Chapter Text
The spark has travelled through generation and generation of the Watson family, that’s what Phil told Tommy after everything had happened, after fires had burned and lives had been lost. It was a little too late for comfort, as Tommy stood there, watching his father cradle his dead brother, a scene he had seen years ago under the guise of a bad dream. He hadn’t understood it then, he isn’t sure if he even understood it now.
When Tommy was just seven, that’s when it started. Dreams came to him in the night, twisting and contorting his thoughts with monsters of men, ones he called his brothers, at the time. The first dream he had was of Wilbur standing in front of him with a masked man. The man was donned in green, a bright green jacket of sorts and dark, tight pants, with boots that looked like a strong material. His eyes focused on dark stone walls and the way they’re lit dimly with torches. Tommy’s father had never let him travel into the caves, but that had to be what this place was. He could tell, even though Wilbur was much older in the dream than he was in real life, that it was his brother. The jacket Wilbur wears looked worn, his fingerless gloves dirty and the grime under his nails evident. His brother’s hair was longer than it was in real life, and he had a hat, covering a good chunk of it. All of that can be bypassed, though. What Tommy really noticed is the explosives in Wilbur’s hand. He clutched them like a prized item, and Tommy couldn’t even focus on what the man in green was saying, or what Wilbur was replying with, or even what they mean when they speak to him. All he knows is that his brother wasn't the chipper eleven year old he currently knew-- he’s a tired, old soul. His eyes are deep with lack of sleep and heavy with exhaustion, his lips chapped and cracked. Tommy could smell the dirt and gunpowder on him, and when he looked to the masked, green man, he felt a deep rooted hatred in his chest, something he can’t explain.
“I can’t let you do that, Tommy.”
And then he woke up.
The dreams became more frequent after that, and Tommy began to dread the night. He is his dad’s son, wrought with anxiety and empathy for others; but he didn’t have the wisdom his father has, the answers that Phil had for everything and anything. When he was five or so, Tommy was an inquisitive little thing. He asked why the sky was blue, why grass was green, what happened when people died, how animals knew their way through the woods-- anything that his brain could think of. His dad had indulged him since his adoptive brothers wouldn’t, figuring that if his son wanted to learn, then he should learn. Tommy wasn’t exactly academically gifted, and he had a bit of trouble with tripping over his words and getting phrases messed up, but his memory was golden. He could walk through forests like he had known them his whole life, he could recount stories as if he had lived them himself, and he knew facts about his siblings and father. He knew that Wilbur didn’t like most foods and that he was a picky eater, but that he’d eat peanut butter and jelly sandwiches any day of the week. He knew Technoblade loved myths and legends, and that he believed there was a series of gods watching him, blessing his way. He knew his dad had loved his mom, and that he had been his father’s special kid, the only biological one of the bunch. He knew he had his dad’s bright blond hair, but his mother’s blue eyes. He knew that his mother had liked music, even though he’d never met her. He knew a lot of things, and they were stockpiled in his brain for later, easy to access and pull out.
The problem with having a great memory was remembering things you didn’t want to. Tommy was plagued by dreams that he couldn’t explain, having at least one every week. By the third month after the start of the dreams, the memories he felt in his bones yet knew had not happened, Tommy was sleeping in bed with Phil almost every night. He would wake with a start in the night and shift out of bed in just his pajamas, holding the stuffed cow that he had named Henry tight to his chest. He would creep down their wood-floored hallway, knowing what spots creaked and what spots were safe. He would tip toe past Wilbur’s door, then Techno’s, always stopping for just a moment to acknowledge that his eldest brother’s light was always on, always visible through the crack of the door. Tommy would keep moving until he got to his dad’s room, and he’d gently and carefully twist the doorknob open and sneak inside. Phil’s bed was higher off the ground than his, so he always had to work his way up there, but as soon as he was on the mattress he pushed himself against his dad. Phil almost always woke up when he felt a lump of Tommy trying to get comfortable under the blankets, and while he wouldn’t even open his eyes, he’d speak in a sleep grogged voice.
“Bad dreams again?”
Tommy would sometimes answer yes or no, or just tell his dad to go back to sleep and that he was sorry, but he never said what the dreams entailed, what happened in them, or how they made him feel. Phil figured they were the average nightmares that kids had. Tommy wasn’t afraid of much, but his dad knew that the mind was a dark place, and dreams were how the subconscious voiced itself. He didn’t think much of his son sleeping in bed with him-- he was still little enough that it really didn’t matter. It wasn’t like Phil ever had anyone else in his bed, anyways, so he figured he’d let it slide. Tommy wasn’t incredibly fitful in his sleep unless a dream hit, but Phil awoke one night when he felt small feet kicking at his legs while he was trying to sleep. He realized that he had his arms wrapped around his youngest son, hands resting on the soft skin of his arms, and he sighed as he turned in his sleep, removing his hands. There were a few more restless seconds, but it seemed that when Phil had moved his hands and there was no skin to skin contact, Tommy relaxed and went back to breathing peacefully, slow and even. It didn’t make Phil think anything strange-- it was just a coincidence.
