𝘖𝘏 𝘈𝘕𝘈 - 𝘛𝘖𝘔𝘔𝘠𝘐𝘕𝘕𝘐𝘛

sixteen.

it wasn't him anymore, lying on that hospital bed. they didn't know who that was.

"i'm scared," tubbo whispered to the musician as the three stood, starting towards the door. wilbur didn't want to admit that he was, too.

"it'll be okay. hold my hand." he couldn't tell if he needed it more right about now.

a sudden dread left goosebumps trailing wilbur's spine as they opened the door to reveal a boy, sickly pale, hooked to numbers of appliances that made his head spin. an iv needle surged into his arm, blood samples sitting to the side of his bed and a tube inserted through his nostril, pumping some kind of liquid into his body. the faint beeping of a heart monitor was the only thing keeping him grounded to the earth as he stepped closer.

"what-" his voice caught in his throat, "what happened to him?"

"he hasn't been meeting his sufficient nutritional needs for a long while. we've put him on a feeding tube to supply him with enough supplements so that his body may stabilize. this is just to get him back on his feet, it's not a permanent solution. we've contacted his mother and suggested that he go to a rehabilitation center so that a team of professionals can keep a monitor on his eating habits. was he visiting for long? do you remember the first time he restricted a meal?"

it felt like his entire body was being crushed by a weight. he couldn't process the words the nurse was telling him - it all sounded so wrong to hear. tommy? tommyinnit? the same kid who talked too much for his mouth and dragged around a boosted ego everywhere he went? the boy who annoyed the hell out of wilbur sometimes, cause, god was he a pain, but still managed to sneak his way into a soft spot of his heart? the boy he watched grow into a hardworking and mature creator with a head as strong as steel and an attitude just to match? who wilbur knew would become bigger than his shoes were filled out for, because yeah, he was childish and irritating, but was also one hell of an entertainer? who made people laugh even when the jokes didn't hit, cause at least they did for him, and that was all that he cared for? that tommyinnit? he was the same one doing this to himself? the same one in that bed, hooked to all those machines, being force-fed through a tube because he declined every breakfast, lunch, and dinner offered to him? that was him?

he couldn't think anymore. his mind was racing with emotions - fear, guilt, concern, regret, sorrow - and mouth ran dry at trying to conjure up some sort of response. he felt horrible that he didn't know, that the boy chose to keep it from him, and that he couldn't put the pieces together fast enough to help him. that was tommy, his kiddish little brother, tommy, lying weak and feeble in a suffocatingly small hospital room, lights overbearingly bright and needles protruding from each arm. there was nothing wilbur could do about it but watch his body lay there and hope he'd come to soon. he just wanted him to wake up so that he could hug him and apologize for not paying enough attention. he wish he had known.

"can you give us some time alone?"

he didn't know who said it - it all sounded like a jumble of words in his ears. a door opened, closed, and then wilbur's eyes found their way to the unconscious boy. it ached to look at him in such a vulnerable state.

"i'm gonna be outside, the needles are making me sick. i don't know him as much as you guys do, but i really hope he gets better."

another click of the door and the hand holding his loosened against his grip. tubbo moved forward to gaze upon his best friend, sniveling.

"that's not tommy," his voice broke, tears threatening to fall, "that's not my tommy."

and then came the waterworks for the worried musician and the sniffling best friend, a single droplet of water quickly morphing into a flash flood as all their pent up emotions finally broke free.