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A lone robin called a warning in the trees as Tommy pushed through the woods, towards Las Nevadas – or, more accurately, the little building just on its outskirts. Built out of stone he’d hewn with his bare hands, now calloused and bruised, and nestled on the lakeshore he sometimes took a quick dip in. Though it couldn’t compare to the pool only a few hundred metres away in the rival nation.
Fort Big was cozy, much more so than Las Nevadas with its polished glitz and glamour, but it didn’t feel like home. Not in the way L’Manberg had. There were only the bare necessities: food for a few days, a small fireplace in the central room, and two bedrooms, with a single rickety bed in each. One for Wilbur and one for himself.
Laughter sparsely filled the empty house. Music was even rarer, despite the jukebox sitting in a corner – Wilbur was snappy when it came to noise, nowadays, and he often didn’t appreciate Tommy playing his discs. He didn’t play guitar or sing, either, and Tommy didn’t push.
He didn’t know when the last time he’d heard Wilbur play was. It must have been before Pogtopia, probably before L’Manberg. Maybe during the revolution, or the night they’d won their independence. There had been plenty of celebrating then, even if Tommy himself was mostly out of commission after two consecutive deaths.
He didn’t quite know why he was sticking around, if he was honest. He told himself it was to keep an eye on the former crazed madman who’d blown up a nation for no reason. The one who’d still shown volatile tendencies, who’d spent weeks in the afterlife rambling about how he'd “destroy it all, kill them all, if only I got the chance to come back to life.” He was a threat, and it was Tommy’s job to keep him in check.
Or maybe it was because Wilbur was his brother, no matter what he’d done or how much of an asshole he was. And, despite him calling Dream his hero, despite him wanting to go visit him in jail, for some Prime-forsaken reason…
He still knew about exile. He knew, and he couldn’t have done anything – he was dead at the time, after all, not like Big Q or Ranboo or any of the others – but Wilbur was still pissed. Enraged that they had dared treat Tommy like that.
He said he wanted Tommy to feel safe. Even if he did the exact opposite of that right afterwards.
He’d apologized, though, right? Was trying to be better?
(Somewhere, deep down, in a place he kept locked close to his heart, Tommy was concerned for his brother. He recognized the sick light in Wilbur’s eye when he spotted a nearby creeper – it was the same one he’d gotten in the button room, all those months ago, the same one Tommy himself got when he saw a nearby ledge or lava on one of his bad days. It made his stomach twist.
But Wilbur claimed he was fine. Never mind all evidence to the contrary.)
No matter the reason, he was sticking around. And yeah, maybe he was being manipulated, but Tommy didn’t really care at this point. He’d take what he could get.
He silently pushed open the front door, hoping to sneak by unnoticed if Wilbur was feeling particularly pissy – if he was even inside. He tended to spend the warm spring days out doing whatever the fuck he did when he vanished like that, leaving with the sunrise and returning long after dusk.
Sure enough, the central room was empty, but he might be squirreled away in his own room behind the oak door. Tommy padded over, raising a hand to knock politely, but froze before ever making contact with the wood.
A strangled guitar strum sounded from inside, followed by a quiet, bit-out, “shit!” and pencil scribblings on paper.
Tommy bit his lip. By all means, he should let know Wilbur he was here. It was the right thing to do. But… he didn’t want to interrupt. Even before L’Manberg, Wilbur had been very insistent on not being disturbed while songwriting.
And it had been so long since he’d heard him play.
His decision was made when a pencil clattered on wood and the guitar started back up again. A fingerpicked pattern – he only knew the term because Wilbur, the bastard, never shut up about his big interest of the month – that stuttered a few times, each mistake being cut off with a slap of the strings and a quiet curse.
Eventually, he got it, though; a nice, soothing rhythm. Tommy leaned against the door. And then the voice came in.
“Wasting your time
You’re wasting mine”
Oh. It was one of his sad songs, then. Wilbur’s voice was hoarse and gruff and nothing like the smooth one he’d had before. It used to be brash and loud, only weakening when he wanted it to, for artistry or sympathy. He could command a whole room with it, and he was well aware of that fact.
Now, years of dis- and mis- use had made it weak and breathy. It rumbled oddly in conversation, catching in his throat, and he often broke off into coughing fits. Probably the smoking, if Tommy were to hazard a guess, maybe combined with the ash and gunpowder.