The Watson family had never spoken about the curse that plagued the first born son of every generation. It was a cross to bear silently, and Phil had developed his sight when he was around eight. The first dream he had, he was standing on a war torn battlefield. The smell of smoke was thick in the air, and explosions went off around him, the dust and aftermath burning his eyes. Phil, being just a child then, wasn’t sure what was going on, but he heard a voice at his feet begging, pleading for water. Without thinking about it, Phil took a bottle from his bag, one he had somehow known was there without even knowing the situation. He crouched in front of the dirty, bloodied man, and he brought the glass to his lips. Phil tilted the bottle forward to allow waterflow, and the bloodied soldier drank as if he hadn’t had water in years. When the bottle was empty, the man gave a deep sigh and stilled, his eyes glazing over. When the boy had awoken in his bed, he was shaking and he looked around his dark bedroom, understanding it was just a dream, that it wasn’t real.
It only became real later, a decade and a half later. The scene played out just like many of his dreams had, only Phil was there. He witnessed the death of the soldier, and Phil understood the gravity in that moment: how his dreams, his visions, they became a reality. This wasn’t the first time it had happened, and it wouldn’t be the last.
Phil just hoped no one was as unlucky as him.
---
Tommy was exhausted by the fourth month of the prophetic visions, falling asleep all over the house. His dad had found him curled up on the couch, or in a dark closet, or even asleep in his eldest brother’s lap while they watched TV, peaceful, but still pale with dark bags under his eyes. It wasn’t normal for a boy his age to sleep like this, but it hadn’t occurred to Phil what the cause could be. What Tommy knew, however, was that it was like unlocking the secrets of the universe.
Some dreams were good, where he was racing Wilbur through the woods as a teenager, the two of them whooping and hollering as they ran faster and faster down dirt paths and through fields. He saw visions of him and a boy dressed in a dark green shirt with a mop of dark brown hair. They would chat about everything and nothing, sharing secrets with each other and promising to be best friends forever. He had dreams of he and Technoblade walking through a snow-filled area, talking about topics that Tommy had no context of, currently. Sometimes the dreams were really nice, kind to him. He had a dream about some kind of birthday one night, and when he awoke he could almost taste the sweet frosting of the cake on his tongue and could faintly hear Technoblade’s booming laugh when Wilbur had choked on a bite of the dense treat. It was dreams like that that made a little more sense than the ones he’d originally gotten. One week he’d had a dream that he and Wilbur had been exploring the forest outside their current home, and he had tripped, spectacularly rolling down a hill with a loud shout. He was surprised when a few days later, he had an odd feeling as he walked through the woods with his brother. When he tripped and rolled down the hill, he blurted that he knew that it was going to happen. Wilbur said he was crazy, but helped his brother up off the ground anyways and brushed the leaves off his shirt and dirt off his pants.
Tommy wasn’t stupid, he began to connect the dots. When he had a dream that seemed where he was the age he was in real life, the event happened days later, sometimes even the day of the dream. He knew if he told anyone about this, especially his brothers, he’d be mocked relentlessly. Wilbur would say he was being stupid (a favorite word of the eleven year old since curses weren’t allowed in the house) and Techno would probably just laugh him off like he always did with that tired chuckle he used whenever Tommy came to him with a big issue. The boy thought about telling his dad, even, but he wasn’t sure how to really phrase it. He could say that when he dreamt something, it came true, that he had magic powers or something like that, but his dad was worried enough. He’d begun to grow a deep concern for his son’s sleep patterns, starting to work on potions to cure the dreams and nightmares that plagued his son every night. The potions tasted revolting, and Tommy wanted to refuse every single one that he had to try, but Phil wouldn’t allow it. He’d kneel in front of Tommy while the boy sat on a kitchen chair with his hands pressed firmly over his mouth in defiance.
“I’m not drinking that, dad, it tastes gross,” Tommy whined with a kick of his legs, squirming in his seat, his words muffled by his palms.
