Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Tommy is very good at being fine acting normal.

There’s a difference there, probably, but not one that Tommy has it in him to worry about. They’ve fallen into a very delicate, very tentative routine, he and Technoblade. Tommy washes the dishes (because he knows, for all his bravado, Techno cannot stand to touch wet food.) He sits outside and spends the majority of his time near the beehives, listening to the hum and letting them land their small, fuzzy bodies on his arms. Techno always watches him from a small distance away when he does this, eyes filled with some unknown emotion. The bees never sting him.

He pets Techno’s horse, which he’s pretty sure is sentient and/or magic. It nudges him towards the door when his fingers get too stiff from sitting in the snow to run properly through its mane. (If the horse is just a horse, that means Techno’s tendency to hold full conversations with it is a bit more alarming, so he assumes he’s probably right.) If Tommy’s too stubborn to go in, it neighs and kicks the door until Techno comes out and helps it with its life goals: presumably, stopping Tommy from dying the time-honored and traditional end of freezing to death wearing capris in a horse barn.

Both of them pretend they’re not wanted for crimes against the government. Both of them pretend this isn’t going to come crashing down around them. 

Techno isn’t particularly what Tommy (or, perhaps, anyone except Phil) would call in touch with his emotions. Or the emotions of others. Or anything beyond enchantment and bloodlust. But he’s trying, and Tommy appreciates it. 

His time living with Technoblade is very different from his time spent living in Logsted.

Techno never hits him, never takes anything from him, doesn’t agree when Tommy says things like, “I’m glad you’re here to support me, even if you’re the only one now, and I know it must be hard.”

(Techno doesn’t say how much of a burden it is, or how much Tommy’s friends must all be sick of him, or how safe Tommy can feel around him.)

He just gets a pinched look around his eyes and says, “You know that’s not true, right?” 

Somehow, it makes Tommy feel even safer.

Tommy did whatever Techno wanted for the first few weeks after he found him hunkered in his basement with an arrow sticking out of his side. The pliancy frustrated Techno, which Tommy tried to combat by doing what he thought Techno wanted, which frustrated Techno more, ad infinitum into a frustrating loop of obliviousness. If Tubbo were here, he would call them both hopeless when it comes to feelings, or maybe just stubborn and Tommy would say don’t you mean pig headed? and then they would both have a laugh at Techno’s expense while he pretended to be busy organizing his potions and rolling his eyes and definitely not smiling.

But, well.

Tubbo isn’t here.

They figured it out fine on their own though, more or less. Necessity proved to be the mother of innovation somewhere around the fourth dinner they spent together in excruciating silence, Tommy shoveling his food mechanically into his mouth while Techno clenched and unclenched his fists.

“Tommy,” Techno says after a few minutes of this. He’s trying to keep his voice soft and unthreatening. It isn’t really working. “Don’t eat so fast. You’re going to make yourself sick.”

Tommy winces, setting his fork down and making a visible effort to slow his pace. “Sorry. I’ll try harder to do what you want.”

Techno looks like he thinks maybe Tommy is being difficult on purpose, despite the sincerity in the other’s voice. He presses a hand to his temples. “Don’t apologize.”

“Oh. Sor—” Tommy catches himself. “Um. Whoops.”

“That’s not—” Techno cuts off midsentence to let out a long, frustrated growl. “I want to know what you want, Tommy, not what you think I want.”

“Oh.” Tommy processes this for a second. “Um. I don’t li—” Tommy cuts himself off, staring at his plate.

Techno looks encouraged in his own terrifying way. “Yes?”

He waves a dismissive hand through the air, still keeping a careful distance away from Techno. Just in case. “Nothing. I don’t want to make things harder for you. Whatever you want is fine, big man, I’m serious. I mean, you’re letting me stay here—”

“Tommy, if you don’t start asking me for something, I swear I am going to—” He takes a deep breath. Another apology rises unbidden in Tommy’s throat; he swallows it down. “What were you going to say? I promise I won’t get mad.”

