Tommy wouldn't say he's the definition of observance, but he may have miscalculated some things.

In his defense, he hadn't known it was supposed to rain. In fact, the storm pretty much came out of nowhere to quite literally rain on his and Tubbo's parade.

The day was originally dedicated to vlogging in Tubbo's hometown, just the two of them for the first time in what felt like forever. It was nothing they hadn't already done before, visiting the quaint shops in the center of town and getting ice cream to take down to the beach despite the probably freezing water. Tommy had even taken off his shoes at one point to dip his toes into the frigid ocean while Tubbo yelled at him from behind the camera as a bit.

(Which, admittedly, might have been his first mistake, now that Tommy thinks about it.)

Their nice and somewhat warm, sunny day took a turn for the worse halfway through the afternoon. The pair had been wisely spending their time gawking dramatically at the sticks they'd found on the beach and dragging them through the sand when the first fat drops of rain landed square on Tommy's nose.

They end up fleeing the beach not long after that when it starts to rain as if the sky just opened up to unleash hell on the land, screeching don't get the camera wet don't get the camera wet the whole way, probably rivaling the gulls Tubbo had taken upon himself to chase away.

With the vlog cut short, Tubbo had insisted Tommy just wait out the rest of the storm at his place, like the distinguished young gentleman he is. But Tommy, in true TommyInnit fashion, is anything if not stubborn. StubbornInnit, if you will. Tubbo stood no chance.

So really, Tommy has only himself to blame when he wakes up the next morning feeling like complete and utter ass. The telltale sharp scratchiness in his throat that greets him the moment he enters consciousness nearly has him groaning into his pillow. Jesus fucking Christ.

Warm, yellow sunlight peaks through his blinds and Tommy can already tell it's going to be a horrible day. And he usually loves sunny days! Especially the ones after a good rain when the air is slightly heavy with the moisture and everything smells fresh—but now, it only serves as a disturbance determined to burn holes into Tommy's retinas.

Tommy throws an arm over his eyes with a groan, and then groans some more when the movement jostles his pounding headache.

Great. This was great, yes. Fucking fantastic.

He reaches for his phone on his night table blindly, squinting up at the screen in discomfort. The time read too-fucking-early o'clock. Despite his best efforts to start going to bed at a more reasonable time, Tommy simply threw that idea out the window the moment he got set on editing. He'd stayed up the majority of the evening and well into the night working through the vlog and he still had more to do.

Shooting a few quick texts back to several of his friends' good mornings, Tommy then rolls out of bed in every sense of the word. He almost topples to the floor from the lightheadedness he gains just from standing. Tommy shudders at the cool air that hits his heated skin upon leaving the warmth of his bed. He stands there in a bit of a daze for a few seconds too long, debating if he should just say fuck it and go back to the comfort of his duvet or not.

He ends up choosing the latter and swipes a throw blanket from his bed, wrapping it conclusively around his shoulders with a pitiful sniffle. Tommy has half a mind to grab a glass of water from his little kitchen before shuffling into his designated office (even though Tommy despised the term, it was too formal), not bothering to change out of his pajamas.

His pajamas, being fuzzy sweatpants and a Jack Manifold hoodie. Not that he'd ever admit to such a thing—if the news that Tommy was a Jack Manifold enjoyer reached the public, his image would be ruined.

He plops down in front of his desk with a sigh that leaves a pulse beating against his temples uncomfortably. Tommy winces, but brushes it off easily.

A handful of people appeared to be active, a few of them streaming, that of which included Ranboo. Normally, Tommy would pop in to terrorize his friend for a bit and tell him to go the fuck to sleep or something else along those lines—hypocrisy at its finest, he knows—but today was not a persona day. It wasn't even a Tommy day with how shit he was feeling.

So, he does the one thing that's got him so far up the social ladder these past two years—create content.

Ideally, forcing oneself to stare at a screen for hours on end when you're already feeling like shit is a recipe for feeling like even more shit later on. Will this stop Tommy? No, it won't, actually. Clogged sinuses be damned, he was editing this vlog until it was finished and that was that.

Except maybe it wasn't.

It was nearing hour three of Tommy's content-creating spree when he began feeling the effects. His eyes had gone dry ages ago, and his hands trembled over the keyboard. Check the head feeling like it's full of cotton. The normal stuff (although his friends would disagree).

Tommy leaned back in his chair to allow himself a breather. His stomach did not seem satisfied with this action and a sudden wave of nausea rolled through his gut, head pounding anew.

Tommy's eyes widened in mild panic and he clenched his jaw. Oh, fuck no.

