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The sun shines bright through the large window planes and it burns against his skin. It’s a blazing day in the summer and the sky is a bright blue, the sight is almost optimistic, but it’s hard to find himself to nudge around the little energy he has for it when it’s sweltering hot. Sweat sticks his clothes to his back and it’s uncomfortable, outright, gross but there’s not much he can do about that. Even if his face flushes red and he has a small bottle in his pocket, there’s not much to do.
He already took one of the pills. His liver’s isn’t going to survive forever if he continues to throw yellow and ivory pills down his throat like they’re candy and he’s waiting for the day it gets worse. It can always get worse. He remembers when his biggest trouble in life was struggling to go up a flight of stairs, not struggling to wake up and breathe.
His father throws a glance his way. He can feel his stare as sweat clings to him like another layer of skin despite the blasting AC in the airport.
“Are you doing okay, kid?” He leans forward, bracing his arms on his knees, in his seat right beside him as they wait for his annoying brother to come bursting through the gates, a ridiculous sweater on in this horrible weather and laugh it off, with a huge ass suitcase in hand. It’s cat-printed too. “You know, you didn’t have to come with me. You could have stayed home, helped your Mum with the dish.”
That’s a laugh and a half.
“I would have been miserable either way, in the kitchen sweating my ass off or here sweating my ass off.”
His dad frowns at that.
“Wilbur would’ve been annoying if I didn’t show.” He finally admits, pressing his shoulder blades against the seat of the airport, staring up at the high-ass ceiling. He tries to take a deep breath, to quell the panic in his lungs.
Phil smiles, crow’s feet doting the corner of his life. “You know he just misses you. It’s hard to be away from home.”
“He could have stayed longer.”
“His first year just ended, Toms, if he stayed, he would have had to pay a fortune just to be in the dorms over the summer.”
“He’s a charismatic bitch, he could have figured it out.”
“Toms.”
Quit deflecting. What’s wrong?
He can’t bring himself to answer.
“My peaceful life without Wilbur is now gone.” He snorts instead and lies but he knows his father sees right through him.
He saw right through him that day September when his mother’s favorite coffee cup slipped right through his fingers onto the floor, crashing to bits and pieces, and his heart could hardly function, beating what felt like a million miles a minute. He didn’t know what to do but apologize over and over, to say sorry for what felt like a millennia, even when people in white coats looked at them agonizing and said horrifying words, all he could do was cling to his father’s cardigan and apologize. Over and over.
“It won’t be that bad, c’mon, he’s your brother.”
“He’s an annoying shit.” Tommy huffed, folding his arms across his chest, leaning deeper into the chest. “He’s going to sing the new album by Taylor in an aussie accent to make me annoyed, I just know it! And he’s going to steal my slice of berry pie again! And then and then, he’s going—”
Phil smiles.
Like a god, all knowing.
“It’s okay to say you miss him too.”
The heat on his face, whether it was from the sweltering heat from the summer air or his own embarrassment as being seen so clearly, neither of them can tell anymore.
He pouts.
(He does. He does. He misses his big brother who would lure him to sleep with silly songs he made up or talks about his famous road trips he takes with Niki at the end of every spring to ease his headaches. He misses the way he would make him the last hot chocolate or give him the warmest blanket during Christmas.)
Phil nudges his knee with his own and he can’t help but feel warmth spread through his chest, despite the heat.
“C’mon, it looks like your brother’s plane is here.” Phil stands up, offering his hand.
“My hand is sweaty,”
Phil snorts.
“I don’t care, why do you?”
He started that September, when the trees were dying around them and he felt like he was rotting inside alongside them with the leaves, because he doesn’t know what else to do. He doesn’t know how to accept this, to understand that he was malformed and wrong, unlike Phil who smiles as easy as breathing, as easy as it should be, meanwhile he can feel like he can barely walk some days. He doesn’t know how to do anything but swallow the guilt and live with it in the pit of his stomach, always there, weighing heavy.
Phil grabs his hand, yanking him up from the chair like he weighs nothing.
“C’mon, your brother’s dying to see you.” Phil laughs, it sounds like he assumes angels must sing. “We can’t let him feel too lonely. Y’know how he hates airplane rides.”