Wilbur continued on, though, slowly gaining more confidence as he made it through the verses. And then,
“Shout at the walls
‘Cause the walls don’t fuckin’ love you”
His voice cracked and cut off halfway through the high note, sending him stumbling to recover, but that’s not what made Tommy’s stomach drop and his eyes widen. No, it was the memory of something Wilbur had said that terrible, terrible day he'd come back.
“I could claw at the walls, I could bash on the doors, I could scream for help – I screamed until my lungs were sore. ‘Til my voice was hoarse." He'd looked Tommy dead in the eyes - deep brown and bloodshot and empty.
"And nothing ever changes. Nothing ever comes- nothing ever helps you."
Oh, fuck. This song was- it was not something meant for him. He had no doubt Wilbur would never have played it if he knew someone were listening. Ever the private man, he rarely spoke about his emotions. Even his other sad songs, Tommy had only heard after begging to hear some new music, back when they were on the road.
“That was sad, Wil,” he’d said afterwards, swaddled in a pile of blankets against the cool night air. “Are you sad?”
The campfire flickered, illuminating Wilbur’s small smile. “Don’t you worry about it,” he’d said, putting down the guitar and reaching over to ruffle Tommy’s hair, who’d squawked and batted him away. “Don’t worry about me. I’m fine.”
Here and now, leaning on the door to his brother’s room, Tommy didn't particularly want to listen to this. Didn't want to think about the afterlife, didn't want to hear about Wilbur's thirteen years in Limbo. He kind of wanted to leave and forget he'd ever overheard him, actually; keep pretending everything was fine.
And yet, some part of himself kept him glued to the door.
The guitar picked up, in an odd strumming pattern, and Wilbur had to pause on the chord changes, as if the positions were no longer instinctive. Which, they probably weren’t, Tommy realized. Thirteen years was a long time to go without playing. But, after a few times through the progression, it grew smoother, if not a bit slower.
“There’s a reason
London puts barriers on the tube line
There’s a reason
London puts barriers on the rails”
Tommy held his breath. What- what did that mean?
Then he remembered – Pogtopia. Wilbur had taken down every attempt at putting up railings on the higher walkways. The ones that would’ve meant certain death if you fell; that he’d seemed fond of using as a jungle gym, no matter how many times they asked him to come down. He’d just laughed and waved off their concern.
And then he’d been stuck in a train station for thirteen Prime-damned years. Had he-?
Wilbur repeated those lines – his voice trembling at all the wrong places - again, and again, and then, one final, fragile time:
“There’s a reason
They fail”
The last words were barely a frail whisper, fading into silence with the lingering echoes of the guitar. They basked in the moment, two brothers seperated by only a thin oak plank and yet so much more. Tommy breathed deeply once, twice...
Then, the borderline-peaceful moment was shattered by a strangled sob. Tommy clasped his hands over his mouth. Oh, Prime.
Behind the door, Wilbur shifted with a choked-out, wet, “fuck.” Then louder, “fuck!”
He smacked his guitar, sending it ringing, and Tommy jumped, heart pounding, all senses at the ready in hard-engrained war instincts. But it was silent. Silent save the sounds of muffled tears on the other side of the room as Wilbur broke down.
He’d never heard him cry before, not like this, free and completely unrestrained. Not while they were wandering together, hoping to find a place to settle down with their potions business. Not in L’Manberg, when he’d rarely seen the President other than at his desk. Not even in Pogtopia, where he’d mostly kept his distance and Wilbur had just been angry.
It was terrible. Wilbur wasn’t supposed to be like this. Not the man who’d been an emotional rock, unperturbed by everything, even in war and betrayal. Not the man who’d fucking snapped and blown up their home. He couldn’t clearly be hurting like this.
Maybe if Tommy was a better brother, he’d get up and knock gently, call out, ”Wil?” and go comfort him. Or he’d pretend like he’d just arrived, burst in through the front door with a laugh, and force Wilbur to put on a smile to come greet him. Regale him with jokes that didn’t quite hit right, but at least he was trying.
But he was a coward, so instead, he tamped down the guilt rising in his chest. Pushed himself up and padded to the front door, leaving the quiet gasps for breath behind. He’d be back in a few hours.