Chapter Text
There’s the murmuring noise of a TV echoing through the apartment.
The volume is too low to make out the words being said through the screen, but it’s not like Tommy needs to know what’s on, anyway. He just needed the confirmation that he isn’t the only one awake.
He hovers at his bedroom door with a blanket wrapped tightly around his shoulders. It’s soft, warm-- real. His fingers dig hard into the fabric, so harshly that it makes his nails ache with the pressure. He’s not really cold enough to justify the blanket on him, but the weight of it is comforting against the dark, so he refuses to let it go.
The hallway is dim against his eyes. The only light that he can see is the one from the kitchen, bright and yellow, stretching across the carpet of the hallway. He’s not sure who’s in there, but he can hear the clear beep of the oven being turned on so he knows they’re busy doing something. Distracted.
Maybe distracted enough to not notice Tommy.
Shifting his weight from foot to foot, Tommy chews at his lip for a solid minute, the seconds ticking by as he considers his chances, choices- what little there is. He doesn’t want to stay standing out here. Hovering here in front of his door, that’s just asking for him to get caught. But putting his foot forward and heading down the hall-- that seems overwhelmingly daunting in comparison. It’s scary, even. As if he’s a child all over again who’s terrified of what might be in the dark.
That’s a stupid thought. He’s old enough to stay up late, old enough to wander around without fear. He’s sixteen, for fucks sake. There is nothing in the dark.
But there is something in his home.
Tommy shakes his head to himself, trying to focus. It may be late, but he needs to get to the front door. He needs to be there when they come back. He’s got to be the first one they see.
He forces a deep breath, chest feeling tight.
There’s a light clang of pans being moved around in the kitchen, and Tommy takes his chance then, moving forward with a set determination. The noise is loud, so it should cover him. He should be safe with it.
He yanks his makeshift cape up high on his shoulders, but the end of it still sweeps across the carpet with a soft shuffle as he walks. His heartbeat is echoing in his ears. It’s deafening.
The kitchen is occupied by one person. Tommy stops by the doorway, peeking around the edge, hands held to the cool wall beside him. From here, he can see a tall man with curly brown hair standing next to the sink, putting something away. He’s wearing a warm-looking sweater, something that’s a soft yellow, and it’s so damningly familiar that Tommy wants to run up behind him and hug him from the back. He refrains from doing so. The man is moving around the kitchen, clearing up the counters, his gaze kept away from Tommy.
Slowly, Tommy crouches down, his fingertips reaching out and pressing into the kitchen tile to keep his balance. The man starts to hum a gentle song underneath his breath, each note feeling carved into Tommy’s soul. He wants to hum along. Wants to sit here and listen for the rest of the night.
The sound of rushing water from the sink reaches Tommy’s ears, reminding him of what he’s trying to do. He waits for the man to pick up the first dish so that he stays entirely focused on the task of washing it while Tommy moves past.
The second there’s the clink of silverware, Tommy makes a mad dash across the kitchen floor, staying low to the ground. The kitchen counter is his only shield if the man is to turn around, so he stays close to it, his blanket dragging across the tiles.
As Tommy gets closer to the other end of the kitchen, the man’s humming suddenly turns into a sharp whistle. It makes Tommy falter, his limbs locking up. He stumbles in his strange crawl/run, and falls forward on his knees, his hands slapping against the tile.
He freezes.
The man keeps humming, as if he never whistled at all. The water continues pouring on, and Tommy’s heartbeat has never felt more harsh in between his ribs. It pounds brutally in his chest with an aching fear. He pushes himself up with a slow, shaky breath, and he moves forward again, as quickly and quietly as possible. He doesn’t dare glance back, lest he jinx it and catch the man’s attention at the very last second.
He escapes off into the dimly lit living room, the carpet feeling soft against his socks. The noise of the TV is clearer from here, and Tommy can easily recognize the sound of commercials, echoing laugh tracks with companies trying to advertise their product. He wonders if the man in the kitchen is the one who left the TV on. As soon as he peeks over to the couch, he realizes he’s dead wrong.
There’s a person on the couch, watching the TV screen with a sort of disinterest. As soon as Tommy puts his eyes on him, he’s turning his head, and there’s nowhere to hide. Take a few steps back, and he’s in the light, in the kitchen. Stay where he is, and he’s caught-red handed.
Personally, Tommy would take anything over going into that kitchen. So he stays in place, knowing he’s lost the game.
The laughter track plays over again, echoing and echoing for a bit too long. Technoblade makes direct eye contact with Tommy, and Tommy digs his fingers into his blanket.
Techno raises his eyebrows, like a silent question on what exactly Tommy thinks he’s doing. He gives a split second glance to the kitchen behind him, and Tommy knows the warning for what it is; do something, or I’m snitching on you to Wil.
Tommy does something, alright.
He pushes himself up off the ground, marching over to Technoblade with all the confidence one can muster at sometime around one AM in the morning. His blanket flaps out behind him, like the cloak of a warrior. Techno’s look goes from unimpressed to nearly fond in two seconds flat, and then it goes amused when Tommy stands in front of him, in the way of the TV.
