Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The day their father turned his gaze away from Wilbur, the day Tommy got sick and tired of cleaning the blood off his big brother’s face, the day Tommy dodged Wilbur’s attempt to keep him behind him and took the place of human shield, the day their father hit Tommy when it was supposed to always, always be Wilbur, was the day Wilbur snapped.

He’d cleaned Tommy up, cleaned the blood off his baby brother’s face, and then he’d sung quiet lullabies until Tommy had finally fallen asleep.

And then Wilbur, all of fourteen years old, had made sure their father could never ever hurt Tommy again.

The police called it an accident and an officer told the boys he was sorry for their loss, but Wilbur could see in his eyes he didn’t mean it. The bruises on them both stood out clear in the harsh artificial light of the station.

“He wouldn’t have felt it,” the officer says, and Wilbur almost, almost wishes he had.

Wilbur fights like hell against it, but inevitably they get separated in the foster system. Their case worker keeps them in the same town and he can tell that she’s trying her best, so he lives with it. 

Four years, he tells himself every single night, four years and you can get custody.

It’s a long four years. He sees Tommy nearly every weekend as they both get moved from home to home to home. Tommy tends to get placed with families, the benefit of being ten, just young enough for people to still care.

Wilbur moves in and out of group homes. He has the advantage over most of the other newly abandoned strays—he knows how to keep his head down and he knows his way around a lie. Charisma keeps him safe enough, and he learns quickly where to place his allegiances to keep himself comfortably high up in the hierarchy.

Where he uses honeyed tones and silver words, Tommy shouts and swears, angry at all the world. The older he gets, the faster he cycles between places, the more it splits between families and group homes, the more notes written in red ink Wilbur glimpses on the pages of his file.

Puffy tells him over and over that he has to try, but she’s not in the system like they are and Wilbur knows Tommy like he knows his own soul. He knows that for that first year, Tommy tried and he knows that Tommy got hurt, that he trusted and had the rug pulled out from under him. Tommy won’t try again and it makes panic claw at Wilbur’s chest because there are only so many places for Tommy to go.

“Three years,” he tells his little brother every time he sees him, “three years and I can get you out of here.”

Tubbo is a blessing that comes about half way through the second year. He tempers Tommy’s impulse with his own calculated risks. They’re trouble, but they’re good for each other. Tommy helps Tubbo with English homework and breaks his hand on someone’s face if they make the mistake of threatening his best friend. And Tubbo, Tubbo can reign in Tommy’s temper with a small hum or a gentle hand on his arm. Tubbo teaches Tommy to choose his battles and to read other people and to use what he finds to get what he wants without bruised knuckles or split lips.

They get separated, too, but the damage has already been done. Tubbo is one of theirs and Wilbur couldn’t imagine ever leaving him behind.

“Two years,” Tubbo says every weekend when they have to go their separate ways, “two years and we never have to be apart again.”

They don’t make it.

Chapter Text

Wilbur knows there’s something off from the moment Tommy walks up to their usual meeting place (a quiet corner of the park at the base of an old oak tree, away from prying eyes and foster families) and he doesn’t throw himself onto the ground with his usual carelessness. The deep instinctual sense of wrongness only grows when Tubbo joins them and hugs his arms around his middle when Wilbur eyes the way his shirt hangs off his frame. Clothes that are too big aren’t a rarity, but Tubbo’s had that particular shirt for a while and it’s never hung like that before.

He tracks the time since their last moves back in his head, trying to pin down the shifts, figure out what changed and who’s going to pay for it. Tubbo’s been in the same house for over a month now, and Tommy’s only been in the latest group home for about a week.

Just enough time for both concerns to form twin pits in his stomach.

“Tubbo, when’s the last time you ate?” Tommy looks over at Tubbo sharply, and the boy sighs.

“Two days ago.”

“WHAT?!” Tommy shouts and moves too quickly, forgetting for a moment that he was hiding something too. He makes a pained sound and presses a hand to his ribs, keeping his eyes screwed shut as he breathes slow and shallow through the pain.

“Hypocrite,” Tubbo mutters, before reaching for Tommy’s shirt. Tommy opens his eyes to glare at him, batting his hands away.

“It’s fine, I’m fine. I can handle bruises. You cannot handle starving to death.”

Tubbo rolls his eyes. “Right because you’ve never been in a house that keeps the fridge locked.”

There’s a decision on the tip of his tongue, one he thinks has been made for a while, just waiting on a final straw to send everything crashing down. “Tommy,” he says instead, “show me your side.”

He hesitates, fingers toying with the hem of the t-shirt. “It’s fine, Wil.”

“Show me.”

