Chapter Text
His phone was ringing.
Sure that’s normal for it to do, but usually not this early in the morning. The only people who would even call him are either asleep or at work. So, this is quite a surprise.
He also didn’t get a lot of sleep the previous night, having stayed up till six in the morning working on the little evidence he gathered over a week ago. It was his day off, so he didn’t mind the disruption in his routine, able to finally focus for hours to try and solve the mystery.
But, despite his efforts, he didn’t get far. There’s only so much he can do with the copies of files Dream had given him and the shoddy patrol routes from the vital bracelets. It didn’t help that he had damaged them with his enhancement.
Tommy was able to get them semi-functioning again, thankfully, remembering the things Tubbo had rambled about whenever they had free time.
He went to bed at seven after some breakfast and a quick shower and he had hoped to sleep the day away, but now his phone was ringing.
It’s playing able sisters, lighting up and showing him that he’s only been asleep for three hours. The end table vibrates along with the thing, shaking violently, or it feels like it does, with the headache that’s starting to form behind his eyes.
Then, with a sigh, he picks the thing up, not bothering to lift his head from the pillow. It’s an unknown number, so he half expects it to be some telemarketer or another scam caller. He doesn’t expect it to be Techno, though.
“Hello,” he says, feeling the way his eyes droop, heavy with exhaustion.
“Wilbur wants to invite you over to Phil’s.” And the man doesn’t waste any time getting directly into it, not even bothering with a proper greeting.
“Wait, fuck,” Tommy swears, shoving the covers off of him to sit upright. His legs swing over the side of the bed, resting on the floor. “Who is this?” His brain is still a bit foggy, riddled with sleep deprivation and he knows he should’ve been sleeping more the past few days, but he couldn’t.
“It’s Techno, keep up.”
He rubs at one of his eyes, desperately trying to focus on his darkened surroundings. The curtains are closed blocking the sunlight from streaming directly onto his face. It takes a lot of struggle to comprehend what he had just been told and he wonders, for a moment, how he ever survived being a hero.
“Tommy?”
“Why doesn’t he, then?” He asks, yawning. The area around his apartment is quiet, people are already at their respective jobs, and the roads are empty too, devoid of any cars.
He hears Techno sigh. “He doesn’t want to scare you off.” And of course, that’s the first thing Wilbur does after Tommy has let him in. Now he’s going to treat him like a fragile little ornament that he doesn’t want to risk breaking.
“Understandable,” he says anyway, remembering how he had acted the day he met Phil and Techno. “Tell him he’s a loser.”
“Come over and tell him yourself.” Oh, this bitch. Because Tommy does kind of want to do that. It’s his only weakness, insulting dumbasses. “I don’t want to put up with his sour mood the entire day.”
“When?” he asks, hoping to the Gods that he could snooze for another hour or so before he has to get up again.
“Twelve. I’ll pick you up.”
Twelve is a bit earlier than he had hoped. “You don’t know where I live.” He can hear Techno shuffling around, the breeze of the air as he switches his phone from one ear to the other. There are distant voices too, faintly familiar as they talk in the background.
“I’ll figure it out,” Techno says and then the line clicks.
Tommy sighs, carelessly dropping his phone on the bed. He had left his work out in the living room and now he has to go and clean it up. He doesn’t want to risk it getting seen or taken while he’s out. But now he won’t get an extra hour’s worth of sleep, meaning he’ll be a walking zombie the entire day.
Maybe he should make himself a cup of coffee…
It may taste like absolute shit, but he could use the energy boost and he had gotten some the other day in case Wilbur ever came over.
Fuck it.
-
Techno arrives at exactly twelve.
“I don’t even want to know how you got my address,” he says, eyes wide. The truth is, he already knows.
Come on, it’s Marathi, all he needs to do is make one phone call and then he’d know every single thing about Tommy. Fuck, even Wilbur had done it. “Sam told me.” Yeah or that.
The ride was partly silent, mostly because he was dead tired, the horrid taste of coffee clinging to the inside of his mouth like poison. But it could also be because both of them have the social skills of a spoon.
