Chapter Text
Some days are better than others.
It’s the simple truth of it really, as real and constant as the stars in the sky. Joy cannot exist without pain, love cannot exist without loss, and good days cannot exist without bad ones. Such is the reality of life.
The tricky thing about it, though, is that Tommy never knows which one he’ll be getting. The good or the bad, the pain or the joy.
The love, or the loss.
So, here’s how it goes:
He wakes up, and the day begins.
Some mornings, it’s slow; natural, like the gentle push and pull of the sea over the beach. It’s still dark, with the first rays of light just beginning to shine through his curtains, bathing his room in a golden hue as the sun kisses the horizon.
Sometimes, Tommy will get up to watch the sunrise from his window. He basks in the colors; the stunning blues and yellows fading into one another to create something beautiful. Other times, he stays wrapped up in his sheets and watches the light slowly creep further into his room. The warmth is nice, and it’s even better when Tommy can take comfort in the fact that there will be another sunrise to watch tomorrow.
These are the mornings Tommy likes.
At that hour, when the sun is just making its way into the sky and the rest of the house is asleep, the house is quiet. It’s the only time it ever is, and even then, Techno’s snores from across the hall cut through the silence. There is no music playing through warm speakers, no people in the kitchen to fill the room with easy conversation. That comes later, once the sun has fully risen and the day is in full swing. Until then, Tommy enjoys the peacefulness of it all.
And then there are the bad days in which Tommy wakes with a jolt.
The terror runs down his spine like electricity, shocking every nerve in his body into overdrive because—there’s danger. Something dangerous is close and if Tommy doesn’t do something, he will be locked away for the rest of his life.
He thrashes—always moving, always fighting , because who is Tommy if not someone that fights— against something heavy on his legs, pushing it away until finally, he can get himself free.
His hands burn, feeling as if he stuck them in a pot of boiling oil. Manacles close around them so tight his bones might snap, and when Tommy tries to move again he finds that he can’t. His arms are stuck, held straight out by the cuffs as something warm wraps around his shoulders. A cry rips through Tommy’s throat.
The thing pulls him closer .
Warmth bleeds into his side and–that’s not right, it should be cold. Why isn’t it cold?
Far off, a hushed voice says words Tommy can’t make out. There isn’t any venom laced in the sweetness of the words, just genuine-sounding concern, and all at once Tommy realizes that it’s Techno.
He blinks and he’s in his room, body pressed uncomfortably into Techno’s side as he teeters on the edge of the bed. The man holds him upright, his hands wrapped tightly around Tommy’s wrists. He holds their arms out, keeping them a safe distance away as Tommy stares, confused. The cuffs were there, weren’t they? Were they Techno’s hands the whole time?
It takes a few minutes for Tommy to catch his breath. When he does, he finds that he can’t remember the nightmare that woke him in the first place. The images and sounds haunting him are gone, fading into nothing as Tommy is left to deal with the fallout.
Techno helps him collect the pillows and blankets that were thrown about the room during Tommy’s episode. When that is cleaned, he offers to stay awake. Tommy shakes his head, not wanting to be the reason his brother is too tired to go to work in the morning, but Techno insists. He hands Henry over, grabs a book from the bookshelf, and flips it open to Tommy’s favorite story.
On the bad days, Tommy stays in bed for the rest of the day, sheets pulled up to his chin as he tries to focus on anything other than the thoughts running through his head. They warp, twisting into something cruel despite his best efforts. They almost sound like Dream, his voice a carefully crafted needle aimed directly at Tommy’s head.
When it gets too overwhelming, Tommy shuts his eyes. He tries to go back to sleep to ignore it for a little bit, but he rarely can.
Time doesn’t wait for him to get up. It marches on, days stretching into weeks, and then months. Every morning is a flip of a coin, a story he doesn’t know the ending to, and Tommy lives through every one. The mornings between nightmares grow, promising more good days than Tommy is used to. He figures that the universe owes him a few pleasant mornings.
But, despite whatever the universe may owe him, the good can not exist without the bad. It’s that simple.
Today is a rare day in which, despite the nightmares waking Tommy up long before the sun rises, he manages to tear himself out of bed. It’s difficult, with every step further into the hall reminding him of how much he’d rather be wrapped in his sheets, but he does it anyway.
The day keeps moving, the seconds passing by with the mechanical tick of the clock.
Tommy watches it from across the room, mentally counting down the minutes until he’s free to return to bed. Moving so slowly is almost painful. Nearby, a throat clears, drawing Tommy’s eyes away from the clock and back to the woman sitting across from him.
Her hair–a wild mess of white curls, is pulled back today, freeing her face from the strands. She offers a kind smile, looking nearly as soft as the sweaters she’s always wearing. “You seem distracted today,” Puffy notes as he shifts in her seat. She pulls her legs up and rests a small notepad on her knee. “What’s on your mind?” The pencil dances between her fingers as she watches him, waiting for an answer. So much for waiting for the session to pass in silence.
“Nightmare,” Tommy answers after a moment, already regretting how agitated he sounds. Puffy is friendly, kind of like Niki, and all she’s trying to do is help, but that voice in the back of Tommy’s head is loud.
She doesn’t know you, it says, she wouldn’t understand.
She would, if anyone would, it'd be the ex-hero turned therapist who experienced her fair share of traumatic events. She had seen death, destruction, grieving families; and then she saw the way the commission she worked for brushed it all under the rug when the day was over. It’s the reason she left and decided to try and help others like her afterward.