“You’re doing a great job of it right now,” mutters Tommy, shoving more food into his mouth before he can be asked to repeat himself.

“What?”

Tommy shrugs helplessly, pointing to the chicken he’s chewing on.

Techno waits for him to swallow before speaking. He keeps the chicken in his mouth until it’s a tasteless mush. A vein in Techno’s neck pulses.

“Alright. Finish whatever you were going to say. Just the one thing, no repercussions. Then I’ll drop it for good.”

Tommy stares at him blankly. He’s not sure what will cost him more: refusing to speak or saying what he was going to.

Techno sighs. It sounds a lot older than Tommy thinks it should. “Please.”

It’s jarring; Techno has never said please a single time in his life. If Wilbur were here, he would die a fourth time. It chips away at whatever filters Tommy has acquired.

Tommy takes a deep breath. “I don’t like it when you wear armor to dinner,” he says in one big rush. He puts one arm up subtly, bracing himself for impact.

Techno frowns at him, eyes calculating, but he gently tugs off the netherite until he’s sitting in just a soft cotton t-shirt and jeans. It reminds Tommy of when they were kids, which makes a part of him ache that he immediately shoves back down. There don’t seem to be any repercussions for his request. He relaxes minutely.

He stands by what he said; it is better. It’s hard not to do anything Techno wants when he’s sitting there, diamond sword on his hip, probably capable of killing Tommy without standing up. 

Techno only asked him to take his armor off once. He didn’t have to ask again. Dream never liked having to ask Tommy things more than once, even if it was an honest mistake. His brother doesn’t seem to get mad at him, but this is Techno they’re talking about, so Tommy doesn’t chance it.

Techno nods with finality. “Okay. I can do that. Anything else?” 

He doesn’t yell, doesn’t reveal the whole thing to have been some sort of convoluted trap, doesn’t move a muscle at all. Tommy feels a rush of power, like he’s taken a strength potion. “Uh. I actually don’t particularly like chicken.”

His eyebrows raise. “Really? This recipe used to be your favorite.”

“It just…” Tommy stares at him, hoping he’ll figure out through osmosis that their family prepares chicken the same way he did. He can’t eat it without thinking about being entirely dependent on someone else, about phantom explosions ringing in his ears. So he’s just decided to eat as fast as possible and slow down when Techno tells him to.

For some reason, Techno doesn’t ordain this from his ten seconds of dead silence. Instead, Tommy says, “I guess I’ve changed a little.”

Techno snorts humorlessly. “Understatement of the year.” There’s a pause. “While we’re on the topic, I’ve noticed you don’t…” He hesitates. “If I told you to drink that water, Tommy, you don’t have to do it.”

Something curls up inside of Tommy’s chest, a piece of him that feels like it’s gone missing, the center of a star gone supernova and desperate. He continues staring at the table. “I don’t know what else to do,” he admits quietly. 

Techno takes a very deep breath. “Okay. Alright, I’ll— I’m going to stop speaking in orders then, okay?”

“Sure,” says Tommy. “Yeah.”

They finish the rest of their meal in silence, but it’s a little less oppressive this time around.

Technoblade is true to his word, for once. He stops himself while saying take out the trash, starts saying could you get that and would you mind and have you considered. It’s almost as shocking as the please.

Tommy can talk circles around him, now that he’s remembered how to do it. He indulges in the hobby of useless, pleasant chatter and constant jokes about Techno’s life as a hermit. He is so incredibly easy to make fun of— a pig man that dresses like royalty and lives alone in the snow with a cave containing the means to destroy civilization as they know it.

They’re trying, both of them, to make this whole thing work in their own unspoken ways.

Tommy hears Techno talking to Phil late at night through some spell or portal that is beyond his own capabilities. He’s trying to make his way downstairs for a glass of water when he recognizes the low tones of Techno’s voice, small and terrified in a way he’s never heard before.

