Chapter Text
Tommy woke up feeling like shit.
His limbs were heavy, his lungs burned, his mouth tasted of blood, and he was much colder than he remembered being, whatever he was laying on was rubbing unbearably against his skin.
A hacking cough that threatened to pull up bile escaped his mouth causing him to reach blindly out for anything to soothe his ripped and dry throat. His hand knocked against something on a table, the sound of liquid falling to the floor making him wince.
Opening his eyes was harder than expected, light burning them dry and old tears feeling like an awful face mask on his cheeks, but he got it done and was face to face with the musician.
Well, Ghostbur, the musician was dead.
Ghostbur stared quietly, looking nervous and flighty.
Tommy motioned to his throat with a soot stained hand before pretending to drink a glass of water. The ghost nodded and got up far too quickly for Tommy to feel like the brunet actually wanted to be there.
Footsteps and murmured voices filled the air, an image of a young piglin reading stories, view blurred by illness and exhaustion.
The door opened, Tommy was too tired to turn his head so opted to just wait for them to speak.
A warm mug was placed gently in his hand, some tea he didn’t recognize.
“Hey mate, how you feeling? Gave us a bit of a scare there,” Phil said, softer than usual followed by a dry, humorless laugh. Tommy shrugged, “You’re wings, they aren’t all fiery anymore.”
He hummed, the sound scratching at his esophagus, “I think they only burn when I am new and when I am dying,” A small sip, there was a sickening amount of honey in the tea, he liked that, “My ocean told me.”
“Your ocean?”
“Mhm, my orange ocean. It’s quite beautiful. It gave me my wings because I wanted to fly.”
It was silent again, the meaning behind the words filling the room with something tense.
“Lava,” the elder sighed, “It was lava, not an ocean, but I’m sure it was pretty, mate.”
“Yeah, I know.” Tommy spared a glance to Phil’s large wings, feathers shiny and neat, unlike his own. He didn’t know how to take care of them yet.
“Do you want to talk about what you remember? We just want to know if we can help,” at Phil’s soft words a strange surge of red hot anger filled him. The urge to scream and yell and tarnish those shiny feathers made him feel twitchy.
Instead, he just nodded, and silently asked for another cup of tea.
-
It was a weird procedure, Techno and Phil were in the room, calmly asking questions and prodding for answers as Tubbo and Ghostbur sat next to the door in the hallway, soft sniffles occasionally reaching Tommy’s ears.
He answered easily, well as easy one can with a ripped up fucking throat, but he made due despite that fact. Their voices floated easily through the cotton filling his ears, gently bubbling and rolling through his mind like a stream.
Once Tommy can leave the bed again he’ll try and find a stream, or maybe a river. He wonders if his wings can touch water now. Probably not, but maybe.
“Did someone push you into the lava?” Techno was blunt, Tommy liked that, though he wasn’t used enough to the man’s voice to be able to pick up the emotions in his usually monotone voice. Despite this, he noticed the uncomfortable shift Phil made.
He shook his head, no one was around enough to kill him, Dream had stopped visiting a bit before he jumped. Ghostbur had been gone for even longer. It had been only him. When he had relayed this a sharp intake of breath from the hallway made him flinch.
“What do you remember about yourself?” Tubbo had asked that when Tommy had first arrived, but the answer was different now.
“My name is Tommy. Nobody likes me on the server. Many people want me dead. I had a friend, his name was Henry, someone killed him though. When I jumped, I made sure it was like I was flying, because I would need to fly to meet Clara. I have something of hers, and I need to return it to it’s rightful owner.” He sounded like Technoblade, he realized, voice flat, words blunt.
“No one wants you dead.” Maybe before he flew, had he heard such firm words from his father, Tommy would have believed him. Maybe he would’ve found the strength to keep moving on, to keep his feet on the ground.
But Tommy had flown high above the server, had seen the stars, had seen crystals raining from the sky as an astronaut greeted him warmly hair holding galaxies and eyes filled with far too much love, before he came plummeting back down, crashing into his ocean of lava.
Now, Tommy had died, and his father only cared because of guilt.
“‘You want to be a hero Tommy? Then die like one,” He finally turned his head, meeting Techno’s eyes straight on, red clashing with blue, “You said that to me before releasing monsters on my home, before destroying everything me and the musician had worked for.”
He ignored the heavy sigh, “You killed Tubbo, you killed Wilbur, you destroyed all I loved and you expect me to believe you don’t want me dead? You don’t care for traitors, correct? Then you shouldn't have cared whether I lived or died.” That familiar pit of anger bubbled in his stomach, deep and hot, twisting and thrashing violently, making him sick, “How many more sons will you have to lose before you realize you failed? That you had a favorite and no matter how much he hurt your family you would never care, all because he was strong, because he was a warrior, because he was easier to use. Loyal and willing to kill.”
“Tommy-”
“Techno could have ripped me apart and no matter what I said you would let him because I hurt his feelings. Because I deserve it. Because I had more than just you to lean on. Because acting as though one child is always right makes it easier to ignore the fact that you were never there. That you never cared.” The cotton had left his ears, it was more of a soft buzzing now. It was annoying.