After another moment of looking pleadingly between his brothers, Tommy squeezes his eyes shut and blows out a harsh breath. Wilbur watches the way his forehead pinches at the pain that caused and feels white hot rage simmer under his skin.

When Tommy lifts his shirt, Tubbo makes a strangled sound and Wilbur wants to cry.

His whole right side is painted a sickening mess of purple, yellow, and green. It looks like someone tried to kick his rib cage in. He tastes bile when he makes out the shape of someone’s boot print.

“Toms,” Wilbur says, but god what else is there to say? He knows how bad that hurts, he knows the fear that comes with unrelenting blows after you’re already on the ground.

Tommy was never, never supposed to know that feeling. He was supposed to be safe .

“You’re going to the hospital,” Tubbo says, standing up and hiding the brief dizzy spell that hits him when he does. “Right now.”

“No,” Wilbur says before Tommy does. Both boys look at him in surprise, Tommy mixed with relief and Tubbo betrayal. “No, you’re both gonna go back to your houses and get your shit and then you’re gonna meet me back here, understand?”

Tommy nods and turns to follow the instructions, but Tubbo doesn’t move. “Where are we gonna go?” he asks, and for a kid so young it feels wrong that he’s trying to be the voice of reason. “You’re seventeen, Wilbur. We still have a year left before you even have a shot at getting custody.” Of Tommy, he doesn’t say, but they all hear it anyway.

And yes, yes, Wilbur knows, has always known that his chances at getting both of the boys were slim. He has nothing to his name, no prospects, no job, no money for school. It’d be a miracle if he got Tommy. It was a pipe dream thinking he could get Tubbo, but he’d refused to consider another option and Tubbo had been content to play pretend.

Until now, at least.

Tubbo looks tired. He looks defeated. He looks far too old for his thirteen years.

Fury rages like a tempest in his chest. Fuck this, he thinks and it’s oh so easy to let it all go.

“I don’t care anymore. I’m not just gonna- after everything- no. No, nobody gets to hurt either of you. We’re leaving. Doesn’t matter where, as long as it’s not here.”

It’s silent for a moment as Tubbo searches his face for- weakness? fear? a lie? Wilbur’s not sure, not completely, but whatever it is Tubbo doesn’t find it. Or maybe he does.

“Okay,” he says, and he turns to follow Tommy until their paths split.

He watches them go, and, for the first time in a very long time, he hopes.

[␛] [␛] [␛]

Wilbur keeps all of his belongings in a duffle under his bed. He’s protected by the leaders of this particular home, having made friends with one of them a few months back at a different place, so he doesn’t have to worry about anyone messing with it, thank god. His fingers brush over the little cash he’d been saving up over the years. It’s a few hundred, not much, but enough to get them far enough away and keep them fed for a little while.

“Heading out?” He turns to see Eret watching him, head tilted like they were genuinely curious. Wilbur thinks maybe they are. He thinks they’re friends, or the closest thing to a friend Wilbur has anyway.

“I need to learn to hotwire a car,” Wilbur says in lieu of an answer.

Eret raises a single eyebrow. “Thought you were staying out of trouble. Grand theft auto doesn’t seem like a great plan to get custody of your brothers.”

Wilbur shakes his head. “I can’t wait another year. I can’t make them wait-” He sighs, so tired suddenly. “Our caseworker, she warned me she was running out of places to put them in the city and the rate they move houses-” he takes a shaky breath, “I can’t lose them. I can’t.”

“Good. Get them out of here.” There’s something like pride on Eret’s face, and Wilbur appreciates it more than they can know. “I can show you how to steal a car. Grab your shit, c’mon.”

[␛] [␛] [␛]

They take back roads and never stop for long enough to risk being noticed. There are fast food wrappers littering the floor and even if it all tastes like grease, it’s what they can afford and they don’t have to fight to keep it.

Tommy gives Tubbo his fries and then refuses to take any painkillers for his ribs until Tubbo eats them all.

Blue skies roll overhead, white lines fly by before them.

The boys sleep in the backseat. Wilbur plans.

[␛] [␛] [␛]

“You’re gonna go grey,” Tommy informs him. He glances at his little brother in the rearview and watches as he wrinkles his nose. “Or bald,” he says, spitting the word out like a swear.

Or, well, like someone who isn’t Tommy might spit a swear.

“I’m serious,” he insists when Wilbur ignores him. “Too much stress will do that to you. Do you feel like you’re under too much stress, Wil?”

Wilbur sighs and if the sound is fonder than he intended, he hasn’t slept more than a handful of scattered hours in the last few days, so he can hardly be blamed.

“I’m fine, Toms,” he says, meeting worried eyes in the mirror and flashing a small smile, tired but genuine. “Promise.”

