Chapter Text
In typical Philza fashion, their family grows from three to four in a matter of weeks.
Wilbur should’ve seen this one coming, really. He’s not upset about it, not at all; actually, he’s rather amused about it. Techno was the first to fold other than him, only to be followed— only an hour afterwards— by Phil. Truthfully, this wasn’t as much of a shock as it should’ve been.
Progressively, Tommy stays at his house longer and longer throughout the days. When Wilbur passes out on the sofa, he hangs out with Techno or Phil in the backyard, or shows them random things that he knows how to do. On other days, they’ll teach him things— like how Techno can properly hold a sword (much to Tommy’s wide-eyed admiration), and how fast Phil can fly through the air (see: very fast).
Time moves by in a range of speeds; easy and slow, like molasses on some, and then quick and daunting on others. Wilbur prefers the slower days, when it’s just him and the other two— now three— members of his family, all sitting around and doing next to nothing.
It’s so strange having his house full of light now, so much less empty. Since his arrival, not only has Tommy populated his little cabin once more with people (something he hadn’t known that he desperately needed; social interaction), but he’s also populated it with objects.
These objects range from the numerous pots of flowers scattered around his house, ones hanging from the ceiling by his windows and ones sitting atop the fridge. They’re always taking up places that had originally been just empty, barren space beforehand.
While once upon a time Wilbur would’ve been annoyed with this (before he’d died, he was allergic to most flowers), he was pricked slightly with endearment. Not that he’d admit that, always putting on a show whenever Tommy carried in a bundle of flowerpots from god knows where in his arms.
Attached was the best word to describe each and every one of them. Truly a shot to the heart with how quickly this sort of thing had happened, with how nearly the same month that Tommy had joined, they’d all collectively seen him and gone, ‘Oh? This child? That one? Cool! New family member.’
It’s nice, really, but sometimes it isn’t.
Tommy doesn’t trust them. It’s not obvious really, with the way he tells them the most random of things from his supposed childhood (despite still being a child, Wilbur thought), always animated and fairytale-esque about it.
They still know, though, and Wilbur can see the way Phil’s mouth downturns whenever he asks Tommy a specific question about where he’d come from, or how Techno frowns at one of the scars he’d find on the kid’s forearms (and he did have quite a few, much to all of their horrors).
“It’ll be okay,” Phil reassures him quietly one night when Tommy’s playing out in the front yard with Techno, morning rays catching both of their silhouettes.
They’re sword fighting— or playing pirates, as Tommy had called it— with two big sticks covered in leaves. It’s times like this when Wilbur wishes that he could be there with them, a stick in his own hands. Maybe in their fairytale, in their world of pirates, he’d be the villain, and they’d pretend to kill him for stealing their gold. (Oh, what a life that’d be).
“I know,” Wilbur responds, leaning against his father’s side, feeling the shift of Phil’s wing against his shoulder. His hands clasp his cup of tea tighter, lips pressed into a thin line. “I just worry for him, you know?”
“You got attached awfully quickly,” Phil teases just as Techno had many times already, and Wilbur huffs.
“You’re one to talk, old man,” he grumbles, and he can feel his father shrug against his arm.
Outside the window, Techno clashes his stick— sorry, sword— with Tommy’s, and Wilbur can hear the kid’s excited, bubbling laugh.
“At least I admit it,” Phil quips lightly.
Tommy disarms Techno.
Wilbur breathes out his nose, crossing his arms, “Looks like I’m not the only one not admitting it.”
Snorting at this, Phil sets his cup of tea onto the kitchen counter, just beside the sink.
“I never said it was just you, Wil.”
—
The funniest thing to all of them collectively, as it remains still even now, was Jack’s reaction. The poor man had pretty much balded all the way to hell and back once more (“Call that shit hard balding,” Tommy had snorted into his hands over breakfast once) in his stress to find Tommy.
Needless to say, the look on Jack’s face when the four of them appeared in the Pub one day together for one of the casual meetings set up by Phil himself was recordly funny.
(“What the fuck,” Jack hissed, stalking up to where Techno and Tommy were stood by the punch dispenser, practically fuming in his anger. “You’re– what– where the fuck have you—?”
“Thanks for bringing me here, Jack,” Tommy had interrupted, words dripping with such sincerity that Jack closed his mouth, eyes narrowing. “I really appreciate it! If you hadn’t, I wouldn’t have made such close friends!”
After that, Jack wasn’t nearly as angry; not at Tommy, really, but at the others. Tommy had successfully manipulated him, and Techno had nearly coughed up a lung laughing at how Wilbur’s same attempts to subside the Blazeborne had failed miserably).
By the third month since Tommy’s arrival, everyone on the server knows of him. He’s quick to make friends with nearly everybody, much to Wilbur’s amusement. It wasn’t a surprise, though. The kid was loveable, exciting, and strangely extroverted for someone who had only really visited him in the beginning.
Really, Wilbur can’t help but feel proud (and judging by the half-smile on Techno’s face, the slight sparkle in his father’s eyes, he can’t help but notice that his family feels the same way, too).
Things couldn’t be better, he thinks one day, watching Tommy bend down by the river and talk with Niki about who knows what. It’s good to finally be able to go out into the sunlight with this thing Tommy had given him— some weird shit called an ‘umbrella’ or whatever the hell— that blocked him from the sun’s rays.
It was vaguely irritating to deal with but it was far better than Phil’s stupid protective, fire-breaching helmet, anyways.
Sitting beside Tommy at the river is an overly pissy Jack, who is making a big mistake with being sat next to the water in Wilbur’s opinion. Sure, he and Tommy were something near friends now, but that didn’t stop the kid from taking the piss out of everyone.
Not— not literally. Figuratively.
Either way, Wilbur had been subject to Tommy’s supposed ‘pranks,’ despite being classified as one of the kid’s closest friends. Go figure.
He breathes an exhale when Niki disappears under the water, reappearing moments later with a shiny seashell in hand that she deposits quickly into Tommy’s open palm.
Things were nice— far nicer than they’d been in a long time, actually.
It felt almost too good to be true.
Wilbur had gone from being isolated in his house, only really ever speaking to people if he was coerced into it (or if said people were his family), and now here he was, making friends again. It was a difficult process, but he enjoyed it, honestly.
Still, the bitterness and constant pressing of his mind, a whirlwind of disbelief, had begun to think differently. Something was off, maybe not a lot, but just a tad— the phrase too good to be true was never followed by anything good.
He just hoped, at least, it wouldn’t end anytime soon.
—
“Do you ever wonder?”
Wilbur glances up from the flower pot he’s watering. It’s a blue orchid, given to him by Tommy in a pot the kid had apparently painted himself, along with a couple of glowberries grown directly from his hair. He’d promised to take care of it, and he was (so far) upholding that deal, despite being classified as a plant killer.
Sitting comfortably in the armchair, Techno plucks a few chords on Wilbur’s guitar. His twin rarely played, constantly claiming that he was too busy farming or whatever for it, but when he did, it was always nice. His playing style was far different from Wil’s own, a series of high strumming and careful placing that clashed with Wilbur’s gentle and soft chords.
Tommy had left three hours ago, just before sunrise, wanting to get back home before he ended up collapsing on Wilbur’s sofa again. Phil was busy doing who knows what elsewhere, so it was just him and Techno.
It usually was just them, and it feels distantly nostalgic, a smile spreading across Wilbur’s face.