It was only after ten minutes that Techno broke the quiet.
“You know, what you said really affected Wilbur.” Oh, and of course… Can’t even have some semblance of privacy with the Syndicate. Who gives a shit if they’re villains when they don’t even have some human decency.
“He told you?” Tommy asks, knowing that what he said included losing his wings to withering, Techno’s enhancement.
He gets an inquisitive side glance in return, practically smelling the confusion. “Nah, he has too much respect for you.” It eases a part of him to know that he still has some anonymity from the Syndicate.
A part of him wonders if Techno would’ve cared.
“Doesn’t feel like it,” he says, sliding down in his seat. His jeans make an annoying sound as it grates on the fabric of the car and he crosses his arms, pouting. “And it’s not going to change.”
He knows it’ll always be like this, the same treatment day in and day out. Fragility follows him like a vulture does its next meal and he was stupid to think he could finally escape it.
“Wilbur has too much love in him, and he struggles to express it.” It’s strange to hear that, to believe it. Nerveo had never seemed like the type to love. “I know he’s annoyin’, but he’s just scared of losing you.”
Ownership, his mind yells. Family, his heart sings. He shuts both of them down immediately, needing to process before allowing his instincts to make decisions for him.
“You said that.”
“It’s true.”
They don’t say another word to each other.
-
When they eventually get to Phil’s house—it’s across the city and into the suburbs—Wilbur is waiting outside with a scathing gaze.
He seems angry, hair covering most of his face with his head tilted down slightly. The look is menacing, for whatever reason, and Tommy half considers just not getting out of the car.
But a part of him leaps at the drama, getting to hear Wilbur mad for the first time and bearing witness to the fight. More realistically, he just wants to see what he can learn from their dynamic, the subtle secrets they share.
Techno gets out first, arm lifting with him to block the sun from his eyes. His foot still half rests in the car, body twitching like he’s ready to get in and drive at the first sign of confrontation.
“You left,” Wilbur announces from the porch, his accusatory tone noticeable even with the way the wind tries to carry it away. “It’s family day.” And the way he says it…
Well, it means something.
Tommy picks that moment to announce his presence after seeing the way Techno winces, watching his shoulders pull up with embarrassment.
A flicker of sympathy makes itself known, clenching his heart as he moves. But maybe it’s just guilt, knowing he was the reason for the interruption in their family time, but either way, he won’t leave the man to the wolves.
He grabs the handle, pushing at the door before it’s even able to open and within seconds cold wind is rushing to greet him.
Light reflects off of the SUV’s semi-tinted windows, a bright and glaring spot moving along the ground as his door shudders. It shines against the tiny rocks in the pavement, shimmering when it catches the stones the right way.
It shines directly into his eyes a moment later, right after he closes the door.
It’s quiet for a moment, the wind their only witness to the awkwardness of the scene and it makes his skin crawl. He’s never been one for stilted conversations and being the cause of it only makes it worse.
Tommy is quick to walk to the front porch, one step after the other as he refuses to look into those brown eyes. Wilbur is staring at him, he knows, coffee gripped loosely due to his surprise.
He’s wearing a yellow sweater—typical—and old sweatpants, the thing barely clinging on to life with a few patches here and there. It’s not something you would wear out, but that only makes it perfect for a cosy day at home.
There’s also a green blanket resting over his shoulders, hanging loosely and nearly touching the floor. He’s so mismatched that it looks like he only came outside to scold his brother.
Goosebumps are visible on the little bit of skin that Tommy can see peaking through Wilbur’s sweater, betraying how cold he feels. He keeps ahold of the coffee like it’s his lifeblood, the only thing keeping him warm.
He looks so much like Phil at this moment that it’s hilarious.
“‘Ow do,” Tommy says, tone deep and yet deceptively empty. He gets to watch the way Wilbur freezes, eyes almost building out of his head with his confusion.
The blue coat clinging to his arms feels like a taunt, even though he had worn it specifically to spite the man. And hasn’t gotten him the response he wanted, aching to hear the tease or the jealousy.
But there’s nothing. It’s quiet.