“Tommy, that’s not-”
“You and Wilbur are a lot alike, he truly is your son. You know which children would make good weapons don’t you guys. Or maybe you actually see him as a person, as a kid you have to take care of, because Notch knows you didn’t see me and Wilbur like that.” Tommy kept his breathing level, “You know when Wilbur died, he had planned for me to be on top of TNT, he planned to kill me. It makes me wonder how you all viewed me, seeing how easy it was for you to turn your weapons on me.” His cheeks were burning but the bubbling sludge in his stomach was clawing at his throat.
“It makes me wonder what monsters you guys are, so willing to kill a child, kill your sons, your brother,” his throat was too tight now, “Makes me wonder what kind of monster I am, that even my own family stopped loving me, if they ever did.”
When Tommy looked again Phil was crying, wings drooped low, brushing against the ground. “Tommy, I never meant for it to be like this, I’m sorry.” His anger made him continue on.
“Had I been stronger would you have loved me? If I was a warrior like Techno would I be worthy of attention. If I was a musician, a businessman, and a liar like Wil would you have cared, would I get praise? Or is it always meant to be like this? Am I only meant to be the fuck up everyone blames? Some pest no one loves? The hero for everyone to blame in some shitty retelling of a tragedy? The annoying little brother that failed to stop the only person that actually cared from killing himself!” His voice was so loud, it was strange knowing you could make your throat and head hurt just from speaking.
“Because you think it’s my fault. Everyone does, because who cares about me when I’m still alive? No one cared to hear about what I went through, what a dickhead Wilbur was at the end, that despite all the times he yelled and hit and hurt me, I still loved him because no one else loved me . And the only reason you care is because you feel bad! Guilt is a shit emotion isn’t it!”
“Calm down, take a de-”
“Is this all I had to do to finally have a father, all I had to do was jump in some fucking lava and you would have decided to be a good parent for once? All I had to do to get my brother back was kill myself? And even then it’s not about me, is it, it’s about you not wanting to feel guilty, about you not wanting to feel like the shitty fucking family you are!”
Tommy’s glad his wings weren’t flaming anymore, he’s sure they would’ve set the house ablaze by now.
“I hate you! Because you never loved me and only started pretending to make yourself feel better!” His cheeks were burning much more now, he realized now tears were falling heavy and thick, burning holes into the blanket resting over his legs. “I hate that despite everything I did I never got to have a dad, I hate that I could never impress my oldest brother, I hate that I flew hoping to see you in the sky next to me.”
“I just wanted my dad. I just wanted my brothers. Why couldn’t I?” His breathing was uneven, choppy and tears slipped into his mouth, burning his tongue. Tommy dug the heel of his palms into his eyes, trying desperately to push back the tears, just wanting to go back to sleep and not face the Phil or Techno and their stupid tears that made him feel bad.
Whether they sensed Tommy’s throat was now too tight to talk, clamped around all the words that wished to spill from his lips, or they wanted to fill the tense silence surrounding them, they shifted in their seats a bit as Techno spoke up, voice strained, “I’m sorry Tommy, for not being there for you. I am, truly.”
From the few fuzzy memories he had that included Techno comforting him, he supposed this was as good as he would get.
“Son, I want to make it up to you, you don’t have to forgive me, because I don’t think I deserve it, but I want to be the father you deserve.” Phil was rambling, voice shaky from his own tears, “Notch, Tommy, I never blamed you, I promise I never did, it was-”
The cotton filled his ears once more, though he remained focused on the blond man speaking frantically, but it was hard to focus on words when you were crying. Muffled words passed through his brain, vaguely registered in the scramble of fuzzy memories and scattered thoughts.
After, well Tommy doesn’t know honestly, Techno left the room, followed by Tubbo and Ghostbur. Phil sat next to him still, maybe waiting for a response? “I’m tired, Phil.”
Phil sighed, heavy and tired as well, “That’s okay, you can rest.”
As he shifted to stand, Tommy watched him carefully, focusing on the neat feathers, well groomed and brightly colored. “Phil?”
“Yeah, mate?”
“Can you teach me how to take care of my wings?” A strange mix of emotions passed through Phil’s face, confusion, joy, other things that Tommy was too tired to identify.
“That’s- That’s a very intimate thing to do, really only done with family and partners,” He paused, shifting on his feet, whether from excitement or nervousness Tommy wouldn’t know, “Are you sure?”
Tommy wanted a couple things and clean, preened wings was one of them. His dad was another.
Cautiously, he nodded, extending the olive branch to Phil, lips too heavy to talk.
Ignoring the something that sparked in his chest, making it warm in a way that he wasn’t used to, at the small happy flaps of Phil’s wings and his low, barely there chirps.
“Tell me whenever you want to start,” Voice soft, the elder smiled before turning out the door, leaving Tommy alone.
Soft chirps drifted up from downstairs, excited chatters from the other avian as he most likely rambled on to Techno edged up to the room.
Feeling far more comfortable than before, Tommy settled down into the warm bed, falling asleep easily.