Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Tommy wandered down the hallway. 

He was bigger than he’d been the last time he was here. Now it felt small in comparison, almost claustrophobic. If he tried, he figured he could cross the whole hall in one stride, or maybe, if he reached up, he could put his palm flat against the ceiling—he wasn’t sure, and yet the walls still seemed to loom in from every side regardless. It was unnerving, in a way.

The wallpaper was almost the same, though it seemed enough of the old paper had been lost that they’d had to find one to match and make do. The window at the end had the same iron frame, the sunlight filtering from the midafternoon sun. The rug under his feet was even the same color. How on earth did Gran find another one of those ugly things?

It was all different, but it was all somehow the same. He didn’t know if it was distressing or disorienting. Or both. Like walking through his memories all over again, except everything was shifted to the left a couple centimeters.

Yeah, it was weird.

“Do you want to hear a song, Tommy? ” 

A voice popped up in his head, one that was more recent than the rest, yet still old—it was from one of the last times he’d been in this house, before the fire had come and gone and taken his family with it.

Tommy had been around ten at the time. At the voice, he’d stumbled, his eyes focused up as he had walked down the hall. A quick recovery—Tommy had always been sturdy, even as a little kid—and then his eyes had gone right back up again, had watched Wilbur’s as they'd twinkled in the low light. "What kind of song? ” he’d asked.

“A fun one. You’ll like it, I promise.”

And, because younger Tommy had had a bone to pick with everything he’d ever come across, he’d crossed his arms over his chest and stopped in the middle of the hallway.“That sounds stupid.”

“‘Stupid?’ Where’d you learn that word?"  Wilbur said. Phil would’ve been mad, Tommy later realized, if he’d heard Tommy tossing that word around like he had been. If only he could hear the mouth on him now.

“Techno said I’m not allowed to say the f-word. He said to say ‘stupid’ instead, ” he’d said. “But… he also said not to tell you or Uncle Phil he said that.”

Wilbur’s face had gone through about five emotions in just as many seconds as he’d stood there, clogging up the hallway, ten-year-old Tommy bouncing on his heels by his side. Then, he’d shrugged, muttering something like "not my problem” under his breath, and they'd gone ambling along towards that familiar wrought-iron window again. Towards the end of the same hallway Tommy now walked down.

The hallway felt even shorter now, as Tommy followed it to the end. His hand followed the swirls in the new wallpaper until they hit the side of the doorframe, sliding up to grip the wood so he could swing into the doorway. The last door on the right had been Wilbur’s, if he remembered correctly.

“Do you even know how to play that thing?"  he'd asked, before, as Wilbur showed off his old guitar.

The guitar was one of the only things that escaped the fire. Techno’s sword, Phil’s old hat, and Wilbur’s guitar were, now, all that remained of their old bedrooms; most everything else had been swallowed up by the flames, only seen again as the ash that’d been swept out after. The guitar now sat in the corner, propped up against the wall in Wilbur’s old room, as if Wilbur had just set it down for a moment and never came back to finish the song. Everything else in there was new, yet familiar, just like the hallways outside—Gran, it seemed, had tried to get it all as close to the real deal as possible, and if Tommy’s memories were correct, she’d done a good job. Eerily so.

“I thought you didn’t want to hear a song?"  Wilbur had teased, propping the guitar in his lap as he’d sunk onto his old bed. The bed had been old, the kind that creaked and moaned with every movement, and it’d done just that as Tommy had sat down next to him just after.

“I didn’t know it was a cool song with a guitar!”  Tommy had said, bouncing a little extra just to hear the bed complain. Now, as he sat down on the new bed, he learned that that was one thing Gran hadn’t been able to replicate.

“I said it was fun.”  Wilbur had frowned. “Do you not trust me, Tommy?”

“Mum says her books are fun, but they’re just boring,”  Tommy had said, leaning on Wilbur’s arm, excited just to be in his presence. Wilbur had been so absurdly tall that, when they were sitting down like that, his shoulder had been right around where Tommy’s head had been, his arm right within grabbing distance for Tommy’s grubby little hands. “Tubbo likes them, but I think they’re stupid!” Tommy’s eyes had gone wide. “Oh! Did I tell you about Tubbo?”

A snort. "Techno teach you that one, too?”

“What? No! Tubbo’s my friend, I’d never call him a bad word. ” Tommy would defend Tubbo just the same today, he realized, smiling. "His real name’s Toby, but he can’t write very well, and he spelled it wrong in class at the beginning of the year, and everyone was making fun of him, so I call him Tubbo now. He likes it, I promise.”

Wilbur’s nose had wrinkled, one hand adjusting his glasses as they slipped right down his nose with it. “Oh, does he now?”  he’d asked.

“Yeah, Tubbo’s great like that! And he can’t read very well either, so I like to read to him ‘cause he says it helps, but we ran out of books so I borrow mum’s, only they’re really boring.”

Wilbur had laughed, a warm sound fitting for that warm afternoon.

Tommy didn’t remember exactly how the memory went after that. They’d fiddled around on Wilbur’s guitar for a while as the conversation dissolved into Tommy ranting about Tubbo, Wilbur trying to show him how to play. Tommy, of course, hadn’t listened; he’d strummed at random strings on the poor instrument and tried to get them out of tune, until Phil had called them down for dinner. His fingers had hurt a little bit from playing, and he used it as an excuse to not use a fork, blaming Wilbur when Phil made a funny face about it. But Tommy’s mum had been out for the night, and Wilbur didn’t want to use a fork either, so they all followed suit and ate with their hands. Even Phil had joined in, with a laugh and everything.

Tommy had blabbed about Tubbo for most of dinner, even as Phil tried to get him to chew with his mouth closed. Every time conversation stopped, Tommy would start with Tubbo, Tubbo, did you know Tubbo did this or did you know Tubbo could do that? It’d been close to the start of their friendship, and he’d wanted nothing more than for his family to think of Tubbo like he did. It’d been one of the last times he’d eaten together with them, one of the last times he’d stepped foot in the house before the fire.

Now, he turned away from Wilbur’s guitar, from where his fingers played with the strings as he thought, and fixed his bag on his shoulder. And despite himself, he shivered; there was a draft in the room. He didn’t remember it from when he was a kid—Wilbur had chosen the bedroom with a lot of sunlight, so his room had usually been hot—but it wasn't too out of the ordinary. They’d had to reconstruct most of the room. 

That, or it was just the room creeping Tommy out, goosebumps popping up along his arms as the uncanny familiarities of the room dawned on him one-by-one.

He didn’t put much thought into it.

Instead, he just turned from the room and went back into the hall, shutting the door a bit softer than he usually would on his way out. The whole floor was creepy in an unfamiliar kind of way, right on the edge of what Tommy had been expecting, but not quite exactly as he’d remembered it to be. It was like a dollhouse replica of the house he’d built in his memories, a bit too small and not quite right in all the ways that mattered.

So, the second floor would be a no-go, for now, he figured. 

With that, as he retreated from the second floor and back towards the main staircase, he shook the old memories from his head, turning his attention back to the present. 

“Tubbo!” Tommy called. “Where are you?” The house was bigger than it had any right to be—it was why Gran had bothered fixing it up after the fire, after all.

Tubbo hollered back, still poking around on the first floor. And so Tommy wandered back down the hall, away from that eerie chill and that guitar propped up, somehow still in tune, against the wall.

He didn’t hear the sound of the strings strumming behind him, didn’t hear that distantly familiar melody, as he walked away. He didn’t even think to listen for it.

Why would he?

___________

“Dad, he still calls him Tubbo,” Wilbur said, strumming a quiet chord. It’d taken him a while, but he’d gotten the pattern down. Tapping would be a while yet, though that’d never stopped Wilbur from complaining about it—it was hard for them to interact with much in their current state, something Wilbur seemed he’d never forgive the powers-that-be for instilling upon them. Still, there usually wasn’t much else to do but try. And, after about a week or so of trying, Wilbur had deemed the piano on the third floor too out of tune to be playable. So, ghostly guitar playing it was.

Phil drifted towards the door, reopened now that Wilbur had had his way with it. Thumps fell from out in the hallway as Tommy, his steps just as heavy on his heels as they’d always been, made his way back down the hall. “He’s still a kid, Wil.”

“Tubbo. The poor kid’s got a perfectly normal name, and he’s walking around calling him Tubbo.” Wilbur tried another chord, frowning when his fingers decided to faze through the last string. He looked up, fingers on the frets still as he tried the chord again. “I’m surprised they’re still friends. I’d drop a kid if he called me something like that.”

“Alright, Wil. Ease off him.”

“What? It’s not like he can hear me!” Wilbur said, raising his voice. 

“What’re you-”

Phil jumped as Wilbur started shouting, jumping up from where he’d been fiddling with the guitar and banging on the walls as best as he could manage (which, admittedly, wasn’t very well). “Children! Children come get me! Children! Whoooooo!” He pulled away, meeting his dad’s tired gaze. “Look, nothing.”

Phil sighed. Wilbur had been fairly quiet (for him, at least) when Tommy had insisted on assessing the second floor by himself as his first course of action in the house. Tommy hadn’t even put his bag down, just ditched Tubbo to run upstairs and seemed to instantly regret it. Wilbur had floated there at Phil’s side, just watching, as Tommy had run his hands over the replica dresser and sank onto the new, nearly silent, bed. And Wilbur had been silent.

Now, it seemed it was all coming out in one go. Phil didn’t know why he hadn’t expected it.

And now the two of them were just left there, floating around in the chill air of Wilbur’s old bedroom, in Tommy’s wake. Those thirty-or-so seconds of Tommy’s presence up here were enough to perk Wilbur up like this, it seemed, to the point that he was backing to yelling and shouting about, full of an energy Phil hadn’t seen in him in a long time.

Phil smiled, as Wilbur went on blabbing about Tubbo’s awful nickname. He laughed, as Wilbur turned his insults to Tommy, as Wilbur’s curiosity about this ‘Tubbo’ finally got the better of him and he goaded Phil downstairs to check it out.

And he wondered, now, if these two kids could be good for the three of them.

Chapter Text

“I’m not going back up there,” Tommy announced as he came back downstairs, his arms crossed over his chest. “It’s all… creepy and shit.” 

Or at least that was the easy way to describe the utter uneasiness that came over him in Wilbur’s old room. Given a million words, Tommy still didn’t think he could explain, though. So, ‘creepy and shit,’ it was.

He rounded a corner to find Tubbo sitting on the floor, trying to get the TV to work—Tubbo had brought his Switch, with Animal Crossing loaded up and everything, and he’d expected the old tube TV to be able to handle it. Tubbo didn’t even look up at the sound of Tommy’s voice, focused intently on figuring out the white, red, and yellow wires tangled up in his lap. “Creepy? How’s it creepy?”

Tommy frowned. “Trust me, Tubbo, it is.”

“That’s not a very good explanation, you know.”

“Well- shut up,” Tommy said with a huff, stopping and standing in place. He didn’t owe Tubbo, of all people, an explanation—and that was, of course, assuming that there was an explanation. Which there was not. And so Tommy just stood there for a moment, not sure how to retort to Tubbo's words, his frown getting deeper.

Until, in due time, he finished his pause for dramatic effect. And he took one step forward.

And Tubbo piped up again.

“I just noticed,” Tubbo started, “but you step really, really loudly. I could hear you all the way down here, through the floor.” Still, he hadn’t even looked up. Instead, he tried to jam a cable into the wrong place, grumbling when it didn’t fit. “You- jesus christ, you were stomping all over the place.”

“What the hell, Tubbo?”

“Look at yourself! You’re doing it now!” Tubbo looked up, at long last, and laughed as Tommy stalked across the room.

Tommy stopped in place again. “That’s- now you’re making fun of the way I walk ?” he asked. “What the fuck. What the-”

“No, but wait, wait, hear me out-”

“The house is fucking old, that’s what you should be making fun of,” Tommy said, taking exactly one step forward (oh, he counted, just to spite Tubbo) and flopping onto the couch. It would’ve worked too, if not for the cloud of dust that popped up, sending him rolling away and onto the carpet with an oomph and, of course, a resounding thud. It also would’ve been graceful, if Tommy perhaps possessed a bit more grace. 

Tubbo laughed at him. Again.

“Did you figure it out yet?” Tommy asked, trying to change the topic.

Tubbo’s eyes narrowed at the incomprehensible pile of cords in front of him. He blinked, once, twice, before his eyes just went blank altogether. “I have no idea, actually,” he said.

At that, he yanked all of the wires free, holding onto them for a moment before dropping them onto the rug and looking back at Tommy.

Tommy stared at the pile of wires in shock. “That’s- that was kind of a dumb thing to do, Tubbo.” Here he’d thought Tubbo was the tech part of this whole operation. It seemed Tubbo was proving him wrong on that bit, though.

“I don’t know why I bothered trying in the first place, if I’m being honest," Tubbo said. "There was no way any of that was going to-”

“You chose to bring up the way I walk, of all things,” Tommy interrupted. Tubbo just blinked at him—oh, this time it was Tubbo’s turn to act all shocked—with a slightly miffed expression on his face. Tommy stifled his smile. “I’m actually quite sensitive about it, you know.”

“You do stomp,” Tubbo said. “You’re a- an angry walker.”

Tommy grumbled, and once again, Tubbo laughed at his expense.

It was true, though, that Tubbo’s efforts on the TV setup were pretty useless. Despite Tommy’s mum’s best efforts, the power wouldn’t be back on until tomorrow—benefits of spending the summer in the countryside, apparently, included country-speed services. That, and awful signal.

And so they sat there and messed around on the Switch, instead. Tubbo gave up on the TV and grabbed his Switch from the floor, then plopped himself down next to Tommy, the two of them leaning against the dusty couch side-by-side. Sure, Animal Crossing wasn’t Tommy’s kind of game, but he propped his feet up on the dusty old rug and watched without complaints.

They deserved the break, anyway. It’d been a tiring day, what with the long car ride and everything. And, though Tommy loathed to admit it, the day had been emotionally taxing too—he hadn’t been back to the house since the fire, five long years ago, and the memories were coming back stronger than ever now, held back only to come tumbling out given the slightest opportunity.

And they were weird memories, too. They weren’t even ones he’d thought he’d hold onto after all this time—they were dumb, mundane memories that held no real significance. He hadn’t, so far, been able to remember meeting his cousins, and yet he could remember fighting over what movie they were going to watch one night, just from glancing at the old TV in front of him.

It’d been Cinderella, if he remembered correctly.

“The plot could be better,"  Techno had tried, when they’d sat down to watch it, but by that point, Phil had already shoved the VHS into the old player. There’d been three bigshot YouTubers living in the house at the time, and yet they’d been watching a VHS tape—it’d been absurd then, and it was absurd now, as Tommy remembered it.

“I haven’t seen it in forever.”  Wilbur had plopped down next to Tommy, sandwiching him between him and Techno. "C’mon, it’ll be fun.”

“That’s the spirit, Wil,”  Phil had said. Then, he’d plopped himself down next to Tommy and basically held Tommy down through the course of the movie as though it were nothing. Cinderella was still a dumb movie, in Tommy’s opinion—not out of sexism (of course not) but because the story just made no sense. Still, he'd admit that he enjoyed thinking about that time again.

That old TV was one of the things that hadn’t been replaced. The big wooden cabinets around it had been shuffled out and replaced, though as with the sofas, it didn’t seem to be because they’d been burned in the fire—it seemed to be more of just Gran doing things because Gran felt like it.

The two changes were slight, but they were somehow just enough to put Tommy at ease down here. Where Wilbur’s room had settled somewhere right in the deepest divot of the uncanny valley, this room felt better. The rug was similar, but not the same, and so were a lot of other pieces—just enough to draw out the comfortable memories without the bad connotations that came with them.

It felt different in a good way, to put it simply.

It was enough, as he sat there and watched Tubbo play Animal Crossing, to make him smile just slightly. And, well, if Tubbo noticed, he didn’t say anything.

So they went on as they normally did: Tommy commentated as Tubbo played, the two of them slouched against the couch, relaxing while the hours wore on past.

_____________

Tubbo hadn’t been sure what to expect from the house, if he was being honest.

Tommy had been nervous about it for weeks. Even if it hadn’t been obvious, at least to Tubbo, Tommy had outright told him as soon as their mums had agreed and made the trip a real possibility. Tommy hadn’t explained why, though—despite Tubbo’s complaints, he’d only told him the basics: that he hadn’t been back since his late cousins and uncle had lived there, around five years ago, and that half of the place had burned down at some point. Anything else was under wraps. Tubbo decided not to push it.

The house was nice. It was big. Kind of creepy too, though Tubbo figured that was just from the years of near-neglect. When they’d arrived, he’d taken a moment to just stare at it in wonder, trailing behind Tommy as they hefted their bags up the front walk.

As soon as they’d walked through the front door, though, Tubbo could tell that something was off. Especially with Tommy. 

Tommy had, however, brushed off Tubbo’s concerns and immediately made his way upstairs, firmly instructing Tubbo to stay downstairs. Not sure what else to do, Tubbo had just sat down in front of the TV and gotten to work. He hadn’t dwelled too much on whatever “creepy” things lurked upstairs, when Tommy came back down and said things were as such—in fact, Tubbo chose not to dwell on much of anything about the house, even as his instincts told him that there was something very, very strange about whatever was going on. 

It was probably nothing to worry about. 

And if it was? 

Well, then they’d sort it out when they had to. For now, not dwelling on the house seemed to be the best way to go for the both of them, and so that was what Tubbo would do.

That was why he smiled as he and Tommy migrated up to the couch as they played Animal Crossing, Tommy complaining about his back like an ornery old man. The couch, for some reason, made the creepiness of the house fade away just a bit. Up there, it was just him and Tommy, a little moment in time where they could relax and let the background fade away, just sit there and not wonder what in the world made the place feel so, so off. Time went by in his Animal Crossing world, just as time went by in that moment, but they ignored it. The rest of the world fell out of focus as Tubbo played and Tommy commentated.

“What the fuck?” Tommy asked, eyes still on the Switch in Tubbo’s hands. “Why is there a camel?” He’d been watching Tubbo play for just around an hour now, seemingly not sure what else to do with himself, and he somehow still didn’t understand the point of it. “That’s not one of yours, is it?”

“No, she sells rugs,” Tubbo said, quite simply. He paused for a moment to think. “I should get some, actually. She doesn’t come by too often.”

“Why do you need rugs?”

“For my house, of course!”

The sun had set a little while ago, the only lights coming from the glow of the Switch’s screen and the slight shine of the moon through the windows. The house seemed to loom around them if he took his eyes off the screen for too long, their phones since lost somewhere in the darkness. They were nearly isolated in the dark, yes, but Tubbo didn’t mind too much.

“This game is dumb,” Tommy said. 

Despite his complaints, Tommy stuck around too. The house felt alright, for now. Distantly, though, Tubbo knew that wasn’t quite true—that there was something off about the place, something they were all just ignoring for now. In that moment, though, it was alright.

__________

Wilbur floated by, his eyes moving to stay on the screen. “This is the Tubbo?” He frowned. 

He’d been too busy upstairs to get an introduction, floating down after Tommy left and his interest eventually got the better of him. Now, he was hanging around as Tommy and Tubbo played the newest version of Animal Crossing. Truly, it was a timeless game, and though it was mostly the same as it’d always been, the graphics were much better than they’d been in Wilbur’s day. So he floated there, watching with idle interest.

Neither of the two boys moved, not so much as twitching in response to his words. Of course, they couldn’t hear him. Instead, Tommy just slouched a bit more against the couch—goodness, his posture was awful—as his droopy eyes watched Tubbo’s character dig up a fossil.

“Why can’t you just sell the fucking thing?” Tommy asked.

Tubbo didn’t even blink—Tommy had been pestering him about every single mechanic of the game since they’d sat down, and he appeared to be immune to it by this point. “I get more bells if Blathers looks at it.”

“That doesn’t even make any sense!”

“Well, why not?”

“He’s an owl, what does he know?”

Tubbo shrugged it off, continuing to dilly-dallying about his island with a shovel in hand, only stopping to dig up fossils if they were in the way of the flower garden he was carving out of the landscape. It was, Wilbur had quickly learned, one of the many projects Tubbo was working on on his island.

“He’s not very good at this game,” Techno had stumbled (figuratively, always figuratively), into the room a couple minutes ago, his interest won over just as Wilbur’s had been. He’d been trying to avoid the two boys since their arrival, but it seemed his boredom had finally won out, just as Wilbur’s had.

Meanwhile, Phil tried to pretend he was sitting on the couch, his two sons floating nonchalantly overhead. But where Phil kept a lazy focus, eyes settling on Tommy and Tubbo with a melancholic sort of smile on his face, Techno was laser-focused on the game in Tubbo’s hands, frowning deeply.

“I don’t think that’s the point,” Wilbur said, floating right in front of Techno’s gaze, then laughing as Techno waved him away. “I don’t think you can be ‘good’ at Animal Crossing.”

Techno rolled his eyes. “He could at least be efficient.”

“He does have a house to pay off,” Phil said, his eyes finally drifting down to the screen as Tubbo’s character ran amuck. “Just wait until he has kids, that’s when the costs rack up.”

“Exactly,” Techno said.

Wilbur scoffed. “Just let the kid have his little furry town, Techno.”

Phil raised an eyebrow. “Furry town?”

“Yeah, it's got the animals and shit. It's a furry town.” Wilbur shrugged. He said what he’d said. "What else should I call it?"

No response.

Well.

Until, as if the game itself was protesting to Wilbur's words, the Switch’s screen flickered out, the ‘no battery’ icon popping up on its own where the game had once been. Away went Tubbo's little furry town, replaced with nothing but a black screen.

“Oh,” Tubbo said, setting the Switch down in his lap. He blinked, once, twice, before turning to Tommy. “I guess it’s dead.”

And, just like that, the room was dark.

Tommy frowned. It was just barely visible in the moonlight shining through the windows. “Great,” he said.

“Techno, you killed the poor boy’s Switch,” Phil said, eyeing the Switch with a slight frown. He smiled right after, though, as Tommy blinked the sleepiness from his eyes, pretending to be uninterested as he talked with Tubbo about the game in the dark. Tommy and Tubbo were certainly entertaining so far, that was for sure.

Techno floated up, slowly, until he was hovering a bit above the boys’ heads. “My bad,” he said. As if he hadn’t fiddled with it every moment Tommy and Tubbo hadn’t had their hands on it throughout the afternoon. The second the two of them had left it to eat dinner, Techno had poked and prodded at it unceasingly, refusing to let up—just enough to kill the battery.

“We shouldn’t mess with their stuff, if we can help it,” Phil said.

Wilbur couldn’t help but remember the toaster incident—he and Techno had figured out how to control the thing, and, through their own sheer will and some extra ghost shit, blew it up before the end of the day. Phil hadn’t seemed to see it coming, somehow.

The fire hadn’t been bad, but it’d still Wilbur feeling off for a couple of days, until their Gran had scrubbed the scorch marks off the wall. None of them had touched the new toaster, and he didn’t think they were going to. So, they’d long-since learned not to fiddle with things that shouldn’t be fiddled with—the Switch, however, fell somewhere in between, not quite flammable enough to be considered untouchable but not quite familiar enough to be considered touchable. It was a grey area, and Techno had certainly tried to push it the moment Tommy and Tubbo had allowed him the chance.

Even now, Techno pushed it. “They can touch our stuff, though,” he said, crossing his arms over his chest.

Phil, once again, sighed. “They won’t kill our stuff.”

“Will we kill them?” Wilbur asked.

“Don’t think so.”

Techno huffed, his face expressionless. “Well, there go my plans for the night.”

Wilbur bopped Techno upside the head at that, earning a nice and steady frown. It was a normal occurrence, and Techno had long-since learned to ignore Wilbur about it, but hey, that wasn’t going to stop Wilbur from trying it. So he bopped his brother upside the head, affectionately of course, and they both hid their smiles at it as Techno floated away with a grumble. 

“I give the Switch twenty-four hours,” Wilbur said, as Techno went out of hearing range.

Phil smiled back. “Eh, I say twelve.”

And, with that, their introduction to these two new boys was finished. Wilbur lingered about as Tommy and Tubbo talked, listening idly as Phil eventually floated off, his interest still keeping him stuck to their side. Techno stayed gone—he was back to trying to ignore their new housemates, and this time he seemed intent on lasting a bit longer. The house was as dark as it'd mostly been for a while, the walls still fairly quiet. But now there were two newbies lingering about, and they seemed as though they were here to stay.

They were here to stay.

Wilbur smiled to himself, as the time went on by.

Chapter Text

Wilbur wanted to mess with Tommy and Tubbo. 

Just a bit, only a bit.

He hadn’t had anyone to haunt, besides his old Gran, in a while—so, really, could you blame him? And with the power out, and all the wind outside shaking the house, and the two boys practically lying there in wait for him? It was perfect. 

To make it even better: Techno and Phil were somewhere else, content to leave the two boys alone now that they were finally getting ready for bed. Wilbur figured he could be a loving and supportive cousin some other time, but right now, he was going to go right ahead and take this opportunity as it waited, just sitting there right in front of him. He’d be a fool not to, really.

He hadn’t even started up yet, and both kids sounded scared half out of their minds. Maybe he was just used to the darkness, or maybe it was just the shake of the house that came with age, or maybe Tommy and Tubbo were just a lot more superstitious than he’d pegged them to be. Any combination of the three worked; regardless, Tommy and Tubbo sat there in the dark, their faces illuminated by the moon as they jerked at every creak, at every shake of the windows in their panes. 

Wilbur almost felt bad.

Keyword being almost.

“It’s, uh, pretty windy outside, isn’t it?” Tubbo asked, his voice low in the dark. He and Tommy had each taken one of the two couches, the throw blankets tossed over them to keep them warm as they tried to get to sleep for the night.

Tommy’s voice was uncharacteristically quiet. “Yeah, I guess.”

“The house is- it’s not going to fall over, is it?”

Tommy looked up, as if taking stock of the ceiling. Then, as if he hadn’t just looked up to check, he looked back down and said, “Tubbo, I’m not going to lie, I think that’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard.”

Wilbur frowned. “Yeah, and where’s your expertise, Tommy,” he said. If they could’ve heard him, Wilbur would’ve popped in and made Tommy apologize. Tubbo didn’t seem to mind the near-constant teasing—tied in with their Animal Crossing gameplay and Tommy’s comments through the course of that, this was a normal occurrence. And it wasn't like Tubbo didn’t bite back, from time to time. 

Still, it was certainly a far cry from the last time Wilbur had heard Tommy talk about Tubbo, from how Tommy had seemed to idolize his first real friend and talked about him whenever given the chance. So yes, Wilbur would’ve chewed Tommy out.

Luckily, though, this was one of the occasions where Tubbo stood up for himself. “The house is old, there was a fire. It could fall over,” he reasoned, sitting up straight so he could stare Tommy down. It was funny, when Tommy was so obviously taller than Tubbo.

Wilbur didn’t know much about tornadoes, but it seemed like Tubbo expected one to plop in and rip the roof right off their heads right then and there, no questions asked. If that was a thing tornadoes did. He’d seen old videos of them ripping roofs off of houses, taking buildings up until only the foundation was left, and sending bricks roaring through the air—most likely, tornadoes were capable of it, but Wilbur highly doubted that there was a tornado of that caliber about to descend right on top of them at that moment.

Tommy frowned. “Oh, you’re one to talk, Mr. ‘oh, I think I need rugs for my little house in my town, oh I don’t need to pay off my house.’”

“There’s no interest rate on it!” Tubbo said. “And what does that have to do with anything?”

“You’re in debt, Tubbo. Don’t talk to me, I don’t talk to people who can’t manage their money.”

Tubbo frowned, and so the two of them just sat there and frowned at each other from their separate couches.

Then, they were laughing.

Tubbo started first, only managing to keep his frown for a moment before cracking up and giggling into the darkness. Tommy laughed as well, his laugh just as loud and obnoxious as always—though Wilbur would admit that it’d grown on him since Tommy was an annoying little kid.

The house still shook and the wind still slammed against the house, but Tommy and Tubbo just drowned it out with their laughter.

When they managed to catch their breath, Tommy let out a huff of air. “That was kind of weird, wasn’t it?”

“Yeah, it was,” Tubbo said.

With that, Tommy pulled out his phone to check the time, the blue light making him squint harshly in the darkness, garnering a chuckle from Tubbo’s direction. It was almost midnight, not that time mattered much to Wilbur. It mattered to the children, though—it had Tommy slouching further into the couch, Tubbo almost copying him as he slid down his own couch.

“Do you want to sleep down here?” Tommy asked. “So you’re not scared, I mean.”

Wilbur, having seen Tommy’s brief foray into the second floor earlier that day, highly doubted that that was the sole reason for it.

Regardless, Tubbo nodded.

Wilbur took that as his cue. He couldn’t interact with much without being in angry poltergeist mode—which, having seen it happen a couple times in Phil and Techno, was a tradeoff he was not very willing to make—but he wreaked havoc in his own way, starting small. 

When the wind blew, he would bang on the wall. When the boys tried to find their pillows, phone flashlights lighting up the living room, Wilbur would tug their blankets away into the shadows. When Tubbo went into the kitchen for a drink, Wilbur pulled up the rug, tugged at the edges of the cupboards, and traced his cold, ghostly fingers along his skin. He laughed through it all, even as Tubbo retreated from the kitchen with an extra pep in his step, his skin paler than before. 

“Tubbo? Is something wrong?” Tommy asked, as Tubbo curled up on one end of his couch. “You look all- all weird.”

“I think this place is haunted.”

Well, that was fast.

Wilbur laughed louder, a booming sound like thunder echoing through the house in response. Tubbo jumped and looked up, glancing around with a hurried look in his eyes. It was a bit mean to do all this, sure, but it was ultimately harmless, just enough to bring Wilbur laughter and scare the shit out of Tubbo.

Whatever Tubbo had heard, though—had he heard Wilbur laughing? Was that what that was?—Tommy seemed oblivious to. Instead, he just frowned deeper at Tubbo, his eyebrows creasing just enough to cast a shadow over his face. “Haunted? What the hell’s that supposed to mean?”

“The cabinets were shaking,” Tubbo said. “And it got really, really cold when I was in the kitchen, and you said your cousins died when they lived here, right? I think it’s haunted, I think it’s them.”

“My cousins and my uncle,” Tommy corrected.

Tubbo went on as if Tommy hadn’t even opened his mouth. “And didn’t you just hear that?” he said, jerking his head around. “I swear I heard someone laughing at me, I swear it, Tommy-”

Wilbur stopped, staring. So Tubbo had heard him. He was more superstitious than Wilbur had thought, apparently.

Tommy frowned. “Ghosts aren’t real, Tubbo. Don’t be a pussy.”

“But-” Tubbo was quick to object, but Tommy was not too inclined to let him finish.

“No. There’s no such thing.”

“Tommy, I really think we should-”

“Tubbo, listen. My Gran’s crazy, she had this whole place done up with ghost stuff. If- that’s if ghosts are real—which they aren’t—then she got rid of them. Plain and simple.”

Tubbo blinked, a bit confused. “Got rid of them?”

“She had this guy come over. He did some chanting and shit, and now it’s fine,” Tommy said. “No more ghosts.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah.”

Wilbur frowned, remembering that. He’d actually liked when Gran brought that wacko over—it was funny, and the weird herbs they’d burned had cleaned all the gross smells out of the house. It hadn’t been anything that would’ve gotten rid of him, Techno, and Phil though, that’s for sure (not that Wilbur knew of anything that could get rid of them).

In the end, to stop more crazies from desecrating their house, the three of them had just stopped messing with Gran, only really interfering with her if they had a reason. Wilbur had grown tired of ‘haunting’ her, Phil finished mourning his separation from his mom, and Techno had stopped trying to get her to figure out who ‘did it’ to them. And that had been that. They’d gone on with their lives, metaphorically of course.

“What happened to them?” Tubbo asked. His voice was just as quiet as before, but not out of fear—now, he just seemed to be leveling out with the surroundings, quieting as the excitement from Wilbur’s haunting died away and the silence of the house settled around them.

“What the hell, Tubbo? What kind of question is that?” Tommy said. Weirdly enough, his voice was quieted too. 

“What? If they’re haunting us, I’d like to know,” Tubbo said. Then, he paused. “And, well, it seems important to you. And you’ve never told me.”

Tommy didn’t meet Tubbo’s eyes. Instead, he stared down at his hands as he wrung them together in his lap, thumbs rubbing over one another. And he was quiet, for a rare moment, as he seemed to think over the words.

“You don’t have to answer if you don’t want to,” Tubbo said, seeming to catch onto it too. He kept his gaze steady on Tommy, though, his eyes wide with curiosity.

Tommy sighed, taking a moment to himself before looking up to meet Tubbo’s eyes. “There was a fire upstairs. They all slept on the same side of the house, so… yeah.” Did he sound… sad? “It didn’t take long.” He pulled his knees up to his chest, his blanket wrapped tight around his shoulders. His voice had been heavier, carrying more weight than Wilbur was sure he’d ever heard from him.

Was Wilbur finally losing it? Was… was Tommy still upset about what happened to them?

Wilbur watched Tommy carefully for a moment, some feeling stirring in his chest. He didn’t realize how the house shook a little harder from the wind, didn’t make the connection to the shuddering, choked groans of the wood and his startling realization. 

Wilbur hadn’t thought much about Tommy’s strange reaction to going upstairs—he’d been too focused on the prospect of it being Tommy, his kid cousin, that was paying the three of them a visit. But this made a bit more sense, now. ‘Creepy’ had probably been a poor way for Tommy to describe it, in Wilbur’s defense.

“Oh.” Tubbo looked down a little, to where his feet poked out from under his blanket. Like Tommy, his legs were tucked up against his chest. “I’m sorry.”

“You’re sorry?” Tommy asked. His eyes met Tubbo’s, again, when Tubbo looked back up. “Tubbo, you didn’t have anything to do with it.” And, right then, as their eyes met, the wind blew the trees outside, the moon shining in just enough to light up the highlights of their faces. It made them look small, just sitting there against the black backdrop. 

“No, not that way. I mean, it’s sad,” Tubbo said. “I’m sorry it happened.”

“Oh.” Tommy shuffled, pulling his blanket up higher. 

And with that, the conversation seemed to be finished. Wilbur hadn’t noticed how close he’d drifted to the two of them, and so he startled a bit, floating away with a jerk through the air. Maybe he should go find Techno and Phil. He had months to mess with the boys; he should pace himself.

Plus.

He felt a bit bad for being there now, for leaving Tubbo practically quivering in his seat after eavesdropping on such a heavy conversation.

So yeah, Wilbur floated away, up towards the second floor.

Before he could leave, though, there was one quiet voice in the darkness.

“Thank you, Tubbo,” Tommy said.

Wilbur paused, taking a moment to stop and smile. 

Maybe this Tubbo wasn’t so bad. How could he be, when it seemed Tommy cared about him so much?

The thought made Wilbur’s heart ache a little more, in a different kind of way—the way that slightly calmed the aching moans of the house’s walls—but he pushed it away, turning his thoughts towards his dad and his brother instead.

For now, he set off down the hallway to find them, leaving the two boys in the living room alone.

Chapter Text

“Wonder if my Gran has a rug like that.” Tommy rubbed a hand through his hair, blinking hard to get himself to wake up a bit faster. The house was warm from the sun, and of course it made his eyes just droop as he sat there and watched Tubbo play.

Tubbo had spread his new rug out in his Animal Crossing house, the pixels flickering on the old tube TV. In these morning hours, they were just relaxing, doing a whole lot of nothing—except, of course, basking in the electricity which had come on sometime in the night. The Switch charged from its dock on the floor, their phones plugged in somewhere on the floor, half of the lights they’d fiddled with the night before lit even as the morning light streamed in.

“I don’t think so,” Tubbo said. He took a bite from the bowl of cereal precariously balanced in his lap. “It’s a bit groovy for an older lady, isn’t it?”

Tommy shrugged. “Maybe. She’s old. I don’t get in her shit.”

“You’re the one who asked.” Tubbo laughed. And, at that, he finished up with his breakfast and paused his game. Tommy made a noise of discontent at the interruption, but Tubbo didn’t so much as acknowledge it, just walking off back towards the kitchen without a care.

Really, it was late morning. This was the normal time to wake up for Tubbo—at times, Tommy swore Tubbo was just nocturnal—but for Tommy, this was sleeping in late. After the night before, he didn’t mind. The sun lined up almost perfectly over the kitchen sink as Tubbo approached it and washed his bowl out with the old dish soap Gran had left under the sink, the rays bright on his head, indicating just how close it was to noon.

Tommy watched as Tubbo put his bowl back in the cabinet, the overly-fine china (because of course Gran had brought her fancy china when she’d moved in) clinking softly under his careful fingertips. They hadn’t been able to dig the normal plates out of the cabinets yet, let alone find them, if they existed. And so, there Tubbo was, leaning against the counter to reach the shelf with the less fancy bowls in the china cabinet, up on his tippy-toes with a hand down to brace himself. Tommy still watched, laughing as Tubbo struggled.

Until, well.

As Tubbo leaned away from the cabinet, his hands came away dirty. One hand had been on the dusty, grime-covered counter of the cabinet, which made sense, but the other? Had just touched Gran’s fancy plates as he slid his bowl into place.

Almost at once, they both frowned.

“I guess we have to get to work,” Tubbo said, wiping his hands on the side of his pants. The grime left dark streaks on his already-dark clothing, but he seemed content to ignore it, giving his palms another swipe. 

Tommy frowned even deeper. One, it was disgusting. Two, they’d only been awake for about half an hour, and Tubbo was already suggesting they work. “Do we have to?” he whined, falling back into the couch with a huff.

And Tubbo, of course, was all-too chipper about it. “C’mon, it’ll be fun!”

“Fun? Tubbo, we’re cleaning.” Because that was the plan for the summer: cleaning out the old house, only as an excuse to spend the whole time goofing off and give ‘living on his own but with Tubbo’ a chance. Looking back, he hadn’t fully thought through the whole ‘cleaning’ part. And, apparently, that was his problem now. 

He groaned. “Oh, why did I agree to this?”

In response, Tubbo tossed the roll of paper towels at him, laughing at Tommy’s misery. 

Tommy, however, was too busy moping to see the roll coming—the paper towels thwapped him in the face. Then, before he could process it, the towels were rolling out across the floor, leaving a trail behind them that Tubbo would likely make him clean up. In anticipation, Tommy shot a scalding look in Tubbo’s direction.

But, at that, Tommy heaved himself up off the couch. 

And so he and Tubbo started in the kitchen, figuring it was one of the places they’d want the most clean. 

Though Tommy would never let this fact leave the room, it was a bit fun.

They very quickly turned themselves into a flurry of energy, cleaning from floor to ceiling, Tommy’s music floating through the air from the tinny speakers on his phone. With each new song that passed, Tommy would swipe off a new counter, or Tubbo would attack the tops of the cabinets with a duster, or maybe the duster would be shaken out and sicced on Tommy, followed by squawks of complaints and a long string of swears. Regardless, they worked and worked, laughing even as their muscles started to ache and their noses were clogged up from all the shifting dust.

Every now and then, Tommy’s phone would shift an inch or so from where it lay on the kitchen table, but neither of them noticed.

Why would they?

____________

“Wil, stop messing with the boy’s speaker.”

“Dad, it’s not a speaker, it’s a phone. And look how small they are now!” Wilbur kept trying to fiddle with the phone. The touchscreen, he’d very quickly realized, didn’t work if you couldn’t generate body heat. Or much of a physical body, for that matter. He could, however, press anything with a button. 

In other words, the volume buttons worked. And Wilbur was going to take advantage of it.

“They’re almost flat! ” he said, circling the table with the phone on it. “Just imagine what I could’ve done with one of these.” 

Phil sighed. “I don’t need to imagine.”

Wilbur took a moment to laugh. If given a phone like this back in his day, Wilbur would’ve done so much more than fiddle with Tommy’s volume button. Phil would imagine, alright. Still, Wilbur laughed, floating backwards through the air for a moment.

____________

“Why’s the music so quiet?”

Tubbo shrugged, turning it back up. He’d turned it up so much, Tommy was surprised it wasn’t maxed out yet. But. He didn’t think there was anything to worry about; the speakers on his phone had gotten worse through the years he’d had it.

As he pulled his hand away, readjusting the spray bottle of vinegar in his hand—Gran hated chemical cleaning products, so all they were allowed was bleach for the bathrooms—he shivered. Sure enough, the metal of his phone was freezing to the touch.

“There’s a fucking draft in here, too. Of course,” Tommy started, pausing to stare angrily up at the ceiling. 

Tubbo went on cleaning, unbothered. “The whole house is a draft, I think.”

“Don’t be stupid, Tubbo. It’s just old.” Tommy wiped down the stovetop, the burners taken off and sitting, waiting to be cleaned, on the countertop. He pulled a look of disgust, though, as the paper towel came away blackened, eyes wide in shock. “And gross.” He dropped the towel in shock, and it fell to the floor with a disgustingly-wet slop. “What the fuck!” Tommy yelled. “That’s disgusting!”

He’d known Gran hadn’t exactly been the most capable when it came to taking care of the house by herself, but this was just gross. This had Tommy, once again, wondering what exactly he’d agreed to when he’d decided to move in and clean the place up for the summer. 

His uncle, if he’d been there while the house was in such a state, would’ve been just as disgusted—Phil had been a very clean person, meticulous to a fault. When the house hadn’t been completely clean, everything was still right in its place, albeit in a bit of a disorganized kind of way that only seemed to make sense to him, Wilbur, and Techno. This much dirt and grime would’ve sent the man into a disappointed cleaning frenzy.

Unfortunately for him and Tubbo (well, actually, Tubbo seemed to enjoy the challenge of the disgusting house, the sick freak), Phil was not there. He would not get all fussy about the state of the place and start scrubbing it down. No, that was their job.

Great. Just how Tommy wanted to spend his summer.

Sure, he’d agreed to it, but that didn’t mean he was happy about it. He’d still complain, both to Tubbo and in the quiet, serene contemplation of his own mind.

Tommy narrowed his eyes at the paper towel on the floor, as if it’d personally offended him. Whoever decided to leave the massive house to be cared for by his old Gran had, obviously, not been in their right mind. So yeah, he made a face at the paper towel.

Apparently, the face was funny. Tubbo laughed at him.

And Tommy, once again, contemplated his life choices.

__________

Phil would admit, the house was disgusting. It was something he’d acknowledged in the back of his head over the years, something Techno and Wilbur knew was driving him mad, but something he could, ultimately, do nothing about. So, he’d ignored it.

Obviously, though, it was becoming a pressing issue once again.

He was relieved, to say the least, as Tommy and Tubbo scrubbed about the kitchen. Techno was off elsewhere, content to keep away from the two boys for now, and Wilbur just floated about making commentary on everything Tommy and Tubbo did—goodness, this really was the most excited Phil had seen Wilbur in a long, long time, and he couldn’t be happier for it—while Phil felt years’ worth of tension seep out of his bones. Something so simple as a clean kitchen.

Well, semi-clean. Tommy and Tubbo were trying, though, and it was endearing enough (most of the time, except, of course, when Tommy tried to get Tubbo to clean the inside of the oven by hand, with a bottle of bathroom bleach) that Phil could accept it.

The kitchen was, however, still not usable. And Phil highly doubted either young boy knew how to cook more than a box of macaroni—which, Phil noted, they didn’t even have. The pantry was near-empty, grime still clung to the corners in the kitchen, and the pieces of the stove were still littered about the counter, ready to be put back together whenever Tommy and Tubbo got back to work.

And so, Tommy and Tubbo ordered pizza.

It was supposed to be simple, right? Order the pizza, pay the delivery driver when they came, grab plates for goodness’ sake , wash hands, and eat away.

Tommy and Tubbo, it seemed, had a knack for getting themselves into weird situations. Honestly, it wasn’t surprising.

Wilbur followed Tommy to the door when the doorbell rang. Phil followed, after being waved along. It wasn’t like he had anything better to do, besides watch Tubbo play whatever the newest Legend of Zelda he’d gotten his hands on (another franchise Nintendo just wouldn’t put to rest). Techno was, still, nowhere to be seen.

