo indulges, then zips up his hoodie placatingly.
“At least now we don’t have to worry about him getting too cold.” Tubbo jokes. Tommy snickers, and Wilbur flushes.
“Shut the fuck up and come here,” he says, pulling Ranboo and Tubbo in for a hug. “You text or call if you need anything, okay? You know that I’m always here.”
Ranboo tucks his face into Wilbur’s shoulder. Tubbo curls a warm hand in the back of Wilbur’s sweatshirt.
“We will,” Tubbo says quietly, “we promise.”
“You take care of Tommy,” is what Ranboo says, voice firm, hiding the little waver that Wilbur knows wants to be there. Having to be away from Tommy, especially after what happened the last time they separated, must hurt. Wilbur knows it would if it was him. "Keep him safe."
“Of course,” Wilbur nods once, squeezing them tighter. It truly feels like he’s holding the sun and the moon in his arms- precious yet powerful, absolutely larger than life and so insanely brilliant. They could move mountains and channel magic that Wilbur has only heard stories about and still Wilbur would do anything for them. Step in front of any threat to keep them from harm. Push them out of the way of anything looking to hurt them.
Again, the wind comes, cooing.
Tommy's cheeks pinken, like he's hearing something embarrassing. Wilbur pays him no mind, instead pulling away, letting Ranboo and Tubbo go. As expected, they immediately turn to Tommy and almost knock him down with the force of their hug.
"Text me when you get home," Wilbur hears Tommy say. "The second you're in the door."
"I'll text you on the train, dumbass," Tubbo responds.
"At the station," Tommy corrects.
"I'm going to start crying," Ranboo says, voice even more wobbly now. "Someone stop me."
"If you cry, I won't come visit next week."
Ranboo sniffles. "Oh." Then he sniffles again. "Please visit."
"I will, I will, don't cry." Tommy says frantically, unable to commit to the bit for even a second while Ranboo is in tears. “The second that I can, you know I’m coming down there.”
“You better, or else I’m not letting you in,” Tubbo grumbles, burrowing closer.
“That doesn’t even make sense.” Tommy scoffs, but holds them tighter. If Wilbur feels like he’s holding celestial beings when he had Ranboo and Tubbo in his arms, he can only imagine what it feels like for Tommy- those are the two matching pieces of his soul right there. He must feel more than complete to hold them- Wilbur feels awful for making them separate. If it were up to him, he’d keep them together until the stars die.
Unfortunately he can’t, but the next best thing he can do is to reunite them the next chance that he gets.
…
The house feels barren after they’re gone.
Wilbur didn’t realize just how much space they took up, just how much space they encouraged Tommy to take up. Once they’re gone, he sort of deflates, shoulders slumping like he’s worried about being too much all at once, which is insane, because Wilbur chose the bright, loud, lovely Tommyinnit as his brother. Wilbur saw a spark of life, a charging heartbeat in Tommy and sought to curl his fingers around it gently, hold it in his palms, keep it beating for as long as he could.
This ghost of a ray is nothing like what Wilbur knows.
“Come on Tommy,” Wilbur says, “let’s make dinner.”
Tommy follows Wilbur into the kitchen, and listens when Wilbur instructs him on what to pull out and from where. Carrots and mushrooms and broccoli florets. Bell peppers and water chestnuts and snow peas. Baby corn and ginger and garlic. Broth and soy sauce and honey. With every ingredient, Tommy’s expression brightens, until he’s the one taking the initiative with slicing the carrots or measuring the honey.
While Tommy is preoccupied with whisking the sauce, Wilbur reaches over and turns on his speaker, connecting his phone. Tubbo isn’t here, and nothing could beat the magic music he plays from the wind, but Wilbur’s got a playlist full of Lovejoy that normally makes Tommy bounce around like a spring, so that will have to do.
It comes on and Tommy stops in his tracks, the whisk slowing. He looks over to Wilbur, a grin creeping across his lips.
Wilbur puts the phone down and then yells, at the top of his lungs, “ she’s always asking ‘am i alright’!”
“ As if auspicious or in my pint !” Tommy screeches back.
“I’ll find the answer or a good night!”
“Thank god the time is short!”
“Dun dun dun nuh duh!” They vocalize together, hopping around the kitchen mimicking air guitars and drums. Tommy laughs, and the bamboo palm in the corner shakes and shimmers.
…
They settle on the couch after they eat.
Wilbur ends up fussing much more over blankets now that Tubbo’s gone home. The apartment is a lot colder than would be otherwise. He didn't realize how much of a space heater that kid was until he was gone.
Wilbur makes sure to pull the stitched quilts from the top of the closet, remembering that they are spelled warm, made by a nice little lady at a flea market who thought Wilbur looked sickly and pale. It was a sort of backhanded gift. Wilbur wasn’t that offended, not when he was able to pull self-warming cloth over his head in the winter.
He settles the blankets around them and leaves more than enough space for two, knowing that Tommy is probably tired from singing and heavy from warm filling stir-fry, but, interestingly, Tommy seems determined to ignore that space- pressing in at Wilbur’s side, like he’s trying to find his way into the man’s ribcage.
“Toms, hey, clover, what’s wrong?” Wilbur asks after he tries to shift just an inch and Tommy follows like a lost lamb. “What’s going on? You- you seem a little-” Wilbur falters here, unsure of how to explain that Tommy looks absolutely nothing like the open, sunlight-drinking flower that Wilbur knows him to be.
“M’ alright,” Tommy mumbles, then buries his face back into Wilbur’s side.
“Okay,” Wilbur says haltingly. “But if you aren’t, then, you should know that it’s okay. That it’s okay to not feel the best. You don’t have to all the time. I mean, you already know you don’t have to pretend around me.”