It frustrates him, the lack of response, and he feels the subtle anger bubble beneath his skin. His fingers roll into his hand, nails digging into his palm for a moment before he calms himself.
“Fuck it,” he says, making the executive decision.
Tommy walks up the steps—one, two—and immediately slams his body into Wilbur’s.
The man stumbles at the sudden weight against his chest, moving to make room for him and he barely has enough time to lift his arms. His coffee shifts from both hands to one, a few droplets spilling with the sudden shift, dropping onto Tommy’s coat.
The smell is like an ugly reminder.
The wood bends and creaks beneath his feet as Techno follows him up the steps, coming to a standstill only a few centimetres behind. Tommy doesn’t pay him any mind, though, instead just clinging onto the yellow sweater with a shaky breath.
His eyes burn when he closes them, feeling the weight of his exhaustion as it dawns on his face. It’s nothing he isn’t used to, but it was something he had hoped to leave behind.
“You said you were out doing work,” he hears Wilbur say, voice reverberating in Tommy’s ear where it’s pressed against the man’s chest. Only then do arms wrap around him, hands suspiciously devoid of the coffee.
“I was,” comes Techno’s reply, voice dry and dull. It’s a heavy contrast against the overly humid weather. “Caring for you is my work and I take it very seriously.”
The words shouldn’t shock him as much as they do, but the layer of love coating Techno’s tone is enough to almost send him reeling.
It shocks a horrific sense of realisation into his, dark and dreadful and it feels like it wants to choke him. His heart twists, pulling and pumping and squeezing in his ribcage. The movement is bruising, harsh.
He had never expected the Syndicate to be like this, so… caring.
The idea of a bunch of villains—murderers—being able to love is like a nightmare to him. Because how could they act the way they do towards each other one moment and kill a bunch of civilians the next, is so inexplicably confusing.
But that’s not the part that really gets to him. No, he knows how easy it can be to switch from one state of mind to the next and he knows that who you are in the mask isn’t necessarily who you are out of it.
What does make his gut wrench and his heart shatter, is that the good people had never been able to love him the way villains love their families. He has cried for hours on end, wondering where he had gone wrong or what he had done to be so unlovable.
And now he sees how easy it is for Techno to show his love to Wilbur, to Phil. Was Tommy just never meant to be loved by the heroes? Or were they incapable of loving him?
Maybe their coldness wasn’t due to an issue with him, but rather due to a problem with them.
“Hey, Toms,” Wilbur says, tone gentle and imploring. He’s holding Tommy with all the softness he never thought he deserved, arms surrounding him in a way that he hopes is loving.
Techno had disappeared sometime during his internal struggle, probably taking the coffee with him, and it makes him breathe just the slightest bit deeper.
“You’re a loser,” Tommy announces, voice muffled by the way his face is squished. The words sound warmer than he had meant to say them and he immediately flushes.
Wilbur huffs out a laugh, blowing at Tommy’s hair with the force of it. “Techno tell you to say that?” He asks.
And honestly? Did the man really have that little faith in him? “No, fucker,” he starts, arms already loosening from their hold. “I’m saying it on my own vol- my own voliti- my own—” Maybe if he had slept for an extra hour, he would’ve been able to speak properly.
“Volition?” Wilbur supplies for him, his tone teasing and humorous.
Tommy feels the false frustration that rises within him, suspiciously similar to happiness. He pushes away then, softer than he wanted to, making Wilbur take a step back.
The sleeve of his coat is rough when he wipes his runny nose, grating on the thin skin and he’s careful not to do it again.
A biting chill follows the wind that blows past the porch, strong and freezing as it crawls into every corner. Tommy crosses his arms then, sniffling slightly when the cold gets to him, but he doesn’t let his gaze drift from the ground.
When he eventually decides to look up, brown eyes are already pinning him in place, shining in the brightness of the afternoon. Wilbur seems worried, brows pinched together, as he stares.
“You look tired,” he says, gaze flickering as he takes in every centimetre of Tommy’s face.
His lack of sleep must be obvious then, probably in the form of two dark bags beneath his eyes and it stirs something within him. Mischief crosses his mind in the form of familiar banter.