“Wonder about what?” He questions, setting down his small watering can beside the pot. (It was elephant shaped, something from his childhood that he’d begged Phil to dig out of the basement for him after receiving so many plants from Tommy).
Techno grunts, setting the guitar aside.
“About Tommy,” he says, and Wilbur hums.
He crosses the living room, sitting fluidly down onto the sofa, lifting his feet to rest on the coffee table. It was nearing midday, the time he grew the most exhausted, but he pushed the feeling to the back of his mind.
“Frequently, actually,” Wilbur admits, shrugging. “I’m sure we all do. Kid’s an enigma. Not many plant hybrids that I’ve heard of before, especially not glowberries. Having glowing hair is enough for me to wonder about him, not just the whole hybridity thing.”
Techno clicks his tongue a little, something clearly bothering him by the way his eyebrow twitches.
“What is it?” Wilbur asks nearly immediately. Call it a pseudo twin’s intuition, but something was wrong. Although they weren’t biological, Wilbur had always felt like he knew almost exactly what Techno was thinking. Not an empathic thing, he didn’t declare ‘I, as an empath, know you’re sad because you’re crying,’ but more of a natural occurrence.
A family thing, he proclaimed it.
“It’s…” Techno breathes out, tapping one finger against the arm of the chair. In the sunlight, Wilbur can see the glimmering from one of his woven grass and glowberry rings. (It was a gift from Tommy; Techno had a ring, Wilbur had a necklace, and Phil had an earring). “I don’t know, maybe I’m overthinkin’, but… do you know where the kid lives?”
Wilbur purses his lips.
They were pretty much right back to square one with that question. The reality was no; he had no clue where Tommy lived, even though they’d known one another well enough for that to have been established. It only brought back the topic of the kid’s trust in them, though.
He didn’t trust them, and that was okay. Wilbur didn’t want to push boundaries, and neither to anyone else. They just wanted to know that he was alright, that he was healthy, that he was stable. It was enough for them— still, though, this didn’t mean they weren’t curious.
There were times when Wilbur had thought about following Tommy into the woods— not in the creepy way, just to make sure he got home alright— but decided against it. The kid was allowed his secrets, his boundaries, all of that. He wouldn’t surpass them, wouldn’t ask too many questions, none of it. He’d patiently await the answers as they came (if they ever did).
“No,” he does admit aloud, though, shifting uncomfortably. “I’ve asked him before. Phil has, too, but… I don’t know. I just don’t think we should push it. He’s allowed to not tell us.”
At this, Techno nods, raising his palms in a mock defense.
“I don’t want to force it out of him, nothin’ like that,” he says, shaking his head. A lock of pink has come loose from the braid that Phil did earlier for him, and Wilbur has to hold himself back from fixing it for his brother. “I worry, that’s all.”
At this, he shrugs, “But, if he comes here everyday and he’s unharmed, then I won’t. Not a lot, that is. He’s strong, he’s capable… he can hold his own.”
He shouldn’t have to, not at fifteen, Wilbur thinks, but waves it away. He’d been pretty independent at that age, too; saying Tommy wasn’t felt almost hypocritical. (A part of him tries to forget all of their reactions to the kid’s age. He’d said it like he was proud to live alone, and Phil had looked as though he’d been smacked in the face. They didn’t pry further, though, as they never do).
Wilbur exhales, blowing a curl from out of his eyes, “Yeah, you’re right. Suppose we just wait for him to come for us.”
It’s not a question, but Techno nods anyway.
—
Tommy’s cheeks puff out, eyebrows pulled together. It’s almost amusing how disgruntled he looks, a vine of glowberries weaving through the strand of his curls closest to his ear. It’s nestled right beside the braid Techno had done for him earlier, and Wilbur has to do everything in him to suppress a smile at it.
“Will you be back soon?” he asks, arms crossed over his chest as he watches Wilbur gather his things. Traveling to the marketplace was never one of his favourite things to do; really, it was rather annoying to travel (one day there, an overnight stay, and then one day to return).
It was necessary— to him, at least— that he made it, though.
There was a person in the marketplace that made teacups; more specifically, the ones that Wilbur had in his cupboards. While that wasn’t significant really, there was a far more important reason. They had made his family’s teacups, the ones that were in pristine condition and belonged to only them. It was a special thing, something that Wilbur kept close to his heart.
He’d decided a long time ago that Tommy needed one, a far better one than that chipped one that he’d been using for quite some time now, he just happened to be lazy. The marketplace was far away and he really didn’t like travelling underground during the daylight hours, which were far longer than the nights.
Another faceoff with a Creeper who’d appeared out of nowhere was not something he’d be looking forward to.
However, he had two different motivators now: the idea of making a new teacup was exciting and he had an umbrella now, so it shouldn’t be as awful as a trip.
“I’ll be back in three days, Toms,” Wilbur promises, walking away from the satcheh he’d packed so that he can stand in front of Tommy. Carefully, he kneels down so that they’re eye to eye (a tradition that has lasted), giving the kid a careful smile. “Okay?”
Tommy hums a little, unsure.
“Hey— look,” Wilbur raises his hand, lifting his pinky finger, “I’ll promise you so that we can seal it. If I break this promise, you’re legally allowed to steal my pinky finger away from me.”
Bursting into slightly shocked laughter, the glowing of Tommy’s hair only seems to increase.
“What?” He asks, staring at Wilbur’s pinky in disbelief.
“I’m not kidding,” Wilbur waves his hand a little in front of Tommy’s face, grinning wide. “Come on. Let’s pinky promise so you’ll know I’m not lying.”
Still in a fit of giggles, Tommy raises his hand, linking his pinky with Wilbur’s. Gently, Wilbur shakes their joined hands.
“I, Wilbur,” he begins, lifting his chin to over dramatize it, “Swear by this pinky promise that I will return in three days time to my little brother, Tommy, so that he is not lonely.”
Tommy snorts, rolling his eyes, “I won’t be lonely. I’ve got Techno and Phil, and… and my plants.”
Wilbur raises an eyebrow. If he could smile wider, he would.
“Oh, I see,” he teases, letting go of their pinky hold so he can reach forwards and poke Tommy in the side. “I'm going to leave for three days and you’re already thinking about replacing me? Tsk… awful brother, you are.”
“You’re stupid,” Tommy comments, smacking Wilbur’s hand away when it goes to poke him in the forehead. “I’m not replacing you, idiot. Techno’s just as much my brother as you are.”
At this, Wilbur gasps, as though he hadn’t called Tommy ‘brother’ two times beforehand.
“Brother?” He repeats, voice lilted. “Aww, you’re gonna make me cry.”
Tommy smacks him upside the head lightly, and Wilbur chuckles. There’s a pause between them, and the man softens a tad, opening his arms.
Pursing his lips a little at this, Tommy only takes a moment before falling into them, head resting against his brother’s shoulder. Instinctually, Wilbur wraps his arms around the boy, chin settling atop his glowing and mildly dirt-smelling curls.
“I’ll only be gone for three days,” he promises, patting Tommy’s back gently. He lowers his head a little, as if to look down at him, “And like you said, you’ll have Techno and Phil, and Tubbo, and Niki… you’re going to be okay.”
“And you won’t leave forever?” Tommy questions, and Wilbur hums a laugh at this, knocking his chin against the crown of the kid’s head, as if to comment, ‘What a dumb thing to say.’