“That’s ‘cause he can’t sit quiet to save his life.”
“Sounds like someone I know…”
“Hey!” He feels embarrassment spark amongst his skin as they walk towards Wilbur’s gate, 304.
“What—it’s not my fault you like copying your big brother.”
“I do not!”
“And whose shirt are you wearing?”
“...you’re—you’re a wrongun!”
“Mhm, sure I am.”
Even as limbs felt weak as he walked and his heart beat like he had just ran a marathon, he couldn’t deny he was a little excited to Wilbur, after so long. Spring and winter weeks didn’t count. He had Wilbur for the whole summer this time and it would be different.
He couldn’t keep hiding it, he was lucky enough that his parents even listened to his stupid request in the first place.
He wasn’t just excited, he was scared too.
“You don’t want to tell your brother?” His father has his number dialed in, with books sprawled around him, and in big black bold letters it spells his condition, as bright as the sun burns. It’s supposed to be a nice gesture, it feels like they’re laughing at him, pointing at what a freakshow he really is. “But—why? Your brother…”
(Your brother misses you. Your brother is away at college in a whole another country. Your brother used to play you songs to help you sleep on the rough days. Your brother nursed your fevers while we worked and paid bills. Your brother loves you more than life itself, has sacrificed his band days to take care of you. You are the reason your brother went to college. He smiles and say, “This is what are dreams are made of, you, entirely you, with your light and your joy.” but that has longed died.)
He can’t find the words to say there.
There is a deep resentment in his chest and it festers, more than any exhaustion could ever.
“I want to,” He starts and the words are trembling but he pretends not to hear. “I want to tell him, myself. When he visits, next time.”
Christmas comes.
It comes with a storm, a blizzard takes over the town and the cold seeps deep into his skin while his brother asks why he’s so cold, why he’s wearing his sweaters from years ago, while he prances around in a shirt, perfectly fine, and he doesn’t know how to form the words to say: I’m sick, Wilbur, I’m sick and I’m never going to get better. Can’t you tell? I’m sick and bedridden and I’m no longer a child, I’m not even sure I’m human anymore but I miss you and I need a hug but I’m a fuck-up, such a fuck-up.
Instead, he doesn’t say a damn thing.
He shuts his mouth and says, “I’m not cold, I’m clearly sweating in these.” and he laughs, loudly, like he remembers and he realizes something then.
He can’t say it, in all the ways he is wrong, because then Wilbur might never laugh like that with him then and soon, he’ll go back to college, and it’ll be like a distant dream for him but not for Tommy. He’ll soak in his regret, biting hard on his lip until it bleeds and his mother looks at him with such pity but he can’t hate it, not when she still loves him so.
“You have to tell, eventually, Toms,”
He’s wearing a really ugly shirt, like he always does. Some mash of eccentric colors that don’t work together as friends disgusting printed on a shirt, hanging tight against his torso. It hurts his eyes but when his brother, Wilbur, turns to him, a smile painted on his face like it belongs there, just for him, it washes away all the hatred he has for his horrible ‘fashion’ sense.
Because his brother is yelling, “Tommy!” with a voice drenched in joy and utter relief, eyes lighting up underneath the agonizing bright lights of the airport and it is hot and he feels the heat hanging on his sweat, like a stupid itchy sweater.
Because his brother is running towards him, his suitcase forgotten, tossed to the side, the wheels screeching against the polished floor, and the only reason the handle doesn’t slam against the ground with a hard smack is because Phil is there to quickly catch as Wilbur sprints towards him. His arms are spreading wide like a bird ready to take flight but he’s not that, so instead their chests are slamming against each other, his breath is knocked out his lungs with that single crash, and arms are suffocating him in this place.
And he should hate it.
He’s sweaty and grimy from the horrible heat of the summer. The humid chokes his fragile body like it’s a stress toy yet he dives right into Wilbur. He wraps his stupid arms around him and squeezes because his brother is home and not just for a week or two this time.
Wilbur laughs into his hair and the sound feels like mercy amidst the humidity of the season.