Tommy grins, feeling his teeth as they push against his lips, sharp and dangerous. “That’s because I am, big dubs,” he says, the words leaving his mouth almost on instinct. “The ladies kept me busy.”
He waits for the laugh, the sighs or even a stupid eye roll, but he gets none of that. Instead, Wilbur shifts, chin tilting as his eyes narrow, trying to hide his concern and it seems like he’s contemplating something.
“Want to take a nap?” It’s not a typical Wilbur-reserved answer or even something that could be excused as a misunderstanding. No, this is dismissal, his tone careful and guarded.
And this is what he didn’t want, what he hoped wouldn’t happen.
It leaves a lingering taste in his mouth, something awfully similar to fragility and he feels like deflating. But he’s not made of glass, he’s not a trophy and he will not let something as simple as this deter him.
“You couldn’t make me sleep even if you wanted to, bitch boy.” Tommy tries to stick to the same boisterous nature he had gone for before, the idea falling a bit flat without a proper response.
Exhaustion pulls at his bones, heavy where it tries to weigh him down, but his smile doesn’t falter. It doesn’t twitch or waver or dim for even a moment. No matter how fake it is, he keeps up the act.
“Thought so,” Wilbur says, smiling at him despite the way something flickers in his eyes. “Hot chocolate?”
The house isn’t what he had expected it to be, not that he had a great deal of knowledge surrounding the suburbs, but he’s working off of the only house he had ever known.
It’s large, two stories tall and is absolutely stunning. The age is obvious through some of the cracks and the stains on the wood, feeling rustic despite the others around it.
The inside immediately gives him a sense of home, warm and cosy. It’s packed and cluttered, but in a way that makes it feel lived in, like people are actually staying here and using it.
Phil is busy in the kitchen, already working on a dark and creamy substance that Tommy can only assume is hot chocolate. Steam rises from within the pot, long and stringy as it wafts into the air.
The aroma around it is mind-consuming, the swirling mixture strikingly a lot like a potion, making it seem whimsical. It also looks to be almost ready, probably since it was brewing long before he and Techno had arrived.
Phil’s casual outfit almost rivals Wilbur’s, the dark green robes swirling around him majestic despite the crinkles in them.
“Hi, mate,” he greets, tone a bit clipped and Tommy wonders if it’s some leftover anger from the other day. But he realises that the man is busy and can’t exactly spare a moment for a proper hello.
“Phil,” he replies, careful to remain friendly despite how he had acted with Wilbur. The deep-seated respect that the Academy had forced into him won’t just go away after all.
Blue connect with blue as Phil spares him a glance, head tilting to look over his shoulder. Mixed emotions flow between them, some unresolved tension lingering the longer they stare at each other.
“Dad makes the best hot chocolate,” Wilbur swiftly interrupts the tense staredown, voice light and ignorant. He slips past Tommy, gently shifting him to the side as he goes to look at Phil’s work. “It will change your life.”
“Not hard, innit,” he mumbles, crossing his arms as steadily shuffles his way over to watch the thickening liquid simmer in the pot.
It smells heavenly, the steam floating around him like a cartoon, making his head shift. When he sniffs again, the scent is so strong that he is almost sure it’ll linger in his senses for days.
“Wait,” Wilbur says suddenly, turning with a look of poorly concealed horror. “You have had hot chocolate before the other day, right?” And his confusion is understandable, he doesn’t know the full extent of Tommy’s isolation.
“I mean, I have… Probably,” he says, moving away from Phil to lean against the counter. “Just can’t remember it.”
The thought twists strangely inside of him, a dark reminder about how little his parents really cared in the end. Sure they probably made some when he was younger, but a large part of his childhood had been erased.
A combination of severe trauma and head wounds really doesn’t do much for your memory, so if he had ever had the stuff before… Well, he just doesn’t remember it.
Dream did take him to a couple of takeaway places before, buying them hot chocolate because coffee had made them both sick. But it had always tasted cheap, like the shitty pre-packaged stuff you buy at the local store.