Silence stretches for a while, and Wilbur’s not sure how long it is before Tommy speaks again.

When he does, though, all the pretense and forced confidence has fallen away. “I think… I think it might be okay, though. If you were stressed. Or even, even if you were scared. That would be okay.”

Wilbur’s chest aches. The world doesn’t deserve his little brother; he’s too good. And Wilbur, Wilbur would do anything to protect that light.

He’s proven that once, years ago, with a lighter and a cigarette and a bottle of booze. And again, just a few days ago, when he looked into the sand and decided what he could and could not take.

“We’re gonna be alright,” he says, in an echo of what he’d said three years ago. “I promise you, Tommy, I will make it so we’re alright.”

[␛] [␛] [␛]

“What’s the plan, boss man?”

Fondness curls, warm and soft, in the space of Wilbur’s chest. Tubbo’s watching him expectant, trusting, as he bounces on the balls of his feet.

They’re standing in the mostly empty seven a.m. parking lot of a locally owned grocery store. Tommy yawns, rude as he can get, but Tubbo’s bright eyed and ready to go.

It hits him over and over again, how right the decision he made was.

“The plan,” Wilbur answers, with a touch of drama that has Tommy rolling his eyes in an attempt to hide his smile, “is simple. I’m entrusting you both with your own missions. I need you to get exactly what’s on that list. Cheapest versions you can find, okay? And I need you to do it as quickly and quietly as possible before meeting me back at checkout. We don’t want to attract any attention to ourselves.” He looks pointedly at Tommy first and then at Tubbo who drops the smug smile to join Tommy in deep offense. “Odds are no one is looking for us, but we don’t need to take any unnecessary risks. Understand?” At the twin nods, he claps his hands together, like they’re setting out for an adventure instead of a grocery trip. “Alright! First one done with everything we need wins. No running.”

The boys glance at each other, sizing up the competition, before looking back at their older brother.

Wilbur grins. “Time starts now.”

They take off across the parking lot, dropping back into ridiculous identical power walks when he shouts the no running rule again. A nearby mother smiles knowingly at them and then at him.

“Boys,” she says, like an inside joke. “You do a good job wrangling them. My oldest would be in the middle of the chaos, not mediating. Your mother must be proud.”

Wilbur smiles, soft and genuine, grateful beyond measure. “It’s just me,” he says, and the woman’s eyes go a little sad. “I do my best, but they deserve a lot better.”

She shakes her head. “All any of us do is our best, honey. That’s all we can do. They look happy, and as long as they’re happy, you’re doing just fine.” He opens his mouth to reply, but she nods at the store. “You better go and get your own list done or there’ll be a riot.”

He laughs and if it’s a little wet, she doesn’t mention it. He thanks her and she just waves him off, sending him after his brothers.

The shopping is, of course, mildly chaotic, but only mildly and that’s all he can really ask for. The owner watches with amusement as Tommy and Tubbo try to look completely nonchalant and fail miserably. Wilbur looks pleadingly at the ceiling when the boys go careening by, but the owner only laughs out loud and says they remind him of his grandsons.

They get everything they need. The price is suspiciously low, but Wilbur can’t afford to question it.

Tommy plucks five hundred dollars out from under their windshield wipers.

“What the fuck?” he asks, looking around sharply. He makes an affronted sound when Wilbur takes the bills out of his hand mid wave, but doesn’t try to retrieve them. “Where’d you get a- a-”

“Sugar daddy,” Tubbo fills in helpfully.

“Yeah! Where’d you get a sugar daddy, Wilbur? Hmm?”

He sighs. “It must’ve been the woman from earlier.”

“A woman?” Tommy perks up.

“Too old for you,” Wilbur dismisses, sliding into the car and putting the money away with the rest.

Tommy puffs up his chest. “Give it a few years,” he says, clambering into the back seat with absolutely no grace as Tubbo takes shotgun, “and she’ll see what she’s missing.”

Wilbur laughs. “A few years?” he asks. “What when you’re sixteen? You gonna woo her with your brand new driver’s license?”

“Fuck you! I could! I’ll take the best driver’s license picture in the world and then I’ll get a- a sports car and pick her up for a date. And you, Wilbur, will be old and sad and lonely and gross. You’ll be just gross, Wil, and all the women will know who the superior brother is.”

Tubbo gasps, and turns around in his seat to look at Tommy. “Will you have a prison wedding after she’s arrested for going on a date with a minor?”

Wilbur dissolves into hysterics as Tommy shouts at Tubbo who’s got the biggest innocent grin plastered on his face.

They’re happy, he thinks. All that matters is they’re happy.