“Phil, you have to come home. I have no idea what I’m doing—”

“It’ll be fine,” Phil says, his voice reassuring. Tommy wants desperately to make his presence known, to talk to his dad after all these months, but he wants even more to know why Technoblade sounds so scared. “You’ve got it under control.”

“What if I don’t?” Techno puts his head in his hands. “I keep doing all these things without thinking and you should see his face, Phil, he’s scared of me—”

“He isn’t scared of you,” Phil says. They both sit with their directionless rage for a minute. Tommy tries to remain very still.

“Anyway,” Phil says as if they hadn’t stopped talking, “I’m sending Wilbur over. I have business in L’manberg that needs to get taken care of before I can come, but he’s doing so much better. You’ll enjoy seeing him, Tech.” 

Techno gapes at him. “That isn’t going to help! Tell him to stay there!”

It’s an expression that would scare anyone else. Phil just laughs at him, light and teasing. “I think you three can figure out a way to handle just about anything.”

(Privately, Tommy is very pleased to still be included in the group of Capable and Responsible People.

He is a little less pleased that now there will be two murderers in the house with him.)

The next morning, Techno mumbles to him as soon as he comes down the stairs, “Phil will be here as soon as he can.”

Tommy looks at him expectantly. “And?”

The expression on his face is dark. “Fine. And Wilbur, too, I guess,” he says. “I think Carl needs some more hay.”

He storms outside and begins to shovel hay with vigor, even though the sun is barely up and neither of them have eaten. Tommy is content to let his brother pretend to be busy. He comes outside, tucks his knees under his chin, and sits with the bees.

Tommy can tell someone is nearby before there’s any indication of it. Technoblade’s ears perk up, eyes narrowing. A constipated expression comes over his face. Tommy reconsiders his theory to perhaps include a psychic connection with Carl.

“Welcome,” Techno says, throwing the door open, sounding as if his guest is anything but welcome.

“Should’ve known you’d expect me,” Ghostbur says, nodding. He wraps his yellow cardigan tighter around himself and makes no attempt to step into the house. “Perks of having pig ears. And also, y’know, the call from Pops.”

Techno glares at Ghostbur. Ghostbur glares at Techno. Tommy looks at both of them and rolls his eyes. It’s not like they aren’t all guilty of things that everyone will only be comfortable unpacking when Tommy is old enough to drink.

Ghostbur is odd to be around these days— definitely something different from the person who blew up an entire city, but also something with more character than the bumbling cottagecore optimist that visited him in exile.

Feeling, Tommy thinks— that’s what Ghostbur has unlocked his capability for, and probably why Phil sent him over in the first place despite the fact that all three brothers haven’t been together in years without a murder taking place.

“Good to see you, Ghostbur,” Tommy says, squeezing past Techno and holding out a hand. He retracts it immediately after; he’s not sure how much of a physical form his brother has, or how to navigate the etiquette surrounding undead beings. There’s not very much space between the three of them. He’s pretty sure he would go right through Ghostbur if he fell. None of them move. It’s quite warm, Tommy thinks privately.

“He wants to be called Wilbur again,” Techno says, his tone mocking. “Went so well last time—“

“Oh, come on,” says— apparently, Wilbur now. “I’m not any happier about this than you are. Pops said he thought it would be good.”

Techno doesn’t exactly roll his eyes—that would be too undignified— but it’s a close thing. “Yes, the final objective judge in this world of what would help me out: Philza.”

“Listen, I know you don’t like me—”

Technoblade shifts to put a hand on his sword. He’s put his armor back on. Tommy isn’t completely sure what he hopes to accomplish that way when fighting his brother who is also a ghost. “Oh, really? What gave you that impression? Was it before or after you committed a major act of terrorism and forced our father to kill you?”

“He’s your father, is he? Not just Phil anymore, now that it’s convenient—”

“Guys,” says Tommy.

“—and while a past version of me did some bad things, the current version of you sent out two Withers before escaping execution, and I don’t hear anyone scrambling for their pitchforks!”

