Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Tommy wakes up to yelling from downstairs. 

He can make out the voices of his two brothers, arguing about some meaningless topic. He immediately clamps his hands over his gray ears in a desperate attempt to block out at least some of the noise, but he still manages to hear the angry voices through his weak defense.

After at least five minutes of just laying there trying to ward off a sensory overload, Tommy finally manages to get himself out of bed. The yelling hasn’t stopped, but he’s able to somewhat block it out. Enough to get dressed and do his morning routine, at least.

He silently steps down the stairs, striped tail swishing apprehensively behind him. His parents are nowhere to be seen, likely at work, and his brothers are eating breakfast at the table. There’s no plate set out for him, and no more food left in any of the pans on the stove. 

It doesn’t surprise him anymore. He’s known for years that his parents like his brothers more. Ever since he sprouted raccoon features when he was ten, (something neither his brothers or parents had) they stopped caring whether he was fed or not. He’s thirteen now, and he’s convinced himself it doesn’t hurt anymore.

Neither of his brothers even spare him a glance as he walks past the kitchen and out the front door. The walk to his school isn’t too long, thank god, so he arrives in just under ten minutes. He sits at one of the empty benches in the front yard, digs out the last hidden granola bar from his bag, and slowly eats his ‘breakfast’. None of the other students bother him, so he gets a nice moment of quiet after his loud morning.

As the day progresses, it gets worse and worse.

He knows he completely failed a math test he took, even without it being graded yet. His mind just kept picking up every little sound and movement from around the room, which made it almost impossible to remember any of the formulas he had studied the night before. 

Then, his English teacher assigned an essay that’s worth half of his grade. Twenty pages of in depth research, due in a week’s time. It’s doable, sure, but incredibly difficult on top of the work for all of his other classes.

(Tommy never wanted to take all of the hardest classes at the same time. He had practically no other talents, so getting the highest grades was the only way to get his parents’ attention. Soon enough, they started to only expect straight A+’s, and would punish him when a grade dropped even slightly.)

Lunch is his favorite time of the day. He usually wanders around campus instead of eating, because the constant noise of the cafeteria grates on his ears horribly. It’s nice to just slowly meander down hallways with no clear destination, to admire the decorations on each classroom door with no rush.

He’s slowly walking beside the lockers in the science building when he hears a door open from the other end of the hallway. An ear swivels towards the noise on instinct, and he easily identifies it as the exit door. Three pairs of footsteps filter into the building, along with three familiar (but not friendly) voices.

Immediately, Tommy is on high alert, ready to bolt at the first opportunity. He starts to identify possible escape routes, though he knows it’s futile. The only door that leads outside is the one the boys just entered from, and even if he did somehow slip past them, they’d just chase after him into the courtyard.

In the time he takes trying to figure out ways to escape, the footsteps had walked all the way down the hall and stopped just behind him. Suddenly, a hand is on his shoulder, grip tight, and he’s forcefully turned around. 

When people describe stress responses, they usually mention Fight or Flight. They say that the body only has two responses to danger, self defense or escape. The third stress response, Freeze, is lost in the tides. It is perhaps the most common response, yet it is constantly forgotten.

Tommy is familiar with Freeze. He almost regards it as an old friend, somehow. Upon being turned to face the bullies, his body does what it knows best, it freezes. His ears lay flat on his head, his tail puffs up defensively behind him, but he stays completely still.

The head bully laughs at him, “Aw, Thomas, no need to be so afraid. We’re your pals, aren’t we?” The blond stays completely silent, so the boy continues, “Of course we’re mates! We have fun all the time!” and the words would be innocent if they weren’t delivered with a sneer and an ugly grin that only promised pain. 

Before Tommy can even begin to formulate a response, a fist connects with his cheek. It’s not exactly unexpected, but the impact still makes his head snap to the side. The punch to his stomach is also expected, and he doubles over from the blow. He does his best to brace himself for the push or kick from the last boy, but nothing comes. When he cautiously glances up, he only finds two wicked grins staring down at him. But there were usually three of them, and he heard three pairs of footsteps earlier, so where’s the last one-

A hand grabs his hoodie from behind and yanks.