“There you are,” Wilbur leans back, cupping his cheeks like he’s some sort of baby, and smiles so sweetly as he says, “There’s my little sibling—I’ve missed you.”
He says it like he means it and Wilbur’s never been one to lie to him.
His face is hot and burning with warmth but he grins back at him.
“I miss you too, you dickhead.”
Wilbur flicks him on the forehead.
“No cussing!”
“I’m a fucking man I can do whatever the hell I want!”
Wilbur pinches his cheek.
“You are a child and children don’t say nasty words like ‘fuck’ or ‘dickhead’.”
He sticks his tongue out at him.
“Well, do I have some fuckin’ news for you then.”
Just as Wilbur opens his mouth, ready to turn and pull his hair probably, Phil cuts in, huffing a long jagged breath.
“It’s been not even a minute since you’ve stepped off the plane, Will, don’t start bickering already.”
Wilbur pouts and he fills with glee at the sight. Serves him right.
“What else am I supposed to do? I’ve been without my baby brother for months , Phil! I need someone to bully and harass.”
“Not in an airport, you do.”
“Then home is fine?”
Phil shrugs, looking as tired as he probably feels.
Wilbur grins.
“Hey!”
Exhaustion hangs heavy on his body like an ugly shirt.
“Chronic fatigue syndrome,” She says, as if the world under him doesn’t crack and come apart. A diagnosis to put towards those tired nights, when exhausted made breathing seem like a struggle, and all the days his teachers sent him out in the hall to the room tucked on the end, Detention, for losing himself in a thought and lulling away. Grades slipped past his hand, shaking fingers cutting themselves on the edges to make it better, but the exhaustion never shaken him. It remained, more consistent than the sun. “It’s a chronic condition that affects a lot of the body; mostly notably, it’s someone who is constantly tired or exhaustion and their condition never gets better with rest.”
Suddenly, the darkness underneath his eyes feels heavier. The paleness in his skin that blends in with his socks make him feel acutely seen. He can’t fade into hoodies that aren’t his and hide behind covers he stole from his brother’s room. The ache in his chest is familiar, the taste of fear clings to his tongue and all he can think is: he wants his big brother right here.
He is scared because he is sick and he doesn’t know what to do.
He is scared because his father looks horrified right behind him, jumping onto his feet from the chair tucked in the corner.
There are words falling from his lips, fear caked into his voice, but Tommy has a hard time hearing any of it.
He feels seen, in the worst way possible, in all the ways he is wrong, that he fails to be human and it kills apart of himself inside.
The kid his father and mother had raised with all their love and attention in the world, with food constantly on the table, and luscious clothes on his back had ended up broken and misshapen, almost like he was laughing at them in retort for all the care they gave.
That child died a long time ago and he doesn’t know how to mourn the past him or how to tell his father that he’s been dead for years now and this is nothing new.
Wilbur settles in, as if he never left. He fits into his own sweater like a charm, his room calls him home, and the second he falls back first to the bed, a relieved sigh falls from his lips, his body melting into the mattress, as if it’s the comfiest thing he’s ever laid on.
“It’s good to be home,” He says, something so cliché falling from his lips makes Tommy roll his eyes and he turns around to exit, to go back to his own safe haven. “Tommy—don’t go yet! C’mon!”
“What? So you can harass and bully me?”
Wilbur blinks at him before working a devious smirk up on his face. “Yes?”
“...did you expect that to want to make me stay? ‘Cause you’re doing a shit job so far.”
“Oh, come on, I missed you, can’t you stay a little while longer with me while they’re makin’ dinner?”
“You’ll have all summer with me, you’ll be sick of me soon enough.”
“Yeah, right.” Wilbur laughs, as if the notion was nothing more than a joke. Tommy wishes it would stay that way. “C’mon, I’ll show you some of the new songs I have cooking up!”
He pats a spot next to him on the bed and the old guitar he carries everywhere, naming it Charlotte, rests easy on his lap. One hand holds it up without even thinking, practiced over years of falling in love with the notes strummed from random strings.
He smiles at him so genuinely, it makes it hard for Tommy to say no.
So he doesn’t.
