Archive of Our Own ^beta

Time folds so delicate — like cloth napkins with embroidered lace. Four equal ends and perfect rhythmic stitches. As it happens, the story unfolds across it with messy hands, wiping and heaving and scrabbling like a child. You may wish for one without the other, but mutual exclusivity is not a word the world knows how to pronounce. 

Learn this fact: this is how you make our terrible life work. 

"I think I want to kill myself," Tommy says, and it comes out like red-stained glass, hacked up and spit out on the carpet at their feet. 

Phil, in the midst of grading papers, stops. His red felt-tip marker hovers in mid-air as he processes. Techno, lounging in the corner with an open book, Flowerpaedia, 1000 flowers and their meanings, on his lap, looks up, his attention split evenly between both Phil and Tommy, clearly trying to gauge what the next move will be. 

Tommy, personally, is also trying to figure that out. When he came home from his last day of classes, he wasn't expecting to speak this quiet secret to his father and eldest brother. Especially not in the middle of those precious hours before someone starts cooking dinner- when everyone is engrossed in their own things, just waiting and recharging from the day. 

Tommy really wasn't expecting to confess to the secret he's kept since he was fourteen. Phil's always made a point of saying yes, Tommy, you know you can come to me or your mother for anything– any time of day for anything at all. We'll listen to you. And Tommy always said, okay dad, sure, whatever you say, and forgot about it until the next time. 

Apparently, all those reminders paid off, because here he was, numb in the doorway of his father's office, with a mouth that moves out of his own command. 

"I'm–" Phil starts. His throat works, eyebrows fluttering. He seems startled. Distantly, Tommy is fascinated– he figured everyone could tell that he was suffering. He figured that doomed was written on his forehead in red. He figured that everyone was just ignoring it. "Uh– sorry?" 

Tommy can't make himself say it again. He just shrugs. Phil looks lost. 

One time they were traveling through the back roads of country late at night. And like, late at night, like, Tommy looked out his window and couldn't differentiate the trees from each other. It was as if they had all turned into one solid dark mass. Phil, in the driver's seat, didn't seem phased by this; he carefully made all the twists and turns necessary, and even when they came upon a felled tree across the route, Phil just hummed and put the car into reverse. 

As long as Tommy's known him, his father has never looked lost. 

Techno shifts awkwardly, and the book's pages leaf over, falling into each other, losing their place. Tommy takes a deep, deep breath, about to just say forget it– it was a joke, we're doing a suicide prevention unit in our health class and I just wanted to see what your instincts were, but Techno opens his mouth. 

"I think," he says, eyes on Phil's distant expression, "we should go on a road trip." 

They pack up the car. 

Don't ask Tommy what happened in between the office and now with him standing in their busted driveway, staring at Kristin, who was trying to slide her mountain pack in between Phil's duffle and Wilbur's computer bag. He has no idea how he got down here, and he can't say whether that is due to shock or just the normal plain old numb, missing-time thing that's been happening the past three or so weeks. 

He was ignoring it for the most part – with the way he'd sit down somewhere on campus during the eight minutes between classes, and zone, then come back to awareness as his classmates filed out. Ranboo's found him a couple of times, sitting there, with a notebook open on his lap and a look like ghost-hunting in his eyes. I'm worried, he said once. Tom, you never miss comp-sci. Tommy, unsurprisingly, can't remember what he said in response. 

"Hey," Wilbur says, startled, probably not expecting Tommy to be standing there in the middle of the drive as he came careening out the door. "Woah– where's all your stuff, Tommy?"

Tommy blinks down at the deflated backpack he has in his arms. He's got clothes, a toothbrush, his phone charger. "I have it right here." 

Wilbur hesitates, his too-bright smile wavering. Judging by the red-rimmed eyes and the jittery limbs, Tommy can guess that Techno relayed to him why they were taking a sudden, random road-trip on the last Friday of the semester. 

No one has told him, though. He can't see what any of this has to do with him. 

"Right," Wilbur says. He's awkward, which sucks, because Tommy is usually funny enough to distract from that, but right now, Tommy doesn't even know what the word joke means. "Yes. That– I should've seen that." Then his eyes go wide, in the way they do before he starts crying. "I– I should've seen."

Tommy cringes, watching Wilbur warily. If he starts guilt-tripping himself and crying in front of Tommy right here, Tommy will slash the car tires himself and just ask to be institutionalized. He's just not built to deal with crying people – much less his older brother. 

Thankfully, their screen door opens and Techno steps out. He takes one look at the two of them – their equally stricken expressions – and sighs, gently pushing Wilbur forward. "Get in the car, Wil," he rumbles, and Wilbur goes easily, looking like he can't get away from Tommy fast enough. Techno doesn't seem to have the same reservations. He puts a firm hand on Tommy's shoulder – it passes right through him. "You ready to go, Tommy?"

Tommy, with his grand total of zero points of impact, shrugs. 

Yay, he thinks, road trip. This will be great. 

Honestly, he's always loved road trips. 

Well – okay, he's never taken a real one before, but car rides are his favorite way to travel and have been since he was five and sped home on the highway after seeing Cars. His aunt Puffy took him to see it, and she got them both popcorn and played Life is a Highway on repeat the entire drive home without a single complaint. To this day, it's his favorite memory of anything: fitting, as he can't remember the rest of it; just that long stretch of road, wind whistling through him, and speaker so loud it felt like his heart was inside the stereo thumping. 

He likes car rides – likes to travel, and get to somewhere new. He likes the fact that he can step out onto ground that he's never been on before, in a place with people who have never met him, and see a life that passes by without his influence. He's never been on a road trip before that he can remember, except for the framed pictures above his dining room table of all of his family, extended and immediate, crowded together wearing matching flimsy blue rain ponchos on the edge of the Niagara Falls. 

Every time that Tommy's been traveling, it's been back when he was young enough to not know hurt – now, everything is completely different. 

He pushes his way into the car, which is actually rather spacious with its three rows of seating, and automatically sits in the window seat. Techno, the eldest, takes the back, as per protocol, and Tommy can already see that he's got his books and headphones, and will be basically unreachable for the remainder of this ride. With Phil in the driver's seat and Kristin manning the GPS, talking quietly about food before the highway and getting cold bottles of water, that only leaves Wilbur to slide in at his side and make the whole thing awkward. 

Thankfully, Wilbur doesn't seem to want to embarrass himself any more than he already has, so besides reaching over and quietly reminding Tommy to buckle in, he doesn't speak as they pull away from their home. 

Tommy puts two earbuds in and stares out the window, letting his brain go distant the way that it always does in the car. 

His mother used to say that his head was running along the road when they got into the car. He’d zone out of them and zone into the world – his mind jumping from car to car, tree to tree, going a million miles away while his body stayed behind with them. He liked that idea. His mind traveling on and on while he stood still. It was kind of like escape, in the most hopeful way. 