“It fucking sucked, but now I’m more pissed about losing my streak.”
Puffy nods, scribbling something down on the notepad. “Almost three weeks, right?” Tommy hums in confirmation, and when he doesn’t respond further, she continues. “It’s not necessarily your fault, those episodes can be brought on by a ton of different things both in and out of your control. Have you been experiencing more stress than usual lately?”
Yes, is what his brain supplies, but the word doesn’t make it to his mouth. Instead, he pulls at his fingers until he feels the satisfying pop of his knuckles.
Puffy frowns. She reaches into a bag resting against her chair, retrieving a small fidget toy. With a small ‘ here,’ she extends it toward Tommy, who takes it without question.
“It’s okay if you are. Stress—for anyone—is normal, and given the trauma you experienced I’d expect you to have more than the typical person would.” She lets the comment hang in the air a moment, just long enough for Tommy to give a response if he wanted. He keeps his mouth shut. Sure, he’s stressed. Tommy’s stressed all the time, but there isn’t always a good reason for it. He’s got a roof over his head and food on his plate, and he even has people he calls family. It’s all he needs, so what’s the use in dwelling on “stress” if he can do something else?
“Tommy,” Puffy sighs. He twists the toy between his fingers, lips pursed as Puffy balances the notepad on the arm of her chair. “The third anniversary is coming up in a few weeks,” she says carefully, dancing around the subject with practiced grace, “and this has been a difficult time for you in the past. Do you think that may have something to do with it?”
Three years. It doesn’t feel right.
He’s been through so much in that time—lived so many different lives. Red Death; living alone; meeting Wilbur; losing his home only to find his way back again. It’s nearly impossible for Tommy to wrap his head around it all. “I don’t know, maybe,” he says, sounding like he’s asking a question. “All that is done now, though. Monument Day is canceled—so I don’t have to deal with that bullshit—and Inferno suspended the official search for Red Death.”
“The most obvious reminders might be gone, but that doesn’t mean the memories can’t still bother you.”
“I know that,” Tommy retorts. Blood boils in his cheeks, burning them red, and he’s not exactly sure why. “They bother me sometimes, I guess, but I’ve been dealing with that shit for a while and it never triggered fucking nightmares before. I’m not worried about that.”
“Well then,” She calmly starts, her tone purposefully light in an effort of curbing Tommy’s frustration, “what are you worried about?”
“I—” Tommy cuts himself short, suddenly at a loss for words. It’s a question bigger than the sea and Puffy knows it, but she doesn’t jump in to help. She lets Tommy turn the question over in his mind; lets him float through the waves in search of a response. If it goes too long, or Tommy clearly can’t come up with anything, she’ll step in. For now, she waits.
The seconds tick by as Tommy thinks, silent safe for the fidget toy clicking against itself whenever he twists it too quickly. There are so many ways to answer, and deep down Tommy knows what it is he needs to talk about—knows who it is that’s been making Tommy feel sideways lately.
The toy goes still, “Something is going on with Wilbur,” he says finally. “I don’t know how to explain it. It’s like, he’s acting normal and treating me the same way he always does, but I can tell that something is going on.” It’s evident in the thrumming that sticks in Tommy’s chest whenever he talks to Wilbur. He doesn’t have to ask to know that it’s the brunet he’s feeling. When they’re close, his emotions bleed through their connection, always calm until sometime last week, when it was replaced with something different.
“Have you tried asking him about it?”
Tommy nods, recalling the way the thrumming picked up as soon as he asked why the fuck Wilbur was feeling so weird. His brother gave a steady excuse about “Things changing at work,” before settling down on the couch and pulling a pillow into his lap, the picture of normal between the two of them. Even then, the thrumming didn’t go away. It stuck around, setting his nerves off just enough to make relaxing difficult. The feeling only dulled after Wilbur excused himself from the room—away from Tommy. “I don’t think he wants to talk about it.”
Puffy hums, “I think that, while it’s good to respect that, you should also consider how Wilbur keeping secrets is affecting you . If he’s doing something that is hurting you, it’s important to communicate and find a solution. If you don’t, and this continues, it could get worse without him ever knowing.”
What if he talks to Wilbur, and makes it worse anyway?
He slides his eyes back to the clock, disappointment heavy in his chest when he sees that the session is only halfway done. “All things considered, you did well today Tommy. How about we call it here? On account of it being a special day and all.” She closes her notepad and sticks the pencil behind her ear. “Do you have any plans?”
“Oh, you know me, Dr. P, my schedule is booked,” Tommy tells her. He stands, extending the fidget toy back to her.
“Yeah?” She asks, a smile on her lips.
“Oh yeah. Three dates. Three different women. Let’s just hope they don’t find out about each other.” He stretches his arms out and swallows the tired yawn pulling at his throat. “I bet you’re jealous.”
“Very.”
“I think it’s about time we find you a wife. Maybe next week, I’ll give you a few Tommy-tested tips to help you out.”
“I look forward to it,” Puffy laughs.
Sometimes, even the bad days have their silver linings.
An upbeat and happy-sounding song plays through old speakers, filling the car as they drive. Phil hums along to it, nodding his head to the beat while Tommy sits, forehead pressed against the window. The early morning is catching up to him, reminding Tommy of how tired he is. He fights the sleep weighing his eyelids down, making the world slow until it’s nothing more than a blur of greens, yellows, and blues, all mixing into one another with every blink.