Phil had to resign on his efforts to try and cure his son’s issue, but he found himself watching his youngest child when the boy crawled into his bed and curled up. His hands didn’t rest over Tommy anymore since if they did Tommy would throw a fit and wake up in a cold sweat, panicked and shaking. One night he had been rubbing Tommy’s back to get him to sleep peacefully, and when Tommy started shaking, Philza continued, hoping he could work the nightmare out of his son’s system. Instead, Tommy woke up with a loud shout, and immediately coughed and gagged with a strangled noise, only to vomit over the side of the bed. Phil tried to ask what the hell had happened and what could’ve caused such a reaction in Tommy, but all Tommy replied with was, “I can still smell it-- smells like copper, dad.” Extremely ominous, but kids said weird shit, he’d learned that from having two before his youngest.
Even so, Phil realized his son was special in one way or another, he just didn’t know why, yet.
---
By the time Tommy was eight, he was an old soul in a little boy’s body. Someone who knew Phil had called Tommy “precocious,” a word the child couldn’t even pronounce on a good day. He’d asked his dad what it meant when they were eating dinner, but Technoblade chimed in before their father could get a word in.
“It means you’re wise beyond your years, special and smart, or whatever,” the half-pig said with a wave of his hand, fork still clutched in his fingers. Wilbur rolled his eyes as he poked at his steak with a mumble, one that Tommy realized was his middle brother calling the eldest a show off.
They had a strong rivalry, his two older brothers. Technoblade got a good amount of attention from Phil, and Tommy could realize, even at his young age, that Wilbur wanted some affection. He would constantly go above and beyond in activities, or at least had, until he realized that all attention was good attention. Wilbur started acting out, breaking things and making messes, having emotional outbursts. If it bothered Technoblade, he didn’t show it, too busy with his own things. The fifteen year old had found out that when he turned sixteen, he was eligible to compete in a fighting championship, and now he spent all of his time training nonstop. When he wasn’t studying how to properly fight, he was actually rehearsing the moves. Phil had set up multiple practice dummies in the backyard, and Technoblade went to town on them. Their dad had to start using better materials due to how hard the teenager went when he fought. Things would get destroyed in the process, but Tommy found himself constantly sitting on the porch, watching his older brother swing the sword he’d been given around, shoot arrows, run and jump and perform tricks. Technoblade was a natural, even Tommy could realize he’d probably turn out to be some famous fighter.
After a particularly strong training session, Technoblade headed towards the porch, wiping sweat from his forehead while he panted. Tommy stood quickly, a bright grin on his face as he raised his hand for a high-five. Technoblade returned the favor, and when their palms connected, it was as if time froze and reality had a new layer on it.
Tommy’s eyes adjusted to the dusk that had settled in his vision, and he found that he was in a completely different place. He stood in front of a shaking teenager, one dressed in a suit with a green tie, his eyes wide with fear. Tommy’s eyes darted down to his hands, finding a weapon in them, and noting that his skin was far more pink than he remembered, not pale like he normally saw in the mirror. A voice, low but with an ominous pitch was to his left, and a snarkier one was to his right. Tommy looked over for a split second to see an elegantly dressed man with sharp horns like that of a ram, ears that matched, too. His brows were furrowed and he had a sharp toothed grin on his face. To his right, the other man who had been speaking had a beanie on, despite his sharp outfit, and his lips were curled into a sneer as the ram, who seemed to be the leader, spoke.
“Technoblade,” Tommy heard, and he felt a strange feeling in his chest, confused as to why someone was calling him that, why he had a weapon, why this teenager was stood in front of him. Why did he know this boy’s face? It was so familiar yet so far away. People were shouting, yelling at Tommy to do something, though it wasn’t his name, it was his brother’s, said over and over again. Pleading with him, ordering him, telling him to act now. In a bright burst of light, Tommy felt the heat of an explosion in his face, and when he opened his eyes after having closed them for the blast, he was back in front of Technoblade, back on the porch, his hand still pushed into his brother’s.
Worry was evident on the older boy’s face and he took his hand away, speaking slowly.
“Tommy? Tommy, can you hear me? Are you okay?”
Tommy’s ears were ringing from the rush of blood to his head, the adrenaline of the event in his veins. He realized that it was like a dream without being asleep, that his brain had connected the events and told the future to him, that the prophecy was something that involved his brother. Something absolutely awful. It was obvious, even with the way the vision had cut off that his brother had killed someone. Technoblade wouldn’t do that, would he? He couldn’t. He was Technoblade, Tommy’s big brother and one of his biggest heroes. How could Technoblade murder that boy, that teenager who had looked so afraid, so betrayed? Or the way the horned man in the suit had growled out orders, fierce and angry? What was that? Or even the shouting. One of the voices Tommy had heard had even sounded like his own.
In his panic, Tommy didn’t notice the world tilting and going dark, and when he slammed into the wood porch, one thought was on his mind:
Was it going to happen? And if so… when?