They stop at burger king, and Tommy watches his mother dip fries into a milkshake with a smile. Phil teases her for it, for how weird it is, but then he tries it and he can't help swallowing the words. There's a kind of lightness that wraps around them, like a shiny translucent film. Tommy used to think it was love – being in love made you wrapped up in an invisible blanket – but he doesn't anymore. 

Sometimes he'll see Ranboo with that clear glow. Tubbo and Purpled. They walk like someone pumped air into their shoe soles, like someone took their shoulders from them and they can't help floating from the lack of weight. 

He, studying his parents, can't figure out what he's missing. What it is that everyone has that he doesn't. 

Phil laughs, and Tommy bites into his burger, looking away. 

After they've all eaten, they drive on. At some point Wilbur slips into sleep, leaning over slightly and just nudging Tommy's shoulder with his ear. Tommy wants to correct his posture, cradle his cheek and right his neck so it won't hurt when he wakes. It's what Wilbur used to do when he was younger, and Tommy always appreciated it. But he also knows that Wilbur will wake if Tommy brushes him, so he keeps his hands to himself. 

Either way, Wilbur wakes only a little while later when they pull into their first destination. 

It's a field, with rows and rows of green, and a bright red barn off to the side. Tommy twists a bit in his seat, peering out of the window and trying to catch a glimpse of the sign. 

Strawberry fields, it says, and suddenly the bright red barn and the stack of baskets outside of it make a lot of sense. 

"Alright," Phil says, "everyone out!" 

They all pull themselves out of the car, stretching and shaking out their limbs. Tommy winces at the brightness of the sun, but follows his family over to the barn, where there are other people milling about with baskets, some empty and some full. 

There are kids running around and chasing each other, laughter like shrieks, and couples, both young and old, holding hands or eating out of shared baskets. 

"Strawberry picking," Wilbur says. When Tommy looks at him, he's got a tiny smile on his face. It's the calmest he's looked since they've gotten in the car. Even when sleeping, there was still a wrinkle of unease. "I've always wanted to do this." 

"I know," Kristin grins. "That's why we're here." 

Tommy's shoulders loosen. He was worried that this road trip was going to be about him, which is the last thing he wants. Honestly, he has no idea what it is that he does want, but an entire cross-country car-ride dedicated to just him is definitely not it. If this is about bucket lists and what they want, then that's fine enough. 

"Come on," Wilbur urges, full of new excitement now. He grabs Tommy and Techno's hands and pulls them over, making them each get a basket. 

"Be back in a half an hour!" Phil calls, right before Wilbur yanks them into the strawberry rows. Tommy stumbles along, hoping that Wilbur is keeping track of where they're going because he surely isn't. He lets his brother pull him from row to row, chattering mindlessly as he pulls strawberries from their vines and places them into the basket in Tommy’s hands. 

“Here,” Techno takes the basket. “You pick some, Tom.” 

Tommy blinks at him, then at Wilbur, who’s nodding encouragingly, and so he picks one – plump and bright. He’s about to put it into the basket, when Wilbur stops him. 

“Wait, that looks good – taste it.” 

Tommy’s nose wrinkles. “Are we supposed to eat these without washing them?” 

“You only live once.” Wilbur responds, then also pulls one off the vine. “Here, I’ll eat with you. That way if you go, I go.” 

“Leave me out of this,” Techno says, and it’s dry but something in his tone seems unnerved. Wilbur shrugs, then looks at Tommy expectantly. 

If you go, I go. 

Tommy swallows, his throat suddenly parched. “We should wait.” He puts the berry into the basket. “We should wait to wash them.” 

Wilbur seems disappointed, but he also puts his strawberry down, and Tommy can’t help but stare at his hands when they pull out of the dark wicker. Juice from picking without gloves spilt through his fingers and the color stained his hands. In the glare of the afternoon sun, Wilbur’s hands look covered in blood. 

“Let’s keep going then,” Wilbur says, trying for cheer as he moves along. Techno starts to follow him, but stops when Tommy doesn’t move. 

“Hey,” Techno turns back slightly, voice lowered. “You alright?” 

Tommy shakes his head, trying to get his head on straight. “Fine. Just – tired, I guess.” 

Techno makes a face, like he knows that Tommy isn’t being honest, but doesn’t push. Tommy doesn’t know if he’s grateful or disappointed by it. 

When they’ve got two baskets full of berries, they leave the strawberry fields. 

Kristin and Phil also collected a basket, and so they pile their haul into the car and continue driving. Since they were able to rinse the berries in the barn, Wilbur puts the basket between the two of them and absently snacks on them, but Tommy’s appetite is completely gone. 

He wasn't even lying when he said that he was tired. He feels like his eyes have weights pulling at them, and he can feel that familiar emptiness creeping up from the base of his neck.

He turns away from Wilbur, so his brother can't place the distance in his eyes. 

They drive on for a couple more miles until they get off the highway and pull into a motel. It could be worse, but even as they walk into the lobby Tommy knows that it'll be a cramped fit. He's right, of course, with Techno taking the pull out couch and Phil and Wilbur sharing one of the beds. 

Tommy changes into his pajamas, then shuffles over to the other bed, where his mother lays, tapping at her phone screen. He slips under the covers and watches her absently play Candy Crush, and when her level is over, she silently passes it to him so he can have a turn. 

They go on like that, passing it back and forth while Phil gets water from downstairs and Wilbur knocks three peanut packages from the broken vending machine. Eventually they all settle, the light goes out and Kristin plugs her phone in. 

"Goodnight sweetheart," she whispers, reaching over and pulling the blanket over his shoulder. 

But, despite his exhaustion, he doesn't sleep. Long after everyone is, Tommy stays there, staring at Kristin's rising and falling chest and listening to the sound of all of them breathing together. It's a cacophony of whistles and lax snores that normally wouldn't bother him. 

But – 

Tommy listens, unable to not hear his own breathing in his ears. Too loud. He inhales once, then holds his, and the sound immediately feels lighter. Everything feels lighter. 

His eyes flutter, but they snap open when he hears his mother's voice. 

"Breathe, baby," she says. Tommy hadn't noticed her eyes open. With her body facing him and her head laying against the pillow mirroring his, he can't escape her sight. "Breathe." 

Tommy sucks in a breath. 

Kristin scoots closer. She reaches up and runs a hand over his head, through his hair. “Keep breathing.” Her voice breaks – it sounds like a gunshot in the quiet of the night. “Keep breathing, Tommy.”

He falls asleep with her hand on his chest, over his heart, keeping track of the steady rise and fall. 

When they wake, they have fake motel eggs and keep driving. 

Tommy still doesn't know where they’re going, but his father, as always, drives with purpose, so he's content to sit and wait for the next thing to happen. 

All he can do is keep breathing, so that's what he does. 

Phil pulls over after a while, stopping them on the side of the highway. Techno asks if everything is alright, if there's something wrong with the car, but Phil smiles, entirely too cheery for someone who's been driving for hours now. 