It’s peaceful. Calming in a way that makes Tommy want to freeze this moment, just so he can live in it that much longer. Just him, Phil, and the world around them, a perfect picture.
It’s interrupted by Phil’s voice. “I was thinking,” he starts, his cheery tone chasing away some of the urge to fall asleep right there. “Since you got out early, maybe we could go do something. Just the two of us. We could get coffee—actually, scratch that, you and I both know how you get on caffeine. We could go to the store, oh, or maybe the garden center! I’ve been meaning to get some new plants for the yard. I want to start a new flower patch outside your window and was hoping to get your help picking something out. What do you think?”
Tommy shrugs, “I don’t know.”
“About the flowers? You don’t have to help if you don’t want to. I just thought that, because you’d be looking at them the most, it might be nice to give you some input.”
“Not that,” Tommy says, pressing his head further into the coolness of the glass. He does his best to disguise the drowsiness in his voice with something brighter. It seems to work. Phil doesn’t say anything about it. “It sounds fun, but you know me. I’m a busy guy. I’ve got a lot of shit to do.” That ‘shit’ is sleeping. All Tommy wants right now is to wrap himself back into a cocoon of pillows and blankets.
“That’s alright mate, we could do something quick. Are you hungry? Do you want to stop at that place around the corner?”
The mention of food makes Tommy’s stomach ache, still full after the breakfast Phil made this morning. It was a feast of everything he’s come to like over the months of living with them. Pancakes, bacon, eggs—all of it was laid out on the table by the time he crept out of his bedroom. “Prime, if you’re trying to fatten me up just say so. I’ll fuckin’ explode if I eat another thing.”
Phil chuckles, hands tightening around the wheel, “C’mon Toms, there’s got to be something we can do. Just name it.” There’s something else hidden in Phil’s voice, something that isn’t usually there. It’s like Wilbur’s thrumming, unfamiliar, and wrong
“I’m alright…” Tommy trails off, brows furrowing when he realizes that Phil is pushing him. He never pushes, not unless it’s important, and Tommy is pretty sure that this isn’t. If Phil wanted to spend time with him that badly, couldn’t they do it at home?
Apprehension slams into Tommy, and he shifts, sitting upright in his seat.
Wilbur acting strange only to return to normal once he leaves; Phil proposing every activity under the sun so long as it’s away from the house—
They don’t want him to go home.
And, it doesn’t make sense, not really, because Tommy doesn’t think he’s done anything to warrant a change, but maybe he doesn’t need to.
Dream’s words repeat, loud in his head—always loud, no matter how much Tommy wishes he’d go away— How long until they realize that you’re broken? It calls, How long until they cast you aside?
He expected this to come sooner, in the first few weeks after he returned home. Maybe he’d break something, or lie, or take something he shouldn’t, and then they’d throw him out, but they didn’t. Tommy walked on eggshells for days until their soft reassurances sunk in, a direct attack on Dream’s predictions. They never got mad or grew frustrated with the way Tommy struggled. They accepted it—accepted him , and Tommy—who knew that Dream, with all of his bitter words, was lying—finally let himself believe that it wasn’t true.
Did he do something wrong? Should he have waited longer?
The seatbelt stretching over Tommy’s chest suddenly feels a little bit too tight. He grabs it, pulling at the rough material. “Can we just go home?” he chokes out, careful to keep his voice steady. It lost all of that brightness he was clinging to. In its absence, he sounds like a child. “Please?”
Silence hangs between the two of them like a taut wire, shaking with every beat of Tommy’s heart. The music playing seems to warp around it, conforming to the irregularity, but not breaking it. Then, Phil sighs, casting a sympathetic glance over to his youngest. “Alright. Yeah, yeah we can do that.”
The acceptance is reserved in a way that doesn’t help to ease the discomfort in Tommy’s stomach, especially when he notices Phil taking the long way home. It makes it worse.
Tentatively, Tommy looks back out the window. Small flowers sprinkle the roadside, coming up in patches of green and yellow. He watches them pass by, his thoughts drifting to somewhere far off.
He doesn’t let himself hope for much anymore, not when it can all be taken away in the blink of an eye, but Tommy hopes he’s wrong. That much he allows himself. He hangs onto it like a lifeline, keeping it close as the car enters their subdivision.
They pull into the driveway and roll past Techno and Wilbur’s cars to get into Phil’s spot. The vehicle goes quiet with the turn of a key—Tommy’s stomach flips alongside it. He’s pulling at the door handle before it can go again, eager to escape the closed space.
“Hey, Tommy! Wait!” Phil calls out. Tommy pauses halfway up the walkway, turning to watch as Phil clips his seatbelt off. He all but jumps out of the driver's seat, running up to meet his youngest. In his haste, he forgets to shut the door. “Would you come out back with me? I need some help moving stuff.”
The fresh air doesn’t help the tight feeling in his chest. It coils around his lungs like a snake, squeezing more every second Phil waits for a response. He just wants to go to his room and lay in bed. If he’s lucky, maybe he’ll be able to sleep. “Can we do it later?” He proposes. Ignoring the itching in his head that tells him there may not be a ‘later’. He spins around, already making his way up the porch before Phil can stop him. “I’m really tired and I just want to lie down.”