Niki had offered to make him some once, but they just never got around to it. Life got busy and the Committee put pressure on him to perform.
Wilbur frowns, chewing on his lip and it looks like he’s contemplating something. Tommy watches, staring directly into his brown eyes, as emotions wash over his face. He waits for the inevitable question, the pushing and prodding. He’s ready for it.
“Well, you’ll love Phil’s,” is all he gets, watching the man turn back to his dad.
-
Techno and Wilbur had almost instantly gotten into some sort of dispute, petty and clearly playful.
Tommy had watched them wrestle over a specific knitted pillow with immense intrigue. It felt familiar to him, the light sparring and it made him think of his brother, of how he and Dream used to do the exact same thing.
He was content to sit and watch them fight over something as futile as a hand-made pillow for hours, legs crossed beneath him as he folded into a little ball. Phil didn’t seem to share his sentiment, though.
“Boys.” His tone screamed warning, an edge of danger lacing it and Tommy’s attention was on him immediately, instincts overwhelming. “Take it outside before you break something.” And they didn’t need to be told twice.
Techno and Wilbur pulled on their coats, never taking their eyes off of each other as they hastily laced their shoes as well. They seemed… happy, excited and it was so confusingly fascinating.
They sprinted outside like two children, uncaring if they left the door open and Tommy wondered what Phil would do. Would he be angry? Would he scold them? How do fathers act in these situations?
“C’mon, mate,” he says, eyes gleaming with something bright. “I want to see who wins.”
Wins?
Tommy gets up from the couch, taking a few seconds to stretch his legs before following Phil out the door. He brings his hot chocolate along with him, holding the steaming cup with reverence. Wilbur was right, it is delicious.
He closes the door this time, seeing as there was no reason to keep it open and he goes to stand by the railings of the back porch. It’s covered in snow, thick and icy and he doesn’t dare lean against it.
His blue coat helps keep him warm, the material soft and he’s sure he could blend in with the snowy surroundings if he tried hard enough.
A snowball flies in front of his face, hurdling directly at Techno. The man dodges expertly, running along the dense backyard to hide behind a tree. Wilbur laughs, ducking next to an overly large bush.
Phil stands by the stairs only a few centimetres away, watching the snowball fight with amusement.
And that’s all it is… a snowball fight.
Tommy can’t remember the last time he’d seen one or if he’d ever been in one before. It chills him to think about it, almost imagining himself in the same position as Wilbur, throwing a snowball at Dream.
No, rather Clementine.
It’s fuzzy, blurry in his head and he tries his best to focus on it, to remember, but it worsens the dull throb that he had been ignoring. He breathes surrendering himself to a lifetime filled with things he won’t remember.
“I’m sorry, Phil.” It comes tumbling out of his mouth before he can even comprehend it.
Maybe he can understand why Phil had acted the way he did when Tommy disappeared. He may not know parental love or what it feels like, but familial love is something he had learned over time.
His sister, Dream, even Tubbo, Ranboo and Purpled. They were all his family and he loved them with every part of his soul. But love hurts and they eventually broke his heart.
Well, Clem didn’t and Dream never would, but he understands the feeling of losing someone.
“Sorry?” The man turns to him, eyes mildly concerned as his brows pinched together. His robe moves with the breeze, soft and elegant despite how casual it looks. How is he not cold?
“I’m sorry,” Tommy repeats, curling both his hands around his cup, fingers tight as they squeeze. “About last week.” His voice cracks slightly with his honesty, exposing how much he truly feels at this moment.
“Tommy,” Phil says, sighing as he turns towards him with an indiscernible look. His hands clench and release, around his own cup. World’s Best Dad, it reads. “No, no. You have nothing to be sorry for.”
“I was being a dick, though,” he’s quick to continue, ignoring the playfully evil laughter coming from Techno as Wilbur sputters. “I—I made you worry and I should’ve taken my fuckin’ phone.” He tries to breathe, finding it difficult despite the cool, fresh air around him.
Phil deflates, arms lowering to press against his body. His face is pinched as he contemplates his words. “Wilbur has been through a lot this past year,” he starts, taking a sip of his drink, “and it’s been taking a toll on him.”