"Nope, we're here on purpose! Come on everyone." 

They all file out. Annoyingly, Wilbur pulls Tommy out through his side, away from the freeway, as if Tommy is four and will run into the street at the first chance he gets. He's suicidal, not fucking stupid, but Tommy would rather not disrupt the peace, so he just grumbles and lets himself be pulled. 

"You see that path?" Phil has to yell over the roar of cars speeding by, but he points to the path he's talking about and they can see a dirt trail leading down through the trees. "There's a lake down there. Check the back of the car, I packed stuff for fishing!" 

Oh lord. 

Tommy hates fishing. With a passion. His cousin Jack loves it, and used to drag Tommy to the lake when he was younger, and Tommy never enjoyed it. The only reason that he kept going was because Jack is one of his favorite family members and if Tommy went without complaining, Jack would buy him whatever he wanted to eat for lunch on the way home. 

Tommy swallows down his disappointment though, because his father seems excited, and Tommy vaguely remembers when he got excited about things like that. It’s a feeling that’s far away, so he wouldn’t ever try to take it from someone else. 

Techno helps Phil carry the rods and coolers from the trunk down the path. The water is beautiful; pale, flat blue, with the sun shining on it, not exactly like diamonds, but like aluminum tinted. It’s just a smidge away from perfection, which makes it real, which makes it better than anything else. 

“Here – this is a good spot.” Phil sets down the cooler, and Kristin pulls sunscreen from her mountain pack. They all dutifully slather up under her watchful eye, and Wilbur kicks off his leather flip-flops to wade into the murky water. 

“Dad, I think there are salmon here,” he says excitedly. 

“Well, get out of there, Wil,” Phil chides playfully, “you’re scaring ‘em off like that.” 

Wilbur tip-toes out, and then takes his rod from Phil. Techno and Kristin settle by the edge, helping deal out bait, and Tommy scoots away from the wriggling bastards. It’s awful. All of it. He’s never understood what was so fun for people about fishing. It’s cruel, catching and watching the fish squirm, teasing them with death, then throwing them back, forcing them to live on. It’s horrible to have something like relief always just out of reach.

Techno, who was watching Wilbur make a fool of himself, turns suddenly to look at Tommy. Tommy must not be a very good actor, because his brother throws one more glance at their parents trying to help Wilbur reel in his line, and stands. 

“Hey,” he says, stepping in front of the glare of the sun, casting a shadow down onto him. “You look…bored.” 

“I’m having so much fun,” Tommy lies. 

Techno just blinks at him. 

“Okay, I’m not.” 

“Uh-huh. Come on then – up you get.” He says. Tommy stands, wiggling out his limbs. Techno calls to Phil that they’re going on a walk, and Phil tells him to make sure he has his phone with him. Then Techno is just disappearing into the bush as if he knows where the heck he’s going. 

Tommy follows. 

His brother is a bit of a nerd. He reads books about ancient civilizations and their art forms. He likes vikings and pirates and Greek myths. He plays the violin and the saxophone and wants to learn the flute. He wants to teach people things – and really teach them, because he believes that knowledge is power and that learning is saving. 

So that’s why Tommy doesn’t even blink when Techno pulls a pocket-sized book out of his jeans and flips the pages to one of the many neon pink sticky notes tucked in there. “That,” he says, pointing at the tree a little ways ahead of them, “is a northern red oak.” 

“And that,” he spins and points at another, “is a post oak.” 

“What’s the difference?” Tommy squints at the two of them. 

“Well, they look different.” Techno says blandly. Tommy glares. A tiny smile lifts at the corner of his brother’s mouth. “Alright. The red oak has a higher fire tolerance than the post. So if the side of the road were to erupt into flames, then we’d have better luck clinging to the northern red.” 

“We’d have better luck running, I think.” Tommy mutters, kicking at the dirt. 

Techno laughs, full and real, and Tommy smiles. He sits down in the dirt cross-legged against the lucky red oak, and Techno sits down next to him easily. Their knees brush and Tommy feels the silence settle around them in the thick, warm air. 

He can feel the question building. Techno’s gonna ask. He’s going ask and Tommy won’t have the proper answer and then he’ll be upset – 

“How are your friends?” 

Tommy blinks. 

“What?” 

“Ranboo and Tubbo?” Techno asks. “Your friends? You didn’t ditch them, did you?” 

“What? No!” 

“Okay good, I really liked that Ranboo kid.” In the pause, Techno tilts his head. “Tubbo scares me a bit.” 

"Tubbo scares everyone he meets." Tommy agrees. "Except me. Which is why we're best friends. But yeah, they're pretty good. Ranboo's getting ready to do this art summer camp in California. He'll be gone for three weeks. Tubbo's got his thing with Mr. Sam. That robotics retreat that he's been waiting for since, like, January. The whole team is gonna go to robot conventions and battle them like in Big Hero Six or whatever." 

"I'm pretty sure they were committing crimes in that scene," Techno says. Tommy shrugs. He said what he said. "How long is he gonna be gone?"

Tommy's frown curls further down. "A month and a half." He sees Techno eyeing him curiously out the corner of his eye, so he straightens a bit. "But they both said they'd message every night, so, it's fine or whatever." 

"Or whatever?" Techno repeats. 

"Or whatever," Tommy sighs. 

After fishing, which Tommy doesn't bother asking how it goes, they go to Waffle House. 

Tommy, zapped from the heat, falls asleep on his own arms at the table. When he wakes up, the waitress is putting food down in front of him – his favorite, though he doesn't know who ordered it for him. 

He manages his waffle, watching Wilbur suck orange juice through a straw. 

“Can we find a bookstore?” Techno asks. Kristin nods easily, and Tommy wonders suddenly what the plan is for this trip, if there is any at all. 

"Here," Wilbur says, passing his refill across the table. "Drink this. It'll make you feel better." 

Tommy takes the orange juice. 

They hit the next city. 

It's tall buildings and snaking alleys and something colorful to look at in every way you turn. It doesn't take them any time at all to find a bookstore, and it takes even less for Techno to hop out of the car like he's heading to a sports stadium. Their parents follow close behind, then Wilbur, and Tommy's never been a big fan of books, but he's content enough to follow Wilbur around as he looks at all the cool journals and notebooks. 

"Look at this," Wilbur says, running his finger down a history book. Tommy looks away from his Percy Jackson themed writing pad and frowns. "Civil Rights cases. Brown v. Board, Plessy v. Ferguson, Grutter v. Bollinger, Loving v. Virgina – " 

"What's that?" 

Wilbur stops. " Loving v. Virgina?" 

Tommy nods, stepping into Wilbur's space. Wilbur lowers the book so Tommy can see as he flips over to the page. 

" Loving v. Virginia is the court case decision holding that state laws prohibiting inter-racial marriage are unconstitutional." 