Tommy hovers over his older brother, a deep frown set on his face, eyes narrowed, hands curled up into fists. He takes a deep breath in, to soothe his beating heart, and then he speaks his threat.
“Scoot.”
Technoblade purses his lips, like he’s trying to hold back a smile. “...no.”
Tommy tries to hover even more menacingly. He channels his most intimidating energy. He’s the big man. The biggest man. He is The Man™. All capitalized and trademarked and italicized, baby.
“Scoot.” He hisses out, and Techno no longer holds back, he just outright grins, all teeth. Tommy fumes at the sight, narrowing his eyes.
“Mmhm.” Techno hums, sounding considerate. “Nope.” He stays stubborn.
Tommy’s anger rises, peaks, and then deflates, his upset frown turning from hostile to just plain disappointed.
“Scoot, pleaseee?” He whines, leaning to the side when Techno tries to look past him to see the TV.
“Shouldn’t you be in bed?” Techno reminds, tilting his head back against the pillow that’s tucked behind him. He stretches his legs out even further on the couch, making sure Tommy will not have even a single inch of space to conquer.
Tommy scoffs at the sight, at the insult of such an action. He yanks his blanket further over his head, until it acts like a low hood, blocking out his vision, blocking out the world.
“No. I don’t have a bedtime.” He spits out. Big men don’t need bedtimes. He does not need a bedtime.
“Uh-huh.” Techno might be looking over his shoulder, or be looking at Tommy directly. Tommy can’t tell past this blanket over his face. “I think you should go to bed.”
“I’m not tired.” Tommy responds. “I’m not tired at all. And it’s barely even late. And I don’t even have school.” He throws out the last part with a certain viciousness. He’s still bitter about that essay he bombed a few days ago. It’s all his brothers’ fault.
“Children your age get cranky without sleep.” Technoblade warns, and Tommy’s face scrunches up with outrage. “And you’re just cranky in general, so let’s not add onto that.”
“I am not cranky!”
“Debatable.”
“Oh, you-” Tommy huffs, and he decides to attack Techno right in the arm. “-bitch, you’re bullying me, this is bullying, I’m being mistreated.” He hits Techno again, and again, slowly adding more force behind his punches. “Bully, bully. Technobully.”
“I’m not the one who’s attacking an innocent person.” Techoblade bats at Tommy’s hand, trying to save his precious elbow. His efforts are in waste. Tommy is a persistent teenager who is now set on violence.
“You’re holding the couch hostage. You’re a criminal.” Punch, punch, punch.
“I’m watching TV.” Punch, punch, punch.
“You’re restricting my freedoms. My couch rights. I live here, y’know.” Punch.
“Do you pay rent?” Punch.
“You don’t either!” Punch.
Technoblade gives a small, warm smile. It’s insufferable. Tommy decides then to go for his face, since his skills are clearly being wasted on Techno’s arm.
He hits Techno in the cheek, just once, not hard enough to hurt, only to annoy. Before he can even pull back his arm for another hit, Techno snaps his hand up and grabs him tightly by the wrist with no warning. It makes him shriek in surprise. He’s abruptly yanked forward, forced off balance, stumbling on his feet.
He faceplants into his brother’s shirt. Techno snorts.
The blanket on his head slips down and settles onto his lower back as he flails in trying to stand upright. Technoblade grabs him by his other arm and pulls him onto the couch, letting Tommy rest right on top of him. Tommy incredulously shrieks again at the action, and he swings his feet to kick Techno in the shins.
“Bitch! Bitch! Criminal! I’m going to attack you in your sleep, you fucking-” Tommy rambles, his words tumbling out from sheer panic. He pushes against Techno, trying to roll off, trying to move away. Technoblade gathers Tommy up, struggling limbs and all, and then squeezes him close.
It makes Tommy’s heart jolt so suddenly that it hurts. When he breathes in, the air is cold in his throat, despite the apartment being plenty warm. A minute passes, too slow and too quick, and by the time Tommy realizes he’s gone entirely still, his blanket has mostly fallen to the floor, half hanging off his hip. Techno’s holding him near enough that he rests his chin on top of Tommy’s head while he watches the TV, and it pisses Tommy off to no end.
Technoblade murmurs to him over his head, saying-
“You wanted a spot on the couch.” There’s a hint of a laugh in his words. “This is the compromise.”
Tommy pulls out an eternally annoyed sigh. His stomach is twisting up, all nervous and uneasy, like the feeling you get on those few spare seconds right before you climb onto a rollercoaster. He doesn’t think he’ll puke anytime soon, but it’s a tempting thing. It would at least satisfy his spite.
“Shitty compromise.” He mutters, burying his face away into Techno’s shirt, letting it remind him of home, and nothing else. “I’d rather sit on the floor.”
“Sure.” Techno agrees, and then he leans to the side, going to drop Tommy onto the ground.
“No, no, wait! I take it back, I take it back!” Tommy screams and clings on, wanting to protect his precious bones from the impact of getting pushed off the couch. His blanket slips away, leaving him entirely and landing onto the floor. He grips on for dear life, with Techno making a laugh at his abrupt panic.
He doesn’t drop Tommy. He was only bluffing, and he continues laughing as he leans back into the couch, Tommy sputtering out insults the moment they’re not so close to the edge.