“Fine.” He rolls his eyes, shutting the door behind him, still covered in worn posters of his favorite theater shows and bands. “But only because I’m banned from the kitchen.”
“What—how in the hell did you manage that?”
“You don’t want to know.” He slides into the mattress stiffly, as if he hasn’t made this room his own by being in it constantly, slipping into the old covers that should have gathered dust and soot if it wasn’t for him.
“I think I actually do.”
“Play the damn guitar, music boy.”
“Boy? ” Wilbur says, affronted and it makes something in Tommy’s chest sing.
“Whatever, music man! Are you happy?”
“Yes.” Wilbur says with a cocky smirk.
That old expression is burned into the back of his brain after the amount of times he’s seen him play pranks on the neighbor kids because when he was in middle school. Him and Quackity had a hell of a prank war, running every house on the block in the name of their rage, until flames dwindled out and all that was left was ash.
It fills something in him that he didn’t realize was empty.
He misses this.
Wilbur fingers find the strings, strumming a random tune that blends together smoothly, beauty brought by his fingertips but he doesn’t need to know that. Tommy stares at his face as he leans against the wall next to him, their shoulders pressed against each other, as he plays whatever new pattern he’s thought up this time.
It doesn’t matter the melody or tune, Tommy couldn’t give less of a shit about that, he falls in love with it either way because it’s Wilbur’s music and he’s always loved how his brother effortlessly seemed to play the guitar, writing up poetry from thin air, mirroring everything around him, exploring it in old dusty pages of a bound leather book he refuses to throw away, even though the edges have grown hard and started to yellow. It’s his and it makes it precious.
There are lyrics he’s saying, melody flowing off his tongue, but he doesn’t understand a bit of it. The words become jumbled, a myriad of sounds in his head, and it eases him. He’s not sure when his head managed to find his familiar spot on Wilbur’s shoulder but it does.
Exhaustion keeps him company most of the time. It lingers, never wavering, but the only time it seems to waver is when Wilbur is around, when his singing manages to lure it away to an unknown place. The best sleep he’s ever had was with him, his head on his shoulders and music in his ears.
“...” Wilbur stops for a moment, for just a second, and says, “He could’ve just told me if he was tired.”
He hears a snort before lyrics fall from his lips like honey and his body doesn’t fight with him as he loses himself to tiredness, a battle he has never wanted to fight.
Dizziness swirls around his head like a vortex. Nausea thickens on his tongue and the inside of his cheeks taste sickeningly sweet. Heat burns intense on his skin, sweat building up as he struggles to stand. His fingertips tremble as he struggles to feel a thing.
No, that’s wrong.
He feels it too much.
The weakness takes ahold of his body, lips wavering as no voice comes from him. He’s moving his hands, he’s sure he is, but they hardly follow his demand. His fingers only nudge an inch and it’s horrifying to realize how easy it is to not have anything at all.
It’s hot, it’s so goddamn hot, like a kitchen is supposed to be and he feels so goddamn weak like a fifteen-year-old isn’t supposed to be.
“Tommy—?”
His mother is asking, her eyes are wide and horrified.
He’s trying to say something, “I don’t—I don’t…” but it barely comes out, trembling and his back is shivering when it’s this hot.
His mind is fighting against him. His body is contorting against him. He doesn’t know what to do. His breath feels uneven, his heart is pounding in his chest so fast he’s afraid he’ll have a heart attack, and his mother is rushing forth, ignoring the shards of glass from the cup he dropped.
She reaches for his hand, wrapping hers around it.
“Hun, are you okay?” She asks and he loves his mother. His mother is the best person in his life. Always attentive, badass, and beaming with pride of them, at all times. His mother is his biggest fan even when he’s a failure. “Can you hear me?”
He nods but he barely manages to understand it.
He feels so fucking weak, everything is a struggle.
He’s never felt like this before.
“Come here, baby, sit down.” Her hand reaches for his shoulder, pressing his body against hers for support, making their way towards a seat in the dining area. He sets himself against the wooden chair and he falls apart.
He arms come to wrap around himself and he presses his forehead against the wood of the table. He doesn’t know what’s going on. It’s fucking scary.