"Their name was Loving?" Tommy asks. 

Wilbur nods, his head tilting a bit in thought. "It's almost poetic. Love won out. Literally." 

They flip through the book some more, and Tommy's gut curls tighter and tighter. All of these people fought so hard to live. All of them wanted so deeply that they changed history for it. How could he not want this life? 

Techno comes around the corner, a huge book in his hands and a content smile on his face. Again, Tommy wishes that something as simply as a bunch of pages binded together were enough to make him happy. 

“You guys ready?” Then he sees the book in Wilbur’s hands. “Are you guys getting that?” 

Wilbur looks over at Tommy. Tommy stares at the book for a moment. “Uh – I don’t think so,” he says quietly. He doesn’t want to carry this guilt out of the store with him. He wants to take it in his hands and press it back between the shelves where it can collect dust. 

Wilbur doesn’t make him explain why. He just closes the book and slips it back into its spot, simple as that. “What did you get?” He asks Techno, rising from the floor. 

Techno flashes them both a grin. “A poetry book.” 

What does God say about the valves of love we shut off? Does he account for the wrench? What about the hammer? If someone breaks into your house, do you drop to your knees or pick up your gun? Which one is right? How is instinct any different from choice? 

Maybe it's already a kind of love. Instinct. That innate love of life that pushes us along. What of me is you and what of you is me? What of us is survival? 

They hit the part of the drive that’s just heat and road. 

For the first leg, Tommy tries to enjoy it. He likes hot weather – he likes the humid states where you go out in the dead of night and feel like a lizard under a lamp light. He likes the weather that feels almost like a presence around you. Like a person at your side. The heavy heat, the numbing cold, the thundering rains. 

Then, after a half an hour, Tommy starts to feel awful. It is awful: sitting with sticky legs on leather seats. Their strawberries have run out, and there's no highway lakes to stop at, and Wilbur's fallen asleep, so Tommy can't even bother him for entertainment. He's beginning to think this entire road-trip thing is the worst idea Technoblade has ever had, until Phil pulls off the highway. 

Tommy lazily turns his eyes to the window. He sees a lake covered in lily pads, a house dotted with leaves, a person laying brick on a path. Then, eventually, they pull into a gas station. There's one car also getting gas, and a man sitting by a grill outside of the convenience store, but other than that it's empty. 

"I'll go get us all some water," Kristin says when they stop. She unbuckles, and turns in her chair to look at them. "Does anyone need anything other than water?" 

Techno mumbles a no and Tommy shakes his head. Wilbur lets out a snore. She smiles, sweaty and fond, and then gets out to go inside. Phil gets out too, to load the car with gas. 

Through the open windows, Tommy can hear the man at the grill and the woman in the blue car talking. 

" – no way. No way," he's saying, sounding indignant. "There's no way that fake chicken is anything like mine." 

"I don't know," she says, shaking rocks out of her flip-flop. "I just know when I go to Chick-fil-a they've got this real good Polynesian sauce and – " 

"It's not real, I'm telling you!" 

"Well, I don't go over there and pay for real, do I?" 

Kristin comes back with waters, and she passes them around, waking Wilbur so he doesn't have a heat stroke in his sleep. The heat, consuming, ebbs when Tommy cracks his bottle open. The water feels like a blessing down his throat. 

"You probably like Chick-fil-a too, huh?" The man asks Phil, who looks surprised to be addressed. 

"Me? Well, I don't mind it." Phil admits. "But I'm sure your food is good too." 

"Why don't you come try some? You guys look a little peaked." 

Phil and Kristin exchange a look, and all of a sudden they're all getting out of the car with their water bottles and sitting down on the dusty picnic table to try some homemade barbecue. 

The man, Ponk, grins and chats them up while he turns seasoned chicken legs. The heat doesn't seem to touch them, even over the coals. When he puts the food in front of them, Tommy, with his fluctuating appetite, feels way too guilty to turn it down. Luckily, the food is good – like, genuinely good. Smokey and not too charred and cooked all the way through. The meat is falling off the bone in Phil's hands, so it's a pretty funny sight to see him, with sauce on his cheek, turn to Ponk with a huge smile. 

"This is so much better than Chick-fil-a." 

Ponk's face brightens considerably, and Tommy is struck with an overwhelming realization. This is the simplicity of human existence. Everyone just wants to be told that they're doing a good job. 

When they finish their food, theh thank Ponk for the meal, and start walking back to their car. Kristin opens the door for Techno and Wilbur, and Tommy lags a bit, going around the other side behind Phil. 

“Dad?” He says, before Phil can open the door. Phil turns. Tommy shuffles awkwardly, his face flushing. He’s embarrassed but this is important, so – “Thanks,” he says. Phil frowns, confused. “Thanks for being my dad. You’ve – you’ve been a great one.” 

Phil pauses, blinking rapidly. 

Tommy keeps shuffling, and his face gets warmer and warmer. Phil steps closer, cupping Tommy’s face in his hands. “Tommy,” he goes, voice wavering, “you’re a good son. You’re perfect. Maybe I don’t say it enough, but you are so, so good.” 

Tommy inhales slowly, daring to let himself relish in this. Phil must see the way his lips wobble, because the man gently pulls him forward and tucks his face into the crook of his neck, wrapping him up. Tommy shudders, wishing he could cry. 

"I promise you, Tommy," Phil says softly, rocking gently, "you are perfect. You are so, so perfect. You're everything to me." 

Tommy squeezes his eyes shut and pushes in closer. If he loses himself in his father, then maybe that will be true. If he lays here long enough, they'll meld together, and Tommy would be able to see whatever Phil sees of him. 

Tommy doesn't know how long he lets Phil hold him, but even the blistering heat from before feels like nothing in his arms. Secretly, Tommy wishes his father could take whatever is inside of him, tearing him apart, and make it feel like nothing. 

Tommy knows that no one could – he can’t stop himself from hoping for it though. 

They get back onto the highway, and the colors blurring by their window turn golden instead of green. The trees space out, leaving these long stretches of land filled with tall stalks and thin reeds of wheat. It’s beautiful, and it startles Tommy. The way that the land goes on, rolling up hills and stretching between the rare bodies of water that crop up. Looking at it this way, Tommy can almost picture that the Earth isn’t at all bothered by their existence, and she will keep on stretching long after they’re all gone. 

Phil pulls over at a ranch, and when Tommy gets out of the car, he can see the horses milling about in the large fenced area. 

“Woah,” Wilbur whispers, staring at a pretty large brown one, unbothered by their presence. Tommy has to agree. Woah . 

“You here to learn to ride?” A voice says. They all look over, startled. A man they didn’t notice sits there, dressed exactly as a rancher would be – cowboy boots and all. He’s got sun-born freckles all over his cheeks, and the tufts of hair that Tommy can see from under his hat are blond, and when he stands up off his barrel, he matches Tommy’s height. “Or are y’all just passing by?” 