He takes a few stumbling steps backwards, but he’s given no time to regain his balance as he’s pushed towards the lockers. Instead of hitting the flat locker door, he falls into the dark, open locker. The last thing he sees before the door slams shut is three identical smug smiles staring down at him. That’s where the last one went, he thinks idly, as the door is locked from the outside.

The locker is so much smaller on the inside than it seems. It’s one of those tall ones, but barely a foot wide. His neck is bent at an unnatural angle, and his arms are bunched awkwardly in front of him. His backpack digs into his back uncomfortably, but he can’t move enough to reach into it or even take it off.

The walls press in on all sides, and it feels like his air supply is being cut off. He can usually see really well in the dark, enjoys it even, but the panic creeping up his throat just registers it as eerie. The little openings on the door provide barely any light, so he’s just standing in a too small pitch-black box.

He tries to wiggle into a different position for all of three minutes, but he gives up when the walls start to feel smaller. The air feels too thin, and he can’t breathe. Oh god, he can’t breathe. The only sound he’s able to get out is a high pitched whimper, which does absolutely nothing. There’s nobody in the hallway, and all of the classrooms are built to be soundproof. 

He’s alone.

He’s stuck in a small locker and he’s alone.

The tears that start falling from his eyes come as a surprise. He hasn’t cried in two years, when he realized that nobody would come to his rescue. There’s no point in crying if no one will listen, if no one will help.

He has to forcefully bite back the sob that rises in his throat. While he wants to be let out as soon as possible, he’s not willing to let another student find him. He would be bullied for the rest of his life, called stupid for somehow locking himself in a locker, and mocked for crying over something so small.

When lunch is over, and students start to flood the halls, he holds his breath. He doesn’t let a single sound escape his mouth, even though it would be lost within the roaring of students in the building. He stays completely silent until the bell rings, signalling the end of passing period.

The hallway is less silent now. He can faintly hear a couple teachers in the classrooms closest to him, but he can’t make out what they’re saying. Every ten minutes a kid will briefly leave a classroom to go to the bathroom, and every time he’ll hold his breath and stand completely still.

He wants to take a nap, hopefully wake up from this horrible nightmare, but every time he feels even remotely close to falling asleep, a small voice in the back of his head reminds him that he could run out of oxygen and die in his sleep.

The fear keeps him awake through the entire day. He listens to classes being taught, students moving from class to class, and then all of them leaving. Students filter out of the building with excited cheers, and teachers follow not long after. 

He’s completely alone this time, so he finally lets out the sob he’s been holding in for hours. The one sob is followed by dozens more, the cries tearing out of his throat painfully. Tears start to fall down his cheeks again, but he can’t move his arms enough to wipe them away.

It feels humiliating, standing scrunched up in a locker, cheeks stained with tears, shaky sobs spilling rapidly from his lips. It’s embarrassing, sure, but so, so cathartic. The tears and pain he’s been holding in for two long years, finally cried out.

He must stand there crying for at least an hour, but he finds he doesn’t care. He’s still breathing heavily, and he still hiccups every other minute, but no more tears are falling from his eyes. The sniffles slowly taper off, and his breathing evens out to an almost normal degree.

Just as he’s fully calmed down, he hears the exit door push open. A person enters, pushing a cart. The cleaning cart, most likely. That must be the janitor, so school probably ended hours ago. He starts to hold his breath again, but he realizes that the janitor must have a key to the lockers, right?

He starts to knock on the door, and calls out a small, “Hello?”

The footsteps pause. Then a voice says, “Is someone here?”

“Yes!” Tommy gasps, “Please help me, I’m stuck!” 

The footsteps make their way closer to him, and he can’t help the whimper that tumbles past his lips. The janitor stops right in front of him, and Tommy hears the fumbling of keys before the door starts to open.