“You asshole-”
“It’s revenge.” Techno defends. “My arm is bruised from how you kept hitting it.”
“It is not!” Tommy scoffs, pure disbelief in every inch of him. He shimmies up a hand through Techno’s grip, trying his best to hit Techno in the elbow again out of sheer spite.
“It is, it is-” Technoblade tries to manage Tommy’s lanky limbs, holding them away so they won’t go attacking him any further.
“Is not! Fucking liar-!”
“What are you both doing over there?” Wilbur’s voice calls out from the kitchen, interrupting them both.
Tommy goes still and turns his head with Techno, looking towards the yellow light coming from the kitchen doorway. For a blur of a second, it’s like the air around him isn’t enough. For a blur of a second, like a forgotten passing thought, Tommy wants to run and hide from the things in his home.
And then-
“Techno’s bullying me!” Tommy cries, before Techno can even say a word. “He’s hogging the damn couch!”
Wilbur scoffs lightly. Tommy can practically see the roll of his eyes through the kitchen wall. “Is he?”
“I’m not.” Techno denies. Tommy shakes his head in a scolding manner. Technoblade flicks him on the back of the head.
Something clatters quietly on the counter of the kitchen. There’s the shuffle of footsteps coming near, a shadow growing across the carpet floor of the living room. Tommy swallows back the urge to look away and hide into the couch, to cover his eyes and ears so that he doesn’t have to take anything in. He wants to pull that blanket from before over his shoulders again. He wants to pull it over his face, let it block out his thoughts entirely.
Instead, he watches with tired eyes as his older brother pokes his head out from the kitchen, wearing an exasperated yet curious look.
Wil squints at them both from across the room, as if they’re too hidden away in the dimness of only the TV light. Tommy supposes it could be a little hard to spot him especially. He’s practically curled up in Techno’s arms, legs squished up against the couch cushions.
“This is bullying?” Wilbur asks, a near laugh on his lips. He takes a few steps closer, tilting his head slightly to the side. He looks happy, but it’s a bit too much. His smile feels too stretched out against the dark, and Tommy keeps his eyes on the muted color of his sweater rather than his face.
“It is! He’s illegally taking the couch.” Tommy shifts in where he is, trying to push Techno to the side so he has space to sit up, but Techno pulls his arm tighter over him and then turns over, his back kept to Wil. Tommy shrieks as he’s pushed in the space between Techno and the side of the couch, his arms and legs caught and kept still. “Murder attempt! Murder!” He yells, yanking at his arm and miraculously sticking out a hand for Wilbur to come help him.
Wilbur is no help at all. He only laughs, leaning forward and slapping his palm to Tommy’s in a stupid high-five. “What murder? I see no murder. Do you see murder, Techno?”
“Nah.” Technoblade shakes his head, ignoring the way Tommy’s furiously kicking his feet against his ankles. “I’m resting on our very comfortable couch. But I have to say, it’s kinda lumpy today.”
“Yeah, because you’re fucking using me as a pillow-!” Tommy screams, and Techno makes an annoyed noise when Tommy jabs his knuckles at the bottom of his chin. “Wilbur! Help me! He’s going to suffocate me into the couch cushions!”
“I’ll only see that as justice if so.” Wilbur steps back, crossing his arms and laughing again at Tommy flipping him off from the lack of help. “I’m feeling hurt, since someone should've been in bed right now, and they tried sneaking past me in the kitchen instead.”
Tommy stops suddenly in his struggle.
“Ahh, busted.” Techno drags out his words. Tommy wants to throw him off a building. Wants to see him go ka-fucking-splat on the concrete. It would be cathartic.
“Hey, hey. It’s not a school night.” Tommy spits out, lifting his chin up high to rest it on Techno’s shoulder, so he can comfortably look right at Wil. He gives a withering glare, trying to not let shame creep up his spine. “I’m not even tired, I was just-”
“It’s still late.” Wilbur points out, voice all concerned, so much like a responsible older sibling. “You’re going to fuck up your sleep schedule.”
“I’ll fuck you up.”
Wilbur glances at Tommy’s entire situation. Technoblade is still squishing him into the couch. “Uh-huh.”
“I will!”
“Don’t underestimate him, Wilbur, he’s clearly a threat.” Technoblade warns, tilting his head back to glance at his twin. “You can see the thirst for blood in his eyes.” His voice drops all low, as if describing a terrifying beast.
“Of course.” Wilbur rolls his own eyes, a grin pulling at his face. “There’s no doubt he’s going to strangle me in my sleep.”
“I so would.” Tommy mutters, just to Techno, and Technoblade snorts.
“Oh, you would, wouldn’t you? You’d try.” Technoblade agrees, and Tommy doesn’t like the tone in those words, the joke now being too thin. There’s a careful line between sibling banter and the desperate urge to tear apart something driving him insane.
Tommy chooses to ignore him, instead yelling out at Wilbur’s back as he retreats off into the kitchen. “What were you making?!”
“Why, I didn’t think you wanted to know, since you scurried past me like some raccoon creature-- without even saying hi.” Wilbur says back, pretending to be offended. He lifts his chin like a pretentious fool and Tommy wants more than anything to leave Techno’s clutches so he can claw at his stupid face.