“We know how to ride,” Kristin says. “They took lessons when they were young, but – are these horses for riding?” 

“You can,” he nods. “They’re broken in. Name’s Dream. Let me show you around.” 

Dream walks them around his ranch, pointing out the horses to them. There’s Carl, black and slow-limbed, and Mars, a golden-honey colored horse with tons of energy, and Friend, brown with white patches, who trotted over to watch them, following them as they walked by the fence. 

“And that one?” Wilbur asks, pointing at the one they saw when they first got here. It hasn’t moved from its spot, just having turned its head to carefully regard them. 

Dream sighs a bit, crossing his arms over his chest. “That one there is a challenge. I haven’t given him a name yet – he hasn’t let me ride him for more than five seconds before he gets rowdy. I would say he’s not fit to be ridden, but I’ve had friends manage it. He’s just selective, I suppose.” 

“He hasn’t hurt anyone, has he?” Phil frowns. 

“No – definitely not. But he just hasn’t opened up to anyone here yet. Most days he just… stands there. I think he can tell that I don't know how to handle him." 

Immediately, Tommy wants to choose him. Tommy wants the nameless, stoic, untethered, untamed horse. Tommy wants the one that no one knows what to do with. 

When Wilbur chooses Friend, and Techno chooses Carl, Tommy juts out his chin and points steadily at the horse with no name. Phil tries to protest, but Dream meets Tommy's eyes and holds his gaze. 

"Are you sure?" He asks Tommy. 

Tommy nods firmly. 

As Dream leads Tommy over to him, he expects that he'll have second thoughts. He's not the best horse rider. He's never done it for competition like Wilbur, or learned every single command and the ethics of horse breaking like Techno, so he's wary, but –

There's no fear as he blinks up at the horse, and they say that's the trick to winning one over. Don't be scared of what it can do. 

What was it that Wilbur said back at the strawberry fields? You only live once? Well, yeah. 

"I'll step back and let you work," Dream says, grass rustling under his boots as he moves back. 

Tommy hesitates, and instinctively decides not to pay the horse any mind. It goes against everything he’s been taught, but honestly, Tommy wants to enjoy this right here – he’s on a ranch, and his feet are buried in hay and his head is just one upwards tilt away from heaven. 

Life, he realizes, is much, much more than his room. 

He takes a breath, so deep that it makes his lungs ache. And the horse in front of him makes a sound, a huffing noise that prompts Tommy to open his eyes and lift a hand, offering it. The horse’s breath is heavy against Tommy’s palm, and when he lays it against the flat of the creature’s snout, Tommy feels like something much more than himself. 

The horse is warm and soft and gentle under his palm lines, and in touching it, Tommy very nearly sobs out loud. I too, he thinks , am warm and gentle. I too, am made of something good.

“Will you let me on?” Tommy asks, voice wavering. “Can I climb up?” 

The horse blinks, and almost as if he could hear and understand, lowers his head, giving Tommy access. He hears Dream’s sharp inhale, but doesn’t mind it, too busy pulling himself up and settling down. He combs a hand through the horse’s mane, then down the sides of his silky neck. 

“Whenever you’re ready,” he says. “I’ll go wherever you take me.” 

For a moment, it seems as if he isn’t going to go anywhere, and Tommy’s okay with that, because he’s peaceful right where he is looking around at the golden wheat billowing in the wind. Then the horse snorts, and begins to move. He doesn’t go too fast, mindful of the fact that Tommy isn’t on a saddle, but he goes quick enough that Tommy closes his eyes and lets the breeze ruffle his hair. 

Tommy feels endless up here, sitting on the back of this nameless troubled horse, just going and going and going. When they both pull back around to where Dream and his family are standing, wide-eyed, Tommy gets down with trembling legs. There’s a particular sort of breathlessness in his gut – like he just rode religion and took it straight up to heaven. 

“Holy shit, kid,” Dream chuckles, impressed. He whistles lowly. “What’s your secret?” 

Tommy shrugs, curving a hand down the horse’s snout. Henry, he thinks. That would suit you. House ruler. “I don’t have one,” he says outloud. “We just…clicked.” 

When they leave the ranch, it’s dark, and Tommy’s stomach is finally, finally, growling on purpose. 

“What do we want to eat?” Phil asks, glancing between his phone and the map in the passenger seat. Kristin’s taken up the wheel, letting Phil rest – Tommy thinks it’s sweet, the easy way they love each other. “There’s another Waffle House, a Subway, a –” 

“No more Burger King,” Tommy says, then blinks, because he didn’t mean to say that outloud. Phil startles, then turns in his seat, weirdly enthusiastic about Tommy’s participation. It makes him realize how he hasn’t actually given a destination like everyone else has. 

“What do you want, Toms? Just say the word.” 

Tommy curls a little, embarrassed, “I don’t care.” Before his father can wilt, he adds, “some type of vegetable. I think I’ll fade to dust if I don’t get one.”

And it isn’t even a funny joke, but Wilbur laughs like it is.

What they do is this – they pull off at the next rest stop and drive the roads until they get to a town. They find a supermarket and Techno runs inside with the card. He comes back out with bell peppers and a package of cheap knives and they cut them into slices right there in the parking lot. After they've been put under the knife, they look like paint covered smiley faces and they crunch like softened bones under his teeth. 

Tommy feels like an animal eating them, and he relishes it.

“Come up here with me, Tommy,” Wilbur says, from the hood of the car, and with a quick glance to his parents, he pulls away and climbs up, settling next to his brother and leaning back, mirroring him. “Look at the sky.” 

It’s beautiful. That’s the only word for it – large and expansive – looking up into it feels like it’s wrapping itself around your eye so you can get it all. The winking white is friendly and much, much more than Tommy’s ever deserves. Then any of them have ever deserved. 

There’s distant popping from a few cornfields away, and it would be scary if Tommy wasn’t here, nestled by the warmth of the night and cradled by the sky. His bravery pays off, because just two seconds later, the winking white of the sky is covered by color. 

“Holy shit,” Tommy says, stunned. Next to him, Wilbur chuckles, as if he’s planned this. He hasn’t of course, and that sad tinge to his voice gives him away. He wanted something else from this roof-top moment. And Tommy has a suspicion as to what it was. 

He knows he’s right when a hand reaches for his in the dark of the night. Tommy curls into it, away from the cramped hardness of the car. Why, the pulse pressed on his asks. Why, why, why. He lets himself be pulled close, but stays silent – his own answers like swarming flies over his rotting heart. 

At least there’s the sky and the booming to cover the silence. The lights fall against it like dangerous rain, and Tommy’s eyes blur over. He wishes his truth was as beautiful as this.

We, people, are deer walking at a cross, and life, the roaring trucks. Let it hit you, let it hurt. Live. 

Tommy doesn't know why he says it, but he does. 