Techno lets out a longsuffering groan. “I knew this was a bad idea!” 

Wilbur throws his hands in the air. “Oh, put the sword down. What are you going to do, kill me, wait, that’s right! I’m incorporeal because my actions have consequences—”

“Guys,” Tommy says. He stands very still between them. Both brothers pause in their arguing; Wilbur studies him for a second, head tilted to one side. 

Techno stares at the horizon before bursting into motion. He sheathes his sword and presses a hand to his forehead. “Get inside. Tommy, get inside, now.”

“What’s wrong?” Wilbur says, but he steps into the kitchen and shuts the door behind him. 

“For goodness’ sake, were you followed here on top of everything else?” Techno shakes his head. “That’s right, you don’t know because you haven’t been here—“

“Techno, not the time,” Tommy says. A pool of dread is settling in the pit of his stomach.

“Right.” He hands Tommy a potion of invisibility, which he drains in one go, and gestures towards the storage room. 

Tommy’s voice has dropped to a whisper. “Shouldn’t I go in the cellar?” 

Techno shakes his head, more fiercely this time. “They’ll be expecting that. Get where we discussed.” Techno hasn’t asked many questions; he knows Tommy’s in danger with no clear reason as to why. He’s doing what he does best: jumping into action and hoping for the best.

It’s disorienting not being able to see his body, but Tommy makes his way to the back of a room off the kitchen and folds himself into a wooden box. He tucks his knees into his chest, making himself as small as possible.

He takes a deep, steadying breath. It’s probably just Phil. He said he would be here soon, didn’t he? Or maybe Ranboo, or someone come to check on— 

“I see I’m interrupting a touching moment,” says Dream, his voice soft and teasing and entirely too close.

“You didn’t knock.” Techno’s voice is cold, each syllable clipped.

“Didn’t I?” He can hear Dream lean against the counter. The house creaks beneath him. “Ah, well. My apologies.”

All Tommy can see is the sides of the box in the near darkness. His heart feels like it’s going to shatter out of his ribcage; he tries his best to keep his frantic breathing silent. Dream is here. Dream’s finally found him. Wilbur can’t do anything, and no one else is here, and Technoblade… 

He tried to kill you. He doesn’t care about you, Tommy. And why would he? He has the world to gain from selling you out.

“Been a while since you two have seen each other,” Dream is saying from the kitchen.

“It certainly has.” Techno shuffles something around. “We’re expecting Phil in a few days, as soon as he can get away from L’manberg.”

Dream laughs, like this is just a normal visit, like everything is amusing to him. Tommy sits silent in his box and imagines what it would be like to put a sword through his heart. “Quite the reunion! It hardly seems like the gang’s all here, though, without Tom—”

Wilbur makes a noise very close to a growl. “Don’t you dare say his name.”

”Oh,” Dream says. He sounds unruffled. “The ghost’s learned how to pick a fight again, huh?”

“Wilbur,” Techno says evenly. “Be civil. Dream’s right. I wish Tommy could be here to join us.”

“Funny you should say that. Actually, he seems to have escaped exile a few weeks ago. We’re worried about the threat he poses to Tubbo, not to mention the city as a whole.” 

Techno continues as if he’s talking to a very small, very slow child. “He wouldn’t do anything to Tubbo. They’re best friends.”

“Well, I mean. Best friends, brothers… Do bonds even mean anything around here?”

There’s a long, tense silence.

“Can I help you with something?” Techno says finally. His voice is considerably less neutral. “We really need to start preparing things for our father.”

“You wouldn’t mind if I have a look around, would you?” Dream says, already opening a cabinet. “You must understand how suspicious this looks. I’m just doing my job.”

Tommy tenses into an even tighter ball. He can’t breathe. Air stutters in and out of his chest. Dream is here. Dream is in his house, with his family. Dream is angry with him. He used to get furious when Tommy even mentioned leaving Logsted. Maybe if he gives up now, no one else will get hurt because of his stupid decisions. 