Oh…
Oh. That night.
Tommy had poisoned Nerveo with his powers and had taken and taken his energy to use against him. The nightmare is something his chaos had created, almost like an eternal hell.
Wilbur should be brain dead, or still in a coma, but somehow the Syndicate had saved him, somehow he’s still alive. Tommy didn’t even think about the consequences of his action, didn’t think about the long-lasting effect they would have.
“But he’s been getting better,” Phil continues, placing the cup on a table not too far away. “You’ve been making such a difference in his life and to see that crumble in a matter of seconds…”
“He shouldn’t be relying on me like that,” Tommy says, gripping his own cup as a sickening sort of responsibility tries to rise in him. His instincts yell for attention, to be relied on by someone he cares about.
But that’s just due to years of manipulation and nothing else.
He’s willing to help though, to offer a shoulder to lean on and be there when he’s needed, but it can’t last. It won’t last.
Phil sighs with all the exhaustion of a father. “I know, mate, and he’ll see that. But right now he needs someone to help, to see that there’s still a reason to live.” He needs to be a hero, goes unsaid.
“Aren’t you and Techno enough?” Tommy frowns looking between the brothers and their father. He wouldn’t know if they are, but he does think that Dream is enough for himself. That night on the rooftop proves it.
“We are,” Phil says, turning to look at his sons as well. “But we’ve always been there and life still fucked with him.” He sighs like the world is weighing down on his shoulders and his age seems so much more visible then. “You could be the one person that doesn’t.”
“I will,” Tommy whispers, fingers tight around his cup. It’s cold now. “I always do.” He already has.
Phil looks at him, eyes wiser than he had ever seen before. “But you don’t have to, Tommy.”
It’s quiet then, besides the occasional snowball whirling through the air and the bright laughter of the brothers. They keep chasing each other around, throwing without really aiming and it seems fun. When was the last time he had fun?
“You should join them,” Phil says with a smile on his face, almost like he had been reading his mind.
Tommy wants to laugh, feeling the humour of the statement bubbling inside of him. “I wouldn’t know how.”
Phil, thankfully, doesn’t even bat an eye. He turns back to his sons, smile never faltering. “It’s as easy as it looks.” And yeah, that sort of makes sense. It’s like throwing a ball, or a knife or something of the sort. How hard can it be?
Tommy gently lowers himself, keeping an eye on the positions of Wilbur and Techno, looking for patterns, or frequent movements. He places the cup on the floor, the drink still cold.
When he stands again, he notices it. The dance they do, like they have done it for years. Tommy has never really been a fan of dancing, so why not put a twist into their little sequence and give them a new routine to work with?
He gathers the snow from the railing, feeling the burning cold of the ice against his bare fingers. It forms into a little ball quickly enough and he doesn’t let himself hesitate.
It flies through the air, barely avoiding the leaves on one of the shorter trees before hitting Wilbur directly on the back of his head. Techno, who had just come up with a snowball in hand, freezes, looking up with false horror.
Wilbur turns, face deceptively empty as he lets his eyes fall on Tommy. It’s at this moment that he realises he’s screwed, that he had messed with the wrong man. So, as a last resort, he throws another snowball at Techno.
The man had started laughing at his brother’s expense, eyes closed as his voice pitched high. Some of the snow must fall into his mouth with the impact as he sputters, immediately wiping his lips.
Tommy knows what comes next, it’s the most obvious move, so he ducks, hearing the ice as it crashes into the wall. Another one follows after it and with a glance, he realises that the brothers have teamed up.
Oh, this is going to be fun.
He’s quick to push past Phil, knowing the snow on the railings won’t be enough and the thin bars won’t protect him from getting hit either.
His feet hit the ground with a crunch and he has to act quickly, hearing Techno’s battle cry. He’s barely able to dodge the snowballs coming his way, falling to his knees as he slides behind the same bush Wilbur was hiding behind earlier.
The ice is cold against his fingers, freezing, but he doesn’t even notice it, ignoring the sting.