Tommy opened the door, and everything was normal for a bit.

Until the driver’s eyes lingered beyond Tommy’s head, scanning the house.

Phil frowned. What, were they going to rob the children? If the house hadn’t been broken into with Gran there on her own, it was certainly an awful idea on the driver’s part. But still.

Carefully, Phil floated closer—better safe than sorry—to inspect the driver’s pockets. No knives, no pepper spray, no nothing. Just a wallet, a phone, and normal pizza delivery stuff.

Speaking of which.

“Here’s your… pizza?” the driver said, handing it over. Their eyes still darted about for a moment, taking advantage of Tommy’s distraction as he fished his mum’s cash from his pocket. Phil narrowed his eyes.

“Thanks,” Tommy said, finally tugging out a wrinkled note. He exchanged the goods, letting out a huff of happiness at the (Phil assumed) strong smell of greasy pizza.

Wilbur laughed, floating up into the doorway to get a better angle. He stayed inside the doorway, though—he kept his distance from the delivery driver, seeming to pick up easily on Phil’s suspicion. “So he can be polite,” Wilbur said, mocking the oblivious Tommy. “Little prick just doesn’t want to.”

And, at that, the driver’s eyes went wide, looking straight towards Wilbur as he lingered, high above the ground, over Tommy and Tubbo’s shoulders. 

Wilbur’s eyes went just as wide in response. 

“You sure this is your order?” the driver asked, promptly turning back to Tommy. Their voice had jumped up a bit, not quite as steady and bored as it’d been at first. “I didn’t mix them up again-” they scratched at their chin, attempting to maintain some semblance of calm, “...did I?”

“No, just the one. Cheese, right?” Tommy peeked inside the box. “Yeah, it’s right. Thanks, man.”

“Wil,” Phil said, his voice low. Now, he threw the guise of nonchalance to the wind—things just got weird, fast. After Wilbur had spoken, that delivery person had looked right at him; at least, Phil was pretty sure. He turned to Wilbur. “Did they just look at us?”

Wilbur nodded. “Think so.”

A bit warily, hands shaking, the driver gave Tommy his change. Every so often, their eyes would flick up in Wilbur’s direction, only to go back down and give an identical glance up at Phil. 

Tommy gave a grateful nod in their direction, completely oblivious. “Have a nice night,” he said.

The driver, quite pointedly, just stared as Tommy turned and failed to acknowledge the floating, not-quite-opaque little family that’d been there in the doorway with him. Tommy shut the door, oblivious.

The door closed with a thud and a click, as Tommy put the lock into place. 

And Wilbur, in a quite anti-climatic manner, huffed. “First Tubbo,” he said, crossing his arms over his chest, “now a random delivery driver?”

Phil couldn’t help his wry, out-of-place smile. “What?”

Of course, Wilbur just waved him off. “All that time with Gran,” he went on, shaking his head, “and it’s these two jokers that get it to work. Great.”

Phil would admit, he was confused. Wilbur had told him of his escapades last night, how he’d spooked Tubbo until the poor kid’s face was white, but this? A bit stranger. Wilbur seemed to find no concern in this—in fact, he seemed to be joking about it, if Phil was right. It was weird, this whole thing that’d just happened, and honestly? Phil just didn’t know how he felt about it.

For now, though, Phil kept the thoughts to himself. He went along with Wilbur, as they floated after Tommy back down the hallway.

And he pondered.

Chapter Text

Afternoon came, and Techno found their visitors hanging around the property. 

Or, rather, they found him—he’d been out there first, after all. 

Regardless of the circumstances, he watched silently from above, hanging around in the branch of a tree as they fiddled about among its roots. It wasn’t too hot or too cold outside, just warm enough for Tommy and Tubbo to linger about in the dwindling sunlight, having fun after an afternoon full of work and a far too much cheap pizza. Tubbo swung on the old swing, the rope still strong and the wood still sturdy after all these years, laughing with his head thrown back as Tommy tried, and failed, to push him any higher. The rope groaned, and the tree branch moved just barely with his weight, but there seemed to be not a worry in his head, nor in Tommy’s, as they just went back and forth and had their fun.

Techno’s interest was idle, neither here nor there. But he’d kept his distance throughout the day, both from the two of them and his more immediate family, and hey, it wasn’t like there was much else to do. The children had become the latest attraction, and Techno would sit through it for a bit—albeit not without begrudging it in his own head. 

So there he was, a leg dangling from the branch.

The swing had been there as long as Techno could remember. His dad had put it up not long after adopting him and Wilbur, telling them of how Gran had always wanted to own a big house like this, with a swing in the front yard and lots of space for kids to play. She’d never gotten the chance when Phil was a kid, but Phil had never let that stop him. He’d put the swing up anyway.

“To spite fate,” he’d said. He’d knotted the rope and tugged it up into the tree’s sturdy limbs, and he’d told Techno of the manufacturer's guarantees, how they promised it’d be there for years and years, “long after we’re gone, I’ll bet.”

Well, he wasn’t wrong.

“Stop it Tubbo! You’re going to kick me!” Tommy yelled, running wildly out from under the swing. Just as he rolled out from the dirt, Tubbo swung past in a flash, going much higher and faster than Techno thought was possible, not a care in the world. Tommy, of course, kept complaining. “Tubbo!”

This only made Tubbo laugh harder, swinging his legs around through the air—as if hitting Tommy was, in fact, his intention. Tommy was dramatic though, always had been and probably always would be, and it wasn’t like he was in any actual danger.

It reminded Techno of Wilbur, in a bittersweet kind of way.

Techno and Wilbur hadn’t been… friendly, exactly, right after they’d been adopted. Their friendship, and everything that came with it, was far from instant—Wilbur was loud and boisterous, and Techno preferred to keep his dad to himself. The conflict was bound to happen. 

Wilbur had had a good couple of tantrums in the first year or so. With mostly good memories still stuck up in his head, for Techno’s memory had never been the best when it came to that kind of thing, he only remembered how it went afterwards—Phil had always come out and to make sure Techno was okay, after calming Wilbur down. Sometimes, Phil had pushed him in the swing; other times, he’d given him more space and let Techno come in on his own. Usually, Techno had taken Phil’s hand in his, his hand so much smaller at the time, and let his dad guide him back inside. 

Wilbur had usually apologized. Techno didn’t remember the times he didn’t. They’d smoothed it out between the two of them, over time—it’d taken them a little while, and Techno had definitely gotten physical more than he liked to admit, but they’d gotten through it eventually. 

And a lot of it had happened in this very swing, the one Tommy and Tubbo, apparently instant friends, fiddled with now.

Even after he’d made friends with Wilbur, Techno had spent hours exactly where Tommy and Tubbo were now, usually by himself. Night, day, evening, dawn—it didn’t matter. The swing had been his spot , the place he always went when the house was too loud or his thoughts were too crowded or just when he wanted to be alone. First simply somewhere to escape to when Wilbur was acting up, it quickly became… his.

The swing had sat empty more and more as he and Wilbur had grown older, but it was still used enough. Wilbur had brought his first girlfriend over and sat her in the swing, and Techno had glared at them between the blinds. Even later on in his life, Techno had still climbed the big old tree quite often, using it as a shortcut to get up to the third floor where the big old limb stretched out towards the window. Phil had spent long hours raking up the leaves every autumn, taking a couple of moments to relax on the swing whenever he’d needed a break.

But it’d been empty for so long—five long, desolate years. Wilbur didn’t bring over any girlfriends anymore, Techno didn’t have to climb it anymore, and strangers from landscaping companies came to sweep up the leaves in Phil’s place. The tree, and the swing attached, had fallen into disrepair just as the rest of the house had.

But Tommy and Tubbo were here now, swinging happily as the afternoon faded away. 

Phil and Wilbur were optimistic—overjoyed, even—about this whole thing, about having these two fresh faces around the place, breathing life back into the walls with every burst of laughter. Techno had seen it in their eyes the second the front door had creaked open. And he’d brought it up the night before, chatting quietly with Phil as Wilbur had scared the two kids out of their wits with his ‘haunting,’ but his concerns had been all-but waved away.

The belief that Tommy and Tubbo would somehow remedy the three of them was inherent, there in the way Phil was smiling more and Wilbur was laughing louder again, there in every bit of conversation that had come up in the past 24 hours. 

And, really?

Techno didn’t blame himself for wanting to be more realistic about it. Phil and Wilbur could daydream all they wanted, but… the swing would be empty, again, eventually— shortly, if the theory that they were only there for the summer was true. And when it was, well.

Techno didn’t want to see them hurt, later. 

He’d mostly kept his thoughts to himself through his conversation with Phil the day before. Wilbur had jokingly called Techno a tsundere a couple times in their lives (“more like a kuudere,” Phil would comment), and Techno would admit, he wasn’t the best at the whole ‘directly telling people he cares about them’ thing. As Phil asked him why he was being avoidant, he’d held his tongue. Phil had still frowned, had picked up on the problem as Techno hedged around it, he hadn’t pushed it; instead, he’d given Techno space, letting him linger outside through the day, without comment.

Well, mostly.

“They’re cute, aren’t they?” 

On cue, a voice broke Techno from his thoughts. He was quick to find the source, reflexes still sharp after five years in the afterlife—who would’ve thought?

Above him, Wilbur lounged around up among the tree’s higher branches, a devious smile on his face. He very much resembled a Cheshire cat, the world full of nonsense in a way that made him smile, teeth on display and shining translucent, like the rest of him, in the dying sunlight. And somehow, there was all the ease in the world in the way he did it, his limbs all languid and lazy, propped up against the bark of the tree as if he couldn’t just float up anyways.

It made Techno’s frown slide to something neutral. “I wouldn’t say ‘cute,’” he deadpanned, turning down to look at the swing. There, Tubbo still laughed at Tommy’s expanse, high and bright and full of easy happiness as Tommy fought to keep his scowl on his face. “They’re entertaining enough.”

“Always such a downer.” Wilbur floated through the leaves, out into the open air over the boys’ heads. “C’mon Techno, this is the most exciting this place has ever been!” he said, throwing his arms out wide. Then, he pointed a finger towards Techno’s face, “You like them. Don’t pretend you don’t.”

“I don’t have to pretend.”

Wilbur laughed. And with that, he coasted down and gave a branch of the tree a slight shake—the branch the swing was hanging from, that is. 

Tubbo stuttered a bit in the air, swinging higher than he had before.

And, with a bright peal of laughter, he swung down.

Right in the direction of Tommy.

Tommy managed to duck, rolling into the dirt with a cry of “Tubbo! What the fuck!” (among other curses). And Tubbo just laughed harder.

“Just wait until dad realizes how much Tommy swears,” Wilbur said, smiling slyly in the corner of his mouth.

“It’d be a bit hypocritical,” Techno grunted. Phil swore all the time—he’d given up on trying to censor himself when the two of them turned fourteen, and he’d never gone back. A number of ‘concerned parents’ had tried to get him to stop, but Phil was an unstoppable force when he put his mind to it. They’d lost before they’d started.

“Eh, that’s fair,” Wilbur said. Then, he put his hand to his chin in thought, a dangerous sign. “Hey, what if we-”

And, that’s when it clicked: Phil told Wilbur to come out and fetch Techno, worried after a whole day’s worth of silent absence from the rest of them. With a reluctant sigh, Techno floated off. “Fine, I’ll go inside,” he said.

“Well, that was easier than I thought.” Wilbur smiled.

Techno rolled his eyes as he turned away, taking a moment to watch Wilbur’s smile over his shoulder. “Don’t count on it,” he said.

“You know, you’re a real prick sometimes, Techno.”

“Well aware.”

Another laugh from Wilbur’s direction, as Techno turned away.

It was just enough—there it was again, closer this time. Those memories: bittersweet, yet happy beyond a shadow of a doubt, right there in that goofy grin on Wilbur’s face, the one that’d been so rare just two days ago.

Techno blinked his eyes back to normal, shrugging the interaction off as he departed. He was careful to keep his memories at bay, careful to keep his own smile off his face, both at Wilbur’s antics and at the memories of similar times. If no one else would be, Techno would be careful. 

He waved Wilbur a quick goodbye over his shoulder, not bothering to look back again as Wilbur blabbed at his back about something—instead, he just floated on back towards the house at long last. 

And, still, he kept his thoughts on that swing, on the seat that would be empty and silent before long.

________

Tommy, despite his complaints about Tubbo hogging it, didn’t want to get on the swing. So he kept pushing Tubbo up and down, ignoring the way his arms hurt as Tubbo’s laughs echoed across the field. The sun was setting, but he didn’t care—he just went on, yelling as Tubbo aimed for his head and smiling wide as he rolled out of the way, dirt and grass stains peppering the fabric of his shirt. Tubbo’s legs would go soaring past, pulling indignant squawks from Tommy’s mouth as he pushed himself upright, squawks that quickly dissolved into laughter as Tubbo came swinging back down in the opposite direction. 

And when Tubbo was done, they flopped down in the grass nearby, side-by-side, panting with exhaustion and laughing at stupid things, the ground cool to the touch underneath them. Every now and then, there would be a ripple as wind blew through the field, the swing blowing gently in the breeze along with it, their hair sliding this way and that. Meanwhile, the sun slowly set on the horizon, the dregs of the evening burning away inch by inch.

It was familiar, like a lot of things in the house were. 

And, somewhere along the line, another memory crept, of its own accord, into the corners of his head, slipping in between the threads of his dwindling conversation with Tubbo.

He’d been out there with Techno, one of the rare moments where it’d been just the two of them.

“Techno, push me, push me, push me!” Tommy had yelled at Techno, annoying and loud as ever, fluttering his legs about on the swing. He’d failed to get any height, too lightweight at the time to do much—he’d been young young, around five years old. “Pleeeeeease?”

Techno had pushed him for a moment, out of reluctance. And, naturally, Tommy had whined about how it “wasn’t enough” and how he had to “actually, like really push.” Predictably, this had only made Techno grumpier. It was funny, in retrospect—Techno hadn’t been particularly grumpy, unprovoked, but most versions of him in Tommy’s memories were very much so.

And so Tommy laughed, now, as he relayed the story to Tubbo. They lay there together on the grass, completely at ease after the long day of cleaning and goofing off, and Tubbo didn’t interrupt or even say much as Tommy talked, just nodding and laughing where it was right, eyes pointed up towards the sky.

Though, at the apparent end of the story, Tubbo leveraged himself up on his elbow so he could see Tommy’s face. There were indents from the grass along his arms now, like the marks of a blanket after a nice, warm nap. “And then what?” he asked.

Tommy stilled a bit, brows dropping in confusion. “What?”

“What’d Techno do? Did he get angry?” Tubbo clarified, amusement in his voice. “What, did he- did he whack you, or something?”

“No? What the hell, why would he do that?”

“Isn’t that what older brothers—or, well, I guess he’s an older brother figure here—isn’t that what they do? He did fighting and stuff too, right?”

“Sure, but- but Techno would never hurt me. And fencing doesn’t count, the swords are all- all bendy and shit.” Tommy pushed Tubbo over, so he flopped back onto his back in the grass with a slight oomph. “Look at that, now you look like an idiot.”

“Well sorry !”

Tommy laughed, loud as always. “You’re a- a real bitch, Tubbo.”

“I know, I know.”

Then, well, Tommy actually took a moment to consider Tubbo’s words—the brain-to-mouth filter kicked in, for once in his life, albeit a bit too late. “Well,” he started, pausing again to think. “I guess Techno did get mad. He yelled at me to get off the swing, and he made me go inside,” Tommy said, after a moment. Then, he smiled. “I didn’t listen.”

“Didn’t think you would.”

“Well, what was I supposed to do? Phil was all, ‘it’s Techno’s turn on the swing, Tommy give Techno a turn.’ Bullshit.” He shook his head. “He was sixteen, what’s a sixteen-year-old want to do with a, a fucking swing.”

Tubbo frowned, though there was still humor all over his face. “Tommy, we’re-”

“Oh, shut up,” Tommy said, no malice in his voice. It was completely hypocritical, but Tubbo wasn’t supposed to point it out, now was he. 

Tubbo did go quiet, though.

Only, for some reason, Tubbo kept on smiling, even when the story was long over. He just lay there, once again at ease next to Tommy on the grass, with a dumb smile on his face and no explanation for it.

Tommy would ask, then. “What’s so funny?” He sat up and brushed his fingers through his hair to try to get any grass out, if that was what Tubbo was smiling about. When nothing came out, his face just creased even more in confusion. 

Tubbo laughed, a short little giggle to himself. “Nothing.”

“Stop it! What’s so funny?” He looked around, trying to follow Tubbo’s eyes up to the sky to see if that was it, to no avail. Then, his gaze was back on Tubbo, who still lay there easily against the grass. “Stop it!”

Tubbo’s laugh faded, but the smile remained.

“What?” Tommy pushed.

A pause. 

A contemplative look, crossing right over Tubbo’s face.

Then, quietly.

“That’s the first time you’ve talked about them.” Tubbo’s eyes flicked from the sky back over to Tommy. “Without me pestering you, I mean.”

Tommy stiffened. 

And, very suddenly, he felt way too- way too something . Way too- too seen. Even though that was ridiculous because this was Tubbo, and he told Tubbo everything, and so there was nothing Tubbo should see that Tommy didn’t. Well, except this. Apparently.

Because, though he would never fully admit it, Tubbo was right. Tommy never talked about the three of them unprompted. Somehow, he’d just never realized it.

“Oh, yeah, I guess,” Tommy mumbled, dropping back onto the grass. Still, he felt all stiff, but he tried to get himself to relax again nonetheless.

“No, Tommy, this is good! It’s a good thing!” Tubbo said, his voice softened again, tinted with that smile on his face. 

Tommy laughed—why, he wasn’t entirely certain. It let a lot of the tension out of his body. “Alright, Tubbo. Don’t go all- all therapist on me, now.”

A happy-sounding sigh came from beside him. “Alright, alright. I’ll stop,” Tubbo said.

And with that, they were back to relaxing into the grass. It felt even better than it did before Tommy told the story, before he’d gone all tense—the tension was gone now, and with it went the other stress he hadn’t even known he’d been holding onto. There were still problems and conflicts he knew were there, all the shit his parents had tried to send him to therapy for when he was a kid, but this still felt alright. It felt better, just finally being able to tell a silly little story like that.

Tommy smiled easily, and he blinked slowly up at the sunset.

It felt better. 

Slowly, it felt like it was getting better.

Chapter Text

Maybe it was getting better, this whole thing Tommy had going on with the house.

But that didn’t mean he had to like it. 

Or …did it?

He hoped not.

Thing was: now that he was aware of what the house was doing to him (thanks, Tubbo), Tommy saw it everywhere. Everywhere.  

It’d been nice when it was just him and Tubbo hanging out in a field, when the memories were slow and lazy like the sun setting on the horizon, but here? 

It was a lot, and it came on fast. Far faster than he wanted. The realization spurred by Tubbo’s words had opened the floodgates, and shit was pouring out everywhere.

He’d spent the night with thoughts spinning around in his head, all the strange parts of the house standing out more than ever before, brilliant and bright and glaring in his face with every twitch of his eyes. And now, it felt… it felt like he had when he’d first gone upstairs, when that weird feeling had washed over him and sent him retreating back down, when he’d gazed on everything familiar and felt it all squeezing in on him at once, when it’d all rushed around his head like a cold gust of wind. He wasn’t quite sure what the feeling was —he didn’t quite care enough to try and figure it out—but it was an apt descriptor for now.

Regardless of his feelings on it, the memories came a bit more easily the next morning, as he and Tubbo got ready for the day. Sure, he was aware of it now, could see how the boundaries he’d put up over the years were slowly coming undone, but he was helpless to stop it.

While waiting for Tubbo to finish up in the bathroom, Tommy sat at the kitchen table, staring out the window with his eyes on the field outside. Distantly, somewhere in the back of his mind, he scrutinized the way the wind waved the flowers together as one, the way the petals fluttered through the air. But then, just as when he’d gone upstairs that time, the words floated on through of their own accord.

“Uncle Phil, did you know Tubbo’s mum has a garden?”

It was a memory Tommy recalled a bit more clearly than some of the others, one of him and his uncle, the two of them out for a stroll across the landscape. Phil had always tried to drain Tommy’s energy, always took the time to take him out for walks when he’d wanted to sit around and play games all day, and it’d never worked—Tommy, as a kid, had been full of energy anyways. Still, Tommy had trailed after his uncle, the dry grass brushing against his calves, taking two steps for every one of Phil’s. Phil’s hand had been wrapped around his, even as Tommy bounced along the path.

In the memory, Phil had shaken his head—how would he have had any way of knowing about Tubbo’s mum and her garden?—but he’d gone along with it anyways. “She does? Oh, that’s cool,”  he’d said.

“Right?”  Tommy had said. “Tubbo said she picks leaves from her garden to make her own tea, and tea’s usually really gross, but she makes the good stuff just for us when I come over.” At that, he’d turned up to look at Phil. “Do you have a garden? Mum says we don’t have the space, but you have tons of it! I could show you how to make tea the right way if you had a garden.”

“Not anymore, no.”  Phil had said. “Wilbur liked gardening for a little while when he was around your age. He’s past it now.” A smile, fond and slightly nostalgic. “Techno was the legos, and Wilbur was the gardening, for a bit. Then Techno started gardening, ” he’d said. Then, his face had creased in thought. “They… had a lot of interests, actually.”

Tommy’s nose had wrinkled. “ I’m glad Techno switched to swords.” In his young mind, nothing could possibly compare to seeing his older cousin hold a sword—except maybe being able to hold one himself. And so he’d said, quite wistfully, “ I wish I could use swords.”

Only to have Phil offer him a thoughtful nod. “Maybe another time,” he’d said. “I can show you the old greenhouse, though, if you like?”

“Really? Promise you’re not lying?”  

Another nod, this one accompanied by a smile. “Not lying, I promise.”

And, just like that, gone were all thoughts of swords. Tommy had grinned wide and toothy, showing off the gap where a tooth had vacated a couple of weeks ago. “I’m gonna tell Tubbo about this!”

Phil smiled in Tommy’s memory, even though Tommy hadn’t looked to see. 

Instead, young Tommy had gone racing down the hill towards nothing, feeling invincible in his excitement, never one to look back at the expense of adventure. “He’s gonna love it!” he’d yelled, throwing his hands up with a bright laugh.

In his joy, he tipped over and fell halfway down the hill. 

But he’d fallen a lot as a child—this was nothing new—and he’d popped right back up brandishing a bloody knee, brambles peppering his skin, before his uncle could even get scared. He’d even been smiling, triumphant about the whole ordeal.

He hadn’t seen the greenhouse that day. 

His uncle had taken him back to the house and patched him up, telling him how they’d go the next day—until the next morning when, as if designed to make him miserable, rain clouds had swept in to replace the sunny sky, and the adventure had been postponed.

Eventually, it’d been postponed indefinitely. Phil was busy and plans were complicated, and the greenhouse ended up being something they'd get to ‘next time.’

When he’d gone back to school next, Tommy had told Tubbo about the greenhouse anyway.

And Tubbo had loved it, if Tommy remembered correctly. He’d loved it, even as Tommy fabricated details and spun his tales, and Tommy had loved it right along with him, brandishing his scraped knees and bruised up arms like war medals. It was a good story, a good memory too—it was one Tommy wasn’t too miffed about having take up space in his head. He found himself smiling, despite himself.

It was right then that, in the present day, Tubbo walked in, of course. Right when Tommy was smiling to himself like a git. He dropped it, the memory quickly slipping away to the back of his mind.

Tubbo didn’t seem to notice—he was too busy with the towel in his hair, trying his hardest to rub his head dry. The towel left his hair sticking up in all directions, sure, but he didn’t seem to care, just approached with a curious look in his eyes, following Tommy’s gaze out to the yard. “Something up?”

“Thinking,” Tommy said, snapping back to attention at the movement in the corner of his eye. “You know-” he turned to face Tubbo fully, “-my uncle was kind of a dick, now that I think about it.”

“What?” Tubbo asked, poorly stifling a laugh.

“There’s a greenhouse somewhere around here,” Tommy explained. “He never showed it to me. Just told me about it, and he- he let me suffer. It was a dick move.” His words were no doubt a strange caricature of the situation—a bit, played up for a laugh—but it was better than telling Tubbo about the weird feeling , now wasn’t it?

Of course, Tubbo somehow got him back to that anyways.

“Well…” Tubbo trailed off, giving his head one last swipe with the towel before giving up. He looked up to meet Tommy’s eyes. “Do you want to go find it?”

Tommy’s brain stopped—he certainly hadn't been expecting that. But, by the look on Tubbo’s face and the excitement glittering in his eyes, this was a serious question, a proposition for a fun adventure. “Right now?” Tommy asked, squirming a bit (though, he will note, he tried not to). And boom, right with Tubbo’s words: the feeling was back. 

A shrug. “Why not?”

“Uh… you know, I’m pretty tired,” Tommy said, still sitting there in place. “Yesterday was- it was pretty busy, wasn’t it?”

A flat look crossed Tubbo’s face.

“What? It was!”  It was a good reason—they’d done a lot of work the day before, on top of the sleepy late morning and the subsequent late night that’d followed. He was tired.

But then, there was a frown on Tubbo’s face. “If you’re going to make an excuse, at least come up with a good one,” he said. Then, he came closer, leaning on the kitchen table, bouncing a bit and making it shake. “C’mon, it’ll be fun!”

Again, Tommy squirmed, both internally and externally. He still didn’t know what it was—there was a lot he didn’t seem to know when it came to this goddamn house—but he still didn’t like it. So he just crossed his arms over his chest, trying to play it off. “It’s not an excuse!” he sputtered.

Tubbo’s expression remained.

“Tubbo, I- I don’t even know where the thing is!” Tommy exclaimed, crossing his arms over his chest. “You know, that was kind of the whole point? Were you even listening?”

“Of course I was! I just- we can probably find it, if we-”

Now, though, it was Tommy’s turn to frown. “You know what? You’re being weird.”

“No I’m not! You’re being weird!” Tubbo said, huffing a bit. “I just want to- wait.” He stopped—there’d been a lapse in thought somewhere along the line, it seemed. A thought lit up his eyes. “Did they have bees in the greenhouse?”

“Oh, don’t pull the bee thing.”

Tubbo’s smile got a bit wider, half of a laugh popping out of his mouth. “It’s not a thing. I like bees,” he said. “You’re the one that made it a thing.”

Tommy sighed. They were getting off-topic, now. “You’re still being weird,” he said, frowning. “I mean- really? The bee card?”

“Yeah, well you’re being weird, too,” Tubbo said, point-blank. “We’re both weird. Whatever.” Then, he grabbed Tommy’s hand and tried to tug him out of his chair, smiling ever-wider when Tommy didn’t budge. “Come on! It’ll be fun, I promise,” he said, smiling. “We can get back at your uncle for being a dick, right?”

Tommy grumbled. His whole head was vehemently against this whole greenhouse thing, and he still wasn’t quite sure why. This was just the cherry on top: now he had to deal with Tubbo about it. 

He huffed, looking up at Tubbo from where he stood, trying to drag him outside against his will.

Finally, glancing at his outstretched hand, Tommy pushed the feeling away. “Fine.” He would go along with it. He wouldn’t like it, and there was still that strange dread lurking in the back of his head at the thought of heading out there, but he would still do it. 

Tubbo would keep annoying him if he didn’t. He was being all- all clingy and shit today.

Tommy still felt off —he was pretty sure the feeling had been there, on and off, since he’d walked up the front steps a couple days ago, and just trying to get rid of it definitely wouldn’t be enough—but he had a Tubbo to deal with. And there was no way he would get away from this without caving in.

He would just… forget about it, for a second.

Yeah.

Just like he’d done before. Forget about it.

He had time. He could deal with it eventually. He’d done it before—for years, really. What was a couple more hours, days, weeks, months?

He didn’t need this dumbass feeling, anyways. Dickhead. He had Tubbo to hold his attention, against his will, for now. It was just… delegation, to a future Tommy.

He uncrossed his arms, his frown fading away as he stared up at Tubbo. “My uncle wasn’t actually a dick, you know,” he clarified.

Tubbo took Tommy’s hand and pulled him up from his chair. The chair fell back to all four legs with a clatter. “I figured.”

And so, at that, he was bounding off through the house in Tubbo’s wake, footsteps pounding and thumping against the old hardwood floors, their socks sending them slipping about with every other step. 

And, despite all the moping he’d just done, despite how Tubbo zipped him up the stairs towards the second floor, Tommy smiled.

He forgot about the feeling, and he smiled.

Chapter Text

“They’re on the roof.”

Phil looked up to see Wilbur poking his head upside down from the ceiling, Techno by his side with his long hair hanging down towards the floor. Wilbur was the one who had spoken, but Techno was the one frowning, Wilbur’s face curved just slightly into a smile—it was that smile he always seemed to have, the one that was not-quite so mischievous as the others. This was cause for slight concern.

And, as if to prove Wilbur’s words, voices, laughter, and a series of pounding footsteps came from above.

So Tommy and Tubbo were on the roof. Phil’s brows dropped low. “Why?” he asked.

“They’re trying to find the greenhouse.”

Of course they were. He’d never shown Tommy where it was, if he remembered correctly—no matter how many times he’d meant to, it’d always slipped his mind. It seemed karma had finally caught up with him for that. “They won’t be able to see it from there,” he said. “The hill’s in the way.”

Wilbur’s smile dimmed, ever-so-slightly. “They don’t know that.”

“Can you get them down?” Techno finally spoke up, his eyes hooded low and his voice a grumble. He looked, in every possible way one could, as if he wanted nothing to do more than pass this problem off onto someone else—thus, there he was at Wilbur’s side. “I’d rather not be stuck with them for all of eternity.”

Wilbur tilted his head in agreement. “Tommy is pretty annoying.”

At that, Phil couldn’t help a slight smile. His forever-20-year-old sons were working together for once, and this was the reason why. Tommy and Tubbo were being dumb, not that Phil should’ve expected anything less given what he knew of his nephew, and here were Wilbur and Techno sticking their heads out of the ceiling, agreeing for once. It was nice, especially with Techno keeping his distance over the past couple of days. So excuse the smile.

Still, though, Phil sighed as he got out of his chair (he liked to pretend sometimes, okay?) and floated up towards the ceiling. “Can’t leave them alone, can I?” he said, careful to leave his book propped, the spine up, on the end table beside him—he was at a good part, poor book care be damned. Though, that said, he was amazed he’d even gotten to that part: given the same amount of time alone at that age, Wilbur and Techno would’ve gotten up to a lot more.

Nonetheless, Phil floated up through the third floor and the attic, Wilbur and Techno following along. That is, until Phil phazed through the roofing; at that point, the two of them were content to peek through the roof, a safe distance away as he took in the situation they’d left on his hands.

And, oh.

What a situation it was.

Tubbo was up on the peak of the roof, feet balanced right on the point as he leaned over and squinted at the hill blocking his view. There was, as Phil had predicted, nothing to be seen but for the flowers that’d bloomed in the absence of landscapers, and yet Tubbo still leaned as if he expected that to change any moment. He leaned, and he leaned, and he leaned, all-but oblivious to the drop beneath him. 

Phil hadn’t taken him to be afraid of heights to begin with, but this was pushing it.

Tommy was down from the peak of the roof, but he was still on the edge—he had his hands clasped on the side, sitting and leaning down at the ground with bewilderment all over his face, measuring the drop with his eyes. That is until, apparently satisfied with his observations, he stalked up to join Tubbo right at the top, just to make Phil’s eyebrows crease a bit more in the middle. 

“Do you see it?” Tubbo yelled, as Tommy approached—it seemed the boy could keep up with Tommy when it came to being loud, though looking back, Phil didn’t know why he’d assumed otherwise. Throw in the evolutionary disaster that was this whole roof situation, and it was no wonder they were such good friends.

“I can’t see shit,” Tommy said, his gaze swivelling back and forth, a frown reaching out far and wide across his face. “Just fucking- fucking flowers. Why the hell did they have so many? Whose idea was this?”

“They didn’t plant them. They’re wildflowers,” Tubbo said. He smiled, just barely, and his eyes softened, if only for a moment, before he turned back to Tommy. “I actually think they’re quite pretty.”

Tommy went on complaining anyways, unbothered. “Yeah, well, the shitheads are in my way. I can’t see.”

The conversation was nothing special, just more of what Phil had quickly gotten used to over the past couple of days. It was endearing, it was funny, all the like.

There were more important things to deal with—neither boy, through their conversation, seemed to notice how Tubbo’s back foot teetered against the tiles, unsteady as could be. Wilbur had nearly tumbled off this very roof many times as a kid, when he’d go up there late at night to mope—Phil had learned to spot all the slippery spots with his eyes, over the years. Tubbo’s back foot was at one of those spots. The conversation was cute, in the same way that Techno and Wilbur’s conversation just before had been, but it wasn’t Phil’s biggest concern at the moment. If they stuck up there much longer, Tommy and Tubbo were going to get themselves killed.

So, yes. Phil would be very happy to interrupt.

Sighing, he approached the peak of the roof.

“Can they hear us at all? Do you know?” Phil asked, trying to assess the situation. He kept his gaze rooted on Tommy and Tubbo, even as he addressed Wilbur and Techno from where they lurked over his shoulder—they’d spent more time with the two boys (collectively, as Techno was still being concerningly distant) than Phil had.

Techno shrugged.

“Tubbo heard me laugh,” Wilbur said. “Are you going to try talking to them?”

“Unless you can think of something else.”

No response. 

Wilbur was silent. Techno was also silent. 

It seemed this would have to do. 

First, though: Phil knew Tommy and Tubbo wouldn’t leave it alone until they found the greenhouse. Sure, Tubbo seemed to be the weakness to Tommy’s stubbornness, but Tubbo didn’t seem ready to leave anytime soon, seemed determined to find the damned thing despite being the one most likely to fall in the immediate future. Without given another way to get there, the two of them would just pop right back up there the first opportunity they had, and that was assuming they’d leave without it in the first place. Another way to the greenhouse they would need. 

And so Phil turned back to Wilbur. “Wil, try to show them the path to the greenhouse,” he said. “A map or something, I don’t know.”

“Aye-aye Philza dad, sir,” Wilbur saluted. And, at that, he was sliding down through the ceiling. 

Techno followed shortly thereafter, seemingly unsure of what else to do with himself in this situation. Though it was dim, hardly noticeable if one wasn’t familiar with Techno’s subdued micro expressions, worry shined in his eyes. But they left, one after the other, regardless.

And Phil was alone with Tommy and Tubbo. 

Huh, strange that this was the first time for that.

Alright.

He’d done this before, with more success than Techno and Wilbur—if he put his mind to it, he’d been able to warn Gran from time to time, when necessary, with full words and everything. It was, after all, the main reasons she’d called that crackpot ghostbuster on them in the first place—that, and Wilbur’s normal hijinks, of course. Hopefully, this would work the same, minus the sage-scented aftereffect. At the very least, he knew it was possible, with Tubbo much more so than Tommy, to get it through.

Phil took a moment to steel himself, hovering off of the roof in front of where Tommy and Tubbo stood, letting out a nonexistent breath in one big old huff. It didn’t take volume, in his experience—though it did help, Phil didn’t think he needed it—and volume was usually Wilbur’s thing anyways. Instead, he just stood there, and he raised his voice just a bit, his words clear and concise over the wind.

“Boys,” he said, trying his hardest to meet Tubbo’s eyes, “please get off the roof.”

Nothing. 

Tubbo frowned at something Tommy said, his brows dropping low even as his eyes gleamed with amusement. Tommy went on talking about something. Phil paid them little mind—just as with their conversation earlier, there were bigger things to attend to here. He could listen to them bicker when Tubbo wasn’t one strong gust of wind away from falling 30 feet.

“Boys, listen to me.” A bit louder, this time, his tone more urgent. “Please, just get off the roof.”

Still, nothing. Tubbo took the time to respond to Tommy’s comment, mouth now curving into a smile as he spoke. He stood up a little straighter as he did it, turning just a bit to face Tommy—his unsteady back foot shifted, just barely. It was enough to put Phil, somehow, even more on-edge.

Great. This was going to be harder than Phil had thought. 

“Children,” he tried again, now almost yelling, “Please get off the roof. Jesus christ, you’re going to get yourselves hurt.”

Still, nothing.

Or-

Wait.

Tubbo paused for a moment, blinking hard and trailing off in the middle of his sentence. Then, he jerked back a little, head swiveling away from Tommy and back out over the edge of the roof—the direction Phil happened to be floating in.

Tommy was ignorant to it all, still peering at the horizon and the empty fields of grass as if they had personally offended them. “Tubbo, I still don’t see shit.”

At that, Tubbo turned to look at Tommy. Again. And, again, with the motion, his back foot shifted. Another look back to the horizon, once Tommy was done airing his complaints—jesus christ, could Tubbo not sit still for one second while Phil sorted this out—and the thing had slid down far too much, half of Tubbo’s body weight braced against where one roof tile jutted out against the next. “Well, it has to be here. Right?” Tubbo asked, still oblivious to his perilous situation.

“Nope,” Phil said, floating out into Tubbo’s field of vision. “You won’t find it. Get off the roof.”

Tommy steamrolled on. “I don’t know, I can’t see it.”

“I mean, it’s not like it just disappeared,” Tubbo said, shrugging. 

“Boys,” Phil said, hovering closer, “you won’t find the greenhouse like this. There’s a path, for christ’s sake. Please get off the roof before you hurt yourselves.”

Tubbo, now, chose to cast a slight, almost unconscious glance in Phil’s direction—though he didn't seem to realize it. He just tilted his head towards Phil, going on as if-

As if he’d heard what Phil said.

Though Tubbo’s eyes lifted up towards where Phil was, he was responding as if he were talking to Tommy—even though Tommy was on the opposite side of him, his voice a lot whinier. Tubbo’s limbs just moved faster than his thoughts, faster than any part of him could process why he’d just heard a voice, and he answered. “A path?” he said. “Tommy, what are you-”

A pause.

Tubbo’s brain caught up with the rest of him. And he froze, stiffening, eyes darting up in Phil’s direction. “What the…”

There it was. 

Phil stared, for a second—he had to admit, he was surprised that it’d worked like this. He was surprised it’d worked at all, given those first attempts. It was definitely harder with Gran, but still.

Tubbo’s eyes went, just barely, wider. “Tommy?” he started, panic in his voice, and yes, his pupils were almost, almost focused on where Phil was floating, just barely off of the roof shingles, in front of him. “Tommy?”

Tubbo’s head whipped back to Tommy.

His back foot shifted with the sudden movement.

And, as if just to taunt Phil:

That god damned thing slipped.

In a flash, Tubbo’s feet were out from under him, and Tubbo was tumbling down the roof.

In that moment, several things seemed to happen at the same time:

“Shit.” Phil grabbed for Tubbo. He just forgot about the ghost thing, curses flying from his mouth. 

And, predictably, Tubbo just slipped through his arms.

Next: Tommy turned around, too slowly, catching on the movement in the corner of his eye. “Tubbo? What the-”

All while Tubbo’s hands clawed at the tiles, his eyes wide in fear, trying to grab onto anything to keep himself from falling down. He cried out, a loud “Tommy! ” that sent shivers down Phil’s spine, but he slid all the same, sliding and sliding down and down and down.

Until he was dangling three stories over the ground. 

At the last moment, his hands caught on a row of tiles sticking out from the rest, arms shaking as he fought to hold on. “Tommy!"  he called again, breathing hard, his arms shaking as he tried to pull himself up. “Tommy, help!"

“Tubbo, no!” Tommy lunged forward, running bow-legged down the roof until he was crouched at the edge, one hand splayed out and one reaching out. He tried to grab at Tubbo, leaning down the roof to try to take his hand. 

But he didn’t note where his center of gravity was.

Phil tried to grab at Tommy’s shirt, forgetting himself again. He held it for a second, but then Tommy’s weight was moving, his body shifting forwards.

And so, as Tubbo clasped one of Tommy’s hands in his, fingers scraped and bleeding from the slide, Tommy lurched forward. His eyes went wide.

“Shit- fuck- Tommy!” Phil yelled, floating fast and trying, trying to grab him. But just as before, Tommy slipped through his fingers.

And Phil stood there, helpless, as the boys fell off the roof.

He just… stood there. They tumbled on down, Tubbo falling first and Tommy right in his wake, and-

And Phil could do nothing, his breath high in his throat as he was forced to watch. As he heard them land with a sickly thump -

-into a bush.

A… bush?

A bush.

Phil blinked hard.

It took a moment—a long, long moment—for him to realize what had just happened. Phil stared, peering down at the boys as they lay there, frozen, on the overgrown bushes on the front walk. He was breathing hard, his stomach sunken into his chest, panic racing through his non-existent heart. And, oh goodness, the house shook with him. It felt tense, waiting for the other shoe to drop, waiting for whatever had just happened to catch up with him and- and-

Tommy’s eyes were wide. Tubbo still hadn’t moved, the rise and fall of his chest the only indication that the fall hadn’t killed him. The fall wouldn’t have been comfortable—the bushes were prickly, chosen for their low maintenance rather than their gentle nature—and the two of them were still, obviously, far from fine. 

But they just lay there for a long, long moment, their minds struggling to catch up, just as Phil’s did, with the fact that they weren’t mush on pavement.

Until, after that long moment finally gave way—

Tommy started laughing. 

He just started… laughing.

He sat there, tangled up in the limbs of that bush, and he laughed, loud and breathless as ever. 

A moment more, and Tubbo was laughing along with him, the fear liquidating into tired, clear relief as they lay there on the bushes that probably saved them from a ride to a&e, or worse.

Phil couldn’t help his own laugh, even as Tommy pushed himself upright, clutching his shoulder with one arm and helping Tubbo up with the other. They were a bit hurt—Tommy winced as Tubbo pulled him into a hug, and they both were covered in scrapes and bruises—but they were okay.

Fuck. 

They were laughing. They were okay, thank goodness, but… fuck. Phil was struggling with it, and he hadn’t even been the one to fall. He took a deep breath, as he floated down to them.

As he came down near them, he felt a sudden wave of exhaustion overcome him, the relief giving way. The rush of it all finally caught up with him, the realization of what he’d just done sinking in slowly, slowly, mocking him with the way it meandered on in.

Phil had—goodness, he’d messed up. But… for now, they were okay. They were smiling, and they were hurt, but- but they’d be okay.

They were okay…  for now, they were okay.

Chapter Text

Tommy was very hurt. 

Tommy was also trying to hide that he was very hurt.

Generally speaking, they were both relatively okay, considering that they’d both just fallen off a roof. But while Tubbo was okay to just patch himself up and go on about his day, Tommy was… not.

Tommy sat there at the kitchen table, his arm clenched tight in his hand, teeth gritted, face pale as Tubbo peeled off band-aids and stuck them to the cuts on his cheeks. He’d tried to do it on his own, but quickly stopped when he found that he could barely move his shoulder, let alone well enough to put band-aids on with accuracy. So Tubbo was there, putting a SpongeBob band-aid where Tommy had scraped himself on the bush, Tommy sitting patiently (for him, at least) with his eyes closed. It wasn’t exactly fun for Tubbo, seeing his friend hurt and not being able to help much with it, but he was doing what he could.

He stuck one last band-aid in place, leaning away. “And… done.” 

Tommy’s eyes flicked open. He used his good arm to smooth his fingers over the last band-aid, before replacing his hand, in its new cradle, over his hurt shoulder. 

“Should I call a taxi now?” Tubbo asked, his eyes tracking the movement. “It shouldn’t take too long for me to band-aid myself, I don’t think.” It would take less time than it had for Tommy, he figured, but that was his only point of comparison. A handful of minutes, something around there.

At Tubbo’s words, though, Tommy blinked—his brows dipped low over his eyes, the band-aid along his hairline crinkling with the movement. “What?” he asked. “Why the hell would I need a taxi?”

“Well, we’re not walking to a&e, are we?” Tubbo tried on a slightly-nervous smile, laughing. He hoped, silently, that Tommy was just confused.

The hope was for nothing. 

“I didn’t realize we were going.” Tommy’s gaze hardened at Tubbo’s words.