"Nope, not today, not today..." Tommy mutters to himself. He braces his hands on the armrests of his chair in an attempt to haul himself onto shaky legs to go find some ibuprofen or something before the inevitable happens. And Tommy can't let the inevitable happen or he will simply die.

The feat of "getting up" is easier said than done when his legs seem to have other plans. The room becomes blurry for a few dizzying moments, the blood immediately draining from his face, and the next thing Tommy knows, he's landing flat on his ass onto the floor.

Tommy blinks dumbly while the dark edges of his vision clear. He's dealt with his fair share of low blood pressure before, but actually falling over was...new.

Well that was fucking humiliating, Tommy thinks as he makes no move to get up. His legs had turned to complete jelly in two seconds flat.

The hardwood is wonderfully cool under his fingers. It's a stark contrast to the warmth that radiates from his body and Tommy sags into it a little. It's soothing, even.

He'll just—yeah, he'll just sit here for a minute. No big deal.

Tommy awoke to the sound of rapid knocking. At first, he thinks it's coming from the front door, maybe his landlady coming to bitch about noise complaints again and Tommy really doesn't have the energy for that.

But it sounds too close to be the front door. The incessant knocking hurts his head and Tommy grimaces.

"Okay, I'm coming in now, Toms," someone calls out in warning, and Tommy is too slow to process who the voice belongs to.

Then the door is opening and Wilbur is standing over him—what the fuck?—staring down at Tommy, face laden with concern that is quickly morphing into panic.

Tommy furrows his brows and says the first and only thing that comes to his mind.

"How the hell did you get in my house?"

His speech is a bit more slurred and croaky than Tommy expects and it sends him into an unexpected coughing fit. This evidently snaps Wilbur out of his stupor and the man is at Tommy's side in seconds.

"What the-what the fuck, Tommy?" Wilbur curses.

Tommy feels hands grip his arms in a desperate attempt to sit him upright. When it's obvious Tommy won't be able to do this on his own, Wilbur resorts to leaning the blond against his side whilst rubbing calming circles into his back.

Wilbur can only offer his presence while Tommy tries to not fucking die. The coughs wracking his body die away eventually, leaving Tommy a shaky, breathy mess.

Tommy sighs and leans his forehead against Wilbur's shoulder. The man doesn't say anything for a moment, palm still tracing up and down Tommy's back consistently.

"So..." Wilbur prods gently. "What was that?"

Tommy shrugs. Or he tries to, at least. "Sick," he grumbles miserably.

Wilbur chuckles. "I can see that," he scoffs light-heartedly. "I meant the part where I walked in on you laying on the floor after being unresponsive and I nearly had a heart attack."

"The floor is unreasonably comfy, sue me," Tommy argues, voice muffled. He leans a bit closer to Wilbur and turns his head so that he's staring at the man's jaw instead.

Wilbur rolls his eyes fondly. "You didn't pass out, did you? Didn't hit your head or anything?"

Tommy shakes his head. "Just got lightheaded and fell asleep, I guess." Tommy lifts his head, thankfully not to be greeted with dizziness, though Wilbur secures his hold on the boy as he pulls back anyway.

With some more space between them, Tommy is able to see Wilbur more clearly. His face is smoothed over in relief for the most part, lips quirked up in a small smile.

Wilbur removes a hand from Tommy's back and lays it gently onto the blond's forehead. His palm is blessedly cool and Tommy's eyes flutter shut momentarily. He shivers.

"You're burning up, love," Wilbur murmurs. The hand shifts to cup his cheek instead. "Do you think you can walk?"

Hell no, Tommy wants to say. But Wilbur is already here and he doesn't want to make it much more of a hassle for him, so Tommy nods.

"You're sure?" Wilbur asks, eyes narrowed skeptically.

"Yeah, it's fine, Wil, 'm not a baby," Tommy insists, not meeting Wilbur's eyes. He holds out his hands that still hold a slight tremor Tommy is choosing to ignore. "Now help me up."

Wilbur eyes his hands warily but goes to grab one anyway, one arm looping around Tommy's middle and then the man is hauling him up.

Wilbur ends up supporting most of Tommy's weight as expected, though Wilbur doesn't mention it. Tommy would normally be embarrassed but he honestly couldn't give two shits about anything that doesn't have to do with him reaching his bed.

Except Tommy is led into the living room where Wilbur deposits him onto the couch.

"You never answered me," Tommy states vaguely. He leans back into the cushions comfortably, watching as Wilbur exits the room again.

"What?" Wilbur calls.

"How the hell you got into my house."