Light floods his vision, and he falls out of the locker and onto the floor. He greedily gulps in the fresh air, and relishes in the open space around him. The janitor hovers by his side for a second, then starts to help him up. He clings to their side as he stands with all the grace of a newborn giraffe, lips pressed firmly shut to avoid making any pitiful sounds.

When he’s finally able to stand by himself on his unsteady legs, he stutters a thanks, and takes off running to the exit. He bursts out into the night air and keeps up his sprint the entire way to his house.

He enters the house through the backdoor, which is thankfully unlocked, but he stops when he sees both of his parents sitting at the dining table, waiting for him. Oh, fuck.

“Ah, Thomas, lovely of you to finally join us,” his father looks him up and down, “Crying and injured, I see.”

“I- I have homework, I’ll be upstairs-” He’s cut off by his father harshly grabbing his arm, and shoving him into one of the seats.

“Sit,” the man spits, “We’re going to have a serious talk about your behavior today.”

“First,” his mother starts, “You got an F on your math test. It dropped your grade an entire letter. Then, as if that wasn’t enough, we get a call from the school, saying you completely missed your last two periods. And now you have the nerve to return home late, sneaking in the backdoor. What do you have to say for yourself?”

“I’m sorry. I’m really sorry. It won’t happen again, I swear.” he pleads, knowing that trying to explain himself or make excuses would just anger them further. His best bet is to apologize and hope for the best.

Tommy goes to continue his apologies, but a single glare from his father makes his mouth snap shut. The man says, “We do so much for you. We house you, feed you, and put up with your- your rodent tendencies, and this is what we get in return? You’re such a disappointment, why couldn’t you have been more like your brothers?”

The blond doesn’t say anything, knowing that trying to argue is useless. His mother shakes her head, “Go to your room. You’re grounded for the foreseeable future, and you don’t get dinner for five days. I’m incredibly disappointed, Thomas.”

The boy wilts. No dinner? For five days? He doesn’t have any stocked up snacks, and he’s already hungry as it is. He gets up from the table, tail hanging lowly behind him, and trudges up the stairs to his room.

When Tommy gets to his room, he collapses into his bed. He can already feel his stomach rumbling despairingly, but fatigue weighs his limbs down. He doesn’t bother changing into pyjamas, instead just falling asleep on top of his covers in his school clothes.

His sleep is far from restful, and he wakes up to hunger pains stabbing his abdomen. His bedside clock reads just past midnight, meaning he’s been asleep for about five hours.

He curls tighter into a ball when another cramp makes his mind blank for a good couple seconds. When he recovers, his dizzy mind comes to the conclusion that he’s dying. His stomach feels like it’s eating itself, he can’t think straight, and the bruise on his face aches harshly.

He hastily leaves his room and starts down the stairs, ready to grab something from the kitchen to ease his hunger. He’s completely forgotten what his parents have said, only focused on grabbing something to eat as soon as possible.

Throwing open the pantry door, Tommy begins to grab granola bar after granola bar, stuffing as many as he can in his pockets. He even opens one and starts eating it right there, not caring for the noise or mess he’s making.

“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?”

Tommy completely freezes. Oh so slowly, he turns towards the voice, and sees his father towering over him with a terrifyingly pissed face. He cowers, hunger forgotten and appetite soured. 

“Stealing food now, are we? Really living up to your pest nature.” His voice is deceptively calm, but Tommy can see the poorly concealed rage behind his eyes.

“I- I was just gonna take one! It’s not dinner, It’s just a granola bar, It’s all I was gonna take!”

“A liar, too,” his father tuts, and grabs Tommy by the chin, yanking him forward. “You have five minutes to pack your shit and get out of here. You’re not my son anymore, you haven’t been since you turned into an animal. You’d do better living on the streets or in the forest, you don’t deserve to live in this civilized household anymore. Get out.”

What?

Tommy feels all the oxygen leave his lungs, as his father pushes him back towards the stairs. He stares at the man for a couple seconds longer, before scrambling up to his room.