“No, kiddo, I won’t leave forever. Only three days,” he flicks Tommy’s temple, letting out an oof when it earns him an elbow in the stomach. He breathes, catching his breath with a huff, then adds, “You know I wouldn’t leave you, Phil, or Techno like that. Plus— I still need to play a song for you on guitar, remember?”
Tommy smiles brightly at this, nodding with enthusiasm.
“Thank you.”
With a grin, Wilbur pulls away, quickly putting his arm around Tommy’s neck and rubbing his fist into his curls, chuckling. It was something Tommy— jokingly— despised, letting out a shriek and wildly flailing to try and get him to stop.
“What the fuck? Wil, you’re messing up my braid!” He yells, shaking out his hair when Wilbur lets go, a disgruntled look on his face.
“Just have Techno redo it for you,” Wilbur reaches out, gentle as he ruffles his brother’s hair this time. He turns, walking back to where he’d gathered his things together, all the materials that he’d need for his trip. “I’m sure he’d love to braid your hair sometime. Not just the strand, but all of it.”
As he shifts his satchel over his shoulder, he can see Tommy puffing his chest out the corner of his eye.
“That’s because my hair is poggers,” he says proudly, chin lifted upwards, “Anyone would want to braid my hair.”
Wilbur just smiles, readjusting the strap over his shoulder.
“This is true,” he affirms, and Tommy’s grin grows wider.
“Sap,” the kid comments, coming over to step on Wilbur’s shoe.
Snorting, Wilbur reaches forwards to smack Tommy’s shoulder lightly.
“Whatever. I’ll see you soon, okay?”
Hesitantly, a bittersweet smile spreads across Tommy’s face, the prior light fading from his eyes a little. Wilbur almost wants to stay, to bring the kid with him, but he shouldn’t; it was a long distance and he was better at traveling alone.
“Okay,” Tommy whispers, and then he’s pressing himself into Wilbur’s arms again, wrapping his own around the man’s torso.
Wilbur runs a hand through his hair, “I’ll be back before you know it. Remember, if you want to visit someone, Techno’s house isn’t too far. He’ll teach you about carrot farming, and maybe he’ll even play pirates with you again.”
“I know, I know,” Tommy nods, stepping back a little. He wipes the underside of his nose with the palm of his hand, but there are no tears coming from his eyes. “He’s a great pirate.”
“If you tell him that, he’ll probably cry,” Wilbur jokes. It’s only half true; his twin brother never cried, but he’d definitely be warmed by the fact.
Tommy shrugs, a small but mischievous smile crossing his face.
“I’ll be testing that theory.”
Silently, Wilbur prays for Techno’s heart.
—
The marketplace is a bustling place full of people during the day. He’s slightly grateful that he had, for once, been smart and decided to come just near dusk, when the shops are beginning to close.
It’s second nature with how he moves, a direct line towards the particular stall that had made all of the teacups. Standing behind it, expectedly, is Eret and their ward, Fundy. The latter is bustling around, an apron pulled around his waist. They were a duo; the porcelain crafter, and the painter.
He walks up, just as he had many years before, settling his elbows against the wood and smiling wide.
“Long time no see,” he comments, alerting Eret’s attention, who turns to him with a wide smile. There was a time once when Wilbur had been vaguely afraid of them— their eyes were a constant milky white and they happened to be tall as fuck. Now, though, they stand at the same height, and Wilbur sees nothing but kindness in their pale eyes.
“Wilbur,” Eret greets, enthusiastic and warm, walking over and holding out their hand. Wilbur takes it gratefully, shaking with a smile. “It’s been quite a while since I saw you last. How are you? How’s your father?”
Letting go of Eret’s hand and shifting so his chin is pressed into his palm, he just hums.
“Well, actually. Phil’s got a position at the place we live, rather his expertise really, and I’m doing pretty good.”
Eret raises an eyebrow, leaning against the wall, “Really? You’re good? No ‘tired’ or ‘just alright’ this time?”
Wilbur shrugs, the corner of his mouth twitching.
“People change, you know,” he comments, and Eret rolls their eyes a little.
“You sound like my friend,” they say, but there’s no malice behind it. They turn their head over their shoulder, eyeing Fundy, who has been trailing around the outskirts of the stall awkwardly. “Won’t you come say hello, Fundy? This is Wilbur, he’s one of my most frequent customers.”
Reluctantly, Fundy walks over, sticking to Eret’s side as he does, half behind his mentor and half facing Wilbur. (It reminds Wilbur, distantly, of Tommy, but he shelves the thought away).
“Hello,” Fundy greets stiffly, “We’ve met before, uh… the last time you came.”
Wilbur nods, “You painted my twin brother’s teacup. The one with carrots and thyme— remember?”
A pause as Fundy thinks, face screwed up in thought, and then he snaps his fingers.
“Yeah, yeah, I remember,” he nods, slightly more enthusiastic than he had been beforehand. So that’s what got him to talk— paint. With Wilbur, it was always music, or with Techno, it had always been farming. “It was cool.”
Another thing clicks, and Fundy rocks onto his toes, a sharp grin crossing his face, hands splayed out on the edge of the stall. Beside him, Eret looks mildly amused; Wilbur figures this must be something the guy does frequently.
“Are you here for another teacup, then?” he questions, excitement evident in his face, in his eyes.
Wilbur snorts, glancing at Eret for a moment, then returning his gaze to their mentor.
“I am, actually,” he reaches into his satchel, producing his journal. From it, he flips to a bookmarked page, twirling it so that it’s facing the both of them. Eagerly, Fundy leans forwards to get a better look at it, Eret barely having to bend down to see it with their height. “Do you think you could do this?”
Fundy huffs, looking up at Wilbur through his eyelashes as though offended, “Is that even a question?”
“Be nice,” Eret reprimands, but they don’t sound angry. They turn, looking at Wilbur, tapping their fingernail against the page, “It’ll be easy. A simple painting, a simple design; definitely won’t be ready until tomorrow evening, but I expect that’s when you’re leaving anyways, huh?”
Wilbur nods, and Eret’s smile turns smug.
“I figured as much,” they say, gently ripping the page out of Wilbur’s notebook and handing it to their very eager apprentice (who immediately rushes in the opposite direction, prepared to practice their strokes against a canvas before on the real thing).
When it’s only them, Eret leans against the stall, looking far more smug than they had before.
“So, I’m assuming that Phil adopted another one, then?” they ask, raising an eyebrow.
“If he doesn’t, then I have,” Wilbur responds, and Eret’s eyebrows raise into their fringe, before their smile turns far more ecstatic.
“You’re not ready to be a father,” they tease, and Wilbur gasps dramatically, a hand pressed to his chest.
“How rude of you,” he accuses, “I’ll have to take my business elsewhere if you’re going to insult me like this.”
Eret snorts, standing back to their full height, “Sure, you will.”
A crash emanates from the back of the stall, causing the both of them to flinch. Eret’s face turns into something more of a grimace and they back up, dusting their hands against their skirt, “I’d better go see if Fundy lit his tail on fire again… see you tomorrow evening?”
“Tomorrow evening,” Wilbur confirms, suppressing a laugh.
He stands there for just a moment when Eret leaves, letting himself soak in the ambience of the marketplace at close to night. It was, in a weird way, calming.
Distantly, he bookmarks the feeling to tell Tommy about later. He’d probably find it interesting, after all.
—
“When’s he coming home?” Tommy asks for the millionth time, and Techno chuckles.