Tommy nods slowly. Somehow, through some sort of sixth sense, Wilbur knows he doesn’t truly believe it.
That’s alright, Wilbur will stay here until he does. He won’t stop fighting for Tommy, even if Tommy’s stopped fighting for himself.
Wilbur reaches over and pulls a blanket over Tommy’s shoulder, and then cards a hand through his hair. Tommy inhales, then exhales, all shaky, before sinking closer, melting like snow. Wilbur hums quietly, thinking of the draft in his lyric book, plants curling up in a slant / sowing something that will grow / a swarm of warmth crawling over / my clover, my clover.
“My clover,” He whispers. “My Tommy.”
…
He falls asleep a little while after Tommy does, still huddled in their makeshift cocoon of blankets and pillows. Wilbur dreams of sweet meadows, of plump berries and harp strings. Of shooting stars and peeling branches and twisting ivy. It’s a dream he could spend all night inside of- but he doesn’t, woken by the brisk harsh wind.
He groans quietly, shifting. He wants to turn over and go back to sleep, but the wind blows even harder, and it’s weird, because Wilbur can’t remember leaving the balcony door open. He turns over to his other side and then sits up, rubbing his eyes.
“What the fuck?”
There’s a missing weight at his side. Tommy.
The wind blows again, harsh, pushing Wilbur up. Now alert, Wilbur blinks around the darkened living room, frowning when he doesn’t see Tommy’s shadow anywhere. He stands and makes his way around the coffee table and towards the dining room, the wind chittering nervously in his ears the whole way. There’s no sign of Tommy at the table or in the kitchen. He isn’t in the hallway and the bathroom light isn’t on.
He’s about to check in the guest bedroom, when he hears a sniffle from his room.
Wilbur turns and slowly peeks inside.
Tommy is there, sitting cross legged by the open window, moonlight streaming in, lighting his tear stained face. Wilbur can see the way he’s hunched, playing with something in his hands- upon closer look Wilbur recognizes the magic museum rocks and his heart breaks.
“Tommy?” He calls. Tommy jerks upward, then turns, frantically rubbing at his face.
“Wil!” He says, trying desperately to put some fake joy into his voice. “Hey-you- I, um, didn’t mean to wake you, I was just- I was just-”
Wilbur tsks, stepping inside, crossing the room to kneel by his side. “Tommy,” he says, interrupting Tommy’s frantic, failing attempts to cover his own sadness. “What’s wrong? Please, let me help. Let me help you.”
Tommy looks at him for a moment, lip trembling, eyes huge and wet, and Wilbur worries that Tommy won’t tell him, won’t let Wilbur in, but then Tommy bows his head, hiding his face.
“Sorry,” he says softly, voice shaking. “Sorry Wil, I didn’t mean to- I didn’t mean to make you worry.”
"What do you mean Toms? What- what's going on?"
"I'm already-" Tommy takes another breath, "I'm already in your home and eating your food and- I'm sorry. I'm sorry."
"Woah," Wilbur goes when a fresh wave of tears comes along, "hold on- Tommy, you- what do you mean, eating my food and being in my home?"
Tommy peeks up at him, fingers clenched around the magic stones. "I should be back home. I shouldn't be here taking up your space. Tubbo and Ranboo could leave, I should be able to-"
"What the hell?" Wilbur blinks. "Tommy, you- no. No, absolutely not. Tommy, okay, first, you are never, ever, ever taking up my space. I told you when you first got here, didn't I? I said that anywhere I am will always be safe for you. And that means for however long you need it."
"But don't you want to get back to living by yourself?"
Wilbur huffs, then reaches forward, covering Tommy's hands and the museum rocks with his own. Tommy looks up at him, fully meeting his eyes.
"Tommy, I loved living with you and Ranboo and Tubbo. You know how much I love magic, but more than that, how much I love you guys." He says softly. "Having you three around could never be a burden, okay? Please understand that. You are not a chore."
Tommy inhales sharply, then ducks his head again, shivering now, his shoulders shaking. Wilbur pulls away, ready to try to calm him, but the second he moves back, Tommy chases him, throwing himself at Wilbur, crying.
"Tommy-"
"I don't want to go back home," Tommy sobs. "I don't want to go back there. This is- this has been so, so good. It's been so good here. I don't want that to end."
Wilbur holds him, rubbing a hand up and down his back. He thinks, trying to figure out how to convince Tommy that this will never just end because he's not here.
"Tommy, clover, let me ask you a question, okay?"
Tommy sniffles, nodding as well as he can with his face pressed against Wilbur's shoulder.
"Okay, do Ranboo and Tubbo stop loving you when you have to go back home to Nottingham after staying at their house for a bit?"
Slowly, Tommy shakes his head.
"And did I stop loving you when we left the magic museum and you had to go drive back with your dad?"
This time, Tommy shakes his head a little quicker. A little more sure. Good, Wilbur thinks.
"And will you stop loving Ranboo when he has to go back to America?"
Tommy looks incredulous now, like he couldn't even imagine that. Wilbur resists the urge to coo.
"Okay then, there you go." Wilbur nods. "I won't stop loving you just because you aren't staying here. And I'm always going to be here for you. It won't be the same down there as it is up here, maybe, but any time you need an out- anytime- you know I'm just a text away."
"Oh." Tommy whispers.
"Nothing changes here." Wilbur promises.
He looks up, turns the rocks over in his palms. "Nothing changes here," Tommy repeats, and the wind, warmed now, blows through again, making the words feel weighted, heavy, real.