“Hold on-“ Muffled arguing from the other side of the door cuts Phil off. He sighs and, under his breath, Tommy can hear him whisper, “Those little shits.”
One of the voices is undeniably Wilbur, yelling about something Tommy can’t quite make out. He’s nervous, with a fluttering sort of feeling filling his chest that Tommy himself can feel. The other voice—much calmer than Wilbur—is Techno, who seems to be much more level-headed about whatever it is that set his brother off.
Curiosity gets the best of him and Tommy opens the door. He wanders in, only to be met with a few pairs of glowing eyes.
Groups of phantoms glide aimlessly around the room, with the ones closest to the entrance pausing when they see the blond step into the house. They chirp excitedly and swarm Tommy in gentle affection.
The chill they bring helps to chase away some of the heat on Tommy’s face. He whispers his hellos to the creatures, who chitter more in response until eventually, they go back to gliding around the room. Or—most of them anyway. One sticks around, settling on Tommy’s shoulder. Without looking, he knows it’s his crow. It's taken a liking to Tommy, always sticking close whenever Wilbur summons the creatures from the shadows
A loud groan attracts Tommy’s eyes to the living room ahead. “You fucking pricks can come together to attack enforcers and heroes but you can’t do this?” Wilbur’s in the middle of the room, balancing on a precarious-looking step stool as he attempts to direct the phantoms in hanging a banner. It’s a bright blue—one of Tommy’s favorite shades—and hangs oddly on the wall, clearly lopsided. ‘Party Time!’ is written across it in big, bold letters and-
Oh .
Wilbur was never nervous, he was excited for a party .
“Maybe they know that taking down government goons is more important than makin’ your life easy,” Techno drones. He’s sitting on the couch, head tilted back as he fiddles with a package of balloons. He grabs one and blows it up. “Or maybe they just like annoying you as much as I do.” He ties the balloon off and hits it in Wilbur’s direction. It bounces off his head.
Wilbur shoots him a green-eyed glare as Techno goes to grab another, completely oblivious to the two standing at the door until Phil snickers. Two pairs of eyes snap to them, shock filling their faces as they register Tommy standing there.
“You weren’t supposed to be here yet,” Wilbur says. He narrows his eyes at Phil as the man gently closes the front door behind him. “What happened to distracting him?”
“Mate, I did my fuckin’ best, but he wanted to come home. I texted Techno.”
With that, Techno becomes the new target. He grabs his phone, flicks it on, and reads a short message across the screen. “Huh, would you look at that.”
The phantoms bristle, edges going sharp. Wilbur twists with a sneer. “I’m going to fucking-”
“Wil.” Phil scolds.
Wilbur’s face softens as he plasters a smile on his lips. “Give you such a big hug,” He finishes. He hops off the stool, grabs Techno, and, much to his brother’s objections, wraps his arms around him in an awkward embrace.
“What is all this?” Tommy asks, so quiet that even the phantoms go still. It’s only then—when everything is frozen, that Tommy wanders further into the room. Streamers are hanging in the doorways, swinging with the air flowing through open windows. Balloons move along with them, but not as much. They cover the room, lying across the floor and floating in the corners of the room in a mismatched array of sizes and shapes. It’s all so colorful, so reminiscent of a life he had so long ago; lost in the years he spent hiding from monsters.
“Surprise?” Techno half-grumbles, his cheek squished against Wilbur’s chin. He wriggles an arm up and pushes Wilbur’s head, breaking free from his brother’s hold.
“It’s your birthday,” Wilbur tells him, speaking slowly. “We thought it’d be fun if we threw you a party.”
This is for him. The streamers, the balloons, the lopsided sign; all of it is for Tommy.
The tangled ball of anxiety that gathered during the drive home unravels, giving way to near-instant relief. His shoulders fall with it, and Phil must mistake it for something else because his face twists with concern. “If you’re still tired, don’t worry about it, okay? You can go and rest-”
“No,” Tommy interrupts.
“No?”
“Fuck sleep,” The blond says. He reaches past the mess of emotions at his core, retrieving the version of himself that is normal. “I’m not letting you guys celebrate my awesomeness without me.” It’s been over a decade since he last had a birthday party. He barely remembers what they’re like, but he can recall the child-like joy that came with it all. “Did you get me presents?”
“Don’t tell him the answer, Phil,” Techno whispers loudly, “He’ll tear the house apart looking for them and destroy our decorations.”
Tommy gasps, scandalized. “You’re hiding my presents from me?”
“I wouldn’t say we’re hiding them,” Wilbur teases. He comes forward and leans against the couch, chin resting in his palm. The phantoms still milling about the room retreat to the shadows as Wilbur’s eyes return to brown. “More like, they just aren’t here yet.”
“You’re bullying me. This is bullying. Is there at least cake? Or are you going to gatekeep that from me too?”
Something clicks down the hall, followed by light footsteps. “What kind of birthday party would it be if you didn’t have a cake?” Niki calls out. She emerges from a curtain of streamers, clearly happy as she goes to Tommy’s side. An arm is thrown around his shoulders, pulling him into her side. “I spent all night decorating, I can’t wait for you to see it.” Her side is warm as always, delightfully similar to the way she pulled him in on the first night he met Wilbur. “Happy birthday, Tommy.”
Warmth blooms in his chest, but not at all like the bad, burning way it did earlier. It’s gentle, easy. Tommy enjoys it, he enjoys this.
