A little blonde head darted its head up from under a worn, woven throw-blanket, bright blue eyes peering over the edge of a couch with cushions that were too-flat, a little torn. It wasn’t new, to be blunt about the situation. He fiddled with his fingers and hooked them on the edge to peer further, tilting his head towards the front door and scanning for potential escape routes if this was a game of tag and one of the bad people were coming to get him.
There weren’t any bad people coming to get him. Not this time.
Wilbur clutched his stomach tightly, having hobbled all this way from the meeting ground he’d spent an entire day navigating, worrying in-and-out about and well, now it was clear he’d have reason to worry. He tugged his mask over his head and placed it on the box by the door that they used as a little side-table, covering his face with his free hand. Along with it went his beanie, and, as he passed, his eyes darted the brown-and-black coat that hung near it, along with a much smaller set of red and green jackets. The green one looked pristine, practically dusty with lack of use; the red had tears in the shoulders and permanent stains all over it. He forced a sheepish smile at it.
“Wilbur,” The meek little voice repeated, popping up suddenly, standing on the couch-cushions and trying to appear taller. He pushed up, bouncing slightly on the ratty old thing to look at his older brother carefully. “You were gone so long, I got worried,” He admitted, wide eyes staring the other up-and-down-and-up-again. With a freeze, he faltered. His brow furrowed. “What happened?”
Internally, Wilbur shuddered. Consistent pressure had kept him from losing too much blood, but he was feeling a little woozy, out of focus. He needed to get it cleaned and taken care of, and especially, he needed Tommy not to worry. And so he sighed, leaning against the wall and trying to cover up the other, not so easily hidden problem. “No Tubbo,” He said dejectedly, watching the nine year old’s face fall. It hurt--in several senses of the word.
“Not at all?” He asked, head tilting slightly, the last semblance of childlike innocence practically pooling in those bright-blues. He was already too mature for his age, aged by war and hurt and the constantly changing living conditions. Tonight he slept on a couch Wilbur and Eret had found about to be tossed; three weeks from now, it might be the floor. He didn’t really like the floor.
The corners of his mouth turned down into a frown. “But…” he trailed off. And he pouted, as if an impending temper tantrum would magically bring his other-brother back home just in time for his birthday two weeks from now. Wilbur--cringing, because his stomach was stinging, and the yellow jumper he’d donned was going to be pooling in red if he kept standing here--shook his head with a twitch of the eye.
“Can’t we try again?” Tommy asked suddenly, lifting himself over the side of the couch with his pillow in tow, holding it to his chest as he approached Wilbur. “I could go this time. I think President Schlatt’d like me,” He admitted, brows quirking upwards hopefully.
Wilbur shut himself off from the younger boy, shoulders tightening. The hand covering his mouth muffled his words slightly. “You’re safer staying here,” He replied, trying to stay collected.
The blonde nodded as if accepting this answer, but suddenly his brow furrowed inquisitively. “Why’ve you got a hand over your face?”
Busted.
Wilbur realized very easily that he could try to lie to him; he could try to cover it all up for the sake of human decency, for the sake of not scaring the boy he’d come to call his brother rather than an orphaned ward he watched over. He could try to pin it on a mugger--crime rates had soared recently--or some monster or maybe even an accident, tell Tommy that nothing truly was wrong and that nothing bad had happened.
However.
A twisting pang in his stomach that made his knees lock and shoulders shake reminded him that lying to Tommy would do nothing but uproot any sense of normality the young kid had. So… Wilbur dropped down, slumping against the walls before reaching the ground, eyebrow flicking in the young boy’s direction. When he sat down too, cross-legged and juvenile because God, he was still just a little kid who had imaginary friends that kept him company around the house while Wilbur was gone… he moved his hand.
Tommy’s eyes blew wide with fear and worry, seeing red that had just begun to dry tugging at Wilbur’s lip, he stood back up again. “What happened! I…” He trailed off, glancing around for the bag that contained the brunette’s medical supplies, bouncing on the toes and heels of his feet, but Wilbur grabbed his wrist, steadied him, pulling his focus back to the other boy.
“Don’t look away,” He said seriously, because looking away meant pretending it hadn’t happened at all. “My bag is on the counter, bring the whole thing,” He ordered gently, not needing to be forceful because Tommy’d do anything for him and he knew it.
He let the boy go, and watched him disappear around the wall that led to their so-called kitchen. With him gone he finally thought to adjust his hand, cringing, prying it away to see it caked in red too. Oh god. What if something happened?
He’d been in discussions the moment 8 was gone about what would happen if he was the next to go; he needed to be sure that Tommy would have another place to go. He hadn’t made any final choices, but chances were, it’d be 6 if anything happened. Hopefully nothing happened.
Tommy returned quickly, holding the bag as if it were a battering ram before depositing it at Wilbur’s feet, digging through it quickly himself. He barely even looked at the older boy, impulse telling him to focus on finding everything that Wilbur could possibly need until he was interrupted. “Tommy,” Wilbur interjected lightly. His head popped up, and he saw it.
“...You’re bleeding,” he said quietly, blinking as he saw the patch of red blossoming onto Wilbur’s jumper. His nerves got to him next, and he fiddled with his fingers, brain stalling as he stared and stared and stared.
“Hey,” Wilbur said, trying to bring him out of what looked like a trance. He reached out and grabbed his wrist.
Tommy suddenly blinked and shook his head, returning to reality once more. “Sorry, sorry, what, uh… what… happened?”
The brunette frowned, eyebrow twitching as there was a sudden pain to the admittedly simple action. He sighed, leaning forward despite the jolts and pangs of red-hot hurt to fumble through the bag himself. “Schlatt happened, Tommy. We aren’t going to see Tubbo again.”
Bright blue eyes went hazy with heartache, and the young blonde chewed on his lip to prevent from reacting beyond an eventual, simple nod. Wavering he asked, “You don’t think he’s dead, do you?” in a scared sort of tone, afraid to think about death, to confront death, the entire nine yards.
Wilbur shook his head, digging out the sewing kit that he kept in the bag. “I don’t,” He said, although hearing it out loud made him question the truth to that statement. He could only hope, but hope and truth were, more often than not, polarizing opposites.
Tommy took his answer with no grain of salt, childlike persistence and optimism unwavering. He rubbed his eyes tiredly--it was past his bedtime, technically--and stifled a yawn before looking to Wilbur once more.
“What do I do?” He asked, wanting to help, fingers fumbling with a roll of bandages, willing his thoughts to avoid wandering.
hi guys! i’m glad you’re enjoying the blog :) i’ve got some stuff planned i hope you enjoy.
I’m getting asks about other players. Schlatt City is a large, expansive city with many “players” other than those featured in Dream SMP. Because of this, I only have given numbers to SMP players; the rest are fair game.
If you have any MCYT people you would like to be a part of this au (or maybe even original characters ;) ) as minor or background characters, feel free to shoot me a message and i’ll see what I can do. Thanks guys!!