…
“Rules for the market-” Wilbur says pointedly, closing his dms with Phil and looking up at Tommy who is bouncing on his toes. He looks a lot better than he did last night, refreshed and newly excited- Wilbur thinks today should be an outside day. To foster those good feelings, keep them coming. “No wandering away without your phone, no letting people that aren’t at a stand sell you something, and maybe try not to make the actual fruits and vegetables grow anymore than they already have. The plants? Sure, you know I'd never try and stop you from doing that. But if I see a watermelon explode over a poor college student, I will write your name down on the ban list myself.”
“Okay but, personally,” Tommy starts, all cheeky in the way that makes Wilbur grin just from the tone. “Personally, I’m a big fan of exploding watermelons, they make- oh my god, wait, that should be a band name. Wil, write that down.”
“You may be a fan of exploding watermelons, but trust me, a college student trying to purchase some cheap bananas is not.” Then he pauses, hums. “Actually, you’re right, exploding watermelons is a great band name. Huh.”
He writes it down.
...
The walk to the farmer’s market is brilliant. It’s the perfect weather- clear blue wide-open sky, easy, warming sun, wind that seemed to simply caress and nothing more. On the way there, Wilbur would point out little weeds stuck in the sidewalk cracks and Tommy would kneel down, press a finger to them, and have them overflow, bursting through the man-made construction.
“Nature always wins in the end,” Tommy grins. “It just takes a second for people to realize.”
As always on a nice friday morning, the shops are packed, with people walking every which way carrying tote bags and baskets and buckets ready to be filled. The vendors are bursting with supply too. One woman has large glittering watering cans full of flowers, lavender and foxglove and snapdragons, pink and purple and yellow, all bright and cheery. Another person has picnic blanket pattern cloth laid over their stand, showing off the red, orange, yellow of their tomatoes, shiny and ripe, looking like you could bite into them and have the juices drip sweet down your chin.
“Ooo,” Tommy goes, “Oooo,” and he looks like he has no clue where to go first, like he has no idea where to start. It suddenly hits Wilbur that Tommy’s probably never been to a farmer’s market before- he wouldn’t know where to start or go or what’s worth buying. He also wouldn’t know that farmer’s markets are like honey to magical folk. All that nature, coming together, trading and bartering and sharing. Magical people invented farmers markets, and still, today, with all that regular people attempt to take from them, they own them. It leads Wilbur to think that Tommy has also probably never been to a flea market, where everything found was once owned by someone with magic and had lingering spells on them, or an antique shop, where genuine magical history could be on a shelf between a carpet and a porcelain doll.
Oh, Wilbur has a lot of work to do; a lot of things to share. But first, they’ll conquer the farmer’s market- it’s much more up Tommy’s alley anyway.
“Come this way Tommy,” Wilbur says, leading him through the stalls and booths, neck craning for the destination he had in mind. He takes a few more twists and turns, waving to the man in overalls sitting on a stool by the squash and the woman selling honeycomb who is preoccupied by a butterfly landing on her nose, to find-ah, there it is.
The herb stall.
It's a small wooden thing, not worried about looking nice, more worried about the goods. The table is covered in rows of green earthy dirt filled containers, sprouting all types of greenery- when you get close enough to them, you can practically smell the way they'd taste cooked, no doubt the work of a spell.
Tommy makes a squawking noise of excitement before rushing over, leaning over the table and basically burying his nose into the dirt to see.
"Don't knock the stall over!" Wilbur calls, rolling his eyes when Tommy just waves him off.
The woman manning the stall chuckles, tucking her red hair behind her ear. "He's an excitable one, huh?"
"Oh definitely," Wilbur nods, still watching Tommy circle the table, going down the row, kneeling to be eye level with the plants. His mouth is moving like he's talking to them. "You can hardly keep him down."
The woman hums. "Good, the world needs more mages like him. Growing fires. Not to be reckoned with."
Wilbur nods. And the women's look turns to him, considering. "And you know, the world needs more people like you."
Wilbur startles, about to ask what she means, when Tommy yelps, pulling his attention. Tommy is looking the complete opposite direction of the herbs, in between the strawberry stall and the watermelons, and even without seeing his face, Wilbur can tell he's smiling so hard that his cheeks stretch.
"Phil!" Tommy calls, waving frantically. He turns back to face Wilbur, and yep, Wilbur was right, huge smile. "Wilbur, it's Philza Minecraft! And his wife!"
…
It is Philza Minecraft and his wife.
Kristen is actually the first one Wilbur sees, her hair tucked up under a sun hat, and her white dress swooshing with every step. She has a basket full of beautiful red strawberries in her hands and a picnic blanket folded neatly over her arm. Phil is following carefully, a brown paper back full of leafy greens and orange squash laden in his arms, almost blocking his vision entirely.
"Tommy!" Kristen exclaims melodically, eyes shining, and of course Tommy takes off towards her, making her hook the basket onto her elbow so she can pull him into her arms. "Oh my goodness, Hi!"
Wilbur grins, close behind, reaching over to take the paper bag from Phil so Tommy can fall into his arms next. Phil groans lightheartedly when Tommy squeezes him, and throws Wilbur a grateful smile over Tommy's shoulder.
"Oh my, hello Tommy." Phil laughs. "You doing alright mate?"
"Better now." Tommy says simply, pulling away, eyes flickering to Wilbur briefly. Wilbur pretends not to see it, just like he pretends not to see the dandelions sprouting at Tommy's feet.
"Good, that's good."
"Here Wilbur," Kristen huffs, "give me that and you go over there and hug Phil. I don't have to read your aura to know that you've been waiting to."
Wilbur flushes and then obediently transfers the bag to her before leaning down to get his Philza Minecraft hug.
"Are you doing okay, mate?" Phil whispers in his ear, low so Tommy can't hear. And this is Wilbur's chance to be truthful, because Phil knows all about what's been happening, because Wilbur's been messaging him since Tommy needed to be picked up from that train station, but all Wilbur says is, "Yeah. Yeah, I am. I'm doing good."
