Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Tommy is six when he is cursed.

That’s the term he uses for it, anyway. Cursed. Blessed. “Given a gift.” Whatever. The facts of the matter: He goes to sleep, snuggled beneath the covers of his twin bed with no greater worries than what to play at recess tomorrow … and wakes up spitting sand and pebbles.

They’re never sure what happened, in the end. An old gift, triggered, come to light? A spell that bounces off a wall and straight through his window? A curse (though who would curse a six-year-old boy)? It could be any of them. He doesn’t know.

All he knows is that it feels like a curse.

He’s six, and he stands, and his mouth feels weirdly dry and sandy and gross. It’s the weekend. He is silent, and he kicks the comforter off his legs and pushes himself out of bed; he is silent as he brushes his teeth, staring at his own tiny face in the mirror; he is silent up until he slips into the kitchen, where his mother is already busy typing away at her laptop, and announces, “My mouth feels weird.”

He clutches his throat and gags, doubling over and spitting onto the floor.

Pebbles tumble from his lips, grains of sand pinging against the hardwood floors.

His mother stares. “Tommy?”

⸻⸻⸻

At six years old, he understands this much: Ordinary words send sand and pebbles spilling from his throat. Every single word, no matter how insignificant. Words with meaning, though—those sounds change the stones. Anger is glassy obsidian. Sorrow glints in chunks of quartz and sapphire. Joy is ruby and tourmaline and amber.

And love … love is diamonds.

At six years old, Tommy understands this much: Diamonds are valuable. Love is a survival tactic. And speaking is dangerous.

⸻⸻⸻

At seven, Tommy is on top of the world. 

His parents keep it random—they call it “changing it up,” when they suddenly begin to act off, to shove him or slap him or turn away from him with cold, detached looks. Not in a bad way, of course—only ever long enough for Tommy to scream with fury or sob and send precious gems raining to the floor, which they carpeted with the money from his diamonds, so that his stones wouldn’t get scratched when they hit the ground. And afterward, they’re as kind as can be; they wipe his tears away and embrace him and smile down at him, You’re such a good son, such a good kid. And they tuck his gems into pouches, and then there’s new clothes for him and soon, a nicer house, a better yard, even bigger smiles.

His parents tell him gently, You’ve got to keep your gems to yourself, people might bother you. It’s just a family thing. You understand, don’t you, Tommy? Tommy understands. He gets it.

He likes it best when he arrives home after days and days of keeping his mouth clamped shut and his parents are waiting there for him, big smiles on their faces. “Tommy!” his mother will call. “You’re home!” And they’ll go out for ice cream, or to the mall, or to the arcade, and Tommy will smile so wide that every word he speaks will send amber and rubies spilling down to the carpet.

And it’s good. It’s good.

It’s good.

⸻⸻⸻

“Tommy,” his father says. “You love me, right?”

Tommy’s chest aches. “Of course I do,” he says. “You’re … you’re my dad.”

His father smiles. “Tell me.”

“I love you.” A diamond crawls up Tommy’s throat. “I love you.” It tumbles to the floor.

His father beams and wraps him in a hug. “I love you too,” he says. “You mean it?”

“Yeah. Of course.” Tommy’s throat hurts.

“Tell me again? I keep forgetting.”

And Tommy summons all his love, all the love in the world, tingling through his ribs and into his fingertips, and repeats, “I love you.”

⸻⸻⸻

But then he’s eight, and the diamonds emerge fractured, cracked in the center, scratched across the surface. And he’s nine, and the diamonds disappear.

He doesn’t mean it anymore.

His parents’ eyes grow cold.

And he’s ten, cold and shivering on some street corner or another, and whispers to himself, “I wish I was never cursed.”

Sapphires and obsidian tumble to the cobblestone below.

⸻⸻⸻

Five years later, Tommy is kind of regretting ever being born.

“Listen,” he argues, slipping past the shop owner’s knife and sliding toward the door, arms held up in surrender. His mask chafes against the bridge of his nose—a bit of a rush job, but it’ll do for now. “I didn’t know—”

“Oh, you didn’t know,” the man sneers. He brandishes the knife in Tommy’s direction; Tommy’s eyebrows climb into his hairline, eyes fixed on the glinting blade. “You didn’t know that that gem was absolutely perfect? Where’d you get it, huh? Steal it from a mine? Threaten a wizard? I wouldn’t put it past a fucking street rat like you—”

“Hey, now,” Tommy protests. “That’s just offensive.” The shop owner glowers, then lunges; Tommy skids around, wrenches his hoodie out of the man’s grip, and dives out the door.

From there, it’s easy; one block, then two, up a flight of emergency stairs, across a mess of shingled roofs that all blend together. Tommy pants for air, wrenching his mask down; sand spills down his chin and patters onto the rooftop beneath his worn boots. Chunks of carnelian rain down with it, and, cursing, Tommy reverses course to scoop them up and shove them into his pocket. He’d really thought he was doing a good job holding back the irritation. 

Ah, well. He scrubs a hand over his face, shutting his eyes for just a moment before he breaks into a jog again. He’ll avoid frequenting that particular pawn shop from now on. 

Sue him, okay? He was desperate, and now he has enough money to eat. And probably a warrant out for his arrest. But that’s fine. Nobody knows him. Nobody will find him. It’s not like his parents give a shit about him anymore.

He clenches his hands into fists. Inhales. Exhales. Taps his thumbs to each of his fingers, in turn, the same pace as his heartbeat. 

It’s all too soon when he hits the street and clambers down, landing solidly on the cobblestone of the alleyway. Inhale. Exhale. He drags his mask back up over his mouth and nose and just … breathes.

He stretches his arms over his head, working the ache out of his back, as he ducks through the door. He bumps it shut with his hip. “Hello!” he shouts into the dimness of the shop. “Did you miss me?”

A muffled groan. “I’m with a customer, Tommy,” Ranboo says, but he sounds like he’s smiling.

“I’m more important,” Tommy retorts, but he’s smiling too.

Immediately after, a lump crawls up his throat, and he gags. He spits a curse and stumbles toward the bathroom.

“Oh, hello, Tommy,” Tubbo says, a bit surprised, as Tommy skids past him. “Oh. Bye, Tommy!” 

Tommy waves at him hastily and makes it into the bathroom just in time to spit a gigantic ruby into his hand.

He grimaces at it. “Oh, fuck off,” he mutters. Grains of sand dribble into the sink. His mask is dusty with the stuff. 

Someone raps on the door, and Tommy jolts so hard that he nearly launches himself into the mirror. “Tommy?” Tubbo says. “You good?”

Tommy clears his throat. “Fine,” he calls. The lie burns bitter in his mouth; gray lake-pebbles clack against his teeth. “It’s just … food poisoning.”

Tubbo snorts. “I told you to stop eating street food.”

“But street food is fucking good!” Agate, now, alongside the pebbles. Tommy cups his palms and spits, hard, coughing up every chunk of shiny rock. Tommy forces a laugh. “I’m just … I’ll be out in a sec—”

“Take your time,” Tubbo says. “Kick back. Relax. Light a scented candle so the bathroom doesn’t stink.” It’s teasing, and Tommy snorts before slumping back against the bathroom counter, wrapping his arms around himself. He exhales. His eyes flutter shut.

God, he’s exhausted. He misses the days on the streets sometimes, when he didn’t ever have to speak, his hands flying with the sign language he’d picked up from a coven he hung out with (before they tired of the city and left for the forest; witches always tend to be travelers). Now … well, pretending to be mute was a good strategy, up until Ranboo tripped him on a street corner and Tommy (already in a shit mood from a failed pickpocketing earlier in the day) cursed him out vigorously.

Ranboo had just laughed. And then. Well. As Tommy likes to say, Shit just kept happening.

And now … he doesn’t live here. Nope. Absolutely not. He’s still a street rat and proud, sleeping in cardboard boxes on street corners, pickpocketing for money, and he … sure, he crashes here sometimes. Sue him; Ranboo and Tubbo’s spare mattress is cozy. But he’s never taken off his mask in front of them. And he never will.

He twists around to face himself in the mirror, grimacing at his reflection—gaunt and scruffy, with singed, tattered clothes (curses get thrown at him a lot; he’s dodged most of them, all but that very first). “I love you.” He says it quickly. Three words, out so fast that it’s like they were never there.

Nothing. A lump spins in Tommy’s throat until he coughs up a lump of shiny yellow. Fool’s gold. Liar’s fortune.

A nod at himself in the mirror, and then Tommy tugs up his mask, takes a deep breath, and heads out.

⸻⸻⸻

“You’re sure you don’t want to stay?” Ranboo says, for the fifteenth time. “Like, sure? The shop is always open to you—”

Tommy rolls his eyes, careful not to appear too fond. Flat. Ordinary. Monotonous. “I’m sure,” he says, grains of sand tickling his chin. He stares down at the sandwich on a plate in front of him, then promptly wraps it in paper and tucks it into his bag, ignoring Ranboo’s long-suffering sigh. “I’m gonna head out. Gonna carpe the diem and all that.”