All his old hero instincts come back to him in a flash, gruelling training sessions righting his posture and extending his hearing. But he smiles because this isn’t a fight, no this is a game.
Tommy peaks out from behind the bush, pretending to observe their positions. But he hears them shift on opposite sides of the yard. A snowball suddenly appears from the side and it’s a miracle that it doesn’t hit him.
He hides again, listening intently, before jumping up and hurling a snowball directly at Wilbur. It hits him in the chest, ice clinging to his sweater, but Tommy doesn’t stop to look.
With one of them stunned and the other without ammo, he moves, running to a tree in the back. He has more vantage this way.
He prepares a snowball, listening for his opponents, but it’s quiet this time. So, they’re either standing still or— Tommy shrieks as ice comes flying his way, trying to dodge, but failing.
They have the upper hand, knowing the yard better than he does, but he isn’t angry and doesn’t beat himself up for failing. This is just a game, after all, but he does swear as he ducks behind another bush.
This one is smaller, but it has the perfect view over the yard and he won’t get snuck up on again. He just about sees Techno’s hair as he disappears behind a tree and Wilbur’s sweater is slightly visible from where he’s hiding next to the original bush.
Phil is cackling from his place on the porch, leaning against a now clean railing and it gives Tommy the perfect idea.
Phil? he writes in the snow, hoping to all hell that it’s still there if his plan works.
He gathers his ammo, one in each hand. Then, risking getting hit, he surges into the open, throwing a snowball directly into Techno, the other one flying over the bush and onto Wilbur’s head.
They rotate, a synchronised move, and he takes his place where Techno had been. He doesn’t move, doesn’t breathe, looking out from behind his spot and directly into Wilbur’s eyes.
Tommy nods and gets one in return. Good, his message had been seen.
He doesn’t bother to listen for the brothers, gently preparing two snowballs for his new target.
Techno had moved to where Wilbur is and with one look, he knows it’s go-time. All three of them jump out from their hiding spots, throwing the snowballs in Phil’s direction. But the man must’ve been expecting it because he dodges them all.
“Oh, you little shits,” he says, smiling mischievously, but Tommy had been prepared for this. It’s the one thing he’s good at.
He throws his other snowball, watching as it flies through the air gracefully before hitting Phil’s shoulder. He freezes when Wilbur and Techno laugh, looking at Tommy with an amused sort of shock.
“Alright,” he says, “That’s it.” And then he charges down the stairs, a snowball already in hand.
And Tommy had never felt so happy.
-
“Alright, kiddos,” Phil says once the sun starts to set and they had all been thoroughly soaked. “As much fun as this was, I need to get up early tomorrow.”
“Oh yeah,” Techno laughs, getting up from where he had fallen in the snow. He doesn’t even look bothered, like the ice clinging to him was nothing more than lukewarm. “Early bird gets the worm and all.”
And this must be some sort of inside joke because Phil’s smile strains. “Shut,” he says, lifting his hand as he looks at Techno with false annoyance.
Wilbur, on the other hand, just grimaces when his sweater sticks to his skin, wet in the places he had been hit. Then he throws an arm over Tommy’s shoulders, sharing the cold wetness with his blue coat.
“Get off me, bitch,” he says, laughing as Wilbur slips and falls into the snow. He doesn’t leave him there, offering a hand as he asks Phil, “What? Don’t like worms?”
“They’re not my favourite.”
And that’s fair, everyone can have their own opinions, but Tommy feels like being annoying. So, as a fellow avian, he will defend a bird’s favourite food. “Why, man? They’re fucking poggers!”
All eyes are on him, a myriad of different emotions on each of their faces but disgust is the clearest. Wilbur immediately lets go of his hand, as if Tommy had somehow offended him, taking a step back.
“You like worms?” he asks, bewildered. “As in, you like eating them?”
“Fuck, no!” Tommy says, glancing at all of them with a similar look of distaste. When he thought about joking around, he didn’t think they would misunderstand him. “Why would you eat them?” This conversation feels a bit weird.
Techno doesn’t hesitate, “I’ve eaten a worm before.” And then all of the attention is on him.