And it's the truth.
…
All together they make their way around the farmer's market, with Phil helping Wilbur decide which vegetables were good to buy, and Kristen pointing out all the cool little magical things to Tommy as they walked.
They stop at the flower stall where Tommy tells Kristen about every type of flower and their effect- "Their magic can be just the same as gems if you want to press them into your sketchbooks."
Kristen's eyes turn into dinner plates. "Really? Which flowers are good for what? Oh- can I get flowers that keep things in order around it? My craft room is getting a bit messy."
"Dried cosmos, I can grow some for you," Tommy nods. "And then Anthuriums by the front door to make people feel welcome. You would need to change them every once in a while to keep the magic fresh, but it would work and look poggers."
"Oh my god, Tommy, that's it, I'm stealing you. Want to live with me? Oh, Phil, can we keep him?"
Tommy laughs and Phil leans over to press a kiss to Kristen's cheek.
"Absolutely not, dear."
They pick up some apples, berries and rosemary. Then some zucchini, cilantro and carrots. Tommy bullies Phil into getting Kristen a bouquet of flowers and then curls his hands around the stems to keep them from wilting for the next three months. Wilbur convinces Tommy to take a picture by the potato stand so they can send it to Technoblade.
When they were done, they all left the market area to settle atop the grass hill just a little ways away. Kristen rolls out her picnic blanket and nudges the basket of berries at Tommy for him to snack on.
"Everything going alright with him?" Phil asks gently. "Because you know, I could always give Kristen the go ahead. She'd snap him up in a heartbeat. You know she adores him."
"Yeah," Wilbur looks over to them, where it looks like Kristen is explaining her magic to Tommy, judging by his wide eyes and pink stained fingers from berry juice. "I know. And we did have a bit of a- moment - the other day, but I think we'll be alright."
Phil hums amusedly. Wilbur looks over at him, frowning. "What?"
"You sound like a right protector- turning all the I's into we's like that." He says. "All his problems suddenly becoming yours just because you love him."
"Isn't that how it works?" Wilbur asks, honestly confused.
Phil pauses, then looks at Kristen, who has her eyes closed and her head bowed as Tommy gently lays a hand made flower crown atop her hat-less head.
"Yeah." He nods. "Yeah, it is. You're right."
…
"You look good," Kristen says.
The sky had started getting dark and Tommy had gotten a call from Ranboo and Tubbo, so they started packing up all the stuff, preparing to leave.
"I do?"
"Your aura." She studies him for a moment. Wilbur pauses. She nods once. "You look more golden. Brighter." She squints, and tilts her head. "You've got the glow that Tommy does."
"What does that mean?"
Kristen's expression clears, turning knowing. "Hm, I'm sure you'll find out."
Wilbur sighs. "I'm gonna tell Phil that you're being cryptic again."
She sticks his tongue out at him and he bites back a grin.
"How does Tommy look?" He asks, because he has to know.
Her eyes sparkle, awed. "Oh, it's amazing, Wilbur. I wish you could see it. It's a beautiful blue- clear and strong. Much stronger than last time I saw him. Like the sky after a nice hard rain."
"He's happier now?"
"Getting there." Kristen nods. "Day by day. Keep him there."
"Of course." Wilbur swells like he's stepping up to the challenge. He couldn't imagine doing anything else.
They give hugs, parting ways, and Wilbur and Tommy make their way home. Tommy is carrying one of the bags, walking a little bit in front of him, chattering mindlessly, making Wilbur smile fondly, but in the next moment Tommy stops, looking around frantically.
"Tommy?"
Tommy doesn't acknowledge him, still looking around wildly like he's trying to find something, like he's hearing a noise and can't tell where it's coming from. Wilbur frowns, calling Tommy's name again, reaching out to put a hand on his shoulder, but Tommy is suddenly moving off the path and across the grass over to the treeline. Wilbur splutters, confused, following, trying to call for him.
Tommy's gaze flicks back and forth in the grass before he finds whatever he's looking for and drops to his knees.
"Tommy," Wilbur goes, "what the hell are you-"
Then he sees what Tommy is looking at.
There's a bird- a baby by the looks of it- a small red cardinal, laying in the grass, wings splayed, chirping mournfully. Tommy is making little painful noises, his hands reaching down and jerking back, unsure how, but wanting to help.
"It'll be okay," Tommy whimpers, "you- it'll be okay."
"Shit, is it's wing broken?"
The bird chirps sadly, and Tommy whines, looking up at Wilbur helplessly. "Wil, it's hurt- it's hurting, but I can't- I don't know how to-"
The sight of tears welling in Tommy's blue eyes spurs Wilbur into action.
"Okay, okay, don't worry Tommy." He says. "We'll help it Tommy, don't worry. Let's carefully pick her up, yeah? We aren't going to leave her here."
Tommy takes a breath. "Oh." He says, like he thought Wilbur would. "Oh. Okay, okay."
Wilbur is careful when he scoops the bird up into his hands. It makes a warbling sound and Tommy echoes it. It makes Wilbur's chest hurt. He is careful for the rest of the walk home, Tommy fluttering around close, worried eyes on the cardinal.
They get to the front door and Tommy hurriedly opens it, putting the bags in the kitchen and following Wilbur over to the living room.
"What do we do Wil?" He asks. "What do we do?"
When Wilbur was a kid, he used to spend all day outside, running around the park, from the late morning to the early evening, only coming back in for lunch and dinner. He'd run around, climbing trees, exploring hovels, and catching bugs. In all the time outside, he ran into a lot of animals- stray cats and rabbits and pet dogs. But only once did he find a bird, and when he did, he found it hurt- its leg caught under a rock.