“Thank you, Niki,” He says, looking down at her, then to the living room. Wilbur peels away from the couch and grabs the step stool, moving it under the banner in an attempt to rehang it. As he does, Techno stands.
There’s a hint of mischief in the furrow of his brow as he wanders over to the TV. He fiddles with a gaming console, connecting wires and pressing buttons until the screen lights up with a logo that's become synonymous with late nights and friendly bickering.
“Fuck yes! I call player one!” Tommy practically screams, the game unlocking something primal. He throws himself forward, barreling for the controller as Techno plucks it off the charging port first. “Hey!”
“You know, I was looking into it and I learned that, statistically, the second player is most likely to win more rounds. I think it’s a psychological thing.”
“You’re so full of shit. That’s my lucky controller, give it back.”
“If you insist, ” Techno says, dangling it in front of Tommy’s face. He pulls it away before Tommy can grab it. “I’m just trying to look out for you like any good big brother would.”
More curses form on the tip of Tommy’s tongue, but Niki clears her throat, “C’mon Techno, it’s his lucky controller. You wouldn’t want to make him sad on his birthday.” She winks at Tommy, finding a spot on the couch. “I think you should hand it over and let him pick who he wants to play with. It’s fair, right Wil?” Wilbur nods absentmindedly, far too preoccupied with the banner to care about the conversation.
“Bruh,” Techno tells Niki, “You were my friend first. Whatever happened to loyalty.”
“Birthday rules, Techno, I take them very seriously.” Reluctantly, the controller is handed over to Tommy. “Very good. Now, Tommy, who would you like to play with?”
“Well, after very careful consideration, I’ve decided that I’d like to play with you Niki, since you’re clearly the nicest here.” He takes his usual spot on the couch and pulls his legs up, leaning his elbows on his knees. “Your kindness won’t save you though. You’ll have to practice–wait, Techno how did that go again? That thing you said?”
Techno sighs, rubbing at his eyes as he recites, “If you wish to defeat me, you’ll have to train for another hundred years.”
“Yea, that.”
Niki nods, determined. “You’re on.”
They play competitively, racing down a track Tommy memorized weeks ago. He knows where the shortcuts are, and knows where he has to go for certain power-ups, and in the end, the knowledge helps him gain a considerable lead on the woman sitting beside him. She’s good too, it’s not her first time playing, but she hasn’t had nearly as much practice as the blond has. Predictably, he wins.
They go again, then a third time, laughing and bickering about who’s the best the whole time. It must be entertaining because at some point the others sit too, each of them cheering one of the carts on as they drift around a curve or knocks the other off the track.
The excitement of it almost makes Tommy forget his morning altogether; with Dream’s voice barely an echo in the deepest parts of his mind. Weariness is replaced with light adrenaline, fueled by the thrill of every lap. Here, in this moment, the only thing that matters is winning, not the lies of ghosts.
It’ll come back, it always does, but for now, the game is a welcome distraction.
At least, it is until a light rasp sounds against the door.
It’s nothing at first. Tommy’s winning this round, and the only thing he cares about is staying ahead of Niki’s car. He doesn’t hear the knock—doesn’t see the looks thrown between Phil and his sons.
His eyes are locked on the screen as Phil gets up, hurried steps carrying the older man to the door.
A banana peel sends Tommy’s kart spinning across the track. “Shit!” He shouts.
Whispers are exchanged between Wilbur and Techno, too quiet for Tommy to make out a single word. He does, however, feel the way Wilbur’s stomach turns, heartbeat thrumming with unease. It’s a stark contrast to the happy warmth from moments ago.
The door opens a crack. Phil steps out.
“Go ahead and slip on a few more,” Niki says. She shifts in her seat, teetering on the edge of the couch as her kart approaches Tommy’s. “I could use a win.”
A spike of excitement pushes Wilbur’s worry aside, competition taking its place. “Don’t think so, I’m going four for four.” Tommy regains control and begins speeding up. Niki isn’t far behind him. She flies through a power-up, giggling as she throws a newly-acquired turtle shell ahead. It hits its mark, throwing Tommy’s player off the edge of the map. “Fuck off!” He shakes the controller in hopes of speeding up the rescue wait. “C’mon, c’mon! This is bullshit–!”
“Hey, Tommy?” Phil calls. “Would you come over here please?”
Help arrives, and Tommy is pulled back to the map. “Give me a minute, she’s about to pass me!”
“Mate, pause it. It’s important. You can pick it back up in a little bit.” There’s an odd lilt to the words, one that makes Tommy click the ‘pause’ button immediately. It’s not happy or nervous, but a weird mix of the two.
He stands, leaving the controller behind on the couch as he twists around the side of the couch. Hurriedly, he pulls on a pair of red sneakers, not bothering to tie them. “I don't know what could be so important that it gets to interrupt me winning,” He murmurs, stepping out onto the porch. “I’m so close, Phil. If I lose because of this—”
Phil moves to the side, and the complaint dies in Tommy’s throat when he sees the strangers on the walkway
There are three of them altogether, with one—a shorter man wearing an old beanie and casual streetwear—exchanging hushed words with Phil. He looks comfortable; like he’s talking with an old friend or a co-worker, and Tommy figures that either could be true. He falls silent as Tommy emerges from the house.