“It’s night,” Tubbo points out.

“Carpe the noctum, then. Point still stands.”

“Where’d you learn Latin?”

“Witches. Witches love Latin. Well, no, they love Greek. And Hebrew. And Arabic. But especially Greek. I think it’s the whole Sappho thing, if you catch my drift—”

Tubbo snorts. “All witches are lesbians?”

“All witches”—Tommy takes great care in pronouncing it—“are wuh-luh-wuh. Women loving women. Especially Ranboo.”

“I can never tell if you’re joking,” Ranboo says. The corner of Tommy’s mouth twitches. “I don’t think I’m wuh-luh-wuh. Sorry for disappointing you.”

“I’m very disappointed,” Tommy says promptly. He pauses. “I’m not being homophobic. By the way. I’m making fun of stereotypes.”

Tubbo rolls his eyes fondly. “We know, Tommy.” 

Tommy huffs, half-laugh, half-exhale. He slings himself up and out of his chair, tossing his bag over his shoulder. “Well,” he says. Pauses. Inserts more bluster into his tone. “I’ll be off, then.”

“Okay.” Ranboo gives him a look; Tommy bristles. “You sure you’ll be okay?”

Say I love you, Tommy. Say it.

Why aren’t you saying it, Tommy? Don’t you love me?

Ungrateful piece of shit.

“I don’t need you,” Tommy blurts.

Ranboo visibly winces. Something in Tommy’s chest tears itself open.

He’s dug himself a hole now, though—might as well make it six feet. His mouth moves like it has a mind of his own, like Tommy’s just a passenger in the backseat, screaming no, no, no. “I’m not fucking—I don’t need you. Okay? Just ‘cause you think I’m some sort of fucking pity project doesn’t mean I give a shit about your stupid—your stupid little shop.”

“Tommy,” Tubbo says warningly. Tommy’s cheeks heat; he knows he’s flushed, knows it like he knows sapphires and chunks of quartz are spilling into his mask, and he needs to get out, get out, get out. “Tommy, take that back.”

Tommy inhales. Exhales.

“No,” he spits. Turns on his heel, and marches toward the door, shoving it open with his free hand. “I’m not—I can’t—”

I love you.

I’m sorry.

The door slams shut behind him, and Tommy does what he does best—he runs.

⸻⸻⸻

He was in the running club, back when he went to school regularly. 

It was a dumb little thing at his school, in all honesty. Meant to prepare kids for Cross-Country in high school, except they could only meet on Wednesdays, and there’s not much conditioning you can do by running for an hour every Wednesday. Still, Tommy threw himself into it with the enthusiasm he felt for … almost everything, back then. Ran a mile, and then two, and then three; and, when cramps screamed against his ribs, he would pant and his instructor would clap him on the shoulder and say Let’s take a break, you’re doing great.

Tommy would nod mutely. He wasn’t allowed to talk, back then. Not really. Had to keep his mouth shut—they didn’t want people spotting the glittering chunks of agate and pearl and turquoise. Too unpredictable. Even at eight years old, Tommy had seen what came over people when they spotted the fortune at his feet.

He liked running, though. Liked the ache in his lungs, the wind through his hair, the pound-pound-pound of his feet against pavement. It felt like he could outrun all his problems. Like things wouldn’t be so bad, out in the countryside, his worn sneakers stomping along nature trails and through parks.

⸻⸻⸻

He hasn’t changed, he thinks bitterly. Tommy is still the exact same fucking person. A scared little kid, running from his problems, praying that somehow he could be special. 

Memories dance before his eyes as he runs, breath pounding in and out of his lungs, long, measured inhales and exhales. Ranboo, beaming at him. Tubbo, teaching him to knead bread, laughing when they had a competition over who could punch the loaf harder. The worn cash register in their little knickknack shop, and the glint of the wind chime that Tommy made for them, crafted meticulously out of rose quartz and turquoise and the most flawed, crustiest of his gemstones. Nothing too expensive. Nothing too noticeable. Still, Tommy had left the thing in its package on the doorstep of their shop, too afraid of the notice that he knew would come if they knew who had made it. Too afraid of the questions. 

And yet Ranboo had hung it up, over the counter, right in the spot where the sunbeams through a faded stained-glass window hit it. And Tommy was happy. And Ranboo and Tubbo were kind.

And now he’s run away. 

He’s run away before. That’s probably his most defining trait, actually. To Ranboo and Tubbo, he is the scruffy street kid who runs, and runs, and runs. Who always comes back, mumbling apologies, and fuck, he’s long since worn out his welcome. Long since stopped being that funny, friendly kid who always wears the mask; long since become that kid who keeps coming round. You think he’ll give up this time? I hope so.

He squeezes his eyes shut. His worn-out boots pound the concrete; he needs sneakers, if he doesn’t want to fuck up every muscle in his legs. Fuck. Fuck. He shouldn’t be thinking about this. Shouldn’t be thinking like this, period. Should wait for a better state of mind.

Panting, he jogs to a stop. Without the wind flying in his face, he’s suddenly hyperaware of himself, the burn in his lungs and his legs and his ankles. He starts to walk, keenly aware of new blisters on his heels. 

He doesn’t recognize the sector of the city he’s ended up in. He grimaces; these streets are shabby in a worn, homegrown sort of way. Plants burst from apartment buildings and rooftops and tiny shopfronts. Lampposts flicker overhead, a slow, steady bzz-bzz-bzz as the magic inside of them fizzles.

Tommy clears his throat. “I hate myself,” he croaks. A lump of coal falls into his waiting palm. He hurls it, as hard as he can, toward one of the alleyways.

He’s always had shit aim.

A window shatters, so loudly that Tommy physically flinches.

Hands shaking, he yanks his mask up over his mouth and nose and turns on one heel, breaking into a sprint. The toe of his boot catches in a crack in the cobblestone. He curses; agate clacks against his teeth as he hits the ground with a thud, pain stabbing through his palms and his wrists. He shoves himself to his feet, pushes himself forward, takes a breath—

A gust of wind screams in his ears, slamming him into the side of a building with a crash.  

Tommy swears again, blurrily; his vision turns into smears of light, thudding through his line of sight. He blinks; blinks again; is dimly aware that he’s collapsed to the ground, curled on his side, rather dramatically. He thinks he’s bleeding. 

A clamor of sounds vies for his attention; Tommy screws his eyes shut. “Ugh,” he groans. Groans louder. It makes him feel better.

“Holy shit, Techno,” comes a voice, “I think you killed him.”

A beat. “Well,” rumbles a low voice. “He did break our window.”

Tommy’s eyes drift blurrily open.

“Shit, he’s bleeding.” And that’s a third voice. Annoying. Tommy opens his mouth, presumably to say Fuck off, but a wheezy exhale comes out. Cool fingers brush across his forehead (I’ll fucking kill you, is what Tommy intends to say, but he accidentally sighs again), and then the coolness floods the rest of his body, quietly, gently.

“That should make you feel a bit better.” It’s the same voice. “You okay, mate? Can you talk?” Tommy makes a valiant attempt. It hurts. “Alright, that’s a no, then. Thumbs-up if you’re okay, thumbs-down if you need to go to the hospital.” 

Oh, hell no, no hospital bills. Tommy gives the blurry man above him a thumbs-up; the vaguely head-shaped blob nods. “We’re gonna pick you up now, okay? And take you inside. Techno didn’t mean to hurt you.” I’ve been hurt worse, Tommy wants to say. “Just rest. You’re safe here.”

Tommy takes a breath. His ribs ache. “I’m not safe anywhere,” he wheezes.

“You’re …” The man’s voice falters. “Where are your parents, bud?”

Dead. To me, at least. “Don’t have any.”

“That’s … that’s okay.” Strong, wiry arms creep beneath Tommy’s back and under his knees, scooping him up like he weighs nothing at all. Tommy’s tired. He’s so, so tired. His head lolls against the person’s shoulder. The buzz of magic is almost overpowering.

Tommy takes a breath and lets himself fade into darkness.

⸻⸻⸻

When he wakes up, he has to take a second to blink the blurriness out of his eyes and make sure he’s not dreaming.

He’s lying on his side, curled up into a ball; it feels like the softness cradles his very bones, as surrounded by pillows as he is, warm beneath a fuzzy blanket.

Wait. What?

He shoves himself upward in one fluid movement; all his joints ache, and his ribs smart with pain. Tommy hisses through his teeth and swings his legs over the edge of the bed (what the fuck?), stumbles to the door (what the fuck?), and opens it.

“Oh, hello,” says a blond man, lifting his gaze from a pile of paperwork in his lap. “You’re finally awake.”

Tommy blinks at him, mildly dumbfounded. “Who the fuck are you?”

Much to his surprise, the man just snorts, pushing himself to his feet. His eyes are brilliantly blue and all too fucking kind; instantly, Tommy is on edge, leaning away from the corner that the doorway forms just in case he has to run. “I’m Phil,” he says. He holds out a hand; Tommy eyes it suspiciously. “Do you remember what happened last night?”