He’s brushing his fingers through the kid’s hair, braiding it out of his face so that they can properly farm today (last time they’d tried, it was a wreck, with Tommy constantly complaining about his hair being in his face. It drove Techno up the wall, even though it was minorly endearing).
“Tomorrow, kid,” Techno responds, just as he had many times before. “He promised you that he’d be home in three days, remember? He even pinky promised. Wilbur only does that when it’s absolutely necessary.”
Tommy turns his head at this, raising an eyebrow up at him. Techno raises his right back, suppressing a smile. He was only vaguely annoyed; he’d nearly ruined Tommy’s braid when the kid had turned, but it was fine. If it was Tommy, it was fine. He probably would’ve killed Wilbur, though.
“Why doesn’t he?” Tommy questions, tilting his head with curiosity. Techno holds back a laugh at how much he looks like Phil— the classic ‘bird head tilt’ that he frequently made fun of him for.
“Because,” Techno begins, tapping the boy’s shoulder as if to tell him to turn his head back facing forwards so that he can finish his braid. “Wilbur thinks his pinky is very important.”
Tommy huffs, “It’s not, though. It’s the stupidest finger, innit?”
Humming, Techno finishes off the braid with the ribbon he’d had tied around his wrist. It was a light blue, one that matched the kid’s eyes, and the emerald green one Phil typically pulled his hair back with.
“Not in Wilbur’s opinion,” he states, patting Tommy on the back. Instinctively, the boy reaches behind him to feel the elegant braid and the ribbon that ties it together. “He’s a musician. A guitarist, to be specific. Every finger to him is important, even the pinky.”
Immediately, Tommy’s mood does a 180, and he spins around to face Techno directly.
“Let’s sword fight,” he states, and Techno blinks wildly.
So, they’re just going to change topics like that?
Not that he was complaining, really. He was rather an expert of veering conversations if he so pleased, so who was he to judge?
“We can after we farm,” he tells Tommy, reaching forward to tuck a loose hair from the braid behind his brother’s ear. “Sound good, kiddo?”
Tommy nods enthusiastically, “Of course, Technoblade. Anything for you, Technoblade. You’re my favourite pirate, didn’t you know?”
Oh.
Ignoring the fact that the kid had literally called him Technoblade, which was not at all his name, that was… oh.
Techno blinks a couple of times, clearing the mirth from his throat. He was going to need several business days to process that one. Really, it was a wonder that Phil hadn’t whipped out some sort of adoption pamphlet already. (If he doesn’t, Techno probably would. Jokingly, of course).
He isn’t really sure what to say, so he just breathes out an, “Oh.”
There’s a moment of silence, and then Tommy bursts into a fit of giggles, vines and leaves curling amongst his hair, which glows brighter than even the sun streaming through the windows.
“Wil was right,” he whispers victoriously, causing Techno to raise an eyebrow.
“Was he, now? Did he tell you to say that?”
“Nope!” Tommy pops the ‘p,’ reaching forward to steal the farmer’s hat off of Techno’s head and place it atop his own. It’s big, far bigger than his head, causing it to tip to the side in a way that’s definitely not endearing in the slightest. “I thought that up with my own brain, actually! Because it’s true. You’re cool. Poggers, even! The biggest man.”
Lord, Techno thinks, rubbing a hand down his face, Have mercy on me so I don’t adopt another brother before my father does. I will not fall from grace.
“If I get a name, then you get one, too, you know,” he announces before he can even think of it, causing Tommy to glance up at him.
“Why? I have the coolest name ever already. The most pog, actually. Tommy, the most—”
Techno snorts, reaching forwards and pushing the brim of his hat down a little, just to piss him off. He doesn’t actually know of a name, not one that’s conceivable and cool like Technoblade, so he decides on the first one that he can think of.
“Theseus,” he says, the name like a gentle promise, or maybe even an oath.
Tommy giggles, pushing up the hat a little, “Thee-see-us? What kind of name is that?”
“Only the biggest of names for the biggest of men,” Techno goads with a smirk. When Tommy preens immediately, he knows that he’s got him.
“You’re so right, Technoblade,” Tommy nods feverishly, the hat falling into his eyes yet again. Techno holds back a laugh. “The biggest of names for the biggest of men. You’re so true, so wise. I vouch for that one.”
Techno just nods, reaching out to put his hand against the top of the kid’s hat.
“I think your hat’s a little too big for you, Theseus,” he remarks, using the same inflection of voice as Tommy had.
Tommy grins brightly, pushing the hat up a little so that he can see again, golden and bright curls sticking up from beneath the brim. “I think that if I wear this hat, I could be just like you. Don’t you?”
Techno clicks his tongue, leaning his cheek against his fist, elbow on the arm of his chair.
“I think you’d have to be a bit different than that, kiddo,” he says, reaching out a hand to flick the edge of his hat when Tommy lets it fall back over his eyes again. “You’d need rabbit ears, pink hair, more height…”
At this, Tommy gasps, both hands on either side of the rim of Techno’s farming hat. He gives the man a look of utmost betrayal, another vine growing just by their ear; with it, a glowberry, just like him.
“That’s so rude,” he accuses, tsk-ing a little. “I can’t believe you’d insult my height like that. Maybe you should be shrinking, ever think about that? Freak.”
Techno snorts, reaching forwards and pulling the rim of his hat over Tommy’s face aggressively, “Annoying, you are. Absolute child.”
“I detest that. I’m—”
“Yeah, yeah,” Techno stands, stepping past Tommy and putting his hand atop the boy’s hat. He smiles down at him, meeting his eyes. “You’re a big man.”
Wilbur was right; this kid’s smile could rival the sun’s light.
“Come on,” he tilts his head towards the back door, “You said you’d help me farm.”
Tommy puffs his cheeks out, lifting out a hand so that he could be helped to stand.
It’s without much hesitation that Techno takes it, reminding him lightly to put his feet against Techno’s so that it’d be easier for him to pull him upwards. Tommy stumbles forwards a little, regaining his balance with Techno’s grip on his shoulders, and then he’s bursting with energy all over again.
Whirling past the man, Tommy makes a direct path to the back patio door, even daring to call Techno a slowpoke when he’d been the one stalling.
Despite himself, Techno doesn’t argue.
“Just get outside, Theseus.”
“Memememe, just get outside, Thee-see-us,” the kid mocks, the patio door creaking as its flung open, “Such a dickhead, you know that, right? Always bossing me around, you and Wilbur both. At least Phil’s nice.”
To anyone else in their small world, that would seem like backwards logic. Techno understood, though. Phil was far kinder with his children— his family, more specifically— than he was with anyone else.
Techno simply hums, though, following behind Tommy and into the backyard.
“I’ll let you think that.”
Ignoring his last comment, Tommy prances down the little pathway that separates both of the gardens from one another, footsteps close to a prance. Techno thinks, amused, that he’d make a good rabbit— he’s already got the bouncing movements checked off of the list, now all he needed was the ears and rabbit tail to accompany it.
Tommy pauses on the pathway, bending down by one of the plants that had only recently come back to life. Wilbur really was awful at caring for them, having let multiple (if not nearly all) turn brown and decay from months of not being taken care of.
Only when Tommy started coming over more often had the plants actually started to turn green in colour and thrive. (Techno had tried his hand at trying to revive them once before, but he was really only good at growing and managing vegetables. Flowers, as it appeared, were Tommy’s expertise).