The others stare with matching wide eyes. One of them, the taller of the two, just smiles wide. There’s friendliness there, sincerity and longing, and something about it radiates familiarity. The shorter one, on the other hand, looks almost surprised. His mouth hangs open, corners twitching upward in a small smile as he grasps the other man’s arm, shaking both of them in his excitement. The expression; the way he moves, it’s all so familiar, and Tommy can’t place why. Time fogs his memory, concealing a memory almost forgotten.
Finally, the shorter one clears his throat. He lets go of his friend’s sleeve, stepping closer.
“Hey.” It’s such a simple greeting, one Tommy hears every morning, and yet—
And yet the words pull away the curtain of fog. The unruly mop of brown hair; the lopsided smile; the endearing awkwardness he insisted he’d grow out of once he became a hero. It’s so clear now, and in addition to a man, Tommy can make out the remnants of a ten-year-old boy in his features.
It’s a realization that makes the breath stop in Tommy’s throat. “Tubs?” He says it so quietly—as if the nickname is a secret between the two. Tubbo’s face crumples, collapsing with a watery laugh. He surges forward, jumping up the front steps and pulling Tommy into a tight hug.
“Hey, Tommy. Long time no see, yea?”
“How are you here? How’d you get out?”
“My mentor, Sam” he answers, “He gave me the option to go. I tried, really, really hard to be a hero like we talked about, but I just couldn’t. I was just tired of fighting alone, y’know?” Tommy knows. He knows it all too well. “I’ve been staying with Quackity for a while.” Quackity, the man with the beanie, Tommy figures. “I told you we’d find each other again,” Tubbo says quietly, chin digging into Tommy’s collarbone. “It took a while, but the team’s back together, just like the good ol’ days.”
A shaky breath wrecks Tommy’s lungs and he opens his eyes, unsure of when he closed them in the first place. He squints through the tears blurring his vision, blue eyes landing on the taller one and finding the similarities. Strands of white litter the otherwise dark hair. It falls in a fluffy mess over his forehead, stopping right above mismatched eyes. “Ranboo? We thought you were–you disappeared,” Tommy stammers, confused.
Hesitantly, Ranboo wanders closer. “I’m here,” he says, and his voice is different, so much deeper than Tommy recalled, “I don’t really remember how–it’s all kinda fuzzy, but– Yea, um,” he pauses, eyes darting everywhere before settling on the ground, “Uh, I like your shoes.” A hollow sort of laugh escapes Tommy’s chest.
“Thanks, big man. They’re all mine.” With one arm firmly around Tubbo’s back, he reaches out with the other. Ranboo takes it and yelps as he’s pulled in. “I missed you guys.”
“We missed you too,” Tubbo replies, voice muffled. “I looked for you everywhere after the news about Red Death broke, but there was nothing. I thought I was the only one left ‘til I found Boo with a squad of enforcers.”
A scoff behind them makes Tommy perk up. He cranes his neck, looking over to Quackity. “Fuck the commission,” he mutters, “Kudos to Inferno for finally trying to turn that shit show around. Took him long enough.” Phil shushes him, jabbing the man with his elbow as he stares fondly at the three boys.
“You guys did this?” Tommy asks, already knowing the answer. He’s come to learn that, despite seeming like a small group of three, the Syndicate has connections all over the city.
Phil shrugs, “It was nothing really. We just had to pull a couple of strings is all.” His heart swells, so full of happiness and relief and love that he can’t even think. He pulls away from his friends and twists, barreling into Phil’s chest without a second thought. ‘ It was nothing,’ repeats in his head. Somehow, it only makes him cry more. Doesn’t Phil know that this—his friends, this family—is all he’s ever wanted?
“Happy birthday, Tommy,” His dad whispers, squeezing his arms around his son. If Tommy concentrates, he can almost see the rippling effect of magic concealing wings as they close around them.
They stand there for a moment, a display of raw, unbridled love for anyone to see, and then Phil shifts. His next words are louder, meant for everyone, “What do you say we take the party inside? Tommy can introduce you boys to his brothers and then you could catch up over some cake.” Phil opens the door, waving the group in.
Quackity goes first, his arrival greeted by Wilbur, who simply says his name over and over in a pitch so high it makes even Tommy’s ears hurt. Tubbo goes next, followed closely by Ranboo, and then Phil goes in, leaving Tommy on the porch.
He watches muffled introductions through the open door. There was a time when he thought the house looked boring, bland. Now, he’s come to love the beige on the siding, the plainness of the front door.
“Are you alright?” Phil asks, looking back.
Tommy smiles. “Yeah, I’m great.” He steps inside, happy to know that his family is waiting for him inside. “Let’s have some cake.”
It’s late when Tommy wakes.
There’s no reason as to why. The house is quiet, his room is dark, and Tommy is calm. A quick check of his phone and he sees that it’s only been an hour or two since he went to bed.
The day’s festivities combined with the early morning left him too tired to watch the movie his family selected, so he elected for an early night instead. He’s still tired, the sleepiness so heavy it makes it difficult to keep his eyes open. It weighs them down, and Tommy is content to just drift off for a few more hours.
He’s nearly fallen back into it when he feels a tug inside his chest, shaking him awake from the inside. It keeps pulling for a moment, beckoning Tommy out in the hall. He stays put, gathering fistfuls of blankets to his cheek as the thrum fades into something lighter, but still very much present. He shuts his eyes again, hoping that if he tries hard enough, sleep will be easy, but, like a fly buzzing around a silent room, the feeling is difficult to ignore.