Screaming. Running. Pain. Tommy wishes he didn’t. 

“Yes,” he says, slowly, when it’s clear this man is waiting on an answer. “Who the hell is Techno?”

The man laughs. “A friend,” he says. “Or a business partner, I suppose. He works with me in the shop.”

“The shop?” Delightful. A bunch of Ranboo-and-Tubbo mimics, then. “He nearly fucking killed me.”

Phil’s smile is the slightest bit guilty, though humor still glints in his eyes. “Yeah, he didn’t realize you’d broken the window on accident.” He pauses, studying Tommy. “It was on accident, right?”

Tommy debates, internally. “Nah. It was on purpose.”

“Ah.” It feels like Phil is staring all the way through his ribs, right at his soul. “Can I ask why?”

Tommy shrugs. “I was mad.” 

Silence hums for a long moment. Sleep still lingers at the corners of Tommy’s fuzzy mind.

“Well,” Phil says after a moment. “That window will cost a lot to replace.” 

Immediately, Tommy’s on edge. He knows what this means: Sell the clothes off your back. Stab someone for us. Kill someone for us. 

You’re magic, aren’t you. I can sense it. Pay up.

“How about this? You work off however much the window will cost—probably a thousand, because Techno needs a lot of materials to put the wards back on it. You can work in the shop.”

Oh, fuck no.

Tommy cannot be trapped here.

“If there were so many wards on it, why’d it shatter?”

Surprisingly, Phil snorts. “Good question, mate.” He offers his hand again; Tommy eyes it distastefully. “How about it, then? I’d really rather not report you to the cops.”

Tommy hazards a question. “What kind of shop?”

“A collection of things. Bookstore, coffee shop, Wilbur does palm readings.” The third person in their little trio, then. Tommy files the information away for later. “You’ll enjoy it. It’s a nice atmosphere.”

Like hell Tommy will, but whatever. “Thirty dollars an hour.”

The corner of Phil’s mouth quirks up. “You drive a hard bargain, but sure. So that’ll be …” He counts on his fingers. “Thirty-three hours and twenty minutes or so.”

Thirty-three hours. That’s nothing. Tommy can knock that out in three days, easily.

“Alright,” Tommy says. Caution burns bitter in his throat as he locks eyes with Phil, too-kind, too-trusting Phil with his stupid-ass little coffee shop. Rocks clank against his chin; he’s lucky they didn’t take his mask off him in the middle of the night. He has a bad habit of talking in his sleep. “Deal.”

“Great.” Phil smiles. “Your first shift starts now, then.”

⸻⸻⸻

Tommy enters the shop carefully, but it’s dead silent, and he lets out an exhale. That’s one weight off his chest.

In the corner, a lanky person with curly brown hair is hunched over a book, his lips moving silently, mouthing out words. Tommy approaches him, with caution; the boy doesn’t even look up.

“Hello?”

“Merlin—” The boy clutches his chest and nearly falls out of his chair. “Oh. Hello! Sorry, you scared me.”

“I can tell,” Tommy says slowly. “What’re you doing?”

“Studying.” The boy rolls his eyes, holding up the book so that Tommy can study the pages. The language makes no sense to him, even when he squints. “Old runes. I’m good at translation, but these damn things are always faded. Comes with improper book storage.” 

“Right,” Tommy agrees. “Hate those people. The ones who store their books improperly.”

“I know, right? Everyone knows that most of the old texts need climate-control charms renewed at least twice a year.” The boy hops off the stool, shutting the book gently. With a snap of his fingers, it wobbles across the room and onto the top row of a towering bookshelf. “So you’re gonna work at the shop?”

“How’d you know?”

“Read your mind.” 

Tommy stops, stiffens. “What?” he grits out. Black tourmaline topples into his mask. 

The boy blinks. He turns back to face Tommy, then laughs. “No, no, I was kidding! I don’t know how to read minds. Even Techno doesn’t know—though he does have some empathy magic, so it’s hard to keep shit from him anyway.”

Tommy’s heart thuds rapidly. “Don’t make jokes like that,” he spits. Pauses. Calms his voice. “I get. You know. Anxiety and shit.”

“Oh, sorry.” 

And wait, that’s not what Tommy meant to say—he doesn’t have anxiety. Probably. He’s too big a man to have anxiety, regardless. 

Wilbur gives him a sympathetic smile. “I didn’t realize,” he says. “Which—yeah, that doesn’t really make up for it. Sorry again.” He offers a hand; Tommy is getting fed up with all this shaking hands shit. “I can show you around the shop, if you’d like? Teach you the ropes?”

Tommy shrugs.

It turns out that Wilbur chatters quite a bit—he’s nineteen, Techno’s eighteen, Phil’s pushing thirty-three. Phil founded the shop. Techno likes cinnamon lattes. Wilbur’s favorite book is some undoubtedly pretentious volume of poetry that Tommy’s never heard of.

Wilbur flits back and forth with more energy than Tommy thinks he’s ever had in his life, flicking magic back and forth across the countertops, and explains how to make various drinks and how to handle the cash register. Tommy catches on quickly, like he usually does; his legs are sore and his ankles hurt, but he dutifully follows Wilbur around, and at 9:00 when Wilbur flicks the CLOSED sign to OPEN, he handles the customers easily.

Wilbur, who’s making the drinks, keeps up a steady stream of chatter. Tommy nods along, brain quiet and blurred; he keeps his hands moving, clacking keys and handing off drinks and receipts and keeping an eye on the clock, where the hands tick slowly, slowly toward 11:00.

“We usually have our lunch break from 1:00-2:00,” Wilbur says, “but you can really take it whenever.”

“I don’t need a lunch break,” Tommy says, without thinking too hard about it. “I’m working till nine, right?”

“Nine?” Wilbur tilts his head. “You want to … work for twelve hours?”

“I’m working off a debt, or something,” Tommy says. He shrugs. “Twelve hours a day. I can do fourteen today, actually.”

“That’s not—that’s not healthy, Tommy.” 

Tommy wrinkles his nose at the sound of his name. “Eh,” he says. Shrugs again, and focuses on tapping out the numbers on the cash register. 

As soon as he hands the receipt to the customer, Wilbur says, “Don’t you—wait, no, it’s summer. You don’t have school. But don’t you have something to be doing?” Tommy stays silent. “Oh,” Wilbur says quietly. “Yesterday. You told us you didn’t have parents.”

“Yeah.” Tommy lets out a long breath. “Doesn’t matter, really. I haven’t had them for a while.”

“You might want to talk with Techno about that.” Wilbur sets a mint latte on the counter, sending Tommy a look he can’t quite decipher. “He knows about … things like that.”

Techno. “The one who nearly killed me yesterday?”

Wilbur winces. “Well, yes, but—”

“Yeah, no.” Tommy turns away. “I’m fine. I got over it a long time ago.”

“If you say so.” He can feel Wilbur’s eyes on his back; his skin prickles. Tommy grits his teeth as rocks clack against each other in his mask. Sand spills from the places it doesn’t seal perfectly to his chin, tumbling to the floor; he prays Wilbur doesn’t notice. “Techno … he has powerful magic. Really powerful magic. And his parents didn’t exactly help him with it, so he’s still trying to figure out.” Tommy can hear the dreaded, stupid goddamn sympathy before Wilbur even speaks again. “He’s just a kid. Sort of like you.”

Tommy clutches a handful of coins. His knuckles are white. “Well,” he says stiffly, teeth gritted. “That’s rough for him. I hope he figures it out.”

His ribs hurt.

Wilbur’s voice is quiet. “Alright, then.”

⸻⸻⸻

Tommy ends up working till nine sharp, at which point Phil strides into the shop, flips the sign to CLOSED, and says, “Hey, boys, how’re we doing?”

“Good,” Wilbur chirps. Tommy eyes him; he’s not sure how someone can manage to be so cheerful all the goddamn time. “Those poster ads you suggested last week worked pretty well. I got a couple offers to put wards on people’s houses.”

“That’s great, Will.” Phil props his arms on the counter; Wilbur sets down a frappuccino in front of him, as if this is a long-standing ritual, and Phil grins. “Thanks. Tommy, how about you?”

Tommy stiffens. “Decent,” he says. “I mean—I’m fine.” He’s had longer days, but still, he feels dead on his feet. Unlike Wilbur, he didn’t take a break for three hours this afternoon to pore over old spells. Not that he’s blaming Wilbur—but, okay, he’s a little bitter. Wilbur’s not being threatened into paying off a goddamn broken window.

“Alright.” Phil eyes him. “So you’ve got a good idea of how the shop works? It’s mostly one or two of us handling business, but on busy days we’ve got all three, and some days it’ll just be one.”

“Mm-hm.”

“Taxes are all done, so.” Phil heaves a long-suffering sigh; Wilbur laughs. “I can finally relax. Being self-employed was not worth it.”

“There, there,” Wilbur teases. “You just couldn’t keep working at Starbucks.”