“Not at all. Just keep it brief, would you? We don’t get to see Phil often.”

Every rational thought he previously possessed grinds to a halt. Footsteps make their way around the kitchen, up the stairs. Back down again. Into the room where Tommy is sitting, stock still and invisible. (He desperately hopes he remains invisible.)

There are several long minutes. No one speaks.

All he can hear in the ringing silence is Dream’s voice. No one loves you like I do, Tommy. His limbs are numb, the tips of his fingers down to his toes, and it’s not from the invisibility potion. It’s a shame they’ve all left you. I guess it’s just the two of us. There’s nothing in the dark box to ground him in the present. He can’t see or think, only listen to Dream as he makes his way through the house like he has a right to everything in it. Have you been hiding things from me, Tommy? Don’t make this harder than it has to be. Distantly, he’s aware of the door opening and shutting. The rough, hard oak digs into his legs. You’ve been so good lately. He hates him, he hates him, he hates him— 

“Tommy, it’s alright.” Techno’s voice is loud in the silence. “He’s gone.”

It takes a few tries before his voice will work, and when it does, the sound is very small. “Okay.”

There’s a rustling noise. “...Do you want to come out?” says Wilbur.

“Not really. Think I’ll just stay here for a bit.” He wraps his arms tighter around himself and tries to stop shivering. “It’s rather cozy, actually.” 

“Tommy—” Techno starts, but there must be some sort of unspoken communication, because he just sighs and says, “Tell us if you need anything.”

When Tommy opens the crate, it’s dark outside. The fire is dwindling to ash in the fireplace. He puts one foot unsteadily on the ground, and then the other. Blood rushes back into his extremities.

Techno is sitting on the floor next to the crate, fast asleep, mouth hanging open. Wilbur’s head is in his lap, passing through him slightly. He takes a moment to smile at them and relish the sight.

Tommy makes his way outside to get more wood for the fire when he hears a noise in the distance. There’s a moment of panic— Dream’s back, he’s alone, he’s visible, he’s unprotected, he’s not ready— before he recognizes it as wings and steps further into the forest to greet Phil.

He’s going to say something witty, make a comment about needing help with the wood, but as soon as they make eye contact, Tommy blurts out, “I missed you.”

He feels stupid as soon as it’s out of his mouth, but Phil smiles. “I missed you too.”

Tommy opens the door and ushers Phil inside, stoking the fire and showing him the pile of his brothers asleep in the corner. He’s still a little shaken up from earlier, but things feel okay now.

Phil asks if he’s eaten recently, starts making soup when he says no. He already knows where all the ingredients are. Together, they add tomatoes and chicken stock and cilantro. Tommy wraps his arms around his dad, Phil brushing hair back from his forehead in the way he did when they were little. They stay that way until the soup is ready.

He wants to keep them happy. All of them. They don’t say it, in as many words— and Tommy knows they never would— but privately they’re all hoping he’ll just… go back to the way he used to be. Loud, brash, obnoxious Tommy Innit. 

So he does.

The next morning, he tells jokes and smiles when Wilbur laughs at them. He teases his brothers about their previous cuddling. He steals toast off people’s plates, sighs dramatically, does all the right things at all the right moments.

He still sees them worry. The three of them make prolonged eye contact over coffee. They have low conversations while he’s supposed to be sleeping. Whenever he says something wrong in a way he can’t detect, as if they’re playing a game he doesn’t understand the rules to, their concern in the uncomfortable moment of silence that follows is almost a tangible thing.

(Phil ends up staying a little longer than planned. His excuse— something about being less needed back in the city and Techno helping with diplomacy— is obviously bull, but Tommy doesn’t have the heart to call him on it.)

There aren’t— he doesn’t call them bad days, but there are days that are… not as good. 

Today is one of them. 

He wakes up late in the morning from a nightmare he can’t remember, some uninvited and unknown terror keeping him frozen. His tongue feels numb when he tries to speak. Every subtle sound grates against his ears. 