"Can we go to a graveyard?" He asks, and the silence after his question mark turns it into an exclamation. 

They go. 

The sky has somehow shifted to accommodate, and everything feels like the color grey as they step out of the car. Kristin and Phil stay behind – they say they want to figure out where they're going next, but Tommy's been their child all his life – he knows that it's a silent plea to be quick with this stop. Hurry and get whatever you came for. 

Tommy doesn't really know what he came for. 

He leads his brothers inside, winding around the graves and treading lightly over the dead leaves. He looks over all the graves, the rotting flowers, the bowls of fruit, the trinkets left as blessings. 

He wonders what will go on his grave.

When he was small, Phil bought him a little teddy bear – he still has it, somewhere in his room, back in a box or under his bed. He imagines that would be settled down on the cold stone. Or maybe chrysanthemums, as those are his favorite flowers. Maybe a couple of cards or unlit firecrackers. Would Tubbo come? Would Ranboo? 

Tommy stops in front of an empty gravestone. There aren't any flowers or decorations. It seems to have been swept clean. 

Maybe, they would put nothing. What is remembrance anyway? A toy? A plant? Stones deep in the ground?

"Tommy," Techno starts, and Tommy can tell he's uncomfortable, uneasy – Tommy is scaring him – and if Techno is feeling like that, then Tommy knows Wilbur's already passed that six times over. He's going to say more, Tommy can tell, but a voice cuts him off. 

"Did you lose someone?" 

Tommy's head turns. There's a woman there, short, with arms full of flowers and a face full of lines. She seems like the kind of person that sadness feels guilty about gracing, which makes her setting all the more depressing. 

He opens his mouth to admit no. No, we're just passing through, because she doesn't deserve to have someone lie to her today, but Wilbur speaks up, his face out of Tommy's view, his expression woven into his words. 

"Yes," he says. A darkening sky. A shoveled plot. A lowered coffin. "We have." 

The words we have sound awfully similar to we will when Wilbur says them. 

Tommy suddenly decides that he doesn't want to be in a graveyard anymore. 

They don't talk about it, but what they do after driving away from the dead resting says it all. 

They go get sweet juices from a roadside fruit stand. The maker is jaunty and rosy cheeked and welcoming, and Tommy feels his limbs reanimate as Techno pushes taste after taste his way, trying to find his favorite. 

Strawberry citrus, cucumber mint lime, blueberry lavender, classic lemonade. 

"What do you like most, Tommy?" He asks, eyes steady on Tommy's working adam's apple as if drinking in that sight is the only refreshment he really needs. 

"Blue," Tommy whispers, and Techno passes him a cool mason jar. He expects the way their fingers brush and even the way Techno claspes, desperate, at Tommy's warm wrist. 

"Sorry," Techno says, but Tommy understands. He scared Techno. Has scared Techno. Keeps scaring Techno. 

"It's alright," Tommy says. He lets his brother cling, not reaching back. 

They get another hotel, and while Kristin and Phil are inside checking in, and Techno is using the bathroom, Wilbur and Tommy wait in the low evening light. 

The air is warm as a friend, and the stars are watching, and it feels like that night on the car hood, just Wilbur and Tommy, side by side in the quiet. Tommy feels braver now. Feels more full. 

"Ask me." 

Wilbur is quiet. 

"You want to." Tommy says. "Just ask me." 

Wilbur shifts. "Why," he breathes – Tommy feels like he’s breathing along with him. "Why do you want to leave us?" 

"When you picture the future, what do you see?" Tommy asks softly.

Wilbur frowns, confused. "I – I don’t know. Music. Journalism. I’ve got my internship."

"And Techno’s a TA, and dad is a teacher and mom is an artist."

"Yeah?" Wilbur hesitates. He seems to get it because he asks, "Tommy…what do you see when you look at the future?"

"Nothing, Wil. I don’t see anything. All I can see is the next tired day. And I'm not strong enough to keep on." 

Wilbur makes a noise, then turns, stepping into Tommy's line of vision, locking eyes with him. It's daunting, all the expectations that he sees there, but also all the love. "Tommy," he says, "Tom, there’s so much more out there than tired days. I promise you. I felt the same way in highschool, and when I went to therapy, I realized that it was my brain trying to trick me. I needed help. And you need the same. Life is – Tommy, this world is so big, and there’s still so much out there. It isn’t going anywhere anytime soon. You can always go get it. And even when you think you’ve seen it all,  trust me when I say that there’s always more. "

Tommy's lips waver, turning down, and he reaches out, curling into Wilbur's embrace. He wishes that were enough. 

They visit a performing arts hall in the morning, simply because Wilbur's asked, and the fact that there aren't any people or instruments doesn't stop them from being let inside. 

As they enter, their footsteps are like elephants echoing along the arches. 

Tommy slips away from his family, goes down one hall, and enters a performing stage. He climbs up the steps and looks out into the thousands of empty seats. All of these seats will be filled by people. People who have lives and jobs and loved ones and problems. These seats will be filled, music will play, then the seat will be emptied until next time. 

There's always more. 

"There's always more," Tommy whispers, just trying the words out for himself, but the auditorium catches the sound, carrying it. It travels across the empty seats and ricochets back to him, louder than he said it. 

There's always more, the universe says back to him, and it sounds a little bit like a promise. 

When Tommy was younger, his family took a trip to the zoo. 

They went on the train, and it was Tommy's first time, and they had Fundy, his little cousin, who was small enough to be in a car seat. It was Tommy's job to watch over him on that train ride, so he pressed himself next to the clunky car seat and away from the strangers, almost curling over it like a cobra. 

He vividly remembers Techno paging through a copy of Abraham Lincoln: Vampire Hunter because he had his brother completely in his view when the trains jerked to a stop and alarms began to blare. He remembers the book dropping to the floor, he remembers people around him shifting in that confusion before they register what's going on and then –

There has been a malfunction – Everyone please make a calm and orderly line in the direction of the exit. 

Tommy doesn't remember what happened after that. All he knows is this: he was on the train, curled up, and then he was standing on the crowded platform, hands clutched tight around Fundy's car-seat. He was shaking, he thinks, when his family found him. Technoblade's eyes were wide and Phil was reaching out, all nerves, but Kristin was smiling, astonished. 

"You shot off like a bullet, Tom," she said, and when she went to take the car seat away, she had to tug. "It's alright, baby, breathe. You're okay."

"Is he okay?" Tommy asked, not looking away as he was pulled into Phil's arms. "Did I –"

"He's okay, son," Phil reassured, smoothing a hand down Tommy's curls. "You did great." 

A lot of things stayed with him from that day, but nothing more than the urge that enveloped him. That instinct of survival, the press of life against him that said keep on, keep on. 

When Tommy wakes up, he's moving, and he's slumped across Phil's back, being carried in from the car. He groans, tucking his nose into Phil's nape, and feels Phil's warm chuckle buzz against him. 