“Well, that’s true too.” Phil links his fingers and stretches his arms high over his head. “I appreciate my craft more than the Starbucks workers appreciated me. Well, Tommy, you’ve made a solid … what, three hundred sixty dollars?”

“Yep,” Tommy says. Pebbles clack against his teeth; he swallows, with effort. “Two more days.”

“Two more days.” Phil hums, a tune that Tommy doesn’t recognize. “You want to come inside? Our guest room’s still open.”

Nope, no, no thanks. “I’m good.”

Phil’s eyes narrow. “You said you didn’t have parents. Do you have … anyone?”

Well, that’s one way to do it. Blunt and straight-up. “Nope,” Tommy says, popping the p. “I can take care of myself.”

“I’m sure you can.” Phil’s eyes crease. “But I’d feel better if you’d stay with us.”

The realization prickles; Tommy sneers. Oh. So they don’t want to run the risk of him running off.

Not that they could catch him. But … they know his name. And his description. And, well, fuck.

“Sure,” Tommy says. He brushes past Phil before Phil can get another word out. “Fine.”

⸻⸻⸻

The stupid goddamn bed is too soft.

Tommy closes the door behind him and locks it, flopping onto the bed before he even takes off his boots. He sits up to take off the mask, leaning carefully over the trash can; pebbles and precious stones rain down. He grimaces.

“Fuck,” he mutters. More sand. “Fuck.”  

He curls up on the bed and secures the mask back onto his face. His skin is rubbed raw.

He shuts his eyes. His stomach growls.

A knock echoes on the door.

Tommy’s eyes flick open.

“Hello?” he calls. Sitting up, he grimaces as another knock echoes out. “Hang on, I’m coming, I’m—”

He opens the door. Pauses.

The person on the other side is holding a tray of food and wearing thin, wire-framed glasses, precariously low on his nose. A pink braid flops carelessly over his shoulder. 

“Hey,” says the person. “I’m Techno.”

“I guessed.” Tommy’s eyes flick down to the tray. “What’s that?”

“Food. Phil thought you might be hungry.” Techno holds it out; hesitantly, Tommy takes it. “I’m … sorry for throwing you into a wall.”

Tommy barely fights the urge to roll his eyes. “Eh,” he says. “I’ve been hurt worse.”

Techno studies him. His eyes are dark. “Well,” he says, “it was a bad reaction. I thought you were actually planning to hurt us, and I reacted … too fast. So I’m sorry.”

Tommy gets the idea that this is hard for him. It feels like sitting on nails; he decides, finally, to take pity on him, and takes a step backward with the tray in his hands. “Okay,” he says. “That’s … it’s okay. Just don’t do it again?”

He recalls, belatedly, that Techno is an empath. A chill buzzes through his chest. Techno’s eyes are far away, like he’s seeing something in Tommy that Tommy can’t even see himself.

“Well,” Tommy says. “Er. Bye.”

He sets the tray on the rickety desk and shuts the door.

“Fuck,” he mutters, scrubbing his hands over his face. “Fuck.”  

He feels the opals as they spill out of his mouth, and latches the door before he spits them into the trash bin. He’ll have to remember to dispose of that. Far, far away from this house. 

There’s a hunk of still-warm bread on the tray, beside a steaming bowl of soup.

Tommy eyes the food for a moment, then gives in to the rumbling in his stomach and eats.

⸻⸻⸻

The next day dawns gray and wet. Tommy pokes his eyes open at roughly six in the morning, after a long night of tossing and turning, and muffles his groan in the pillow.

“Ugh,” he mumbles. A chunk of obsidian falls off the pillow and onto the mattress with a soft flump. Anxiety spikes in Tommy’s chest. He shoves it into his pocket and pushes himself up, yawning wide and scrubbing his wild hair out of his eyes.

“Good morning,” he mumbles to himself. Sand hits the carpet. He ties his mask round his mouth and nose, takes a deep, bracing breath, and nudges his backpack into the corner of the room with his foot, just for security. Then, with a grimace, he opens the door and steps outside.

The house is quiet. The front door is right there. Tommy could flee. Easy. Out the door, down the street, where they’d never find him.

He takes a step toward the door.

“I wouldn’t do that, if I were you.”

Tommy jolts, whirling around. Techno is watching him from over the rim of a mug, taking a long sip of coffee. His eyes are dark in the low light.

“I’ve put a lot of wards on that door,” he says. “Including a tracking spell. Figured it would be helpful.” He shrugs his shoulders. “You can still run, if you want. Good luck.”

Tommy bristles. “Fuck you,” he spits. Obsidian clinks against his molars; he grits his teeth, breathing hard, hot-hot-hot with rage. Squeezes his eyes shut. His fists are clenched so hard that it hurts.

“Relax,” Techno says, and Tommy snaps his eyes open to glare at him. He slumps back against the wall and buries his face in his hands, huffing a heated breath. “Your emotions are strong.”

Tommy makes a face and, after a moment, a split-second decision; he stomps into the kitchen, snatches a mug off a drying rack on the counter, and spins around in search of a coffee machine. “You’re kind of a jackass,” he says. “Where the hell is the coffee?”

Techno doesn’t laugh, not quite, but his eyes crinkle behind the smudged lenses of his glasses. He inclines his head toward the counter. Tommy nearly slams the coffee mug down and presses a button; the smell of coffee fills the air.

“Sugar’s next to the machine,” Techno says. “Milk’s in the fridge.”

Tommy scowls at him. “I don’t need your help.”

“You don’t look like you enjoy your coffee black.”

“I don’t— Okay, listen. I’m gonna need you to stop talking. Like, yesterday.”

Techno just raises an eyebrow (a pink eyebrow? is his hair naturally just … like that?). He doesn’t say anything more. Tommy is grateful for that.

He’s grateful for his mug of coffee, too, as he reluctantly sits opposite Techno at the table … until he reaches up, finds his mask, and freezes.

Techno’s eyes flick up toward him. “Ah,” he says. “I can leave?”

Tommy wrinkles his nose. “That’s not— I’m not—” He fishes around in his head for something to say and ends up with, “I’ll just … drink it in my room. See you in two hours or something. Bye.”

Techno’s gaze follows him down the long hallway. A prickle runs across Tommy’s shoulder blades; he hates feeling watched. Even if the gaze is … oddly benevolent.

Fucking annoying, Tommy muses, shutting and locking the door of his room. 

He sits down at his rickety desk in the corner—wait, his? No, no, nope—loosens his mask, and takes a long sip of sweet coffee.

⸻⸻⸻

Phil and Techno are the ones working with him today, from nine to eleven. (Tommy sort-of-bargained, sort-of-pleaded for it, and eventually agreed that he’d eat lunch as long as Phil let him work until he physically passed out.) He scrubs a hand over his face, fiddling with the strings of his apron. Phil, altogether too chipper for this hour, flits around the shop, humming to himself.

These big black things follow him around. Initially, Tommy figures they’re just shadows. Then he figures he’s sleep-deprived. And then …

“What the fuck,” Tommy says, startling an early-morning customer, who eyes him with badly-concealed distaste. “Phil, you have wings?”

The customer follows Tommy’s gaze toward Phil’s wings. Phil himself just laughs.

“Oh, yeah,” he says. “Forget I have ‘em, sometimes. They’re usually semi-corporeal. Apparently they’ve decided to be a bit more present today.”

Tommy fights the urge to gape. He turns away from the inky black feathers. “That’ll be five ninety,” he says, and the customer tears their eyes away from Phil’s wings too before taking their matcha latte and bustling out of the shop.

Techno snorts. “You should probably work on the cursing in customer service thing. That won’t fly at Target.”

“Well, I’m not working at Target, am I?” Dredges of annoyance spin up in Tommy’s chest, like … like seals having a fun fucking time, or something. He’s never been good at metaphors, okay? Especially when he’s pissed. 

Suddenly, he’s overwhelmed, as Phil shoots a concerned look between the two of them. He turns around. His breath is shallow in his chest. Obsidian and limestone pile into his mask, grinding against each other, and he just wants to run.

Run, run, run. That’s all he’s good for.

“Quit reading my fucking emotions,” he spits at Techno. “Okay? I get it, I get that you think you’re fucking—better than me or whatever, I don’t care, I don’t give a shit about you or Phil or Wilbur and your stupid little family coffee shop. Got it? I’m only here because I don’t want to go to fucking jail and you’re blackmailing me and—”

He sucks in a deep breath. A scrape jolts him out of his furor; his ears are hot, and his heart pounds as he turns around. A customer, their caramel frappe still on the table, has just stood up, eyeing Tommy like he’s a bomb about to explode.

“I’m so sorry,” Phil says, and hops over the counter like it’s nothing, “let me just—refund you—” He snatches a twenty-dollar bill from the register and presses it into her hands. “Teenage rebellion, you know how it goes—”

Her eyes catch Tommy’s. She says, out loud—no fear—“Are you okay?”

Tommy pauses.