“Hello, hi, bonjour, motherfucking ho-la-- what were you doing with Mum’s sheet pans?” Tommy says.
Wilbur raises his eyebrows, not impressed. But he smiles anyway. “I’m baking cookies, child. Do you want some?”
“...Cookies?” Tommy blinks, surprised. “You’re making- cookies?”
“Just chocolate chip.” Wilbur walks back into the kitchen, aiming to continue where he left off on the dishes. “They’re meant for the parents, but they’re taking a while, so you know what? You can have the first batch.”
“The burnt batch.” Technoblade murmurs to Tommy’s ear. Tommy holds back the urge to snicker, pursing his lips together. He whispers to Techno in return.
“If I eat some, you have to get some too.” He bargains, pulling at Techno’s sleeve in an effort to get his grip to loosen up.
“Why would I want any?” Techno asks. He doesn’t budge.
“Because-” Tommy hesitates for just a fraction of a second, and his tongue tastes bitter. The words coming out through his throat are sour and rotten. “Well, because we don’t want to hurt our dear brother’s feelings.” He’s sarcastic with every word. His mouth is filled with burning acid. “We have to support his horrible baking skills.”
Technoblade blinks at him with a blank look, then he huffs, squeezing Tommy a little tighter. “Of course.” He says, and then he rolls onto his back, letting his arms go slack.
Tommy slides off from the couch, back on his feet, and he runs off to the kitchen, not bothering to check if Techno is following behind him. He knows his brother will be there. He’s always there.
Now that the cover is blown, and Tommy’s somewhat been given permission to stay up to an ungodly time, he strides into the kitchen with no hesitation whatsoever, ignoring the racing heartbeat underneath his ribs. Wilbur is still doing the last of the dishes, but he gives a quick glance to Tommy as he walks in, a warm smile drawn across his face. Tommy can’t help but smile in return.
“You want to help?” He asks, as Tommy moves over to the oven, peering in through the glass to see the bits of cookie dough baking away inside. He taps his fingers to the oven, trying to feel the heat.
“With the cookies?” Tommy asks. Can’t really help if the dough is already made, though. Speaking of dough…
“With the dishes, child.”
Tommy makes an uninterested noise, frowning as he scans the counters for the bowl with the leftover cookie dough. He finds it sitting behind him, at the center of the counter, and just as he goes to reach for it, it’s swiped away by thieving hands.
“No you don’t.” Technoblade says, holding it very much out of reach.
“You-! Give it!” Tommy circles around the counter to get him, but Technoblade runs the other way, and just like that, they’re stuck in an endless merry-go-round, shifting left and right but never coming closer. Techno’s good at dodging. He’s quick, much quicker than Tommy.
“Techno!” Tommy cries, holding his arms out desperately.
“You’re going to eat the whole thing.”
“Am not!”
“Tommy, come help with the dishes.” Wilbur calls, having ignored their entire little chase. “If you dry and put the rest away, I’ll let you have a spoonful of the dough.”
Tommy grumbles over the counter, Techno hugging the bowl to his chest with a triumphant look. He checks to see if Wilbur is looking, then he eats a bit, right in front of Tommy.
“Wilbur-!” Tommy points a finger, sputtering with anger.
Wilbur spins around, hands still wet, suds sticking to the back of his palms. He sees Techno with his hand still in the bowl, and gives a scoffing noise. “Technoblade. Put it down.”
Technoblade wears an entirely innocent expression. It doesn’t fool anyone. “Mmmn- Nope.”
Wilbur opens his mouth. “Techno-”
“You already have the batch in the oven.” Technoblade shrugs, and Tommy leans forward on the counter, eyes wide towards Wilbur. “So I can keep this. Self-care.”
“No you don’t.” Wilbur refuses. “Put that down.”
“Nahhh.”
“Techno.” Wilbur takes a warning step forward as Tommy coughs out a laugh. Techno takes a step back, ready to run again. “Technoblade-!”
“Can’t hear you, I’m too busy running!” Technoblade cackles, and Wilbur chases right after him, the two of them circling around the counter island, over and over with Tommy laughing as they pass by him each time. He tries to trip one of them more than once. They both jump over his foot without any effort at all.
“Do the dishes!” Wilbur points at Tommy, while Techno escapes out into the hall, wheezing all the while. “Technoblade, give me that bowl or so help me-!”
Tommy watches them disappear into the hall with a shaking laugh on his shoulders, a warm joy filling his chest. He hears them bicker past the walls, probably fighting in their room, and he turns his attention away to walk over to the sink. The water is still running from Wilbur leaving it on, so he shuts it off, letting the kitchen fall into a near silence.
His hand stays on the handle of the sink. The metal is cold on his fingertips. A smile still sticks to his face, and he’s happy. He is happy.
He glances back at the hall, and drops the smile. He glances at one of the drawers beside him, where the knives are kept, and he swallows down a lump sitting in his throat. He’s craving for the weight of a weapon in his palm, for the safety of personal defense. A metal blade won’t do shit against the things in his apartment-- he’s learnt that much firsthand-- and he’d be better off not getting a weapon in hand at all, but he can’t help being tempted.