Tommy feels kind of bad putting all the pressure on someone as socially anxious as Techno. But the comedic effect is hilarious even if the man looks like he could combust at any second.
“You have?” Phil asks as they finally start walking back up the porch. He dusts off his robe, getting rid of the remaining unmelted snow. “Why didn’t I know about this?” He almost sounds offended, but the underlying humour is palpable.
“Nevermind that, why didn’t I know?” Wilbur demands, tugging off his shoes and hastily following them into the house.
It’s much warmer inside, blocking the cold wind and Tommy already feels much better. He takes off his coat, walking over to neatly hang it on the coat rack. His jumper is dry, thankfully, but he can’t say the same for his jeans.
The brothers keep bickering as he does this. “It was a bet back in high school!”
“So you’ve kept this a secret for years?” Wilbur chases after his brother, both of them settling in the kitchen where Phil switches on the kettle, boiling water. “I feel betrayed!”
“What worm?” Tommy asks as he joins them, watching as Techno stands there with a deadpan expression. He seems like he would rather be doing anything than this. How do these three function as one of the most famous crime groups in the whole continent?
“Was it alive?” Phil adds
“It was a Mopane worm,” Techno says, folding his arms over his chest. “And it was dead.” They all make noises of disgust anyway, cringing at the idea of eating something slimy and gooey. “It wasn’t that bad!”
“What did it taste like?” Wilbur asks, amusement mixing with disgust as his intrigue surges.
Techno leans against the counter, thinking for a moment, probably trying to remember. “Like nothing? I don’t really know, it was dry and it felt like dust in my mouth,” he says, stopping to cringe at the memory. “Got chocolate for it, though.”
They laugh together, drowning out the sound of the boiling kettle. It clicks off a moment later and their amusement dies with it. Something pops into his head then, something sad that could be hilarious.
His expression twists, and he forces his mouth to turn down along with his eyes. He instantly feels a gaze on him and he instinctively knows it Wilbur, but he keeps his mind perfectly clear. The man can’t see something that’s not there.
“You’re not seriously thinking about the worm right now,” Wilbur says, dropping his head slightly to catch Tommy’s gaze.
He pouts then, putting on his best puppy-dog look. “But the poor thing! It was just living life and then Techno ate it!” He ignores the blatant incorrectness of his statement, feigning sorrow.
“I didn’t kill it! It was already dead!”
“Why do you care anyway, mate?” Phil asks, ignoring his son’s antics. Techno, who senses that the attention is no longer on him, quiets. “It’s just a worm.”
Tommy scoffs, placing an offended hand on his chest. How dare they! “Fuck you!” he says, uncaring if he had just cursed directly at Phil. “They are a wonder! They are fucking amazing! And awesome and so cool—”
“We get it!” Wilbur interrupts, putting a hand on Tommy’s shoulder. He immediately stops talking, turning to grin at his friend. “Why do you like them so much?”
And he doesn’t hesitate to say, “Because they start out as dick-shaped squiggles and then turn into something with wings!” he breathes, feeling the amazement as it laces his voice.
He’s still looking at Wilbur and that’s why he sees it, the flicker in his eyes, the way his smile stutters. Right, he had just mentioned something that could be intentionally harmful.
Tommy turns away then, grin never faltering as he looks at the other occupants of the room.
Phil has also halted his movements of making coffee, or tea, looking at him with something grim. Techno is the only one that doesn’t change, still leaning against the counter with his arms crossed.
His face is neutral, but his lip twitches ever so slightly and Tommy takes that as a win. “Kid’s got a point,” he says, eyes glimmering.
Even with the stint in the conversation, the banter picks up easily and they go back to annoying each other which in turn annoys Phil. They go on like that until their drinks are finished and Tommy can’t even taste the bitterness of coffee.
The day had been fun, exhaustion long forgotten with the snowball fight and he feels a million times lighter.
Looking between the three people around him he realises everything will be fine. His smile wavers, happiness making him emotional in a way he thought he’d never experience.
Yeah, he thinks, Everything will be fine.