He hurts all over. His legs, from the run; his head, from shouting. He scrubs a hand through his hair.

“I’m fine,” he says quietly. “Just … life shit, I guess.”

She has pink hair. Like Techno’s, but it doesn’t make Tommy want to run away or scream or cry, so he likes it better. The customer gives him a smile, the first genuine one Tommy’s seen since … fuck, Ranboo or Tubbo?

“Well,” she says. “Good luck with the life bullshit.” She shoots two looks, in turn, at Techno and Phil. “I’ll be back tomorrow.”

It’s a warning, one that makes laughter—stupid, stupid laughter—burble up, somehow, in Tommy’s chest. He bites down a smile. The customer plucks up her frappe and leaves, the door shutting behind her with a jingle of bells.

Tommy takes a deep breath. Suddenly, he’s aware that there’s nobody else here; no customers, just him and Phil and Techno and Wilbur in the house, which is an extension of the shop but still soundproofed, and, and, and—

The woman said that she would be back, back to check on him, but that’s nothing. That wouldn’t stop someone. She probably doesn’t even care.

Techno and Phil are staring at him, something dark in their eyes. Tommy backs away. Takes a deep breath. 

“I,” he starts. Coughs. His mask is full of rocks, and he prays that they can’t tell. “I, I, I—I’m sorry. I know—you’re pissed at me, I know, I can’t”—he laughs raggedly—“can’t really argue with that, right? But I’ll—I’ll—”

He doesn’t know what to say.

Techno takes a step toward him, and Tommy slams himself into a corner, throwing his arms protectively over his head.

He waits, but no air whips over his head. No wall crumbling down to bury him. No stars in his vision, no head slamming back against a table.

“Oh,” Techno croaks. “Oh. He’s afraid of me.”

Tommy’s heart is too rapid to catch the rest of that conversation, but he manages snippets—Phil’s voice and Techno’s fast breathing, it’s not your fault and I always do this, I always do this and it’s okay, Techno. It’s okay. You’re okay. He got scared, but you’re okay.

Tommy pries himself off the wall, bursts through the door, and runs.

⸻⸻⸻

He gets three blocks before he decides that having a panic attack, which will almost undoubtedly happen if he keeps running, probably isn’t a good idea.

He ducks into one of the alleyways—a nice, overgrown one, with ivy and bougainvillea spilling down the bricks. It smells like greenery and warm soil instead of like trash. He collapses to the ground and pulls his knees to his chest.

He’s okay. He’s okay.

Fuck, Phil’s going to kill him.

He yanks his mask off, spitting grains of sand; gemstones tumble to the bricks below. Tommy sweeps them into crevices, where they wink at him, evil little secrets. 

He sits there for who-knows-how-long, just relearning how to breathe.

And then—

Footsteps. Pounding footsteps. Techno skids to a stop in front of the alley, peering down at Tommy; Tommy stiffens. 

“Tommy,” he says.

Tracking charm. Fuck.

“I found you.” It sounds a bit like Techno’s talking to himself. He takes a step down the alley, and Tommy gets a look at him—his glasses are fogged up, strands flying free of his braid, his button-down askew. Tommy gets the idea that he’s not a trackstar. 

Techno’s still breathing hard. Tommy stares up at him. Okay. He’s fine. He probably won’t bleed out in this alleyway; he shifts to tuck his head in, so it won’t hurt so bad if he hits it on the bricks.

Techno’s pupils are wide and dark. “You’re afraid of me,” he says quietly. He crouches beside Tommy, a healthy distance away; Tommy watches his hands, watches as Techno raises them slowly into the air. A silent I surrender. “Again.”

“I …” Tommy’s voice is a croak. “I can’t—”

Clink.

Tommy freezes. His mask dangles from his chin. He clamps his lips and his teeth shut around the amethyst in his mouth, yanking his mask back up over his face and tying the straps with shaking hands. Techno’s eyes are wide.

Please. Please. Please. Please tell me you didn’t see that.

“It’s okay, Tommy,” Techno says quietly. “You’re … you’re afraid of a lot of things, but … I would never hurt you. I promise. Not with magic, not with anything else. Never.”

It almost rings with truth. Tommy squeezes his eyes shut, leaning back into the wall. “I …” He takes a long breath. “I’m not good at figuring out when people are lying.”

Techno’s mouth is twisted into a frown when Tommy opens his eyes. “I’m not either,” he says quietly. “Not at all.” He pushes himself to his feet; Tommy’s chest is cold and feels like it’s been pried open, all his secrets spilling out. Techno offers him a hand. “Let’s go home, okay?”

“Your home,” Tommy croaks, “isn’t my home.”

Techno hums. “You don’t have one, do you?” After a moment, Tommy shakes his head. He takes Techno’s hand; Techno pulls him to his feet. “That’s okay. Phil’s … Phil’s a good guy. He’s not …”

He seems to think hard about the next statement, but he looks straight into Tommy’s eyes when he says it.

“He’s not afraid of us,” he says. “He sees the person we are. Not what we can do.” And then he turns on his heel and ducks out of the alleyway, into the sunlight. “C’mon. Phil’s paying us overtime.”

⸻⸻⸻

“Er,” Tommy says quietly. “Sorry. For … everything.”

Phil’s eyes linger on him for a moment. “You’re alright, mate,” he says. A smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. “Don’t worry about it. Really. I had to deal with Wilbur and Techno when they were teenagers—this is nothing.”

Tommy laughs, surprising himself. Phil’s eyes crinkle with a grin.

“Oh,” he says. “Also. I …” He clears his throat, busying himself with an espresso; Tommy watches him curiously. It’s technically lunch hour, and customers are few and far between. Tommy, at Phil’s insistence, has already devoured two of their focaccia sandwich-things (basically heaven in bread form) and is working on a third. “I understand that I might have … not communicated clearly. I thought, when you broke the window, that you were just some angry teenager on the streets. I promise you, I’ve never been one to think that kids just … I don’t know, that kids need to work so that they’ll gain some maturity. That wasn’t what I was thinking. You just … you seemed so angry, and you didn’t have a home to go back to, and I figured it would be better to keep an eye on you. But that didn’t exactly work out.” He smiles weakly, crookedly. “I think I went about it in the wrong way.”

Tommy snorts around a mouthful of focaccia. Phil doesn’t even send him a curious look when he tugs his mask over his mouth before speaking; it makes warmth spark in his chest. “Yeah, sort of,” he says. “I … I get mad. Easily.”

“Gee, I didn’t notice,” Techno calls from behind them, and Tommy catches himself as he stiffens. Slowly, he loosens his muscles. He actually laughs. It feels weird.

“And sad. And scared.” Tommy flicks a piece of rosemary off the focaccia. “And a lot of other shit.”

“Yeah.” Phil hums. He takes a long sip of espresso and grimaces. “Bitter.” And then he’s turning to Tommy, arms open. “Would you like a hug?”

Tommy freezes.

“I’m not forcing you,” Phil says quickly. “Just an option. You seem like you could use one.”

Tommy eyes his arms. “I …” He swallows. “Okay,” and it’s just one word, a spray of tourmaline piling into his mask as he tucks himself cautiously into Phil’s arms. Phil’s grip is warm, his arms thin and wiry with muscle, and when he folds his wings around Tommy, Tommy fights back tears.

He will not cry. He will not cry.

“You’re a good person, Tommy,” Phil says. “You’re doing great. You’re okay, mate.”

Tommy loses the battle. With a shaky breath, a single tear traces down his cheek. Phil’s grip doesn’t loosen.

Warm. Warm. Warm.

Tommy doesn’t deserve it.

“Yes, you do.” And it’s Techno’s voice. Techno’s hand on his shoulder, rubbing circles into his shoulder blade, all the tension leaching out of Tommy’s shoulders. “You deserve a home, Tommy. You deserve to be happy.”

Tommy squeezes his eyes shut, nodding silently. He doesn’t trust himself to speak right now.

After a long, long moment, the door opens, and the bell jingles.

“Oh,” says Wilbur, his voice echoing through the empty coffee shop. “Er. Am I intruding?”

⸻⸻⸻

Tommy wakes to a gentle knocking on his door, buried in soft pillows and curled up beneath a warm, heavy comforter. He’s scrunched up into a ball, one leg hanging off the side of the bed; his eyes drift open, and he yawns widely, stretching. “Hello?” he calls. He pushes himself up, wobbly with sleep and warm all over. Nothing hurts. “I’m up, I’m up—”

“Oh, sorry,” says the voice outside the door—Wilbur’s. “Didn’t mean to wake you up. Phil made pancakes.”

Oh. Tommy likes pancakes.

“Coming,” he says, kicking the blanket off his legs. He pushes himself to his feet and, inexplicably, grins; the scent of warm batter and chocolate melts through the air. He tugs his mask on, tying it loosely around his ears. “I’m coming.”

He opens the door. Wilbur’s eyes are crinkling. Before Tommy can even react, he beams and pokes Tommy on the nose.