This was going to be a bit harder than he’d thought, then—still, Tubbo was hopeful that there was something misunderstood in this. “Your shoulder’s obviously hurting you,” he tried again, his smile faltering. “We- we should go, right?”

Now, Tommy’s face just got a bit defiant. “Why- why the hell would we do that?” he said, shifting under Tubbo’s gaze. He let go of his shoulder, failing to hide a wince as he tried relaxing it to his side—an attempt at making Tubbo think it wasn’t hurting him, emphasis on attempt, because it didn’t work. Not even for a second. 

Tubbo was aware that he could be a bit daft at times, but he wasn’t stupid. Tommy was proving him right, even.

Tubbo’s frowned deepend. “Tommy.”

“Shut up, Tubbo,” Tommy said. “I don’t need a doctor.”

Tommy was serious about this, then. Well, so was Tubbo. “I’m pretty sure you do.”

Then, in another blatant attempt to get Tubbo to stop fussing over his arm, Tommy tried to change the topic. “What about you?” he asked. “Are you alright?”

Tubbo looked up. “What? Of course I am.” He could fix himself up easily, now that Tommy was covered in SpongeBob characters; all Tubbo had to do was slap band-aids on the scrapes from the roof and the bushes, and he’d be fine. He had a couple larger bumps and cuts—the one on his cheek was stopped up with a napkin at the moment, and he figured that would make him bust out the gauze—but that was about it. It was nothing in comparison to the sorry state of Tommy, as he sat there and grimaced at the kitchen table. “You’re the one with the messed up shoulder.”

“It’s not- look, I probably just stretched it wrong, or- or it’s just bruised, or something,” Tommy argued, sitting up straighter in his chair. “It’ll be fine, stop being-”

“It’s probably dislocated, Tommy,” Tubbo said, grabbing his phone from the counter. He could deal with his own little pains later. They did still have to call the taxi, after all. “We’re going to a&e.”

“No, no we’re not .” Tommy tried to grab Tubbo's phone, but, contradicting his own insistence that he was fine, failed miserably.

Tubbo ignored Tommy, opening up the app for a taxi service. He ordered one to come pick them up and take them to the nearest hospital, all before Tommy could get any more words in edgewise.

“Tubbo, I don’t need to go to a fucking hospital.”

Tubbo didn’t even glance up. “You do, Tommy.”

“No, I- I- don’t.” Tommy’s appeals took on a gentler, softer tone—goodness, Tubbo had seen him lay it on thick before, but this was a whole new level. “I don’t. I’m alright, really.”

Tubbo put his phone in his pocket, out of Tommy’s reach—Tommy had guessed his passcode a long time ago, and he wasn’t risking having Tommy cancel the taxi like this. They were going to a hospital, and that was that. 

Tubbo had made up his mind. “We’re going,” he said.

“But why? It doesn’t even hurt that much! Tubbo, look, I can-” Tommy tried to move his bad shoulder, but he’d barely moved it a centimeter before his good arm shot over to hold it still, his eyes wincing up of their own accord. “Shit,” he muttered, slumping back into the kitchen chair with his teeth ground together. “Shit, shit, fuck. Fuck.”

Tubbo just nodded at him. “Right,” he said. Sure, his sympathy was still there—what kind of person wouldn’t feel bad seeing their friend like that—but it’d hidden away the second Tommy had started protesting. Tommy was being dumb, and that was that.

So instead of offering comfort, Tubbo turned away, back to the first aid kit dissected on the kitchen table. He grabbed an alcohol wipe and ripped it open, wincing as it touched his busted up finger tips, before taking it and finally beginning the process of cleaning himself up. 

Tommy went silent, his face pensive as he leaned sideways into the kitchen chair.

“We should probably call your mum,” Tubbo said casually, after a moment, as he wrapped a roll of bandages up his forearm. It wasn’t worth it to use most of the band-aids on each arm, and he doubted they’d fit over the long, wide scratches from his slide down the roof. Plus, he’d match Tommy—Tubbo had wrapped Tommy’s up just the same.

“Probably shouldn’t,” Tommy offered, quiet, tucked into himself.

“She’ll get a call from a&e any-” Tubbo stopped. “Oh.”

Oh.

Oh.

He hadn’t even considered it. 

He’d been too focused on making sure Tommy was alright, too focused on the absurdity of what Tommy was requesting of him, to even consider why Tommy had wanted to avoid the hospital. It’d completely passed Tubbo by, slipped his mind before it’d even properly entered it.

He turned to Tommy. Just to be sure.

“Is that it?” he asked.

“She’ll make us go home.” Tommy’s voice was quiet.

“She will?” Tubbo asked. As if he didn’t know Tommy’s mom, didn’t know that Tommy’s worry was completely founded—they hadn’t even been there a week, and they’d fallen off the roof. Of course she’d want them to leave, as soon as the a&e inevitably called her. He knew she wouldn’t want them there on their own anymore, not after this. Tubbo felt a bit… a bit dumb for not realizing it sooner.

Tommy confirmed his words anyway. “Yeah.”

Tubbo turned his attention back to his arm, setting the roll of gauze down to grab the tiny scissors from the kit and snip through. He secured it with a small piece of medical tape, ignoring the red splotches already springing up all over the white fabric, and started on his other arm, going in with another alcohol wipe.

They couldn’t not go to a hospital. There was something wrong with Tommy’s shoulder, and trying to deal with it on their own simply wouldn’t be enough—it would only make things worse in the long run. The damage had already been done, and at this point, there was no way Tommy’s mum wouldn’t find out.

Tubbo’s face creased in thought. “I can… I can talk to her?” he tried, turning back to Tommy as he wrapped. It was- there wasn’t much else they could do at this point, but it was worth a shot, right?

Tommy, suddenly quite sullen, offered up a half-hearted half-shrug.

It was a pity solution, a consolation that wasn’t worth much.

Suddenly, Tubbo felt bad for being the one to slip, felt guilty for being the one that might’ve ended everything so soon after it had started. He’d fallen first, he was the one that made Tommy go tumbling down too. 

Then again, there was that… whatever he’d see up there on the roof, whatever he’d heard that had scared him in the first place. He had his suspicions, but they didn’t matter at the moment. Instead, he just voiced his apology.

“I’m sorry,” he said, meaning it in more ways than one. Sorry, for calling the taxi to get them to the hospital, and sorry that he was the reason they had to call it in the first place. Sorry as a whole, really.

Tommy offered a shallow nod, his jaw still clenched up tight. “It’s alright.”

At that, for lack of anything else to do, Tubbo kept on trying to perform first aid on himself before the taxi came to take them away. 

In the meantime?

The guilt settled, heavy, on his shoulders.

_______

The two boys took a taxi to the hospital, Tubbo talking quickly on the phone with Tommy’s mum as Tommy held his shoulder closely, eyes dreary and tired. In their wake, unbeknownst to them, they left a trio of shocked, silent, and guilty ghosts.

That is: a shocked Wilbur, a silent Techno, and a very, very guilty Phil.

“Dad, are you okay?” Wilbur asked, coming forward. Techno lingered behind, standing right outside the front door of the house, the door closed and locked behind them now that the boys were gone. Not that that mattered much.

Phil was staring after the taxi, the dust of the driveway still settling around them.

He knew they’d be back, and yet…

That was close. That was way too close. They were so close to hitting the ground and not getting back up—if those bushes had been properly trimmed, it was very likely that one of them would have hit something vital. It’d been less than a week since they’d arrived, and already one of them was headed towards the hospital. Phil knew it was an honest mistake—it wasn’t as if he’d wanted Tubbo and Tommy to fall off the roof—and he was just happy beyond belief that it hadn’t resulted in a worse outcome. 

But Phil knew his sister, or at least, was sure of how she’d react. She was relatively hands-off as a parent, very trusting of her son—Phil had been the same way when Techno and Wilbur were Tommy’s age—but falling off a roof was a bit more than either of them would accept. 

Even though Tommy and Tubbo were relatively okay, he wasn’t sure how much longer they’d be sticking around, now.

He turned from the driveway, back towards his sons. “I’m okay, Wil. Don’t worry about me,” he said.

Over Wilbur’s shoulder, Techno’s face was set in a grim line, his arms crossed over his chest. There was something conflicted, something Phil couldn’t even identify, lurking in the shadows the sunlight cast over his eyes.

Phil met his gaze, for a moment. 

Then, he glanced towards the ground, broke the eye contact with a quick blink. Still, Techno was silent, something unspoken in the way his eyes watched Phil.

Yeah, Wilbur didn’t need to worry about him—Phil was fine, if just a bit shaken, a bit guilty about the whole thing.

It was Tommy and Tubbo they needed to be worrying about.

____________

The taxi ride was relatively quiet, a far cry from the usual loud chatter between the two boys. 

They sat in the backseat—Tommy was tucked up tight, coiled around his left shoulder with an ice bag pressed to the joint, while Tubbo sat in the middle seat, knees pulled up to his chest while Tommy leaned on him with his good shoulder. Tommy was upset with Tubbo for making him go to the hospital, and Tubbo seemed upset that Tommy was upset with him, but they were curled up together in the taxi’s back seat nonetheless.

Tubbo had just wrapped up his conversation with Tommy’s mum. It went about how Tommy expected it would—though, rather astoundingly, his mum seemed less inclined to start yelling with Tubbo on the other end of the line. 

Still, it was anyone’s guess what would happen next. The rest of the summer had gone up in the air when they’d gone up on that roof, and it hadn’t quite come back down, even when they had. Which they had, obviously. That was the whole bad thing about the situation.

So there they sat, in the back of the dim taxi. Tommy tried his hardest not to look like he was in as much pain as he was actually in, as much as he wanted to just let it go and start swearing at every bump of the car. He kept it in—Tubbo had started up with that dumb face he always wore when he was overthinking something, a harsh contrast to the bright mélange of SpongeBob characters covering his skin, and the last thing Tommy wanted was to make him worry more about the state of his shoulder.

Instead, they were quiet for a while. Tommy was too tired to put up that overly-dramatic caricature he played up around Tubbo, because his shoulder fucking hurt, and Tubbo was too busy getting wrapped up in his own head. The hum of the taxi, its driver solemn and silent since being given the address, filled the space.

Until, eventually.

Tubbo broke the silence.

“Tommy?” he asked, his voice quiet. It was a nice reprieve from the thinking face, as he glanced away from the window, where he’d been watching the trees and fields fly past. It still wasn’t good—Tommy didn’t think any of this was fucking good—but hey, he would take what he could get, right? A not-thinky Tubbo was a better-off Tubbo, as far as he was concerned. And, while Tommy was still upset at the whole situation, was still in the midst of pinning that upset on Tubbo, he would still oblige.

And so Tommy looked up at him. “Yeah, Tubbo?”

“What did your uncle look like?”

What?

Tommy stared, not sure if he’d heard it right. His shoulder hurt quite a bit, maybe the weird question was just- just Tommy hearing things? Or seeing things? Maybe he’d hit his head. “What?” he asked.

“Your Uncle Phil, I mean. What did he look like?”

“Tubbo, that’s a really weird question.”

Tubbo just stared at him.

Tommy would try again, then. “Like, really fucking weird.”

“It’ll make sense, I promise,” Tubbo paused. “I think. Just- just tell me.”

There was something off, something a bit loony about Tubbo’s tone.

Normally Tommy wouldn't be so inclined to just pop out a description of his dead uncle—normally, Tommy would've closed up tight, like a clam or some shit, and refused to utter a word. But, with Tubbo's thinking face inching back into place and the taxi that smelled of old cigarettes and the way his shoulder just seemed determined to kill him with every jostle of the seat, the words popped right out. 

Mostly, though, he was just too tired to bicker about it. Tubbo could get just as stubborn as Tommy could, when he wanted to.

“Uh…" Tommy started, his voice low. "I don’t know- he wasn’t tall. Blond, very pale, I don’t think the man ever got any sun, and uh- he always wore this fucking- fucking green striped hat,” Tommy said. He didn’t remember the specific parts of his uncle’s face very well, if he was being honest—he’d been ten, bordering on eleven the last time he’d seen him in person, and the pictures his mom had showed him were all a couple years old, in his defense.

Tommy was about to go on, about to ask Tubbo why in the world he was asking about Phil. Why, in the backseat of a nasty old taxi, after they'd both just nearly died, Tubbo saw it fit to talk about Tommy's dead family. And it wasn’t even a normal question—not what were they like or how old were you when they died,  or any normal shit. It was what did Phil look like?  

But alas, he didn't get the chance.

Because, for god knows what reason, Tubbo went pale. 

Suddenly, Tommy wanted the thinky face back. It was better than whatever weird shit this was. 

“Tubbo, are you alright? Is something wrong?” he asked, sitting up a little straighter, worry building up strong in the back of his throat. For fuck’s sake, he was tired, and he was in pain. He didn’t want to deal with this. “Really, Tubbo-”

“I think-” Tubbo lowered his voice to a whisper, despite the thick pane of plexiglass separating them from the driver, “-I think I saw him. On the roof.”

Tommy blinked once, twice. “You what? ”

“I saw him.” Tubbo raised his voice a bit, glancing at the driver for a second before turning back to Tommy—he was fucking paranoid about it, for goodness’ sake. “He was trying to help us, I think, when we were on the roof. It scared me, that’s why I fell.” 

What?

Tommy’s brow dropped over his eyes. “Tubbo, I think you hit your head.”

“It was before we fell, though! I’m serious Tommy, I saw him,” Tubbo said, sitting upright in his seat, talking quickly once again. “I thought I heard someone talking, but I didn’t see anyone up there but you and me. And then I heard it again, and I saw someone, and it scared me, and I slipped. And whatever it was tried to catch me, I think.”

Tommy stared, eyes widened in disbelief. “It looked like my dead uncle?”

“They were blond, and they had a striped green hat, like- like one of those bucket hats all the rappers wear. Was your uncle’s like that?”

It was.

But Tommy didn’t want to say that. Instead, some part of his brain wondered, exactly, what Tubbo was talking about—maybe he’d- maybe it’d been the stress? And he’d seen an old picture of Phil around the house? Or- or maybe he had hit his head, before they got up there? 

Because how else would he- 

It was ridiculous. It was utterly, fucking ridiculous.

“Tubbo, what the fuck are you talking about,” Tommy said. 

“I swear, Tommy. I saw him!”

“That’s-” he started, but then the car hit a bump, and he winced, gripping the bag of ice a little tighter against his shoulder. A wave of nausea overcame him, stronger with every second the car ride went on, the more his shoulder moved—fuck, he was tired, and his shoulder fucking hurt. And so, stopping himself, he swallowed hard, sitting very stiffly back in his seat. “Can we talk about this later?” he tried, “I don’t think-”

Tubbo’s eyes went soft—Tommy could see the moment he noticed the state of him. Tommy figured he made quite a picture, his face all pale and his hand all tight over the half-melted ice bag. “Oh,” Tubbo said, nodding softly. “Yeah, of course.”

And with that, they settled back into silence. Tommy was back to leaning against Tubbo’s side, the ice bag pressed to his shoulder. The taxi kept on driving along, the driver (hopefully) oblivious to the insanity of their conversation. Tommy found himself wishing he'd taken a painkiller before hopping along with Tubbo's hospital plan, but it was too late for that, now wasn't it? Instead of complaining, though, he just closed his eyes and went back to as he was. Tubbo seemed to do the same.

Separately, both of them wondered what in the world it was that Tubbo actually saw.

Chapter Text

Tommy fell asleep in the waiting room. 

He’d kept himself awake in the taxi, grit his teeth and shut up as the doctors poked and prodded at him, and stumbled out into the waiting room afterwards without complaint—so hey, he figured he deserved it. His shoulder didn’t fucking hurt as much as it had before, hospital staff was taking their sweet time allowing them to, you know, leave, and Tommy simply wouldn’t stand for it.

Or, well. 

He wouldn’t sit for it—the waiting room had those shitty plastic chairs that made his back hurt, sure, but he wasn’t waiting standing up. Fuck no. He’d done enough for the day- for three days, really.

To put it simply: after everything with the roof and the taxi and the hell that was the first hour in the waiting room, the hospital room had been beyond exhausting. Tubbo hadn’t been considered “family” enough to be allowed back, leaving Tommy tense and nervous and in pain all on his own as the hospital staff dragged him about the place. He’d jumped when the nurse put an IV in his arm—even though that was stupid because he didn’t need it, it was just his shoulder for fuck’s sake, he didn’t need painkillers if it meant not getting a shot in his arm—and he just hadn’t been able to get his jaw, his fist, his good shoulder to unclench, even when the nurse ordered him to. 

Half an hour of suffering later, he’d walked out into the waiting room with a sling around his arm.

It had been dislocated, they said. A pop back into place (which fucking hurt; he’d suddenly realized why they’d bothered with the drugs), and they were telling him to keep the sling on for a week and avoid doing anything intense for a couple more, stressing with utmost importance that he keep the joint still as much as he could. He was, apparently, lucky he hadn’t broken anything, lucky that those bushes had been there to break the fall. 

If this was really what “lucky” felt like, Tommy was going to scream at those doctors the first chance he got.

On his other arm, in the crook of his elbow, there was a bright purple bruise where they’d stuck the IV, nestled alongside the doctor-approved SpongeBob band-aids. They’d redone a couple of the bandages, because of course Tommy just wanted to be attacked more by medical staff, but nonetheless, the SpongeBob band-aids had persisted. Tubbo had loved to see it, that was for sure.

Back to the point, though. Tommy wasn’t moving unless he had to.

Tubbo could manage the paperwork, anyways. 

At least.

Tommy was pretty sure that’s what they were waiting for. 

To be honest, he still wasn’t entirely certain why they were sitting in the hospital doing nothing. At some point, he’d just assumed it had something to do with the clipboard plopped, awaiting personal information and signatures, in Tubbo’s lap. And Tommy wasn’t about to rush Tubbo, no way; Tubbo’s shoulder was way too good of a pillow for that.  

Plus.

Well, the painkillers hadn’t quite worn off yet, leaving Tommy a tad bit… dizzy. He didn’t particularly feel like putting much thought to anything at the moment. He would accept that there was a clipboard, and he would not question why Tubbo was just sitting there not filling it out, as long as it meant that Tubbo wouldn’t be moving anytime soon.

And so, his head slumped onto Tubbo’s shoulder, his eyes finally staying shut this time, Tommy just about passed out, his stubborn want to stay awake giving out once and for all.

And, well.

It was kind of a mistake. 

Because, you see:

Tommy woke up slowly. With a groan. In the middle of the waiting room, with all these half-dead people slouched over in identical plastic chairs.

And there was someone laughing at him.

“Oh, Tommy,” the laugher said, their voice soft. “That’s no way to-”

Tommy waved a hand in the direction of the voice. “Shut up, Tubbo,” he said. For fuck’s sake, could he not just get some decent sleep for once? It wasn’t like they had anything better to be doing at the moment. There was a hand on his knee, a person crouched down in front of him—there were plenty of fucking chairs, why was Tubbo still trying to be all clingy and shit?—and he tried to push them away.

At that, there was a different voice from his side. Tubbo was back (back? Had he moved that fast?) in his chair, and now he was responding to Tommy’s complaining, and Tommy honestly didn’t have the energy for it. 

The hand was still on his knee, still trying to be reassuring. He shoved it off with a huff, tucking his knees up against his chest instead. “Gerroff me,” he said.

A laugh, this one different from the first. “I think he’s a bit out of it,” Tubbo said, to- who? Was Tubbo talking to him?

Tommy found he didn’t care. At that moment, he really just wanted to go back to sleep. “‘M not ‘out of it,’” he said. “Fuck off, before I- before I-” His head went blank, his words falling off into nothing as his thoughts tapered away just as quickly as they’d come. Tommy slumped back onto Tubbo, his eyes still stubbornly shut.

The powers that be, unfortunately, seemed to have other plans. Because of fucking course they did. 

The first voice—a woman’s, now that Tommy thought about it—piped in, gentle and soft and definitely not Tubbo. “Come on Tommy,” she said. “Time to wake up.”

What? “Mum?” he asked, confused. It didn’t sound  like his mum’s voice, but there was no way the hospital staff would have this kind of patience with him. And she was, undoubtedly, the one they would’ve called.

Another laugh, a bit more gentle than the first. “Close,” the woman said.

Tommy finally caved. He tried, all at once, to get the sleep out of his eyes. A blink, then another, and-

Oh.

Oh.

Oh, he was fucked.

His mum was absolutely livid, wasn’t she?

Standing in front of him, a smile on her face, was Tommy’s aunt. 

His Aunt Kristin, to be precise.

Well, she wasn’t officially his aunt. She and Phil had dated for a good bit, and they’d been planning for her to move to England and move in, an engagement ring wrapped tight around her finger, for a good couple of months. They’d set it up to be as soon as Techno’s fencing season, full of hectic weekends travelling about the country, was over. 

As it turned out, the delay had been a blessing—it’d saved her life. It was why she hadn’t been there the night of the fire, why she’d spent that time waiting for a red-eye out to the UK instead.

Years had passed, and she and Tommy’s mum had grown close. Though Kristin had had no real ties to Tommy’s family after the fire had swept away with Phil, she’d been sucked in nonetheless. 

And, hey, Tommy liked her. He was happy she was there. She’d met Tubbo before, which was more than he could say for his late uncle. Sure, her presence meant Tommy was absolutely, utterly fucked—Tommy knew his mum, and this was a surefire sign she hadn’t trusted herself to handle the situation calmly, had sent the level-headed aunt in her stead—but it made everything a bit easier to deal with. Kristin looked exactly as she had when he’d seen her last, not too long ago.

And, as Tommy recognized her, she smiled. “There you go,” she said.

Out of the corner of his eye, Tommy recognized an unfamiliar figure—a nurse, dressed in sterile blue scrubs, their eyes impatient. 

Right.

He was in a&e. 

Oh.

Shit.

He was in a&e.

“Okay, I know- you know, I know this looks bad,” he started, trying trying trying to get the explanation out past his too-heavy tongue. His eyelids were still heavy, the words fuzzy. “But I can- we can explain. We can- we can explain.”

Kristin blinked, confusion crossing her face for just a moment. Then, there was the realization, the smile fading just slightly, the words popping out of her mouth. “Tommy, we’ll talk about it-”

Tommy knew, in hindsight, that this was the worst possible time to plead his case. His words were as dulled as his brain felt, and to be honest, he really just had no idea what the hell they’d pumped him full of. In hindsight, giving the nurse a 10 on the pain scale had been a bad idea. Sure, his shoulder didn’t hurt much anymore, but on the other hand, he also was fairly certain he couldn’t feel anything else either.

But there were important matters to attend to, and they would need to be attended to right that instant, right as a strange sort of fear spiked through Tommy’s brain. Or, well, it was sort of irrational, too—it was on the mind, at least, and Tommy’s drugged up head saw it as a now-or-never kind of deal. So, now it was.

After all, Aunt Kristin meant his mum was mad. His mum being mad meant there was a near certainty he and Tubbo were getting sent home. And going home meant the whole summer was ruined and they wouldn’t get to goof off on their own, and Tommy would have to leave the house when he was just starting to feel better about it, and- and there was just so much to do, so many reasons to stay.

Of course, Tommy’s head was not in a state capable of handling that much information. So, without any care for the time or place or situation he was in, Tommy’s words shot out of his mouth, shaky and slow.

“No!” He yelled. Eyes from around the waiting room came to him, the nurse’s foot starting to tap as they stood there and waited out his antics. “We should- let’s talk about it now.” He nodded, mostly to himself. “I want to talk about it now.”

Kristin’s whole face, all at once, seemed to just melt for him. Goodness gracious, the woman was handling it so graciously that Tommy felt a bit guilty for even trying to plead his case.

But then, Tubbo was there. “Tommy. Hush,” Tubbo hissed, lowering his voice. Then, he picked it back up to a normal volume, his eyes directed back towards Kristin. “I’m sorry, they- uh, they gave him a lot of drugs, Ms. Kristin. He’s a bit delirious-”

Tommy shoved Tubbo away with a flail—oh, what a graceless movement it was—in his direction. “No, I’m not fucking- delirious and shit! Shut up!”

“Tommy, please.” Tubbo was pleading now.

But Tommy wasn’t having it, even though he knew, somewhere in his head, that it would be best if he just shut up until the drugs wore off. Honestly, he was starting to think his own consciousness was working against him at this point. “Aunt Kristin, look- look at this,” Tommy said, sitting up a little straighter. “It was- Tubbo said it was Uncle Phil’s fault. He scared him, so he fell!” he tried, turning to Tubbo. “Right?”

“What?” Kristin’s eyes glinted with confusion. “Toby, do you know what he’s talking about?”

“I think he’s just- just really out of it,” Tubbo said. "And, uh- it's 'Tubbo,' please."

Tommy stared at Tubbo for a long, long moment. Of course, of course Tubbo would dismiss this perfect defense—the one Tubbo had already told him about in the taxi ride, when he’d asked all those weird questions and said those weird words—like it was nothing.

Tommy opened his mouth to object, the words roiling and battling to get out all at once, his head struggling to keep up with them, and fuck he wasn’t going to remember any of this and he was going to probably regret it anyways, wasn’t he-

But, before Tommy could keep on spitting nonsense, the nurse, at long last, butt in. 

They leaned in close to Kristin, their eyes darting between her and Tommy. “Ms?” they asked.

Kristin’s brow rose back up to its normal spot, and she turned away from Tommy and his nonsense words, back to the reason she was there to begin with: so they could leave. 

The nurse went on, “We can forward the paperwork later, if you would like to take him home first?” There was a hint of amusement in their voice now, mixing with slight annoyance. Tommy had no idea what that meant.

Kristin quickly nodded. “That would be fantastic, thank you.”

At that, everything became a whirlwind of incomprehensible movement. Kristin handed the clipboard back to the nurse, who was still glancing at Tommy with amusement in their eyes every so often, as they explained how to take care of his shoulder over the next couple of days. He caught glimpses of the conversation—ibuprofen or tylenol when needed, the max dosage, other bits and bobs of information—but, very quickly, he found himself lost, unable to see the point. Somewhere along the line, the nurse, Kristin, and Tubbo all started laughing, and Tommy found himself unable to understand a single bit of it, just slumped over in his chair while the world went on. 

Just to be a problem about it, he frowned, deeply, and tried to keep his eyes open. He wouldn’t be complicit in his own confusion, goddamnit. 

After all that, they were on their way out. Finally.

Tommy wandered along with Kristin’s hand at his back to guide him, still halfway high on the painkillers, but smart enough to get Tubbo’s cue to shut up for now. Gone were the cool walls of the hospital; in their place was the almost-sticky heat of the sun on the asphalt parking lot. 

It wasn’t long before they’d reached the car—the same one Tommy remembered she’d always had, with the sticker on the back window and the little ding in the bumper—and Kristin helped him in with gentle hands, talking about something he couldn’t make out, laughing at Tubbo’s words as she softly buckled in his seatbelt around the sling and closed the door.

The car smelled familiar, comforting. Like many things about Kristin, he liked it.

______

Tubbo snapped up the front seat this time—he’d been an armrest enough for one day, he figured. Any longer, and he swore he was going to grow a callus.

Plus, he figured Tommy would- 

Yup.

Tommy passed out, once again, as soon as they got him into the car. Tubbo had barely buckled his seatbelt, glancing back to ask Tommy how he was doing, before Tommy’s eyes had slipped shut all over again.

Given how he’d acted in the waiting room, half-awake and mumbling half his words, Tubbo was surprised it hadn’t happened sooner. Tubbo hadn’t been able to make heads or tails of the chart the nurse had given him—with the long drug names and procedures spelled out in incomprehensible combinations of mixed up latin, the Times New Roman just small enough to mock him—but he figured whatever they’d pumped Tommy full of had been a bit too high of a dosage. All in all though, it was a bit relieving to hear Tommy’s soft snores and see his head slumped against the cool glass of the window.

Plus.

Well, that had been one mess of a situation. Tubbo had not expected to play referee for a drug-induced Tommy, making up whatever excuses he could and blurting them out to Kristin in a way that, he was sure, was not believable. Tubbo knew he wasn’t a good liar, but Tommy had forced the issue. And now, they were most likely in some kind of shit about it.

In fact:

As soon as Kristin started up the car, there were questions on her lips. He hadn’t even made it fifteen minutes.

“Now,” she said, in that patient tone she’d used with the half-delirious Tommy—only, now that he was on the receiving end of it, Tubbo wasn’t sure how much he liked it. “Do you know what in the world that was about?”

He chose the obvious option.

He played dumb: “What?”

Kristin chuckled. Yeah, Tubbo was definitely a bad liar. Maybe he’d played a bit too dumb. “Tommy said Phil scared you off the roof,” she said.

“Yeah?”

“Tubbo,” she said, her voice turning a bit more serious.

He sighed, shrugging his shoulders. And, in the best tone he could muster, said, “I don’t know.” 

It was partly true—Tommy hadn’t seemed to put a second of thought to Tubbo’s claims in the taxi, before he’d gone ahead and denied them and pushed them off to the side. So, really, Tubbo had no idea why Tommy had said what he’d said. Tubbo wasn’t even sure, anymore, that he hadn’t just spooked himself and imagined the whole thing. Telling Tommy so soon had probably been a mistake.

“Right.” Kristin hummed, something only slightly satisfied, but that seemed to be enough to appease the questions—for now, at least. She changed the topic. “How are you?”

Tubbo’s head jerked. “What?”

“Tommy’s a bit of an attention grabber, isn’t he?” she said, smiling and giving him a quick glance. Then, her eyes were focused back on the road. “How are you, To- Tubbo?”

He squirmed in his spot, not sure how to answer her. Tubbo wasn’t the one with the dislocated shoulder, wasn’t the one babbling about a dead uncle—he was fine, all things considered. With Tommy taken care of, for now, he felt a bit better. Nerves, about this whole situation, about what he’d seen up there on the roof, about the big possibility of them leaving, still burned at his consciousness—but he was okay with that, for now. He was managing. 

Still, his voice was slightly uncertain. “I’m- I’m good, I guess,” he said.

Kristin hummed again, this time in slight discontent—her hums were easy to read, and they were frequent. Tubbo was grateful. This conversation was tricky enough as it was, had his hands curling into the fabric of his pants with the nerves. Kristin was perceptive, and Tubbo knew he was far from subtle; the levelled out playing field was nice.

On the other hand… now he knew, pretty certainly, that Kristin hadn’t believed him in the slightest.

Right, then. “I’m tired,” he continued, in an attempt to dispel her suspicion. And it was true—his eyes were sagging now, too, and the tiredness catching up now that Tommy was handled and dozing away in the backseat. The quiet conversation was just making it worse, making the tired drag on right underneath his eyes stand out.

Well shit. He really was tired.

Kristin’s eyes softened. “It should be about twenty minutes,” she said. “If you want to get some rest.”

Tubbo shook his head. “No, I should-” A yawn interrupted him, his blinks getting longer and longer. His body was trying to make him think he didn’t have a choice here, but he- he did. “I shouldn’t, not right now,” he said. “I need to-”

“You’re making me tired, Tubbo.” Kristin laughed softly—she laughed a lot, Tubbo noticed, and she smiled just as much. 

And, to be honest, he was tired. Goodness- no, he was exhausted. It’d been a terribly long day, and the sun had yet to even set. Another yawn, and he acquiesced. “Maybe I- maybe,” he muttered, leaning against the window. “Are you sure?”

She smiled. “Get some sleep.”

He watched her from the corner of his eyes, blinking slowly. The car felt warm, right on the edge of hot, and it was making him relax more and more as the seconds ticked on.

“I’ll wake you up when we get there,” she said. “Promise.”

Sure. “If you promise.”

And with that, the events of the day finally caught up with him. Tubbo closed his eyes, slowly, enjoying the way the sunlight beamed down on him, all of the bandages slightly scratchy against his skin, his hair still mussed up from the fall—he was sure there was a leaf buried in there somewhere.

And, well.

He was out like a light.

Chapter Text

In the past couple of hours, Wilbur found himself a bit annoyed. 

He was as worried as the next guy, don’t get him wrong—he’d only seen the aftereffects of Tommy and Tubbo’s tumble off the roof, and that’d been more than enough to make his brow crease in concern. But, between Phil’s stressed-out pacing and Techno’s passive, almost smug refusal to help with it, Wilbur wasn’t left to do much else. He’d been trying to make light of the situation, to lighten the mood the two of them were in, for the past couple of hours. 

He’d since given up, of course—he’d left Phil to watch the driveway from the front window, left Techno to sulk on his own. In the past hour, he’d gone on to play some songs, since he could do it without worrying about the children hearing and interfering. Still, though, Techno and Phil’s reactions nagged at the back of his mind, no matter how hard he tried to brush them off.

Naturally, Phil was the first one outside when that same old red car pulled up. 

The dust had just barely settled, Kristin’s familiar figure opening the car door for a woozy-looking Tommy, and out Phil went, a nervous smile all about. Tubbo emerged from the other side—from a distance, as he phazed through the house and floated down to the driveway, Wilbur could still spot those ridiculous SpongeBob band-aids stuck all over the place, the pink shadows underneath just barely visible in the sunlight.

Phil quickly flurried around Kristin, Tommy and Tubbo, practically mobbing them as their little procession went on towards the front door. “Oh, thank fuck they’re okay,” he said.

Really, the tension seemed to just melt out of him, at Kristin’s presence. Part of it had to do with the state of Tommy and Tubbo, sure, but Wilbur wasn’t quite sure the two of them were that remarkable on their own: Tommy was quiet, barely conscious, and Tubbo was still blinking sleep from his eyes in the bright sunlight. Kristin, in the little scene playing out before them, was center stage, and Phil was jumping at the chance to gaze upon her without the worry of scarcity.

That is: While Kristin was a more frequent visitor than Tommy, as was most everyone, Wilbur wouldn’t have called her a common sight around the place. Gran had been a common sight—before she was zipped off, before Tommy and Tubbo were plopped in her place. Kristin, on the other hand, had only come by every once in a while. Wilbur didn’t blame her—she lived about an hour away, a few towns over from the rural hills they called home—but it didn’t make it any easier when she did come over. 

Phil’s eyes still lit up at the sight of her, five years and many visits later.

She, of course, couldn’t see it. She didn’t even know it was a possibility for Phil’s eyes to, from beyond the grave, gaze after her. Instead, she remained predictably oblivious as she hassled Tommy and Tubbo in through the front door, using the same too-crowded key ring and cheap duplicate house key she’d always used, the deadbolt thunk-ing out of place.

Phil floated in after them. 

Wilbur opted to phase through the wall, Techno trailing behind him.

“Great,” he said, turning to Techno. “Now we have to hear the child complain more.”

Techno was silent, that look of silent criticism on his face, shrugging off Wilbur’s words as he turned away.

Wilbur rolled his eyes. 

Techno could be so Techno sometimes. Frankly, it was starting to get on his nerves, the way he was acting now that Tommy and Tubbo had fallen off of a roof—no, that was wrong. Techno had been acting weird ever since Tommy and Tubbo had shown up. The events of the day, the look on Techno’s face as the taxi had carried Tommy and Tubbo off towards the hospital, had just exacerbated whatever it was.

But that was a thought for another time. He wouldn’t push it, nor would he push his awful joke, for now.

And so the three of them were left to do nothing but float there, silent, as Kristin settled Tommy into place. Phil was practically gawking—with the most gooey, sappy look on his face, Wilbur would note—and Techno gazed on with a strange scrutiny in his eyes, his brow creased slightly in thought, while Kristin lay Tommy down on the couch, extra mindful of the shoulder tucked into the hospital-issued sling, with a slight hum. Tubbo was chatting with her from over her shoulder, and she laughed along to his words, that familiar thing. 

It brought a slight smile to Wilbur’s face, this one a lot easier than the one from his joke before. He shook it off, though. It wasn’t the time for that.

From his place over towards the corner, Techno’s head jerked, that little crease still tucked between his brows. His eyes landed, scrutinizing, on Tubbo, with a deepening frown in his cheeks.

Wilbur couldn’t help his curiosity. He floated over. “Something up?”

Techno blinked, gaze unwavering. “Watch Tubbo’s eyes.”

Wilbur glanced over, and sure enough: Tubbo was glancing around more than he had before, his eyes searching for something. Probably Phil, if the incident on the roof was any indication. There was no doubt that Phil had been seen, at least partially—the rest of them were probably okay for now, but Tubbo was definitely skeptical of Phil, at the very least.

The thing was, Wilbur didn’t particularly care. It wasn’t like he’d been subtle about his existence, nor had Phil. If Tommy and Tubbo figured it out, then they figured it out. 

Techno, however, did seem to care about this development.

That annoyance, like a slight little itch Wilbur couldn’t quite get rid of, popped up anew. Still, he just nudged Techno with his shoulder. “Stop worrying for once, would you?” he asked, trying on a smile. “He’s harmless.”

Techno’s frown turned into an annoyed grimace. But he said nothing, just let out a short, low humph , before focusing back on every subtle twitch of Tubbo’s pupils, his arms crossed firmly over his chest.

Wilbur frowned right back. Phil went on, eyes still only for Kristin.

Just then, Kristin had finished settling Tommy in, her quiet chatter with Tubbo dissolving into silence as her attention went about elsewhere. She just draped a dusty old blanket over Tommy, smiling to herself as Tommy curled up around it, and straightened up with a slight noise of self-content.

And, well.

At that, Tubbo immediately began pouring excuses. “Please don’t make us leave,” he started, words fast and tumbling over each other, slightly hushed in the presence of the quiet Tommy. In his haste, his hands buzzed about, hurried. “Ms. Kristin, I promise it was all my fault. It was- it was me, not Tommy. I got scared, and I pulled Tommy down, we were just trying to find the greenhouse, and-”

“Tubbo,” Kristin said, putting a hand on his shoulder. 

He jumped slightly, but his eyes leveled out to meet hers. “Y- yeah?”

“Breathe,” she said. There was a soft smile on her face, and Tubbo just nodded, quiet numbly, right in response. 

Somewhere along the line, he remembered to actually follow her directions and, you know, breathe. At least, a little bit. He still looked just about ready to join Tommy and pass out on the couch, but he was steady enough, as Kristin’s hands fell from his shoulders. “Right,” he exhaled.

Wilbur chuckled. 

Techno and Phil gave him an odd look. But, in the end, they didn’t respond, and Wilbur was left to just roll his eyes again.

The two of them, he swore.

Kristin opened her mouth to respond to Tubbo, likely something along the lines of telling him to actually breathe this time, but she stopped herself before the words could get out. Her eyes had caught on something over Tubbo’s shoulder.

Wilbur smiled. 

Though Techno would often claim otherwise, Wilbur had his moments of ingenuity. And, well, he’d always had a flare for the dramatics, anyways. If anything, Techno should’ve expected this; it was perfectly in-character, if he did say so himself.

That is: the back door was swung wide open, a very distinct and very familiar sword plopped on the table in front of it, acting as a somewhat crude arrow to point any eyes that gazed upon it out towards the yard. Techno frowned deeper, discontent very evident on his face as soon as he seemed to realize what , exactly, Wilbur had used to point Tommy and Tubbo in the right direction.

It was Techno’s old sword, pointing out the open door, down the steps and out into the grass. The path, just as Phil had told him to make.

In Wilbur’s defense, he’d drawn a map and jammed it on the tip of the sword; it wasn’t like the sword was the map. It was just the fastest thing he could think of, sure to catch their eyes.

And catch their eyes, it did.

“Did you open that?” Kristin asked, her eyes lingering on the open door and then, in a blink, on the sword displayed out before it. “Tubbo, did you go into the attic? Did you-” She stopped herself when she reached the table, taking Techno’s sword gently in her hands. Her eyes were wide, as her hands ghosted along the handle.

At Wilbur’s side, as soon as her fingers grazed the hilt, Techno tensed. 

Tubbo shook his head, quickly, shortly, at Kristin’s words. “No, we didn’t- I don’t even know where the attic is, and we- Ms. Kristin, we didn’t-” he tried to explain, but she wasn’t paying attention. He stopped, confusion quickly coloring his face. “Are we- are we not allowed up there?”

“No, no- of course you are, but…” Kristin had always seemed the type to know what to say—always, Wilbur could remember how she’d said exactly the words he’d needed to hear—and yet there she was, trailing off. She finished the sentence with a slight, unsure hum. “This shouldn’t be out here,” she said, turning the blade over in her hands, eyes scanning for scratches or nicks or bumps. “I thought Tommy would know better.”

Wilbur huffed a slight laugh. It was funny, having Tommy catch the blame for this. Sure, any explanation for the sword’s sudden appearance would work, come the end of the day—it wasn’t like Wilbur was about to correct them, not that he was sure he could, even if he wanted to—but this was funnier.

The humor faded quickly, though, when Tubbo’s voice interrupted Wilbur’s thoughts. “What is it?” he asked, voice quiet.

“It’s- well. I suppose Tommy still calls him ‘Techno,’ that boy and his nicknames,” she said, her voice soft. She glanced over to Tubbo. “It’s Techno’s old sword. He was a fencer, the best in the country.”

Tubbo’s eyes went wide. “Oh. Wow.”

Kristin smiled, a slight laugh playing past her lips. She held the sword out to Tubbo, handle first. “You can hold it, if you like.”

Tubbo hesitated.

“It won’t bite, I promise.”

“A- alright,” he said. And then, silently, reverently, he took it. He fumbled with it for a moment—it seemed it was lighter than he’d expected it to be, and he overestimated how to hold it, hands shooting up just slightly in the air—but then it was settled gently in the palm of his hands, the worn leather soft.

Techno stiffened. His frown, already deep, turned into an uncomfortable grimace.

Wilbur recognized the sentiment. “C’mon. Don’t be a prick about it, Techno,” he said. His annoyance at Techno from earlier faded away. In its place, there was the smile on his face, the wish to preserve whatever gentle moment was passing between Kristin and Tubbo, as they spectated on from the side. His hand came up to Techno’s shoulder. “Let them be.”

“They’re messing with it.”

“I know, I know,” he said, letting his hand fall to Techno’s wrist, tugging him back. “Tommy played my guitar the other day! Hell, I play it all the time!” He smiled wider. “It’s weird, but you get used to it. They’re just curious.”

As if on cue, Tubbo traced his bandaged fingers softly along the edge of the blade, fabric tracing reverently over the steel. Techno tensed, teeth clenching as goosebumps raced up his arms from where they were crossed over his chest—he didn’t move, though. Wilbur nodded in approval, though he wasn’t sure Techno even noticed.

And it was worth it, when the next words slipped out of Tubbo’s mouth.

“It’s beautiful.”

Kristin took it back, as Tubbo offered it up. “He picked it out himself,” she said, setting it back down on the table. Wilbur’s crude map had fluttered to the floor, caught in the afternoon breeze flowing through the open door, unnoticed in favor of the artifact out in plain sight. “Phil said he went on about it for months, saving up and trying to figure out which one he wanted. He thought it was cute.”

In tandem, Wilbur and Techno turned to look at him.

Phil shrugged. “It was pretty cute,” he said, his innocence as fake as could be. Wilbur couldn’t help his own smile, even as Techno squirmed in embarrassment next to him, translucent cheeks going a slight pink the same shade as his hair.

As always, Tubbo and Kristin went on, the three of them unnoticed.

“What was he like? Tommy’s uncle, I mean,” Tubbo asked, his voice lilting up with the question. “He doesn’t talk about him very much—him or his cousins.”

Kristin hummed. She did that thing she’d always done when she was thinking, wringing her hands back and forth, fingers running over each other, as they settled in front of her. It was a moment before she spoke, that slight crease in her brow growing as she mulled over her words. “It was a lot for Tommy, losing them,” she said, a slight sigh passing through her lips. “It was a lot for all of us, really.”

Tubbo nodded.

“I understand that he doesn’t like talking about them,” she continued, eyes wandering up to where Tubbo stood, beside her.

“Oh.” Guilt quickly overtook Tubbo’s face. “I-” His mouth opened, then shut, then opened anew. “I’m sorry- I didn’t know. I mean, I assumed-”

Kristin quickly shook her head. “No, no,” she said. A gentle smile lit up her face. “You’re only curious. It’s alright. But, I do think it would be best if Tommy told you himself, when he’s ready to.”

