Chapter Text
Just to be clear, Wilbur hated hospitals.
There were probably a lot of reasons why, but really he just hated the atmosphere. Just being there, in a place with shiny floors and white tiles everywhere, made him feel ill.
The last time he had been here- well, the last time he'd been here for a reason other than the person sleeping down the hall- he'd been having an operation. A blood transfusion, to be exact.
He walked through the double doors, glancing around. A young woman was there, as well as an elderly couple. A teenage girl was struggling with two very loud kids.
The visitor's area was like this a lot. Usually pretty empty, especially in the ICU.
Wilbur walked up to the receptionist, who looked up from where she was busily typing on her computer.
"Tommy Craft," Wilbur told her. She tapped something onto her keyboard before nodding. "Okay. Need me to show you the way?"
Wilbur shook his head.
"Right down the hall, third door on the right," the lady said anyway.
"Thanks," Wilbur said. The woman smiled sympathetically at him.
Wilbur headed down the corridor, resisting the urge to go back and snap at the woman.
He knew she was just trying to be nice, but he had grown to hate the consoling smiles and pitying glances people threw his way. Tommy had always loathed pity of any kind, and Wilbur now knew why.
He pushed open the door with the name Tommy Craft written on it with a marker. The name was written on a whiteboard, and starting to smudge.
Tommy Craft, Wilbur's little brother and the reason Wilbur was here today. Tommy had been the only person with the same blood type as him. Even Wilbur's twin hadn't been a match. But Tommy had.
Dad hadn't been sure, worried Tommy might get hurt being a blood donor, but the boy had shaken him off. He'd been so determined to help Wilbur. And he had.
Wilbur, on the other hand, hadn't been the slightest bit of help to his little brother when he'd had the accident.
Wilbur stepped inside the room, quietly shutting the door behind him. The hinge creaked slightly, making Wilbur wince.
Inside, on a bed in the middle of the room, Wilbur's little brother lay sleeping. At least, he looked like he was sleeping. But sleeping people usually woke up.
Tommy hadn't. He'd been in a coma for six months, three weeks, four days and two hours.
Not that Wilbur was counting.
Wilbur walked over, sitting next to Tommy on one of the hard plastic chairs that stood at his bedside. They were bright orange, in the ugliest shade possible. Wilbur shifted, trying to find a more comfortable position.
He slung his guitar off his back and placed it in the chair next to him. He brought it every day, in the hope that maybe when he played, Tommy would wake up, like some stupid fairytale. He remembered one of the stories in Techno's book of Greek mythology, about a man named Orpheus, the most amazing musician in the world. He'd went to the Underworld to bring his wife back, playing beautifully enough to wake even the dead.
Unfortunately, real life wasn't a fairytale, or a myth. Real life sucked.
Wilbur cleared his throat awkwardly. He'd never get used to being the one to start a conversation, especially with Tommy. Tommy always just said whatever was on his mind, always able to start a conversation. Or an argument.
Wilbur would give anything for Tommy to sit up and start arguing with him right now.
But his brother stayed sleeping. Wilbur always thought of it as just sleeping, even though Tommy would never have slept like that, just lying on his back, completely calm, like someone in a coffin. Tommy slept in the weirdest positions possible, usually practically hanging of the side of the bed, snoring.
And he looked far too neat to be just sleeping. Tommy's blonde curls were always wild, sticking up and falling in his face and going everywhere. Now they were neatly brushed back, giving Wilbur a clear view of Tommy's pale, almost ghostly face.
Wilbur shivered, glancing over at the open window. He considered closing it, but he didn't. Tommy preferred open windows.
Tommy's not here, whispered a dark, selfish, pessimistic part of Wilbur that he ignored. Tommy was here, and he was going to wake up.
Wilbur picked up his guitar, and strummed a chord. Maybe he imagined it, but he thought he saw Tommy move, just slightly.
"Um." Wilbur cleared his throat again. "I've been writing a new song, Toms. D'you wanna hear it?"
Wilbur already knew he'd get no response, but he asked anyway. "I'll take that as a yes. You probably don't get to hear much music in here, right?"
Wilbur could almost hear Tommy's voice. Yeah, except for when you come and play every week, dickhead.
Wilbur strummed another chord. "I know, but the doctors reckon you can hear what's going on around you. So, you know, that's why we all keep talking. So maybe you'll hear us, and wake up."
Wilbur looked up from his guitar hopefully, but Tommy didn't stir.
"Right. Well, I'm gonna play it now. Tell me what you think?"
Wilbur took a deep breath and began to play. He'd practised this song so many times he knew it by heart, though he hadn't put any words to the music. It was a sad, mourning tune, not like the songs Wilbur usually wrote.
Wilbur lost himself in the music, closing his eyes and playing. He tried to forget he was in a hospital, playing music for a brother who might never wake up. He tried to imagine he was at home, playing in his room, while Tommy listened, enraptured.
Too soon, the song came to a halt, and Wilbur reluctantly opened his eyes.
Tommy had not moved.
Of course he hadn't, Wilbur thought bitterly. He'd done this hundreds of times. Why would today be any different?
"Did you like it?" Wilbur asked anyway. "Look, Toms, you don't even have to talk. You can just blink, to tell me you like it. Or just move at all, really. Even if you didn't like it. Just so I know you're listening."
There was silence in the room, except for the quiet beeping of the machines Tommy was hooked up to.
"I'd appreciate some constructive criticism," Wilbur muttered.
Of course, even awake, Tommy's criticism was rarely constructive, but Wilbur didn't care. He just wanted some sort of sign Tommy was actually there, that he knew what was going on. The doctors had told them that coma patients often heard things going on around them, so Wilbur had learned all of Tommy's favourite songs and played them for him, in the hope that he'd wake up.
He hadn't.
"I better go," Wilbur sighed, standing up. He wasn't very good at sitting around for long. He picked his guitar up. "I'll be back next week, Tommy. Or sooner, if you wake up."
Tommy's chest rose and fell gently, but apart from that, the boy might have been dead.
"Goodbye, Toms," Wilbur whispered, slipping out the door.