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20th June, Summer, 20xx.
Tommy felt giddy, excitement pulsing through his veins.
"You're really going to play tag with me, Wilbur!? That's sick! You're always so busy!" The thirteen-year-old smirked, placing his hands on his hips. "Of course, I'm going to dominate! They don't call me Mr. Tommy Sonic Speed for nothing after all!"
"Nobody calls you that!" Technoblade called out from the porch of the beach house they were residing in. The sound of waves crashing together, the hot sun sizzling down on the nouveau riche family. "If they did, I'd be Technoblade Sonic Speed, and that's lameeee!"
Phil was out doing big man shit, at least that's what Tommy was told, and Technoblade was being a wimp. So he was stuck playing tag with Wilbur, which was a good thing because Wilbur was never around anymore. The brunette placed his guitar down and finally walked toward Tommy. "I'm not going to play if you cheat, okay?"
"Mhhh, fine Wilby." Tommy said and immediately gasped afterward, placing his hands over his mouth and turning a bright shade of red. The two oldest children blinked in confusion for a moment before breaking out into pure laughter, pointing fingers at him and shouting about the whole Wilby thing. He was a big man, these two had to shut up!
"Stop mocking me! Shut up! Watch it, one day when I become a big and cool hybrid like you guys with wings or pig ears or whatever I'll punt you!" Tommy demanded.
"Aww, you think we're strong?" Technoblade teased, sipping on the Fire Engine Cocktail in his hand.
"So who's going first?" Tommy inquired, Wilbur, walking toward a tree and covering his eyes.
"Me! And your big brother Wilby is gonna win!" He declared. "One..."
"YO! THAT AIN'T FAIR BITCH, GIVE ME WARNING!" Tommy screeched, sprinting away.
"Two..."
He scanned the area, he could hide on the porch, but Technoblade would surely rat him out.
"Three..."
He moved toward the side of their vacation home, a small opening in the flower patch perfect to snuggle into and bend down in.
"Eight..."
He curled up in on himself, hiding in the bushes and flowers with a grin on his face. Wilbur would never find him here.
"Ten."
"Ready or not, here I come."
20th June, Winter, 20xx.
The cold kitchen tiles made his knees shiver, the only warmth on his body was the pajama shorts he wore. His shirt laid discarded on the side, the buzzing of the refrigerator growing louder and louder and booming through the room. His heart beat faster, pounded quicker like an inexperienced drummer bashing mindlessly at a drumkit. His fingernails ran down his arms, digging into his skin as his fingernails left crescent-shaped marks. His flesh was ripping apart, his muscle and bone being uncovered as his back got bashed in by a force Tommy couldn't understand. It was like spiders were crawling in his shoulder blades, skittering around in the inside of his body. His throat let out a hoarse sob, shaky breath as he felt his throat block up. No breath, no air came into his system, each time he tried to scream and thrash, his body refused to move, and his vocal cords that felt like they were being crushed in refused to let out a sound.
He drew another breath, the skin on his back ripping as his hands traced up to his throat. He dragged his fingers down, red marks left all over the front of his throat. Scratching, he scratched viciously, clawing at himself, eyes burning as tears trickled down his face. The smell of fire and ash wafted through the air, though no fire could be found. His senses begged for there to be smoke, yet no smoke flew through the air of the house. The snow threw itself down harder outside the small apartment, snow bundling up on the grass as heavy fog formed, the wind yanking at the window and trying to pry it open.
The pain soon subsided, stumbling up with shaky knees and wobbly legs and moving to pick his top-up. He felt the warm fabric in his hands, bundling it up close and holding it up to his face. He drowned in the warmth of that shirt, inhaling every sweet scent of his cologne, taking his mind off of the blood dripping down his shoulder blades. The vicious ringing plaguing his head grew softer and softer, more muffled in his mind, and started to resemble small sounds of television static instead of the harsh sounds of a siren. Tommy glanced down and gazed at the floor, small puddles of blood painting the previously spotless tiles. One thing caught his eye though, something that stood out from the rest and one that made him want to gag, the red feather laid flat on the kitchen floor in the puddle. Memories of throwing himself forward through the woods, palm calloused as he propelled himself forward by tree trunks. The crunches his feet would make as he collided with the ground, the grass and leaves breaking under his weight. A kitchen cleaver gripped in his other hand, and the shadow of a flying figure looming over him as he dashed for his life.
He sprinted toward the bathroom, throwing the faucet open and watching the water pour out of the tap. He brought his hands forward, letting the water fold up in his hands before he threw the cold water at his face, a shudder creeping down his entire body. Water dripped down his face, mixing with the salty tears until you couldn't tell them apart. The more he forced water on his face, the more his hair grew damp with little drops hitting his blonde locks. An aggressive rap on the floor downstairs made him choke out a sob once again, he recognized that force from anywhere, that urgency and impatience though it was a simple knock. He slid into the hallway, throwing the door to his bedroom open before hauling the window open. Freezing mist hit his skin, lips trembling as he tucked his hair behind his ears and leaped out the window of the second-floor bedroom. He let out a small grunt as he hit the floor, the thick snow softening his fall though his kneecaps and ankles felt like they were being cut apart. He desperately threw himself forward, panting as he ran, more memories trickling in as the fever dream of childhood returned to him. The fever dream of being only fourteen years old, discovering what his family had done, and barely making it out of that cursed country. Crossing the borders though his head was displayed in both posters and news adverts all across the country, head hung down low and black hood hiding his signature golden hair.
The stinging pain of his back returned, a sudden spike in his spine. He grunted, continuing to persevere, hand gripping onto a branch as he heaved himself up onto a tree and huddled up, close to the trunk and hugging his legs. Silence, the world was completely silent except for the snowstorm drifting across the town. Tommy let out a sigh of relief, the adrenaline pumping in his veins from all that running calming down. The blood adorning his back leaked onto his shirt, leaving a red stain in the white fabric. He then remembered where he was, dressed in pajama shorts and a shirt in the middle of a snowstorm in a tree. He crawled out of the tree he was in, giving himself a few moments to catch his breath. His heart leaped as he felt a big hand meet his shoulder and grip it tight. His eyes widened, pupils shaking as he was pulled, his back colliding with a person's chest as he was held close. The man's arms wrapped around his front, forcing him into a heavy embrace as a familiar voice whispered, mad glee in his tone and hot breath hitting his ear, the scent of cigarettes emanating off the man.
"Wilby's won."
That childhood nickname didn't make him laugh, make him snort as it used to as he punched the man in the shoulder and tell him to lay off the Wilby thing, and how he never said it and was a big man who wasn't soft at all. Instead, it made him shiver, eyes burn even more as the strong arms tightened around his slim figure.
Wilbur had found him.