“Techno!” Tommy calls, lifting his head and holding up the little watering can shaped like an elephant. It was silly and weathered, but Wilbur still insisted upon using it, having dragged it out of safekeeping with Phil’s help only months beforehand. “We’re out of water, I’m gonna go get some from the stream.”
Then, he jabs a finger at the man, almost accusingly, “If you touch the carnations while I’m gone, I’m going to shank you.”
At this, Techno snorts, tilting his head and crossing his arms over his chest, “Oh, really?”
Tommy nods aggressively, his— Techno’s— hat flopping in front of his face a bit, only for him to flick it upwards.
“Really,” he confirms, mimicking Techno’s stance by crossing his arms over his chest, the elephant watering can tucked underneath his elbow. “I’ll do it, you know. I’ve got a knife and everything.”
“I don’t doubt it,” Techno responds calmly, walking down the pathway and bending down beside a bed of flowers he can’t name. They weren’t carnations, though, so hopefully Tommy wouldn’t throw a fit over these. “Go get your water, gremlin. I’ll be tendin’ to these until you get back.”
Huffing, Tommy turns on his heel, gravel crushing underneath his boot, “Just don’t kill my plants while I’m gone, dickhead.”
“You think low of me, kid,” Techno responds, pretending to sound hurt, and Tommy snorts.
“Fuck you,” he just says, and then he’s gone, scampering off into the thicket of trees to fetch water. Techno’s ear perks up at the sound of twigs snapping, but he doesn’t turn his head.
He’s let the kid venture through the woods before to do this sort of thing. He was old enough, capable enough; he’d traversed through the woods for who knew how long in order to get to Wilbur’s house every night, so surely he knew his way around.
A part of Techno wishes he’d gone with him, but he buries it. As protective as he was towards his newfound little brother, he wouldn’t try and shelter him because of it. He knew (not to the full extent, of course) what Tommy was capable of, and how fearless he was.
The only thing that he was afraid of, ever so slightly, was Tommy’s reckless nature. Hopefully he wouldn’t trip over a rock again and scrape his elbow (he could already picture the disgruntled look on Phil’s face after he patches up the hundredth scab on Tommy’s arm), or run face first into the trunk of a tree… again.
Tommy knew to scream for help, though. He was already loud enough that Techno could hear him from practically two or three miles away just by talking, so screaming would be easy as cake for the man to hear.
He just hoped that he wouldn’t have to.
Carefully, Techno prods and pokes at the flowers, packing in the dirt around them, and waits. It’s a hot day, and the sun makes the hair that’s fallen loose from his braid stick to his forehead. He’s never minded the feeling all that much, having grown used to it from days gardening outside of his own house, but that didn’t mean he enjoyed it.
Wiping the sweat from his forehead, he glances in the forest’s direction. Tommy probably should’ve been back by now. The lake wasn’t too far into the woods— probably half a mile or so, and Tommy was fast for someone whose hybridity didn’t involve speed.
He huffs, turning away from it and standing. His knees ache distantly from kneeling down for so long so he walks a couple paces back and forth to try and coax the feeling back into them.
An hour or so passes and he grows a twinge more worried. Tommy really should be back, watering can in hand, prepared to tend to the daffodils or whatever it was he’d planted in Wilbur’s garden. It was unnatural for him to take this long.
Then again, though, Techno knew the kid got distracted easily. There was a chance he’d seen a butterfly or something and ran off, or had encountered another person from the Pub that wanted to talk.
Certainly, he was alright.
Techno dusts the dirt from his hands, roughly rubbing his palms against his trousers before heading onto the porch. Tommy could be home anytime soon, but he didn’t want to practically melt in the heat while waiting for him.
He figures it wouldn’t hurt to probably make something nice while he waits. He’s pretty shit at making lemonade, but the kid seemed to like it last time Phil made it for the three of them after a long day of gardening.
The door squeaks as Techno opens it, the threshold rumbling against the weight of his footfalls. The patio door leads right into the kitchen which he crosses, standing right in front of Wilbur’s pantry. Surely, he still had some leftover lemonade powder. If Tommy liked the stuff, then Wilbur would have it. (This was simply an inference, but it had to be true— Wil hated lavender tea, but had some at the very front of his tea shelf just for the kid).
Sure enough, sitting on one of the shelves is a brand new tub of lemonade powder, the exact type that Phil had used once. Techno wonders, at the back of his mind, how excited Tommy would be if he made real lemonade— the stuff that came from freshly squeezed lemons and harvested sugar.
The issue was that he had absolutely no clue how to make that and Wilbur didn’t exactly have fresh lemons on hand— oh.
Techno blinks, eyes caught on the mesh bag of lemons hanging from the ceiling just next to the dozens of herbs that his twin brother has (“for making potions,” he had grumbled in annoyance the last time Techno had made fun of him for it).
He pauses, one hand already outstretched for the premade lemonade mixture, his other twitching by his side.
After a far too long inner turmoil with himself, he huffs, raising his hand to grab the mesh bag. It wouldn’t hurt to try, right?
—
The sun’s a heavy burden, but Wilbur manages.
The umbrella that Tommy had fashioned for him (a thing of glowberry vines that hung off the sides and twined well enough to cast a dark shadow over nearly all of him) gives him enough leeway to walk through the marketplace. Even if he could go out in the sunlight, though, Wilbur usually prefers not to. It was so tedious having to deal with people, even if a part of him wanted to interact with others.
Emotional and social whiplash, Phil called it with a chuckle.
An ambivert, Techno had corrected dully.
For Tommy, though, he’d probably do anything. Not everything— he wouldn’t go flying if the kid even gave his classic puppy dog eyes— but he would go gardening for him. He would travel a day’s journey to a market he had a hate-love relationship with just to get him a family-inducting teacup.
Eret’s standing at the stall again, their elbows propped up against the table, speaking with a customer that Wilbur doesn’t recognize. Just barely, he can see something wrapped up just by their arm in elegant paper and a light blue ribbon. Immediately, excitement floods through his veins and pools in his stomach; that was his teacup. That was his little brother’s teacup, more specifically, but still.
His footsteps quicken, and he’s nearly to the stall when a buzzing sound startles him. He pauses, using the hand not clutching the ‘stem’ of the umbrella (“It’s a handle!” Tommy had complained, and Wilbur had just smirked) to rustle around in his pants pocket.
Producing his communicator, he clicks it on and frowns at the words; it was just Phil, and two words: Tommy’s gone.
Anxiety pools in Wilbur’s stomach quicker than it ever had before, hands shaking, fingers beginning to numb. Something rings in his ears, and his throat clogs, but he can’t think of anything else but what the message could possibly mean.
Tommy’s gone.
The word gone had more meanings than just one.
It could mean he’d left, which wasn’t abnormal. Sometimes Tommy just disappeared out of nowhere and would come back a day or two later perfectly fine, claiming that he just needed time to himself. That wasn’t strange in the slightest, and even though Wilbur would be worried for him the days he was missing, Tommy always left a note.
The notes were always scattered around the house in places that Tommy knew Wilbur would look in. Once, stuffed underneath the espresso maker; another time, tacked to the corkboard where Wilbur kept his daily calendar. The fourth time (and only other time), he’d even put it delicately on Wilbur’s forehead, causing the man to sputter when he woke up and felt something paperweight resting near his hairline.
Tommy never left without a note, not after the first time when he’d come back and Wilbur had asked him to let him know he was alright somehow (he still was confused how the kid didn’t somehow have a communicator, but he didn’t like to pry).