Chapter Text

Tommy stretches his arms up, popping his back before cracking his neck. He drops his arms then, tension draining from his frame quickly as his nose wrinkles in vague disgust.

“I smell fuckin terrible,” he announces.

“Yeah,” Tubbo agrees with absolutely no hesitation, “you really do.”

“Oi, bitch,” he shoots back, hiding laughter valiantly, “you don’t smell any better!”

Tubbo sniffs and then looks like he regrets it, sending Tommy into a fit of raucous laughter.

“We all need showers,” Wilbur says, looking  at the two of them in the rear view. “Any ideas on how to get those?”

“A lake,” Tommy answers and Tubbo shoves him.

“That’s stupid.”

“You’re stupid!”

“Children,” Wilbur scolds, trying and failing to hide his amusement.

Tubbo glances briefly at Tommy before leveling a serious look at Wilbur. “We could go to a homeless shelter.”

In a mirror of Wilbur’s internal reaction, Tommy splutters, something like offense or maybe denial clear in his face. “What the fuck? No, we’re not homeless, Tubbo.”

He rolls his eyes. “We don’t have a house, Tommy. We live in a car. We’re the definition of homeless.”

“It’s a good idea,” Wilbur says, swallowing his pride, swallowing the bitter taste of failure and shame coating his tongue. He knew, he knew this wouldn’t be easy, but, god, if it doesn’t remind him that he’s not enough.

Tommy looks between them, then out the window briefly, when his eyes catch on something and he whips around. “Rest stop! A rest stop! Those have showers!”

“That could work. We just need soap.”

[␛] [␛] [␛]

The showers are a blessing, really. They’re cleaner than expected and the locker room is empty, so with their grocery bag of brightly colored beach towels, shampoo, and plastic flip flops, it all turns out like a fun adventure.

Not for the first time, Wilbur thanks whoever’s listening that his boys are resilient as they are. Sometimes, he swears they’re the only reason he’s still going.

Sometimes, he knows they are.

The locker room fills with steam and precious laughter, echoing off the tile walls. As the boys bicker, Wilbur lets the water beat against his shoulders, almost hot enough to burn, turning his skin red. It’s good, though, the slight sting that comes with the heat, it makes him feel human again.

He hadn’t realized how much he needed this. Listening to the boys, he thinks he wasn’t the only one.

Something loosens in his chest, a knot, unfurling. They’re happy, he tells himself, again and again. They’re happy, they’re happy, they’re happy.

[␛] [␛] [␛]

“Wil! Pull over, pull over, pull over!”

“What? What do you- what?”

“Wilbur, pull over now-”

The mattress fits in the bed of the station wagon perfectly once they lay down the second row of seats. The boys cheer, victory cries sounding loud under blue skies in an empty church parking lot in the middle of nowhere, somewhere. Dandelions grow through the cracks in the pavement and the sign says something about brothers, something about freedom.

And Wilbur, Wilbur doesn’t believe in God-with-a-capital-G, or any gods for that matter, but it feels almost like something’s looking out for them in the way the sun turns Tommy’s hair to gold and catches on the blue of Tubbo’s eyes.

Tommy makes a wish on a dandelion, overly exaggerated, claiming it was for women despite the glint of something genuine in his expression. Tubbo eats one, sending Tommy into horrified screaming.

It’s good. They’re good. They’re happy, they’re gonna be okay.

[␛] [␛] [␛]

Tubbo suddenly sits up straighter, head turning to follow a road sign as they pass.

“What?” he asks because there’s a heavy sorta tension that came out of nowhere. Tubbo watches out the window for another moment before settling back in his seat and shaking his head.

“Nothing,” he says, but it sounds like a lie. “Just… I could’ve sworn we’d been in this town before.”

Wilbur feels a moment of dread, a moment of fear, but it melts away the further from the welcome sign they get. Small towns look the same, and they’ve seen so many. It makes sense and Tubbo hums his agreement, but something lingers.

[␛] [␛] [␛]

Somewhere, lost in shelves and precarious towers, blue eyes ignite with something like excitement but with an edge. Maybe a stranger would’ve been unsettled, maybe a stranger would’ve felt ice crawl up their spine, choked on their fear and left a quaint little town in their rearview, but the only witnesses are two boys who shake their heads fondly.

“Good news,” Blue Eyes says, clapping his hands, to twin sighs.

[␛] [␛] [␛]

The center of the town is picturesque, like something on a postcard or from a cheesy romance novel. It should be too perfect, it should send alarm bells ringing, but tourists, passer-throughs, flight-risks, and runaways move through the little town with an ease and comfort that would almost be a red flag if they stopped to question it. It’s a happy little town, flowers in window boxes, buzzing bees, singing birds. It’s a happy little town with happy people, grocers who don’t ring things up, mothers who offer reassurance.