He can hardly breathe. Everything feels wrong. Since when has it been so hard to lift a finger?
Is he dying?
What’s wrong with him?
He hears his father scared voice, he hears his mother trembling tone. He knows they are worried and fuck, he is too, what’s happening?
His heart doesn’t ease and the heat is so much. He tries to breathe but it’s hard. It’s like fighting a losing battle.
“You need to—” Her words filter through his head. “Please, this isn’t normal—it’s…strange. Falling asleep in school, struggling in the heat, and this…honey.”
His chest hurts.
“I know.” His father says and it feels like ice water being dunked on him. “I know, we—we need to go to the ER right now.”
He’s shoved into a car, his mother’s hand holding his own tightly, trying to smile the brightest she can, but it’s faltering. Even through his hazy sickened state, he can see it.
“We’re going to figure this out baby—” She says, holding onto him. “We’re going to figure this out.”
Wilbur makes him hot chocolate with mini marshmallows despite it being summer time. He takes the cup anyways.
“Mum says you didn’t have any clubs.”
“I don’t.”
“But you always struggled to answer my texts.”
He looks up from behind the steaming cup. Wilbur is searching for something and this time, he isn’t privy to the answer.
“What are you? A clingy bastard?”
Wilbur frowns, staring down at his atrocious cup. An art piece he calls it, he calls it disgusting.
“So what if I am? I missed my little brother and you were nowhere to be seen.”
“I was sleeping.”
Wilbur stares at him. He tries to not let him see the dark eye bags underneath his eyes but it was plain on his face to anyone who wanted to take a look.
It’s a bad day when he wakes up.
A really bad day.
He wakes up and it’s not enough. Sleep clings to his mind, his body moves slow, no matter how long he sits in bed and tries to wake up. His hands slap against his face and the sound is annoying, he tries to force himself to wake up, but it never works.
It doesn’t make things better when Wilbur knocks on his door in rapid secession and it causes the little sanity he has on days like these to start fraying.
Wilbur has so much energy. Days have gone by, summer break has officially started and it almost feels like a nightmare. He prances around without a care of a world while Tommy struggles to make it to the same room as his.
The door swings open with a slam as it hits against the wall and he can sense him standing the doorway but a few feet away. He doesn’t want to open his eyes but something calls him, so he does. Regretfully, he opens his eyes and stares at the wall. The sight is burned into the back of his mind.
He feels exhausted and he just woke up.
His limbs are heavy, his mind is a blur, and all he can hear is Wilbur’s stupid annoying, “Are you going to wake up or lay there all day?”
It’s grating on his ears and he’s never been able to wake up early, to love the way the sun burns on his skin, or how the morning air feels, but it’s especially worse today.
It is hot, sweat builds underneath his sleep shirt, and sleep clings to every being that he is.
“I don’t feel good.” He barely manages and he wants to fucking cry.
“Are you sick? Did the summer finally get you?” Wilbur walks over and his voice is delicate. It’s soft on his ears. He feels the palm of his hand press against his forehead, it’s cold in comparison. “You’re hot, here let me—”
He doesn’t hear anything, it’s hard to hear a word he says when it all becomes jumbled in his mind, and he just closes his eyes.
He barely registers the cold compress being placed on his forehead before the weakness takes him over.
“Something is wrong here.” Words filter in the air, just outside of the cusp of his bedroom.
“Wilbur—” His father’s frantic voice seeps through the cracks.
“He’s lethargic, he’s hardly ever awake, he’s constantly depressed! This isn’t normal.” Harsh words are split from his mouth, hanging in the air and he wonders what expression his mother makes.
“Will…” Her sullen voice coats the air, tension coating her tongue.
“What happened to him—this, this isn’t normal.”
“Wilbur, calm down.”
“I can’t! Something is wrong with my brother! How are you so calm?”
“He’s just….”
“Tired? Yeah right.”
The silence weighs heavy and he hears the rush of footsteps slam against wooden floorboards and he tries to pretend he was asleep the next morning when he drags himself out of his room for a breakfast he barely manages to make it through.