Tubbo nodded. “Right, yeah. Sorry.”

She smiled wider. “Don’t be,” she said. “I still miss them, sometimes. I’m sure Tommy’s the same.” Her gaze wandered out to the field just outside, through the wide-open front door and out to the grasses and flowers waving in the wind.

A moment passed between her and Tubbo, silent but not quite still. The curtains lining the windows, all around the room, waved slightly—the light linens tasted the breeze, lifting the dust and stiffness from the fabric just like that. Wilbur’s eyes caught on them, in the corner of his eyes, for a moment.

But then, his eyes were heading right back over, right as Tubbo nodded. “Can I- do you know how I can help?” Tubbo asked, his voice quiet. “I want to- I want to help. But, uh, it’s… it’s a lot.” He rubbed the back of his neck, an awkward chuckle popping out of his mouth.

Kristin perked up, at that. “A lot?”

“He, uh, really  doesn’t like to talk about them.” Tubbo shrugged. “I’ve been trying, but I- I’m trying. I don’t want him to- I’m not sure how it’s been going.” He chuckled again—goodness, the kid had a nervous habit. “I mean, he kind of fell off a roof because of it. So- uh, yeah.”

Kristin’s hand went to rest at Tubbo’s back, comforting. Out of the corner of his eye, Wilbur saw Phil smile—Wilbur remembered how Kristin used to do that, sometimes, enough that he could almost feel the phantom touch at the base of his own spine. 

“Hey,” she said. “It’s alright. It’s- Tommy’s tough, yeah, and he’s touchy when he wants to be. It isn’t something you can push.”

Tubbo’s eyes were to the floor, now.

“There was a long time where I couldn’t think of him- let alone talk about him. Phil, Tommy’s uncle, I mean,” she went on, hand rubbing comforting circles, tugging Tubbo closer. It was an odd picture, what with the two of them standing around the same height, but Kristin seemed determined to make it work. “Tommy was close with all of them, closer than I think I was. He’s… he’s taking his time.” She smiled. “He’s a bit slow, sometimes.”

Tubbo’s smile shed a bit of its nervousness. “Don’t let him hear you say that.”

Kristin tugged him closer, even, a little jostle of his shoulders that made the fading smile on his face pick up just a bit—fuck, she’d always been good at comforting people, hadn’t she? 

Wilbur couldn’t help it, couldn’t help how suddenly he missed it. But, again, he brushed it off to the side.

“Really, I know you want to help, Tubbo, but you have to be patient with him,” she said, as the joke faded. “You’re helping how you like to. Tommy does things a bit different, is all.” Her gaze turned, her gentle smile fading ever-so-slightly. “We all do.”

There was still something sorrowful, something regretful, in the air—it was there in places Wilbur didn’t think to look, in the new wrinkles and smile lines he didn’t recognize on Kristin’s face, and it lingered in the look in Tubbo’s eyes. But still, the smiles stayed on their faces. Phil and Techno were still and silent, the wind died down and the curtains stopped their joyful sway in the breeze. 

Something in Wilbur suddenly wanted to be known . He wanted to rush forward and pull Kristin into his icy hug, to let his fingers brush against something tangible and real, to just get on with it. Because, despite the visits and the old memories and everything that was different and new about her, he missed  her. He was positively certain  Phil did too—he had more of a right to than Wilbur did, really—and he knew that Techno probably felt something similar, try as he might to hide it, but Wilbur couldn’t help it. 

It was just like that itch, popping up all over again.

It was a little fly, buzzing around his head and picking away at him where it wanted to, bit by bit. Right then, as Kristin embraced Tubbo and offered up words of comfort, the buzzing crescendoed right next to his ear.

“Right, yeah,” Tubbo said. He punctuated his sentence with a yawn, big and wide as ever. 

Kristin’s sad smile perked up. “Tired?”

“A bit, yeah,” he said.

She released him, and Tubbo stumbled a bit out of the hug, earning yet another smile from Kristin’s bright face. “Why don’t you go rest up?” she asked. “I’m sure Tommy wouldn’t mind some company.”

Wilbur chuckled. As if Tommy wasn’t passed out, snoring for half the house to hear, right where Kristin had left him. Much like Kristin did, much like Tubbo did too, though, Wilbur took the escape from the heavy topic. 

He followed along, Phil and Techno right near him, as Kristin led Tubbo towards the couch he was calling his bed for the moment. The house was fairly silent, once again, as Tubbo sank into the cushions. 

They dispersed after that. 

Kristin left Tommy and Tubbo to sleep, off towards the stairs to the second floor—it was something she always did when she’d come over. 

Phil had told him, once, how she’d sit on the replacement old bed, right on the side he’d always used to sleep on, and talk. She’d take the picture frame from the dresser, the one of all four of them standing out in front of the house, from the day Phil had proposed, and she’d talk. Of course, she had no idea Phil was there , but Phil listened as if she did. That was all Wilbur knew of their talks—Phil liked to keep them mostly to himself, and Wilbur didn’t see it fit to pry.

And so, he was left there with Techno at his side, watching over the two kids draped across their couches. Still, something itched from somewhere in the back of his head: a culmination of the annoyance at Techno’s behavior—how he'd been disinterested, of all things, in the emotional stakes digging into Wilbur’s head—and the presence of Kristin—someone Wilbur had appreciated in his life, a strong reminder of what had been, of what could have been.

Watching Tommy and Tubbo drift off into sleep, Wilbur huffed, a quiet laugh meant just for himself. It caught Techno’s gaze, but Wilbur ignored him, ignored the eyebrow raised in question.

Instead, he floated off. He was done with this, for now.

And so back upstairs he went, back up to his guitar, back to the same songs he'd been trying to play for the past five years. His fingers felt nothing, strumming against the strings.

The song was sweet, though.

Chapter Text

Tommy’s painkiller-high sleep wasn’t bad, per se. 

It was alright. He would give it that. 

It was the best sleep he’d had in a while—the painkillers definitely were a bit too much, seeing how he’d been practically carried out of the hospital, but he would be damned if he said he didn’t sleep well with them. That wasn’t really the alright part, though.

No, of course not. He didn’t really care much about sleep, one way or another. As long as sleep happened, Tommy usually found himself indifferent about it.

It was the dreams that were weird. 

Not, bad—no, he wasn’t sure he’d call them that—but not necessarily great. It was, again, overall an alright experience. He’d rate it… maybe a 3.5/5 stars on Yelp, given the chance.

Because asleep there, coiled up under one of Gran’s knit monstrosities, Tommy dreamed of old memories. Even drugged up beyond belief, it seemed he couldn’t quite escape them. 

Come his waking hours, he would not hesitate in blaming Tubbo for it, yet again.

But that was that.

Right.

In the memory, he’d been jumping up and down, shrieking in excitement. It was another memory from that weird time, from around when he was 10 and his parents had started letting him go over to his uncle’s more and more. This time, the memory wasn’t one from the house—he was in a crowded building, yelling at the top of his lungs. His voice hadn’t carried much over the heat of the people all around him, but his sugar-sticky fingers (courtesy of an encounter with a lollipop gone wrong) had found Techno anyways. He’d grabbed at the edge of Techno’s fancy fencing suit, and Techno, for once, didn’t wave him away.

The response had made Tommy yell louder, if that had even been possible. “Techno! You won!”

There’d been a crown on Techno’s head, very unfortunately far from Tommy’s thieving grasp, and a wide smile on his face. He’d been laughing, low and steady and loud.

He’d ignored Tommy as Tommy had gone on—as Tommy had jumped higher and shouted more, nearly yanking him down as he shouted “you won! You won!” over and over, determined to let the whole world know how happy he was to see those cheap plastic jewels, the sign of victory, on his cousin’s head. Wilbur and Phil had shown up eventually, followed by Tommy’s own mum and dad, Kristin by their sides, and they’d tried to pry Tommy off of Techno’s shirt, but he hadn’t budged—how could he have, when he was at his happiest right there, unforgivingly pulling at the stitching of Techno’s suit as he shouted.

Until, well.

An unfamiliar voice had popped up, from somewhere in Tommy’s periphery. It was one that, now, Tommy could only vaguely remember, even in sleep. Only a few simple words, just enough to catch Tommy’s attention.

“Good job, man.”

And, all at once, Tommy had stopped his maniacal chanting. Instead, his head had jerked up, eyes quickly assessing- no, scrutinizing, the newcomer. 

Another boy had stood there, his fencing suit just as fancy as Techno’s, a fencing mask with a smiley face on it resting in one hand. The other hand was stretched out towards Techno, an offer for a handshake.

And, well.

In all his ten-year-old glory, Tommy had growled. If, perhaps, he’d been a dog, he would’ve started barking—fortunately for everyone, he was not, and he didn’t start barking in the middle of the crowded fencing piste. All the same, though, he’d started yapping, his words quick and rushed- “Oh, you think you’re so fancy coming up to Techno after you lost! Well, guess what, you- you-”  His eyes had rushed over the other boy’s suit, quick to target the first thing he could grasp, “-you green boy! You don’t get him, got it? You don’t get Techno, ‘cause I got him. I got him, he’s my cousin so- so suck it! And-” Then, out popped the first curse word his vocabulary afforded him, “-and piss off, you-”

As soon as the swear made its way out of Tommy’s mouth, though, there had been a hand there to stop him. Wilbur’s, if Tommy remembered right; Techno had stood awkwardly still, the adults surrounding them frozen still in shock, smiles fading. Tommy had, naturally, tried to bite at the offending hand—who would want Wilbur’s massive fucking disgusting hand over their mouth?—but, before he could, he’d-

The other boy had started laughing at him.

And, though Techno had shifted uncomfortably under the other boy’s gaze, Tommy hadn’t noticed. Instead, he’d just let out some kind of angry squawk around the confines of Wilbur’s hand, indignant, even angrier than he’d been before.

Soon after, Wilbur had tugged him away, prattling off an explanation to his parents as they apologized for Tommy’s behavior, even as Tommy fought with nearly every bone in his body to stay and defend Techno’s honor as he saw fit. 

In the end, though, Tommy was carted off (against his will, he might add). Techno had taken the offered hand and shaken it, a slight smile on his face as the other boy—Clay, Tommy would later learn—congratulated him on the match. Somewhere along the line, Tommy had found himself up on Wilbur’s shoulders, taller than everyone else in the crowd, but all he’d done was glare at the green boy from across the room, catching his eyes every so often and sticking his tongue out, a fresh lollipop dangling dangerously close to Wilbur’s hair.

That was the last part Tommy remembered well: riding around on one cousin’s shoulders while said cousin tried to protect the other from Tommy’s wrath. In the end, to appease Tommy, Wilbur had told him he’d let him on one of his livestreams, as long as Tommy didn’t try to attack Techno’s opponent. 

After that, though, the dream all but stopped. If he tried, he was sure he could get the memories out; they were his memories, and his own fucking brain wasn’t about to stop him from looking at them, the dickhead. 

But.

For that moment, he was okay with them ending there.

And, well, it seemed like his body wasn’t giving him much of a choice—as Tommy’s body decided to wake him up, the humid heat of the fencing arena, Techno’s smile, the ride on Wilbur’s shoulders faded away right with it.

He was never one to remember dreams well, after all, and it seemed that that wasn’t about to change anytime soon.

__________

Tommy woke up slowly, the edges of the memory fuzzy and quickly fading from his mind. 

Some peripheral part of his mind caught on the small, insignificant bits—he thought, as he rubbed the sleep out of his eyes, of how he hadn’t seen Techno’s opponent since. Not that Tommy wanted to see him. The man (whose name came easily, sure, but Tommy was pretty sure his fans called him something stupid now; Tommy wasn’t going to get it right or wrong, wasn’t even going to think of it, out of spite) had still played in the big leagues after Techno had beat him—he’d lost to Techno, but he’d beat everyone else that mattered, at the end of the day—only to drop it a couple years later. A run-in with the Olympics, a gold medal, and a cheating scandal had sent the man running off to start a YouTube channel.

Tommy was convinced he’d stolen the YouTube thing from Techno.

But that was a gripe for another time. 

Because, what would you know: as the memories cleared away, the first thing Tommy noticed was his shoulder—specifically, how much it hurt . It was better than it’d been before he’d gone to a&e, sure, but that didn’t necessarily mean it was good.

It seemed the painkillers had finally worn off. Fantastic. 

There was a frown on his face as he sat up.

And then, right like clockwork, there was Tubbo: leaning over him, a wide grin on his face. “Tommy! You’re up!” he said, his hands running over the edges of Gran’s old blanket, fiddling with a loose thread.

Even better.

Just what Tommy wanted to wake up to. 

Pain and Tubbo.

Tommy groaned at the sight of his over-eager friend, leaning back to prop himself up with his functioning arm. He was, in actuality, very glad that Tubbo was right there with him, but what else was he supposed to do? This was how they worked, and, half-awake and slightly nauseous from the painkillers or not, Tommy was going to keep it up.

Plus, he figured Tubbo was the reason he’d dreamed about his cousins—he wasn’t done giving him shit for that, for making all the reminders in the house so much louder, after all. Tommy was willing to let the falling-off-a-roof thing slide, but the rest of it? Not so fast.

As such, Tommy’s face easily scrunched into a grimace. “What the hell, Tubbo?” he asked, squinting in the low light. It was barely even dawn, the very edges of the sunrise peeking through the curtains, certainly too early for either of them to be awake. “What are you awake for?”

“You woke me up.”

Tommy glanced over, and sure enough, there was a pillow and a stack of blankets set up, flopped about just such that there was a Tubbo-shaped imprint left behind. He frowned. “What?” he asked. 

“You were making noises.” Tubbo’s hands kept working on one thread of the yarn, rolling it into a ball between his thumb and his fingers. “I think you were dreaming, actually,” he said, a slight tilt to his head as he thought.

“I snore, Tubbo.”

“But-”

“You’re so fucking clingy,” Tommy interrupted, shaking his head. “Get off of me.”

And, somehow, Tubbo had the gall to look affronted—even as, at Tommy’s request, he backed up. “Wait,” he said, brows creasing over his eyes, “I’m the clingy one?”

The events of the day before—the ones from after he’d been shot full of drugs—suddenly came back. Once again, Tommy groaned, taking a moment to scrub his hand down his face in one long swipe. 

He didn’t want to think about that. Even if, just maybe, Tubbo was a bit right.

“Where’s my aunt?” he asked instead, cutting Tubbo off before he could get another word in, flinging the dusty old blanket—jesus christ, Kristin hadn’t even checked the thing for mites or cockroaches and shit before she’d put it on him, had she?—to the side.

“She’s asleep upstairs-” Tubbo said. He stopped, scrambling as Tommy moved to get up. “Tommy wait, I don’t think you should be-”

But Tommy was not about to take orders from Tubbo, of all people. Before Tubbo could stop him, Tommy was standing up, rubbing his hair into place with one hand, the other very much still strapped to his chest. “I need drugs, Tubbo. I don’t have time for questions,” he said. Oh yeah, the painkillers from the hospital had definitely worn off, now hadn’t they?

“You don’t mean actual drugs, right?”

He looked at Tubbo.

“Painkillers are pretty addictive,” Tubbo said, shrugging. “I don’t know.”

“Ibuprofen, Tubbo.”

“Oh. Right.”

Tommy found the ibuprofen in one of Gran’s cupboards, the cupboard creaking open on the old hinges as he fished the bottle out. He didn’t know how many was a good amount, and he was too impatient to care if the pills were expired or not—fuck that, if his immune system had a problem with it then that wasn’t something to worry about right now—so, without another thought, he thumbed out four of them and chucked them back dry. A snap of the lid, another creak of the cabinet door, and he was done.

He looked away from the cupboard.

Tubbo stood there in the doorway, watching him. 

And, well shit. It was creepy, somehow, that stare Tubbo seemed to have. It was enough to have Tommy squirming on the spot. “What?” he asked, his voice sharp—fuck, he didn’t mean for it to be, but there it was. He stood by it, setting his jaw and meeting Tubbo’s gaze.

He realized, though, quite suddenly, what was up. 

Tubbo looked like shit. Though they’d both gotten a whopping twelve hours of sleep—or so Tommy assumed, from the blinking microwave light near his head—there were bags under his eyes. The same eyes which were, quite tellingly, gleaming with guilt.

At Tommy’s gaze, Tubbo fidgeted right back. “Your- uh, your aunt’s going to talk to your mum. She’s letting us stay,” he said, his arms clasped in front of him, hands wrapped up around each other.

Fuck.

Tubbo was easy to read as it was, but Tommy already had his friend memorized. It had his bad mood letting up, just a bit. He was still in pain, and he was pretty sure the painkillers were making him feel very slightly dizzy, but he found himself not quite so mad at Tubbo as he’d wanted to be. He still wanted to be—of course he did. Again, that was how they worked. But he didn’t pay much attention to it.

Tommy, as such, shrugged off Tubbo’s words. “Tubbo, my aunt loves you. She’ll do anything you say,” he said. “Really, I don’t know why you were worried.”

“You're the one who-” Tubbo started. Then, though, the confusion and the guilt seemed to slip away, all at once, as Tubbo caught on to Tommy’s words. And he smiled, a small thing, in the corner of his mouth. “She will?”

Just what he wanted. Now, Tubbo was going to have Kristin doing his bidding—Tubbo would, of course, abuse his newfound power. “Shouldn’t have said that,” Tommy said.

Tubbo’s grin widened, turning mischievous—just barely, though. 

And with that, they were settling back into their normal rhythm, Tommy mockingly making fun of Tubbo, the pain in his shoulder slowly fading away as the drugs kicked in. They went on just as they had before, settling down on the floor as Tubbo started up his Animal Crossing again, and they waited, for a while, until Kristin woke up.

Concerns still lingered about in Tommy’s head. Of course they did—he’d be oblivious if they didn’t. Though he thought he wouldn’t, Tommy remembered the words he’d said in the waiting room, he remembered the way Tubbo’s face had paled, almost a sickly white, in the car. There was definitely something up here, something Tubbo seemed content not to mention. 

But Tommy ignored it. 

He sat back, minding the sling, and yelled at Tubbo’s Switch for a couple hours instead. He’d done enough thinking over the past couple of days. In that moment, all he wanted to do was sit there and not be concerned about anything.

So, that was what he was going to do.

___________

Tommy and Tubbo sat in front of the video game just as they had that first night—this time, the blue light of the sunrise took the place of the warm yellowed sunset from before, filtering through the windows and lighting up their faces all the same.

But, despite the peaceful scene, Techno frowned. In fact, the peaceful scene was somehow even more unnerving than, say, any other scene would’ve been. The calm domesticity playing out in front of him felt… disingenuous.

“He’s not telling him,” Techno observed, aloud.

Wilbur, the only one there to hear him, perked up. Phil was nowhere to be found, probably still somewhere upstairs with Kristin. “What?”

“Tubbo saw dad. He probably thinks the rest of us are here too, but he’s not saying anything to Tommy,” Techno elaborated, the thoughts tumbling out of him. “He’s planning something.”

“Techno-” Wilbur cut himself off, a frown quickly forming, then dissipating, on his face. Techno noted the change in expression, but he chose not to comment on it. “Look, he’s trying to cheer Tommy up, let the kid be.”

“I don’t trust children.” 

In all honesty, Techno didn’t want to be there. If it wasn’t for Phil’s involvement up there on the roof—which, in hindsight, was pretty inconsequential except to raise Tubbo’s suspicions—then he would’ve left a while ago. Yet there he was. He was there, he was involved now, all because Tubbo had gotten a glimpse of the supernatural. And, now, the child wasn’t doing what Techno expected him to do with it. Techno didn’t like the unpredictability, so he’d wait until it was predictable again.

“You’re reading too much into it,” Wilbur said, floating closer to the TV screen. As he approached, Tubbo shivered in his sweater, but Wilbur didn’t seem to notice—or he just didn’t care. Instead, he just gestured towards the screen, a crooked grin on his face. “Just watch the fossils. Pretty fossils, woo!”

Techno rolled his eyes, but settled down next to Tommy on the floor, a bit wary of the kid on Tommy’s other side. 

But Tubbo didn’t say anything, didn’t give any hints that he’d experienced the supernatural. 

If he’d gone ahead and said it, Techno wouldn’t have been so suspicious. Maybe he’d already brought it up, in the taxi or at the hospital, but Techno didn’t think Tommy knew —or, if he did, he was in denial about it. Tommy couldn’t keep a secret, it was a proven fact—if he knew, if he was certain of it in the way he seemed certain about near everything else in his life, Techno knew he’d be obnoxious about it. That was how that worked; that was how Tommy worked.

As it was, it seemed like Tommy knew nothing—or, if he did, then he didn’t want  to. And the simplest answer, with Tommy, was usually the answer.

Not so much for Tubbo.

And so, Techno sat there and watched as Tubbo ran around his Animal Crossing town, mostly just listening to the quiet chatter around him. He wondered what would come of this, what it’d mean for them now. He ignored the way Wilbur was slouched over himself, hovering over the couch with his arms crossed over his chest, a couple feet away.

And he pondered, if only for just a moment, what this meant for his more… hands off approach.

Chapter Text

Kristin left just before lunch time. 

She stepped out the front door with a smile and sweet goodbyes playing across her lips, taking a moment to give Tommy and Tubbo each a parting kiss to the forehead before clicking the door into place behind her. Outside, through the window, it wasn’t long before her familiar red car was flinging up dust as it sped off down the driveway, headed right back towards where it’d come.

Tommy wasn’t sure what to do, after that. 

For the next couple of days, he was pretty much useless as far as working on the house went, and there was no way he was going to let Tubbo work on without him—much as he might complain about having to do the work, Tommy wouldn’t just sit back and let Tubbo work alone. Tubbo probably wouldn’t do it right, after all.

And so, as Tommy’s stomach rumbled and Tubbo waved him off towards the kitchen, the latter blathering on about nothing in particular (something about the birds chirping loudly outside), Tommy went along with it. He complained about Tubbo tugging him along by his free hand, yanking it away as Tubbo tried to force him to help make lunch, and settled into the rhythm without much thought. He was kicked out of the kitchen—he’d almost chopped his thumb off with a knife, and Tubbo thought it wise to exile him to the kitchen table to wait.

He waited until Tubbo was sitting across from him, a strange amalgamation of a sandwich placed in front of each of them—he’d commented a quick, “this is a shit sandwich,” on it, only to get a frown and a “next time I won’t make one, then,” in response; some people just couldn’t handle criticism—to bring it up.

“So,” Tommy started, leaning back in his chair with his sandwich squashed between his fingers, the bread mushed down under his finger tips. “Guess we get a week off.”

Tubbo looked up. “Huh?”

“Well.” Again, Tommy started his sentence and just let it hang there for a moment. “I can’t do shit. And you can’t do shit without me- you’d just make more for me to do, you’re fucking incompetent,” he said, waving his sandwich around in the air as he talked. 

“I can work on my own,” Tubbo said. He smiled slightly.

Tommy didn’t like it, that look on Tubbo’s face. Plus, who was Tubbo to stand up- to seriously  stand up to what Tommy was saying? 

And so, Tommy shook his head. Vehemently. “No. No you can’t.”

“But-”

“Nope.” He shook his head, yet again, punctuating his sentence with an angry bite from his sandwich.

“What-” Tubbo sputtered. “You didn’t even want to work, just the other day! What the hell!”

“Well now I do!”

“Tommy, I’m not-”

“Why do you even want to work?” Tommy said, flinging his hand out to the side.

And, well.

With his free hand, went his sandwich.

Down to the floor.

“My sandwich!” He yelled. And then, in an instant, he was throwing himself under the table, grasping quickly at the bread before the five second rule could run out because damn it, he was not going to let a prick like the nasty hardwood floor deprive him of his lunch. Tubbo yelled out something, probably something dumb like ‘be careful’ or ‘don’t hurt yourself,’ but Tommy ignored him. There were more pressing things to attend to.

And, well, as he snapped up his sandwich with a triumphant smile—in his head, he’d only managed to count, quite slowly, to two —that was when he saw it .

It being a piece of paper. A new, not-very-dirty piece of paper, folded up all prim and proper and discarded on the floor.

“What the hell?” he asked, snatching it between a few free fingers.

“What?” Tubbo asked.

Tommy was quick to right himself, sinking back into his chair, taking a moment to slide his sandwich back onto his plate before he went on with, well, whatever this was. “Did you do this?” he asked, nudging the paper’s careful fold (it was folded hamburger style, he would note) with the fingers sticking out of his sling.

Tubbo stared at it. “No?” He looked back up at Tommy, eyes searching for a hint of what this was, before glancing right back down to the paper in Tommy’s crooked grasp. “What is it?”

“Like hell if I know,” Tommy said. He flattened the thing as best as he could—not so Tubbo could see, but so he could see it more easily, of course—and leaned back with a huff.

It was a handful of scribbles, a jagged line veering this way and that, with careful handwriting in the margins and doodles scattered about. Whoever had made it clearly wasn’t the best artist—the illustrations were crude, at best. Nonsense, at worst.

“So it wasn’t you?” Tubbo asked, his brows raised and his hand hesitating, stopped mid-motion, over the paper. “You didn’t make this?”

Tommy frowned. “Why the fuck would I make a-” he stopped himself, glancing down at the paper, but his brain came up empty, “-whatever this is.”

Tubbo nodded agreement, though the movement was stuttering, a bit shaky. “Right, yeah,” he said. Then, taking the paper carefully in his hand, a slight smile crossed Tubbo’s face—Tommy couldn’t quite make out what it meant, as the rest of Tubbo’s body went stiff. “I think- I think Ms. Kristin made this, actually.” Tubbo looked up from the paper. “I asked her where the greenhouse was, cause-”

“Because you pushed me off of a roof.”

“I didn’t push  you.”

Tommy huffed. “We’ll see what the lawyers call it, then!” he said. And, at that, he reached across the table, snatching the piece of paper from Tubbo’s gentle grip. 

And, for a moment, he just stared at it.

Tubbo was acting weird, again, but really: who else would make something like this? The handwriting was neat enough, it made sense that Kristin knew where it was- everything lined up. But still, something was setting Tommy off, here. Something Tubbo was doing.

It was just Tommy being weird again, probably. Whatever. Tubbo could do whatever he wanted. 

At that, Tommy put the paper down. “Well, let’s check it out.”

“What?” Tubbo asked, gaping in a manner that was not unlike a fish. He paused, hesitating—it was similar to the stuttering of his movements just before, yet also different in a way Tommy didn’t know how to describe. “Are you sure?”

Tommy frowned. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

“Well, you know, lots of stuff. Stuff, happening.” Tubbo shrugged. “I figured you would want a break.” From what, he didn’t specify. Why he thought that way, he didn't say.

“I don’t need a fucking break Tubbo. What the fuck,” Tommy said, spitting his offense (not literally, for risk of damaging the map clasped in his hand with something like spit ) nonetheless. “What the actual fuck are you talking about. What the- what do you mean ‘needing a break-’ a big man like me doesn’t need -”

“Okay, whatever. Sorry.” Tubbo put his hands up to stop Tommy from rambling out more. “Forget I mentioned it.”

“About right. Fucking- can’t fucking tell me what to do- you fucking-” He paused, assessing his words for just a moment with a tilt of his head to the side, before looking back over to Tubbo. “You’re a fucking prick, Tubbo.”

Tubbo laughed, rolling his eyes. “I know, I know.”

And with that, it seemed the conversation was passed. Tommy finished up his (slightly dusty) sandwich, leaving Tubbo to figure out the directions—Tubbo didn’t trust Tommy not to ruin the map, and he kept insisting he knew the land better after their little excursion onto the roof. Tommy let him have it, if it meant Tubbo wouldn’t rag on him for eating a floor-sandwich.

After they were done, though, Tubbo was leading Tommy through the house, to the back door, the remains of their lunches abandoned and left to be cleaned up later. 

Even with the map, the greenhouse wasn’t exactly easy to find (“I thought you knew how to read it!” Tommy had complained, only to get a snappish, “I said I think I do, I never said I did!”  in return). But, lost or not, they went speeding off across the open fields. Tubbo kept the map firmly to himself—it seemed he had little trust in Tommy’s elite navigation skills—and tucked it in his back pocket once they got the direction right, swerving around trees where it told them to and ducking over uneven hills. Tommy laughed, loud and bright, as Tubbo tripped and went tumbling down a grassy slope, a slight yelp coming from where he’d stood by Tommy’s side. 

Thankfully, there were no brambles, no scraped knees to send them back to the house, this time.

They ambled along.

“How the fuck did Kristin find this?” Tommy asked, as they climbed over a hill. The hike probably wasn’t the best idea, in hindsight—his arm was already aching from the exertion, the fucker—but they were already a while away from the house. It didn’t make sense to go back now.

“Dunno!” Tubbo said, and there was something to his voice that Tommy couldn’t quite catch.

Tommy went on complaining about it, naturally: “What the fuck is that supposed to-”

Only to stop, as he and Tubbo reached the top of a particularly tall hill. Quite suddenly, all thoughts of Tubbo’s words slipped out of his mind.

Because, well.

There it was.

The greenhouse.

It didn’t look like much. It was tucked between a couple trees, its windows cracked and dirty, vines crawling up and around the sides and snaking in through whatever gaps they could find.

But it was still one of the coolest things Tommy had ever seen. 

One look, even from this distance, was all it took.

Tommy didn’t have an eye for art or architecture or, really, anything  visually good. His art classes from primary school had sent him home, once, with mounds of clay stuck together into a misshapen snowman, glaze frozen in drips down the side, and a bad grade. Given control of Tubbo’s house in Animal Crossing, he’d put mismatching furniture about the space, getting a sour look from Tubbo in response.

But he’d played piano, for a while, and he’d been decent enough. He knew Liszt and Chopin and Rachmaninoff and all the other greats. He didn’t much care for Bach, sure—he liked the sustain pedal as much as the average guy—but that was besides the point.

Point was: in some regard, he knew what he thought was cool and good and pleasing, though he didn’t give it much thought anymore. He hadn’t played piano in a while, now that he thought about it.

He could tell, still, that this greenhouse used to be… something. In a good way. 

“Holy shit,” Tubbo muttered, from by his side. “Wow.”

Tommy nodded in agreement. “Won’t fight you on that one, Tubster.”

At that, Tubbo chuckled. Tommy let out a few loud laughs of his own.

And then, well.

They approached—slowly. Tommy wasn’t allowed to run with the sling. 

They took it in as they went, let their eyes roam for anything they could find. The windows were cracked in places, splinters of glass hanging onto the frame, and dirtied with the years, yet the heavy cast iron frame stood strong, splattered here and there with orange rust. Still, as the sunlight lit up the space, Tommy’s eyes caught on the kaleidoscope of colors right through the doorway, warm and bright in the afternoon sunlight.

An old lantern hung, unlit, from the awning. As he approached, the air smelled faintly of greenery and dirt. Lilies bloomed wherever he looked, white petals glistening in the sunlight, a sharp contrast to the rotting shelves sitting just outside the building.

“Tubbo, this is the coolest thing I’ve ever seen, I think,” Tommy said. That was the only way he could think to describe the sheer amazement he felt, as far as he knew. “Fuck.”

Tubbo had a similar expression on his face. “This was worth falling off the roof.”

“Eh, don’t know about that.”

“Yeah, maybe not.”

They stopped, falling silent in front of the entrance.

“Don’t think anyone’s been here since- you know,” Tommy said softly. Gran couldn’t get this far without help, and his mum didn’t like coming back to the house. So they never came. And, really, Techno and Wilbur were the only ones who’d ever used it—seriously, at least. 

Tommy glanced towards the ground, kicking at a dead weed still embedded in the dirt.

Mostly Techno.

“That’s kind of sad,” Tubbo said, a hand coming up to trail along the doorframe. His eyes were careful, almost reverent, as his fingertips trailed along the old, peeling protective layer and the rust underneath. “Looks like it used to be nice.”

Tommy huffed, a silent laugh. “‘Used to be.’ Wonder why.” It was a crude joke—even then, he wasn’t quite sure if it was meant to be a joke.

Tubbo didn’t respond. 

Tommy stepped into the doorway nonetheless.

At one point, Phil had told Tommy of the apple seeds, lime seeds, avocado pits, and lemon seeds Techno would hoard in his room to dry out, to eventually plant, when he was deep in his gardening phase—stolen from whatever produce Phil had picked up that week, before the rest of it was discarded to the compost bin, serving as fertilizer for the very same hobby. Tommy could almost imagine Techno, as dedicated as ever, tending to whatever weird plant he’d decided to grow within its walls, as he walked along.

“Give him a potato, he could grow enough to feed a nation with it,” Phil had teased Techno about it, once, when Tommy had been over. “But he couldn’t grow a cherry tomato to save his life.”

Techno had let out a quiet “bruh,” in response, huffing and turning his attention back to the documentary Wilbur had forced them to watch—something from National Geographic, most likely.

The thought made Tommy smile. 

But- he blinked, and it was gone.

Apparently, only the lilies had survived. English winters didn’t seem like they’d be kind to too many flowers, Tommy was pretty sure. 

Blinking again just to be sure—there was so much dried up pollen in there that it was making his eyes all itchy and shit; he just wanted to be sure it was gone, alright?—he stepped forward, out of the doorway. Over his shoulder, he waved Tubbo along. “Come along, young Tubbo.”

At that, they made quick work of the place.

They went weaving and waving every which way, picking up dangerous old gardening tools, bits of mushrooms growing in the cracks in the walls, and even shattered old vases, just so they could holler across the building and show it off to the other. The greenhouse was warmer than it was outside, almost too hot in the mid-afternoon sun. But they didn’t mind. 

Tubbo found a frog, and Tommy emerged minutes later with a lizard’s tail in his palm, grumbling about the “slippery motherfucker.” Tubbo asked Tommy if he could get warts where the frog ‘peed’ on him.

His hand was just damp from the frog’s skin.

Tommy laughed.

Boxes upon boxes of sunflower seeds lined the side wall, the cardboard rotten and pliant under their curious fingertips. Tommy cracked one of them open with the sharp edge of a fingernail, and Tubbo had to stop him from eating one (at the last second, he might add—Tommy had very nearly succeeded). 

Leafy plants lined the floor, soft underneath their sneakers, and flowering weeds reached for the point of the roof. Wildflowers had seeped in around the edges, wedging roots into clumps of dirt on the floor. Nevertheless, the lilies dominated, sprinkled wherever nature had seen fit.

“They’re perennials, I think,” Tubbo said, stroking a petal gently in his hand. At Tommy’s confused look, he elaborated, “They come back every year. These were probably planted ages ago.”

Tommy didn’t know what to say to that. “Huh.”

“They’re nice.”

“Yeah,” Tommy said, turning to look at Tubbo. “Guess Techno was too dumb to plant more of those- those perenni-shits. Whatever they’re called.”

Tubbo’s face contorted into- into something, but Tubbo seemed to shrug it off. Instead, he just turned away, back to the lily he was stroking between his fingertips, and nodded. “Why didn’t he? Actually, though.”

Tommy let out a gruff sigh. “He always thought too far ahead. Fucking idiot,” he said. Then, he waved a hand around the greenhouse. “Now look at the place.”

Techno had spent hours arguing with Wilbur about this very topic, over the brief period of time that the two of them were sharing the greenhouse, before Wilbur had tossed the hobby to the side. Techno’s argument could best be summated as some bullshit like, ‘they’re all going to die anyways, so shut up Wilbur.’ Or, at least, that was how Tommy remembered it.

Though, it wasn’t like Techno had planned to leave the greenhouse as it was. 

It wasn’t like he’d planned to up and die.

Tommy certainly hadn’t expected it—nobody had.

He couldn’t blame Techno for it, at the end of the day. He could mock Techno for planting so many flowers that wouldn’t last, for planting warm-weather trees and leafy bushes that couldn’t handle the harsh winters, but that wasn’t really it, wasn’t it?

Standing there, with the sunlight dappling down through the glass windows, the pungent perfume of lilies and pollen sticking to the inside of his nose, Tommy missed him. Techno, that is.

He missed all of them, really. He missed them so much, it hurt somewhere deep inside his chest, sometimes, when he thought about it for too long.

Gently, as they stood there in front of the shelf of unruly, overgrown lilies, Tubbo leaned his head onto Tommy’s good shoulder. Normally, Tommy would’ve mocked Tubbo for such a thing—the simple feat that Tubbo was short enough to do such a thing, for example. But he chose not to, for once.

Instead, they just stood there like that, together in the middle of the broken down greenhouse, in silence. For a moment.

Tubbo smiled. “We can fix it up, if you want to.”

“I’ll pass, thanks,” Tommy said, huffing out a shallow laugh. "It's kind of shit."

There goes his ‘thank you, Tubbo’ quota for the next decade on those—if the first couple days of this trip were any indication, he was going to be saying it a lot on this trip. 

But Tubbo didn’t seem to care. If anything, the comment just made Tubbo’s smile go wider, all of that weirdness he’d been up to lately just dissipating with that one toothy grin. “Aw man. It’d be so nice, though.”

Tommy shrugged. 

They stayed like that for a while.

Chapter Text

Haha y'all thought I was giving u an update (april fool's!!!!!!)

Imagine getting fooled by a content creator,, couldn't be me >:D

I'll delete this in the morning dw dw normal Tuesday update will come it's just like 2am and I'm awake so y'all will suffer heheeee

I'm an actual child wth akdkskalalalddjjs

Anyways excuse any errors, this is courtesy of me typing on my phone in the dark :P yes I still use emoticons on my phone I'm quirky like that :P

Lastly,,,,,,, let this be a friendly reminder to "confuse, don't abuse" this april fool's! If any pranks of urs actually harm someone then u suck!!!!!!! 

That is all.

Ignore the placeholder text below,,, I wanted to make it look like a real update word count wise (like how u can see it in the update emails ao3 sends out),,, it's nonsense latin commonly used to fill space in graphic design so plz don't bother translating ;)

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Chapter Text

It wasn’t long before the sun started sinking below the horizon, the greenhouse lit up in bright oranges and pinks and yellows as the light dwindled. 

Tommy and Tubbo turned back at long last, getting back to the house just as the last rays of pink lit up the sky. Tommy’s shoulder ached something fierce—he tried to hide the pain in his smile, just to keep Tubbo from worrying, but he wasn’t sure it worked. He took a couple more ibuprofen when he didn’t think Tubbo was looking.

They ate leftovers from the pizza box and turned on all the taps on the first floor, letting the new chemicals in the well water system run through and spiral black water down the drain. Tommy made Tubbo take the first sip once he thought it was safe. 

Every now and then, they’d hit a draft, and Tubbo would throw a jacket in Tommy’s direction, until Tommy was bundled up in about half the clothes from his bag, one of the armholes empty for every layer. Later, they settled down in front of the TV, watching YouTube videos from Tubbo’s Switch, all the other lights off. The video quality was low from the bad wifi, but the TV was just as bad, so neither of them really minded. They browsed around for a while anyway, settling in to watch a VOD of Pokimane playing Among Us. 

And with that, they were quiet, for a long while. Things were good.

Things were back to where they were supposed to be.

__________

Wilbur was bored.

After a whole afternoon without the two of them around, with Tommy now passed out in front of the TV, it was only natural. Nobody else was around at the moment—Techno was finding a new place to hide his sword, still determined to keep himself distant from the two boys, and Phil had been up in his old room since late afternoon. So it was just Wilbur and the kiddos.

Or, well, Wilbur and the one kiddo that was still awake, burning the midnight oil.

That is: Tubbo was still awake, his eyes glowing in the flicker of the TV as yet another CaptainSparklez video played on screen. But the way they were, bodies leaned against each other, Tubbo adjusting to get Tommy’s bad shoulder to sit right… it was a bit too cute. 

“I’m going to get a cavity if you two get any sweeter,” Wilbur said, floating idly through the air around them. He was laying back, arms propping his head up in the air, eyes hooded as he observed the children all about the place. 

Tubbo yawned. It was, for lack of another word, adorable. Disgustingly so.

Wilbur huffed right back in response, protesting as if Tubbo would, somehow, be able to hear him. “For fuck’s sake!” he said. It was like the child was trying to do it.

Or, well. 

Maybe he was. 

It was entirely possible that he was. 

Unlikely, given what Wilbur thought the kid knew about their spectral situation, but not impossible. 

That is: Wilbur wasn’t sure Tubbo knew there were other ghosts, not just Phil, in the house. Tubbo definitely knew there were ghosts—Tubbo’s eyes had gone all out of sorts when he laid his eyes on Wilbur’s map; there was no way he couldn’t have figured it out—but whether he’d made that next cognitive leap was beyond him.

It was kind of fun, though, sitting there and trying to puzzle the kid out. Wilbur had always enjoyed a good puzzle—sure, he usually abandoned them halfways through, but that didn’t mean he’d do that here. 

Tubbo was more interesting than a Rubik’s cube, anyway.

On the TV screen, the video ended. Tubbo didn’t start a new one, just sat there basking in the light of the YouTube recommendation screen for a moment, his eyes all tired and droopy and—fuck, Wilbur had to stop going all mushy over the children being cute. Techno was going to make fun of him, at this point.

Speaking of, Wilbur figured this was where he’d hit the road, where he’d head off to chat with Techno, maybe annoy him a bit for good measure, just because Techno was easy to bug when he got all fussy like he was at the moment. Tubbo seemed content to just sit there and fall asleep.

Or… you know, maybe not.

Tubbo seemed to like keeping Wilbur on his toes, it seemed. 

Before Wilbur could move to leave, Tubbo was getting up, a pillow plopped in the space where he’d once been to keep Tommy from falling face-first into the couch. Tommy didn’t seem to notice the switch—he was practically catatonic, actually.

Next Wilbur knew, though, Tubbo was off.

“Where are you going ?” Wilbur asked. At this point, his brows were dipping down in confusion, but it wasn’t like he could do much but ask himself more questions, for now. 

Really, though, it was Techno’s fault he was suspicious of the poor child, was following him through the house as if he were ‘up to something,’ talking to himself like a madman. Maybe Tubbo was just going pee—young boys did that. Maybe he just wanted a glass of water. Or he was grabbing another blanket, cold from Wilbur’s presence. Something normal like that, not… messing with the ghosts of your friends dead family in the middle of the night and suspiciously not letting said friend know.

That would be crazy, really.

Wilbur chuckled to himself. He wouldn’t put it past Tubbo, though. So, still, he followed along.

Tubbo walked into the kitchen, far away enough to turn on his phone flashlight without disrupting Tommy with it. He wore a pensive, thoughtful look on his face, glancing around the half-cleaned kitchen—his eyes, though, were searching. For what, Wilbur didn’t know. But Tubbo stayed like that for a while, just standing in the middle of the kitchen, his phone flashlight making the hollows of his face stand out, looking around for something Wilbur couldn’t quite figure out.

He didn’t seem to find what he was looking for. Instead, he started rifling through the kitchen drawers as quietly as possible, going through each of them, one-by-one, in search of whatever it was strange Tubbos searched strange kitchens for in the middle of the night.

“If you’re looking for gold, you won’t find it there, kid,” Wilbur said, floating around idly. Tubbo struck him as the gold-digging type, at the end of the day. Call it a gut instinct. “Check upstairs. I think Gran left some diamonds laying around, too. Can get good money for those.” They’d been partially paid for with Wilbur’s life insurance money, after all.

Tubbo didn’t hear him, of course. The kid just kept going through the drawers until he’d found what he was looking for—at long last, he pulled a pad of paper and a pen from a drawer full of junk, flipping to a clean page. 

Then, in a strange turn of fate, he sat at the kitchen table, and he started furiously writing.

Wasn’t this the kid Tommy said couldn’t spell? Wilbur wasn’t about to make fun of the kid for it (heaven’s no), but he still hoped somewhere in his heart that he’d gotten past misspelling his own name. For the kid’s sake more than Wilbur’s own. Of course, Tommy was apparently always going to call him ‘Tubbo,’ the poor kid, but still.

Regardless of Wilbur’s opinion on it, Tubbo took his time writing out… something, large and wide on the piece of paper. 

Wilbur spun around to get a better look at Tubbo’s writing.