It’s a happy little town with its traffic lights and a farmer’s market on Sundays. Most don’t stay, but they’ll swear for the rest of their lives that the best pastries they’ve ever had were the strawberry scones from the bakery on Main Street. Most don’t stay because most have destinations in mind, family, loved ones, people to find, to see, to hug and kiss and love.

But sometimes, very rarely, a wanderer stumbles through. A lost star, fallen out of the fabric of the sky, storiless, alone or caught in a delicate orbit with others just the same.

Most don’t stay, but sometimes, sometimes a stray finds home in the shade of the oaks on Main. It’s a happy little town, lovely in every way. It’s a place drifters find safe harbor, a lighthouse and a hot meal for the weary travelers of the world.

Hearth and home for the lonely, for the lost, for the wild and restless. Hearth and home for the runaways.

A station wagon drives through the town, window rolled down as two young boys belt out lyrics, the wind catching their laughter and carrying it through an open door of a used bookstore.

Tommy lets his hand rise and fall like a swelling tide in the wind, eyes catching the trees, signs, people they pass. There’s something in the town, something that makes it feel almost safe.

Almost, almost, only almost, but closer with every passing moment they spend there. Closer, and Tommy wonders if it’s something he should run from or if it’s finally coming home.

[␛] [␛] [␛]

The bookstore beckons and Wilbur follows. There are several shelves and a cart of books framing the entrance. On the steps are boxes marked 20% off, and it reminds him of kittens left in boxes—in need of home .

Stepping through the doorway brings him to another world, away from a land of blue skies and summer breezes and into one of lacquered oak, cracked leather, and the sweet scent of aged paper. A bell rings again behind him, the boys, their quiet awe a mirror of his own.

Books of all colors, ages, and states of togetherness are stacked, floor to ceiling. Every open space is taken up by a pile of books it seems. The shelves are crammed full, extra books on their sides laid on top of the ones standing attention. The ceiling is high, and the top shelves are out of even Wilbur’s extended reach. Tables sag under the weight of half organized piles and boxes with labels similar to those on the entrance steps.

Rugs overlap underfoot, and the walkways between rows are narrow, almost like tunnels, like secret passages created by knitted branches or gnarled roots, but this isn’t a forest no matter how much Wilbur swears he hears birdsong somewhere deeper.

The smell of pine, of rain, of earth—well, that must be a candle or a new scent of Febreze.

Squished between bookshelves and behind a table with two overflowing boxes is a narrow, carpeted staircase that turns off only a few steps up, hiding whatever mystery to which it leads.

Deeper, the forest calls as he turns down another aisle. Come deeper, follow me.

A crow flutters nearby, landing on the back of an armchair, yellow eyes watching Wilbur with something knowing, something amused, like this is a game he doesn’t, can’t understand.

Deeper, deeper, deeper, the forest sings, and then Wilbur turns another corner and-

And nearly runs into a skinny kid that can’t be any older than the boys, taller than Wilbur and carrying an armful of old looking books. His eyes widen and Wilbur gets caught up in them, one a deep emerald green and the other a dark ruby red. There’s something in them, something that sees Wilbur in a way that makes him feel stripped bare, that makes him feel a little afraid, like this kid in front of him is enough to unravel the fragile world Wilbur’s built around the easiest and the hardest decision he ever made.

“Oh!” The boy takes a step back. “Sorry,” he says, smiling sheepishly. “Thought I heard the bell. Do you need help finding anything?”

The spell is broken, gone like it was never there. Wilbur blinks. “Oh, no. Just looking,” he says with a smile, but he feels like there was something-

“Alright! Yell if you need anything—my name’s Ranboo.” And then he disappears into the endless shelves.

Wilbur feels a little foggy, a little dazed, and a lot like there was-

Tommy’s stomach growls loudly and then he starts complaining even louder, so they leave the little store and walk down to a sweet little bakery where Wilbur is so wrapped up in the boys and the light, easy conversation with the girl behind the counter, he doesn’t even notice when she shoos him away without paying and with a paper bag of strawberry scones.

When they find somewhere to park for the night (or maybe longer, it’s a nice little town after all), the boys drag Wilbur into their nest of blankets and pillows to sleep curled up with them. When he dreams, he dreams of crows and a deep forest. He dreams of searching for something, walking through the trees for days, months, years, that golden light of birdsong always just out of sight.

It is the first full night of sleep he gets in days. It is the first time he feels safe in years.

When he wakes, he does not remember what he was looking for.