It’s the perfect day to claim they need more supplies and spend the day mining; Techno never begrudges him some alone time. But it’s the one day Phil’s been able to slip away from his duties, because of course it is, and Tommy wants to spend as much time with him as possible. 

If he stares a little too long at one spot on the floor, gaze vague and unmoving, no one calls him on it. Wilbur pets his hair—it’s like being comforted by a steady breeze— and they sit together on the couch, listening to Phil talk or relaxing into the comfortable silence that follows. 

Techno has on his glasses, taped together because he’s too stubborn to go to an actual optometrist, and he’s reading a book on enchanting tables while pretending to listen. Wilbur cuts in occasionally, talking about all the sheep that now follow him around in a loyal pack and what he thinks Techno should do in terms of interior design. 

But everything is still too much, even though objectively it isn’t much at all. His nails begin to dig into his palm, the rest of his skin burning along with it, so he stands up as casually as he can and excuses himself to do some chores. (It isn’t very casual. He sees Techno and Phil make eye contact as he leaves.)

Tommy sits underneath the beehive and lets the steady buzz slow his breathing. Tugging on the silver chain that stays around his neck (always, no matter what) he runs his fingers over a small compass, gazing into the distance to watch the sunset streak purple across the sky in the direction it points. Your Tubbo.

He pretends he doesn’t see three concerned, conspicuous faces watching him from the window. He does not get stung. 

When Tommy finally heads back in, the sun has completed its path below the horizon. The crescent of light from the moon is the only thing illuminating his path to the porch. He leaves the door open behind him, a force of habit from years of having no doors to worry about.

“Sorry, guys, the… bees were being stubborn?” he says. It’s not his best lie, okay, so sue him. 

Techno stands up from sharpening one of his swords and groans. “Tommy, how many times do I have to tell you?” 

“Yeah, yeah, old man, we know you like—“ The words die on his tongue. 

Techno is reaching past him, closing the door. It slams shut; the noise echoes through the small room. There’s nowhere for him to go, and he backs up until the unfinished wood of the door is pressing into his shoulder blades. Techno doesn’t move away, just looks at him curiously. 

“What is your problem?” Tommy says, more to himself than anything. His hands have started trembling. He tucks them into the pockets of his jacket. 

“Tommy?”

He looks up at Techno and tries to give a shaky smile. “Hm?”

“Is something the matter? 

Why can’t you do anything right, Tommy? A flash of green. The cold, white porcelain of a mask. This is why you have to stay away from everyone. Cold wind whistling through the scratchy fabric of a poorly made tent. Hands on his arms, tight and bruising. This is why I’m here. 

He screws his eyes shut, presses his hands into them. “Dream?” he whispers. 

“Tommy, what’s wrong?” someone is saying. “It’s just us. We aren’t going to hurt you—“

I’m your friend, Tommy. Right? Friends don’t hurt each other. I would never hurt you the way Tubbo did.

...I guess you really weren’t friends, huh?

That’s wrong. This is his family, and they aren’t— They wouldn’t—

Tommy, when I said you’re never gonna be president, you’ve got to understand, that wasn’t— that wasn’t a challenge. That’s true. 

You’re never going to be president, Tommy. 

He takes in a long, shaky breath. Holds it until it starts to burn in his lungs, until spots dance in his vision. He still doesn’t let it out. Someone’s hand is on his shoulder, and his knees buckle. He doesn’t feel the impact when he hits the floor.

But if you want to be a hero, Tommy?

Then die like one.

The world has condensed itself into the white-hot tension that is Tommy’s entire being, the way he’s braced himself for impact, like a raised fist or a drawn bowstring or the scratch on a record. Like the way he’s learned to be loved. His arms and legs feel full of static. He can’t process anything outside of the fact that he’s choking, this overwhelming nausea that seeps through every part of his body. 

It’s going to kill him. He can’t stop shaking. His ears are ringing. The feeling is somehow intimately familiar and still a shock to the senses, everything telling him to run and then refusing to work with him. A pathetic pile of adrenaline with nowhere to aim it, that’s all that will be left of Tommy in the end.