So, he gets up, if only to put an end to the annoying feeling keeping him awake.
Tommy wanders out of his open door with a blanket wrapped around his shoulders, unsure of where he’s going. He just follows the pull.
His steps are wobbly as he makes his way down the hall and into the living room, eventually making his way to the back door. Wilbur paces the patio on the other side. It’s a slow sort of walk, quiet and calm as he makes his way from one end of the patio to the other as if he’s just drifting along the hardwood. Mindlessly, Tommy twists the doorknob. The early April air bites at his nose and, almost immediately, Tommy wishes he brought a heavier blanket.
If Wilbur hears him, he doesn’t show it. He keeps walking, whispering lightly to himself as he goes.
Tommy could leave him be. He could turn around and sneak back inside where it’s warm and comfortable and pretend that Wilbur’s not standing out here like a madman. It’d be easier…but where’s the fun in that?
“Hey,” he rasps, voice still scratchy in that ‘I’m tired’ way.
Wilbur startles, jumping. “Fuck–” He gasps, spinning on his heel. He registers Tommy standing on the top step and breathes a sigh of relief, raising his hand to his heart. “I didn’t know you were up. You scared the shit out of me.”
“I wasn’t,” Tommy yawns. “A certain dickhead was thinking so loud it woke me from my slumber.”
The man’s brows pinch. He tilts his head, confused for a second before he remembers their bond. “Oh right, that. Sorry.”
Tommy sits, lowering onto the step with a soft grunt. He pulls the blanket tighter around his shoulders. It doesn’t help. “No big deal. Why are you up?”
A tinge of heat bleeds through the connection, embarrassment clear in the way Wilbur wraps his arms around his middle. “Just… thinking.”
“‘Bout villain shit?”
Wilbur stops his pacing to fill the spot at Tommy’s side. He sits, so close his shoulder is touching Tommy’s. Somehow, Wilbur is warm, comfortably so. Tommy leans into it, gaze falling to the ground as Wilbur drawls, “More like everything else.”
“Ah, so life shit.”
“Yeah, life shit.” A beat, then, “You know, a year ago you would’ve caught me out here with a cigarette in my hands. They were nice on nights like these.”
Tommy hums, “Not tonight?”
“Nah, I quit.” Tommy looks up, snapping a puzzled expression up to Wilbur.
For as long as he’s known him, Wilbur smoked. Sure, maybe he’d never done it in front of Tommy, but the scent had a way of following him. Some nights, Tommy would hear the man’s door creek open and would watch as his brother crept through the hall and out the back. He figured it was just him hiding the habit. He hadn’t known.
Wilbur must sense his confusion, because he clears his throat, speaking a little more clearly, “A while ago actually. After everything you did for me, I figured I’d be an asshole if I didn’t stop, you know?”
“It would be pretty shitty.” The comment is meant to be a joke, an acknowledgment seeking a laugh in response. Instead, it comes off more solemn. Wilbur had quit not only for himself but Tommy too. It’s such a small thing, so simple, and somehow, it fills him with something akin to hope.
For what, he doesn’t know.
“Hey, I um, forgot to give you something earlier. Things got so busy and I lost track of time, so I was going to wait until tomorrow to give it to you. If you’re up for it, I can bring it out now.” Slowly, Tommy nods. He hadn’t been expecting anything else, not when the day had already been so perfect. “Alright, wait here.” Wilbur springs to his feet and hurries inside, taking his warmth with him. Without it, a passing breeze sends a shiver down Tommy’s spine.
The night is nice, safe for the cold. The sky is clear and the moon is full, painting the world in a luminous glow. The large oak rustles with the wind, its blossoming branches tapping against one another to fill the silence.
Winter had been so dull, so quiet, and now that the first signs of spring are beginning to show, Tommy can’t wait to see it all grow—can’t wait to see the garden blooming with color life.
Approaching footsteps and the opening of a door mark Wilbur’s return. He sits back down, quicker this time, and hands over a thin, square-shaped box covered in poorly folded wrapping paper. Tommy looks over quizzingly, unsure of whether or not he should open it. Wilbur replies with a nod. “It’s not much, but I thought it’d be something you’d like.”
The blond tears the paper away without a care of the mess he makes. After, he is left with a sleek, black cover. He opens it slowly, relying completely on the moonlight above to illuminate the objects inside. The light catches on glossy grooves, and upon a closer look, Tommy can make out two, black discs sitting inside. “Are these…records?”
Wilbur offers a hand and Tommy gives the cover over immediately. He turns it over, letting one of the discs fall out of its sleeve. “I had them custom-made. At first, I was only going to do one, but there ended up being way too many songs I wanted to include. It’s kind of a mix of everything you like, plus a few more I’ve been meaning to show you.” He hands the disc back.
“Woah.”
“Yeah? You like it?”
“Like it? Wilbur, this is so fucking cool!” He looks over the tracklist printed on the inside, pointing to each with a child-like wonder that doesn’t get old.
With a grin, Wilbur watches. He explains every song, going into detail about why he picked it and when Tommy had first listened to it. There’s a story for everything—an explanation, an experience. It’s almost like walking through their friendship, one tune at a time.
They explore the second disc with the same excitement as the first until finally, both records are returned to their sleeves. “What’d you think of today?” Wilbur asks him, “Did we throw you the best birthday ever?” It draws the corners of Tommy’s mouth up.