So, he forces himself to breathe— in for six, hold for seven, then out for eight— and responds with a simple, Note?
He waits, the tip of his shoe anxiously tapping against the bricks underneath his feet. It feels like forever, time slowing like molasses, as he waits for Phil’s reply.
No.
—
Wilbur’s house isn’t empty when he returns home.
Techno and Phil are both positioned by the front door when he walks in. The second he’s over the threshold, his satchel containing Tommy’s teacup falling from his shoulder, Phil’s sweeping him into a full-wing hug. He all but collapses into his father’s arms, feeling the weight of his bag transfer over into someone else’s hands.
“Hey, Wil,” Phil murmurs, rubbing his son’s back gently. The front door shuts behind him, heavy and creaking with age.
Wilbur exhales, releasing his father to stand up straight. He looks over Phil’s shoulder, as if expecting Tommy to pop out of anywhere and shout, ‘Surprise!’ but it doesn’t come.
“What happened?” He questions, eyes flicking from Phil’s face to Techno’s when his father’s head turns.
As though harbouring guilt, his twin shifts from foot to foot, refusing to meet Wilbur’s eyes.
“I’ll start some tea,” Phil murmurs, brushing his hand against Wilbur’s arm reassuringly.
“Make it espresso,” Wilbur interjects, not looking away from Techno’s face. Phil nods, but he doesn’t see it.
A gentle pause rests between them, and Wilbur clears his throat.
“Should we sit—?”
“We were gardening,” Techno interrupts, voice hoarse as though he hadn’t used it in a long time. He coughs a little, then continues, fidgeting with his hands. “Tommy went to go get more water by the stream. He… never came back.”
Wilbur breathes, leaning against the door, head tilted back against it.
“Did you go looking for him?”
“Phil and I both did,” Techno mutters. In the background, the sound of espresso brewing is heard, but neither of them flinch. “We couldn’t find even a sign of him. Not the watering pail, not his shoes, nothing— just footprints in the mud that seemed to disappear. Phil even flew around a little to see if he could spot him, but the leaves are too thick.”
His twin huffs, lifting his gaze a little. The man’s jaw is set tight, eyes only unreadable to those who don’t know them.
“This isn’t normal for him, right?” He asks, as though begging, “He wouldn’t leave without telling, without… I don’t know. I don’t think I did anything that could’ve set him off, or scared him…”
Wilbur smiles, but it’s bittersweet.
“It’s not your fault, Tech,” he reassures, reaching a hand out to put it on his twin’s shoulder. “I doubt that you did anything, alright? Tommy’s disappeared before, just…” he pauses for a moment, then whispers, “Just… not like this. He usually leaves a note, ever since the first time.”
Techno nods, a little hum escaping him.
The two of them stand like that in the silence for a moment, taking in everything, letting the thoughts swirl in one another’s minds. The sound of mugs touching the countertop pulls them back to reality, and they meet each other’s eyes, as though they’ve thought the same exact thing.
“Jack?” Wilbur questions, searching his twin’s face.
“Everyone,” Techno corrects, and the corner of Wilbur’s mouth twitches.
He’s going to need to find his sword.
—
They wait— all of them.
Two days pass, and then another two, and everyone grows slightly more restless. Most of them had gathered in the Pub when they first heard about it— Tubbo explaining the situation to a miffed and slightly confused Ranboo— while others were already set on the hunt.
Losing a person wasn’t abnormal to them, but it wasn’t exactly something they’d grown accustomed to, either. When it came to death as it was (and the mere thought of Tommy being dead made uncomfort swirl in Wilbur’s stomach, as though someone had carved out a piece of him, as it would with any friend or family member), the group had only experienced two.
Once, when someone who hadn’t control of their hybrid powers came into the world and was found promptly pale and sickened four weeks later (the look on Phil’s face when he’d found the body was something Wilbur couldn’t erase from his nightmares for months), and second was Wilbur’s own death, if you could count that.
He wasn’t really sure if it actually counted. He wasn’t necessarily dead, was he? Just a ghost that wandered the world and earned strange looks from particular people if he stood around them too long. Not that he could blame them, of course; wouldn’t he give them odd looks too, had it been them that revived instead of him?
No was the short answer, but he figures he’s biased.
When it comes to people going missing, though, was when the group faltered. They’d only had one person actually go missing beforehand— Slimecicle. He’d gone without a trace, just with a poof for two weeks, and had sent nearly everyone into a frenzy. When he’d reappeared in the Pub, he had pretty much scared the absolute shit out of Scott, who had been making himself a cup of punch after searching for him most of the day.
This felt somewhat different. Slime was an adult— “Elderly, actually! I’m four hundred and twenty years of age!” The guy had chirped once, but they still disregarded that fact— whereas Tommy was a child. A fifteen year old, to be exact, which made Jack and Niki both recoil when they’d told them.
Jack’s one of the few that’s already in the woods looking for the kid. (Niki would be right there with him if she could be, but she’s doing enough in her cave diving.)
After Jack had laughed in their faces for thinking they were pulling a prank on him for April Fool’s (even though none of them celebrated that except him), he composed himself. Apparently, the sneer on Techno’s face was enough to shut him up— or maybe it was the glint in Phil’s eyes, maybe even the look on Wilbur’s own face, even though he couldn’t see it for himself.
Right next to him was Tubbo, although he was pretty much dragging Ranboo along with him (or, well, trying to). The latter hadn’t known the kid at all, having been on a long mining adventure for the months that he’d been around. Inconvenient, really, for him to only come back the day they send out search parties.
Wilbur swallowed any suspicion he could hold towards the Enderian. Sure, the guy was harsh and hated nearly everyone in the world, but he didn’t seem the type to just randomly kidnap some person he doesn’t know— or, well, kidnap in general.
A part of him disagreed, but he buried it.
Everyone has been keeping their calm, minus a select five (his family included). They’d been wandering around the outskirts of the trees, calling Tommy’s name and asking for him to come out of hiding when he was ready— they always specified when he was ready. It still wasn’t certain that he’d been kidnapped, but Wilbur knew that he had been.
Tommy always left a note.
Always.
It’s by the sixth day that all hell breaks loose.
Niki disappears into underwater caves for far longer than she ever had, only resurfacing around the hours of eleven pm and twelve am to tell of what she’s found; in short, nothing. (She does bring back vines of glowberries from her travels, though, and her mouth twists into a thin line as she puts them onto the ground).
Jack hasn’t come out of the woods for a while, but he does still converse with them over communicator to tell them of his findings.
Right next to him was Tubbo, who would search the skies with his army of bees at a constant. Wilbur always tried to stay as far out of the kid’s way as he possibly could when he left the hive, but somehow one of the bees always found him, as though holding a grudge.
Techno would find it hilarious, if he wasn’t drowning in an undeserved self guilt.
On the seventh day, a gathering forms in Wilbur’s house, something that has never happened before. It’s never been more than four people, and absolutely never been anyone besides family (or people that he considers family, at least).
Techno’s standing in the living room with him, a frown on his face, his rabbit ears twitching every five seconds. His foot taps anxiously against the floorboards, and Wilbur paces lengthways across the living room. The two of them are gathered in a sort of comfortable-but-terrified silence.
In the next room over, there’s the clattering of dishes as Phil makes tea, and Wilbur can hear Jack hiss irritably.
“That’s my arm you just burnt, fucker!” The man shouts distantly, and then there’s Tubbo’s snort to follow it.