The… letters of the alphabet? In the corners, Tubbo also scrawled out a ‘yes’ and a ‘no,’ in the same neat letters. With another sheet of paper from the pad, he slowly folded a triangle, laying it down on the first sheet when he was done.

“You didn’t-” Wilbur started, cutting himself off with a laugh. It sunk in, mid-thought, exactly what was going on here.

Tubbo was making a ouija board. 

And he was keeping this whole thing secret from Tommy. 

If only Techno could see it, he’d have been ecstatic to be right. Alas, only Wilbur was there at the moment, and so Tubbo would get Wilbur and he’d have to be alright with that.

Apparently done, Tubbo took his pointer, turned it so the point was against the paper with the letters, and slid his contraption into the middle of the table, looking around with a wary expression on his face. 

He sat there, for a moment. And then, carefully:

“Uh, Tommy’s family?” he tried. Wilbur really didn’t want to keep laughing, but he couldn’t help it. “If any of you are there, which I think you are but I’m not actually sure, I- er… I’d like to talk to you? Please?”

There was no way Wilbur could leave this alone. Leaving the kid hanging would just be mean - he couldn’t . Techno wouldn’t blame him, would he? And Phil would be alright with it, right?

Did Wilbur care?

Not really. 

This was a pretty funny situation, anyways.

He approached, and Tubbo shuddered. 

Hope lit up in the boy’s eyes. Wilbur tried, he really tried, to keep himself from laughing—he let out a single chuckle, as he sidled down over the table, hovering over it just within reach of the makeshift ouija board. Then, he slowly took the paper pointer in his hand, pulling it along the paper.

Tubbo’s eyes bugged out. “Woah.”

Wilbur started out simple: Hi.  

“Uh, hi?” Tubbo responded. His voice had jumped, pitched up high—in fear or in uncertainty, Wilbur couldn’t quite tell.  “Who… who are you?”

This would take a while, having a conversation with this crude ouija board. But Wilbur had time, it wasn’t like he could go anywhere, and Tubbo seemed to have abandoned the idea of a full night of sleep. Slowly, he spelled out his name: Wilbur.

“Oh, Wilbur? That’s cool. That’s cool.” Tubbo seemed to think for a moment. “But wait, I have to make sure it’s you, right? Otherwise I could accidentally summon something. I think.” His brows creased. “I’m a bit in over my head, if I’m being honest.”

“Oh, yeah, you are,” Wilbur said, his smile finally fading. If there had been anything else in the house, perhaps a couple ghosts with less than good intentions, then there was no doubt that Tubbo would be making an awful decision here. Fortunately for Tubbo, Wilbur didn’t consider himself malevolent. 

“Uh…” Tubbo struggled to think up a bit of trivia. “What did Techno keep big boxes of in the greenhouse?”

Easy. Sunflower seeds . 

Techno had ordered a whole palette of them from some now-defunct company in town, intending to plant the fields with a whole bunch of them, only to figure out, once they’d already arrived and were already planted in the ground, that the seeds were roasted, the kind meant for eating. So, they’d just been left in the greenhouse and forgotten about. 

Wilbur had snatched some up, from time to time, when he’d been out there gardening with Techno. They’d gone bad rather quickly, though, in the dense humidity of the greenhouse.

“That’s right!” Tubbo’s voice was hushed, a whisper-yell. Wilbur didn’t know why he was worried; Tommy slept like the dead—ironic, coming from Wilbur, who knew very well that the dead did not , in fact, sleep—and he’d probably only wake up if Tubbo started screaming or something. “So you must be Wilbur, I guess? Hi, Wilbur!” 

Hi again Tubbo. It was slow, but Wilbur wasn’t sure how else they were supposed to do this. A keyboard was a better option, but they didn’t have any laying around after the fire, especially not after Gran’s tech-phobic residency.

“Yeah, that’s me. I’m Tubbo, Tommy’s friend.” Tubbo put a hand to his chin. “But I guess you already knew that. Or do you? I don’t know, actually, I’m just now realizing,” he said, looking up towards some random direction. “Hey, do you- oh.”

Tubbo cut himself off, as Wilbur started writing again. Why hide from Tommy , Wilbur asked.

“Oh, uh,” Tubbo started. “I wanted to make sure you were real first. I wasn’t actually sure this would work, if I’m being honest. But it did, so that’s good.”

Good friend.

Wilbur spelled it out, wiping his hands against each other in satisfaction at his handiwork.

“Well thank you, Wilbur.” Tubbo smiled. “My turn, now,” he said, fingers excitedly spinning through the air, as if he were the one grabbing for the pointer to talk. When he seemed to realize that his hands weren’t doing much, he looked back up. “Are Phil and Techno in the house too? Or is it just you?”

It would be the perfect time to mess with Tubbo. But Wilbur couldn’t find it in him; again, it felt like it’d be a bit too mean, especially when Tubbo was likely to report back to Tommy, now that he’d cracked his big mystery. And so Wilbur sighed, floating high over the table and shifting the pointer around like a chess piece. All three.

Tubbo smiled wider. “Cool! Okay, that’s really good. That’s- that’s really good.” He paused to think of his next question, lips pursed. “Where is everybody? Not that I don’t like you, but-”

Again, Wilbur interrupted. The ouija board took forever, alright? Fucking slow, he wasn’t waiting. Techno hiding sword , he spelled out.

“The one from the porch?”

Yes. I moved it. He didn’t like.

“Huh. I guess that makes sense,” he said.

Dad’s upstairs.

“Oh,” he said, smiling at the mention of Phil. “Did he mean to push me off the roof?”

As a joke, Wilbur laughed as he jerked the pointer over to yes.

Tubbo laughed, a quieted attempt at a cackle. “Okay last question, because I-” a yawn, big and wide, “-should probably go to sleep. Otherwise, you know, Tommy will ask me questions, and I have to,” he waved his hand around, as if that explained anything, “figure things out first.”

Wilbur nodded along, pretending he understood the inner mechanisms of Tubbo’s mind. It seemed Tubbo was just thinking out loud at this point, but Wilbur would entertain it. “Sure. Ask away.”

“Why can’t I see you?”

Okay, maybe letting Tubbo ask anything he wanted had been a mistake. But it wasn’t like Wilbur was going to not answer.

He paused, though, taking a moment to think. The only real experiences he had with people seeing him were small, like Gran’s occasional glance, the thing with the pizza delivery person, and Tubbo seeing Phil on the roof. Hard to build up a theory with just that bit. He’d probably set Techno on the case, later on—Techno would probably figure it out before the rest of them.

Gently, Wilbur picked up the pointer, slowly pointing at the letters as his brain struggled to piece something together. This was going to take a long time with the ouija board. Have to believe. I think, he spelled out.

“What?” Tubbo said, rubbing the back of his head. “I don’t know what more than floating origami could convince me? And, I mean, I’m talking to you.” He yawned again, eyes watering from it, and waved a hand around at the board in front of him. “If I want to meet all of you, what do I have to do?”

Wilbur wasn’t actually sure how to answer that question. Don’t know, he spelt instead. This is new.

“Oh thanks, that’s a real help. Thank you, Wilbur.”

Dad might know. He didn’t know how true that was, but it gave the opening for Phil to talk to Tubbo, which was more likely to go well than Techno trying his hand at it, if Wilbur was being honest.

Tubbo pondered the new phrase, eyes roving over the last letter Wilbur had left the pointer on, as if that would offer any insight. “Alright,” he said, after a bit. “I guess I’ll talk to you some other time, then?”

“Sure, why not?” Wilbur said. Worst case, his hands got tired from moving the pointer around. Best case, he got to know Tommy’s strange best friend a bit more. 

Tubbo sat there, patiently waiting.

“Oh, shit.” Realizing Tubbo hadn’t heard him, Wilbur quickly moved the ouija board’s pointer to yes.

“That’s great!” Tubbo said, eyes landing right above the board—he was trying to look at Wilbur as he spoke, and Wilbur would give it to him. “Cool, that’s really great. We’ll talk soon, then!” 

Wilbur nodded along, not sure how to respond to that. “Soon, is it?” he asked, mostly to himself. “The Tubster’s got plans. Big plans for the Tubster.”

Obviously, Tubbo didn’t respond. Instead, he went about getting rid of the evidence of the conversation he’d just had—it was rude, sure, but necessary if he didn’t want to confuse the mess out of Tommy come morning. He plopped his pad of paper and pen back in the drawer where he’d found them, tucking the makeshift ouija board and pointer deep into his duffel bag, away from prying eyes. When that was all wrapped up, he stood up and dusted his hands off, letting out a slight huff.

His eyes landed on Tommy in the dark. Wilbur’s followed.

A bit of manhandling Tommy later—Tubbo took the time to lower Tommy so he was laying down on the couch instead of leaning on the Tubbo-shaped pillow for support—and Tubbo was settling himself down on the other couch, a blanket pulled up to his neck and a pillow from home under his head.

“Good night, Wilbur,” Tubbo whispered, to the empty air in front of him. His eyes were half-hooded, his voice little more than a mumble.

Wilbur chuckled. “Good night, Tubbo.” He didn’t much care if Tubbo heard him; it was still nice to respond, to act like Tubbo had heard, when his eyes finally slipped shut for the night. 

Damn it, that was cute.

Idly, Wilbur checked his ghostly mouth for a cavity. Just to allow himself a slight laugh

The house settled back into silence, at that. The YouTube recommendation screen still lit up the room, just barely, with the faces on thumbnails and the video games that Wilbur was too old (and too dead) to recognize. Wilbur was, once again, left to float about the room on his own, drifting through the air with no rhyme nor reason.

After a bit, he floated off, leaving the two boys to sleep in silence.

Chapter Text

“You talked to him?” Techno asked, frowning.

It was cool in the house, as the morning sun inched over the horizon. Tommy and Tubbo were eating breakfast in the kitchen, Tommy reluctantly sitting at the table (he couldn’t hold his cereal bowl in his hand and eat from it at the same time) while Tubbo wandered around the room as he ate. Techno found himself wondering how cereal hadn’t been spilled yet. Tubbo had thus far been shown to obey the laws of physics, so that was ruled out, at least.

Wilbur, floating right by Techno’s side, shrugged. His eyes, too, were watching as Tubbo wandered aimlessly about the room, a slight smile on his face. “Yeah. He’s a good kid.”

Techno sighed. 

Wilbur really was attached to them, wasn’t he?

Wilbur was attached to these stupid kids, and he was going to stay attached, because that was how Wilbur worked—Techno had seen it before, countless times. Though expected, it was enough to make Techno’s frown deepen, as he stood there and spectated over the children.

Wilbur didn’t seem to notice. He was quiet for a moment, but his eyes stayed stuck on Tubbo as the cereal bowl was touted about the room, all but unaware of the look on Techno’s face. “You were right about the secret thing,” he said after a moment, trying for a smile. Emphasis on trying —it fell flat before it could reach his eyes, not quite there, as he turned to face Techno.

It distracted Techno, as he studied Wilbur’s face. “Huh?”

“He didn’t want to get Tommy’s hopes up.” Wilbur went for the smile again, and it turned genuine when he turned away. “I like him, he’s good for Tommy.”

Techno followed Wilbur’s gaze, back over to Tommy and Tubbo as they bickered about nothing in particular. “Huh,” he said, more of a noncommittal grunt than a sentence.

The conversation could’ve ended there. Normally, it would’ve—Techno would’ve floated off to do something else, would’ve busied himself while Wilbur racked up hours spent with Tommy and Tubbo, hovering around and making them put on sweaters in the way only a ghost could, conversing to ears that couldn’t hear him and laughing along to jokes not meant for him.

But, instead, Wilbur turned back to Techno. His smile slipped from his face. “Loosen up, would you?” he said, his gaze flicking over towards Tommy. As they lingered there, watching, Tommy was busy moping over his stationary cereal bowl, pretending to be insulted by Tubbo as he so often seemed to do. “Give the kid a chance. Stop being such a prick about it.”

Techno huffed. “Sure.”

“I’m serious, Techno,” Wilbur said, nudging Techno with an elbow. “Lighten up. The children aren’t going to- to plot against you, or some shit.” He chuckled to himself. “Don’t think Tommy could if he tried.”

Plot against him? The thought hadn’t even crossed Techno’s mind—Wilbur was off, by quite a bit, on that assumption. “Never said they were going to,” he responded, purposefully vague in his response.

He was okay with Wilbur getting it wrong—for Wilbur’s own sake more than his own. For now, Wilbur would keep getting excited about the kids, over and over through the summer, would get used to something that was, at the end of the day, nothing more than a temporary blip in the endless afterlife they seemed to be living through. And Techno wasn’t going to stop him.

Wilbur seemed happy, with the kids around. Who was he to get in the way of that?

“You were thinking it, I’ll bet,” Wilbur said, a grin in his voice as he watched Techno, eyes pointing towards where Techno’s hands were hanging, loose, by his side. “You fidget when you think.”

He let out a noise of acknowledgement, shrugging as he shoved his hands in his pockets. “If that’s what you want to believe, I won’t stop you,” he said.

Wilbur laughed, as if that were somehow funny. Techno didn’t mean for it to be, at least. If Wilbur wanted to laugh, it wasn’t like Techno was going to stop him.

Techno just wouldn’t laugh along with him.

It would be nice, Techno was sure, to let himself do what Wilbur was doing. To spend time with Tommy as he had when he was alive—though, really, that wasn’t the best example; Techno had avoided Tommy, to little avail, more often than not—and get to know the other child hanging around the place, loiter around like Wilbur seemed to be so fond of doing. It would be nice. Techno allowed himself a moment, just a moment, to imagine himself in Wilbur’s shoes.

But, for now, as Wilbur chuckled and the genuine smile popped back onto his face as Tubbo bounced around the room, Techno resigned himself to keep on watching from a distance.

That would stay in his imagination, if things went like they were supposed to.

___________

Tommy and Tubbo cleaned through most of the morning, just as they had the first. 

A brief spat of boredom had led to Tommy making the decision for the both of them—Tubbo gave in, relatively easily. He ended up taking the harder jobs, forbidding Tommy from just jumping right into the work like he wanted to do, but Tommy considered it a success nonetheless. He tried his best to even out the workload, when Tubbo turned away.

Tommy was too overjoyed about Tubbo giving in—where he’d previously been staunchly against Tommy working on anything, content to work on his own while Tommy’s shoulder healed—to notice how weird it was.  

Instead, they just got to work.

Tubbo wrestled the covers off the couch cushions and put them in a big pile, dumping them all near the old washing bucket he’d found in the back of the pantry (the washing machine had long since stopped working, and Gran hadn’t needed it enough to get it fixed). Tubbo didn’t seem to mind washing things by hand, scrubbing up and down the washboard with unbridled fury—a fury that, honestly, scared Tommy a bit, though Tommy wasn’t about to be the one to stop him—until the water was a disgusting shade of beige. 

Meanwhile, Tommy attacked the living room with a mop and a feather duster. The mop was a Swiffer, thank goodness, so he could easily manage it with his one working arm. He dusted the lampshades and cleaned the back of the TV, mopping a nice color out from under the dirty wooden floors. He tried to keep the work balanced, he really did: he helped Tubbo roll the rugs up off the floor, attacked the wooden furniture with a bottle of polish and a rag, even sprayed down the crusty old windows with the bottle of vinegar.

If they kept it up like they were, then they’d have a good bit of the summer to goof off, Tommy figured. They had about half of the first floor done as it stood. It left a long list ahead of them—the other half of the first floor, the second floor, the smaller third floor, and, of course, the creepy attic that was part of the third floor—but Tommy felt determined to get it done. With him and Tubbo at the helm together, they could accomplish anything.

It was kind of fun, actually, cleaning up the old house. The excitement would probably die away given a day or two, but at the moment, Tommy was having fun.

“Cleaning isn’t fun!” he’d said before, in a situation not too different from this one. “What am I even supposed to do with this stupid thing?” He’d thrown an arm up, feather duster in hand, and almost knocked Techno upside the head.

Techno, predictably, had dodged. “You’re right. Dad’s lying to you, Tommy.”

“What?” Phil had said, faking his surprise surprisingly well—well enough that younger Tommy hadn’t been able to catch it. Looking back, it’d actually been obvious; Tommy had just been oblivious. “Tommy, would I lie to you?”

“Techno says you will.”

“Well, what if Techno’s the liar?”  

Tommy had whipped around, an accusing glare sent Techno’s way.

Techno had just shrugged. “Clean if you want to,”  he’d said, a slight, mocking smile spread out on his face. “I was agreeing with you.”

At the end of that conversation, Tommy had helped out with the cleaning, just like he was doing with Tubbo at the moment—only here, he was doing it willingly, not because Phil was tricking him into it. It was still tiring, as it’d been before, but it wasn’t any worse than the cleaning they’d done the first day. And Tommy was bigger now; it took quite a bit more to tire him out, he was proud to say.

Tubbo, on the other hand, seemed exhausted. Already.

Tommy watched, through the window, as Tubbo attacked the laundry outside.

In fact, the whole morning felt so… weird.

There was still something off here, still something off about Tubbo that Tommy wasn't quite catching.

Tommy would have to be an idiot not to notice it—and an idiot, he was not. He’d noticed it the day before, when Tubbo had approached him with bags under his eyes after what should have been a long night, and he’d notice it now, as Tubbo’s smile lurked under even more tired eyes.

It pieced together slowly, through the course of the morning, in Tommy’s brain: Tubbo been lost in thought a lot that morning, had let Tommy put himself to work despite his worries just the day before, had woken up before Tommy that morning—any other day, Tommy would’ve had an hour or so to himself, would’ve had to roll Tubbo out of bed to get him up before noon. But here? Tommy was beginning to suspect that Tubbo just hadn’t slept that night. Or, if he had, he hadn’t slept very well.

But why?

Tubbo was working through the day, and he seemed to be trying his hardest to pretend there was nothing up—but Tommy knew Tubbo, and he knew that there was, quite possibly, something up here. There was a smile on Tubbo’s face, a strange excitement in his eyes, and it just didn’t feel right.

Tommy didn’t want to interfere. He just wanted to enjoy his time, not spend time having things to worry about.

But it was getting concerning. And it was Tubbo.

Even before the hospital, when Tubbo had started chattering about Phil out of nowhere, in the back of the taxi. It’d been weird—Tubbo was, no matter how much Tommy wanted to ignore it, acting weird.

And so, Tommy watched Tubbo carefully when he came inside, laundry detergent in hand, rolled-up sleeves splashed with soapy water. There was a smile on Tubbo’s face, Tommy noticed, and grass stains from where he’d kneeled in the grass and scrubbed at the couch covers.

The smile fell, and it almost made Tommy cringe, as Tommy opened his mouth.

“You’re hiding something, aren’t you?” Tommy said, point-blank, as Tubbo shut the door behind him. And if his tone was anything but conversational, then he didn’t mean it—he wanted, really wanted, for this to just be something dumb. He wanted to be overreacting, to be able to shrug this off.

But.

Tubbo stilled, where he stood in the doorway. When he turned back to face Tommy, there was confusion all over his face. “What?”

“You’re- there’s something up,” Tommy said, leaning onto the Swiffer in his hand, watching Tubbo with interest in his eyes. “There’s something you’re not telling me.”

Tubbo shifted under his gaze. “What?”

“I knew it!” Tommy shouted. “You’re hiding something! Oh, I knew there was-”

“Wh-” Tubbo started, only to cut himself off. Thoughts lingered behind his eyes, and then he looked back up at Tommy. “I am?”

Tommy got this—this bit was the easy bit. Tubbo was an awful liar, when put on the spot, and it didn’t take much. Really, Tommy smiled, a bit thrilled at the prospect of catching him. “What, is it embarrassing?” he asked, trying to lighten up the mood.

“Uh, no?” Tubbo just stood there, the panic fully surfacing on his face—he really was hiding something, wasn’t he?

Time to rotate, switch tactics. Maybe joking about it hadn’t been the best idea. Tubbo was losing sleep over whatever this was, actually. Fuck, no that probably hadn’t been Tommy’s greatest idea. “Wait,” he said, the smile quickly fading from his face, “is it important?”

Tubbo at this point, had clammed up. Mouth shut, locked up tight, with his eyes frozen on where Tommy stood in front of him. He was still holding the massive bottle of laundry detergent, suds still clinging to his hands and the door still shut firmly behind him.

“Tubbo?” Tommy asked. He righted himself up, catching the Swiffer before it toppled to the floor, his eyes still lingering on Tubbo. He had no idea, truly, what this was. He was about as lost for words as Tubbo seemed to be.

“It’s… kind of important,” Tubbo said.

“Oh.” Shit.

“No, no, no- it’s not- it’s not like that. Not in a bad way,” Tubbo tried to amend. The words tumbled out now, the dam let loose. “I, uh, found something cool.”

“Something cool? What the hell's that supposed to mean?” Tommy pressed.

A smile spread across Tubbo’s face. “It’s a surprise, actually,” he said, his free hand coming up to rub at the back of his neck. So it was probably embarrassing, and Tubbo was just as much of an idiot as Tommy was. “It’s exciting.”

“That exciting?” Nothing came to mind, nothing seemed capable of dealing with the Tubbo that stood in front of him, a grin spreading across his face, excitement glittering in his eyes.

“It is,” Tubbo said, nodding. “I couldn’t- uh, I couldn’t sleep last night. I promise, it’s really cool, I just have to figure out- well, mostly how to tell you.”

Tommy didn’t know how to deal with that. Tubbo seemed excited about whatever this was—beyond excited, really—and, well, if he wanted it to be a surprise? Then Tommy supposed he would get that. “How to tell me? What the fuck is that supposed to mean?” Tommy asked, in mock offense. “What, am I hard to talk to?”

Tubbo laughed. “Impossible, actually,” he said. “You’re kind of an asshole.” At that, he stepped through the doorway, unfrozen from whatever had nabbed him now that the tension was released from the air. He let out a sigh as he set the laundry detergent down on the newly-cleaned kitchen counter, a sigh that let the tightness out of his shoulders.

Tommy grumbled a response—he wasn’t quite sure, really, what he said. It was a grumble, though, and he would assure Tubbo, if prompted, that it was quite the impressive response.

It hid his relief, the way he relaxed against his Swiffer as he breathed out.

Tubbo found something cool, that was all.

When the afternoon came around, he and Tubbo kept up their tradition from the day before, going gallivanting across the property under the warm sunlight. With the greenhouse on one side, they headed in the opposite direction, determined to seek out the edge of their little world. There, they found a long fence and another piece of land that stretched as far as the eye could see, over the hills and delving through forests. It was a shorter walk, this time around, but it was just as satisfying.

As they approached the fence dividing their property from the next, Tubbo insisted on a break, a snack packed up in the shoulder bag he had slung across his body.

And Tommy, unable to say no, agreed.

They munched on the cookies Tubbo had, somehow, found the time to make that morning—from a tub of pre-made cookie dough, of course. Despite being fairly capable in most other ways, neither of them could cook, and that included such simple foods as cookies. Even from a tub, Tommy doubted either of them would ever be very good with an oven.

“They’re a little dry,” he commented, crunching through the burned edge of one.

Tubbo frowned and nodded. “I don’t know what happened, that’s the problem. I followed the instructions,” he said. “I called my mum and everything!”

Tommy laughed. “You called your mum?”

“Don’t say it like that. My mum’s a fantastic cook.”

“She is, isn’t she?” he agreed, leaning back with a palm on the grass. Whenever Tommy went over to Tubbo’s house, he always came back stuffed—Tubbo’s mom was a force to behold in the kitchen. It seemed that Tubbo had not inherited that bit.

They fell into a peaceful silence, Tommy leaning back on the grass with his free arm tucked behind his head. The grass tickled at his ears, along the back of his neck, underneath his arm as the wind blew through the air. And they stayed there for a while. A horse approached from the other side of the fence—“He looks like a Henry, doesn’t he, Tubbo?”—and they spent a good half hour just goofing off with it, before it wandered back to the other side of the hill, out of sight.

On the walk back, Tommy tried, in his head, to guess what it was Tubbo had found, what was so “cool” that Tubbo hadn’t been able to sleep over it. Knowing Tubbo, it'd probably be pretty lame—Tommy had a much different (and objectively better) definition of "cool" than Tubbo.

Still.

Whatever it was, he couldn’t wait.

Chapter Text

Tommy and Tubbo came back to the house with a box of Techno’s old sunflower seeds and an awful idea.

They wanted to roast them up, and they wanted to eat them. 

It was a recipe for some kind of food poisoning, probably. Techno didn’t know much about food poisoning. He’d never had it; that’d been Wilbur.

Regardless, Phil showed up just in time to stop the disaster before it could strike.

That is, as soon as he saw the box sitting on the kitchen table, saw Tommy and Tubbo admiring it with hunger in their eyes, he knocked it over, sending seeds splattering out across the floor. He ruined them, let them cross beyond the bounds of the five second rule, with a grim sort of satisfaction curling in the corner of his mouth.

Taking the hint with a smile—that right there, that little look around the room and the little smile on Tubbo’s face that came with it, was something that Techno was going to have to get used to, it seemed—Tubbo took the opportunity to discourage Tommy, and Tommy, for once, seemed to listen. 

Food poisoning was enough of a deterrent, even for Tommy. Techno couldn’t say he wasn’t surprised. 

In fact, as Phil crossed his arms and frowned at the display in front of them, as Wilbur cackled at the look on Phil’s face, Techno smiled, just a little bit, along with it. It was alright, for now. 

“Those kids, I swear,” Phil said, shaking his head. “I could barely handle one Tommy, and now there’s two of them?”

Wilbur floated down from the ceiling, still hanging upside down. “You could barely handle me and Techno, old man,” he said.

“Old man?”

“You are a lot older than us,” Techno butt in.

Phil’s brows shot up. “I’m your father.”

Wilbur shrugged. “And?”

Phil and Wilbur went on with their bickering, Wilbur blabbing along in defense of what he’d said—“you really are getting old, Phil, sorry to be the one to tell you”—and the rest of them went along with it, all sharp tongues and softened smiles. 

Meanwhile, Tommy and Tubbo went on with their lives below. Tommy propped the back door open as he and Tubbo tossed out the bad box of sunflower seeds, sweeping out the ones that had fallen on the floor, recycling the cardboard box and leaving the seeds to decompose on the forest floor. At some point, Tommy came back with a big stick in his hand, and he leaned it against the wall.

“So we can admire it,” he said, with a hint of pride in his voice. He plunked the thing down with his free hand, leaving a spot of dirt on the wooden floorboard where he’d struck it—the same floorboard that had just been cleaned not so long ago. He stood there, waiting, until Tubbo glanced up. 

More bickering followed. Tommy’s smile never budged from his face.

It was enough to stop Wilbur and Phil’s conversation—Wilbur, always the wise one, pointed it out in the middle of his sentence, a simple: “Tommy’s got a stick.”

“Of course he comes back with a stick,” Phil groaned. His groan turned into a complaint, though, when he spotted the dirt on the floor—again, Techno couldn’t help a slight smile, at Phil’s misfortune.

Wilbur, nonetheless, jumped to defend Tommy. “Techno always found sticks.”

“That wasn’t good either!” he said.

Techno eyed the stick. It was a pretty good stick, even by his standards—and he had high standards when it came to sticks. “At least he’s not hitting Tubbo with it,” he said, his eyes wandering back to the two boys taking up the living room. 

Techno, for a short period of time, had collected his sticks, making sure to whack Wilbur with each one. It’d led to fencing, naturally, and Wilbur had turned into actual opponents, but the whacking had gone on for a long time. At least Tubbo was spared.

Phil chuckled. “They remind me of you two as kids, now that I think about it.”

“Aw, dad,” Wilbur said, throwing an arm around Phil’s shoulder. “Don’t get all sappy on us.”

“Oh, I didn’t mean it as a compliment. You two were dreadful little monsters at their age.” Phil smiled, something wicked. “Still are.”

Techno chuckled.

And Wilbur frowned. His arm fell from Phil’s shoulder, and he floated away slowly, as if the mere presence of Phil disgusted him. “Prick.”

The rest of the daylight went quickly—Wilbur went up to his guitar, Phil floated off to his old office with a book in hand—but Techno stuck around. 

He didn’t trust these children as far as he could throw them—which, as a ghost, was not very far. In his more lively days, Techno could throw a child pretty far, if his interactions with a younger Tommy were any indication.

The day, overall, was surprisingly uneventful, given the precedent the two new boys of the household had set. Techno just didn’t trust it.

And so he stayed as the others wandered off, leaving him ‘in charge’ of the two boys scuttling around the house. He watched them, watched Tubbo in particular, with a careful, observant eye, as the two of them went about their evening activities—whatever it was that included when one was 16 and in charge of their own evenings.

Tubbo cooked dinner (kind of, it was a complete disaster), and they ate in the dining room. The moon rose in the sky as they washed up, Tubbo taking on the dishes as Tommy wiped down the table and neatened the place mats. It was domestic, as they flicked on the lights and set dishes out to dry, in a very endearing way. The couch covers fluttered softly in the cool wind outside, the house shuddering every so often as the wind slapped against the motley old brick.

It was nice, for a bit. Techno’s suspicions were very much still there, but he could admit that there was an appeal to this—to sitting here, watching these children go about their lives as a passive spectator. Maybe Wilbur wasn’t completely crazy for doing it so much.

It didn’t last long, though. 

Techno never thought it would.

Distantly, though, he wondered if Tubbo meant to do it, meant to disrupt their peaceful moments. Or, maybe Tubbo just worked that way. He had no way of knowing, either way, so he brushed those thoughts to the side.

Tommy and Tubbo were walking back into the living room, dinner finally cleaned up and put away, the kitchen as sparkling clean as they’d left it—Techno wrinkled his nose at the contrast between the two spaces, at the way the contents of their bags were strewn across the floor in direct opposition to the hours of work they’d put into cleaning things up. They seemed fairly well-organized overall, but it seemed they were, above all, messy teenage boys.

Tubbo flopped onto the floor, catching the couch behind him with a yearning glance from the corner of his eye. Then, though, his eyes were right back on Tommy. “I guess we have to sleep upstairs tonight,” he said.

Tommy frowned. “We do?”

“Yeah, uh…” Tubbo waved a hand around, searching for the right words. “The couches are all- all itchy.”

The couch covers waved in the wind outside the window, fluttering around as if in agreement. Behind Tubbo, the couches themselves were reduced to compressed, blocky piles of memory foam and fuzz—though Techno couldn’t exactly touch much anymore, he couldn’t imagine pressing his face into that for eight hours straight.

Tommy looked over to the couches. He seemed to come to the same conclusion Techno did, his frown deepening in the corners of his cheeks. “Guess we do,” he said, his voice low.

The wind howled, battering against the windows. For a moment, the two of them stood there in silence, watching their bags on the floor as if they were going to jump up and attack them. After Wilbur’s stunt last night, Tubbo no doubt thought they would.

Nothing moved, though. Techno was the only one of them here, and he wasn’t interested in messing with the boys like Wilbur was.

A million motions crossed Tubbo’s face—ultimately, though, something in his eyes settled on guilt. “We don’t have to if you don’t want to,” he said, looking over to Tommy. “I’m sure we could find somewhere else.”

But Tommy wouldn’t meet his eyes. Tommy, instead, stared straight ahead, jaw clenched up and his eyes focused on nothing in particular. Something angry and frustrated lurked there, in the way he stood, stiff and still in the middle of the living room; what it was, Techno couldn’t quite tell.

“Tommy, really, we can sleep on the floor, if you-” Tubbo tried again, at the lack of response.

But Tommy cut him off, something clicking into place behind his eyes. He stepped forward, going out across the floor in long, determined strides. “C’mon,” he said, waving Tubbo along behind him. “Let’s just go.”

Tubbo hesitated, unsure, hands drifting about in the air without purpose. “If you’re sure.”

A tight nod. “Whatever.”

At that, Tubbo finally moved forward, shoving everything haphazardly in his bag until their messes were cleaned up, the living room back to how it’d been before they’d arrived—minus a couple pounds of dirt and the couch covers, with Tubbo’s Switch still in its spot on the floor. Then, he came up next to Tommy, falling into place at his side as they made their way to the staircase.

Then, for the third time since they’d arrived a few days ago, Tommy was heading upstairs. 

This time, though, there was a bit more levity to the situation—this was different than before, when Tubbo had dragged Tommy up the stairs, his goal set on the roof. Techno hadn’t been there for Tommy’s arrival, when he’d first set foot on the second floor, but he could tell this was a bit bigger than, if not on par with, that particular situation. It was there in the way Tommy adamantly kept in front of Tubbo, in the way Tommy’s hand gripped the railing, in the grimace that quickly formed on his face as he stared resolutely up the stairwell.

At some point, Tubbo tried to tuck his hand in Tommy’s, tugging on Tommy’s palm in reassurance as the old wooden stairs creaked in protest beneath their feet, light switches flicked on one-by-one as dust scattered beneath their feet. 

But Tommy pulled his hand away, shoving his hand in his pocket.

Tubbo didn’t comment on it.

Instead, as they crested the landing, Tubbo went for something else.

“This place really is huge!” he said, pointing off down the hallway, which seemed to stretch off forever. Or, maybe not forever, but Techno figured it looked like it did, compared to whatever suburban houses these two grew up in—especially with the light fading out down the way, the moonlight shining through the windows. “I guess you already knew that, though.”

Tommy didn’t seem to be paying attention, though. Tubbo’s diversion failed, miserably.

Tubbo noticed, just as Techno did. “Tommy?” he asked.

It was rare to see Tommy serious. Techno didn’t think he liked it. He wondered if this is what Wilbur had missed, when Tommy had come up here the first time—he wondered how much Wilbur hadn’t wanted to see, what he had discarded, when Tommy had first arrived.

“This-” Tommy started, stopping himself with a glance towards the window at the end of the hall. “This feels weird.” His voice was low, oddly so.

“Staying up here?”

Slowly, Tommy nodded.

“Well, that’s alright,” Tubbo said, expression softening. “You haven’t been up here in a while, right?”

“No, it’s-” Tommy tried to defend himself, but his words seemed to run out. He stopped himself, let out a slight sigh, and tried again. “Yeah, I think that’s it,” he said. “It feels- it feels weird."  He wrapped his free arm around himself, the other still stuck in place against his chest. “I don’t like it.”

The silence dragged out between them. It seemed none of them knew exactly what to do about it, about the way Tommy’s hand gripped at the sleeve of his shirt and the way he couldn’t seem to meet Tubbo’s eyes. So they just stood there for a moment, Tommy’s gaze wandering around.

Until:

“Fuck,” Tommy said, quietly. His free hand was shaking, now, but he just stood there, seemingly frozen in place. 

“Tommy, what-”

“It’s been five fucking years, for fuck’s sake. And I- and I can’t even come up here,” he continued, his eyes pointed towards the floor. “It’s fucking- it’s ridiculous.”

“It’s-”

“No, I- first, the stupid greenhouse, and now this?” His hand clenched, balling up tight at his side. “It’s ridiculous. I’m being a- a- a fucking idiot.”

Tubbo stood there for a moment, his mouth open, no words coming out. 

Just barely, as Techno watched the scene in front of him play out, the house began to sway, a softened, soothing motion in time with the nighttime breeze. Later, he would always blame Phil or Wilbur, off doing who knows what elsewhere in the house, for this.

“Hey, none of that. It’s alright,” Tubbo said. He approached Tommy, pulling him into a loose hug from the side, overly-mindful of the sling between them. “You were close with them, they died when you were a kid. It’s alright to still be upset about it. You can miss them.”

Tommy was stiff, his free hand just hanging by his side. “But-”

“Nope, it’s alright,” Tubbo interrupted. He pulled Tommy a little bit closer, prompting Tommy to finally embrace him back, leaning into his friend. “I’m sorry, I don’t make the rules.”

Tommy laughed, something wet.

And they stood there like that for a while.

Techno would be honest: he didn’t know what to make of it. For a long, drawn-out moment, he just floated there, some feeling expanding slowly in his chest as Tommy and Tubbo held each other close. He didn’t know what the feeling was, and he didn’t know why it was there, despite how he tried his hardest to just push it away and hold it off and pretend it didn’t exist—but he wasn’t sure that that mattered.

The house swayed more, the wood groaning in the breeze and the windows rattling in their cast-iron frames.

He didn’t want to get involved. He didn’t.

He didn’t want to get involved, to get attached, to feel for these two kids taking up space in his childhood home. It was pointless to feel a thing for something like this, so short-lived, that would inevitably end and leave his family right back where they’d started, alone with each other in this aching old house.

And yet there he was, floating in the dim light of the hallway, watching as Tommy gripped Tubbo tighter, sniffling into his friend’s shoulder at the mere thought of having this thing he was feeling be okay. There Techno was, that something welling up in his chest.

He didn’t know what to make of it.

He didn’t know if he was supposed to make something of it, if such a thing was possible.

He didn’t think so.

But the feeling was familiar. He didn’t know what it was, didn’t know what he was supposed to do with it, but he knew it.

When he was younger—not too long after Phil had adopted him and Wilbur, had made him move out to the countryside, far away from his old life and into the warm new place he’d grown to call his home—he’d felt the same way. For a while. It’d been a “coping mechanism,” according to Phil. 

Then, though, he’d expressed it a little differently: he’d snapped at Wilbur for weeks, leveraged an everlasting glare at him every available opportunity, had even been violent and nasty towards him whenever he got too close. 

Until one moment came, just like this one.

He’d been outside, quietly enjoying the breeze on a hot summer day, his loose shirt billowing around him and his hair swaying gently (it’d only been shoulder-length at the time; he hadn’t known how to take care of it before and Phil had had to cut out huge chunks of knots to salvage the rest). Wilbur had approached over the hills, right within sight, holding something in his hands.

It was, Techno had learned, a small bouquet, half made-up of weeds.

Wilbur had sat down next to Techno and told him of a girl at his group home who taught him to make flower crowns, about how he missed her, how she was adopted before him. Niki, her name had been, and he’d been pretty sure she lived somewhere in the little town nearby—Wilbur had wanted to go out soon and ask around. 

At the end of the whole spiel, Techno had absorbed half of the details. He still couldn’t quite remember all of it.

But, he remembered the next part, clear as the day he’d lived it. 

Wilbur had offered to teach Techno how to make the flower crowns, kneeled in the grass next to him. The pile of weedy flowers were clasped tight in his hands, his hands already stained green from the one he’d crafted for Phil, and he’d offered to help Techno make one.

Just a few hours before that moment, Techno had been shouting his voice hoarse at Wilbur, clawing and scratching at Phil’s gentle hands as Phil tried to keep him from doing something he’d regret. He’d been angry, shouting even as Wilbur flinched at the words, inflicting hurt every way he knew how with Phil holding him tight by the shoulders.

Techno hadn’t agreed—he hadn’t learned how to make a flower crown that day.

But he hadn’t disagreed. He hadn’t said much of anything, seeing Wilbur bounding up the hill with a softened smile on his face and a peace offering in his hands.

Still, he’d sat there, his eyes closed, as Wilbur planted wildflowers in his hair.

It certainly hadn’t been a cure-all for conflict in the house—Techno had still had plenty of moments that he now felt remorse for, and a lot of them involved Wilbur—but it’d been a step.

He’d gotten obsessed with gardening not long after. He’d had Phil show him the greenhouse next time he took Wilbur to it, grew trees and flowers and bushes and fruits and vegetables inside. He’d nurtured the wildflowers, for a long time—they were just weeds in some people’s eyes, but he made them bloom, brought bursts of color to the landscape. Wilbur had planted the lilies in the green house, but Techno had been the ones to care for them, wrinkling his nose at the mismatch with the rest of his leafy, annual plants, at how they were the only ones to stay vibrant and lively as the winter months passed. 

That’s what this moment, between Tommy and Tubbo as they stood there in this same old house with arms wrapped around each other, felt like.

It felt like that first time Techno saw Wilbur, really saw him, that day so many years ago—except, now, it was these two children who had stumbled into his life, one of them with a familiar kind of sadness now settling in his eyes.

Techno didn’t know what to make of it, as he watched the scene before him. That something still rose up in his chest, made the house wave back and forth around him, had him sticking around these two children despite it all. But he stuck around, for now.

He floated there in silence, watching with something like a smile on his face—something he would later vehemently deny was ever there, when Wilbur chose to tease him about it—and he stuck around.

He wouldn’t care about the kids. He wouldn’t get attached, he didn’t want to. But this, whatever it was, seemed like it would have to do.

It’d worked out before, after all. 

Maybe, just maybe, this would work out here.

Chapter Text

Slowly, after what felt like an eternity, Tommy pulled away. 

Tubbo seemed to let him go. His arms just slipped down, the two of them standing close as Tommy settled back into place at his side, and they were done with it. For now, at least.

“Thanks, Tubbo.” Tommy’s voice was oddly quiet in the stillness of the hallway.

But Tubbo didn’t seem to care. “No problem,” he said, smiling. “It’s been a lot these past couple of days. I get it.”

“Right,” Tommy said. “Fucking- it’s been a lot of shit. Lot of shit.” He tried for a smile, but it was awkward, hanging crookedly on his face, just enough to send Tubbo’s laugh rising up into the air—it seemed it was funny, Tommy’s apparent emotional awkwardness, to Tubbo.

Tubbo wasn’t the only one, though.

At the end of the hallway, there was a slight laugh. 

Techno looked over to find Wilbur poking his head out of his old bedroom, a smile on his face and his beanie slightly askew over his forehead, bangs mussed up beneath. He floated closer as Tubbo laughed, going along with it. “They’re back to being cute, aren’t they?” he asked, adjusting his beanie—with this, though, he only made the mess worse, hair fluffing up in agitation as his hands tried to press it down.

“If that’s what you’re calling it,” Techno said, shrugging slightly. Though, truly, Techno wasn’t sure what he would call it, when he thought about it. Regardless, his eyes flicked back over to the two kids, as they stood there and muttered something, laughing quietly among themselves, in front of him. 

“I’m going to get diabetes at this rate.” Wilbur laughed. “Look at those fuckers.” 

Techno hummed, neither disagreeing nor agreeing.

But still, as Wilbur looked over to Techno, he must’ve caught something on his face—something Techno couldn’t even catch for himself—because, as he looked away, he scoffed. “They finally got you, huh?” he asked, his smile softening on his face.

“Define ‘got.’” Techno’s mouth quickly dropped into a frown.

Almost to himself, with a hint of exaggerated disgust in his voice, Wilbur went on—really, it was as if Techno hadn’t said a word. “Eh, it was a lost cause anyway. Just- ugh. Just look at them.” He pawed a hand through the air.

Techno felt annoyance stir up in his chest. “That’s what I was doing.”

“I’m sure you were,” Wilbur said, voice filled with sarcasm. “Fuck, we’re all just- just big old saps, now. Fuckers got us wrapped around their little fingers.”

Techno couldn’t help his slight frown at that, his eyes going over to watch Wilbur for a moment. Wilbur was doing as Wilbur does, and Techno knew better than to dispute it—to dispute it would be to call on Wilbur’s teasing tongue, or, if Techno prodded back hard enough, his sharp words. 

So he said nothing in response. 

Instead, he turned his gaze back to Tommy and Tubbo, who stood there a bit quietly as Tommy muttered about the house’s layout, suggesting places he and Tubbo could go to sleep.

The house groaned a bit against the wind again.

In contrast to Techno’s frown, Wilbur smiled—not a softened smile, not like the one he’d worn earlier, but a wide, almost wicked thing. Mischievous, straight to its core.

“Wilbur,” Techno said, voice low. Again, it was pointless, he knew, and he wasn’t seriously going to intervene. But. He figured he could at least say he’d tried when Phil inevitably chewed them out for whatever it was Wilbur was going to do.

As if on cue, Wilbur sighed, leaning back to float around the room, drifting high up over Tommy and Tubbo. “They’re so serious,” he said, his arms propped up under his head, eyes hooded as he watched Techno. “I think we should have some fun, don’t you agree?”

Techno sighed. “I’d like the record to show that I don’t.”

At that, Wilbur laughed, nice and loudly, a cackle that echoed around in Techno’s ears and bounced down the quiet hallway.