Wilbur remembers bringing it home to his mother, tears rolling down his cheeks. He remembers her taking the bird carefully, putting it into a lined shoebox and making sure it was breathing and wasn't bleeding. They kept it for about a week, feeding it until it healed well enough to move by itself, and then letting it go, letting it fly away.
"We take care of it," Wilbur says. "Until it can take care of itself."
Wilbur directs Tommy to get a shoebox, and poke holes into it while he checks the bird over. She looks alright, it just being the wing that's causing her pain. When Tommy is done, Wilbur carefully lays her into it.
"We're gonna have to tape her wing to keep her from moving it until it's healed."
"So she doesn't hurt herself?"
"Exactly."
Once it's taped carefully- so none of her feathers bend the wrong way and so she isn't warbling in pain anymore- the tension eases out of Tommy. He watches the box, eyes fixed to the bird's rising and falling chest. She's making little chirps and cooes and Tommy is nodding along like he's listening.
"What's she saying?" Wilbur asks, curious.
Tommy listens for another second, before looking up. "She's feeling better already, Wil. Thanks to you."
"Good," Wilbur says, then watches the way Tommy's eyes shine as they drift back down to the shoebox. "It's good that she's feeling better. I'm glad."
...
A couple of days later, the sparrow, dubbed Henrietta by Tommy, is looking much, much better.
Her wing is still wrapped, so she can't fly, but she doesn't look dazed and confused, nor does she just lay in the box all day. In fact, Tommy is kneeling in front of the open balcony door playing with her when his phone rings. Tommy pauses mid-laugh and Wilbur, mid-strum, to look at Tommy's phone on the table, which has stayed silent since he's been here except for calls from Ranboo and Tubbo and texts from Technoblade and Phil.
Henrietta pecks at Tommy's fingers when he stops paying attention to her, but Tommy turns an uncertain gaze to Wilbur.
"I can answer it." He says immediately, wanting to quell that nervousness in his brother's gaze. "If you want me to."
Tommy inhales, then exhales, Wilbur's balcony plants breathing with him. "No, I can do it. They're- they're my parents, innit?"
"Okay. I'm right out here if you need me, alright?"
Tommy nods, then gently picks up Hen, and walks her over to Wilbur. She hops from Tommy's hands to Wilbur's and then Tommy picks up his phone and takes the call in the other room. Henrietta settles into Wilbur's hands, wiggling to get comfortable, and Wilbur smiles.
"Do you think Tommy'll be alright?" He whispers to the bird.
She opens her good wing and tucks her head under it, unbothered.
"Yeah, you're right. He'll be fine." Wilbur sighs. "Guess I'm a bit of a worrier. A protector, Phil said."
Henrietta chirps loudly then nips at Wilbur's thumb, like she's telling him to hush.
Just as she does, Tommy comes back into the living room, expression carefully muted. Wilbur watches him cross the room, walk over to the couch and sit, settle in at Wilbur's side. Wilbur frowns, and sets Hen down on the table so he can wrap two arms around Tommy.
Tommy holds him back, sighing, leaning like a little dew dripped blade of grass. “They said I can go back by Friday. That- that they want to apologize.”
“And how do you feel about that?”
“Nervous,” He looks up at Wilbur, frowning. “I don’t- I don’t want to get hurt again.”
Wilbur would burn the world for this kid. He might still.
“Did they give you some time to think about it?”
Tommy nods. “I didn’t say yes or no. But is- am I stupid for wanting to believe them? For trusting them?”
“No Tommy, no.” Wilbur says instantly, pulling back to look him in the eye. “Absolutely not. You are never stupid for wanting to trust people. Never. That’s a quality in you that I hope won’t ever go away. If they hurt you again because you trust them, that isn’t on you, that’s on them, okay? And honestly, if they do hurt you again, you call me just like you did before and this time I’ll go down there and give them a piece of my mind and then bring you here and you can stay for good.”
“Really?” Tommy blinks. “You’d let me stay here?”
“Well it’s either that or Phil takes you in- I’m sure him and Kristen would be more than happy to-”
“No, if-” Tommy hesitates. “No, if I had to stay with someone, I’d want it to be you.”
Wilbur beams, and Henrietta flutters, then hops over to nip her beak at his hand. Sap, he imagines her saying.
Well, it's not like she's wrong.
…
Later that day, Wilbur takes Tommy to the Lovejoy recording session.
As always, it’s just one huge excuse for Wilbur to show off his Tommy, his clover. And Tommy takes to it like a fish to water, cracking jokes that make all his bandmates laugh. They’re completely thrown off track, hardly getting anything done- especially when Tommy kneels down and makes black-eyed susans grow before their eyes and links chains of carnations together delicately.
“Do you think you could grow a tree through a house?” Joe asks, and Tommy blinks at him.
“Like, what? A treehouse or something?”
“No, like- like how Elsa from Frozen made her castle from one ice snowflake."
Tommy stares at him. "I'm not Elsa from Frozen."
"Okay. That's debatable."
"No it is not debatable!" Tommy huffs. "We already had this talk! I'm no Disney character. And- and, you know what, aren't you guys supposed to be fucking singing or something?"
Wilbur chuckles, "You know, Tommy's right. We are supposed to be working."
"You can't just bring your magical little brother to rehearsals and expect us to focus, Wilbur," Mark tsks. Tommy flushes.
"You love my magical little brother, you dick." Wilbur says.
"Hey man, I never said that I didn't."
Tommy ducks his head, then brings it back up to smack Wilbur's arm. "Play some music you dickheads! I wanna hear perfume!"
"As the magical little brother wishes," Ash laughs, reaching for his bass. "All right band, let's get this recorded."
...
The rain starts just as they're walking up the driveway home, and they each have to shake water out of their hair.