“Maybe if you didn’t get so close to the sink like a fucking dumbass,” the bee hybrid’s saying venomously, “I wouldn’t burn you. Idiot.”
If Jack replies, Wilbur doesn’t hear it.
He pauses his pacing, running a hand through his hair, the other pinching the space between his eyes.
“Calm down, Wil,” Techno tries to assure, although his tone is just as strained. He hadn’t spoken much since Tommy’s disappearance, and if he did, it was only for others. To explain how the kid had gone, to explain how they knew he was missing, to reassure others— anything, just not for himself. “We’ll find him. You know that we will.”
Wilbur just nods, chewing on a callous that had formed on his lower lip from the amount of times he’d been anxiously gnawing away at it. Phil had tried to get him to stop the habit by giving him pieces of cloth to chew on instead, but it seemed futile at this point.
“I hope so,” he murmurs quietly, turning his head to look at the blue orchid. It sits in the most sun filtered (“But not too sunny, otherwise it’d kill it,” Tommy had scolded him once) part of his house. He’d already watered it earlier that morning, a subdue to his anxiety, to his never stopping hands.
“I know so,” Techno interjects, walking a few paces to him before grabbing onto his forearm, halting his movements. They make eye contact, and Techno looks away. “We will find him, alright? When we do, we’ll make sure he’s alright, and then…” he trails off, pursing his lips.
Wilbur just nods, comforted at the very least by his twin’s words. He turns, wrapping his arms around his brother, exhaling. The hug is returned after a slight hesitation that makes his chest hurt.
“It’s not your fault,” he says for the fourth time, arms tightening around his twin brother. “You couldn’t have known, Techno. It’s not your fault.”
There’s no reply.
“Techno, it’s not your fault.”
“I could’ve stopped it,” Techno mutters, a solid monotone. Wilbur can hear the subtle anguish beneath it.
“Don’t blame yourself for something that you didn’t know about,” Wilbur mutters, knocking his head against Techno’s shoulder lightly. “For something that none of us knew about, really. It’s not your fault, just as much as it isn’t Phil’s or mine. It’s nobody’s fault.”
Techno breathes, an exhale slow and steady, then knocks his head against the crown of Wilbur’s. A silent thank you. It’s enough.
“Tommy will be okay,” Techno says aloud after a moment. If it sounds more like he’s saying it to himself than to Wilbur, the man doesn’t comment on it. “He’s strong. We will make it to him in time, wherever he may be.”
Wilbur nods, then lets go.
Tommy could take care of himself, he thinks, echoing Techno’s words in his own mind. It was true, the kid had surprising self perseverance despite the lack of preservation skills that came with it. A whiplash of sorts, really, a fifty-fifty of a situation.
He was confident, he was careful, and he was old enough to be on his own, even if Wilbur felt like he was too young. He could handle himself; even Techno had said so.
With this twined with his thoughts, Wilbur exhales, retreating to the kitchen. Techno follows him, close to his heels.
Standing at the stove is Phil, wings tucked behind his back. When Techno and Wilbur enter the room, they twitch, and the man turns.
“Hey,” he says, giving them a wry smile and motioning to the cups of tea on the countertop. There were six; the one sitting nearest to the stove was Tommy’s old chipped one, decorated with forget-me-nots. The sight brought too many emotions to Wilbur’s chest to name. “I made tea.”
“Earl Grey?” Wilbur guesses, and Phil smiles bitterly.
The three drink in comfortable silence, watching collectively as Tubbo attacks Jack with a swarm of bees outside the kitchen window. Wilbur hadn’t seen them go outside— it must’ve been more of a Tubbo drags Jack outside by the ear despite being three inches shorter than him sort of deal. The thought nearly makes him laugh.
His eyes flick to the teacup resting by the stove, nearest to Phil’s elbow; chipped, unused for weeks, the forget-me-nots almost mocking in their faded painting. It’s ironic how much the flowers make him sick to his stomach now that he’s seeing them, now that their title rings through his head.
He’d never forget Tommy. Never.
Even if the kid never came back, even if they didn’t find him, he would never forget about the child that had randomly appeared on his back patio one night and slowly became his little brother. He’d never forget the amusing look on Jack’s face when he saw the two of them had become best friends in the time that he’d spent looking for him, he’d never forget the first time that he’d played guitar for Tommy and watched him completely drift away in the music.
Wilbur wouldn’t— no, he couldn’t— forget the boy, a bundle of glowing hair and vines that wrapped around his fingers and arms.
With a glance in Techno and Phil’s directions, who are silent as the dead with teacups lifted to their mouths, he knows he would not be the only one.
—
They don’t find him, surprisingly.
It’s him who finds them first.
It’s easing close to the third week when he returns. Wilbur is sat on the back porch once again, chin in his hands, eyes fixated on the thicket of woods in front of him. Always on the opening to it, always in the exact spot that he’d always see Tommy appear out from.
Techno is passed out in the chair beside him, leaning back with his arms crossed over his chest, his old farmer’s hat placed over his face (his newer one had disappeared with the child, still on the kid’s head from when he’d left while they were gardening).
Somewhere inside the house, Phil is bustling about, probably texting Niki or Sneeg on his communicator to keep them updated with the Tommy situation. Jack had come out of the woods by now, face a sunken thing, but he didn’t give up. He always went back into them, always; Wilbur respected him highly. He could tell the rest of his family did too.
The breeze blows past him, rustling the leaves like a midnight song. He’d grown used to the sound, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t appreciate it. With ease, Wilbur leans back into his lawn chair, watching the congregation of leaves bristle against the sky.
That’s when he spots it. Something glowing, much like a firefly, just near the edge of the woods; a bright spot that sticks out against the dark of night in a way he hadn’t seen in weeks.
He’s up before he can even think twice, kicking the back of Techno’s shin to wake him during his haste. The man flinches awake, only pausing for a moment before he’s right on his twin’s heels, running off of the porch and into the night.
The three meet halfway— Tommy, stumbling from the woods, breathing heavily in the night, his hair fizzing between dim and bright (and here, the firefly symbolism makes sense once more; it’s as though Wilbur’s witnessing one die right before his eyes, its light slowly going out without much he can do).
“Tommy,” Wilbur breathes out, staring wide-eyed at the child in front of him, the one that has been missing for so long. His brother, his little brother, the sun in the sky in the form of a person.
For a moment, none of them say anything, and Wilbur can practically feel Techno’s anxiety from where he’s stood beside him.
Then, Tommy rushes forwards, a choked sob coming from his mouth. There’s barely a second that Wilbur gets to prepare himself before the kid’s in his arms, nearly knocking him off of his feet, arms wrapped around his neck.
“Wil,” he whispers, tone choked. To Wilbur’s left there’s the sound of rustling clothes as Techno bends down as well, but he ignores it. “Wilbur, Wil, Wilbur, I’m so– I’m so sorry, they— they found me.”
“Who did, Toms?” Wilbur whispers, tucking his brother’s head under his chin, eyes flitting to his twin. In the very dim light coming from Tommy’s curls, he can see the reflection of something in Techno’s eyes. Anger, concern, and relief all boiled into one. There’s no response, just another muffled cry, so he repeats himself. “Who found you, kiddo?”
Tommy shakes his head, pressed into the front of Wilbur’s jumper.