Chapter Text

It isn’t until they go to the grocery store that they realize it’s definitely the same town as before. Even if they had been able to convince themselves otherwise, that would’ve been blown out of the water when they were greeted by a familiar face as they walked through the automatic doors.

“Nice to see you back again,” the man says, jovially. “Let me know if you need help finding anything!”

The conversation ends there, but Wilbur can’t help but feel like there are eyes on him the whole time they walk through the store. They just pick up a few things, essentials—granola bars, water, stuff for PB&Js. Wilbur grabs a bag of apples too because god knows they probably need something fresh even if it costs more than he can really spend.

He doesn’t say a word when the grocer undercharges them again and he pretends not to notice the way a crow’s gaze follows them across the parking lot.

They could settle here, he finds himself thinking as they eat their sandwiches sitting on the roof of the car overlooking the park. The thought is unexpected, but not unwelcome and that’s what surprises Wilbur the most. Just yesterday the thought of staying in one place for more than a night set static buzzing under his skin, and yet, here, he feels almost safe. No, he feels safe, in its entirety.

It scares him, a little, underneath the ever-present sense of comfort he’s felt since they crossed the town line. The unfamiliarity of security enough to set off alarm bells in his head. But every time he tries to unravel it, to find the thread of unease and bring it out into the light, to hold it tight so it keeps his eyes flicking to the exits and his skin buzzing with the static that sends him running, it slips through his fingers. Like trying to remember the specifics of a dream or one of those optical illusions. He can’t feel it if he looks too close.

They could settle here, he finds himself coming back to, over and over. They could settle here, be safe here, be happy here.

Under his skin, in his bones, he feels something like coming home. He doesn’t know how to trust it, doesn’t know if he can, doesn’t know why he shouldn’t, but it’s there, all the same. It’s there and it soothes him even if he doesn’t know if he wants it to.

[␛] [␛] [␛]

It’s Tommy who wants to explore the main stretch of town again and it’s Tubbo who drives the final nail into the coffin when he backs Tommy. Wilbur feels, inexplicably, like a cornered animal, but it’s harmless, really, so they go.

Against every instinct Wilbur has, they go. The sight of the town draws the tension out of his shoulders like poison from a wound. It feels safe, familiar, and Wilbur cannot understand it.

[␛] [␛] [␛]

“Hello again,” says the boy with the traffic light eyes. He’s smiling brightly, waving like he’s known them for years. There are no books in his arms this time, instead there are flowers, bouquets of them, wild things, wrapped in butcher’s paper.

He’s just as odd, Tubbo decides, as he seemed yesterday in the bookstore. His hair is split dyed, black and white, and he’s wearing a rumpled white button down, sleeves rolled up past his elbows and half tucked into black dress pants that are cuffed a few times at the ankles. It’s a formal outfit, but it comes across almost casual on the boy. He avoids eye contact, but Tubbo’s known other kids to do the same, so he doesn’t try to force it.

“Hello,” he says back and the boy, Ranboo, grins.

“Hi! You’re new in town, right? If you and your brothers want, I could show you around. There’s not much to see, but y’know,” he shrugs with one shoulder.

“Thanks, but we’re, uh, just passing through.”

Ranboo smiles, almost amused, like he doesn’t really believe him. “Oh, okay. Offer still stands, though.” And then he tugs a single yellow flower, a daffodil, from one of the arrangements and holds it out. “A welcome gift,” he says in answer to Tubbo’s bemused look. “Or, well, a ‘just passing through’ gift, I guess.”

[␛] [␛] [␛]

Wilbur ends up outside the bookstore again. Something pulls, something calls, tries to draw him in. A siren song, luring a lonely sailor to shore.

He almost steps inside, almost lets himself get lost in the shelves and trees, but he doesn’t. He turns away, forces his feet to move, and nearly collides with a blue-eyed man.

“Oh, shit, sorry-” Wilbur starts, but the man just laughs, placing a hand on Wilbur’s arm to stop him from backing up into the street.

“No worries, mate,” he says, bright and warm and friendly. “Were you coming into the shop? You look like you could use a cup of tea.” And just like breathing, Wilbur finds himself trusting Phil, letting himself be ushered inside.

[␛] [␛] [␛]

“Hey, so my brother came in here a few minutes ago,” Tommy starts, but then he cuts himself off when he looks up. “Your hair is pink.”

The teenager, the one with long pink hair tied up in a messy bun behind the desk, looks up from what appears to be a very old book. “It is,” he says and his voice is deeper than Tommy expected it to be. “And you’re Tommy.”

Tommy blinks because when- but then he rests his elbows on the counter, and leans over to read the title of the book, trying to make it out. “Why?” he asks.

The boy squints. “Why what? Why is it pink?”