After a few minutes, his heartbeat slows. Marginally. His knees stop trembling, along with his head that’s pressed firmly into them. His nails come away from the pale white of his forearms, and he numbly notes that he’s gripped them hard enough to draw blood. 

There’s a pattern being tapped on the floor— not touching him, but close enough to be comforting. He leans towards it blindly. 

Someone is counting, very distantly. It’s familiar and he knows, faintly, that he should be listening to it. That particular impulse is just drowned out by the overwhelming certainty that he is about to die cold and alone on the kitchen floor. 

“It’s me,” says the voice, more insistently. “You’re okay.”

The ringing subsides. He still feels like a pot of oil has been forced down his throat, everything inside of him shaky and raw. Tears burn behind his eyes. It’s not fair. It isn’t fair. Techno’s been through shit that’s so much worse. Wilbur’s dead, for crying out loud, and neither of them have any trouble getting it together. 

“Good, Tommy,” Phil says softly. “Keep breathing. It’s just us.”

Tommy gasps in time with the rise and fall of his father’s chest. It takes him a few tries to get it right, but Phil doesn’t comment on it.

“What the hell did you do?” Wilbur is yelling, Tommy realizes with a jolt.

“What the hell did I do?” Techno is yelling back. “Maybe, I don’t know, if someone hadn’t set a pattern for manipulation in his past—“

“Oh, that is rich coming from the person who killed his best friend in front of him—“

“It wasn’t a permanent death! Kid’s fine now! Ruling L’manberg or some crap like that! You blew up a city—”

“That wasn’t me—“

“Oh, really, because a few months ago you seemed to really want the name Wilbur back—“

“You don’t know what it’s like— “

“Boys,” says Phil quietly, and they both fall silent. 

Tommy is on the floor, blinking a little too fast. He lets out a shuddery breath. There are many words that want to come tumbling out of his mouth, apologies and pleas and gratitude.

Instead he says, in a very small voice, “What’s wrong with me?”

Both Techno and Wilbur look up as one. 

“Is he back with us?” Techno says. His voice is strained in a way Tommy has never heard.

“Nothing’s wrong with you,” Phil says gently. He moves from kneeling in front of Tommy to sitting next to him on the floor. “You’re safe.”

“But I’m not, am I?” The words come pouring out of him. There’s no way to stop them. “I’m never safe. Not here. Every time Quackity comes by, or— or Dream,” he says, spitting the name like it burns him, “I have to hide. Because we all know that’s what’s best, isn’t it? Tommy disappearing into thin air?” His chest begins heaving up and down again. He clings to Phil’s scarred hand like it’s a lifeline.

Techno looks pained. “Tommy, that’s not what I—” He looks helplessly at Phil. “You know that’s never what we intended to…”

“But it is,” Tommy says. His voice breaks on the last syllable. He can pinpoint the exact moment the illusion falls apart. “It’s what all of you did. No one came to visit, no one came to my party, no one showed up except to throw everything back in my face.”

Tommy runs a hand through his hair, mussing it up even further, eyes fixed on the floor. He can feel tears making their slow way out from behind his eyes, burning hot and shameful. “You— all of you left me alone with him.”

Tommy misses the way his family looks at each other, the way Phil has a question in his frown and Techno goes rigid. All of them seem at a loss for what to say.

Wilbur reaches out and smooths Tommy’s hair back, a trait he picked up wholesale from their dad, and everything he’s been keeping in for the past year suddenly demands to come out.

Tommy buries his face into Phil’s shoulder and cries, heaving sobs welling up from a place inside of him that he wasn’t sure still existed. It’s hard to hug a ghost, but they manage, Wilbur settling vaguely near his torso and continuing to run a hand through his hair. Techno sits on the floor a distance away, never one for physical affection, but he reaches out and wraps his cloak around Tommy. It’s the one they all designed for his birthday, many years ago. The texture is soothing and it smells like his brother, like soil and cloves.