His mother smiles, it’s stained. His father laughs, it’s suffocating. And Wilbur stares, burning holes through this façade he can’t keep up any longer.
“It’ll be okay,” His father swears, holding him close, arms wrapped around his small frame and promises him. “It’ll be okay—we’ll figure this out, together, alright kiddo? We’ll—we’ll make it work.”
Wilbur’s room has always been a safe haven for him.
Wilbur has always been his own safe haven.
He loves his brother, more than anything, but even he wilts underneath the stares that never end.
It builds up inside him as tiredness wears on his soul and he’s not sure how to hide it anymore. He’s running out of time.
“You’ve changed, haven’t you?” Wilbur said and it felt like he had just been stabbed. It’s not like he wanted this, he never asked to be this sick, to never have a chance at getting better. To wake up and hope that today was a good day and pray it would last more than a few hours.
He looked back at Wilbur and he had never felt smaller. He was still a child in his eyes, and in some ways, he still was. Sixteen was no different from fifteen. He still needed his parents to shelter him and feed him, he still wore the clothes they paid for on his back, he still needed them to make his endless doctor appointments—but sometimes, he felt too grown.
He hated taking so many pills and he hated going to doctor offices so much he memorized their faces and names. He hated knowing that it would never go away, that he would always be in a limbo, never knowing when it could get worst and never knowing how long a good moment would last before it was ruined by his own body that was convicted in it’s effort to destroy itself.
“And you sure haven’t, Wilbur.” He felt tired.
He always felt tired.
He was getting sick of it and everyone looking at him like he knew nothing, like he was so goddamn pathetic because of something he can’t fix, he can’t change anything to make it stop and it infuriated him but anger required energy. Energy he didn’t have anymore.
“What—”
“I’m going to bed.” He got up from his space on the beanbag and could feel the sting in his chest from the expression on Wilbur’s face. He was hurt, well, Tommy was too.
“Hey, wait, Mum’s makin—”
“I don’t care, okay!” He turned back and huh, imagine that, he had a little spark left in him but he never did know how to use it for good. “I don’t care, I’m tired, please just piss off, I’m so fucking tired and I can’t take it. I’m going to bed, leave me alone.”
How could he even think about eating when his stomach felt sicker than it had ever been? The inside of his cheeks were swelling with a certain sickly taste of sweetness that nausea always seemed to bring and he needed his medicine.
He had never yelled at Wilbur before but he felt like he was suffocating under his constant gaze, of every reminder of the child his illness killed.
“Fine.” Wilbur said, anger flickering his face and he shouldn’t be surprised. He just yelled at him but only made his chest squeeze with an unshakable guilt that made him want to fall down and apologize for, over and over, but he made his choice and he felt like he was going to throw up more and more the longer he stood there. “Whatever, I’ll tell Mum you’re not hungry.”
It doesn’t matter anymore.
He just wanted to go to sleep and never fucking wake up.
“What do you mean? That there’s no way to—there has to be.” His father says, avoiding the words he really wants to say: what do you mean you can’t fix him?
“It’s not…that simple, sir.” The doctor says and she’s a nice lady with brown curly hair and he can’t blame her for her wariness. His father cares, a lot, and sometimes, that’s the problem. “We’re not even sure what causes CFS in people.”
“So what—you give up? Send us on own way?”
“No—no, not at all. I understand how hard this is, it isn’t…easy.” She chooses her words carefully and looks down at the cold linoleum floor. “It can be managed but it doesn’t go away. Sometimes, with lifestyle changes like moderate exercise and change in diet, the symptoms can get better…”
“Sometimes.” His father repeats and it sounds like a death sentence coming from his mouth. “But not always right?”
The doctor is sympathetic, she’s nice, a lot nicer than other doctors that overlooked him, told him to just rest more as if he hadn’t tried that already, and his father isn’t an angry man. He never is. Even now, his angers seeps through the cracks in his teeth but he is calm, he is gentle about it, he is a man that could lose everything with one diagnosis.
“With all chronic illnesses, there are good days and bad days. By eating right or exercising moderately, we can try and have more good days than bad ones but there’s no promise I can make you. We just have to keep trying. We’re constantly learning and maybe, we’ll discover something soon but…”
His father’s expression is one he’s never seen before.