He dumps all of his school supplies out of his backpack, heart beating out of his chest. He packs the granola bars he grabbed, his warmest jacket, a couple changes of clothes, and his toiletries into the bag. 

He frantically checks his room once, twice, thrice, to make sure he didn’t miss anything. The last thing he grabs is the stack of emeralds he had saved as a backup, just in case he ever got kicked out. It had been just in case. It was never supposed to happen. It was one of those thoughts that seemed so crazy, so far fetched, that you would never expect it. Except here he is, bag full of clothes, emergency money in hand, with the seconds counting down.

He doesn’t want to see what happens when the time runs out, so he slips on his shoes and bolts out the front door with at least a minute to spare.

He takes one last glance back at the house, (Not home. Never home.) before walking towards the outskirts of town. The houses are thinner here, with more open space in between. It’s easier to slip into the woods here, so he runs towards the greenery.

The forest is dark at night, obviously. Monsters love the darkness that forests provide. They can be found there even during the day, hiding from the sun under the cover of the trees. Every single one flocks to forests at night, meaning Tommy could very well be running straight to his death.

It would be better than the streets, though. Alleyways are small, he would have to forage for food in the dirty trash, and he would have to interact with people. He would rather die in the forest than live on the streets.

He walks through the forest for at least an hour, ignoring the groaning of zombies and the rattling of skeletons, and he finds a particularly tall tree with thick foliage. He glances from side to side, and upon finding no mobs, he digs his claws into the trunk and climbs.

When he’s a good distance into the leaves, he feels hidden enough to hang up his bag and sleep. As he’s searching for a branch to lay down on, he finds that it’s much harder than it looks to sleep in a tree.

Eventually, he lays down on a decently sturdy branch, and lets sleep claim him.

Chapter Text

Turns out, sleeping in a tree is really fucking uncomfortable.

Tommy wakes up to sunlight streaming through the leaves above him. He blearily covers his eyes with an arm, and groans at the achiness he feels pulse throughout his entire body. There’s a crick in his neck, and he winces as he slowly sits up on the branch.

His sleep was hardly restful, yet somehow it was the best he’s had in a while. He was able to wake up on his own, he didn’t have to deal with his brothers or parents arguing, and the natural sounds of the forest made his instincts buzz happily in the back of his mind. When he’s fully awake, he grabs his bag from where it’s hanging on a nearby branch, and easily makes his way down to solid ground. 

He picks a random direction (but not in the direction of his old town) and starts walking further into the forest. The grass crunches slightly under his ratty sneakers, and the wind gently blows through his hair. It’s surprisingly peaceful, considering the reason he’s even out in the wilderness.

Tommy spots a hill in the distance, with a small cave nestled at the very bottom. The cave isn’t that deep, the inside just a little bigger than his old room. It looks like the perfect den, his instincts whisper, forcing a pleased trill to sound from the back of his throat.

He puts a torch inside the cave, just to make completely sure no mobs spawn inside. He then sets up a cobblestone wall on the outside, with a small opening that only he can fit through. After completely blocking it off, he takes a step back to admire his new home. It looks slightly plain, so he grabs various vines, leaves, and flowers to decorate the outside wall.

On the inside, he spreads his jacket on the floor as a makeshift bed, and sets his bag down as a makeshift pillow. There’s a small pit at the very back, so Tommy carefully sets his last few granola bars in it. The snacks will only last him a day at most, so he needs to find an alternate source of food soon. Although, he saw a few sweetberry bushes on his walk, so that’s a good starting place for a food source.

By the time the den is finished, the sun is already going down. Tommy isn’t very tired yet, so he thinks about going out to actually look for some of the berries he saw, but he knows he’s safer inside. The mobs will start coming out very soon, and he would rather not get blown up, shot, or eaten on only his second night in the forest.

In the new den, Tommy falls asleep easier than he had the night before, and wakes up feeling surprisingly well-rested. He throws on his sneakers first thing, and leaves his cave to look for food. He finds some berry bushes, and picks almost every fruit he sees from the shrub.