“I was so scared,” he gasps into the fabric of Phil’s shirt once he’s pretty sure he’s cried himself out. His face is red and puffy; his hair is matted to his face with tears. He really should let one of them cut it, but the thought of letting anyone near him with a dagger sends the icy feeling down his spine again. Tommy is mourning something, something important that he’s lost or perhaps had stolen, but he can’t put into words exactly what. “And so lonely.”

“What happened, Theseus?” Techno says.

It’s an all-encompassing question. Tommy never volunteered any information, never even mentioned Dream’s name specifically until now, and Techno certainly wasn’t going to be the one to bring it up. They haven’t discussed why Tommy showed up half-dead in his basement two months ago. Why movements that aren’t telegraphed make him jump now, why the bags under his eyes have deepened, why he runs his hands (absentmindedly, when he thinks no one is watching) over scars that weren’t there before. 

Tommy doesn’t want to say it, wants to sit exactly where he is without ruining the moment or speaking any of it into being. But Techno’s expression is absolutely wrecked, so gut wrenchingly earnest that Tommy lets out a long sigh and says, “So, Dream was supposed to watch me during my exile.”

Once he starts, he can’t stop. It feels so good to admit it to someone, all of it. He tells them about how much it had hurt to be betrayed by Tubbo like that, how they couldn’t talk to each other after the fact, how his visitors dropped off one by one until it was only Dream.

The way Dream convinced him no one loved him, he had no purpose, he had no home. (He casts an uneasy look towards Wilbur at this, who winces away from it.) The way his supposed protector destroyed his things and punished him, withholding food and human contact. The way Tommy wrapped his fresh bruises while sitting in the Nether and stared into the lava sometimes, just… wondering. 

The way he wasn’t sure what was worse towards the end: being with Dream, or being without him.

They’re still sitting in the same positions two hours later, Tommy’s back to the door, Phil with an arm wrapped around him protectively. At some point, Wilbur leaves to make tea— jasmine, their favorite— and gently cleans the shallow cuts on Tommy’s arms made by his own nails.

Techno leaves for about five minutes somewhere near the middle of his story. Tommy is pretty sure he went outside to stab some trees, but he can hardly fault his brother for that.

Tommy isn’t sure what reaction he expects when he’s finished. Disbelief, certainly. Maybe he would be reprimanded for lying or for being weak, maybe they were going to kick him out again, maybe— 

“Thank you,” Phil says softly. “For telling us.”

Tommy gives him a shrug in response, but it fails to come off as indifferent. “Can we keep talking about this in the morning?” he asks, voice hoarse. “I’m…” Exhausted down to the marrow of his bones, terrified, freezing in a way that fire can’t fix. “Really tired.”

“Of course,” Wilbur says without hesitation. 

“We won’t let anything happen to you,” Techno promises, so quiet he almost doesn’t hear it over the crackle of the fire.

He nods sleepily, letting Phil lead him to the cot they put together for Wilbur in the corner of the living room. He starts to walk away after making sure Tommy is settled, but a hand tugging on his sleeve stops him.

“Stay,” Tommy says. He still hasn’t trained his brain out of expecting a punishment for needing things, but it hurts too much to let go. Laying in the makeshift bed of his dead brother, he feels much too cold, much too small. He feels every day of the sixteen years he’s lived; he feels how young that truly makes him. 

It’s not a crime to want things, he reminds himself firmly, and it’s certainly not a burden to want his family.

A surprised smile breaks out on Phil’s face. “Of course,” he says, slowly moving until he’s next to Tommy, who immediately presses into his side. Technoblade heaves an annoyed sigh, all for show, and curls up at the end of the bed. Wilbur settles somewhere over all three of them, light as a feather.

For the first time in a long time, Tommy thinks, maybe he doesn’t have to be fine. Maybe he doesn’t even have to be safe. He is warm, and he is loved.

That’s more than enough.