He is sullen, he is angry, and he burns with life in a way Tommy can’t.
“What is my son meant to do?” He asks and it sounds broken. This time, Tommy doesn’t look up. He’s not sure if he can keep it together if he sees his father’s tear-filled expression. “He can’t have a normal life like this. He has school, he has friends, he has dreams.”
The doctor is nice but her expression is sad. It burns inside his gut.
“We offer Tommy the utmost support. We explain his conditions to his teachers and friends. There are forms we can put into place, like 504, that would give Tommy the help he needs at school and it’s very helpful if his support system, his family and friends, would learn more to understand what it’s like for him. There are some books I can recommend.”
She speaks all of this like it relights hope in Tommy but that died long ago when he realized being a child shouldn’t feel like he’s constantly fighting with own body to work right.
He doesn’t hear his father’s response.
He doesn’t want to.
He’s not sure he could remain whole if he saw his father’s broken expression, light drained from his sun-born face.
It was hard enough living with an illness that would never cease.
It was worse having his own father in front of him realize he would never get better.
(He’s grateful to his dad. Of course, he did, but who wants a sick kid?)
He shouldn't be surprised when he wakes up, more tired than before, and he can feel the way his chest raises as he breathes and he hates it. He's so so fucking tired. He just wants to rot away in his bed but he can't—they're expecting him downstairs for breakfast but the thought of food makes his stomach churn.
He wants to break, to shatter into a million pieces until no one can no longer piece him together and make him whole like he's supposed to be. Being human, being alive , exhausted him over and over and he was tired of hiding it, tired of pretending that he was the same as Wilbur or Phil.
They made it seem so easy. It was easy for them to wake up and live their life when Tommy was left wondering if it was worth even giving it a try most day. If living was rotting away in a bed with no voice of your own, no control over your own goddamn body, what was the point of living?
He felt dead, a corpse that was stuck underneath the ground with no escape. His own body that was meant to nourish and hold up high on his own two feet when the ground was shaky failed him, over and over, it broke apart inside him and no matter how hard he tried, it would never piece together quite right. He wanted to breathe, to feel the fresh air spread his lungs wide open, and cherish the sun for it’s warmth instead of running for shade to hide from it. He wanted to grasp the roots of grass, rip it away, and watch the air take it far from here, he wanted a reason to keep going, to keep staring up at the sun, hoping for a day when he would stop hating it and all the life it gave to him.
“You and your brother fought.” Phil says and it hurts more than it should. He did it, he yelled at Wilbur like he never has before, and he’s barely hanging on.
He doesn’t reply, he just buries his head deeper into his bed.
“Tommy—what’s going on? I thought you wanted to tell him yourself, on your own terms, this…this isn’t the right way to go about it.”
Guilt eats him alive.
“I know, I know—I’m just so sick of everything.” He buries his face in his hands, feeling where his nails dig into sensitive skin “I’m tired of feeling so exhausted, Dad, and I just want to be okay, and I want to tell Wilbur and be able to say it’s going to be fine but I don’t think it is! I’m miserable in my own fucking body! And there’s no fix and I’m rotting.”
His father’s footsteps got louder as he got closer. He heard the gentle scrap of glass as he placed his coffee cup down on Tommy’s nightstand, covered in stickers of his favorite characters and shows. His father sat down on the edge of his bed, their backs meeting in between his old comforter.
“Dying won’t fix anything either.”
A ugly cry works through him, shuddering through his bones.
“Tommy, you don’t have to keep this all in.” His father is looking at him and he can feel that gentle gaze on him, more than he deserves probably, and it makes him want to hide all the more. “This—this is tough for anyone but you’re still a kid, you’re still our kid.”
The words seep into his skin.
“I hate seeing you suffering, I hate seeing you like this kid, and if we can help, in any way, just say the word. I know how hellish it is when your own body feels like a prison with no escape route.”
“Then what the hell do I do, Dad?”
His pathetic sobs are the only sound in the room for a moment before, “You let us in, son.”
