Chapter Text
Tommy wakes up feeling terrible. His head is pounding and his throat is dry and sore, not to mention the fact that his chest feels like someone took a knife and carved a hole in it. He groans and tries to sit up when he hears footsteps outside his house, but the effort is too much and he just plops right back down on his pillow.
“Tommy?” a voice calls out. Oh no, Wilbur. “Are you in here?”
He grunts and moves a little under the blankets to alert Wilbur of his presence.
“What–Toms, what are you doing in bed? It’s like noon, you…” Wilbur trails off as he reaches the bed and finally sees Tommy. His face breaks into a giant grin that the blond wishes he could punch right off. “Oh my prime. Are you sick? You’re sick!” he says with far too much glee in his voice for Tommy’s liking. “Come on, get up. We’re going to Techno and Phil’s.”
Tommy squawks indignantly as his brother pulls him out of bed. “No, Wilbur! You know how they get when I’m sick,” he whines.
“Oh yes, we are so going. Aw, baby do you have a fever? Do you want some honey?” Wilbur mimics, pushing him out the door.
“Wilbur!” Tommy yells, not pulling away but still complaining. “Can you hear me? I don’t want to go, you prick.”
The older does nothing but continue to smile in response, “How about a cool rag, can I get you one, darling?”
“Shut up!” Tommy swats at Wilbur’s arm, feeling his face heat up.
Tommy knows how hybrid instincts are. Neither him or Wilbur are hybrids but Technoblade and Phil are, and he’s sure as soon as they see a member of their family, their flock, their sounder sick and hurting, it won’t be good. Both of the older men are extreme mama birds when their instincts kick in and there’s no way they’ll leave Tommy alone once they realize he’s ill.
And what’s terrible is a part of him wants that.
A part of him wants to be held and cuddled and doted on by the people who he once called family. He wants to know that he’s safe in their arms, wants to hear them call him pet names and coo for fuck’s sake . Tommy wants that, so, so bad. But he wants it for real. He wants them to love him even when they’re not knee deep in their instincts, he wants them to love him all the time, not just when it’s convenient, and it hurts because he knows they can’t. He knows they could never really love him that much, not when they’re in the right mind set. It’s too complicated, he’s too difficult. And he could never blame them for that, but it still hurts.
So, as they trudge through the snow Tommy keeps his head down and crushes his hopes. He focuses on the fact that he really is sick, and he can most definitely get Philza and Techno to waste a few gapples and potions on him.
They arrive at the cabin shortly and Wilbur lifts a hand to knock on the large spruce door, still holding onto Tommy with his other arm.
Technoblade ends up opening the door, not Phil, and Tommy flinches when he speaks.
“What are you doing here?” he asks, before narrowing his eyes on Tommy, who shrinks back attempting to hide behind Wilbur in response. “No, scratch that. What is he doing here?”
“He’s sick,” Wilbur says, grinning wildly. Techno’s eyes widen and Tommy can see the exact moment his hybrid-brain kicks in.
He lets out a startled cry as the pink-haired man grabs him by the shoulders, shoves him inside, and grunts, “couch. Now.” Tommy obeys, walking over to the couch and plopping down on it, cross legged, but Techno furrows his brows and shakes his head. “No. You lay down.”
Tommy, slightly shaken, unfolds his legs and spreads them out, resting them on the far arm of the couch. He looks back to Technoblade for approval, and he nods his head curtly before going to find Phil. Wilbur perches on the other arm of the couch, still grinning like an absolute motherfucker. “Stop it, bitch. I can hear your smugness.”
“Aww, are you feeling better, sunshine?” he coos, voice dripping with sarcasm.
“No,” Tommy huffs in annoyance, “my bed was much more fuckin’ comfortable.”
Wilbur snorts, “your bed had moth holes.”
“So? I like moths, dickhead!”
His brother throws his head back and laughs and Tommy thinks, for a moment, that things might be okay. Because he’s in Techno and Phil’s living room, lying down on their couch with Wilbur’s warm laugh filling his ears. And no one is trying to kill, maim, or torture him.
Phil rushes in then, stirring a mug of tea with a soft looking blanket draped over his shoulder. He sets the tea with the spoon in it on the coffee table in front of the couch and gently places the blanket over Tommy. Techno comes in soon after with an old book, falling apart at the seams, and a satchel full of potions. He puts both on the coffee table next to the tea and settles into the armchair next to the couch.
“I’ll read later, if you want,” Technoblade tells him, gesturing to the book. It’s one of his old ones about Greek myths, Tommy knows even without looking at the title. “But for now you should get some more rest, runt.”
Tommy’s brows furrow. Suddenly a thought pops into his head, and, okay, it seems silly but, what if he wakes up and they aren’t there? What if this is a dream? What if he wakes up and everything was a dream and he’s back in exile and Wilbur is dead and Phil is gone and Techno killing his best friend is a fresh wound and–
“Braid my hair,” Tommy blurts, desperately trying to end his train of thought. Techno only looks confused for a moment before he gets up, walks over and kneels down in front of the couch. Tommy turns his head slightly, propping it up more to make it easier for Techno to reach.
As soon as Techno's big, steady hands brush his hair Tommy gasps. Oh he had forgotten how much he loved the feeling of his brother’s calloused hands sifting through his curls. It’s always been one of his favorite things. When they were younger Tommy used to tease him for it, for how gently he handled him. Now he craves it, savors every second of it. The careful sensation of someone so close, so loving is incredibly foreign. It’s almost too much for him to handle.
He begins to tremble slightly, small little shakes that are hardly noticeable at all. And then he’s sobbing. Loud, harsh sobs that rack his body and numb his brain. Techno hands still for a moment before he continues to braid the wailing boy’s hair. At some point, Phil sits down next to him on the couch and lets Tommy rest his legs in the older man's lap. Wilbur reaches out a hand and Tommy clutches it like a lifeline, listening as the brunette hums some faraway tune.
For the first time in months, maybe years, Tommy almost feels safe. He takes refuge in the knowledge that he won’t be here long enough to mess things up, that he’ll be out the door as soon as he’s well again. But for now, he’s here, in the arms of people who loved him once. What a way to feel.