Tubbo’s eyes searched about the room for the briefest of seconds, his eyes drifting vaguely in Wilbur’s direction. Then, though, his attention was back on his conversation with Tommy.

Before Techno could look away, Wilbur was off—all it took was a blink, and Wilbur was floating off in the direction of his own bedroom. A moment more, and his laughter rang out from his doorway.

Techno sighed, long and tired.

From the darkness, a light flickered. It was quick, on and off, a flash in the darkness punctuated with another of Wilbur’s loud, gleeful laughs, just as childish as Techno expected.

It was just enough, barely enough, to catch Tubbo’s attention once again—this time, Tubbo jerked, eyes immediately darting towards flash in the corner. It took him a moment to fully realize what he was seeing, though, gaze lingering as he processed the darkness waiting there down the hall for him.

Tommy, on the other hand, was oblivious. 

As such, as he drifted down the hall, Tubbo pointed it out. “Tommy, did you see that?” Tubbo asked, stepping towards Wilbur’s room, eyes glued to where the doorway hung, halfway open, inviting them in.

Tommy’s face rose from that pensive frown of his, his brows dipping in confusion. “What?”

“The light flickered,” Tubbo said, “in that room, the one at the end of the hall.”

Tommy followed Tubbo’s finger, as Tubbo pointed. When he found nothing, though, his brows dropped low over his eyes. “I don’t see any- any fucking lights.”

“It flickered, really! The light went on- Look!”  

And, lo and behold, it flickered again, just as Tubbo said it—Wilbur had a very predictable sense of humor, didn’t he?

Though, as Tommy watched it happen, the light catching in the whites of his eyes for a fraction of a second, his brows dipped lower. “It’s just the old electrical shit. It’s always been like that,” he said, his mouth pressed into a line. “Gran was supposed to get it fixed.”

Either Tubbo didn’t hear, too laser-focused on the brand new mystery laying right there before him, or he didn’t care enough to humor Tommy’s suggestion—regardless, he didn’t respond. Instead, he just grabbed Tommy’s hand and started tugging him off down the hall towards Wilbur’s room, eyes locked on the doorway with a burning curiosity. “C’mon.” 

Tommy hesitated, not content to let himself be dragged halfway down the hallway, and Tubbo’s hand slipped from his. “Tubbo, this is stupid,” he said.

“No it’s not,” Tubbo said.

“Yes, it is.”  Tommy crossed his arm over his chest. “I’m telling you- it’s just the wires being weird. I’m too fucking tired for- for this detective shit.”

It took a second for Tubbo to mull over Tommy’s words, for the urgency from before to fade away as he contemplated the situation. But it was all for naught—straightening himself up with a slight huff, Tubbo just reached out for Tommy’s hand again. “Come on,”  he said, a whine in his voice. “It’ll be quick, I promise.”

Tommy grumbled, as he slipped Tubbo’s hand back against his own. “Fine.”

And with that, Techno was left to follow as Tubbo pulled Tommy off down the hall, turning just before they ran into the wrought iron window frame, around the corner and into Wilbur’s room. If there was a slight drag in Tommy’s steps, a pause to every dull thump of his feet on the old hallway runner, Tubbo didn’t point it out. After the scene Tommy had made before, Tommy seemed okay with that—he swallowed hard, steeling himself with a steadying breath, before they stepped towards the doorway.

Through it, Wilbur was there, his smile wide as his fingers lingered on the light switch, his guitar sitting up against the wall in the corner.

He hadn’t played it that day, then. 

Techno had come in here earlier, when nobody else was around. He’d propped the guitar back up in place, frowning at the place on the floor where Wilbur had left it. It was a little thing, something that’d bothered him just enough to deserve a bit of his fragmented attention, but he was suddenly quite glad he’d done it. 

Techno had made one other change to the room, in the past couple days—after Wilbur’s hair-brained scheme, Techno had seen it fit to bury his sword deep in Wilbur’s closet, behind boxes of Gran’s old stuff that he didn’t think Tommy and Tubbo would bother cleaning out, where Wilbur would never look for it. It’d taken a few hours to get it positioned just right, to tuck the smooth silver blade into its sheath and out of sight, but it was safely hidden there, away from where Tubbo could get his grubby little fingers on it.

While digging in there, he’d found a picture of Wilbur in one of Gran’s unfinished albums. A small shift, and it’d fallen out from where it was pressed between the pages, fluttering to the floor and settling at Techno’s feet. The picture was a bit wrinkled, but Techno had set it out on Wilbur’s dresser anyways, not sure what to do with it and too tired to bother putting it back where he’d found it. Phil would probably want to frame it and stick it up somewhere, anyways. So, he’d left it.

Wilbur hadn’t seemed to notice that either.

He was too busy doing other things—in a flash, the lights flickered again, the switch going fast under Wilbur’s hands, another laugh ringing out through the room.

Tubbo jumped, letting out something of a shout as his shoulders hiked up to his ears. 

And, well, maybe Techno was just imagining it, but was Tubbo looking at the wall, or-

Tommy yelped. Tubbo had latched himself onto his side, sending the two of them careening into the doorway and tumbling down to the floor as Tubbo knocked Tommy off balance. They landed with a series of dull thud s on the hardwood, an oomph coming billowing out of Tommy as Tubbo’s spindly frame landed on top of him.

And, since neither of them had bothered to turn the hallway light on, they lay there in silence for a moment before-

“Ow!  What the- what the hell  Tubbo! Get off me!” Tommy scrambled to sit up, pushing Tubbo to the side. “What the fuck!”

As Tommy pushed him, Tubbo’s head hit the drywall with a slight thud and a small “ow,” but then Tommy was standing up as best as he could, free hand out to help Tubbo up. Both of their faces were pale, for different reasons, as they wiped the dust off their clothes.

“Techno, did you see that?” Wilbur asked, cackling and floating back through his room. “They’re terrified!”

Techno’s frown deepened. “Wilbur, please stop terrorizing the children.” He meant it this time, too—he was done with Wilbur fiddling in things like this, especially when Tommy had just been all teary-eyed about the whole thing. 

It seemed Wilbur didn’t care, though. “Why? It’s not like you’re going to,” he said, a hint of bitterness in his voice. He fixed Techno with a look. “What was I supposed to do?”

Techno shrugged. “I don’t know, not terrify them?”

“Ah- you see, that would make it too easy for them.” Wilbur’s grin widened, still playful and everything Techno didn’t want it to be in that moment.

“I think you gave Tubbo a heart attack.”

Beside them, Tubbo was still trying to catch his breath, his eyes widened in fear and his hair all mussed up from the fall. Tommy was all out of sorts, too—he stood there, nervously casting his gaze about the room, still clearly uncomfortable with being in Wilbur’s room, trying to play it off as if the light (and subsequent jump scare from Tubbo) hadn’t bothered him. Together, the two of them made a bit of a strange picture.

Wilbur glanced back over to Techno, amusement shining in his eyes at the sight of what he’d caused. “It’s good for him.”

Techno sighed.

There really was no point, wasn’t there?

______

Tommy didn’t like this. 

He didn’t like being upstairs, he didn’t like being in Wilbur’s room, he didn’t like any of it. Tubbo had helped with the whole thing Tommy had about the second floor, but that didn’t mean he was ready to go straight back into Wilbur’s old room, didn’t mean he wanted to stand there as Tubbo jumped about a foot in the air and came crashing down into Tommy’s side.

He was trying, he really was. He didn’t like it, but he wanted to try—Tubbo’s reassurances had been nice, and Tommy wanted to work with them. It was exposure therapy, of sorts.

This was very much not what Tommy had in mind, though.

“Tubbo, what the hell was that for!” Tommy yelled, brushing the dust off his shirt as he stood up straight. He sneezed, and dust went flying up into the air around him. The whole fucking place was dusty, and Tubbo’s little tumble hadn’t helped it much—the dust would be depressing, if it wasn’t so annoying. “You almost killed me!”

Tubbo’s face scrunched up. “I did not!”

“Yes, you did!” Tommy said. His shoulder was a lot better than it’d been the day before, but it certainly wasn’t good, and it certainly wasn’t ready to get jammed between a falling Tubbo and a doorframe. From his perspective, from the throbbing lingering inside his sensitive joint, Tubbo had indeed tried to kill him.

But Tubbo brushed it off—while Tommy had talked, he had drifted back into Wilbur’s room, looking around with widened eyes. “I’m sorry,” he said, turning back to meet Tommy’s eyes as he said it. Then, he was spun back around, his eyes focusing on the light switch as he flicked the lamp back on. The room was light again. “The- uh, the… the light switch scared me.” He swallowed hard. “It- it moved.”

“The light switch scared you.”

A nod.

“And you saw it- saw it move. On its own.” Tommy’s voice was thick with sarcasm, as he stared at Tubbo. “You’re serious.”

But Tubbo didn’t seem to care, the bastard. “Yeah! It moved! I saw- uh. I saw it move.”

“Tubbo, I think you really did hit your head,” Tommy said, a frown on his face as he followed Tubbo further into the room. There was something, it seemed, on the edge of Tubbo’s tongue—there was something weird here, about this dumbass light switch. Tommy lifted a suspicious eyebrow, letting it fall before Tubbo could catch it.

“I don’t think I did. It’d hurt quite a bit, right?” Tubbo said. “But I don’t know. Maybe I did.” He shrugged.

“Then what? You think this house is haunted?”

“Well-”

“Because that’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard.”

Tubbo didn’t respond as he wandered towards the dresser. On it, it looked like Gran had set out a picture of Wilbur, smiling with his guitar sat in his lap. Tommy hadn’t caught it the first time, apparently, or maybe Kristin had put it out. He didn’t know.

Still, it was more recent than anything Tommy had seen in awhile—since seeing Wilbur in person, actually. It couldn’t have been taken long before Wilbur died. If Tommy was right, it’d been taken right in front of the big tree in the yard, the one with the swing hanging from it. Techno lingered on the edge of the frame, just out of shot, but the focus was on Wilbur’s smiling face.

“Tommy, you’re a good kid.”  The memory came back to him without warning, Wilbur’s voice steady as it rang out in his head. “A good, smart kid. You’re going to do something great, trust me on that.”

It hadn’t been long before he’d died. They’d been standing outside the fencing club, after Techno had beaten that boy in green, waiting for the rest of the family to come out so Tommy wouldn’t get another chance to verbally (or physically, Tommy didn’t quite remember his intentions there) attack anyone.

Wilbur had followed the statement up with a ‘but,’ something like “ but you can’t attack people Techno beats. As much as I’d like to,” but Tommy was fine with pretending that that’d been it. 

It was better to remember Wilbur without that bit, his mum had told him once. Not scolding Tommy in a dark parking lot, even though that was a bit more emblematic of their relationship, if Tommy was telling the truth. She wanted him to remember Wilbur like he was in that picture—smiling, his guitar in his hands, Techno beside him as they sat in the shade of the big tree in front of the house. It really was better to remember him that way, Tommy agreed.

He brought his thoughts back to the present.

Tubbo was still standing there in front of the picture, his hands lingering right on the edge. He’d gone quiet, as his fingertips had brushed the paper, his eyes pointed towards the picture.

“Tubbo?” Tommy asked, coming closer. He frowned—this was a bit weird, weirder than the rest of how Tubbo had acted that night, weirder than the shit with the light switch. It was unnerving, to say the least. “Are you alright?”

Tubbo blinked. 

And then, he shivered.

No-

He shuddered, a full-body experience. They’d been shivering a lot in this stupid drafty house—that was not a shiver.

Tubbo’s hand jerked away from the picture, sending it sliding across the dresser. He stepped back, almost knocking into Tommy for the second time, as he stumbled away from the dresser, his face going an ashen white.

“Tubbo, are you-”

“What the fuck,” Tubbo said, breathing out harshly, like the wind had been knocked out of him. He yanked his hand, the one that had held the picture, close to his chest, cradling it as his fingers shook. “What the hell was that?”

“Tubbo?” Tommy asked, confused beyond belief, his brows narrowing over his eyes in confusion as his free hand gripped the front of his shirt in an attempt to reassure himself. “Tubbo, it isn’t funny. Whatever you’re- whatever you’re doing-”

Tubbo chuckled, something nervous. “I-” he started, mouth opening and closing. Still, his hand trembled against his chest, fingers suddenly bright pink and tinged blue at the tips. “I don’t think I did anything. It’s- I-”

Tommy stared, somehow even more confused, as Tubbo cut himself off.

But Tubbo didn’t seem to notice—instead, he was captivated by the state of his hand, his eyes locked on it, eyes twitching back and forth as they roamed over the surface of it. “It’s- it’s fucking cold. I don’t know what that was, but my hand is- it’s cold!” Panic lit up his eyes. “It’s-”

“What’s that supposed to-”

Tubbo didn’t let Tommy finish. “Feel it,” he interrupted, throwing his hand out towards Tommy’s chest. 

“What the-”

“Tommy, just-” Tubbo huffed out, something shaky, “-just feel  it, and tell me this isn’t weird.”

“Alright, alright. Fucking hell.”

Gently, Tommy took Tubbo’s hand in his—for the umpteenth time that night, Tubbo’s palm was against Tommy’s.

And, sure enough, Tubbo’s hand was frigid. 

It was shaking, trying in vain to get warm again, cold enough that Tommy might as well have been holding a brick of ice instead of his best friend’s hand. Tubbo’s fingers were slow and weak as they clasped around Tommy’s, leeching out whatever warmth they could get. “What the-” Tommy asked—it seemed that was all his brain was capable of getting out at the moment. He dropped Tubbo’s hand, looking up to meet Tubbo’s eyes. “What? What the fuck- what did you do, Tubbo?”

“I don’t know!” Tubbo’s voice was panicked. “I just- I just touched it, and then- and then, there was-”

He stopped, his eyes flicking over to the picture laying, tossed aside, on the dresser. 

Wilbur’s face smiled back at them, same as before.

And Tubbo stared, as the silence dragged on. Then, pulling his hand gently away from Tommy’s, he stepped back until he sat on the bed, his knees almost buckling out as he fixed his gaze, still, on the picture. The bed creaked out under him, groaning in protest, but Tubbo didn’t seem to care.

“Tubbo?” Tommy asked. “Tubbo, what’s going on?”

“It’s cold, Tommy,” Tubbo said, blinking away from the picture, up to meet Tommy’s eyes. “It’s cold.”

Tommy blinked back. “What?”

“Tommy, I think- you know that thing I was talking about?” Tubbo’s words were hurried, rushed, tumbling out of his mouth as fast as his tongue could make them out. “Wilbur’s here. He’s still here.” 

And here Tommy thought it couldn’t get any weirder. “Do you want to run that by me again?”

Now, there was a wild look in Tubbo’s eyes, slightly crazed as he carefully tucked his hand against his chest. “I think that was Wilbur. I think he just- I don’t know, but I mean, I talked to him last night, and he’s the only one-”

“You did what?”

Tubbo stopped. His face went red—the same red Tommy always saw, when Tubbo let stuff slip. “I, uh-”

“Tubbo,” Tommy said, his voice dropping low. What the ever-loving fuck was going on? “What did you do?”

Tubbo’s gaze pointed down towards the floor. “I made one of those spirit board things, like in the movies.” Then, gaining confidence again, he looked back up to meet Tommy’s eyes. “I- I told you I saw your uncle on the roof, and I wanted to see what was going on, so I did that. And I talked to someone, and they said they were Wilbur, and I asked some questions to make sure it was him. And it was!”  

Tommy stared, his mouth hanging open. “Tubbo, I think you’ve lost it.”

“No, but Tommy- wait, I just saw him!” Tubbo went on, bowling past Tommy’s statement, fumbling towards the dresser and gripping the picture of Wilbur, weakly, in his shaking hands. Staring at it, he sank back down to the bed, his legs shaking just as hard. “I saw someone playing with the lights, for like- like a split second, and it was him! ” He pointed hard at the picture. “It was this guy in the picture- it was Wilbur! He scared me!”

Tommy just stood there, his mouth wide open.

“And- and I’ve never seen your cousins, or your uncle in my life. But I saw  your Uncle on the roof, just like you described him, and I just saw Wilbur, and I- I heard him earlier, he was- well, he was laughing at us, but I still heard him-”

“Tubbo, calm down. Please,” he interrupted, putting his hand on Tubbo’s shoulder. They stayed there for a moment, silent, the time stretching out between them as neither of them made a sound. “This is insane.”

“Right?”

“You’re- you’re insane.”

“Well, I’m not sure about that.”

“Do you realize how crazy that sounds? This- they’re not here,” Tommy went on, and now it was his turn to ramble. “This is stupid. Tubbo, I think you actually need to see someone, because that’s just- that’s not possible. They’re not here. ”

“I’m telling you, they are! " Tubbo tried. “That- it’s cold, Tommy. My hand is cold.”

Tommy sank onto the bed beside Tubbo, his hand falling from where it’d been at Tubbo’s shoulder. The mattress bounced just slightly under his weight, jostling the two of them as the realization sank into him, the creak as off-putting as ever.

“I was-” Tubbo started, staring down at his lap. Then, he paused, closed his mouth, and tried again, “I was going to wait until I had more proof to tell you, because I didn’t want to be wrong about it, but that was it, Tommy. That was Wilbur, he just- he just- I-don’t-know-what-ed me,” Tubbo said. He wasn’t even scared anymore, a small smile on his face. “It was kind of rude, actually.”

Tommy didn’t smile back; instead, his lips pursed as he fought to keep his frown from coming back. And then, he stood up. “Tubbo, I think I need a minute,” he said.

Because, somewhere deep within him, he wanted to believe it. He didn’t know if he trusted it, and he didn’t want to call Tubbo a liar right to his face, and part of him knew that something insane had just happened.

But he didn’t know what to make of it.

He didn’t- he didn’t know what to do. He thought he’d finally got around to figuring things out, that his little cry session out in the hallway with Tubbo had been something new, some fresh start to this whole thing. He’d stepped into this room determined to sort himself out, rather than force himself through it all as he’d tried to do before. 

Now, though? That plan was scrapped. It had been the moment Tubbo had slammed the two of them into the wall.

And Tommy had no idea what to do next.

So, as the excitement faded from Tubbo's eyes—Tommy would feel bad about that later, he’d get to it later—Tommy made his way out of the room, his feet heavy on the floorboards. 

On his way out, his eyes caught, just barely, on the picture of Wilbur staring at him from the dresser. Half-heartedly, Tommy offered Wilbur a smile back.

Chapter Text

Wilbur watched, Techno by his side, as Tubbo’s brain seemed to implode. The room was silent, for a while.

Ha. Dead silent.

It wasn’t like Wilbur meant to mess with Tubbo. He just hadn’t noticed the picture until Tubbo pointed it out, and he really just wanted to be able to touch it—he wanted to pick it up like people in the movies did, with the light catching the edge of the paper and the silence settling over the room. That was all. It just so happened that Tubbo was right next to it. And, apparently, they could touch people?

In his defense, he’d pulled away as soon as he’d figured out what was going on.

Techno seemed miffed about it anyway, as he floated just above the bed, watching Tubbo go through his crisis on his own. Techno had been all miffed all night, though—this was nothing new. He just seemed to have stopped hiding it. 

As such, he stared at Wilbur quite judgingly from the corner of his eye, for a moment; then, he glanced away, apparently done with Wilbur—the insolent prick—and hovering closer as he examined the look on Tubbo’s face. 

“I think you sent him into shock,” Techno said, brow creasing as he leaned in close. Tubbo didn’t notice the closeness, nor did he notice the inevitable chill that came with it—at the moment, he seemed too absorbed in staring after Tommy. 

He’d been like that since Tommy had left.

“I didn’t mean to!” So maybe Wilbur had broken the kid. It wasn’t on purpose, though.

Still, Techno didn’t respond, just kept checking Tubbo over with a skeptical expression on his face, miffed all over again. “We should leave them alone for now,” Techno said, brushing off Wilbur’s words.

Wilbur shrugged. “It’s not like they know we’re here.”

“Still,” he said. “Seems kind of rude.”

Probably was, now that Wilbur thought about it. He glanced over to Tubbo, just to check—he wasn’t going to let Techno be right unless he was actually right. Sure enough, Tubbo was sitting there with his hand on the bedspread beside him, right where Tommy had left it; the other was still pressed against his chest, the pink and blue slowly fading from his fingertips. There was a drifting confusion in his eyes, as he blinked at the open door, something distant and thoughtful.

It was easy to forget how close the two of them were, sometimes. Even before, out in the hallway when Tubbo had gripped Tommy tight, the two of them were just easy , with the way they talked and the other was always there, with the way that that had quickly become the new norm. Tubbo didn’t seem right , without Tommy there.

Watching it felt like an intrusion. 

Techno was right, Wilbur supposed. He would frown at it, but he would agree. “Fine,” he said, letting out an exaggerated sigh. Then, though, he was following along as Techno turned around and floated out the door, trailing off down the hallway side-by-side.

“I take it you’re the one that put the picture up,” Wilbur asked, after a beat of silence. It didn’t seem like Phil’s MO—the man craved family pictures more than a scrapbook mom. It was funny, imagining Phil scrapbooking, but Wilbur brushed the thought to the side. No time for that nonsense. He had a brother to chat with.

Techno shrugged, attempting nonchalance. “Found it earlier.”

“You big old softie.” Wilbur reached up, trying to ruffle Techno’s long hair. But Techno, ever the master of evasion, dodged.

“You know, you don’t have to do that.”

“And you don’t have to be a prick all the time.” Wilbur laughed, floating fast, trying again with a grin on his face. “C’mere!” he tried, but Techno was not one to be persuaded—instead, he just let Wilbur go flying over his head, quickly sinking through the floor with a groan of annoyance.

Again, Wilbur laughed, and the house shook with the force of it. He was, first and foremost, Techno’s annoying little brother. He had a role to fill, didn’t he?

And so, with that, he gave chase. 

The house echoed with laughter only they could hear.

_____________

Tommy didn’t know if he believed Tubbo or not.

He didn’t think Tubbo would lie about something like this. But maybe, just maybe, some part of Tommy hoped that Tubbo was feeling a bit delusional for the night. It wouldn’t be unusual—one sleepover, when they were younger, had ended with Tubbo’s mom coming to pick him up because a tree cast shadows on Tommy’s window. It’d scared him shitless, to put it simply. He thought it was a monster.

Tubbo’s validity on the situation aside, Tommy didn’t want to think about it too much. His brain was already a little overrun for the day, he was tired, all that.

So, after fleeing from the room—Wilbur’s eyes staring at him from the dresser as he went—he’d made his way back downstairs, where the world was a little more sane. He hadn’t said much, since he’d settled down there on the floor: a few half-hearted jokes, nothing more, when Tubbo eventually sank down beside him.

After a spat of silence, Tubbo picked a YouTube video to fall asleep to for the night—some random Minecraft video, nearly muted and a tad calmer than what Tommy preferred to watch—but Tommy didn’t feel the need to biker with him over it. Tubbo returned the favor: if he wanted to sleep upstairs, if he noticed Tommy backtracking on his agreement over it, he didn’t mention it. Instead, they just settled their blankets and pillows on the floor in front of the coverless couches.

Some part of Tommy didn’t feel completely sane—he still felt like he was missing a few marbles, like he’d gone into Wilbur’s room with something and left without it—but it was better than it’d been, that was for sure. That wander back down the hallway, the trip down the flight of stairs, had been downright claustrophobic, his head swarming with loose thoughts.

Better, however, didn’t mean okay.

When he fell asleep that night, splayed out across the floor with his arms wrapped around his pillow, Tommy dreamed.

Of the fire. 

Of the night it happened. 

It seemed Tubbo’s meddling had, once again, dragged Tommy’s memories to the front of his mind.

That night had started happy: Techno had just become the best fencer in the country, Tommy had just threatened his opponent, and Wilbur had held Tommy’s smaller hand in his as they waited for the celebratory party to disperse a bit, the two of them standing all on their lonesome outside in the humid air.

Wilbur had complimented Tommy—“ Tommy, you’re a good kid,” —and turned it around into a lesson about not biting unsuspecting fencers. As if Tommy would believe that.

In some kind of freakish fluke—because what else could it be; Tommy wasn’t superstitious, fuck no, and he wouldn’t believe it’d happened any other way—Tommy had started shaking. Not in a good way, if such a thing existed. 

It was a fever. 

One that had probably been developing all night, held off by the euphoria of watching Techno fight, of congratulating him, until it finally decided to take him down in one fell swoop. His cheeks had flushed bright pink, his forehead going hot, and, not sure what else to do with the quickly-sickening child in his care, Wilbur had promptly passed him off to his parents. A fever out of nowhere, his parents told Phil.

A sleepover at Phil’s house was cancelled. The stress of sleeping somewhere different wouldn’t be good, his parents had said.

Tommy went home.

The next morning?

His cousins’ bedrooms were burned to ash. 

The fire had burned to the brick through most of the second floor, before the fire department was finally able to put it out. Probably the electric system that’d done it, they said. No survivors. Sure, the emergency ladder had been rolled down the side of the house—but, of his family’s deaths, the fire department seemed sure.

Tommy’s parents had told him what’d happened late the next morning, once the fever had cleared from his eyes. They didn’t tell him any details—Tommy’s brain had filled those in, in excruciating detail, as he looked into it later in life. Now, those details had been gratuitously absorbed into his nightmares.

He’d slept over at Tubbo’s for a full week afterwards—they’d, luckily, been on Easter break when this all happened. He’d panicked, that first night: when his parents hadn’t let him over to Tubbo’s, worried about Tommy and blaming their concern on the fever. He’d gone crazy about it, absolutely, irrationally terrified that Tubbo would be gone next if he wasn’t there. 

Once allowed over to Tubbo’s, he hadn’t acted differently—according to Tubbo’s parents. So long as Tubbo had been in view, he’d been virtually the same.

The nightmares had gone away eventually, and Tommy had acted normal without obsessively clinging to Tubbo, but it seemed that being here, where he was supposed to be the night of the fire, was bringing them back. Or, maybe, it was just the thought that his cousins and uncle could still be here, watching him. 

Maybe it was the thought that, in some way, they felt the same way Tommy did about it—like Tommy had cheated, somehow. And maybe they didn’t like that. 

He didn’t know.

Nevertheless, Tommy woke up covered in sweat. 

It was late, or maybe it was early, the moon still high in the sky even as pink crept up the horizon. The room was still dark, though, even as the sun tried to wash it in its light again. Tubbo was still asleep.

And so, Tommy tried to keep quiet—as the old memories faded away in a flash of fire and heat, his hands tight on his blanket, Tommy muttered quiet curses to himself and tucked his knees against his chest. His heart felt too loud, too fast, in his chest, even as everything came back into focus around him.

It would be one of those nights then.

He stood up with a wince. If he wasn’t going to go back to sleep, he wasn’t going to sit there and do nothing. 

He didn’t want to be there anyways.

The longer he lingered, the more he swore he could feel eyes watching him. Maybe, it was just the thought of someone else being in the house, or maybe, if there was weight to Tubbo’s claims. He blinked slowly at his surroundings, taking them in anew with these new thoughts. Unsurprisingly, there was nobody there.

Maybe he was just losing it. Asbestos, or something. The house was fucking old, he didn’t know. It could just be poisining them slowly, breaking down their minds bit by bit the longer they stayed—Tubbo probably had a weak fucking immune system, that was all. That’s why he was saying what he was saying. 

It wouldn’t be surprising.

Still, as he strode towards the kitchen, Tommy fetched the carefully-folded piece of paper from Tubbo’s bag.

In the quiet house, Tommy went about eating breakfast as normal, sitting at the breakfast table with his cereal in front of him. Or, perhaps it wasn’t normal to spread your friend’s makeshift ouija board (more of a ouija paper, really) on the table as you did it, but he didn’t think too hard on it.

Instead, he just sat there, staring at the paper in front of him. Something in him felt like it’d offended him—it probably had, in a way, but it also hadn’t. He didn’t know. He didn’t really try to figure it out.

Instead, his mind went blank. He didn’t ask the thing any questions or anything. He didn’t even properly set it up—he just shoved his spoon in his mouth, making a face at the thing, until his bowl was empty.

It was stupid. 

This was fucking stupid. He didn’t know why he’d brought it with him, why he decided to sit there and stare at it.

Tubbo was just-

Crazy.

This was crazy.

He was crazy. He was sitting there, invisible eyes heavy on the back of his head, running on half a night’s worth of sleep, and he was seriously considering this.

It was dumb. He was paranoid, delusional—goodness, he had actually considered it, hadn’t he? He was really considering it.

He leaned back in his chair, eyes still fixed on the paper leering ominously at him from its place on the table. He officially lost it. Some part of him was so desperate for Tubbo’s words to be true that he’d actually— actually —come in, sat himself down, and tried to figure this stupid thing out. He hadn’t gotten to say goodbye, that night, and now here he was hoping he could try it all over again. 

Fuck that.

He huffed out, free hand going to scrunch the stupid thing up in his fist, determined to toss the thing in the bin where it belonged because this was stupid and he was insane, and it wasn’t going to work- when a voice stopped him.

“Did you try it?”

Tommy jumped, and he definitely did not scream. He, quite calmly, turned around to find the source of the voice.

To no surprise, it was not a ghost. 

Behind him, openly laughing at his misfortune, was Tubbo. Tubbo was right there over Tommy’s shoulder, glancing from Tommy to the board, leaning away to keep himself upright as he laughed.

“Tubbo?” Tommy asked. “What the fuck? Why-” His heart was back to hammering in his chest—this time, for different reasons. “What-”

Tubbo’s laughter faded away, though the grin didn’t quite leave his face. “Sorry,” he said, very obviously not sorry, fixing himself so he could lean down on Tommy’s good shoulder and gaze upon his creation. The self-assured prick.

“Fuck you,” Tommy said, pushing Tubbo away.

At that, at Tommy’s succinct dismissal, Tubbo fluttered over to his usual chair at the table, ignoring the hesitant groan of the wood as he settled into it. “Well, did you try it?” he asked.

Tommy grumbled as he glanced back towards the board. It was exactly as he’d left it, the pointer tossed off to the side—he wasn’t going to arm the damn thing, especially not with Tubbo here—and the paper laying out for the early morning light to watch over it. “No,” he said. “Why would I do that?”

“You got it out.”

“Yeah, to prove it doesn’t work.” Tommy crossed his free arm over his chest, frowning. 

Tubbo was quick to notice the frown, eyes once again darting from the board and back to Tommy—it was dizzying, watching as his pupils buzzed about. “Do you want help?” he said, at last. “I like to think I’m pretty good with it.” He preened under his own compliment, just for a moment, before turning back to Tommy. “What?”

“Fucking prick,” Tommy muttered.

“You’re not using it right.” Tubbo said, grabbing the piece of paper from the table, slipping it right into place. 

“What-”

“Tommy, it won’t work if you don’t use it right.”

Tubbo was far too good at knowing the right thing to say, sometimes—or maybe Tubbo was just good with Tommy himself, Tommy didn’t really know one way or another. Tommy sighed. “Fine. Fix it.”

If this was real…

Tommy shook his head, shaking the thoughts loose.

No, it- it wasn’t. It couldn’t be.

Still, Tubbo set it up, a pleasant smile on his face. “I hope they’re all here,” he said, looking around. His eyes seemed to catch on certain corners of the room, but if he saw anything Tommy couldn’t, he didn’t let anything on. Instead, the smile just got wider on his face. “Tommy, really, this is going to be so cool for you. Just watch.”

Tommy frowned. He wasn’t sure cool was how he’d put this—maybe mortally terrifying was the better option.

At that, Tubbo set the pointer in the middle of the sheet of paper.

And, for a long moment, nothing happened. They sat there, and they stared at it, and nothing happened. 

It was cold in the room again—it had Tommy shivering in his thin shirt. The kitchen was always drafty, though, especially in the morning. This wasn’t- this wasn’t Tubbo’s ‘cold’ bullshit. It couldn’t be.

“This is stupid.” He voiced his thoughts simply—he wasn’t going to let Tubbo keep on doing this- this whatever it was he was doing. “Tubbo-”

“Shhh,” Tubbo said, holding up a finger. He smiled wider, his eyes still stuck on the paper in front of them.

“Tubbo, this isn’t going to work.” Tommy frowned harshly as, still, nothing happened. “Put it back.”

Tubbo didn’t move.

Fine, if Tubbo wasn’t going to do it, then Tommy would do it himself-

As Tommy grabbed for the pointer, though, Tubbo’s hands flew up to stop him. With only one working arm, Tommy scrambled to get past him, but ultimately, Tubbo won out. “Tommy, shut up!” he said, head jerking over to glare at Tommy.

And, well, when Tommy looked up to meet his eyes, there was a slightly crazed look in them. Tubbo was—he was insane. He was so excited about this, and it- it wasn’t real.

It wasn’t real.

And it'd gone on too long. Tommy had- had almost convinced himself to expect something of this, and Tubbo had fully believed it, and- and Tommy wasn’t going to keep playing along with it. “Tubbo, stop- put it away,” he said, his voice hard. “It’s not going to-”

“Tommy-” Tubbo stopped himself. His eyes flicked back over to the paper, and that crazy smile spread out on his face. “Tommy, Tommy look!”

He’d lost it. He’d lost it- he’d-

“ Look!”

But sure enough, as Tommy’s eyes wandered over-

The paper twitched.

Tommy froze.

What?

What- was that?

It moved. On its own. Tubbo’s hands were far away, Tommy’s were nowhere near it—there was no reason-

It could just be the draft. Just the draft, that was all. The whole house could shift at the slightest gust of wind, there was no way-

But then, it moved again. It slid in one direction, then another, never quite landing on a letter. It flipped and spun and wandered around the board, going too fast for them to make anything out of the madness. The house shook a bit as wind blew against the brick outside. And, somehow, it got so, so much colder in the room—Tommy started shivering, hard.

The pointer kept moving. Still, it said nothing.

“Tubbo?” Tommy’s head jerked over to face Tubbo. “What the fuck are you-”

“It- it didn’t do this before,” Tubbo said, his grin fading. He looked up into the air, slight concern in his voice. “Guys? If you’re there, we’d like to talk!”

The pointer stopped.

And then it stayed that way. It stayed still, unmoving as the clock on the wall ticked the seconds away. They sat there in silent anticipation for a long, drawn out moment, Tommy’s brain going a thousand miles per hour as the thing- it fucking responded to Tubbo.

It responded to Tubbo.

Until finally:

Moving slowly, on it’s own—what the fuck, what the fuck , it was really moving on its own wasn’t it—it settled, one after the other, on the letters it wanted.

Tommy forgot how to breathe. He sat there, his free hand clenched tight on the wood of the dining table, and he blinked hard. This was- he wasn’t dreaming, was he? This was actually happening. This wasn’t just Tubbo being paranoid, Tommy wasn’t losing it- this was happening.

It was real. It was real.

When the pointer was done, the message was clear. The message was very apparently clear. It repeated, over and over, in Tommy’s head as he sat there in shock. 

Two simple words:

Hi Tommy.

Chapter Text

Phil was careful, as he pulled his hand from the pointer.

It made no difference, at the end of the day, whether he was careful about it or not—it wasn’t like Tommy could see him, nor could he do anything about it if he could—but Phil was careful, nonetheless. He left his message and he pulled away, watching and waiting as he fell into place between Wilbur and Techno.

He’d come downstairs at the sound of Wilbur and Techno arguing, the two of them bickering over who should get to talk to Tommy—like children, they’d bickered, oblivious to the situation they were putting themselves in. Their voices were tense, their hands gripping opposite corners of the ouija board pointer, spelling out nothing intelligible, as Tommy and Tubbo watched along in confusion.

There’d been a tension brewing between the two of them, over the past couple of days. It wasn’t intense, nor was it urgent—just a while before, the two had been back to their friendly jabs, laughing as they floated about the house—but, still, it was a far cry from what Phil had seen just a few days before, when the two of them had popped their heads through the roofing and worked together (more or less) to get Tommy and Tubbo down. This uncertain, suspenseful pressure was there now, and Phil had noticed.

And now, they’d mucked up the situation with their disagreement. 

So Phil did as he always did, when Wilbur and Techno were at odds: he stepped in to settle it.

He’d sighed, but he’d stepped in to settle it.

Hi Tommy, he’d written out, in slow, deliberate letters, pausing between each letter to let Tommy and Tubbo’s eyes follow.

And then, carefully, he stepped away to wait. He wouldn’t rush it, wouldn’t try to force things one way or another—even as Wilbur and Techno idly complained about not getting their way, eyes trained on Tommy as they carried on with their tirades. Phil hushed them with a soft sound, eyes watching closely.

Before them, Tommy stared. He blinked, once, twice, a couple times more—he trusted himself to do that, it seemed—and kept on staring. He had yet to move though, just sat there and watched the board in front of him, as frozen as he’d been since Phil had stepped forward and taken command of the situation. His free hand gripped the wood of the kitchen table.

“Tommy?” Tubbo’s voice was soft, slightly confused, as he broke the still of the room—he didn’t carry with him the same carefulness as Phil, but he tried.

It was endearing. A soft smile found its way onto Phil’s face.

Still, Tommy just sat there. “What the hell,” he muttered. He was frozen in place, blinking and breathing just enough to show them that he was still alive, the words barely more than a breath past his lips.

Beside Phil, Wilbur’s brow quirked in impatience—then, before Phil could stop him, he was floating forward, hand out towards the table. “I can-”

“Wil,” Phil interrupted, and Wilbur stopped in his tracks. “Let them sort it out.”

“But dad, they’re-”

At Wilbur’s whine, Techno huffed.

And so Wilbur glanced at Techno, frowning deeply, before his head was swivelling back over to Phil. 

“Both of you,” Phil said. Goodness- it wasn’t like Wilbur to act like this, nor was it like Techno to be so blatantly unhelpful about the whole situation; together, they’d confused Tommy and Tubbo enough. Now, Phil still had to scold them like children to keep everything together. “Give him a minute.”

Wilbur huffed, but he complied. Techno let out something smug in response, content to have (nearly) escaped Phil’s scolding, but Phil didn’t pay him any attention. Instead, his eyes were back on Tommy.

In front of them, Tubbo tried again. “Tommy?” he asked, voice laced with concern. He’d since stopped staring at the ouija board, his eyes now fully directed at Tommy—he didn’t seem as entranced by Phil’s little message, now that Tommy was out of sorts.

“Holy shit,” Tommy said. He blinked, hard, before his head jerked to Tubbo. His eyes were wild, wide, as he stared into Tubbo’s. “Holy shit.”

Tubbo nodded, and a relieved smile came over his face. “Indeed.”

“It- fuck.”

Tubbo cut Tommy off with a slight laugh. “And you didn’t believe me.”

“Because it’s fucking- this is fucking insane.” Tommy’s face sank in thought. “Unless it’s a prank, this- this is-”

Oh no no, Phil would not let that guess get any further. He reached down again, ignoring Wilbur’s indignant squawk—“oh come on,”—and slid the paper across the board. It was lightweight in his ghostly fingers, easy to move from letter to letter. 

Not a prank, he spelled.

Tommy froze once again, eyes darting down to the paper. “Fucking hell.”

And Tubbo took the opportunity, leaning forward as his excitement caught up to him again—with Tommy relatively okay, for now, it seemed that Tubbo’s eagerness was back in full swing. “Who is it?” he asked the air. “Wilbur?”

“No,” came Wilbur’s bitter reply from Phil’s side. Techno huffed again, the same slight noise of discontent.

Phil continued to ignore the two of them, his hand guiding the pointer around the board once more. Phil.

“Oh. Cool!” Tubbo said brightly. He sat up a little straighter in his chair, excitement glittering in his eyes. “Nice to meet you. I’m Tubbo!”

Hi mate.

Tommy was still in disbelief, his eyes wide. “What the fuck.”  

“Hi- er.” Tubbo turned to Tommy. “What should I call him?”

Tommy sputtered for an answer. “Wha- nothing . You shouldn’t call it anything- you- fucking-” He paused, letting out a heavy breath, steadying himself. “Do you seriously think it’s them?”

But Phil was already spelling out his response to Tubbo’s question, since Tommy had been so hesitant to do so: Phil works.

“Cool!” Tubbo said. “Were you the one I saw on the roof?”

Yes.

“You tried to kill us?” Tommy cut in, shooting an offended look at the air. “You tried to- to fucking kill us , and we’re- we’re-”

Tubbo laughed, and Tommy stopped himself, his cheeks going slightly pink.

Phil smiled along with it—he supposed hindsight could be entertaining, given the opportunity. With results like these, when that tumble off the roof started the chain of events straight towards this moment, Phil could see why Tubbo laughed.

And so, after moment of thought, a moment of watching Tommy and Tubbo’s reactions and indulging in Tubbo’s laughter the situation, Phil moved the pointer quickly, with a slight smile on his face:

No.  

He had not, in fact, tried to kill Tommy and Tubbo. Quite the opposite, actually.

Still, Tommy leaned back in his chair, a skeptical look on his face. If he were able—Phil knew he wasn’t—then he would’ve cocked one eyebrow up high, eyes just as doubting underneath. “Yeah? Well, then why’d you push Tubbo?”

The guilt was back, though, as Tommy’s brows drew closer together instead. Tommy’s doubt quickly turned into something… angrier. 

Phil was quick to explain himself: Accident.

“Oh, I’m sure it was,” Tommy said, crossing his free arm very sternly over his chest. It was quite a sight, watching him try to sulk like he was with the bulky thing still holding his arm across his chest. Still, he managed to make it work.

Tubbo shrugged at the empty air, a silent apology.

With it, Tommy frowned. His eyes darted over to Tubbo, brows sinking lower over his eyes as he slumped in his chair. “Doesn’t this seem weird to you?” he asked, eyes lifting up to give a glare in a nonspecific direction—the glare, by chance, landed on Techno, who dismissed it with a blink.

Phil’s smile faltered. He hovered closely over the board, his hand just over the pointer. He didn’t say anything, though, holding up a hand when Wilbur opened his mouth to fill the space.

And, for a moment, silence fell over the room.

What did Tommy mean by that, ‘weird’? 

Phil got the distinct feeling that he was missing something.

At Tommy’s words, Tubbo blinked. “Should it?”

“Tubbo, these could just be some random spirits fucking with us.” Tommy said, matter-of-factly. “You know that, right?

So Tommy still didn’t believe them. Phil frowned, but he was quick to counter it, leaning forward and sliding the pointer back over to No.

“Yeah, that’s what you say, when you’re the dickhead that pushed us off the roof!”

“Tommy, I’m 90% sure it’s your family,” Tubbo said, cutting Tommy off. “I saw them!”

“Well then, why can’t I see them?”

“You don’t believe in them. That’s what Wilbur said.”

Tommy stared at Tubbo. “What kind of pony princess shit is that—oh, ‘believe’ in the ghosts and they’ll look like your dead family,” he said, his voice low. “You’re- you’re fucking gullible, Tubbo, that’s what this is.”

Could be true.

To be honest, the three of them had little idea why some people were more aware than others. Wilbur had had that theory the second Gran had glanced in his direction, and it wasn’t like they’d had much to go against it. They also hadn’t had much evidence for it, but untested didn’t mean impossible. Phil would go with it, if that’s what Tubbo and Wilbur wanted to go with for now, for Tommy’s sake more than anything else.

Tubbo stared at the spirit board. A pensive look crossed his face, something conflicted in his eyes, and he looked up, a face twisted up as he scrutinized Tommy. “There’s something going on with you, isn’t there?”

“What? There’s nothing- nothing fucking ‘going on,’ Tubbo,” Tommy said, sitting up straight in his chair. 

“No, but there is.”

Tommy turned away. The pout from earlier, mostly for show, started to fade away. In its place, Tommy’s eyes were uncertain and conflicted, as he stared at some nonspecific spot in the room.

Tubbo took his moment. “They’re all here. I know it’s them,” he gestured out at the empty air in front of them, “and- and you believed me before.”

“Well,” Tommy started, jerking over to look back at Tubbo, “I-” 

“So why are you acting all- all weird about it?”

Tommy paused, his words stopping. He didn’t start again though, just moved on to the next thought and lowered his gaze down to his lap. “I’m not acting ‘weird,’ Tubbo.”

