SBI - His Curse of Binding

28

It was weird when Tommy woke up. Wilbur obviously hadn't been allowed to cook breakfast today since there was no smell coming from the kitchen—Tommy had developed a routine of leaving his door ajar so Phil yelling for him to wake up could be heard. That was weird too; he didn't know what time it was but he felt exhausted, meaning it was past midday and Phil hadn't shouted at him yet. But by that point, even Techno was awake and the fucker would burst into his room and rip Henry out of his arms just to throw it in his face.

He shouldn't still be in bed with blankets and a sheeted mattress that was colder than usual, too cold to blame it on the small breeze slipping through the suicide prevention windows.

Fingers threaded through his hair, brushing against his scalp just how Wilbur usually did. He leaned into the touch, his eyes fluttered but remained shut. A content hum rumbled his chest as Wilbur's palm cascaded down to his forehead. It brought him comfort, something he needed to ease the unfamiliarity of this morning. The bed dipped and arms wrapped around his shoulders, holding him close to Wilbur's chest.

Yet, the hands were more calloused than Wilbur's, big enough to remind him of his older brother but still different. Less solid and weighted, almost transparent.

"Wilbur?" he stammered, his speech slurred and rough. The air tasted bitter, thickening his tongue and drying his throat.

It wasn't Techno or Phil either—their hands were always warm. He moved away from the hand to settle deeper into his bed. But there was no bed. There was no bedroom to begin with, no connection to the kitchen or to Techno's room just one door down.

He opened his eyes and a blackened state greeted him.

Oh.

He was—

He was dead.

No, no it couldn't be. He was just in his bedroom, Wilbur was there, holding him as he woke up from the night before and—

The tears fell too fast for him to realise his face was already wet.

He wished for nothing but to be back with those he loved. He didn't care if it meant he would have to repeatedly die in their arms, forced to hear the pleads of Wilbur, Techno's frustration and the sobs from Phil. He didn't care. He wanted them back, he wanted to be held.

The void offered him no comfort, no reassuring whispers, no warmth. Not like Wilbur's touch could.

He should be used to this, the loneliness in the void as time caught up and rebirth decided his next fate. But no part of him ever adjusted to the cruel abyss, the sinking loneliness and isolation. He had grown accustomed to the casual pats on the shoulder, ruffles of his hair and tight hugs. The solitary on his skin hurt. It stung to be alone now.

Tommy hated himself for letting himself believe that it would be permanent—that the love which brought yellow roses to his chest and completeness to his heart would stay.

He should've known that nothing stayed. Including himself.

If he screwed his eyes shut tight enough, then he'd be back. Back in the kitchen and scooped into someone's arms, given all the special treatment he normally despised. But after today, he'd accept anything.

He would wake up in his room, gaze at the wall of photos and tuck Henry back under the covers, ready for the day. There would be noise from the kitchen, clashing of frying pans as Wilbur attempted to flip pancakes, huffing from Techno's coffee machine and Phil reprehending Wilbur for dropping another pancake on the floor. Home. It would be home.

But instead of the cluttered dining table, blinding smiles and heaves of laughter, Tommy was alone in a state of desolation.

He knew he didn't deserve this, he had more time yet Death still took him from the only life he never wanted to leave—from the one family that ever loved him.