“Yeah,” he says, nodding, reaching to grab another book behind the counter. He hadn’t… Had he told him his name? He- He must have.

“Because I like it that way. Why are you being annoying?”

He must have, he decides. “I’m not being annoying! You’re annoying!” He scoffs and drops the book in his hands onto the counter. “What the fuck is this- these aren’t letters.”

The boy rolls his eyes. “It’s Greek.”

“Greek,” Tommy says.

“Ancient Greek.”

“What the fuck?”

He shrugs. “My name’s Techno. Your brother went upstairs with Phil.”

“Who’s Phil?”

“My dad.” Techno stands up, pushes his glasses up on his nose, and then comes around the counter. He stops at the base of the narrow staircase and raises an eyebrow at Tommy. “You coming?”

[␛] [␛] [␛]

“Wait, Tubbo!” Ranboo calls, and the boy stops, surprised, and turns to face him. “I think your brothers are in the bookstore? If you wanna walk over together?”

Chapter Text

“How do you know my name?”

There’s a visible shift in Ranboo’s expression, a stark flip from open-innocent-friendly to something Tubbo can’t quite place. It makes his heart beat faster, waking something deep in his brain that screams at him to runrunrun.

But he can’t run, not if his brothers are in that bookstore, so he swallows the fear rising up the back of his throat and he shakes the freeze from his limbs.

When Ranboo’s face flickers back and his easy smile returns, Tubbo doesn’t relax, but he doesn’t feel like a rabbit staring down a wolf. “Sorry,” Ranboo says, huffing an awkward laugh that Tubbo doesn’t believe is anything but scripted. “I guess Tommy mentioned it earlier. Or Wilbur, maybe? My memory is pretty spotty after an accident I was in as a kid.”

Tubbo smiles a little too tightly to be real. “Seems like you do okay with names at least,” he says, a challenge that Ranboo clearly recognizes if Tubbo is reading the sharpness in his eyes correctly.

“Yeah,” Ranboo answers easily, sidestepping and meeting him without a single waver of the awkwardness he presents. “Brains are weird y’know? I’ve read a lot about it—selective amnesia and head trauma. It’s hard to tell what will be affected. Names are fine, so are facts, but I have to keep daily journal entries on what I did and who I talked to.” He shrugs, still smiling faintly. “I keep them in the shop,” he says, tilting his head in the direction of the creepy little bookstore, “if you want to see them.”

It isn’t as subtle as Ranboo seems to think, but Tubbo needs to get to Tommy and Wilbur, so he pretends not to see the way he’s being herded and nods. “Sure,” he says, smiling something sharp to match Ranboo. “Lead the way.”

[␛] [␛] [␛]

Phil is nice, Tommy thinks as he sips politely at the strawberry tea he dropped a grand total of five sugar cubes into (much to Wilbur’s snooty annoyance). He was tempted to double it, but he doesn’t want to be rude and ten sugar cubes might be too many even if he would argue “too many” was impossible, Wilbur, you’re just a bitch-

But Wilbur chose to keep quiet about Tommy’s sugar cubes, so he didn’t have to add ten and drink it to prove him wrong, which would have probably been unpleasant since five made the cup a little too syrupy in the first place.

It’s strange, being asked to sit down at someone’s nice kitchen table and drink from their nice china teacups with little blue flowers painted on them. It’s strange for someone—especially an adult someone to be so nice, but Phil is. Phil is so nice and he only waved away Tommy’s quietly voiced concern about breaking something so delicate and pretty, saying Ranboo broke things all the time and it was no concern, that they were just cups and cups were meant to be used.

Privately, Tommy thought that Phil must be a little stupid. Nobody that Tommy has ever known has just not cared if something got broken. Breaking things meant getting bruises or missing meals. How could he expect to keep things from getting broken if there was no punishment for it? If no one had punished Tommy for breaking things, then- well, he would just- he wouldn’t just break them, he never meant to break things, but he wouldn’t be nearly so careful, probably.

Part of him wants to call bullshit, but he can’t quite believe that Phil would lie. That’s strange, too. Every adult Tommy has ever known has lied, but it doesn’t feel right to include Phil in that. It’s strange, he knows that it is, and he knows that if it were anyone else, he’d be freaked out at just the thought of believing anything like that, but it’s Phil.

It’s Phil and Phil is nice.

And it’s not just Tommy either because Wilbur keeps laughing and talking and he looks like he’s finally breathing for the first time since they ran. Maybe for the first time since the fire. Maybe even before then.

This has to be good, he thinks, if it gets the shadows out of his big brother’s eyes. This has to be good. Tommy wants it to be, hopes.