As he’s walking, he munches on a couple of the berries. They don’t do much for his hunger, but the sweet flavor warms his chest slightly. It’s been a while since he’s actually had anything considered sugary.

Maybe fifteen minutes away from his burrow, Tommy’s ears perk up as he hears running water in the distance. He takes off in a sprint towards the sound, and chitters triumphantly as he comes upon a small river. It’s clear enough that he can see the salmon swimming though it, so he drops to the ground at the riverbank, and starts to drink the water from his cupped hands. It doesn’t taste bad, so he figures it must be safe. 

He doesn’t have a bucket or a bottle to collect the water in, so he just drinks as much as he can, and commits the location to memory. He’s sad to leave, but he needs to find more berries if he wants to survive.

As he walks farther, the lack of bushes with the red fruit makes him start to panic. He’s only found enough berries to last him a day at most, and the plants will take a while to grow back. He starts walking back to his den in despair, awful thoughts of starving to death already filling his mind.

Just as he’s accepting his approaching death, he almost walks right into a tree. In a fit of rage, he kicks the offending trunk, causing the leaves to shake and drop to the floor. Among the falling greenery, something hard hits his head and makes a comical thump. He plucks the object up from the floor, and- holy shit, it’s a nut?

It’s about the size of his palm, and an ugly beige color. He looks back up at the tree, and finds about a hundred more. Excitedly, he scales the tree and stuffs as many nuts as he can in his bag, right next to the berries. With the amount in his bag and still in the tree, he should be good to survive for at least a couple months. And in that time he could probably learn to fish or hunt, so he won’t have to rely on a stupid tree to live.

Tommy returns to his burrow in high spirits, and dumps his findings in the food pit. He knows he can’t eat the shell of the nuts, so he finds a medium sized rock and begins to crack them open. They turn out to be walnuts, and he knows these specific nuts are definitely edible. He sets aside a small pile of walnuts and berries as dinner, and happily eats his meal.

The next few days happen largely the same. He leaves the den to find nuts and berries, he visits the river, and he returns just before sunset. He sees birds, rabbits, and the occasional deer, but never any people. That is, not until a week into his stay.

That morning, Tommy wakes up to voices. He can make out two male voices coming from outside of his den, but he can’t make out what they’re saying. The wall he built is blocking out their voices, paired with the fact that they seem to be whispering.

He’s immediately on the defensive. Did CPS come to find him? To send him back to his old house? To put him in the system? Maybe if he hisses, they’ll think he’s just a wild animal. 

(He ignores the mean voice in the back of his head that points out he practically is a wild animal.)

A couple pieces of stone fall from his wall, and he does actually hiss. The sound verges on a snarl, and whoever is prodding at the cobblestone stops. Tommy assumes that his plan worked, and he’s about to celebrate his victory when a voice calls out.

“Hello?”

The boy scrambles back in shock. There’s actually a person out there. And they’re trying to talk to him. 

“Look, I don’t know if you can even understand me but we’re not gonna hurt you.” the same voice calls, and Tommy has to stop himself from audibly scoffing. Like he’s gonna believe that.

A second voice starts talking, much quieter than the first. “Wilbur, it’s probably just an animal. Don’t waste our time with it.”

“Just trust me, Techno!” the first voice, Wilbur, replies. “There was something human about that hiss, I know it.”

“Whatever. Don’t come cryin’ to me when you get bit.” The second voice, now identified as Techno, huffs.

Tommy assumes that the man will try to talk to him again, but instead of words, the stranger coos lowly in his direction. Before he can stop himself, he chitters confusedly in response. The other chuffs, still low in pitch but weirdly comforting. He doesn’t respond, so the man coos again. The sound makes tears rise in his eyes, and he sniffles pathetically while wiping them away. 

Unbidden, a high pitched whimper tears from his throat. The man on the other side of the wall gently asks, “Are you okay?”

“Fuck off!” he barks, but his voice is watery and breaks on the last word.

“I want to help. Honest,” Wilbur pauses. “If you’re lost then we can help you find your way home.”