He hears Technoblade laugh somewhere down the hall, content and breathless. The laugh is echoing in his ears, ringing in his head, and the handle of the sink is freezing against his skin.
Tommy looks away from the drawer, reaching for the towel on the counter. He begins drying the dishes.
When his brothers come back into the kitchen, he tries to trip them both again. They both hop over his foot, without any effort at all.
Tommy couldn’t do anything to them even if he tried.
The air ends up smelling like cookies all throughout the night. It’s a comforting, nostalgic sort of smell, and Tommy thinks of past memories, late nights of his mother baking treats for him and his brothers. He remembers how they’d always fight over the first batch, squabbling and arguing until eventually having it all settled with a brutal match of rock-paper-scissors. He always lost in those matches. Bad luck, and bad choices. His brothers read his moves like a book.
Batches of chocolate chip lay scattered out on the counters on different sized plates, each one either being burnt, undercooked, or at least a little crispy. Both Tommy and Techno hesitantly taste test until they’re sick with it, and they both spare no insult for Wilbur’s abilities in making baked goods.
At one point, Techno says nothing. He just takes a cookie and slams it into the counter as an example, letting it give a loud thunk with the burnt edge. Wilbur can only hang his head in shame, hands covering his face, and Tommy bursts out into wheezing laughter.
There’s more to Tommy’s amusement than Wilbur just being bad at baking. It’s the fact that despite him being…whatever he may be, he still fucking sucks at getting a few cookies made. Tommy finds comfort in the startlingly human habit. Then he finds horror in the question of if the human habit is ill fitting, and he has to move on then, lest he gets into his head and gives away the game.
The oven beeps with a new batch done. Wilbur hurries over to get them out, so he can place them on yet another plate. The amount of cookies lined around the kitchen is nearly ridiculous, but Wilbur is almost frantic in making sure he makes ones that are perfect, so Tommy doesn’t tell him to stop. The more the merrier, or something. He’s sure Phil will eat the burnt ones, anyway.
Tommy moves over to the couch after the 20th cookie, claiming mercy for his poor taste buds. He curls up into the cushions and watches the TV play on, fiddling with the remote in his fingers. His hands itch to pick up his abandoned blanket on the ground, so he can wrap it over his shoulders once again, but he refrains from it. He only keeps his eyes on the show on the screen, and he ignores the bits of static that creep into the color every now and then.
Wilbur and Techno murmur conversation in the kitchen, words sounding serious and tense, too strained for just making cookies. Tommy wants to listen, curious at what they’re saying, but he can’t get his ears to cooperate. He can’t take in the words, no matter how much he tries. The TV is too loud, an annoying laugh track playing every two seconds, and before long, his eyelids droop with exhaustion. The night has gone rather late, and the couch is comfortable against his back.
He blinks, for a bit longer than he meant to. When he opens his eyes again, his brothers are sitting on the couch with him, the kitchen lights turned off, the baking seemingly done with.
Technoblade sits at his left, leaning back comfortably with his leg pressed against Tommy’s, his ankle sitting over his. Wilbur sits at his right, and his arms are holding Tommy close to his chest, with his chin resting on his curls.
It would be a sweet, domestic image, to anyone who walks in. A little brother taking a nap, with his two older brothers on the couch with him, the TV playing out through the living room as they all enjoy the late night.
Tommy closes his eyes again, listening to the voices of whatever show is playing. He presses his ear to Wilbur’s chest, and he can taste the lingering bits of chocolate stuck in his teeth. It’s sweet, and yet it makes him want to vomit.
There’s no heartbeat in Wil’s chest. No mimicry, no illusion, nothing. Just eerie silence, a quiet confirmation that what Tommy is being held by isn’t his brother.
He breathes in slowly. He wants to wish that his own racing heartbeat could be enough for them both. He wants to ask if he could give his heart, give his veins and blood, his very soul.
He wants to ask if that’s what they want. If that’s what they’re after. At least then he would know. At least then he wouldn’t be so on edge.
He dozes off before he can even consider mustering up the courage to ask them of their intentions. He sleeps with his brother’s arms around him, keeping him warm. He tells himself he is safe, and his memories offer him images of soft nights just like these, drifting away on the couch with family nearby.
Tommy wakes up to the feeling of someone getting up from the couch. Wilbur is breathing deeply underneath his head, a little too quick.
“It’s alright.” Techno whispers, and the words aren’t for Tommy. “You did everything perfectly. They never notice.”
“What if they do, this time?” Wilbur answers. He sounds- scared.
Scared?
Tommy’s chest squeezes with unhappiness at the sound. He wants to open his eyes and demand what’s wrong. He wants to yell into Wilbur’s face and tell him he deserves to be terrified.
“They won’t. He was just- a hiccup. More stubborn than most.”
“What if he wasn’t? What if this is-?” Wilbur cuts himself off. His breathing grows even quicker, and fingers are running through Tommy’s hair, like the man needs to be reassured that Tommy is in his grasp. “What if I’m faltering because of something else?”
The front door clicks with the lock turning open. Wilbur’s breaths calm down into nothing startlingly quick, and Techno whispers one last thing, almost too quiet to catch.