“You are, though. You- we know it’s them. I told you, I checked- with Wilbur, I checked.”

“Yeah, well I never said I believed you.”

Tubbo was quick to stop the accusation, caught it before it could even leave Tommy’s mouth—he folded his hands over each other in his lap, and he stared towards Tommy’s eyes. “You- you… you don’t mean that.”

“Fuck off.” Tommy didn’t meet Tubbo’s eyes.

“No- you don’t mean that, and you- you don’t mean any of this. You-”

“Tubbo-”

“-you’re denying it, and you’re- you’re blaming it on me-”

“Just- Tubbo, stop.”

Tubbo stared at Tommy for a moment, confusion dappling across his face. “Stop?”

“Stop- stop being all- just stop it, or- or-” He stopped himself, his hand clenching up around the hem of his shirt. “Fuck.”

Phil watched Tommy—Tommy, who sat there for a long time, mouth forming words that wouldn’t quite come out, eyes wide open as a million different emotions flew by. At Phil’s side, both Wilbur and Techno were silent. Wilbur didn’t try to jump in, and Techno’s face, after all this time, lost its passive aggressive luster.

They all stayed like that, stuck in the moment.

“Tommy?” Tubbo tried, back to as he’d been before, gently prodding at Tommy for a response.

After a long beat of silence, Tommy let out a big breath, eyes landing on nothing in particular. “I can’t-” he said, knuckles going white around the bottom of his shirt. “I need to- to go outside.”

“Wait, Tommy, I didn’t mean to-”

“Tubbo, just- stop fucking freaking out and shit,” he said. “Keep talking to them- whatever, I don’t care. Give me- give me a second, please.”

Tubbo frowned, still, but he didn’t move to follow as Tommy walked out the door. 

Once again, Tommy had run away from this, away from the three of them. 

In his absence, Tubbo slumped back into his chair, sighing, pressing the heels of his hands to his eyes. “God damnit,” he said, quietly, to himself. Then, looking up around the room, eyes searching for the three of them, he went on, “I’m sorry. I- I’m trying, I promise.”

It’s alright, mate, Phil was slow to write, deliberate, as Tubbo watched him. 

Tubbo stared.

It’s Tommy. He’ll be okay.

Still, Tubbo didn’t reply. He just let out a sigh, arms wrapped around himself, and leaned forward to put his forehead against the dining table. With it, the ouija board was out of his vision, blocking off Phil from writing anymore. Phil understood.

As such, he sighed as he pulled his hand away from the ouija board. “Give Tommy some space, both of you,” he said, looking up to meet Wilbur and Techno’s eyes, one after the other. “Let the two of them work it out.”

They’d certainly meddled enough in this—all three of them. Now, Tommy was outside, avoiding them. It was time to step back, at least for now, until Tommy and Tubbo really worked this out for themselves, until Tommy was ready.

Wilbur nodded. “Right.”

Techno, after a moment, offered up a slight dip of his head.

Phil cast one more glance towards the front door—it hung half-way open in Tommy’s wake, the breeze floating in to tousle the paper of the ouija board as it sat there in front of Tubbo—before turning away.

Then, he took his own advice.

For now, he would leave Tommy and Tubbo alone.

Chapter Text

Tommy wanted to scream, shout- do something. 

His throat felt heavy, his heart was beating too fast in his chest, and his hands wouldn’t stop- stop- shaking. His chest felt heavier, and it kept just piling up higher and higher and higher, choking him and clogging up thick in his throat with every breath he took.

It was- it was too much.

It was five years’ worth of everything, all at once.

And he- he didn’t know what to do.

He didn’t scream—screaming would bring out Tubbo’s concerned gaze, would no doubt draw out whatever they were sharing the house with too, and there was no way he could deal with that right now. No, he didn’t scream, though he very much wanted to, as he stepped out the door and out into the grass. 

Instead, he shut the door behind him, the wood tight and heavy and slightly crooked in the old frame, and he just… stood there. 

He tried to ground himself in the feeling of the sun on his face and the breeze in his hair, on the soft whisper of petals along the landscape. His feet were bare, the grass cool and soft under his feet as he wandered off of the walkway—his body worked while his mind sputtered along his errant thoughts, putting more space between him and that god-forsaken ouija board before everything could quite click together in his head.

He walked there, in front of the towering old house he’d avoided for so long—still avoided, for the most part—and he didn’t think much. If only for a little while, he didn’t think.

Before he knew it, he was standing in the shade, right beneath the old oak out in the front yard- the one with the swing in it. And he sat down, right at the base, dwarfed by the scraggly old trunk. In the dirt, under the shade of the big oak’s boughs, he stared at the ground in front of him, resting his back against the bark of the sturdy base as the swing swayed in the wind above his head. He was upset and confused and a million other things, but he wasn’t enough of a cliche to sit on the swing itself—he drew the line there, mind you. 

It felt a little bit better, under there. Not good, but more… more manageable. The physical distance helped. He still felt shaky and wrong and angry—he still wanted to yell and kick and fight and lash out at anyone who approached, even as the guilt from yelling at Tubbo lingered somewhere in the back of his head—but there was no one, here, for him to take it out on. 

The tree wouldn’t respond. Still, Phil had treated the thing with such care, when Tommy was younger, that hurting it felt impossible. Even at his angriest. 

So he sighed, as he tilted his head back and pressed himself against the bark.

He’d always loved this tree, gnarled and old and gross. Once, as a kid, he’d chipped off a piece of the bark and tried to shove it in his mouth—Phil had almost been too slow to stop him, caught up in some deep conversation with Techno about the state of society and the world. Another time, Tommy had gotten himself stuck up in it, spent hours hungry and cold in the branches because Wilbur, the only one at the house, had been streaming, too loud to hear Tommy yelling. And he’d spent many, many hours just like he was now—slumped up against its base, nestled along the roots and dirt and bugs.

He liked the tree. It was good, it would always be good. The fire hadn’t touched it, even as it’d burned through Techno’s room and charred the brick so badly that some spots had had to be replaced.

At the thought, Tommy’s head felt too heavy on his shoulders, that dizzying feeling when he spun around too long and the world still swam even when he stood still, and he- he hated it. He curled his hands into fists, and he held them tight in his lap, searching for an outlet he couldn’t find. 

Because- fuck, he was tired. He was mad- so mad, but above all… he was just tired. He didn’t know how to think about this, what to feel about it, and the sheer thought of doing anything right now made his limbs feel like lead.

It wasn’t the right way to feel about it, he knew.

He should feel happy. He should be fucking elated at the mere thought of seeing, hearing, watching his family again, after so much time spent apart—even if they were stuck there as ghosts, as Tubbo seemed convinced they were. He should welcome this, this, whatever with open arms and a giddy smile, just like Tubbo seemed so fucking content to do. He should be eager, unquestioning of all this shit, not- not-

‘Denying it,’ that’s what Tubbo had called it.

But… it couldn’t be them.

Tubbo didn’t understand, couldn’t understand. It couldn’t be them.

And, as Tommy’s head whirled, Tubbo’s words from the night before—fuck, it hadn’t even been twenty-four hours—resurfaced. About how it was alright to feel like he did about the house, about what had happened within it, about the time he hadn’t let himself think about it and what that’d done to his head. It was alright. He should let himself do this, go through all the shit he’d never let himself process and finally move past it.

That was before this, though. 

The heaviness rose up higher in his chest. Tommy didn’t try to stop it.

It was too much. All of this, everything that was going on. It was too much. The more he let himself think about it, it crawled up around his neck and strangled him, tight and choking and unrelenting.

He missed them. He missed them so much, it felt impossible to ever feel anything else.

And all of this—all of Tubbo’s insistence that they were there, that somehow their ghosts were stuck lingering about the house, that they’d been watching him and now he could just talk to them—it hurt. 

He curled up tight in the dirt, jeans going brown and green against the scattered bits of grass.

Even if it was them- he wasn’t happy. He didn’t like this, he didn’t like any of this. He never asked for any of this—all he really asked for, when given the chance, was the chance to say goodbye like he’d never been able to do. He wanted to be happy about it, but it just hurt, somewhere deep, deep inside of his chest, and it- it-

He wanted them there. He wanted it desperately, had hoped for it so much that he’d gone ahead and put the stupid fucking ouija board out and let Tubbo set it up and everything- but he also didn’t. He was mad and hurt and wanted to yell and punch and fight until his fists were tired and his throat was raw, but still, he just sat there, the exhaustion of it all weighing him down tight, silent against the roots of the tree. 

Tommy let out a soft whine, quieted and shoved down into his arms.

Fuck.

He would do anything for it to be them. 

But it couldn’t be them. 

He wanted to be happy about it, but it just hurt, somewhere deep, deep inside of his chest. 

It- he was fucking ridiculous. 

He was being stupid, for all of this.

The mixed up and fucking- fucking contradictary feelings swirled fast around in his head. Bright green leaves, the same familiar shape that they’d always been, swayed above his head, dappled in sunlight. 

He sighed, and it was tinged with a million different things he couldn’t quite place.

Still, the tree stood there firmly behind him. Still, he sat there, curled up tight underneath it. 

And he stayed like that for a while. 

He didn’t know how much time passed, as his arms got sore and his ass dug into the dirt, as the tree held him steady and he fought to keep himself from sinking beneath all the shit that waited for him inside of the house. But he stayed there for a while.

He didn’t want to leave. Things felt a bit more sane out here. He could manage this, for now. Eventually, he’d have to sort himself out and go inside and figure out what he was supposed to do about it all, but for now, he was content to just sit there in the shade of the oak and observe the landscape around him. So that’s what he did.

The sun was up high in the sky, peaked up as the time ticked past noon, when footsteps finally approached. 

“They’re all happy to see you, you know.”

Tommy looked up at the quiet intrusion—from towards the front door, Tubbo had come over, squinting slightly under the bright light of the sun. He lingered out of the shadow of the tree, though, watching Tommy with sparkling eyes as the sunlight showed off the hidden greens and browns in his hazel eyes. His hands were folded in front of him, and he rocked back and forth on his heels as he avoided Tommy’s eyes. He was quiet, in the afternoon warmth.

Tommy grumbled. “I’m sure they are.”

For a moment, he didn’t think he’d get a response. Tubbo kept on swaying to and fro, and Tommy kept sitting there in the dirt, both of them quiet as Tommy’s words rang out in the still air. 

Then though, Tubbo was steadying himself, holding himself still as he looked down towards Tommy. 

“I’m sorry,” he said. He didn’t need to clarify, and Tommy didn’t make him—it was understood, between the two of them, what Tubbo was talking about. 

Tommy blinked, nice and slow. “Good.”

“Are you…”

“I don’t know,” he said, and his voice was just above a mutter. It felt hard to talk louder, all of a sudden. He wasn’t necessarily trying to talk loudly, but it felt so different than before, than the swirling scream of his thoughts, and he didn’t like it. He picked his chin up from where it was propped on his knees.

And, for a moment, Tubbo was quiet.

Tubbo’s eyes wandered—they caught on a leaf, as it fell from the tree. Tommy followed his gaze, and together, they watched it flutter down to stop next to Tommy’s feet. Tommy didn’t reach for it.

“It’s a lot, I’ll bet,” Tubbo said, eyes sliding up to finally meet Tommy’s. It wasn’t a question, but it wasn’t a statement either—it was somewhere in between, not quite one but not quite the other. 

“Yeah.” Tommy nodded. “A bit lot.”

At that, there was a soft smile on Tubbo’s face, half of a laugh floating out into the air around them. “That doesn’t make any sense.”

“Oh fuck off,” Tommy said, fighting back his own smile.

Tubbo let out another half-laugh. His eyes still lingered on Tommy, wandering along where the roots weaved and wrapped around each other in the packed earth, trailing up and intertwining where Tommy sat. It didn’t feel bad, being watched by Tubbo—it was calming and familiar, and Tommy didn’t mind it. 

“Gonna stand there and stare at me?” Tommy complained, all fake sarcasm and over-done frowns. Still, he patted the spot beside him, biting out a laugh when Tubbo hesitated. 

Then, though, it was only a moment before Tubbo sank down next to him, landing with a thump against the dirt. He, like Tommy, tucked his legs up tight against himself, curled up among the scattered dead leaves gathered and decaying in the shade. 

Tommy watched, as Tubbo plucked the newly-fallen leaf from the dirt. 

Tubbo held the stem delicately between his pointer finger and his thumb, spinning it back and forth. “I don’t know how to say this right, I don’t think,” he started, his voice hesitant, “but… it’s okay if you don’t believe it. Or if, you know, you don’t want to.”

Tommy blinked. He felt that heavy thing low in his stomach again, weighing him down as he propped himself against the tree, but- he didn’t know what to do with it. And so he hummed something out, a low sound that he could feel somewhere in the bottom of his throat. “I’m tired, Tubbo,” he said. 

“Yeah,” Tubbo said. What he was agreeing with, Tommy didn’t quite know.

Tommy went with it anyway. He pulled himself out of his tight little curled up ball, legs splaying out across the dirt and bare heels scuffing against the dusty parts of the Earth. Tubbo sat there next to him, and the silence settled around them. 

It wasn’t awkward, nor was it tense—it was comfortable, companionable, with a mutual understanding settling in the space between them. Overhead somewhere, a bird chirped, and Tubbo’s shoulder pressed a bit closer to Tommy’s. 

“I don't know if I want to believe it or not,” Tommy admitted. 

“You don’t?” Tubbo’s voice was gentle, yet tense, as he prompted Tommy to continue. If Tubbo was surprised at Tommy’s words, if there were any hesitations to it, he didn’t show it.

But Tommy just shook his head, slowly, before lowering it down to look back towards the ground. He watched Tubbo from the corner of his eyes—Tubbo was a bit blurry and shit, but it worked. “I don’t like it,” he said. “But it might be nice, if it was them.”

“Yeah,” Tubbo said. “That’s alright.”

“Is it?”

“I was… I was acting like a dick earlier. I’m sorry.” Tubbo turned to look at Tommy. “You’re not denying it.”

“No,” Tommy said. “I think I am.”

Or, at least, that was one way to think of it. It was the easier way. His brain snagged on the lingering feeling of fear in the back of his head—it was heavy and cold, and it had him wrapping his free arm around himself. At the end of the day, wanting to believe it or not had nothing to do with whether it was true or not.

Tubbo mulled over his response for a heartbeat, sitting there beside Tommy with his shoulder pressed right up next to Tommy’s good one. Then, he was looking up and across the grass. “That’s not necessarily a bad thing, though,” he said, eyes coming over to meet Tommy’s. “We’ll get through it.”

Tommy looked back. What Tubbo meant by ‘we,’ he didn’t quite know—he hoped, quietly, that it was different than it’d been before. He didn’t like the stuff from before.

Watching how Tubbo’s face was pressed with guilt, right in the corners of his mouth and the tilt of his brows, Tommy assumed it would be. 

Regardless, it meant that Tubbo would be there with him through it.

At the end of the day, that was the bit that mattered to Tommy.

Tommy just wondered, exactly, how much ‘it’ was, and how long it would take them to get through it.

The sunlight shifted beneath the tree’s leaves, spotting in and out of the corner of his eyes as Tommy glanced away from Tubbo. “Whatever you say, Tubzo,” he said. 

Tubbo's face broke into a slight grin.

And with that, the conversation passed. 

Tubbo sat up a little straighter, his voice going into that slightly distracted inflection he had. “Do you… do you want to go grocery shopping?” he asked.

Tommy frowned, confused. “What?”

“Our pantry’s kind of depressing.”

If by ‘depressing,’ Tubbo meant ‘completely empty,’ then Tommy agreed. He had, honestly, no idea how they’d managed to feed themselves over the past couple of days. His mum had told them to go shopping as soon as they could, and they still hadn’t gotten around to it—it was a good thing she couldn’t see them now.

“And… uh,” Tubbo continued, voice softer than before. “It’ll probably be nice to get out of the house for a bit.”

Tommy nodded. “Sure,” he said.

It would be a nice distraction, getting out. He welcomed it with open arms.

At his agreement, Tubbo beamed.

Then, they were standing up. Tubbo sat in the swing while he called the taxi, and Tommy leaned against the tree, arm draped against a low-hanging branch. When the taxi was ordered and on its way, while they waited for it to arrive, Tubbo swung around on his own, and Tommy plopped himself down in the grass past the tree’s base, cautious for once as the wind pushed Tubbo around every which way. 

He smiled, though, as he watched.

When the taxi pulled up around the bend, Tommy felt a bit better. Not good, by any means, but better.

There was still a lot of stuff, old stuff and new stuff, that he knew was still all bungled up in his head. All those complicated contradictions weren’t going to be sorted out in an hour—and those weren’t all of it, he was sure. Until he came back to the house and had to face the mess that lay within, though, it would be enough.

He didn’t want to come back and sort it out. It felt better, now, to walk away from all of this and not look back, to let himself forget, if only for a moment, about everything he was leaving behind. It was easy to sit there with Tubbo and forget about everything else, to keep forgetting about it. He was tempted to take it.

But.

He’d already tried that, now hadn’t he?

For now, he would let the distraction carry him. He knew, though, that he would have to come back.

Still, as the feelings all slowly ebbed away, he felt a bit better.

Chapter Text

The taxi ride was semi-silent—that seemed to be a trend, now, between this taxi ride and the last.

Though this time they weren’t on their way to the hospital, Tubbo could feel a tension coming off of Tommy, could see it in the way his eyes watched the scenery go by. As carefully as he could, Tubbo watched Tommy from the corner of his eye, pretending he wasn’t as he kept his head pointed ahead.

That familiar guilt, the same as when he’d last sat himself in a taxi, crawled slowly up his spine. Another trend that was coming out of these taxi rides. 

Tubbo had tried, had tried to help—the ghosts, Tommy, everybody—and it’d blown up in his face again. Before, he’d sent Tommy tumbling off the roof and into an emergency room; now, he’d caused Tommy, of all people, to go quiet. The guilt had been there as soon as Tommy had left the kitchen table, had left Tubbo there with the ghosts of his dead family, and it’d been there when Tubbo had walked outside and chatted with Tommy at the base of the tree. It was still there now, and Tubbo couldn’t quite shake it off.

But he was determined to wade through it, if it meant getting his head clear—if it meant helping Tommy feel better. That’d been his mission this far into the trip, and that mission wasn’t going to change. The objective had changed, for the moment, but the goal had remained the same. 

Now, he hoped for normalcy, to hold down the fort before this exploded in his face again. 

The taxi slid to a stop at a stoplight, and Tommy’s gaze froze on something outside: a barn-shaped building, one with a wooden-lettered sign spelling “fencing club”. The paint was peeling in places—just looking at it, though, Tubbo doubted it’d ever looked nice.

Techno had been a fencer, hadn’t he?

As the light turned green and the taxi slid down the street, Tommy didn’t say anything. Tubbo didn’t point it out. God knew that was the last thing Tommy needed. 

Then again, Tubbo was having a hard time figuring out what it was Tommy did need, in that moment. 

He scrunched up his nose at the thought. Tommy didn’t notice.

No, none of that. Tubbo would give Tommy some much-needed space—Kristin’s words, from their solemn conversation after the roof incident, rang out clearly in Tubbo’s head, as he sat there in the back of the taxi. Tubbo had let his excitement at the house, at the ghosts, overpower what she’d said before; he didn’t want that happening again. So, he would keep his thoughts about it to himself. Tommy would come to him if he needed it, right?

Tubbo pursed his lips, and he let his eyes drift away.

Right.

Soon, the taxi was pulling up next to a narrow street, lined with wide sidewalks and quaint storefronts, people walking up and down as they went about their days. Tommy paid the fare, Tubbo wished the driver a good day, and then they were bouncing out into the open air.

The events of the morning faded away. Or, at least, Tubbo hoped they did.

He would try his hardest to make it seem like they did, all things aside.

Though he and Tommy had lost all track of the days, to the rest of the town, it was a bustling Saturday afternoon, people trailing through the streets. The two of them wandered with a little less purpose than the rest, Tubbo stopping every few feet to marvel at something new—Tommy seemed to be fine with it, though a bit reluctant—and grabbing at trinkets that were definitely not groceries. Tubbo was lucky he hadn’t brought his own money with him.

A grocery trip soon turned into an afternoon out. Tommy didn’t protest, let Tubbo lead him past storefronts and through doorways, into shops and up to stalls. The market was saved for last, a grocery list quickly scrawled out in the taxi and slipped into Tommy’s pocket, a few of Tubbo’s mom’s recommendations written in at the bottom.

Tommy went with it. He, too, seemed grateful for the distraction.

The people of the town didn’t pay them much mind. If it was unusual, seeing two strange teenagers from out of town, one with a bright blue sling wrapped around his arm and a frown on his face, run around, then the townspeople didn’t make a big deal out of it. Tubbo didn’t care if they did.

They were in a wood-carver’s shop when Tommy finally stopped him. 

Tubbo stopped, putting down the carved wooden necklace he’d been admiring—the shop owner didn’t seem to mind if Tubbo complimented their craftsmanship without buying anything, so they’d been there for about fifteen minutes. It was relaxing, running his fingers over the smoothened wood, but Tommy was insistent.

“Tubbo, look,” Tommy said, tugging at Tubbo’s shirt sleeve. 

Tubbo stumbled, not anticipating the tug, and nearly crashed right into Tommy—well, that wouldn’t have been good. “What?” he asked, glancing up.

Tommy’s gaze was piercing, intense, almost scary —Tubbo felt a very brief flash of fear run through him—but there was a grin on his face, something slight and amused. Tubbo relaxed, and he followed Tommy’s gaze, complying, as Tommy looked away.

“D’you see that guy in the green?” Tommy asked, pointing towards a man. He seemed to try to keep the gesture subtle, but Tommy had always struggled in that department—subtle, he was not.

Tubbo didn’t bother trying to hide it, as he gazed out the shop window. Outside, there was indeed a man dressed in green—he was standing there, tapping his foot impatiently, as he watched a stall owner count out his change. “Yeah? What about him?”

“What-” Tommy was back to jostling Tubbo, tugging again at his shirt sleeve to pull him away. “Don’t just stare at him!”

Tubbo didn’t move, still staring at the man. “You said to look!” he said. By then, Tommy’s efforts were fruitless anyway—the man had turned his head, looking right towards them with a frown on his face. Considering how neither of them had been subtle, Tubbo was surprised it had taken this long. Still, he froze under the stranger’s gaze. “Uh-oh.”

“Tubbo!” Tommy said, grabbing for Tubbo’s head, getting him to look away. 

At that, Tubbo exclaimed in surprise, jerking back.

And he stumbled into a random display. Scattered wooden carvings rolled to the floor, landing with dull thud s on the carpet.

“Sorry!” Tubbo said, righting himself. He fumbled to grab the pieces, hands clumsy with panic. 

The owner offered him a kind smile.

Tubbo righted himself. “Tommy, what the hell?” he asked, voice tinged with annoyance.

“Shut up. He’s watching us.”

Then, once again, Tubbo was glancing towards the man in green. The man was doing a much better job of pretending not to stare than Tommy was, but it wasn’t a high bar to clear. “Well, who is he?” Tubbo asked.

“He’s a right bastard,” Tommy said, joining Tubbo with a quick look in the man’s direction. “Used to fence against Techno. Thought he was so cool until Techno beat him.” Tommy’s smile turned proud. “I yelled at him when he did.”

“Oh really?” Tubbo started moving away, towards the front door, with a grin on his face.

Once again, Tommy seized him, holding Tubbo still. “Tubbo- wait- I said I yelled at him,” Tommy said, laughing loudly. It caught the mild interest of the other patrons in the store, for a moment. “You can’t just- don’t just walk up to the man.”

Tubbo shrugged. “Alright.”

“He was a dick anyways. Always bragging to Techno- then Techno fucking beat him.” Tommy laughed, but it faded quickly—something else was there.

But, Tubbo wasn’t going to press for details.

Instead, Tubbo glanced away, back to the owner of the shop. They were chatting with another customer now, but they gave Tubbo another smile. Tubbo waved a goodbye, before tugging at Tommy’s free arm. “C’mon, I’m hungry.”

Tommy rolled his eyes, but he went along with it. 

And then, once again, Tubbo was leading Tommy off down the street. As they went, Tommy didn’t say anything else about the man in green, nor did he point out the fencing club as they passed by it; instead, he just laughed along as Tubbo cracked jokes, cracking jokes right in return.

It felt easy, settling into their usual rhythm. A bit unusual, a bit off in a way Tubbo wouldn’t quite place, but easy.

Tubbo smiled a little wider.

____________

They ate lunch at a corner cafe, out in the bright sunlight of the street. 

It was an old place, one Tommy hadn’t been to in a long, long while. He didn’t know much about it, really. But Kristin had mentioned it to his mum once, and he’d decided that that was good enough, as he directed Tubbo towards it and brought them up to the counter to order.

As they ate, Tommy’s thoughts drifted to the fencing club he’d seen on the way there. He was surprised it was still in business—sure, it’d once boasted Techno, the nation’s premiere fencer, as one of its members, but now he was gone, and this was a small town. It took a person like Techno to bring a place like that enough business.

Still, there it stood, Techno no longer to its name, niggling at the back of Tommy’s head as Tubbo went on about something.

And so, as he and Tubbo finished eating, as Tubbo mentioned getting back on task—they eventually needed to go to the market, as it turned out—Tommy waved him away.

“Want to check something out,” he said, pulling his wallet out of his back pocket. He thumbed through some of the cash his mum had given him before the trip—he had her debit card anyway, in case he really needed it—and handed it to Tubbo.

Tubbo frowned, though there wasn’t an ounce of seriousness to it. “Leaving me all the hard work?” he asked, pocketing the cash.

“I’m too good for menial labor, Tubbo,” Tommy said, puffing out his chest. 

Tubbo laughed. 

And then, with a mutual promise to text when they were done, they were heading off in their separate directions.

Five minutes later, Tommy found himself standing in front of the old fencing club.

It was smaller than he remembered it, but the blocky lettering on the sign was the same, the large windows out front still showed off the too-small lobby crowded with chairs. Behind that lobby, if Tommy remembered correctly, sprawled out a massive gymnasium floor, with lines and rows on the floor to guide fencers where to go. 

They’d had to open up the second entrance, for fire safety reasons, on the night of Techno’s last duel—the lobby was too small for such a large event, even if the arena behind it was so much larger. 

The irony was not lost on Tommy.

In the end, though, the fencing club was still standing, and it was still apparently successful enough to stay in business.

As such, when Tommy opened the door, a small bell chimed above his head.

There was one person manning the lobby—a man in a blue Supreme shirt, with absurd, red-tinged glasses perched halfway down his nose (colorblind glasses, some obscure part of Tommy's memory informed him), sat there scrolling on his phone behind the desk. 

At the sound of Tommy’s entrance, he looked up, eyebrows picking up in interest. He was silent, though, as the door shut softly behind Tommy’s back. No greetings, no polite smiles—it was a shock, after the host of shop owners Tubbo had charmed earlier that day, to get nothing. Less than nothing, really: there was a sour look on the desk man’s face, as Tommy stood there at the doorway.

And so, Tommy frowned at him—he didn’t need to be observed by this fucking prick. “Are you going to say anything?” he asked.

“No lessons are scheduled until…” Glasses (Tommy wasn’t going to give him a good fucking nickname in his head, fuck that) glanced over at the dusty old computer on his desk, “three.”

Fuck that. “I’m a walk-in.”

“That’s not a thing.” Finally, Glasses put his phone back into his pocket—only after very obviously sending a text to someone. “We don’t take walk-ins, especially not injured ones.”

If he was telling his manager off about Tommy, then fine, Tommy would play along. “You do now.”

An irritated huff. “What do you want?”

At that question, though, Tommy wasn’t quite sure how to answer. He didn’t really know why he’d approached the fencing club, why he’d seen it fit to abandon Tubbo and go off to deal with it on his own. He just… had. And now he was here, and now he was talking to this rude store manager and being watched and shit.

Tommy mulled over his words, for but a moment, before thinking up a suitable answer. “Heard this place was good,” he said. “Wanted to see the trophies and shit.”

Glasses frowned. “What?”

“Well, you have trophies, don’t you?” It was a challenge.

A huff. From his pocket, there was a ding, and then Glasses was tugging out his phone to check the thing—fucking manager—before sliding it back where it came from. Then, with a resigned sigh, he stood up. “Come on, then.”

“What- needed approval from your boss?” Tommy mocked.

“Yes, actually.” Glasses grabbed a ring of keys from the top of the desk, the carabiner jingling as he thumbed through the twenty-something keys slung around it, and waved Tommy along. “Have to ask. Idiots ruin our statistics.”

Tommy narrowed his eyes. “Fuck you.”

At that, they settled into relative silence, as Glasses led Tommy back into the club. It wasn’t the one part that Tommy was familiar with—the door opened, and he was not greeted with the high, triumphant ceilings of the fencing piste from his memories. 

Instead, Tommy was led into a semi-lit hallway lined with glass cases, darkened as Glasses flicked the lights on one-by-one.

Until, eventually, from the cases, Techno’s face smiled back, shining bright unde the harsh fluorescents. 

Many Techno faces smiled back. 

Tommy was both surprised and not surprised—Techno had been the biggest thing at the club, and the trophies gathering dust in this hallway were there to prove it. But seeing the sheer magnitude of it, seeing Techno’s face scattered through the dust-covered picture frames, was a bit more than he’d expected. It felt more like a memorial than a celebration of the club’s accomplishments.

“This is most of them,” Glasses said, turning to face Tommy from the end of the cases, a short distance away. He stood there a bit awkwardly, as if he didn’t quite know how to hold himself. Tommy would’ve laughed.

Instead, Tommy was frozen. His eyes wandered over all of the trophies, medals, and awards the club had kept ahold of. 

Glasses caught on, as he approached. “Technoblade fan?”

“Something like that,” Tommy said, blinking and turning away, eyes once again roving over the cases. Then, an idea came to him. He pointed at the case in front of him, the one with the largest trophy locked up inside of it. “Can you unlock this?”

“Uh, no.”

“Ask your boss.”

“No.”

Tommy’s brows sank low, and he turned to make eye-contact with Glasses. “I’ll leave a bad review on Yelp,” he said.

Glasses pulled his phone from his pocket, typed out a message, and quickly received an energetic ding! in response. At his frown, it wasn’t the response he’d wanted to receive. “Fine,” he said, stepping forward.

Tommy shuffled out of the way, and with a jingle of keys, the cabinet was popped open. 

He wasted no time, nearly shoving Glasses out of the way. 

“Hey!”

“Fuck off,” Tommy growled. Then, he was grabbing one of the framed pictures from the case, rubbing the dust off of the glass with a furious, hurried, swipe of his t-shirt. 

It was one of the more recent ones—not from the duel, but somewhere in that fencing season, if the date on the bottom of the frame matched up with the timeline in Tommy’s head. Techno was smiling softly, eyes crinkled at the corner as he stood at the top of the podium with a heavy medal around his neck. Behind him, people were cleaning up after the event, but he didn’t seem to care. He just smiled at the camera, fencing mask balanced on his hip, fencing foil tight in his hand.

Maybe-

Maybe this hadn’t been one of Tommy’s best ideas. 

He felt it again, that deep thing in his gut. He missed them—not just Techno, as he smiled back, all alive and breathing in the pixels of the picture, but Wilbur and Phil too. The whole point of this thing was to distract himself from all of this shit, from his family and the possibility that they weren’t quite so gone as he’d thought they were. Yet here Tommy was, relishing in their memory.

Glasses didn’t seem to care, though. “You can’t keep that,” he said, grabbing at Tommy’s hands.

“Wasn’t going to.” Tommy put the frame down, hands skimming over the medal that’d been draped beside it. He ignored Glasses’ protests, taking the fake-gold medal in his hand. 

Techno would’ve gotten the real one—the one from the Olympics, where he would’ve gone instead of that green bitch, where he would’ve won— if he’d kept going. But it’d been taken from him, that night.

Anger seeped down into Tommy’s head, again. But it simmered, as he put the medal down. 

“If you’re not going to sign up for lessons, I’m going to have to ask you to leave.”

“Fuck off,” Tommy said, again. “I’m perusing.”

“Yeah, well, you can peruse somewhere else.”

Tommy sighed. “Can I see the big- fucking whatever it is, the big room?” he asked, gently closing the door of the case. “Where the fencing happens, that room.”

“If you don’t steal anything.”

“I’m not going to steal-”

Glasses cut Tommy off with a grumble. Then, Tommy was backing up again, and the case was locked just as before. Still, Techno lingered inside, forever frozen there in time. 

It was hard for Tommy to tear his gaze away.

He did, though, and he followed, as Glasses led him to a door carved into a black wall, as the door swung open.

It was bigger, much bigger, than Tommy remembered it. Maybe it was because there were less people, because the focus wasn’t on the single fencing piste in the middle of the room, because Tommy’s focus wasn’t on one person. Regardless, the place was fucking huge. “Holy shit,” he said, as he was guided through the door. “This place is massive.”

Glasses didn’t seem to care. “Are you done now?”

Tommy didn’t answer—instead, he let his eyes wander.

It was nice. He could remember where he’d stood, watching the tournament. He could remember where he’d tried to bite Techno’s opponent, where he’d been pulled away and told off for it. It was nice, and Tommy found that he didn’t quite mind it, letting himself remember this place anew.

It wasn’t happy, but it wasn’t quite sad. It felt… different. Nicer. Alright. 

It was alright.

Tommy’s stomach didn’t feel quite so heavy in his chest, as his eyes roved around the gymnasium.

He didn’t know why it was easier to be here, rather than the house—but it was. It was strange, considering that this was where he’d been the night of the fire, this was the last place he’d ever seen Techno and Wilbur and Phil smiling back at him. But it was—it was so much easier, and- and he felt happier, being here, than at the house. Even as Glasses stared annoyed holes in the back of his head, Tommy felt better here. He felt himself smiling.

Tommy’s mum’s words came back to his head—about remembering them well: smiling and laughing and goofing off.

Here, it was easy to see Techno smiling, a rarity immortalized in the click of a lens. Tommy could imagine Wilbur carrying him around on his shoulders without the usual heaviness, without that crushing feeling, without imagining the smell of ash alongside it.

At the house… it was so many times more difficult to see them that way.

It was a lot less overwhelming, being here. Tommy liked it.

It was easier, here, to imagine the ‘ghosts’ that were, potentially, waiting for him back at the house. It was easier to see them as they probably were, to see them like they really used to be.

Tommy glanced at the floor, scuffing his shoe against the glazed hardwood, the boards shiny with a heavy coating of finish to keep scuffs off. “Fuck,” he said, sighing heavily. “This place is- it’s nice.”

Glasses raised his eyebrows, at Tommy’s words. “I know.”

Tommy ignored the smug comment, turning back to Glasses. “Thank you- and your boss,” he said. “For letting me in, I mean. Means a lot.”

“You’re welcome.” There was a slight question, heavy confusion in Glasses’ voice, but Tommy ignored it.

As he made his way out of the fencing club, the door to the familiar gymnasium shut and locked behind him as Glasses guided him out towards the lobby, Tommy pondered.

Maybe… maybe it wouldn’t be the worst thing, to have them back. If they were like they were here—smiling and laughing and the same , not all sad and heavy and like they were in Tommy’s memories of the house.

Techno would never obliterate another fencing tournament, just like Wilbur would never truly sing again, like Phil could never hug Tommy again, but- Tommy still had some of them. He could’ve had more, if he’d stolen that picture, but in a literal sense, stuff aside-

Maybe, just maybe.

Maybe… it would be a bit more alright. 

He could be alright.

Chapter Text

They got back to the house late, with bags upon bags of goods slung around their arms. It was a bit absurd, really—they were only two people, and here was enough food to feed a family of five for a month.

Or, well- Tommy was exaggerating. But the grocery bags were fucking heavy.  

Tubbo had, apparently, taken the ghost’s words to heart, and Tommy hadn’t been there to stop him—he’d set upon the market with a fervor that would strike fear in even the strongest-willed of vendors. With a handful of reusable bags stuffed into his shopping cart, he made good use of the money Tommy had given him, filling up the bags and then calling Tommy to help him carry everything when he was done. The bags almost hadn’t fit in the taxi’s trunk.

Then, they watched the sun set through the taxi’s tinted windows, sleepy in the heat as they made their way back towards the house. 

Tommy felt content, in that moment.

When they got back to the house, though, it hit him all at once.

It wasn’t that he didn’t want to go inside, as he followed Tubbo down the path and away from the taxi—because he did. He was exhausted after the long day, and he wanted nothing more than to go inside and relax and sleep. It would be nice, at the very least, to let himself not think for a little while.

But he also… didn’t want to go inside. 

That part was the house’s fault, though. Just- the dumb fucking house. The thought of the stupid thing made him feel weird, and he didn’t like it, but it was just the house—he knew that now, and he knew that the best thing to do was just ignore it.

It was alright. He wanted to be alright, now—he could do it, he could figure this out. He was a big man, and big men figured out shit like this because he was a big man and that’s what he did.

He could do it. Yeah. 

It was just a couple of fucking ghosts, quite possibly those of his dead family. And he just had to see them like he did before, like they were back at the fencing club: smiling and laughing and not dying in a smoulder of ash and hot flame.

Right.

As such, when they arrived, Tommy very much did not stomp through the door. 

He, quite calmly in fact, made his way towards the kitchen, two massive bags of groceries shoved into the crook of his good elbow, Tubbo bringing up the rear. Tommy wasted no time in unpacking everything, stacking food into the pantry with an absolute, ruthless efficiency.

Tubbo watched him, as he lowered his own bags onto the counter top. “Tommy?” There was worry in his voice, and he just stood there for a while, not moving to put anything away. His hand just hovered in mid-air over his bags, on pause as he watched Tommy work.

“I’m fine, Tubbo,” he said.

Still, Tubbo stood there. “Are you-”

“Fucking- I’m just not used to having spirits watching me.” He looked around the room, eyes darting this way and that, as the temperature in the room suddenly dropped—if Tubbo’s ‘cold’ thing was right, then there was someone here watching him, right now, as he unpacked groceries. Why, he didn’t know, but it was fucking rude regardless. His skin tingled at the thought. “That’s all.”

Tubbo seemed to notice the chill too, or he noticed the goosebumps popping up along Tommy’s arms: his face turned pensive, and his eyes went wandering around the room, searching but never quite landing on anything. Then, though, he glanced back down, towards the grocery bags in front of him. “It does feel kind of weird,” he said, at last. “They are your family, though.”

Tommy shrugged. “Eh- still not quite sure about that bit.” At Tubbo’s frown, he frowned right back. “Just cut it out, would you?”

“Alright, alright,” Tubbo said, backing off. Finally, he reached into a grocery bag and started pulling things out, stacking them on the counter.

“Fucking clingy.”

“Hey!” 

And with that, the tension in the room settled. 

They sorted the groceries slowly, filling up the pantry and the fridge with all the shit Tubbo decided to buy—Tommy criticized Tubbo’s decisions with a smile, as he pulled out yet another box of Capri Suns and threw it in his direction. 

Tubbo didn’t catch it.

Tubbo’s shopping habits aside, the two of them quickly worked out how to put groceries away properly, sticking all the like items together in clumps in the pantry or fridge, Tommy tackling the high shelves of the pantry while Tubbo managed the drawer of the freezer. 

Next thing they knew, it was sorted and tucked away, and the clock told them their good time. They made something semi-edible for dinner—Tommy wasn’t quite sure what it was they’d made, but it tasted good, and that was enough in his books—then ate it up in a flash, winding down afterwards in a heap of tired limbs.

And slowly, through it all, Tommy relaxed again. They put the covers back on the couch and slouched across it, sitting in the dark with only the TV screen to light up the space around them. Tubbo played Legend of Zelda on his Switch, running around and occasionally swearing at the screen, while Tommy scrolled through Twitter on his phone, frowning and complaining as the wifi struggled.

Overall, he felt better. Not good, certainly not fine and dandy and shit, but… not bad.

Tubbo was still shooting him those stupid worried glances every now and again, as if Tommy didn’t notice them. 

But he ignored it. He felt better, and that was okay with him.

He could have left it alone for the night. 

He could have gone off what he’d said earlier and left Tubbo to believe he wasn’t thinking about it, distantly, in the back of his mind. But everytime he looked up, everytime something in the room moved, he was ever-more aware of their ghostly housemates, ever-more aware of who they could be.

And now that he could imagine them there, clearly in his head, he didn’t know what to do with them. He felt them, eyes that watched him as he went about his night, ever-present and yet quite possibly never there—however, they were just there, a possibility, stuck there until he made his next move.

Problem was, he didn’t know what to do next.

“Tubbo,” he started, his voice feeling too-loud over the quiet of the living room. He ignored it, and he put his phone down on the couch with a slight pumph , closing out Twitter with a reluctant huff.

That familiar worry came across Tubbo’s face. He followed in Tommy’s lead, though, pausing his game and setting his controller down next to him—if he wanted to mention that near-constant worry he’d been holding onto all night, he didn’t. Instead, he just turned to Tommy with a curious look on his face. “Yeah, big man?”

“What would you do?” Tommy asked, hesitantly. “If it was your family.”

Tubbo perked up, at that. “Well,” he started, smiling ever-so-slightly to himself, “I don’t have any uncles. Just my Aunt Olivia, and she’s married to my Aunt Thea.” He shrugged. “So I’d probably ask my mum where my new dead uncle came from.”

“Oh fuck off.” Tommy, despite himself, couldn’t stop the small smile in the corner of his mouth. 

Tubbo laughed. “What? I’m being honest.”

The smart-ass.

Then though, as his laughter faded, his face was creasing in thought, eyes glancing off to the side and brows sinking lower. He seemed to consider Tommy’s question, really consider it, before he started anew. “I don’t know what I’d do, actually. I’d probably try to talk to them and stuff,” he said. “But, you know, I’m not you.”

Tommy huffed. 

Talking to them hadn’t exactly gone well—Tubbo’s opinion was shit. There was, of course, the possibility that that thing from the ouija board hadn’t, in fact, been his uncle, that Tubbo’s method would’ve worked if it’d actually been Phil writing the messages. Either way, Tubbo hadn’t given Tommy the answers he wanted, and it sent Tommy leaning back into the couch with a crease in his brow.

Tubbo watched him. His game was fully forgotten now, and it didn’t seem like he was going to pick it up any time soon. “Why’d you ask?”

“That’s a stupid fucking question.”

“Humor me.”

“I don’t know,” Tommy complained, not quite looking Tubbo in the eyes. Instead, he let his eyes drift over to the frozen TV screen. “My head’s still all- all mixed up and shit, I don’t-”

“Like an egg?” 

“What-” he stopped, beyond confused. “I’m not a fucking egg, Tubbo.”

Tubbo shrugged, and the grin faded. “I guess it’d be weird for me too, if they were my family,” he said. “I don’t know.”

Honestly, Tommy didn’t quite know what he’d expected Tubbo to say. What Tommy wanted and what the house set up for him were different, and despite his realizations earlier in the day, that weird feeling still lingered around. He’d messed up this whole thing once, and now he didn’t know how to deal with it.

And so, as he sat there, he wondered what the three of them thought. How they would handle this situation, what advice they would give. 

And he let himself imagine them here, back in this shitty house, like he’d seen them at the fencing club. It was an indulgence, but Tommy just let it happen.

Wilbur would be laughing at him—he’d laugh at how Tommy was overcomplicating things, would tell him to stop getting himself so worked up about all of this. It’d be good, well-spoken advice, fuck him for it, hidden behind mockery.

Techno would have that neutral frown he’d usually had around Tommy, a constant slight disappointment that Tommy could never quite figure out. He’d call Tommy an idiot, without as many or as nice of words as Wilbur would. Techno had been smart, and he’d had a knack for getting straight to the point on things—that was one thing Tommy had always been sure of.

Phil would just smile at Tommy, reassuring and listening.

And- fuck.

It was easy, so much easier than before, to think of them that way. He could imagine them here again, talking to him and bickering about things like they’d never left. It wasn’t quite as saddening as before, too—it felt better, only natural. 

He imagined them like they used to be—like they really used to be. 