“This is my home. Go ‘way,” Tommy growls, but the noise doesn’t come out quite as intimidating as he intended.

“..You live here?” Techno asks, suddenly jumping back into the conversation. “How old are you?”

Tommy quietly whimpers. There’s something protective in both of their voices, and it makes him long for human contact. “I’m thirteen.”

Both of them huff surprised breaths. Wilbur speaks up, voice even gentler, “Are you hungry? If you come out, you can come home with us.”

The blond sniffles harshly, another whimper already building in his throat, but he refuses to let it slip out. “..Can I have a hug?”

Tommy holds his breath, already anticipating the refusal, but all he gets in response is a warm chuckle, and, “Sure, bud.”

As fast as he can, he stuffs all of his belongings into his backpack, slings it on his shoulder, and squeezes through the small doorway. He sees two men, one a brunet and the other a pinkette, both piglin hybrids. The brunet one has his arms spread, so Tommy wastes no time in flinging himself into the hug.

Steady arms wrap around him, and Wilbur’s hand gently runs through his hair. He whimpers again, but Techno grunts softly from beside him and pats his back comfortingly. Tommy buries his head further into the other hybrid’s chest, and lets his tail wrap around the man’s leg.

The human contact is so nice. It makes him feel warm in a way blankets and jackets never could, and he feels safer in this stranger’s arms than he’s ever felt in his entire life. He trembles out a wobbly purr, and relishes in the twin coos he receives in return.

Wilbur pulls away slightly, but Tommy refuses to let go of his arm. He clings to the man’s sleeve childishly, but he’s not willing to give up the warmth of another person yet. 

“You can hold my hand, kid,” the brunet laughs, and Tommy scrambles to grab onto said appendage. Wilbur gives him a surprisingly soft look, and says, “Let’s get you home.”

Home, apparently, is a small cottage on the complete other end of the forest. It looks horribly domestic, and just the sight of it makes him grip onto the older hybrid’s hand tighter. Wilbur gives his hand a comforting squeeze, and pulls the boy closer and closer to the house.

Techno steps ahead of the two, opens the front door, and calls out a greeting into the building. Tommy’s eyes widen as he faintly hears a voice call back. He takes a small step away, hiding even further behind Wilbur.

The brunet coos again, and twirls his thin tail around Tommy’s own puffed up tail. “Phil’s our dad,” he explains softly. “He won’t hurt you either.”

The two walk into the house together, the youngest still hiding in the older’s sweater. When he takes a peek, he sees a blond man with huge gray wings sitting on the couch. The winged man, Phil, sends him a small smile and a wave, and Tommy hesitantly steps out from behind Wilbur.

Phil looks nice enough, and the ridiculous striped bucket hat he’s wearing makes it hard to be intimidated or scared of him. Tommy kind of wants to touch his wings just to see if the feathers are as soft as they look.

“Hey mate,” Phil greets warmly. The man smiles, and Tommy swears that a piece of the sun itself must be sitting in front of him. His smile is so bright that the boy almost moves to shield his eyes. “I’m Phil, the twins are Wilbur and Techno. What’s your name?”

“I’m Tommy,” he squeaks. “Um, can I-” a pause, “Can I touch your wings? They look really soft, and- actually nevermind, that was a weird question, I can leave now-” 

He’s cut off by Phil shifting his wings out of their resting position and outstretching one towards him. He finally lets go of Wilbur’s hand, and approaches the man’s wing. Gently, he runs a hand over the feathers, and gasps at how silky they feel under the pink pads on his palm. However, he’s quick to pull his hand back when the owner of the wing chirps quietly under his breath. 

There’s about a dozen apologies on the tip of his tongue, but Techno ruffles his hair and rumbles, “That was a good chirp, kit.” Tommy perks back up, tail wagging slightly as Phil sends another fond smile in his direction.

“Come on, Tommy. Let’s get you something to eat, then you can take a shower,” Phil stands, and waves the boy over with the same bright smile. Tommy complies without complaint, happily bounding over to the man’s side. The older blond glances back towards the twins and asks, “Could you two get the guest room set up? Lunch will be ready soon.”