“Then I’ll get rid of it.”
The hinges of the front door squeak slightly as it’s pushed open. There’s a rolling noise of wheels, a suitcase being dragged along at someone’s side. Someone new gives a surprised huff of air.
“What are you two doing up?” Phil asks, voice quiet.
Tommy snaps open his eyes, a burst of tears threatening to rise up. A frail sense of hope dares to unfurl in his chest, and he gasps in with a short raise of his head.
“Go back to sleep.” Wilbur whispers, and Tommy feels a wave of exhaustion suddenly press down on him, coaxing him to return to rest. He puts his head back down on Wilbur’s chest, but his eyes stubbornly stay open, wanting to see his dad.
“Wil told you we’d wait. He texted you.” Techno answers, his arms crossed over his chest with a small, almost teasing smile. “Did you even check your phone?”
“It died a few hours ago.” Phil complains, still hovering at the front door, leaning back to check down the hall. “You should’ve texted-”
Tommy jerks himself out of Wilbur’s grip, practically falling off of the couch and slamming into the floor. All heads turn to him.
He stumbles to his feet, tears burning at his eyes, and he throws himself forward to the front door, to the first person who he truly, honestly knows. The person who’s real.
“Dad!” He calls, tackling into his father’s arms, making the man stumble back a step or two with the force of it.
“Woah-! Okay!” Phil chuckles, hugging Tommy back with a content grin. He squeezes his arms around his shoulders and rocks him back and forth. “Hey. Hey, mate. Did you miss me that much?”
Tommy nods quickly, burying his face into Phil’s shirt. A sob is threatening to come out, to devastate him with the relief in his chest, but Tommy bites it all back. There are eyes on him. He has to be careful.
“I thought you were asleep.” Phil pats at the back of his head, brushing gently through his hair for a moment. Tommy wants him to never let go. Here is true safety. Here is something he was truly born with. He knows it.
“He’s supposed to be.” Wilbur calls out, standing up from the couch. “But he went ahead and snuck out of bed to stay up with us.”
Tommy turns to look over his shoulder, arms still held around Phil. Wilbur’s joined Techno’s side in where he’s standing before the door, and there’s a flash of- something, in his eyes. It’s harsh and sharp, and Tommy never wants to see it again.
“Aw.” Phil clicks his tongue, finding Tommy’s actions endearing. “Well, at least it’s not a school night. But you should still be in bed.”
He goes to let go, but Tommy refuses to move. He shoves his face back into Phil’s shirt, wanting to hide away forever. Phil makes a small laugh.
“Toms.” He lightly scolds, pulling at the back of Tommy’s shirt.
“Hmm.” Tommy makes a grumbled noise. Phil laughs again.
“Tommy.” Tommy only grumbles again, more disgruntled this time. “Okay, you need to go to bed.”
He pushes Tommy forward, but doesn’t force him to let go. Instead, they do an awkward shuffle past the doorway, the suitcase being left where it is. Phil talks over Tommy’s head, attention focused on Wilbur and Techno.
“How was the week? Did Tommy give you two trouble?” Phil asks, holding an arm out with his other still holding onto his youngest. Tommy is confused at the gesture at first, but then Wilbur comes close, and his heart sinks right down to his feet.
He stares with wide eyes as Phil gives Wilbur a loving hug. Thankfully, no one sees his expression.
“They-” Tommy nearly stammers over his words, turning his head to face Phil’s shirt. “They gave me trouble.” He says.
Phil quickly hugs Techno next, and Tommy can see a glimpse of a content smile on Techno’s face. He feels his chest constrict with a devastating sense of disappointment. It is soaking right into his skin, settling into his bones, leaving him with a broken, shattered hope.
“Oh, did they?” Phil asks, as he lets Techno go.
“They were insufferable!” Tommy yells, wishing, hoping, almost praying that Phil is going to say something to acknowledge the things in their home. That he’ll give a hint, give a sign, something that only Tommy will notice. Maybe he’s being careful. Maybe Tommy has to wait.
Maybe it’s all fucking futile and he’s lying to himself.
“What, did they force you to actually do your chores?” Phil asks, and he’s looking at Techno and Wilbur with nothing but fondness. Nothing but love. He turns that same love onto Tommy, and that look belongs to Tommy, he knows it.
That look is not meant to be shared.
Phil is giving it to them anyway.
Oh, god.
Tommy steps away from Phil, letting him go. He hides his shaking hands by patting at his own cheeks, chasing away the urge to cry and wail. He laughs, trying to not make it sound bitter, but rather more whiny. Tired. He is a tired, cranky teen, who needs to go to bed.
“No.” He denies. He did do chores this week. He also went through hell. “They fucking bullied me. Techno hogs the couch.”
“I do not.” Technoblade protests, and Tommy turns his head to give the most angry glare he can manage. It’s a little too furious for a grudge over space on the couch, but it fits regardless. “I just use the cushions to maximum efficiency.”
“Meh-meh-meh- he hogs the fucking couch. I come into the living room trying to watch TV and this motherfucker-”
“You weren’t even supposed to be watching TV at that time, you were supposed to be sleeping-”
“Where’s mum?” Wilbur asks Phil, ignoring Techno and Tommy’s rising argument. He twists his hands nervously, despite the calm smile on his face.