“You’re a weird kid, Tommy,” Techno had said, once. Wilbur had agreed, mocking Tommy with a smile on his face, and Tommy had retaliated, yelling as he always had as a kid (and still sometimes did) and pointing his finger right as close to Wilbur’s face as he could manage. Phil had stepped in as the two of them had laughed, telling them not to pick on him. They’d kept doing it anyway—it’d never been malicious, though the two of them had been initially prickly to him at times.

It was a good memory.

They hadn’t all been good memories, though.

The weird feeling came back, as Tommy sat there and pondered his family’s reactions. The weird, unwanted feeling that made him feel a little sick to his stomach and tired, like the darkness around him was just a little bit closer than before.

Once, Wilbur had gotten upset, genuinely upset with Tommy, and Tommy, being around seven at the time, hadn’t understood what was going on. Nobody had been there to step in, and Tommy had just made the situation worse and worse as he got frustrated and yelled right back at Wilbur, until he’d made himself cry, and Wilbur, angry right in return, took his turn to yell. It’d ended with Wilbur snatching Tommy’s toy out of his hand and smashing it to bits, and Tommy had felt guilty as Phil had pulled him aside and explained the situation.

Maybe something like that would happen.

Would Wilbur be mad? What about Phil and Techno? Would they let him explain, would they forgive him, as Wilbur had in that memory?

Tommy didn’t know. He didn’t blame them, if they were mad—he’d been the one to survive the night of the fire, while they’d burned to death and left only ash behind.

He didn’t want to think about them that way. They’d been upset and angry with him, at times, when they were alive, but… 

No, he shouldn’t imagine that here. No, he didn’t want to- he shouldn’t. It was the house again, the fucking house.

Though he knew how dumb it was, the possibility still made guilt pool in his chest—the idea that, after having them just leave, not knowing where they were, with the possibility that they were right where he’d left them the night of the fire, it might be wrong. That it would be his fault. 

That they would know it was his fault, and they wouldn’t be the same because of it. That he’d ruined it when he’d left them to die that night.

He knew they weren’t there, at the moment—the room was much too warm for that—and yet he could feel their eyes watching him, perpetually there and not there no matter the temperature of the room. The eyes were silent and judging, mocking and harsh in a way Tommy knew his family wouldn’t be. 

And yet, still, irrationally, they were there.

At that thought, something must’ve shown on Tommy’s face—there was a gentle hand on his wrist. He realized that he’d just been sitting there in silence, and Tubbo had just been waiting.

Tommy slid Tubbo’s hand down, taking his hand in his own and gripping it soundly, not tight but not quite as softly as Tubbo had taken his arm. And they sat like that for a minute, the two of them just letting the quiet of the house settle over them.

Tubbo was the one to break the silence.

“You’re thinking about something,” he said. “You’ve got that thinking face.”

At that, Tommy let out a huff of a laugh. Relief washed over him, at Tubbo’s interruption, and he couldn’t help the wave of gratefulness that came with it. It reminded him of that moment out under the tree, of Tubbo telling Tommy how he’d be there with him, and Tommy appreciated it. “Fuck you.”

Tubbo didn’t take Tommy’s response seriously, naturally. “To be fair, this is definitely a little bit insane,” Tubbo said. He smiled brightly, yet softly, something reassuring. “I get it.” 

Tommy couldn’t help the small smile on his face. Somewhere, he felt the urge to cover it up with his normal boisterous laugh, to tell Tubbo how ridiculous it was of him to say something like that—but he didn’t. Instead, he just sank back into the couch again—he hadn’t even realized it, but he’d sat up straight, straighter than he was sure he had in a long time, while he’d thought—with a sigh.

“You’ve talked to them more than me, right?” he asked, and he looked over to meet Tubbo’s eyes as he did it.

“As ghosts? Probably.”

“What do you reckon…” He swallowed hard. “Would they be happy, if I talked to them?”

Tubbo blinked. “Yeah, of course.” He paused, thoughts spinning behind his eyes. “Why wouldn’t they?”

“I was, uh, supposed to be there that night,” Tommy said. “When they died, I mean.”

“You were?”

“Yeah, I, uh- I got sick. My mum and dad took me home.” A beat of quiet. “If it wasn’t for that, I would’ve died too. But, yeah.”

“Oh,” Tubbo said, softly. “I’m happy you were sick, then.”

Tommy broke eye contact with Tubbo, glancing back to the still screen of the TV, not sure what else to say. The light was harsh and blue and uncomfortable as it shined in his eyes.

“And I’m sure they’re happy too.”

“Yeah.” He didn’t know why he’d said it, but he’d liked Tubbo’s reaction—it felt… better, to have Tubbo just accept Tommy’s horrible, awful actions that night. Even if Tubbo didn’t understand it, if Tubbo couldn’t understand it because he hadn’t been there and he hadn’t known Tommy’s family, the guilt eased, just barely, in Tommy’s chest.

It was the house. Just the house.

He let out a steadying huff, loosening his grip on Tubbo’s hand.

Tubbo sat there for a bit in silence, there beside him. And with him, the whole house was silent. Then, there was no dramatic whipping of the wind, nor were the voices of those who had once lived here echoing through the halls—just quiet, accompanied only by the distant hum of the old TV.

“I think…” Tommy started, slowly, his eyes wandering around the room as he thought it out. “I think I’d like to try talking to them again.”

“You do?”

“On my own.” He felt bad for cutting Tubbo out of it, but… it was different with Tubbo there. Tubbo said it himself—he got excited about this kind of thing. Tommy liked having Tubbo here, he appreciated the steadying feeling of Tubbo sitting there in the dark, barely visible but still nearby, and part of Tommy didn’t want to give that up.

But having Tubbo tell him what he thought about it, imagining all of it… it wasn’t enough.

“Oh,” Tubbo said. For his part, the look on his face wasn’t dejected, nor was it sad—in fact, Tubbo seemed quite content with Tommy’s clarification, sitting back and up a little straighter. “Are you sure?” It wasn’t a push to be included, just a genuine posit, extending the offer just in case Tommy changed his mind.

Tommy nodded. “Would probably be better.”

Tubbo nodded. “Alright,” he said. He let go of Tommy’s hand, letting the back of Tommy’s palm fall to the couch—then, though, Tubbo’s own hands were circling up.

And Tubbo hugged him. Again.

“Tubbo, what the-” 

He stopped himself, though, when Tubbo held him tighter. 

Normally, Tommy would push Tubbo off of him, not much for these touchy-feely kinds of things, but he let it be. After the marathon that was that day, he was okay with a nice, long hug. He hugged Tubbo back, in fact, the two of them leaning into each other for a long while. “Fuck, you’re clingy.”

“Shut up,” Tubbo said. “I’m trying to be sentimental.”

“Die.”

After a while, they pulled apart. Tubbo picked his controller back up, and Tommy went back to scrolling through his phone, and they stayed there on the couch, halfway slumped against each other in the near-darkness. The room went cold, once or twice over the course of the night—they ignored it. Instead, they just grabbed their sweaters and blankets, and they wrapped themselves up tight and warm to scare the cold away.

Chapter Text

Tommy woke up early.

It was too early, much earlier than normal. The sun was just starting to peek over the horizon, the sky still dark and splotched here and there with deep oranges and reds. The room was still dark, for the most part, as only the faintest light peeked through the curtains.

He squinted in the low light—his eyes were still sleepy. He didn’t care, tried to shake it off, as he blinked it away.

It was too early, but it was too late for him to try going back to sleep. Or, at least, it felt like it was—even if, in reality, it wasn’t. As he glanced around the room, he felt exhausted yet wide awake, tired yet somehow still ready to get up and fucking- fucking do things. He hadn’t slept enough, but he didn’t think he would sleep any more, and that would have to be enough.

Tubbo was still beside him, leaned against him just as he’d been when they fell asleep, his eyes still closed as he snored softly, oblivious to the rising sun and Tommy’s spontaneous burst of energy. Gently, far more gently than he would ever admit to being, Tommy leaned Tubbo off of him and slipped away, tossing his blanket to the side with a slight smile on his face. Tubbo had fallen asleep first last night, had seemed tired, and Tommy wouldn’t mess with that.

As such, he was quiet, as he ate breakfast and got ready for the day. The house was silent and still with him, the slight chirps of the earliest birds singing outside and the room filled with only the sounds of him moving around the room, his socked feet quiet against the creaky wooden floor. It was warm, too—no ghosts were there.

Tommy found himself grateful. This morning was eerily similar to the one before, when Tommy had sat there and stared at the ouija board in front of him over a bowl of the same cereal, drenched in a similar silence.

It felt a bit better, though. Tommy still felt a spike of anxiety just thinking about getting around to talking to the ghosts, but… 

But it wasn’t- it wasn’t quite so overwhelming. Now, he’d had a bit of time with it, now he- he’d gotten a better handle on things. He had a plan, now.

He could fix it.

Yeah, he could fix it.

Getting up, his cereal bowl clasped tightly in his grip, ideas floated about in his head, a plan quickly forming as he went about cleaning his bowl and putting breakfast away. At least, he supposed, he could start to fix it.

Worst case, the ghosts were his family, and they hated him. But Tubbo told him that wasn’t the case, and Tommy hoped, deeply, that Tubbo was right. He was distantly aware of a heavy weight settling in his stomach, but he pushed it to the side, as he put his bowl away and made his way towards the stairs.

He paused as he passed the couch, watching silently as Tubbo slept, that slight smile coming back to his face. It was something of a silent thanks—fuck his ‘thank you, Tubbo’ quota, Tubbo deserved it. 

Then, though, off towards the stairs Tommy went.

As he passed, he tugged the ouija board from Tubbo’s bag. 

He could do this. 

He could.  

Now, it wasn’t so much of fear settling in his stomach, not so much as it had been before, more of… anticipation, mingling with a hot coil of anxiety. But then there was that attitude from the last time he’d gone up the stairs, before he’d known about the ghosts and pondered their existence—it was a strange sort of determination, a want to get past this all once and for all. It wasn’t quite as insistent, his frustration with the situation replaced, but it was there.

Maybe it hadn’t left. 

He didn’t quite know. 

But still, he was steady, as he made his way up the creaky wooden stairs. He was careful—the floorboards were fucking loud, and the last thing he wanted to do was wake Tubbo up—but he was steady.

As he came up to the landing, he noticed the light—sunlight spilled out of that wrought-iron window at the end of the hall, yellow and bright as the sun rose up higher. Dust floated in the sunlight because, right, they hadn’t even started cleaning the upstairs yet, and Tommy was, once again, coming up to disturb the light coating around the place.

He stayed there for a moment, only a moment. His hands curled up tighter at his side, the ouija board crinkling lightly around his tense fingers.

He went on. 

Down the hall, right towards the end, he went. 

And he sat there, right in front of the window. It was the same one he’d seen before, when he’d come up here for the first time since the fire, and it was the same one that’d been there before the fire. A lot of the stuff in the house had had to be replaced, but this was still here.

The sun was warm on his face as he unfolded the paper. He made quick work of it, slipping his arm out of the sling (it was fine, it’d been enough days as far as he was concerned) to smooth the board out with both hands. Shadows danced in the creases of the paper, and he stared down at them, as he fixed it, with a crease between his brows.

He was doing this. He- he was doing this. It would be alright.

With a quiet huff to himself, he looked up and around the hallway. 

“Hello?” There was a false impatience in his voice, faked annoyance that whatever was here had just sat back and let him set everything up. In his lap, though, his hands were clasped together tight. He shook them loose, and he turned back to the ouija board.

From that, it only took a moment. 

A familiar chill settled over the room. He didn’t shiver, sitting there in the sun, but he could still tell —with it, he put a frown on his face, searching the empty space for something that he knew he wouldn’t see.

He sat there, waiting. Nothing happened, this time. 

“Well?” he asked. “I don’t have all day.”

The pointer quickly moved, then. Fuck off, child, it spelled.

Tommy couldn’t help it—he laughed, nice and loud and cackling, at the stupid, stupid joke. 

It felt muffled in the long, narrow hallway behind him, not quite enough to fill up the silence, but still, he faced the window, and he laughed into the empty space, and it didn’t feel bad. Nervousness still clawed at his throat, made him swallow hard as the pointer went still and the silence went on and his laughter faded away, but…

He could do it.

Then, as if sensing the resolve settling into place in Tommy’s head, the pointer began to move again. 

Hi mate.

Tommy stared. The paper stayed there on the last letter, while Tommy’s head ran through it all again, stringing the letters together over and over to make sure he’d gotten it right.

Oh.

“Hi,” he said, and fuck, he could even tell how scared he sounded. Without the humor there, it was hitting him, now, what he was doing. It was hitting him hard, and some feeling of holyshitholyfuck fizzled in his anxious fingers. He frowned, tucking his hands closer to each other to keep them still.

Then, with a moment to steady himself, a slight sigh slipping past his lips, he answered. “Hey,” he repeated, and it sounded better this time. Still, he frowned, narrowing his eyes. “Who’re you?”

Phil, it spelled out, much faster than before.

Phil? So, whether it was Phil or not, it was the same ghost he’d talked to the first time. Tommy’s luck was just as fantastic as it’d always been, then.

He let his frown settle a bit, falling into place. “Prove it.”

Nothing moved, for a moment. The pointer sat there, and Tommy sat there, and the whole hallway was just as quiet and unnerving as before.

Anxiety roared through him, like something sick in his stomach. Through the fear, he found himself wondering, distantly, how he’d managed to get his breakfast down that morning, let alone how he’d kept it down through all this shit. When he swallowed again, it felt more like a reassurance to himself than anything else.

“What?” he asked, and now, anger rose up to hide the anxiety, and his hands curled up tight. “You proved it to Tubbo- ” He stopped himself, eyes going up from the board to glare about the room. “Why not me? What’s so-”

Thinking, ‘Phil’ spelled out. Calm down.

“Fuck off.”

The words were harsh and biting, but there was little heat behind him. There wasn’t coldness, either—Tommy just said it, not sure of what else exactly he could say, as he crossed his arms over his chest and stared at some point up in front of the window. His anxiety simmered, ever-so-slightly.

In his head, he imagined the ghost sitting there in front of him, legs crossed as it sat on the opposite side of the ouija board. He imagined Phil—if ( if ) it was Phil—and how his hat, that stupid green striped thing he never seemed to take off, would graze the edge of the sunlight as it stretched out from underneath the windowsill, stained and bleached a thousand times so that the thin spots had had to be mended with strong nylon thread. He would be smiling, Tommy hoped.

He hoped. 

His hands went tight against each other, again. His anxiety hardened into fear, bits and pieces that drifted and accumulated the longer he sat there and thought it over.

Then, though—before he could go spinning off into the depths of his own imagination of the situation—the pointer was moving again. 

Fucking ghost probably read it off his face. Or it- it could fucking smell fear, something stupid like that—something, as long as it explained the gentle movements of the paper, the whisper as it slid, why whoever (or whatever) this was held it so softly.

Do you remember, the ghost started, slowly gaining speed, when you were little?

Tommy huffed. “I’m not a- a fucking amnesiac, am I?” he said. He let himself laugh at his own snide comment, a slight chuckle meant to break up the silence more than anything else. As it faded, he shifted under the ghost’s invisible gaze. “‘Course I do.”

Do you remember when Wil would sing for you?  

A bit hesitant, Tommy nodded. Again, he swallowed hard. This time, he wasn’t quite sure why.

It was strange, that unnamed feeling coming in in place of the anxiety. It left his eyes frozen, there, under the flickering bright shine of the sun. Outside, indifferent to the rest of the world going on outside, the big tree in front of the house swayed in the breeze, and the shadow of its leaves danced over the paper.

When you were really little, he’d sing nonsense. You couldn’t tell the difference, the ghost—who was seeming more and more like Phil with every rushed letter it spelt—went on. Techno hated it. Gave him poems to sing instead.

Techno was always stuck-up like that. Fucking prick, with his fucking half-finished English degree, waving it around like Tommy was a disgrace to the language. That had been part of the fun of the songs, though: annoying Techno.

Over time, Tommy had lost interest. It was where he’d turned away from Wilbur’s music for a while, in the space between that time and when Wilbur picked up his guitar for Tommy’s ears to hear. But, even before the guitar, Wilbur would hum and sing, and Techno would shout at him about it, and Phil would always be there, almost distantly, in the corner—or maybe, Tommy was just putting him there in his memory, he didn’t know—smiling as the three of them bickered about the tune.

When they got physical, Phil would always break them up. If Phil wasn’t fast enough, Techno would always be the one to win.

Yeah, Tommy remembered. He did, indeed, remember.

It was a bit fuzzier than the rest of the memories, but it was there.

It was easier, though, to remember those moments where things didn’t quite work out, the moments when things weren’t right and weren’t nice, when Wilbur, Techno, and Phil weren’t like they were in the memory Phil was bringing to the surface. It was easier to remember those not-so-fun parts than he would’ve liked it to be, for the sad memories and the ‘last times’ to be dredged up from the rest of it. It wasn’t the fucking house— those happy memories were fuzzier, a blur of smiles and laughs that were hard to pick out without a reminder.

Having this, feeling Phil in front of him (because he knew, now, that it had to be Phil), even as the warmth was slowly drained from the air… 

Tommy blinked, staring at the space where he thought Phil was, the sun rising up through the glass panes behind it.

He liked it. The anxiety faded, slightly. He let out a slight sigh with it.

And in its place, that feeling—the one he still couldn’t place, that’d been there and stuck around through all this time he’d spent in this shit house since the summer started—got stronger. It welled up in his chest, had Tommy’s hands scrabbling to grab at the hem of his shirt.

Tears welled up in his eyes.

Fuck.

Fuck it.

He would cry. 

He didn’t want to, not after he’d just met his dead uncle, surely met him for the first time since he’d died so suddenly five years ago, but he would anyway. He would cry.

He sat there, and he let his head hang low, and he cried. Snot clogged his nose and ran down his throat, and he wiped his cheeks against the back of his hand, and some part of him wanted to just curl up and close his eyes for a long time, but-

But there was a smile on his face, hiccups turning to laughter—he didn’t know why, but as he sat there, it was easy, his open mouth sob turning to a smile as the ouija board sat there, the pointer unmoving, in front of him. Still, the sun rose, and still, dust floated up through the air before him, illuminating how Phil wasn’t there, but-

But he was.

And he wasn’t… he didn't seem mad.

Fuck. 

Tommy sat there, and he cried, and he crumbled, but it… it was okay. Really, really okay.

“Oh, Tommy.” 

The voice was soft and gentle, and, in that moment, he didn’t realize that it wasn’t Tubbo’s. 

It wasn’t Tubbo’s, and there was nobody else in the house—nobody except him and the ghosts. But it was familiar enough that he didn’t notice, didn’t care enough to pick it apart or be scared or wonder why it was there. He just let it fall on his ears, and the tears fell faster, and he let it be.

A chill wrapped around him, and Tommy would swear, later on, that he could feel soft fingers as they wrapped around his back. “It’s alright,” the voice said again, closer this time as the chill settled deeper. 

He didn’t hug it back—he didn’t move at all, as it surrounded him, just clung to himself and tried to feel the sunlight on the top of his head as the frigid cold settled in. “Are you- are you mad at me?” he asked, instead.

And the voice was shocked, soft and muttered close to his ear, as it replied. “Mad at you?”

Tommy sniffled. “I didn’t- I left you,” he said, and fuck, it felt so stupid to say it out loud. But he needed to know, needed to understand why the hug was coming as it was. “I didn’t- I was supposed to- to-” He stuttered, his teeth chattering from the cold as his tongue failed him.

Phil let him spit it out, a pause settling in the air.

Then, though, just as soft as before. “No, Toms. I could never be mad at you. Not for that.”

Tommy couldn’t help himself from curling up tighter around the ghostly hug. He didn’t care if it was cold, didn’t care as chills wracked through him—he just relaxed, sitting there and letting Phil, his uncle that he missed more than anything else, hug him. He didn’t quite realize that that was what was going on, as he sat there in the quiet of the hallway, but it didn’t matter. He shook, and he sputtered out nonsense as he laughed at his own silly thoughts—because it all felt so silly, with Phil’s gentle muttered words—and he let himself finally let go.

The hug eased soon. He didn’t mind. Fuck, he probably would’ve gotten frostbite if it stuck around much longer, his shakes more from the cold than the laughter or the tears that spilled out of him. 

In its wake, he just sat there, and he shook with laughter he couldn’t quite figure out, and he let himself finally, finally, feel it. 

He- he felt it. Phil’s voice and Phil’s chilly presence, the muttered words he’d missed so much- so, so much—for the first time since he’d thought about the three of them, as he sat there in the warm sunlight with that big fucking tree shaking around outside, he felt okay.

He felt okay, finally, as he sat there with his family around him again. 

He smiled until his cheeks ached.

Chapter Text

Wilbur didn’t protest, as Techno tugged him away from the ouija board, away from Tommy and that sunny spot on the floor where he’d settled himself down. He smiled as Tommy laughed at his words—it was an old tease he’d used many, many times on Tommy: fuck off, child— and he let himself be pulled away.

Part of him still wanted to— needed to, it felt like—be over there. He wanted to rush forwards and sit there and talk with Tommy like he’d wanted to do all this time, wanted to sit there in front of him and lean in and hug him and feel the warmth he knew was there, that he hadn’t felt in so, so long. He wanted to let the whole house know, right then and there, that he existed, that he was there and real and that he could be known.

But he pushed it to the side. His fingers twitched at his side, but he pushed it to the side.

In its place, he let out a heavy, non-existent breath, and he let it settle down as he fell in at Techno’s side. Their shoulders brushed just slightly, and Wilbur caught the edge of a smile on Techno’s face, and it was alright for now.

Phil’s hand traced over Wilbur’s shoulder as he passed, and it was alright for now. He took the place Wilbur oh-so-desperately wanted there on the floor in front of Tommy, and Tommy sat with his back to Wilbur as he talked with Phil, and it was okay. 

Wilbur felt Techno’s eyes on him, even as they both looked straight ahead. He offered up a smile, and the corner of Techno’s mouth twitched in response.

Something cracked in Wilbur, somewhere deep and aching and longing, when Tommy started to cry. He couldn’t quite place it, but it was there. If he were able, he felt like he would’ve broken down into tears with Tommy, even as Tommy’s sobs turned to laughter and he wiped the tears furiously with the back of his hand. But Wilbur stood there, and he watched as Phil pulled Tommy into a hug, as Tommy shivered and shook, and he felt… happy. That part of Wilbur still ached, wanted to be there and have Tommy hear him, wanted to feel Tommy’s arms around him—but he was happy.

Phil faltered, if only for a moment, when Tommy spoke— “are you mad at me?” he’d asked, as if such a thing was truly possible—but he’d still held firm, even as Tommy slid from his grasp, shivering and sniffling and still smiling. They’d all broken, though, at those words. Even Techno, with his ‘stoic’ schtick crumbling right before Wilbur’s eyes (fucking finally), had taken a moment to blink a bit faster.

With his arms wrapped around himself and his teeth chattering, Tommy sat up a little straighter, glancing, once again, towards where he seemed to think Phil was. It was almost the right direction, Wilbur would give him credit, yet just off enough to be noticeable, as Wilbur floated there in the quiet of the hallway.

“Are…” Tommy started quietly, hesitantly, as he wiped his snotty nose on his shirt. It was disgusting, and Wilbur had to stop himself from commenting on it. “Are Wilbur and Techno here too?” he asked.

Phil was quick to respond, sliding the pointer over to yes. He didn’t speak, though—even though, somehow, Tommy had heard him earlier. Wilbur frowned, but he supposed it was the best, if they didn’t want to overwhelm Tommy and send him running off again.

Then, Phil looked up, and his eyes met Wilbur’s from over Tommy’s shoulder. With a wave of his hand, Wilbur was floating forward, the air still around him as he sank down on the floor next to Phil. 

Hi again, Wilbur was quick to spell.

“You too, Techno,” Phil said, while Wilbur busied himself.

And so they all settled down on the floor there, Techno rolling his eyes as Phil slung an arm around his shoulder and tugged him close, and Wilbur took his turn to chatter away with Tommy, the tears on Tommy’s cheeks quickly drying in the morning sunlight that shined on his face. At Phil’s advice, Wilbur took it slow—he started simple, with questions like how have you been? and why do you still call him ‘Tubbo’? tossed in with his old taunts and teases. It was lighthearted and simple, like the dust that popped up in the air if Tommy moved too fast.

Somewhere along the line, Tubbo was calling out Tommy’s name, and his brown head of hair poked out from the stairwell. There was a curious look on his face and a knowing twinkle in his eye, as Tommy called him up onto the landing and waved him over. Still, he settled down next to Tommy, and he smiled from ear-to-ear, laughing just as loud as Tommy as Techno jerked the pointer from Wilbur and mocked the way Tommy’s hair stuck up in the back.

You look like a pigeon, Techno spelled out, and each letter delivered seemed to send Tubbo further into giggling hysterics.

“You do!” Tubbo said, “He’s right!”

Tommy frowned, and he let out a string of curses, and that was that. 

They stayed like that for a while, until the exhaustion from the chill was clear on Tommy’s face and Tubbo’s stomach was rumbling.

“Let’s give them a break,” Phil advised, as Tommy folded up the ouija board and tucked it into his back pocket, a shaky promise to chat later on his lips—his teeth were still chattering away, as he shivered and shivered. Wilbur could tell how the words were directed at him, but he didn’t mind. “Don’t want to scare Tommy off.”

He went along with it, and it felt better as he smiled. That need to talk with Tommy didn’t feel quite so urgent, now.

Wilbur felt good, really felt good, for the first time in a while.

When he floated away, there was a smile on his face.

The smile stuck around for a while.

_____

Tommy and Tubbo ate lunch outside, a blanket wrapped around Tommy’s shoulders and a halfway-decent sandwich in his hands—it was an upgrade from the last sandwich he’d gotten his hands on, at least, and that was enough for Wilbur. Techno still wrinkled his nose at it.

“He used two different kinds of bread, Wilbur,” Techno said, as Wilbur approached. He was sitting up high in the leaves of the tree, peering at Tommy and Tubbo where they sat on the ground.

“And?”

Techno didn’t see it fit to give that a response, it seemed. Instead, he went grumbling to himself, folding his arms over his chest and turning his attention elsewhere. It felt almost too-normal, the way Wilbur bantered about with Techno, the way Tommy and Tubbo’s voices rose up from under the cover of the leaves, but Wilbur didn’t mind it. 

Techno didn’t seem to mind it, either: now, he wasn’t being as… as stuck up , about Tommy and Tubbo and the whole situation, as he’d been before. He seemed lighter, more at-ease, now that the curtain had been pulled from over Tommy’s eyes, now that Tommy was smiling and laughing and knew about the three of them like Wilbur had wanted him to, deeply wanted him to, since the very beginning. Techno, who’d had to be goaded into merely tolerating Tommy and Tubbo’s presence around the place, was fighting off grin after grin, as the two of them laughed into the warm summer breeze below him.

It was strange. Not in a bad way—no, it was nice, seeing Techno so free about it, for once in his afterlife.

Wilbur didn’t know why, but he mentioned it, as he settled across from Techno, draped along a different branch of the tree. He couldn’t feel the shade, but he imagined how nice it would feel, laying down and letting one leg swing carelessly through the air as if he did, indeed, obey the laws of gravity.

At his words, though, Techno frowned.

“What?”

A hum came in response. Techno’s slight smile sank down in thought.

Wilbur sat up quickly. “What?” he asked, again, staring and trying to get Techno to meet his eyes. “Am I wrong?”

Techno stayed there perched on a branch in front of him. That look stayed there on his face. From somewhere below, Tommy laughed loudly.

“You’re- you’re like the rest of us, Techno- you’re happy about it too.” Wilbur smiled, something playful. “Don’t try to hide it.”

“If I’m being honest,” Techno said. “I didn’t think we’d get to this.” His voice was hesitant, and he still didn’t look to meet Wilbur’s eyes. Instead, he kept on watching as, below, Tommy and Tubbo puttered about, Tommy waving his arms through the air as he described what was, no doubt, the next grand adventure. 

Wilbur kept his eyes on Techno, though. He wasn’t quite pinning him, not trying to pressure him—goodness, he knew by now that that wasn’t the way to get Techno to do things. He was simply waiting for Techno to finish his thought, watching as the pensive look on his face shifted.

“Didn’t think Tommy would be so…” Techno shrugged, letting the movement fill in for whatever word he was struggling to think up. “Yeah.”

“He’s doing well, yeah,” Wilbur said. “Took him a while, but he got it.”

“That’s probably why.”

Wilbur nodded. “Yeah,” he said. “That’s probably it.”

It was a simple string of words, but it seemed to be enough for them. Understanding, mutual and strong, fell in the space between them, and Wilbur didn’t speak, didn’t break it, as Techno settled back into place along the boughs of the big old oak.

Wilbur let his eyes slip closed.

For now, everything felt alright.

He felt better, Techno seemed to feel better too.

It was… things were alright, for the first time in a while.

______

Below Wilbur, Tommy and Tubbo sat in the sunlight, ignorant to the two ghosts sitting in the flickering shade above them (though, Tommy would later swear, he would sometimes catch flashes of pink hair or a yellow sweater up in the tree above him, right in the corner of his vision).

And, there, Tommy recounted the tale of waking up and going upstairs—of how, only a few hours before, he’d braced himself and worked down the anxiety in his throat, how he’d set the ouija board down and how, for a moment, he’d yelled at Phil. He told Tubbo of the way he’d imagined Phil, of how the sunlight draped across the two of them, of the way the chill had settled into his bones and he hadn’t cared. 

And Tubbo listened, the eager grin on his face fading into a softened smile. He cheered where he was supposed to, laughed when Tommy laughed, and his gaze turned solemn when Tommy told him how he’d cried, how it’d turned into laughter.

Tommy pulled the blanket tighter around him, as he wrapped up his story, laughing as Tubbo chimed in and lightly mocked him for how he’d talked with Wilbur and Techno. And he sat in the sunlight, now, the chills all-but-gone as he finished his lunch. Up above, there were only sparse clouds in the sky, drifting along on the same breeze that tugged at the ends of his hair and sent the occasional leaf fluttering down beside him.

“I still can’t believe it’s real,” Tommy said, after a brief spat of silence. Tubbo was mid-bite, and Tommy had been in between thoughts, and the comfortable silence had taken the space where their words had been. He hadn’t minded it; he just had more to say, disbelief tumbling out of his mouth to break the quiet. “All this time.”

Tubbo, with a lump of sandwich in his cheek, wore a smug expression—it was exaggerated, though, and Tommy found comfort in that fact alone. “And to think you wouldn’t believe me,” he said.

“Oh- fuck you.” Tommy pouted. “You believed it before we had proof, Tubbo.”

“I had proof, you just wouldn’t believe me,” Tubbo said, crossing his arms over his chest in fake disbelief.

“Your proof was shit.”

“Thank you.” Tubbo, somehow, took it as a compliment—he did that thing where he preened himself, sitting up a little straighter and sticking out his nose, his smile widening on his face. He looked goofy, grinning with his face like that, and Tommy was sure that was the intent here.

Appropriately, Tommy laughed. “You know, you didn’t have to do that.”

“Do what?”

Again, Tommy broke out into loud laughs, and he shoved Tubbo off to the side. Tubbo almost went spilling out into the dirt they were sitting in, leaning over just enough to teeter, before landing back on his ass with a dull thump and a slight shout of complaint.

Then, though, as the conversation settled, there was something guilty in Tubbo’s expression. Tubbo didn’t say anything about it, mulling over the sandwich in his hands as if it’d suddenly sprouted legs and was trying to escape his grasp—like it was suddenly the most interesting thing in the world. And Tommy found his brows dipping down, slightly, as Tubbo’s over dramatic reaction to Tommy’s non-compliment faded.

Fuck it. He didn’t care about the ‘thank you, Tubbo’ quota—it was about time he gave up on it, once and for all.

“Really- thank you, Tubbo,” Tommy said, after a while, once they’d both laid themselves semi-sideways in the dirt. He figured they made a funny picture, sitting there like that with their awful postures, Tommy’s blanket tossed to the side as they soaked up the sunlight. “I don’t think I would’ve known they were here, if you hadn’t- yeah.”

That guilty look faded. 

Tubbo frowned, still, as he mulled over Tommy’s words. But, when he was done with that, he looked up at Tommy with a confused look on his face. “Are you thanking me for falling off a roof?” he asked.

Tommy’s brows dropped faster than he’d thought they could. It was concern for Tubbo, again, but in a very different way- more of mild horror, at how that thought process had come about. “What?”

“Well, I saw your uncle- or, I guess he told me to call him Phil—when we fell off the roof. He surprised me,” Tubbo said, as if it were the simplest thing in the world. There was a wicked grin on his face, though his voice stayed steady. “That’s why I fell.”

Tommy cringed. “Let’s- let’s pretend that didn’t happen, yeah?”

“But your arm’s still-”

He looked down, as Tubbo pointed at the sling on his arm (Tubbo had made him put it back on, or he would’ve refused to make Tommy lunch). Then, Tommy’s head jerked back up to meet Tubbo’s gaze. “For Phil’s sake,” he said, nodding quickly. “For Phil’s sake.”

“For Phil’s sake,” Tubbo said, nodding with him “Yeah, for Phil’s sake.”

And with that, they dissolved into their normal conversation, that semi-arguing, thought-to-speech kind of rambling that they’d been doing for years. It was easy, casual, and familiar, hardly any thought needed for it.

The day went on, and they went on with it. Tommy felt better than he ever had, out here in the yard, here on the grounds of the house. 

Again, he didn’t feel quite good —things weren’t going to magically get better the second he got a ghostly hug and cried on his dead uncle’s shoulder, he knew that—but just… better. Going inside, now, didn’t feel as scary. He- he didn’t quite like it, still, of course. It would take time to adjust, let alone to accept, that his dead family was watching his every move; that was why they were outside eating lunch, at that moment—but it was manageable. 

Tommy felt… content, now. 

He felt content, sitting out here with Tubbo, content to relax and enjoy his time. 

Yeah.

Things felt alright.

It’d taken a while, but things felt alright.

Chapter Text

After that, Tommy and Tubbo took the Sunday easy. 

It felt a bit strange, getting up off the ground and going back inside, but they made it work, wiping the dirt from their clothes and settling back into the house around them as the day passed on and the hours ticked away.

At some point, they attempted to make brownies, though it did kind of fail in the same way as Tubbo’s adventure with the cookies did. But Tommy didn’t mind, and Tubbo didn’t seem to mind either. 

They ate their overcooked brownies nonetheless.

They also took the time to finish exploring the downstairs—because, though they hadn’t realized it, the house was so big that they hadn’t even explored the first floor. Tommy had known about it in the back of his mind, but he somehow just hadn’t put it together yet, and he hadn’t even thought of telling Tubbo about it. So they went about poking their heads into closets and into new rooms, collecting spider webs and dust in their hair.

Tommy was in a good mood through it all, and Tubbo seemed to absorb it and reflect it back at him. The day was idle, slightly senseless, and it had the two of them smiling from ear-to-ear.

The afternoon came quickly, the paper spirit board still sitting on the couch between them, settled on the center cushion with Tommy on its left and Tubbo on its right. It felt weird, still, settling down like this as if it were the most normal thing in the world, as if they weren’t, in fact, about to chat with ghosts. Excitement fluttered in Tommy’s veins, but there was also a bit of lingering uncertainty, doubt with how to deal with this situation.

Silence settled, for a little while. Tubbo made no move to speak, and the pointer stayed still. The same uncertainty that Tommy felt within him was there, mirrored in Tubbo’s eyes. Nobody moved to start the conversation. 

Then, well.

Tommy would take the opportunity lent to him. 

The doubt faded quickly, as he opened his mouth to speak, as the words came easily to him.

“Hey Techno,” he said, the smile on his face turning mischievous, “do I still annoy you?” 

Nothing moved, for a moment. A beat of hesitation hung heavy between him and Tubbo, Tommy letting out soft huffs of laughter as the second dragged out. Tubbo, with a more nervous smile on his face, fiddled with the edge of the ouija board’s paper. Tommy glanced up, away from the ouija board, towards the open air.

Then, the slider was quickly moving to Yes.

Tommy laughed loudly, and Tubbo laughed right along with him.

“How about you, Phil?” Tommy turned to glance in a slightly different direction, as if he were talking to someone else in any other conversation—he couldn’t see who was there, but it was pretty much instinct, even when there were less-visible people floating around. “Do I annoy you?”

Sometimes.

Another chorus of laughter, just as loud as the last.

With the ice broken at last, they went on like that, the five of them all chatting, for a while. The uncertainty lingered there—it was in the words Tommy spoke, the way he danced around one topic or another, in the way he waited in the pauses in the conversation—but it was beneath all the good things, left to be forgotten the longer he talked. Eventually, Tubbo got up and grabbed some pens and some paper and splayed them out over the floor, watching with glee alongside Tommy as the ghosts scrawled out sentence after sentence.

And when the sun finally sank down and they’d long since gotten up to turn the lights on, when the conversation finally hit a lull hours after it’d started, papers filled with ink and strewn about in front of him, one last thought bubbled to the surface in Tommy’s mind.

One dumb, unwelcome thought, one that wouldn’t leave him alone no matter how long he gabbed on about anything and everything else.

It was a question. It wasn’t bad, he didn’t think.

But he didn’t know if it was… right to ask. 

He didn’t get the chance to decide, before long—apparently, his thoughts showed on his face. And, before long, Tubbo was nudging him, drawing his focus away from the particularly-interesting spot on the floor he’d been staring at while he thought, and a pen was scribbling away in front of him.

It was Wilbur’s handwriting; Tommy had recognized it from the moment Wilbur had started writing, from the old pages of hand-drawn lyrics Tommy had seen over the years. Something up? Wilbur wrote.

Tommy stared for a moment longer, back to watching that same spot on the floor. Then, he glanced up to where he thought Wilbur would be, just a bit to the left of where the pen lay on the piece of paper in front of him, and his question bubbled up to the surface. “What’s it like?” he asked, and his words came a bit slowly, hesitantly, “being- being all dead and shit?”

The room went silent, for a moment. Still, too, as none of the ghosts seemed to move.

“Tommy?” Tubbo asked, and there was a hand on Tommy’s arm, soft and gentle and somehow, wrong. Tommy pulled away, giving Tubbo a quick glance because this wasn’t the time, Tommy didn’t need that right then, he was waiting and-

Before Tommy could do anything else, though, the sound of pen on paper was back. Wilbur’s handwriting, again, none of the other pens moving with his. It’s horrible, he wrote. Awful. Eternal pain beyond human imagination.

Tommy blanched. “Oh.”

At that, though, another pen floated up into the air. This time, Phil’s handwriting slipped across the page, a bit messier and scrawled than Wilbur’s looping script. Don’t listen to him. It’s fine. A pause, the pen still and slanted in Phil’s loose hold. Bit colder, bit more floating, but that’s it. Mostly the same.

Tommy stared at the words long after Phil was done with them. It took a while, for some reason, for his eyes to process the words written out there, even after he’d pulled the paper closer and spun it around so he could see it more clearly. “So it’s not… bad?”

Not good or bad, Phil wrote. Neither.

“Why’d you ask?” Tubbo asked, and there was a light hint of worry in his voice—Tommy couldn’t quite place it, why Tubbo was worried or where the worry was coming from. It didn’t seem like Tubbo quite knew either.

To be honest, Tommy didn’t know why he’d asked the question. He shrugged it off and went with the first reason he could think of, “just wondering, you know.”

I don’t mind it, Techno wrote, next. His handwriting would’ve been hard to pick out, if Tommy hadn’t memorized Wilbur’s—both were slightly swirled, though Wilbur’s letters were more rushed, words tighter and spaces careless. It’s quieter.

Pretentious prick. Wilbur was back.

Then, though, Tommy felt eyes glide over him—invisible ones, not Tubbo’s. Tubbo was still trying to adapt to the switch to writing over the ouija board, and the reading took a bit longer in moments like these, where the ghosts were writing quickly and interrupting each other, their script messier than normal as they tried to match the speed of spoken conversation.

No, while Tubbo took the time to read, Tommy felt one of the ghosts’ eyes on him. It was strange, feeling it and not seeing it, and it had Tommy squirming slightly in his seat. That was something he was still getting used to, that was for sure—being aware of the ghost’s made it feel so much different than before.

Then, when Tubbo looked up to indicate that he was done, Phil was picking up his pen again. We’re alright, mate. We’ve had time to accept it. A pause. Don’t worry about us.

Tommy nodded, a shallow dip of his head. “Yeah. Yeah, you’re- that’s-” The words fought him as he tried to get them past his lips, but he just nodded a bit harder in their place, trying for a shaky smile. 

Phil’s words from before came over him— “No, Toms. I could never be mad at you. Not for that,”— and the resolve built up a bit in his head, helped along by a reassuring glance from Tubbo. 

He tried again, and the words worked, and his nod felt a bit more confident. Tommy felt a bit more confident in it, in the idea that- that it hadn’t been him , that they were alright now, that they weren’t mad at him for what happened that night. “Yeah, right,” he said.

He didn’t know how, but he could feel it, as the ghosts smiled back at him. Tubbo’s smile, sappy enough to send Tommy’s exaggerated harsh words in his direction, probably helped a bit too. Regardless, Tommy smiled as the realization fully settled in.

The conversation went on for a while more, and Tommy’s laughter was loud as it always was.

___________

A couple days passed just like that, though Tommy and Tubbo ended up just resuming their normal routines—cleaning in the morning, the windows open to let the cooler air float in, and exploring in the afternoon. Tommy’s sling came off, though he still tried his best to be gentle on his messed up shoulder, pointedly preferring his right arm for anything strenuous and leaving the heavy lifting to Tubbo. The patch of gauze came off of Tubbo’s face, though the scab did fade into a scar, one that they figured would stick around for a while yet. But Tubbo didn’t seem to care.

“It’s just a scar,” he explained, flippantly. 

When Phil expressed concern at that statement—with good reason, really—Tubbo got the chance to show off the burn scars on his skin to someone who, for a turn, didn’t know about them.

“I had a crazy babysitter this one time,” Tubbo explained, lifting up his hair to show off the scars tracing from just under the side of his chin down his neck. Though they couldn’t see it now, the marks crisscrossed all over his torso, reaching down to the side of his ribcage in ripples and divots, thick lines that had slowly faded over time. “I was in hospital for a while, but it’s alright now!”

Tubbo didn’t seem to mind talking about it—in fact, it’d been one of the first stories Tubbo had told Tommy, just because he’d thought it was so cool that he’d been through something like that and come out smiling on the other end. A young Tommy had agreed.

Phil had still been unnerved, even after the full explanation, but he’d relented when Tubbo assured him, time and time again, that the new mark on his face from their excursion on the roof was fine, that Tubbo didn’t have any bad blood towards Phil for it.

Somewhere after that conversation, Tubbo was adopted into their little household, just as Tommy had been so long ago. 

Tubbo smiled when Phil called him ‘mate’.

And that was that.

Beyond those parts, little pieces of conversation or stories for them to catch up on, not much happened over those couple of days.

He and Tubbo were finally settling in, Tommy supposed. They still hadn’t gone upstairs and actually claimed a bedroom—partly out of convenience, partly because Tommy wanted even less, now, to feel like he was intruding up there. Despite Phil’s protests, he and Tubbo still slept downstairs in the living room, neither of them picky in the slightest about where they slept. Tommy had spent a week sleeping on the floor at Tubbo’s; he could manage a couch for now. 

Besides, it felt enough like ‘his’ that he didn’t care much.

Things were calm for those days. They were almost, minus the ghostly parts, what Tommy had expected when he and Tubbo had agreed to come do this for the summer: easy days, routine enough to be stable, but not so much that things were boring. Tommy and Tubbo chatted with Wilbur, Techno, and Phil, and well.

Things were alright.

Tommy was smiling more and more every day. He was laughing until his ribs hurt, chatting long hours into the night, and he felt weightless, felt like he could accomplish anything if given the chance. 

It felt good . 

He felt better than he had in awhile, with his ghostly relatives with him. Sure, it was always cold when they were around, and they went through way too much paper, but he was happy.

Tommy was happy, and the summer went on.