Tommy blinks up at him. Wilbur laughs. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you smile,” he says. “You should try it more.”

Tommy rolls his eyes, but he’s still grinning. “Eh,” he says. “I’ll consider it.”

Wilbur laughs, a full laugh, head thrown back. Tommy feels like he’s all loose lines, more relaxed than he’s been in ages, as he follows him down the hall to the table. Phil’s smile lines are more pronounced this morning. Techno’s in pink pajama pants and a hoodie, his hair loose, nearly waist-length. 

“Hey, Toms,” Phil says. “You ready to eat?”

Tommy’s mouth waters. His stomach growls; Tommy flushes, but Phil just smiles. “I’ll take that as a yes.” 

Tommy takes a seat at the table. It’s weird, he thinks, somewhere in the back of his head. It’s so obvious, to anyone looking, that he’s an outsider; masked and perched on a mismatched chair that they dragged from the back and scruffy and still half-asleep, and yet. Yet. 

He doesn’t think he’s ever belonged anywhere … and yet.

“Oh,” Phil says, as Tommy immediately grabs a fork. “Do you want us to turn around?”

Tommy blinks, reaching up to touch his mask. Oh, right.

Techno glances up from his phone. “Ah. We can shut our eyes,” he suggests. He reaches for the coffee maker and slides across the floor in fuzzy polka-dot socks, setting the mug down in front of Tommy. “Sugar and milk’s right in front of you.”

Tommy feels wobbly with the amount of care Techno’s showing. Fuck, and just yesterday he thought he’d snap his neck. He kind of feels bad about that now.

“Thanks,” he says. It’s quieter than he’d planned it to be. “I … I’m okay. Taking my mask off, I mean. I’m just … not going to talk?”

It makes anxiety spike in his chest, panic swirling inside (what if they figure it out what if they guess he’s given them so many hints—). He takes a long, deep breath, trying to calm his racing heart. He’s fine. It’s fine. They’re …

“Oh, okay,” Phil says. “You sure you’re alright?”

… fine.

“I’m good,” Tommy says. A weight falls into his mask, a heavy chunk of ruby; hesitantly, slowly, he reaches up and unties the straps from around his ears.

It feels weird. A little exposed. But … he’s fine. He’s okay.

For once, he doesn’t feel half a second from dying. It’s just … normal.

He takes an enormous bite of chocolate-chip pancake, drenched in syrup, and hopes that his expression says what he’s thinking: Thank you.

They don’t say anything. It’s warm. Tommy beams, listening quietly to the conversation—to Techno and Wilbur’s bickering about whose turn it was to do the laundry, Phil’s chuckles, the whistle of a teapot on the stove.

⸻⸻⸻

He mans the shop, chin propped up on his linked hands as he leans on the counter and listens to Wilbur’s singing. He’s virtually drowning in one of Techno’s hoodies (he seems to have no shortage of them) because Phil’s insisted on washing Tommy’s clothes for him. The smile won’t seem to leave his face.

“Watch this,” Techno mutters to Tommy, as Wilbur bursts into song. “I’m great at harmonizing. Can’t we be seventeennnnnn—”

It’s horrendously off-pitch. Techno is certainly not a mezzo soprano. Tommy cackles, and tourmaline tumbles into his mask.

It’s about nine o’clock when the bell jingles, and Tommy glances up. “Hi,” he says immediately, “welcome to— Oh.” He blinks at the woman. “It’s you.” 

She smiles wryly, eyes crinkling. “It’s me.” She sets her bag on a table and moves forward. “Could I get a caramel frappe, please? With the rainbow sprinkles, if you don’t mind. Oh, and a muffin?”

“Which flavor?” Wilbur calls.

“Blueberry.” She glances over at Techno, one eyebrow raised, then turns to Tommy. “You seem to be doing alright.”

Tommy seems to be unable to talk. He’s a bit dumbfounded, really. He didn’t think she’d care enough to actually, well … come back.

“I didn’t think you’d come back,” he says honestly. She laughs. “I’m fine. Just … teenage angst bullshit.”

It’s not a lie, and so fool’s gold doesn’t spill into his mask. Instead: pink tourmaline.

It’s a joke. A funny one, too. Look at Tommy go. He grins, and the woman grins back at him.

“Well,” she says. “I can certainly sympathize with teenage angst bullshit. My power first came on when I hit puberty.” Tommy winces in sympathy. “Yeah, my parents are saints. I would have kicked myself out onto the street.”

Tommy winces, but not out of sympathy this time.

The woman seems to notice, and pauses. “Oh,” she says quietly. “I’m sorry. That wasn’t a funny joke.” She doesn’t ask, and Tommy appreciates it; just holds out her hand over the counter and says, “I’m Niki. What’s your name?”

Tommy shakes it. “Tommy.”

“Nice to meet you, Tommy. Hope you’re doing well. Here, I have—” She fumbles in her bag before handing over a crumpled slip of paper. “My number. If you ever need anything.”

“You,” Tommy says, slightly in awe, “are a very good person.”

She laughs. “I try.” 

“One muffin and frappe, right here!”

“And there’s my order. Well, I’ll be here for a while. Schoolwork calls.” She cracks her knuckles and hands over a ten-dollar bill; Tommy tucks it into the register and sets her change in her palm. “You’re doing great, kid.”

Tommy thinks about that. Huh. He’s doing great.

That’s nice to hear.

The rest of the day passes by in a blur of baking bread and cinnamon lattes, Phil and Wilbur and Techno flitting in and out of the shop; Wilbur brings his guitar and sings, and Techno perches on the counter with a fraying copy of The Art of War, and Phil is just … Phil. Wings glimmering, laugh lines etched deep into the corners of his eyes, always humming a stray tune.

It’s nice. Like a little family. Tommy hasn’t had one of those in a long time.

Except for Tubbo and Ranboo, and he still needs to apologize to them, but … he’s got it. He can do it.

He’s not so scared anymore.

He’s not sure why he feels so happy, but he’s content with it.

⸻⸻⸻

And then he’s leaving.

He realizes it, suddenly, as they close up the shop at nine, and head back into the house; as he slips into his bedroom, shutting the door behind him, and realizes with a start that it’s his bedroom now. Oh. He’s … he’s messed up.

Rule number one: Don’t get attached.

Well, he’s fucked that up royally. 

He steps out of the room, sucking in a deep breath. Phil is in the kitchen down the hall, humming over a bundle of paperwork. Tommy tugs his mask tighter over his nose and mouth.

“Well,” he says. Quiet, then louder. “I … I guess I’m heading out. I paid it off, right? Thirty-three hours?”

Phil glances up. “Oh,” he says. His eyes flick toward Tommy’s shoulders, where his pack is slung across his back. “Oh, I … well, this is a good time to tell you, actually.” He stands, and Tommy’s stomach plummets, but he stays still. It’s Phil; it’s fine. “Would you possibly … want a job? At a coffee shop, maybe?” Tommy blinks, and then his eyes go wide. Phil cracks a grin. “I’ve heard of this great one, right near here. Amazing lattes. And the owner’s quite nice.”

“That’s not true,” Tommy finds himself saying. Phil blinks, and then Tommy’s blinking too, realizing he’s said it aloud. “I mean—I—” He tucks his shaking hands into his pockets; takes a deep, shuddering breath. “You’re really nice.”

“Oh,” Phil says, and then he relaxes. He smiles. “Okay.”

“It’s weird,” Tommy adds, because he can’t just let a nice thing lie. “Or—well—it’s weird because most people aren’t. Nice, I mean.” He narrows his eyes, half-jokingly: “Are you trying to kidnap me? It could be a scheme to kidnap me.”

“Ah, yes,” Phil deadpans. “I haven’t tried to kidnap you yet, but I will, sometime in the future. I’m very smart. Very cunning.”

“Very,” Tommy laughs. He pauses, straightening up.

Would you like a job?

Yes. Yes, Tommy would.

“Do you mean it?” Tommy says.

Phil’s eyes crinkle when he smiles. “Of course,” he says. “And, if you want—well. You can have the guest bedroom for tonight. And as many nights as you need, because I know you don’t really have—”

“Yeah, yeah, okay,” Tommy says hastily, before Phil can get into the whole because you’re homeless bit. Phil surely wants to talk about it, because he’s Phil, but Tommy doesn’t, and so he steadfastly avoids it. “I … thanks, Phil. Thanks so much.”

“Of course.” Phil sets a hand on his shoulder. “Oh, one more thing. Hours are nine to five.”

Tommy blinks. “They’re … what?”

“Nine to five. Although we open at ten on Sundays.”

“But—you let me work till eleven yesterday.”

Phil laughs. “You seemed eager to leave. Who was I to stop you?” He squeezes Tommy’s shoulder. “Get some rest, Tommy. You deserve it.”

And then he’s gone, drifting out of the kitchen, and Tommy’s left blinking and wondering how one person can be so kind.

⸻⸻⸻

He goes to bed. Tucks himself beneath the covers, in a pair of Wilbur’s pajama pants that he outgrew, and thinks.