As Tommy is toeing off his shoes, Wilbur looks around his apartment, thinking about how easy it could be to sink back into that despondent fog like before, when Tubbo and Ranboo went home. He doesn't want that- doesn't want Tommy to slink around with his head down.
"Let's bake cookies," He decides impulsively.
"What?" Tommy looks up.
"Let's bake cookies," Wilbur repeats. "It'll be fun!"
Tommy follows after him, and laughs when Wilbur pulls down the flour and it puffs into a cloud in his face.
"We can make those sugar cookies with the flowers in it!" Tommy says, grinning. Then he shivers violently.
Wilbur puts the measuring cups down and turns to him, reaching out to press a hand to Tommy's cheek. He's freezing.
"You cold, clover?" He asks, frowning. "Out in the rain a bit too much?"
Tommy hums, leaning into the touch- Wilbur bets that to Tommy, his hands are warm. "I miss Tubbo."
"Here," Wilbur pulls away, "you stay here, I'll be right back." He leaves the kitchen and hunts around in his bedroom until he finds what he's looking for. He finds it in the back of his closet, and when he brings it back to the kitchen, Tommy's eyes light up.
"The Wilbur Soot sweater!" He cheers, reaching for it, running his hands along the wool. "Oh, pog!"
“Go on Toms, put it on-” Wilbur urges. “So you aren’t cold.”
Tommy listens, slipping into it, poking his head through the top- hair musing. Wilbur smiles when he sees it, reaching out to ruffle the blond locks, expecting it when he’s batted away.
They measure out the ingredients together, Tommy pressing flowers- pansies and violas and borage blossoms- to be laid into the cooling cookies. Once they’re in the oven and preheating, Tommy pulls Wilbur over to the balcony. The rain has slowed, just becoming a trickle, and the air is just warm enough to sit there, on the concrete without a jacket.
Tommy tries to catch the raindrops on his tongue without getting his new sweater wet and Wilbur makes fun of him. But of course, when it comes down to it, and Tommy begins to shiver again, tucking his hands into the sleeves, Wilbur raises his arm and beckons Tommy close, letting him nestle into Wilbur’s side.
Henrietta is curled up in her little birdhouse, but when she sees them huddled together, she hops down, chirping for their attention. Tommy leans away to let her hop into his arms and tuck her little face into his side. Wilbur thinks it’s the cutest thing he’s ever seen.
“You know,” Tommy looks away from where he’s trailing one finger down Hen’s back, “I wish it could be like this forever. Staying here, like this.”
Wilbur pauses, thinking of the little gift wrapped box he has on his dresser in his room.
“You know I love having you here.” He says. “And you know you can always, always come here. Just knock on the door any time of night. In fact-” Wilbur stands, dislodging Tommy, making him whine slightly. He comes back quickly, the box in hand, and shyly gives it over.
“Wil, what’s this?” Tommy asks, taking it.
“A gift. Something for you.”
Tommy looks skeptical when he eyes Wilbur, but he’s got the gleam of childhood in his eyes and rips open the box like it’s christmas. When the top comes off, Tommy’s head is low, so Wilbur can’t see his expression, but he can hear the audible gasp that leaves Tommy's lips. Tommy tremblingly puts Henrietta down and reaches into the box, his shaking fingers grabbing hold of Wilbur’s gift.
“Wilbur,” Tommy whispers, holding up the copied key to the apartment up to the low light. “You- is this-”
“It’s a key.” Wilbur nods, voice soft. “I said anytime, Tommy. I meant it. Even when I’m not here. This is your home too.”
“Oh,” Tommy looks back down at it, the metal cupped in his palm. “Oh.”
His lack of response unnerves Wilbur a bit, so he keeps talking. “I painted it green, and put a little four leaf clover on it- because, you know.”
Tommy chuckles wetly, turning pink, the way he always does when Wilbur calls him that. “You’re a shit artist Wil.” Wilbur laughs out loud. Tommy sniffles. “Thank you though, I- Wilbur, you don’t- I can’t-”
He stops himself, sniffling again, looking up. He reaches out with both arms and Wilbur cooes, pulling him in.
“Thank you Wilbur.” Tommy whispers into his shoulder. “Thank you.”
Inside, the oven alarm goes off. They go inside to the warmth, to their cookies, to their home, leaving the rain to slowly patter down outside.
…
Wilbur snaps awake, jumping to sitting up when he hears the clang of a pan hitting the stove.
He's been doing a lot of that recently- waking abruptly. He swears it's going to end up taking years off his life. He'll end up like Philza Minecraft before he knows it.
Besides the clatter of metal against metal, there's a smell in the air- a good smell, like eggs and fried onions. Wilbur stands and stretches, shuffling to the kitchen, hoping that Phil broke in again to satisfy his monthly need to cook someone younger than him a meal. Wilbur likes to call it the fatherly instinct- that because all of Phil's children are people he's adopted from the internet, he's got all the father-like fuel and nowhere for it to go, so he, more often than not, ends up at Wil's apartment, cooking in his kitchen like Wilbur can't feed himself.
But, no, it's not Phil, it's just Tommy in the kitchen, looking vaguely frazzled, with mused hair and egg dripping on his sweatshirt. He's staring down at something that Wilbur can't see with his phone against his ear.
"No, no, I followed your instructions," he hisses. "It's just that your instructions are shit!"
There's a pause.
"Tell him, tell him, Ranboo, that his instructions were shit."
Another pause.
"Okay, what if I said please, Ranboo, would you curse at him then?"
"Are you peer pressuring Ranboo to curse over the phone?" Wilbur cuts in, stepping into the kitchen arch-way. Tommy swirls around, so startled that he almost drops his phone. "That's not very cool of you Tommyinnit."