The piglin hybrids nod very seriously, and race each other up the rickety set of stairs in the corner of the room. Phil watches them go with a fond shake of his head, and leads Tommy into the kitchen. 

The man actually makes Tommy a fresh cooked meal. The boy watches in awe as Phil takes a cooked chicken breast out of the oven while humming quietly, cuts it into a couple portions, and sets one down on the plate in front of him. The older blond then places a huge spoonful of mashed potatoes next to it, along with the appropriate utensils for the meal. 

Phil sets out three other plates the exact same way, and sits down at the table as the other two hybrids come speeding into the dining room. Wilbur sends a blinding smile in the eldest’s direction, Techno gives a (seemingly) grateful grunt, and they dig into the food. Phil smiles again (and wow, does he ever stop? Don’t his cheeks hurt from constantly smiling?) while looking at his sons, then also starts eating. 

Tommy glances around the table, at the twins’ friendly bantering, at their dad periodically chiming in with a small joke, and decides that maybe this can be home.

After the first warm meal he thinks he’s had in literal years, Tommy gets to take a shower and wash all of the dirt off. Phil finds him a pair of old clothes to change into instead of his torn up ones, and he’s allowed to use shampoo and conditioner for his hair. He feels extremely clean, and they even let him take a nap in the guest bedroom upstairs.

(He ignores the thought in his head that wants the room to be completely his, not just a guest room.)

Dinner goes about the same as lunch, except Tommy lets himself insert a few quips into the banter. The three actually laugh at his jokes, and include him in their conversations. He offers to help clean up afterwards, but Phil just waves him off with a laugh and a smile.

The twins lead him to the couch in the living room, and Wilbur loudly proclaims that they’re having a movie night. Phil joins them after he puts all of the dishes away, and he flops down on the chair next to the couch.

Wilbur takes the younger’s hand and pulls him towards the cabinet underneath the TV. “What do you wanna watch, Toms?” the older hybrid asks, pulling open the door and gesturing to the wide selection of movies.

Tommy looks over all of his choices, but he hasn’t seen a movie in a long time, so he recognizes none of them. He decides to choose by the cover, and he spots an animated one that looks interesting enough. The art depicts an old man, a boy, a dog, and a house, all in the sky. He grabs it and holds it out to Wilbur, a nervous smile on his face.

The brunet takes it and asks, “You wanna watch Up?” with a fond look, and at Tommy’s nod, he opens the movie case and inserts the disk into the TV. The two go back to their spots on the couch, Wilbur next to Techno and Tommy on Wilbur’s other side.

As the movie starts. and the opening theme plays, Tommy actually finds himself really interested in it. He watches the film intently, and hangs onto every word of it. He sheds a few tears at the saddest parts, laughs at the funny bits, and pays attention to every second.

In his intense focus, Tommy doesn’t notice that he’s slowly curling into Wilbur’s side. Only when the man places his arm around the younger’s shoulder does he finally notice how close they are. Instead of leaning away or moving to another spot entirely, Tommy snuggles into the brunet’s side. Wilbur squeezes his shoulder reassuringly, so the boy turns his focus back to the movie.

The film comes to a close, and the credits start to roll. While the theme song plays again, Tommy finally looks around the room to find everyone asleep. Phil’s head is leaned back on his armchair, chirpy snores coming from his direction every couple of seconds. Techno has peacefully tucked himself into the farthest corner of the couch, glasses placed safely on the coffee table. And Wilbur is holding Tommy, face buried in blond curls. 

Tommy starts to tear up on the spot. This is pack. This is his pack.

A giant smile blooms on the boy’s face. He’s so overwhelmingly happy. Tommy lets a few tears actually slip, but they’re a hundred percent happy tears. He wraps his arms around Wilbur’s torso, buries his face into the man’s sweater, and lets himself fall asleep, a content purr strongly rumbling in his chest.

He’s home.