"Hi buddy," Phil says, turning slightly, letting his cheek brush Tommy's. "We're going in the hotel. You didn't sleep well last night, did you?"

Tommy hums, and the sound is a noncommittal agreement because he's distracted. The air is warm around them with a wind that predicts a storm, and, sounding light-years away, thunder churns. It feels like the afternoon before the world ends. 

A raindrop hits Tommy's cheek. He goes to tell his father hey, you might want to hurry, the sky is going to crack open, but he stops himself as the words form on his tongue. This is the sky crying – someone should bear witness. 

Just as he's predicted, a torrent of rain descends. Phil curses, then starts to jog, Tommy bumping on his back, clinging tightly. A weird light giddy feeling fills him and a smile cuts across his face. When he giggles into Phil's shoulder, his father slows slightly. 

"Oh you like this, don't you?" He asks. "You're happy about this, huh? You think me getting all soaked is funny. Well how about this –"

And then Phil spins, twirling them in the rain, and Tommy's giggle bubbles into a real laugh. An almost shriek of delight as his father hops and dances, shaking him around and threatening to let him spill out onto the slick concrete even though Tommy knows his grip is strong around Tommy's knees and he won't let go for anything. 

The rain falls around them, and Tommy snorts, and Phil hollars, and when they get inside, they're dripping. 

Phil reaches out and smooths back Tommy's wet bangs, curving a gentle palm against his temple, a father's brush against his mental scars. 

"Are you alright?" He asks, still breathless. 

Tommy nods, leaning into the hand. He's surprised to find that he means it. That rain, that dance, it felt a lot like washing clean. 

Maybe, he thinks, I can live with this. Just maybe. 

There is a cart full of delicates traveling down the road. This is a metaphor for life. Everything, if you'll take the second required to notice, is a metaphor for life. Because there's no clean way to describe what we go through and the things that we experience. 

Your mother, a metaphor for life. 

Your father, a metaphor for life. 

You, life. 

The cart full of delicates is life especially if this cart tips over and shatters to pieces because – as I'm sure you will have guessed – destruction is a metaphor for life. 

And now, we get to the good part. The pottery, the glass blowing, the cross stitching. We get to the allabah jar with the beautiful crack right down the middle. We get to the gold. The sweet, sweet sensation of rebuilding. 

This too, is life? – you may ask. 

No. This is the one thing that stands on its own. No metaphors, no similes, no redundant tellings. 

This is as it is – this is birth. 

The trees begin to curl and brown, and the greenery shifts to sand as they hit an ocean town. 

There are a million people everywhere and a million things to look at, and the heat feels anticipatory with the promise of the sea. 

Wilbur, with his hand curled around Tommy's wrist, says, "we should get ice cream," and Tommy leans over to smile with every bit of boyish angel charm he can manage to win Phil over. Techno, in the back, snorts and kicks Wilbur's chair, a silent telling off for taking advantage of their father. Wilbur ignores it and simply widens his grin. 

They get ice cream. 

"There's all sorts of stuff we can do," Kristin says over her melting mint chocolate chip cone. "Resorts and beaches and gift shops – and there's a pool in every hotel." 

"That's a lot of water," Techno leans over to look over her shoulder. "Any dry activities?"

"A walk on the beach is dry – sandy, but dry." 

"I think," Phil says, leaning close and dropping a kiss on her cheek, "that you just want to get in the water."

"Oh, am I that transparent?" Kristin gives a cheeky smile. Techno groans playfully, dropping his head on his mother's shoulder. 

When Tommy finishes his strawberry scoop, they all pile back into the car. Wilbur leans all into Tommy's space, showing him the new bands he's been listening to recently, even pulling Techno's attention and making him share some music too. Tommy knows what this is – a promise to stay. 

  Here's a band that I like, stay and listen to their music – if you like them, then we can go to a concert together, in the future, if you like them, then we can wait together for the next album, in the future – stay, stay, stay. 

Tommy puts an earbud in and lets them press him into their lives. 

Kristin and Phil stop at a hotel and go inside to get a room, get a hotel room, and while they check in, Techno takes the three of them shopping. 

"Bread, meat, water bottles," He recites, typing into his notes app, gracefully avoiding Wilbur's reckless cart swinging. 

"Tommy, get in!" Wilbur says. Tommy stares at him. "Come in, I'll push you." 

"Wil, Techno probably wants us to actually help get the groceries –"

Techno waves him off, still typing out the list into his phone. "Get in the cart, Tommy. Wilbur won't focus unless you give him what he wants. He's like a dog."

"I'll bite you like a dog," Wilbur says cheerily. "I'll beat you up."

"Okay, Wil." Techno sighs. "Sure." 

They help Tommy climb into the cart and Tommy pulls his knees in close as Wilbur pushes him into the store. They go through the produce – getting more bell peppers, some apples, some oranges, some grapes – then Techno steers them to the turkey and cheese, then to the juice. 

"Orange juice," Wilbur says, leaning forward excitedly and nestling his chin in Tommy's hair. Tommy hums, pleased with the contact. 

"Disgusting," Techno frowns. "Both you two and the orange juice. We're getting apple." 

"No, orange!"

"Wil," Techno sighs, but Tommy cuts in –

"Lemonade," he says, and they both look at him. "Lemonade is best."

Techno pauses, then shifts to grab a jug of lemonade. 

When they come out of the grocery store, the sky is colored in. 

Wilbur nearly gives Tommy a heart attack by beginning to sprint towards the car, pushing the cart as fast as it can go. He wants to be mad, but when they stop, Tommy's got a smile splitting his red cheeks and Wilbur's laughter is nestling into a home in his heart, so he can't. 

They pack up the car, then head back to the hotel and take their groceries upstairs. Tommy gets the privilege of sitting on the marble counter and kicking his feet while Techno hands him things to put into the refrigerator beside him. He sticks his tongue out at Wilbur, who's stuck gathering all the plastic bags and taking them to the trash chute. 

When they're finished, Tommy hops down and drifts out to the balcony, where his mother sits, a sketchbook open and all her pens out. 

"Come here, baby," she says, reaching out a hand to pull him away from the railing. Away from the edge. "Come draw with me." 

Tommy doesn't do much drawing, he's more content to watch as she captures all the colorful condos around them on paper. The brilliant plant life and the shining sliver of sea that they can spot from where they're seated. 

And then, she draws him. 

It's mesmerizing, he thinks, to see the way that someone else sees you. 

Kristin draws him gentle – as if there aren't weights pulling at his shoulders – and kind – as if Tommy is a person who deserves that – and alive – like he isn't a wisp, like he isn't a curl of human letting the wind dig at him, like he's got a fire and a heat, and a bright warm light. Kristin draws him the way that he wants to be – and maybe –

Well, maybe the way that he wants to be is the way that he's always been. 