Tommy blinks, then scoots over to hide whatever it is on the counter behind him. "Wilbur. Fancy seeing you here."
"This is my apartment."
"Is it?" Tommy says. "I- wow. Well, that's certainly a coincidence, huh."
"What are you doing over there Tommy?"
"Hm," Tommy scoots over more. "Secret. Can't tell you. Drugs."
"Is it a secret that you can't tell me about or is it drugs, because it certainly can't be both."
"I- uh- no, no, it's both, trust me." Tommy turns bright red. "Drugs are the secret. That I- uh- can't tell you about."
"Okay, fine," Wilbur puts his hands up, accepting defeat. Cleary something that Wilbur isn't supposed to know about is happening. He can let this one go for now. "I'm going to go take a shower then, please don't commit arson or do crack on my kitchen counter? That would hurt my feelings."
"Well, okay Wilbur, as long as I don't hurt your feelings," Tommy says, smiling. "I'll take the crack over to your neighbour's. How's that sound?"
"Good. Have fun."
Wilbur doesn't take a long shower, and he doesn't spend a lot of time getting dressed, but when he comes back into the hallway, the dining room and kitchen are completely different. Gone are the messy pans and scattered utensils and bowls. The egg shells were cleared away, along with the unused vegetable bits and the stick of butter.
The table in the dining room was set and on one end sat Tommy, who changed his shirt and was nervously drumming his fingers on the table, and on the other was a plate with an omelet on it.
"Wilbur," Tommy stops his anxious drumming. "Hi."
"Hey Tommy," Wilbur says slowly, eyes sweeping across the room. "What is all this?"
"I made us food." He blurts. "For breakfast. I made it. Uh- they're eggs. But like, big ones."
Wilbur blinks. Then he huffs a laugh. "An omelet?"
"Yeah, they're just nice sized eggs, are they not?"
Wilbur sits down in his seat, grinning. "I mean, if you say so." He picks up his fork to start eating, but is stopped by Tommy continuing to talk, fidgeting even more now.
"Um, I also got you something. A gift." He says, standing up. "Don't, uh, go anywhere." And then he runs off to the living room. Wilbur frowns, putting his fork down. He hears the balcony door slide open and closed, and suddenly Tommy is coming back into the room, a huge glass vase full of flowers in his hands.
"Wha- Tommy, what is-"
Tommy sets them down on the table, his face bright red, eyes glued to the petals.
"Kristen accidentally gave me the idea when we were at the farmer's market." He starts. "A bouquet of flowers that I grew and spelled myself. There are wisteria, for success, and chrysanthemums, for a life of ease, and ranunculus, for radiance. And- um- because of the vase, these would extend not only to you, but to your home too."
"Tommy, I'm- I'm flattered, but why? You didn't have to-"
Tommy looks up, and Wilbur is a bit struck by the determined expression on his face. Determined and fierce and loving. "Wil, you offered me safety and kindness when you didn't have to. The least I can do is give that back to you in some way, even if it's just a vase of flowers."
"Oh, clover." Wilbur sighs. Tommy turns red again.
"No, I mean it- I- I was just like Hen."
"Hen, the bird?"
Tommy nods. "Yeah, I was sort of hurt or whatever, and needed help and you- you came and patched me up. Helped me feel better. I-" He pauses, weighing his words. When he seems to find them, he looks Wilbur in the face, eyes as deep and blue and true as the ocean. "I wouldn't feel half as steady as I do without you, Wilbur Soot, so thank you for that. You truly are magic. You're magic to me."
Wilbur isn't the least bit ashamed to say he cried right there at his own dining table at nine in the morning.
...
"Can you play something for me?"
They're outside now, sitting on a blanket on top of the damp grass, watching the sun sink and the sky bruise blue. They're just enjoying each other's company before Tommy has to go home for the evening.
Wilbur looks over and Tommy is making that face- huge pleading eyes, a creeping smile, like the mere thought of Wilbur's music makes him happy.
"What do you want to hear?" He asks, reaching for his guitar, laughing when Tommy cheers.
"Anything, anything." Tommy says.
Wilbur hums. He tunes the guitar, settles in to play. He plays the opening notes of one of Tommy's recent favorites, just to see the smile light up his face when he recognizes the sound. Seeing it makes Wilbur feel warm all the way down through to his toes, and when Wilbur hits the chorus, flowers begin to pop up out of the ground around them- daffodils and buttercups and marigolds, all yellow and golden, all sunny and bright.
Wilbur's singing falters, but he keeps absently strumming, chuckling slightly. "Wow, you really like this song, huh Toms?"
Tommy frowns. "That- wasn't me Wilbur."
Wilbur's strumming stops completely. "What?"
"I didn't bloom those," Tommy explains, reaching over to touch one of the butter cups. Under his hands, it grows a little taller, the grass around it curling and wrapping like a braid, reaching for him. "These aren't mine."
"What? Then who-"
Tommy stiffens, then looks over. "Hold on...you don't think…"
It suddenly hits Wilbur, what Tommy is implying. That those flowers were him. That he made them grow.
"I- no, how could I-" Wilbur splutters. "I'm not- I couldn't-
Then the wind blows through, curling around both Tommy and Wilbur, and Wilbur hears a quiet but excited whisper going, play, play.
"Play?" Wilbur repeats, incredulous, but Tommy jolts like he's been shocked.
"Wilbur! You- can you hear her?" He asks. "Can you hear Mother Wind?"
"Is that what she sounds like? Is that what she said?"
"Yeah!" Tommy cheers. "Oh my god, oh my god, Wilbur, Wilbur, do you know what this means? Do you know what this means? Wil, Wil, you can do magic! Wilbur, you're magic!"