Even after he’d escaped the tower the first time, his birthday wasn’t something he celebrated. It was just another day. He was happy with that, especially when it used to mean challenge and uncertainty. “Not a lot of competition, big man, but it was definitely one of the better ones. Thank you.”
“You don’t need to thank us, we just wanted to make you happy.” Wilbur looks up at the stars. “Tubbo and Ranboo seem like good kids.”
“They are.” Tommy breathes a soft laugh, “I used to throw so much stuff at Ranboo. Carrot sticks, pencils, whatever I could get my hands on really, just because I knew it annoyed him. He’d take it for a while, but I knew I got to him whenever he’d take my stuff and put it up on the dresser since he was the only one that could reach that high.” He runs his thumb over the seam of his blanket, recounting the way he and Tubbo would push their beds together to retrieve the stolen items. Once Ranboo disappeared, the space above the dresser stayed empty, collecting only dust.
“I wouldn’t be here if it weren’t for them,” Tommy confesses. That program was—” he pauses, feeling a lump form in his throat. “It ruined a lot of good kids. Most of them had never spent a night away from home, and suddenly they’re surrounded by strangers that don’t care. No one held your hand; no one helped you through the hard nights. I don’t think I would’ve made it through if I didn’t have them with me.” A pang of sadness hits his heart. He isn’t sure if it’s his or Wilbur’s.
“I think you could’ve. You’re strong. It’s one of the first things I realized about you.” He lets the words hang in the air, waiting for a response from Tommy that never comes. “You know,” he says, “We found Tubbo and Ranboo. If you wanted, we could try to find your parents too.” He huffs, amused by his next thought before voicing it. “Who knows, maybe you have a whole family out there that you don’t even know about.”
A whole family. A mother, father, maybe even siblings.
Tommy had tried to find them once. His free time in those first few days was spent digging through phone books and old records, looking for any sign of the family he’d been stolen from so many years prior. He’d wonder about the middle district as discreetly as he could until eventually, he came across a familiar mailbox at the end of a familiar walkway.
The house was the same as the day he left it. Sure, there were newer-looking cars in the driveway, but it’d been nearly a decade, and some things were bound to change.
He walked up to the door, questions raging in his head. Would they recognize him? Is his room the same? Had they missed him? It played on loop as Tommy waited with a closed fist hovering over the door.
And then he knocked.
Someone—a woman who must’ve been his mother—shouted from the other side, ensuring him that he’d be right there. Tommy waited, unable to contain his excitement as the footsteps got closer. The knob twisted, door opening a crack and—
And, he hadn’t recognized the brown-haired woman before him. She was a stranger, the owner of the home his parents no longer lived in.
Maybe they’re out there. Maybe they moved away and are living on the beach or in a cottage, living a life that’s almost perfect, but Tommy isn’t a part of that.
He’s not the same boy they said goodbye to twelve years prior. He’s not the hero they wanted him to be. He may be theirs in blood, but Tommy is a stranger to them as much as he was to the woman that opened the door.
“I already have a family,” Tommy says. “You, Tech, and Phil, you’re my family, even if-” He chokes on the words, the next part feeling like knives against his throat as he forces it out. He struggles to hear his voice. “Even if someday you decide otherwise.”
“What?” Wilbur freezes, tension rising in his shoulders. Tommy can feel the brunet’s eyes on him; a burning gaze he knows he can’t bear to look at.
“You were being weird this week and, I don’t know, I thought that maybe, somehow, you’d gotten tired of me.”
“Tommy, you know-”
“It was stupid? Irrational? Paranoid?” There are more ways he could describe it, more words he can use to articulate exactly how ridiculous he was being. “Yeah, I know. But I also grew up in a way where, no matter how hard I tried, I was never good enough. I’m too loud, too needy, too selfish.” The words are falling out of his mouth so fast his lungs squeeze, begging for air. He takes a slow breath. “He told me that no one loves a person like that, and a part of me was afraid that if I show too much, you guys won’t want me to stay anymore.”
Tommy’s eyes burn with tears he refuses to let fall. He will not cry. Not over the insults he now knows are nothing but lies.
Wilbur wraps his arm around Tommy’s shoulder and pulls him in, tucking the boy into his side as if he’s always belonged there. “But, Tommy, those are things we love about you.” He says it so gently, and a part of Tommy shrivels. He purses his lips, shaking his head. “We would never throw you out for being who you are.”
Tommy grips the edge of the blanket. He drops his voice to a whisper, letting it fall lower and lower as if it’ll lessen the weight of it all. “I don’t believe you.”
And there it is, the truth.
It’s ugly, and scary, and feels so much like betrayal because—
Because they’ve given him everything he could ever ask for and no matter how hard he tries, he can’t understand why.
“That’s alright,” Wilbur tells him. He brushes a hand over Tommy’s face, wiping away some of the tears that have managed to fall down his cheeks. “We’ll show you. We’ll show you however many times we need to until you do.”
Tommy slumps, relief flooding through him, washing away the tension built up from years of constant rejection. He nods into his brother’s shoulder, soaking up the warmth from his skin.
Wilbur, who could be called many things, was not who lied to Tommy; not anymore. He had promised to be honest that night on the docks, and he had stayed true to that every night since.
Where there is horror in something as simple as the truth, there is also comfort. There is beauty, and freedom, safety.
There is security.
This, he thinks, knowing that it’s true, is right.
This is home.