"Pizza!" Phil calls from inside, the oven beeping, and they all converge on him like a starving flock. When their plates are full, they take them back out to the balcony to listen to the beach sing in the dark. 

Tommy, with one shoulder bumping his mother's and the other bumping his brother's, sighs through his happiness. 

Techno doesn't want to get in the water. 

They're at the beach now, during daylight, and there are families all over– children with shovels and pails, dogs kicking sand and jumping through the waves, women shaking out sandy beach towels – and Techno is sitting cross-legged on a blue towel, blinking at the sun. 

"Come on Tech," Wilbur tried, "it's not gonna bite you –"

"There are crabs that will pinch." Techno says dryly. "I can tell you all the different types if you wanted. I can name them and what they look like and what they do to toes." 

Wilbur skittered away. "Never mind. Boo." 

Tommy doesn't like the idea of Techno sitting alone and watching them all have fun in the waves, so he stays behind, digging his heels into the sand and sitting by his brother's side. 

"Can you read me a poem from your book?" He asks, because he's always loved Techno's reading voice. If he would replace the voice in his own head with Techno's, he thinks he might listen to himself more. 

Techno opens the book and leafs to a random page. "Any poem?" 

Tommy closes his eyes. "Anything."

He hums, clears his throat, then – 

This is what humans call a classical myth – the worn hero, the romantic lands, the monuments that stretch and never weather – this is what they print novels over. 

The flowers that fade into dust, only to be replaced by the next sun dial, the wind that travels east only to work its way back around, the sky that shifts steadily through it all. 

This pain is classic, and that's why it's almost myth when it is let go. 

Tommy stays quiet until he's done and then he stays quiet some more because the silence feels like it's waiting for more words, but Techno slides the book shut and looks at him expectantly. 

"Wow," Tommy says. "What does that mean?"

"It means whatever you need it to mean, Tommy." Techno reaches over to brush sand off Tommy's shoulder. "Whatever it is that you're looking for." 

Tommy wants to sit with that for a moment and let it sink into his bones, but Wilbur tumbles out of the waves and shakes a hand at him. "Tommy! Tom! Come get wet! Come here!"

Tommy glances at Techno, who's smiling exasperatedly, and then gets up, shaking off the sand and sprinting at Wilbur. He jumps and tackles him, knocking them both back into the waves. Wilbur shrieks as he falls, but his arms come up around Tommy to hold him even as the water collapses over their heads. 

Tommy splutters a laugh, popping up and pulling Wilbur with him. 

"You're fucking crazy, child," Wilbur coughs, eyes crinkling as they rock gently. 

"Well, Wilbur, you wanted me out in the water," Tommy grins. He stands, pulling away, looking out into the ocean. "We should go deeper, it's hot." 

Wilbur follows, but at a distance, a bit unsettled by the waves that he sees. Tommy on the other hand, is determined. He doesn't know why, but something in him wants to be submerged. He likes the weightlessness he feels in the water, the rush of being a part of something stronger than him. 

When he gets out far enough, he turns and raises a hand. He waves once, opening his mouth and yelling, "hey Techno!" 

And then a wave comes from behind. 

Tommy's never been able to find the words to explain his brain when it all goes wrong. He's never been able to explain that gray filter, that middle distance, that overcome of feeling and the way it takes you in its palms and molds you into something you can't recognize. 

He's never been a poet, never been good with books and reading and writing like Techno, like Wilbur, like his dad. He can't even draw like his mother – make worlds from graphite and charcoal, capture memories with a pen – he honestly, never thought he was good at anything. 

This turbulent throwing of his body is the only way he would ever think to describe the way he felt day in day out as he clung to life. This is it. This is the feeling in action. And it's funny – as he swirls here with no air, and his eyes squeezed shut and his chest aching for just one single breath, just one more, he realizes that he desperately, desperately wants to live. 

He wants this life: the horses and the fireworks and the sweet juices, but also the cramped car and the blistering heat and the sticky strawberry fingers. He wants Wilbur's smile, and Techno's lulling voice, and Kristin's hand pressed to his chest, and Phil's squeezing embrace. 

He wants his family. He'd wail to them if he could breathe. He'd beg for life if the water allowed him to. 

Please, he'd say, please give me one more – please – let me see that there's something else out there – 

And then a strong hand curls around his wrist and yanks up. 

Tommy's head breaks over the waves and arms curl around his back to hold him there. He coughs, hacking up sea-water and trembling. A hand finds his chest, another tipping his chin to the side, and the water spills from his mouth and lungs down and out. There's one voice, Phil – oh my God, oh my God – another, Kristin – breathe, Thomas, please, breathe – and Wilbur – fuck, fuck, Tommy, oh fuck. 

When Tommy stop coughing and begins swallowing air instead of spitting water, he rights himself, eyes lidded. Techno's here, dripping wet like he dove head first into the waves and his family are surrounding him like he's a beacon of light. They're on the shore, and Tommy is tucked in Techno's arms. 

And Tommy is alive. He is blissfully, beautifully, terribly alive. 

"Tech," Tommy gasps, shivering. "Tech –"

"Breathe, Tom," Techno tries, "just –"

"I got you wet," he says for lack of anything else to say, and Techno laughs, wrecked, and pulls Tommy closer, hiding him, tucking his wet nose against Tommy's temple. 

"I don't mind." He whispers. "You're alive. You're okay." 

And Tommy, toes tingling, chest aching, realizes that it's true. 

Later, Tommy's wrapped in a towel and sitting on the floor of the hotel living room in front of the couch. There's a Disney movie on the TV; some pretty lady singing about what she wishes for that Wilbur hums along to as he combs his hands through Tommy's sandy, damp hair. 

"You'll have the sessions twice a week," Phil is saying, both Kristin and his own phones in his hands. "And we can go with you if you want – any one of us. Your brother would be happy to take the time out to –"

"You," Tommy says. Phil blinks. "I want you, dad. Can I – I mean, would you? Can you come with me?" 

Phil nods immediately, expression morphing into determination. That roadtrip-across-the-country-determination. That navigating-backroads-through-the-pitch-black determination. That won't-stop-until-this-is-fixed determination. That determination that Tommy knows he can trust more than the sky and more than the Earth. "Of course, Tommy. Of course. Whatever you need."

Kristin comes into the room and puts a plate of sliced bell peppers down on the coffee table. She sits down next to Tommy on the rug, bumping their shoulders. 

"Close call there, darling," she says, smile strained but gentle. "You gave us all a fright." 

Tommy inhales, feeling his lungs fill, and then exhales, leaning over to lay against her side. "Sorry. No more scares, I promise." His eyes find Techno's. "Can we go home now?"

Techno squints at him, studying him, then smiles, content. Relieved. "Yeah. Yeah, we can go home now." 

The pain is classic, which is why it's almost myth when it's let go. When it falls, clanging like shackles to the concrete, when it's dropped, sheathed like a sword, like a gun to its holster, then life is allowed to begin yet again.