Part of him wants to split and run at that, at the threat that hoping carries, but he wants to stay even more. Phil is nice and it’s strange that Tommy isn’t afraid of that, but he isn’t and he thinks that maybe it would be okay to just exhale. To just let go of the fighting and the running and cling to the hoping.

(And, yes, Tommy knows the ease in his chest, the trust, none of it starts with him. Yes, he knows that the little bookstore feels heavy on his skin and yes he knows that crows don’t have blue eyes, but Phil is nice and he knows that Phil is paper folded into a bright smile and a dark green cardigan, know that the man is not all that Tommy can see, knows there’s a weight to his shadow that shouldn’t be there. Yes, Tommy knows that it’s strange, but the tea is warm and Phil is nice and Tommy is tired.)

[␛] [␛] [␛]

There is a forest between the looming shelves of a tiny bookstore and there is a crowded kitchen table up the creaky narrow stairs. There is a man who offers him a dainty cup with blue flowers and passes him milk but no sugar like he already knows how Wilbur takes his tea. There is a sense of ease behind Wilbur’s ribs that someone else put there, but blue eyes crinkle at the edges when he smiles and there is nothing of Wilbur’s ghosts in Phil.

It takes him all of ten minutes over tea to decide he isn’t quite human, but it seems like a rude question to ask, so Wilbur doesn’t. Then Tommy appears, loud and bright, and Phil passes him only the sugar and Wilbur watches with fond disdain as Tommy adds five cubes. He hides his laugh behind his cup when Tommy’s nose wrinkles with his first overly sweet sip and then he finds himself sharing a look with Phil like this is something they’ve watched Tommy do for years.

(If he closes his eyes, Wilbur can almost picture it—an entire life growing up between these shelves and at this table. But when Tommy was three, there were no blueberry pancakes, just Wilbur shoplifting bread and peanut butter to feed them both because their father hadn’t been home in weeks. And Wilbur had missed Tommy’s twelfth birthday and there were never music recitals or talent shows or soft words of comfort when they were sick. If he closes his eyes, though, Wilbur can almost remember it.)

“Tubbo’s not gonna like this,” Tommy says and Wilbur sighs, dropping his head onto to his arms where they’re crossed on the table.

Phil laughs. “Ranboo’s bringing him over now. I thought he might be more stubborn than the two of you. Any tips?”

Tommy raises his eyebrows. “On winning him over?” When Phil nods, Tommy opens his mouth and then shuts it before looking at Wilbur for help.

“He likes honey in his tea,” Wilbur offers and Tommy scoffs.

“It’s gonna take more than tea to woo Tubbo.”

Techno hums. “How did you manage it then?”

“I didn’t,” Tommy says at the same time Phil says, “He didn’t.”

There’s a beat of silence and Tommy blinks at Phil before laughing. “Definitely don’t do any of that creepy shit,” he scolds, teasing, and Phil rubs at the back of his neck sheepishly. “Tubbo has to choose you. If he thinks you’re forcing something, he’ll bolt and we’ll go with him.”

“Would he stay if you did?” Techno asks, and Tommy only tilts his head for a second to consider it.

“No,” Wilbur says at the same time Tommy says, “Yes.”

“Yes,” Tommy insists.

“No,” Wilbur repeats, “he would run, figure out some way to fight you, and then come back.” He looks at Tommy for confirmation and gets a laugh and a nod.

“He’d probably come back with fucking nukes,” Tommy says, something soft and proud turning his words golden.

[␛] [␛] [␛]

“Phil said you would be stubborn,” Ranboo says, turning to look over his shoulder at Tubbo, hand on the door to the shop, but making no move to let either of them inside. “Why?”

Tubbo’s face twists into incredulity. “What do you mean why? Because I never told you my name and because we never turned around after driving through here. Because those are my brothers and even if they’re stupid enough to fall for the gingerbread house, I’m not gonna let them get eaten.”

Ranboo scrunches up his nose. “Phil doesn’t eat children. And he’s not a witch.”

“I don’t care what he is,” Tubbo snaps. “I’m not letting him take them. Tommy and Wilbur are mine.”

“He’s not trying to take them, Tubbo. He just offered them a home.”

“We have a home.”

“You have a car with a mattress shoved in the back,” he counters drily. “That’s not a home.”

“It’s my home.”

“Is it theirs?”

“What?”

“Is it their home? Or just yours? Are they happy there?”

“Yes,” Tubbo says and it tastes like ash because maybe that’s a lie. “They are. We are.”

But Wilbur hasn’t stopped looking over his shoulder since they left and they can’t afford food and gas forever and they- they’re happy, but they aren’t happy.

“Let’s go inside,” Ranboo says. “They’re waiting.”