A voice, rather like Tubbo’s, giggles in the back of his head. You don’t do that often.

Oi, shut up. Tommy flops back against the pillow, his arms spread-eagling. 

It’s weird that they’re being so kind, right? It’s weird. Surely they can’t like Tommy that much, can’t care so much about a kid who spat insults and cursed at them for the first two days of his reluctant stay. So he’s imposing. And he should leave.

The thought makes his chest feel hollow.

But they like him enough to give him a job. And that’s … warmth. Money. Food. Care.

He smiles weakly, staring up at the popcorn ceiling. He’s okay. He’ll be okay. 

He drifts off to sleep.

⸻⸻⸻

In his dreams, there’s a woman and a man, black silhouettes against a graying sky, and Tommy is gagging on rocks, spitting and choking. “I love you,” he croaks, “I’m sorry, I love you, I love you, I love you, I LOVE YOU—”

The stones tumble to the ground. The silhouettes smile, perfectly in sync.

Good, Tommy, says his mother. You love us, don’t you?

Don’t you?

Don’t you?

Tommy screams.

⸻⸻⸻

And screams. And screams.

He bursts upright, thrashing, gasping for air. He can’t get enough air in, can’t breathe, can’t breathe, can’t breathe, and he needs the stupid fucking gemstones out, out, out—

“I’m sorry,” he sobs, and it feels as if it’s tearing the air out of his chest. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m a failure, I’m sorry—”

He gags on rocks.

Distantly, he’s aware of a pounding on his door, of clamoring voices. He clamps his hands over his ears, rocking back and forth, clutching his hair so hard that it feels like he’s tearing it from his scalp. “I’m sorry,” he gags, wanting to vomit, wanting to puke. He feels broken, utterly fucked up, discarded. “I love you, I’m sorry, I love you —”

“Fuck it,” someone says, “I’m breaking the lock,” and then there’s a crash and a bang as the door slams inward. Tommy shakes, doubling over and gagging on his words.

They’re here, through the blurred veil of Tommy’s panic. They’re here. They’re here, staring, and he’s so fucked up, and they’ll all know it, they’ll use him just like everyone else has used him—

He sees their silhouettes, looming on the horizon of his mind’s eye. They’re grinning. Say it, Tommy. Say it. Say it with your chest.

“I love you,” Tommy croaks, “I love you, I love—” Gold tumbles from his lips, into his lap. Someone takes a harsh breath. “No, no, no—I love you. I love you. I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I love you, I love you, I—I—I—”

He gags, gold spilling into his lap. 

“I love them,” he says, his vision blurred with tears, turning to stare up at them. Begging. “I—I love them. I love them. I do, I love them, I’m not—I’m not—I’m not a freak, I’m not a failure, I love them—”

Gold. Gold. Gold.

Someone is touching him, hands on his shoulders, hands cradling his face. Tommy rears back, swiping the tears violently out of his eyes, shaking all over. “No,” he croaks. “I’m—I’m—” His voice breaks. “Please don’t hurt me.”

Someone takes a shaky breath. Maybe multiple people. Tommy thinks it’s Wilbur who spits, Whoever fucking did that—I’ll, I’ll, I’ll kill them. He thinks it’s Techno who responds, quietly, I’ll help you.

Someone takes his hand. It’s still shaking violently. Phil’s voice reaches Tommy’s ears, somehow, through the haze of pain and the tightness of being unable to breathe. “Tommy,” he whispers. “Tommy. Tommy. Tommy, you don’t have to speak.”

Tommy opens his mouth. Closes it. He squeezes his eyes shut, and tears trace down his cheeks.

“Oh, Tommy,” and Phil’s voice is raspy and wobbly, like he’s crying. Why would he be crying? “You’re alright, Tommy. Just breathe. Breathe, love.”

Tommy tries. He ends up crying out, his chest too tight, too constricted. Phil rubs his back gently. “You’re alright. Keep trying. You’re doing wonderful.”

“I’m sorry,” Tommy chokes out. Sapphire flashes in the low light as it falls into his lap, amidst the pile of fool’s gold. He feels like he’s being stabbed, a knife twisting in his gut. They’ve seen. They’ve seen it all. “I—”

“Shh. Shhh. Nothing to be sorry for.” Phil’s hand brushes across his cheek, wiping away his tears. Tommy stares at him through blurry eyes. “You have nothing to be sorry for.”

“But I’m … I lied.”

“You kept yourself safe.” Phil turns to face him fully; reluctantly, Tommy meets his eyes. “There is nothing to apologize for.” He brushes a strand of hair out of Tommy’s eyes. “Do you want a hug?”

Tommy’s voice breaks. He curls into himself as a fresh wave of tears spills down his cheeks, sobbing aloud, voice breaking. Phil meets him halfway, sweeping him into his arms and holding him tight.

Tommy buries his face in Phil’s shoulder and cries as the hollow in his chest spills outward, all his secrets emptied out.

⸻⸻⸻

“Er,” he says, as the weak morning light pries through the curtains. He rubs at his eyes, which are crusted with lack of sleep and tears. “I … I’m sorry, I …”

He reaches for his mask. Techno stops him halfway with a hand on his wrist. Tommy glances up at him, blinking.

“Do you want it?” Techno’s voice is even, not prying. “Or are you putting it on because you feel like it’ll make us more comfortable?”

Tommy stills. He thinks about it.

“I …” Sand spills from his mouth. He flinches despite himself. “I don’t know. I’ve been hiding it for … a long time.”

“Since you’ve been on the streets,” Techno says, reading the set of Tommy’s mouth. Tommy recalls, suddenly, that Techno can read his emotions, and winces.

“I’m sorry,” he says quietly. “For—I mean—I know you can read my emotions, and I kind of—my emotions were going all over yesterday and I didn’t mean— You shouldn’t have to deal with me and my problems, is what I’m saying. It’s not … it’s not something you have to deal with.”

Techno’s eyes are heavy.

“Did you know, Tommy,” he says, “that my parents kicked me out when I was fourteen?”

Tommy stiffens. “Oh,” he says quietly. “I … I didn’t know.”

“Relax. I never told you.” Slowly, Tommy slumps back into the wall. Phil and Wilbur are curled up at the foot of the bed, Wilbur sprawled under one of Phil’s wings, snoring up a storm; it’s just Techno and Tommy in the tealight-colored sun, dust particles floating through the air, tiny fireflies. “I … I was your age. Having a hard time, obviously. My parents decided it wasn’t worth it to keep me, so …” He shrugs. “They kicked me out.” He traces the bedsheet. “Phil tracked them down, you know. I don’t know what he told them, but whatever it was, they’ve stopped contacting me. They used to want me to run an assassination service.” Tommy’s eyebrows climb into his hairline, and Techno laughs. “Yeah, they’re big fans of the illegal side of life. Living on the edge. You know how it is.” He leans into the pillow, scrubbing his hair out of his face with a sigh. Without his glasses on, he looks younger. “You’re not alone, is what I’m saying. You’re not alone.”

Tommy twists his mouth into a thin line, tracing the embroidery on the comforter, deep in thought. “My parents,” he says quietly, “realized pretty quickly that … when I was cursed, I guess, or whatever happened, it made me make the stones. And … and that phrase—I mean, I love—”

He gags. Pauses. Takes a deep breath.

“I can’t say it,” he says, a bit helplessly, a bit apologetically.

Techno nods. “That’s alright. I know what you mean.”

“Okay.” Tommy takes a breath. “When I say it—I make a diamond. But only when I mean it. So, you know. When I was ten. And I stopped meaning it.” He shrugs. “You can guess.”

“I see.” Techno smiles wryly, setting a hand on Tommy’s shoulder. “We’re both pretty messed up, aren’t we?”

“Yeah,” Tommy says, with a ragged laugh. “I … I guess so.”

“That’s alright. It’ll get better.” Techno swings his legs over the edge of the bed and pushes himself up, groaning as he stretches. He turns back to Tommy. His eyes are soft. “I promise. It gets better.”

“Okay,” Tommy says. He almost believes him. “Okay.”

“I can help you. With the curse, at least. Maybe some kind of transportation spell into a pocket of liminal space. Like a magic bag. Something that will catch the sand and rocks.” He frowns thoughtfully at the pile of gemstones on the bed. Tommy’s never seen anyone look at his gems with an expression other than greed and fascination; Techno’s is merely detached curiosity. “The gemstones will probably still fall, but I can figure out a solution for that too, with some time.”

“That—” Tommy takes a long breath. “That would be great, Techno.”

He pretends Techno can’t see the tears in his eyes. Techno smiles. “Of course.”

⸻⸻⸻

And Techno’s spell works, and Tommy doesn’t spit sand and pebbles anymore, only shimmering ruby and tourmaline and agate. 

Phil is teaching him to control his emotions. Wilbur, wanting to be involved, is the world’s best (worst) cheerleader.

Tommy works in the cafe. He’s learning to speak with his mask off, learning to keep himself calm when he thinks he might panic. He sleeps in the guest bedroom at night, which isn’t so much a guest bedroom anymore—just his.