“Down the hall. She was grabbing the other suitcases while I went to open the door…” Phil turns to go look out the doorway, but there’s already the roll of small wheels coming around the corner, a few suitcases being pushed forward.
Tommy sees the bags before he sees her. Despite the confirmation of Phil not noticing anything wrong, he finds a sliver of hope still trying to stab into his chest. He wishes for her to come in and to scream. To cry, to yell, to point at his brothers and demand the reason for why they are here.
He wants chaos to break loose. He wants the air to drown with terror. He wants his beloved brothers to have their entire game fall apart.
Kristin comes in with an easy smile, looking worn out and tired, but happy. She grins at Phil in greeting, then looks to her sons, her eyes flicking over Wilbur and Techno’s faces. Tommy intently searches for something, anything, to give a hint that she knows they are wrong. He glances at Techno and Wilbur’s faces to see if they’re hesitant, if they’re nervous, any slip up at all, and he’s surprised to see a bit of anxiety stricken into their expressions, Wilbur’s especially.
Tommy opens his mouth, with the full intention of just insulting Wil with something dumb, but then his mother calls him.
“Tommy!” She cries.
And she sounds so worried.
Tommy whips his head towards her, eyes wide at the alarm in her tone. That’s a sign. That’s a sign. He’s pulled into a too-tight hug, arms squeezing around him as if he needs to be kept safe from the world, kept safe from a threat. His feet stumble across the ground with how suddenly he was yanked close.
“Uh.” Tommy stares past his mother’s shoulder, reaching his hands up to grab at her shirt. An overwhelming need to cry is flowing down over him. He blinks in trying to fight it back a second time.
He’s scared to feel relief. Scared to try and give any signal in return to what this moment might be. It could be fake. It could be him being hopeless, delusional, but-
Is this it? Is this the hint? Is she protecting him, at last?
Does she know?
“I thought I was going to have to wait until morning to see you!” Kristin continues, and Tommy’s scrap of joy is short-lived. It falls apart into nothing but ash. “Aww, I missed you!” She rocks Tommy with her, resting her cheek against the side of his head.
“I-” Tommy swallows. His hands are trembling. “I missed you too, mom.” His voice breaks at the end of it.
He wants to scream.
He wants to scream until both his lungs are sore and dry, with nothing more to give. He wants to cry, wail, fall to the ground and scream to both his parents that he doesn’t have brothers, and the two beings behind him are not meant to be here. He wants his dad to tell them to get out, to force them away. He wants his mom to hug him for eternity, to keep him tucked against her shoulder so that nothing can ever find its way into his mind ever again. He wants to be safe.
But those things are not what he can have. Those actions, those comforts, no matter how rewarding they may feel in the moment, will have fucking consequences. He knows this. He knows it well.
“Yeah?” Kristin pulls back, and she looks directly at her twins, finding polite smiles pointed back. “And how about you two? Did you two miss me?”
Techno shrugs in a way that seems embarrassed, his eyes falling to the floor. Wilbur only makes a crooked smile, his shoulders slumping down.
Kristin steps past Tommy, holding her arms out. “Come on. Bring it in.” She laughs a little, and Wil and Techno listen wholeheartedly. They reach out, with matching looks of joy. It makes Tommy’s heart go warm, his family holding each other close.
And yet he also wants to sob with the memory of this not being right.
His mother hugs them both at the same time, one arm around each one, and she squeezes them just as tightly as she did to Tommy. They make faces at the hug, Techno giving a joke that he can’t breathe. Kristin only hugs him tighter for that one, and he makes a strangled noise at it. Phil laughs.
Tommy wraps his arms around himself, biting at the inside of his cheeks until they bleed. His eyes well up with tears from the sting. He can’t look away from his brothers.
“I’m glad you’re back.” Wilbur tells her, as they step away. Kristin moves her hands to rest on their faces, cradling them both like she needs to see and take in their features, here and now.
“Yeah?” She says softly, looking intensely at Techno’s eyes. Technoblade looks away, seeming sheepish. For a flicker of a moment, Tommy swears that it’s fear. Maybe he’s projecting.
“I-I made cookies.” Wilbur goes on, leaning into her palm, looking elated when she laughs fondly.
“They suck.” Technoblade deadpans. Wilbur gives him a dirty look. “What? You burnt half of them. I could use at least one of those to break a window.”
Kristin gives a huff. She pinches at Wil’s cheek for a spare second, then lets go, and Wilbur’s annoyance slips away into only a happy chuckle. He’s so happy in seeing Kristin, so happy in having her home, that Tommy can’t help but note there must be some relief, mixed into that joy.
He wishes he felt the same as him. He wishes he wasn’t aware of why he should be wary.
“You know I’ve banned you from the stove. I still haven’t forgotten…” Kristin scolds, and as she continues talking to Wil, her voice goes quiet, falling far away. Tommy gives up on listening to whatever she has to say. It doesn’t matter.
He blinks down at the ground, squeezing his fingernails into the skin of his arms. He can't help but feel let down by this entire night.