"Well," Wilbur's voice draws nearer as he comes back into the room, this time holding a thermometer. "If you must know, your front door was unlocked." He raises a disapproving brow at the blond.

"Oh," Tommy says, a sheepish smile creeping onto his face. "Uh, my bad."

"Yeah, your bad. Scared me shitless when I figured out I didn't need to break down the door because it looked like someone else already got the job done for me." Wilbur holds the thermometer in front of Tommy's face expectantly to which Tommy begrudgingly opens his mouth.

"Why'd you com' over in th' firs' place?" Tommy speaks around the metal in his mouth.

Wilbur hesitates then, studies Tommy like he's not sure if he should answer that question. "You weren't answering anyone's messages for hours," Wilbur iterates slowly. "Did you forget we had a stream today? With Phil?"

Tommy blinks and is confused for a few moments, then—

Oh, shit.

"Shit, Wil, I completely forgot—" Tommy makes to stand back up, thermometer forgotten on the couch beside him.

He doesn't make it very far when firm but gentle hands are ushering him back down.

"Sorry, we can-we can do that now if you—" Tommy rambles.

Wilbur shushes him. "No, Toms, you're sick," he reasons. His hands rest on Tommy's shoulders, sure and grounding. "That's more than enough reason to cancel. Why didn't you tell anyone?"

Tommy shrugs helplessly. "It wasn't that bad when I woke up."

Wilbur raises his brows, unimpressed.

Tommy rolls his eyes. "I meant the first time, dickhead. Not when you broke into my flat."

"Broke into your—" Wilbur mutters and shakes his head in disbelief. "You are impossible, TommyInnit."

Tommy smirks. "So I've been told."

Wilbur only sighs, but it's all in good nature. Tommy feels a familiar warmth bloom in his chest, the kind that always nestles in the same spot whenever he's around Wilbur. The man just has that effect, and Tommy would be disgusted at the blatant feel of emotions, ew, but they've opened up to each other enough to bask in it contentedly.

Wilbur picks up the poor thermometer once more and tosses into Tommy's lap. He points a patronizing finger at the boy. "Check your temperature and do not move."

Tommy sticks his tongue out at him childishly. "You're not my dad."

"You're right, I'm your brother." Wilbur reaches over to tousle Tommy's hair that Tommy tries to playfully duck away from. "So you're going to listen to me when I say you are on official couch arrest until I deem further notice."

"Ooh, Doctor Soot. That's a new one." Tommy eyes the thermometer, fiddling with the instrument as he sinks back into the couch. "Docbur."

Wilbur has taken to rummaging through Tommy's kitchen. He opens and closes multiple cabinets and Tommy cringes when he hears Wilbur's noise of disappointment.

"Christ, I need to take you grocery shopping..." Wilbur mutters. He pokes his head out from behind a cupboard door. "Have you eaten? Or taken any medicine at all?"

Tommy shakes his head in answer to both just as the thermometer beeps. "38.4," he calls out.

Wilbur hums and stalks back into the living room after his unsuccessful search. "Could be worse. Do you think we could find a place that UberEats soup?"

Tommy shrugs once more. He doesn't seem to know a whole lot right now. Stupid sickness.

Wilbur sets about finding a place that UberEats fucking soup and all Tommy can do is sit there feeling like shit but also happy that he has someone here that bothers to care for him so much. He's victorious this time, however, and Wilbur quickly puts in an order, not even listening to Tommy's indignance on paying.

Step two is more searching, this time for the ibuprofen Tommy had previous plans to get ahold of, though that part doesn't take long. Wilbur all but forces the meds down Tommy's throat.

The last and final step is Tommy's favorite—sit and wait while he gets to use Wilbur as his personal body pillow.

They're in the middle of some nature documentary about birds Wilbur had put on for background noise more than anything, something easy for Tommy to doze off to, when their food arrives. Tommy whines dramatically when Wilbur has to shift Tommy's head off his shoulder as he goes to answer the door.

Their meals are finished in a relative, comfortable silence. The soup settles nicely, much to Tommy's relief, making him feel warm from the inside out.

"Come on," Wilbur says, setting his sandwich wrapper on the coffee table. He motions towards Tommy and then himself. "My shoulder is getting cold."

"Clingy much?" Tommy rolls his eyes, but lays his head back down without a second thought.

Wilbur wraps his arm around the boy's shoulder to tuck him closer to his side. "Maybe. But I don't see you complaining."

"I am so complaining," Tommy says, smile very evident in his voice. This stupid old man is making him too soft.

"Whatever you say, darling."