Tommyinnit Oneshots

Phone Calls (River Bed part 2)

I couldn't bring myself to say his name for a while. By the time I could get it out, my voice was a hoarse whisper and my tears had dried in messy tracks down my cheeks.

"Tommy's dead. He killed himself. In a river. On Wednesday. The funeral is on Sunday," I said emotionlessly. Tommy was dead. He had killed himself in a river on Wednesday, and the funeral was on Sunday. He was gone, and that was all that mattered.

Wilbur

"Tommy's dead. He killed himself. In a river. On Wednesday. The funeral is on Sunday," Tubbo's voice murmured shakily through my phone speakers. He hung up without waiting for a response.

What? What the fuck?

Without looking in a mirror I knew my face was the picture of confusion, my eyebrows furrowed, eyes narrowed and mouth hanging open.

"Tommy is dead? What the fuck?" I've always had a tendency to speak to myself, and today was no exception.

I think I sat there in my cramped office for about an hour, my mind completely blank. What did that mean? Tubbo said Tommy was dead, but he wasn't. Tommy wasn't dead, I just knew it. Tommy couldn't die, he would never die. I would die before him. Wouldn't I?

Yes, I would. I would die before him since I was older and Tommy wouldn't die. Tommy couldn't die. He was young and happy, which meant he couldn't die. So why did Tubbo say he was dead?

"Why did Tubbo say that?" I whispered to myself. "'Tommy killed himself in a river on Wednesday, and the funeral was on Sunday.' What does that mean?"

Maybe saying it out loud triggered something because it hit me like a fucking freight train. My little brother was dead, he had killed himself. He had jumped in a river and killed himself.

My breath was speeding up, panic rising in my chest and darkness creeping in on the edges of my vision. I didn't know it was possible to feel so hugely the gap that someone leaves behind when they die, but I could see a Tommy-sized hole in the world and its emptiness was overwhelming me and consuming me, reminding me with every passing second that my little brother was gone and I was suddenly so, so alone.

I had never felt this dark and sad and angry and alone, but I had felt something like it in the past in the form of anxiety and panic attacks, and I was aware enough to know that I needed to call Phil. He could help me.

"Phil please, please help it's so cold and dark and empty without him, please get me out of here Phil-"

"Wilbur, what's going on? Where are you? What happened?" Wil was dimly aware of Phil's cautious tone, but it didn't help in bringing him down. He still felt like he was falling and the emptiness was still all around him.

"He's- he's gone, Phil. He's dead. He's gone and I'm alone. It's dark here. I'm so cold."

Phil hesitated before responding. "Are you safe? And Wil... who died?"

"Yeah, I am. And Tommy. Tommy died."

A sharp inhale was heard on the other line, and it made Wilbur's chest constrict. His lungs were failing him and he felt like his heart was racing a million beats a minute.

"Wilbur, can you hear my breaths?"

"Ye- yeah," He struggled out. Phil told him to follow his breaths, and he tried to match the older man's slow, calm breathing, but it was hard when he could hear Phil's exhales hitch and faint, muffled sniffles crackling through.

After a few minutes, Wilbur felt like he could breathe again. He went through his exercise of paying attention to his surroundings, moving his fingers and toes, and listening to Phil's voice.