Tommy finally has his parents back, and they aren’t even any help at all.
“Tired?” Phil asks, and Tommy lifts his head, looking up at his dad. There’s an arm now resting over his shoulders, and he leans into his father’s embrace, giving a slow nod. A single tear falls past his cheek, but no one catches it. It’s dim in the apartment.
“Yeah.” He agrees. “I’m tired.” In more ways than one. But, to be fair, he has been up for some time as well. He’s not sure how long that nap was on the couch, but physically, he does need his rest.
“To bed with you.” Phil squeezes him close, then pushes him gently away, towards the kitchen so he can head off to his room. “Say goodnight to your mum.”
“Night, mom.” Tommy calls out, dragging his feet forward. Kristin turns from where she’s talking to the twins, and she pulls Tommy into a hug again, kissing him on the top of the head.
“Goodnight, Tommy. I’ll see you in the morning.” She lets him go, and Tommy walks off, hearing both Techno and Wil give their goodnights as well. He gives a half-hearted wave without looking back, and then escapes off into the dark of the kitchen.
He walks to the hallway, to his room, his legs feeling heavy and slow the entire way. His eyes fill with tears as he gets to his doorway, and tears fall to his carpet as he closes the door behind him.
He looks up at the room, eyes wet, his heart raw with disappointment. Everything is where it should be. But if he closes his eyes and thinks far back, he can remember it all being a mess. A scattered chaos of him panicking, of him trying to fight back.
A sigh leaves his throat, too heavy. It’s all so very useless. It pisses him off so much, and if he were more brave, less tired, he’d be grabbing a knife to tuck under his pillow, just in case.
But for tonight, he doesn’t have the will to step back out into the hall. He can’t bear to listen to the voices of his parents talking to those things who like to pretend to be his brothers. For tonight, he’ll sleep. And if the universe is kind, he’ll have some reprieve from the constant stress he’s in.
He crawls into bed with an exhausted groan, and there’s a twinge of sadness at the fact he left his blanket behind in the living room. If he’s lucky, his dad will bring it while he’s asleep, but Tommy’s luck has been shit for a while, so he’s not putting his hopes up.
He settles for what he has, and curls up on his side, closing his eyes. He doesn’t wipe away his tears, and instead just presses his face into his pillow for a moment, before rolling onto his back and letting the world drift away.
Tommy’s not sure how long he sleeps. But he wakes up to the sound of his door clicking open.
He opens his eyes with a heavy sensation on his chest, and when he tries to lift his head to see who’s coming in, he finds that he can’t move.
His head is stuck onto the pillow, his neck seemingly too weak to even let him turn, and his throat goes tight at the feeling. He tries to move his arms, his hands, his fingers and legs, and he gets nothing.
He can’t move.
He can’t even twitch. It’s as if he is frozen in place, an invisible weight holding him tight, not letting him go.
There’s something in his room.
Tommy stares up at his ceiling, vision blurring with tears of panic rising up. He sucks in a deep breath, and hears the shuffling of footsteps coming closer, up to his bed. He can’t move. It’s in his room, it’s coming up to him, and he can’t fucking move.
He closes his eyes. It’s useless, and frankly makes everything more terrifying, but it’s the only thing he has. He hears something come near, and as much as he strains his ears, there’s no soft breathing to come with it. No hint of this being only his father, or his mother, coming to check if he’s alright. It’s something much worse, isn’t it?
Tommy’s fear pulls him apart as he feels something hovering over him, and a ragged sob escapes his chest, his hands shaking from terror, and yet still not moving to his command.
“It’s only a nightmare, Toms.” Someone whispers, just under their breath. The voice is- strange. It’s false sounding, similar to that of something generated through a computer. No soul, no heart. It could almost be teasing. Cruel. “Here.”
Something drapes over his body. It’s soft and familiar, and Tommy recognizes it as his blanket, the one left in the living room. There’s a flash of quick relief for it. It’s gone as soon as it came.
“Does that fix it?” The voice asks. It’s gone cold. “Are you going to keep being stubborn, now?” The words are stretched out, held thin. There’s a threat resting on the word stubborn, and Tommy feels his tears run down into his hair.
He doesn’t move. He can’t move.
Wilbur thinks he is asleep, lost in a bad dream. Tommy has to pretend he is, and he’s a little thankful that it’s somewhat easy to do it.
Another sob climbs out of his throat, one of his breaths sounding rough. Wilbur’s voice falls soft. It’s still strange sounding, still too wrong, but it’s- softer. Almost kinder.
“The nightmare isn’t real, Tommy.” A hand brushes over the top of Tommy’s head, and Tommy would’ve flinched if he could move. “Sleep easy. Everything is done.”
Tommy feels himself breathe more slowly, his body calming down despite panic still being vivid in his mind. The world starts to fade out, slipping away, and there's a kiss pressed to Tommy’s forehead as he finds himself falling back to sleep.
“Goodnight, little brother. I love you.” Wilbur whispers, and Tommy’s heart believes the sentence to be true. “Sleep well.”
And Tommy does. He falls to sleep, and when he wakes up in the morning, his door is closed shut, and his blanket is tucked kindly over his chest.