“You don’t have to be specific, Tommy,” Techno speaks up, reaching out to place a comforting hand against the middle of the kid’s back. “We don’t want to invade, to force, nothing. We’re just worried for you, okay? We want to make sure you’re safe, that you’re okay.”
Another muffled sniffle, and Tommy nods.
Techno glances up at Wilbur again, the two meeting eyes. A silent decision passes, and the man speaks again, much softer this time.
“We’re going to get you inside first, then we’ll talk. How’s that sound?”
Another nod, but Tommy doesn’t make any move to get up. Wilbur hums a little in worry, running a hand through the kid’s hair as gently as he can.
“Do you want me to carry you?” He questions, looking down a tad. The light in Tommy’s hair continues to fade in and out, anxiety dropping in his stomach like a heavy stone, but he forces himself to breathe.
There’s a slight pause before Tommy whispers, “Please.”
Without another second of hesitation, Wilbur moves his arms, slowly lifting his brother into a cradled bridal style. He shifts a little so that it’s a bit more uncomfortable, what with the poor kid’s arms still locked tight around his neck.
He shoots Techno another concerned look before turning on his heel, walking with a swiftness than he hadn’t in a long time.
The second that they get inside, with Techno having to hold the door open so that Wilbur can properly walk into the house with Tommy still in his arms, Phil appears around the corner.
Their father’s face drops significantly the second he sees Tommy, quickly striding over to the fireplace in the living room. Wilbur ignores him minus the look he sends his way, making a beeline for the sofa. Behind him, he can hear the sound of clunking against the flames, with a sizzling sound following immediately afterwards.
As cautiously as he can manage, Wilbur sets Tommy against the cushions, eyebrows furrowed. The boy lets go of Wilbur with hesitance, arms retreating to wrap around himself, thumb rubbing against his own forearm (self soothing, something prodded at the back of Wilbur’s mind, the thought bitter).
He takes a step back, not going too far but just enough to have a better look at his brother.
The light coming from the fireplace is a better source than Tommy’s hair for once, and the thought makes his stomach churn. The cushions sink in as Techno takes a seat beside their brother, eyebrows pinched together, a hand reaching out to hold onto Tommy’s shoulder.
It’s here, in the light, that Wilbur can see them— the cut on his jaw, the scratch on the underside of his chin, the large gash on his arm. There’s a bruise just at his hairline, and his eyelids seem heavy. Dark circles cling to his waterline, a dangerous colour that nearly rivals Wilbur’s own.
“Oh, Tommy,” Phil whispers in horror, kneeling down to Wilbur’s right. One of his hands reaches out, gently threading his fingers through the kid’s fringe, pulling the bangs from his eyes to get a better look at the bruises.
Wilbur recoils a little when his father sucks in air through his teeth, fingers prodding very cautiously against the purple spot near Tommy’s hairline. Techno’s hand remains on the kid’s shoulder, now rubbing careful circles into the blade.
“Theseus,” Techno whispers. His tone edges on something guilty and heavy; Wilbur gives him a worried look, but he doesn’t meet his twin’s eyes, instead tilting his head to get a better look at Tommy. “Kid, are… can you look at me?”
The kid twists his head in the man’s direction— or tries to, at least— only pausing to let out a cry of pain that makes everyone jolt. Phil’s wings twitch, Wilbur immediately puts his hands to Tommy’s shoulders to check for pain, and Techno has to blink to calm himself.
“What is it, Toms?” Wilbur murmurs, eyebrows furrowed in barely concealed worry. He prods at the boy, fingers featherlight to his little brother’s bruises, to the cuts that carve at his cheeks. “What’s going on?”
Tommy lets out a low noise, positioning his head in a certain way and burying his face into bloodied hands wrapped in dirty gauze. If Wilbur wasn’t uneasy before, he feels that he is now tenfold. He can feel Techno tense against the sofa cushions, the guilt quickly outweighed with rage.
Phil, ever the most calm, reaches a steady hand out and presses it to the side of Tommy’s head.
“Where does it hurt, kiddo?” He whispers as lightly as possible, brushing a dull lock of hair behind the child’s ear. If the sight of Tommy’s hair flickering with light just for a moment before going out again (like a lightbulb losing its power) sways his emotions, he doesn’t show it.
Tommy remains silent, dipping his head forwards just barely. He lets out a sniff, like a child who is trying to conceal that they’re upset. Because that’s what he is, a part of Wilbur’s mind calls, forcing an icy feeling down his throat. He’s just a child— Phil’s child, your little brother.
“I know something hurts, Toms, but you’re gonna have to tell me and your brothers where so we can help you,” Phil continues, containing any wavering emotion with a hand brushing through the boy’s fringe again. He gives him a small smile, tilting his head so that their eyes meet, “Can you do that for me?”
A pause, then Tommy nods.
“Hurts,” he whispers, bringing a hand up and pressing it to the left side of his neck. He coughs a little, hand moving immediately to his throat and then to his chest. To his right, Techno pats a warm hand against the boy’s back to help coax the coughs from his throat.
“Your neck hurts?” Phil questions, already reaching forwards to press two fingers to the kid’s neck, as if going to check his pulse. The sight brings a roll of deja vu to Wilbur’s mind, but he pushes it away to run his fingers through Tommy’s hair kindly.
Tommy nods again, clearing the leftover phlegm from his throat.
“Okay,” Phil taps his two fingers against the side of Tommy’s neck, starting from the jawline. “I’m going to feel your neck and you tell me if it hurts, alright?”
Another nod.
Exhaling, Phil moves his fingers down, tapping again. No movement; he repeats the same steps, until he’s near the middle of the kid’s neck. When he taps again, it’s like he had smacked him— Tommy flinches full force into Techno’s side, forehead pressed into the man’s shoulder blade, a short cry following him.
Wilbur’s hand twitches from where it had been coiling through the boy’s hair and he drops it to the sofa.
“I’m sorry, Toms,” Phil whispers, sounding as though he’d hurt himself in the process as well. Wilbur can’t help but feel the same, watching Techno slowly put his arms around Tommy and hold him closer. “I won’t touch your neck again, okay? Just let me take a look at your other wounds for a moment.”
Silence for a moment, Techno rubbing the palm of his hand in the midsection of the kid’s back. The three of them are completely quiet, allowing Tommy a couple moments to catch his breath before speaking again.
(Something deep inside Wilbur, dark and demented, wants to find who had done this to his brother and do the same unto them; he doesn’t even have to ask to know that his brother and father feel the same way).
Slowly, but eventually, Tommy untucks his face from where it had been buried in Techno’s shirt and turns. His eyes are puffy, as if he’d been crying, but his breathing is no longer shaky.
“You won’t touch my neck again?” He whispers, searching Phil’s face in the firelight.
“I won’t,” Phil promises, reaching a hand forward to take his son’s with care. The corners of his mouth turn up a tad, “I just want to make sure you’re okay. Techno and Wil do, too.”
Tommy blinks, then turns to face Wilbur, as if he’s seeing him for the first time in months. (Technically, it was true).
“Wil,” he whispers, letting go of Techno’s shirt and clambering over into his other brother’s arms without a second thought. It’s like second nature with how Wilbur quickly puts his own around the kid, tugging him close. They’d been separated for nearly a month, and yet, it’s still as though it was always meant to be.
They were always meant to be brothers, Wilbur thinks, burying his face into Tommy’s dirtied and matted curls. Always.
With a tired breath, he mutters one last thing into his brother’s hair, “Welcome home, sunshine.”