“I love you,” he whispers, just for practice, and gold falls from his lips—but that’s okay.

⸻⸻⸻

Tommy takes a deep breath, lifts a hand, and rings the bell.

He pushes his way through the door, which makes a jingling noise. The source of the noise is a wind chime, carved of quartz and agate and jagged gemstones. He smiles weakly up at it, and then turns to the counter.

Behind the register, Ranboo stares.

“Oh my god, Tommy,” he says, then just—disappears—and Tommy blinks before Ranboo is reappearing right in front of him, eyes wide. He takes Tommy by the shoulders. “Tommy! You’re—you’re okay, oh my gods, you’re—” He cups Tommy’s face, inspecting him. “You’re okay.” 

It’s such visceral relief that Tommy’s lower lip wobbles. He slumps into Ranboo’s hug, squeezing his eyes shut and beaming.

“I’m so fucking sorry,” Tommy says, “I—I was out of line, and I was in a shit mood and I said some horrible things and I didn’t mean to hurt you, I promise—”

“I know, Tommy, I know,” Ranboo says. “You’re—you’re okay. You’re okay.” 

Tommy laughs raggedly. “I missed you, Boob Boy,” he says. A ruby falls to the floor with a clunk.

Tommy stiffens. Loosens. Takes a long breath.

Ranboo pulls away from the hug to glance around. “What was that?” he says. His eyes drift to the ruby on the floor, and his brows knit; he crouches to pick it up. “Oh, this is … beautiful.” He holds it up to the light, turning it back and forth. “Tommy? Do you know where it might’ve come fro—”

He catches sight of the wind chime, hanging from the ceiling, and his mouth falls open. “Oh,” he says quietly. “Your wind chime.” He turns to Tommy, who rubs at the back of his neck, cheeks heating, and grins weakly. “Tommy? Is this yours?”

“Sort of,” Tommy says. He’s nervous; rose quartz tumbles from his lips, and he hastens to catch it in his palms before he hits the floor. “Er. Surprise?”

Ranboo’s eyes are wide. “Oh,” he says. He stares down at the gemstone, then back up to Tommy. “I’ve never seen you without your mask on,” he says. “You look … happier.” He beams and sweeps Tommy up in another hug. “I’m glad you’re okay.”

“I’m glad I’m okay too,” Tommy says. He’s smiling so hard it hurts. “Believe me, big man.”

“Ranboo?” Tubbo hollers. “What’s—”

There’s a pause, the silence so loud that it nearly vibrates, and then Tubbo is literally vaulting the counter and hurling himself at Tommy.

Tommy hits the floor with a grunt and a laugh. “I’m gonna fucking kill you,” Tubbo says, sobbing. “Literally gonna kill you. You’re dead. I—Ranboo thought you were dead on the street somewhere—”

“I did not think that,” Ranboo calls. “Tubbo did.”

“Untrue,” Tubbo sniffles. Tommy wraps his arms around Tubbo’s shoulders and grins, yanking him into a hug. 

“I missed you,” he says quietly. “Dumbass.”

Tubbo laughs wetly. “I missed you too,” he says quietly. “Bitch.”

⸻⸻⸻

And three days working at the cafe turns into a week, turns into a month, turns into two months, and Tommy’s the happiest he’s ever been.

“Wilbur!” he shouts, yanking him by the sleeve. He nearly stumbles, but hauls himself back up with his grip on Wilbur’s wrist; Wilbur laughs. “Come on, the market’s not gonna be here forever!”

“Relax, Tommy,” Wilbur says, “I don’t think it’ll walk away in the time it takes us to stroll calmly.”

“You never know,” Tommy says, fighting back a grin. He yanks Wilbur one last time. “Oi! Techno! Help me, here, Wilbur’s being dumb—”

“Oh, like usual?” Techno says. He slings a reusable bag over his shoulder—empty now, though it won’t be for long—and takes Wilbur’s other wrist, yanking ever-so-gently. With a dramatic sigh, Wilbur steps forward.

Tommy cackles. “Finally,” he says. “Let’s gooo, bitch, I want the chocolate canny things—”

“Cannoli?”

“Yeah. That.” Tommy’s stomach growls. “I love Italians. Best food.”

Wilbur giggles. “Except for Phil’s cinnamon bread.”

“Well, obviously.”

And Tommy’s grinning. Spinning around to take in the market, in all its glory. He’s holding onto his best-friend-slash-kind-of-sort-of-brother’s wrist, and his other kind-of-sort-of-brother is on his other side, and his kind-of-sort-of-not-really-dad is just behind, and …

He turns. His eyes drift across the crowd.

He catches sight of them.

His parents.

Tommy freezes. His chest goes cold. 

They’re just … standing there, beneath the shade of a colorful tent, browsing the wares of the farmer’s market with the same cold disinterest they used to level at Tommy. They look different. Older. Grayer. Still just as unhappy as he remembers.

He can’t breathe. 

His father turns, then. Makes eye contact with him. They’re not that far apart; maybe thirty feet. His father’s eyes sweep him up and down, head tilted, just slightly. He nudges Tommy’s mother, who turns to look at him too. 

Tommy’s too far away to tell if there’s recognition in their eyes.

Then, without another look, they turn and walk away, drifting into the crowd.

Tommy is frozen in place, frozen in time. Suddenly, he’s ten years old, spitting out cracked diamonds. His vision blurs.

They’re gone. Just like that.

“Tommy?” Wilbur is saying. “Are you—are you alright? Hey, hey, Tommy, what—” Tommy yanks his arm out of Wilbur’s grip. “Tommy?”

He runs.

Runs, and runs, and runs. Runs until he reaches the forest’s edge, and plunges in, gasping for air. Breathes, and runs, and breathes.

He stumbles to a stop before his lungs even begin to burn. The coiled energy in his muscles yearns to pick himself up, to move, but—

But—

“Tommy!” Phil hollers. There’s a crash and rustle of leaves; Tommy slumps against a tree and drops his head into his hands, sliding until he hits the ground. He pulls his knees to his chest. “Tommy, are you alright? What—” 

He catches sight of Tommy. Wilbur and Techno are behind him. Tommy feels like he’s about to explode.

“I saw my parents,” Tommy croaks.

“Oh,” Phil says. His eyes are wide. “Oh.”

“I—” Tommy takes a shuddering breath. He ducks his head, clutching his hair in his fists. “I’m not—I’m not upset. I’m fine. I’m fine.”

“You don’t seem fine,” Wilbur says gently. Tommy grits his teeth.

“I don’t—” He takes a shuddering breath. “I’m not—I’m fucking—I don’t know, okay? I’m fucking—I don’t know what to do. I just saw them and they just—they just fucking walked away.”

“Tommy,” Techno says. It’s quiet. “I … I really wish I could tell you something different, but … people like that don’t change. They don’t care about you. They’re not your family.”

“I know.” Tommy squeezes his eyes shut. “I know.” 

“You’re okay, Tommy.” Phil crouches in front of him and takes Tommy’s shaking hands in his own. “You’re okay. You’re okay.” He brushes a strand of hair out of Tommy’s face. “It’s okay to be upset.”

Tommy frowns. “But I’m not upset about my parents.”

“You’re not? What are you upset about, then?” There’s no passive-aggression in the statement, just understanding. The fire in Tommy’s chest burns. 

“I,” he starts. “I … I don’t …”

“It’s okay,” Phil says. “Take your time.”

“I don’t love them,” Tommy blurts. “But I love you.”

He shuts his eyes, waiting for fool’s gold to spill out of his mouth, but …

It’s a heavy weight on his tongue, clacking against his teeth. It tumbles from his lips; bounces off his knees, still pulled tight to his chest; and lands with a soft noise in the leaves.

Tommy pries his eyes open, staring. 

“Oh,” he whispers. That’s really all he can say.

It’s not perfect. There are cracks and faded spots and smudges across its surface.

But it’s a diamond. 

“Oh,” Phil echoes. “Oh.” He throws his arms around Tommy, tugging him into a tight hug, and Tommy muffles a sob into his shoulder. “Tommy, oh, Tommy … we love you too. We love you. You’re family, Tommy, you’re ours.” Tommy cries harder. “Oh—please don’t cry, love—”

Tommy laughs wetly. “I’m happy,” he says. “I’m … I’m really happy.”

Two more sets of arms wrap around him, and Tommy leans into the hug, beaming. “We love you too, Tommy,” Wilbur says.

Techno hums an agreement. “We love you.”

It’s strange, in a way. Tommy’s hated those words for so long.

“I love you guys,” he says, and he feels the words in his throat, glimmering, a pure diamond. “I love you.”

Phil laughs wetly. He’s crying too, now, it seems. “Oh, Toms,” he says. He leans away from the hug; reluctantly, Tommy lets go, and allows Phil to help him to his feet. He tucks himself into Phil’s side, and Phil wraps an arm around his shoulders. “Let’s go home.”