He hates this—being a burden, ruining people’s lives with his own sickness.
“Everything about me is wrong, I’m a bad kid, I’m just a mess you have to fix. At least with Wilbur, he’s going to be a star but I’m just—I’m a joke for a kid.”
There’s a weird pained sound stolen from his father’s throat before his arms are shooting out, dragging him close until he finds himself in a hug he can’t escape from, not that he would want to, from the way he melts into father’s arms.
“Is that what you think?” It takes him a moment before he shakes his head yes. His father’s arms tighten around him. “You and Wilbur both are the highlight of my world. You’re both so amazing in your own ways. Tommy, you’re a strong kid, a really strong one, but this time? You don’t have to be. It’s okay, we won’t hate you, we love you.”
His fingers tremble around his father’s back.
He sobs.
He sobs pathetically and ugly.
His father pats his back and he feels sick.
“There…” His father says, so softly, so kindly. “Everything’s going to be alright, Toms, my little guy, you’re going to be alright.”
Shaking in his hug, he somehow finds it in himself to believe him this time.
The air is thick and he hates the way it struggles in his lungs because his fingers are shaking and he's never realized how terrifying this could be.
Wilbur doesn't look happy to see him, he wouldn't either. He was a jerk.
"I'm sorry—"
Wilbur clicks his tongue and he's never done that before, his heart pounds rapidly in his chest as fear coats his being because Wilbur is the one person he wishes would never turn away, the one he wants to hold onto him a little bit tighter.
"I thought you wanted me to leave you alone."
The mirroring of his own words sting.
"I—"
He swallows the lump in his throat and holds hand with the fear that's been haunting him for months.
"I'm sorry , I shouldn't have yelled at you and I—I should have been more honest with you." Wilbur's head perks up and he finally looks at him. "I'm not doing too good. I—I know I'm strange lately and that maybe you don't like me anymore and I'm sorry but—"
"Wait, Tom—"
"But I'm sick and probably always going to be and I know no one wants a sick brother and I—" Words are flying out before he can stop them, the anxiety that festered inside is releasing at a rapid pace. He watches as Wilbur's expression changes and morphs. He would laugh, if it wasn't so sad.
"Tommy, I never—"
It's pathetic, being so terrified like this, but he has to know.
He can't live like this anymore, holding on the pain like a cardigan he refuses to get rid of. He's tired of holding tight on it, never letting anyone else wear it, never giving himself a break from the heat that coats him. He's sick of keeping it to himself and losing himself.
He misses when he didn't have to hide things or lie to people. He misses when Phil wouldn't hesitate to ask him to play a game with him or how Kristin would have him try whatever new recipe she thought of this week. He misses bothering his brother and being the reason he smiled.
"I've—we've known for a while." He says. "I was struggling. I have been for a while. When you left for college, I nearly passed out in the kitchen weeks later, and I couldn't sleep and I've been exhausted for months now and—"
Wilbur is looking at him horrified, love worn on his face and he feels guilt consume him.
"They call some shit. Chronic fatigue syndrome." He mutters out. "I can't—I'm—"
"Jesus christ." Wilbur breathes out and everything in Tommy stiffens at the sound. "No wonder you were mad yesterday, god, Toms, you've known since what August? September? Why—why do I know just now?"
"I want to be the one to tell you but I was really fucking scared. I thought—I thought no one wants a sick kid around and I don't know it got worse and worse and I—"
"You idiot."
Wilbur steps forward, arms wrapping around him, dragging him into a gentle hug. Everything about Wilbur has always been kind. He hasn't changed one bit.
"You're my brother, nothing's going to change that." He laughs on his shoulder and a pleasant warmth spreads from his chest as a feeling just like joy and relief consumes him. "Idiot, God, god."
Wilbur's arms tighten around him, like he's precious.
Maybe he is, to him.
"Gosh, you bastard," Wilbur smirks down at him. "I thought you hated me."
"Wha—no! I just—"
"I get it." Wilbur smiles again. "I fucking missed you."
That makes him break.
"I missed you so much, Wilbur, you don't even know."
Wilbur laughs and it sounds like sunshine.