"What?" Wilbur goes, Tommy's excitement leaking into him, making him excited just by proxy. "But, I mean, how? I'm not- I've never been magic. How can I just-"
Tommy hesitates, trying to think. "Well, there's only two ways that a person who isn't magic can suddenly become magic- if they've been blessed, or-" Then Tommy stops completely, his eyes widening anew. "Oh, oh! Wilbur, your music! Your music!"
"What about my music?"
"Okay, okay. Do you remember when we went to the magic museum together? When we were talking about where magic comes from? I mentioned transferable magic." Tommy explains. "That's the magic that shines through when people are so gifted at their chosen craft that all their energy can't be contained and has to just pour out. It pours out as magic, Wil!"
"I-" Wilbur doesn't know what to say- has no clue how to react.
"I should've known," Tommy continues, "I mean, whenever I listen to you play, it makes me feel so good, man. Like- like a kind of blanket is put over me or something. I thought that was just me loving your music, but maybe it isn't- maybe it's more."
The wind whistles by again, yes, yes, magic.
Wilbur laughs in disbelief, finally processing. No fucking way. No way. "Oh my god. I'm magic, I'm- oh my god, I can't fucking believe it!"
"Wilbur, Wilbur, dude, we're like brothers! We're like brothers!"
And oh, that's simply too much. The thought of him and Tommy, matched up, marked by the cosmos. Wilbur already being so lucky to have been gifted with Tommy, his magical Tommy, and then to be gifted with magic that's just like his, magic that can make Tommy feel like he's being tucked in to sleep with just a few chords.
Wilbur laughs again and then absolutely tackles Tommy in a hug, his insides all giddy and bubbly and warm. Tommy wiggles until he's gripping Wilbur back, and the wind curls around the two of them, whispering, blessed, blessed. Thank you for caring for our mages- for caring for our magic. Thank you.
…
A peaceful week passes- a week of video calls with Tommy where he takes his guitar, or his keyboard, or even his kazoo out to the balcony and plays and Tommy helps him notice all the little changes he creates. The trembling plant leaves, the budding flowers, the birds that swoop over to listen.
"This is amazing," Tommy says. "This is- wow- I- is this what you feel like when you see Tubbo or Ranboo or I doing magic?"
"That depends, how do you feel?" Wilbur prompts.
"Like it's Christmas morning." Tommy answers. "Like the sun's just come out after a long Winter. Like you're watching your first ever shooting star."
Wilbur smiles. "That's how I feel whenever I see you guys- not even just when you're doing magic. Just in general."
Tommy flushes, then blurts. "Can I come over?"
And of course, Wilbur isn't going to say no.
…
"We're gonna let Hen go now," Wilbur says, nudging the balcony door open with his foot- his cupped hands full of a baby bird.
"Do you think she's ready to fly?" Tommy frowns.
"Ask her- go on." Wilbur puts Henrietta down on the concrete and Tommy kneels down to look at her.
"Hey Hen, hey. Do you think you're ready to fly? Do you think you can do it?"
Henrietta chirps once, loudly and Tommy's face breaks out into a grin. He looks up at Wilbur and nods. "She said yes."
"Okay, then," Wilbur says. "Let's get her wing unwrapped."
They're careful as they do it- trying not to accidentally yank any of her feathers, or push unnecessary pressure where it could do more damage- but the second that the tape is successfully off, she’s bouncing around, flapping both wings like crazy. She hops over to Tommy, going around his legs and then over to Wilbur, loud and excited- buzzing like a bee.
“Oh, you’re well excited, aren’t you?” Wilbur laughs. “You’re just bursting with joy, hm? Come on, then, try to get up here.”
Henrietta leaps up, flapping to the patio table, and then over to her make-shift birdhouse. She seems to be flying well, and Tommy doesn’t report any noises or complaints of pain.
“I think it’s time.” Wilbur decides, the fourth time Henrietta glides down from the birdhouse to the concrete without a hitch. “I think she’s really ready.”
“...Okay,” Tommy says. And it’s the hesitancy in his voice that makes Wilbur pause.
“What’s wrong Toms?”
“I just- how do we know that she’s ready?” He asks. “How do we just- let her go like this?”
Wilbur gets the feeling that they aren’t just talking about the bird anymore.
He steps closer and places a hand on Tommy’s shoulder. “Well, the truth is, Tommy, we don’t. We don’t know that she’ll be okay. And it’s a good chance that she might not- not everything out there is in her best interest. But, we have to trust that she can take care of herself. And we have to trust that if she ever needs help, she’ll find someone to give it. That someone will be there to give it.”
“Oh. Then I guess that’s okay.” He says softly. “I guess we can let her go.”
And let her go they do- Tommy says goodbye and she leaps from his hands, spreading her wings and catching the wind, gliding away. Pride burns in Wilbur's chest when she soars, and joy follows it when he looks over and sees Tommy watching her, face shining, greenery twisting up the balcony trying to reach him to share in his excitement.
Henrietta glides until she can’t, and then she’s turning, flapping back to peck at Wilbur’s fingers before taking off again, and Wilbur knows without Tommy’s translation that she’s expressing gratitude. He also knows that the wind- Mother Wind- will carry her somewhere safe. Will look after her the way that she looks after Tommy when Wilbur can’t.
“She’ll be alright.” Tommy says, and it’s not a question, but Wilbur nods anyway.
They stand there for a moment, side-by-side in the wind, looking out onto the backyard- the green grass, the waving tree leaves, the curling clouds.
Then Wilbur turns to Tommy and asks, “want to go see Tubbo and Ranboo?” Because he promised that he'd reunite them the second that he got the chance, and he's not once for breaking promises.
Tommy grins. “Oh Wil. I thought you’d never ask. Fuck yes, let’s go.”
And together, they do.