Archive of Our Own

In the span of one night, Tommy Soot has learned three very important things.

One, grief is not temporary. It might slip out of your grasp like a particularly wiggly fish and disappear downstream for a bit, but eventually it comes round again.

Two, libraries are wonderful, wonderful places. Books and reading are fucking fantastic, and Tommy plans on being a regular now at their local spot (annoying librarians be damned).

Three, cemetaries have shit fucking security systems.

He turns the handle to the bathroom door very, very carefully. It usually squeaks when you pull it open too quickly– which Tommy is wrought to do. But tonight is different. Tonight has been a night of stealth missions and creeping around, so he’s more on edge than normal. In fact, one could say that Tommy is paranoid. He’s especially paranoid about the darkness below the doorway to his eldest brother’s room, staring at it as he tiptoes by and slips into the sanctity of his own bedroom. Once there, it’s easy to shut the door and lock it, toeing off his sneakers for good and letting them thump to the floor beside his jacket and the shovel he’d secretly borrowed from the apartment maintenance man. He flicks off the overhead light to his room and waits for the night lamp to kick on, slipping across the floor before tipping to the side and letting gravity take a hold on him. He flops onto his mattress and shivers as the floor shakes slightly beneath them with his weight. Oops.

"Sorry," he says, glancing over the edge of the bed at the dirty floorboards beneath. His blanket hangs off of one corner, and he doesn't hesitate to snatch it up and pull it to his chest. It's been a long night- there's still dirt under his nails, no matter how hard he'd scrubbed. And his forehead is surely bruised to hell and back after he'd banged it on the windowsill sneaking back into the shitty apartment he called home. He glances up again. "Don't want to wake the neighbors. Damn floors are creaky as shit. Downright rude if you ask me."

Across the tiny bedroom, Wilbur sits shackled to the radiator. He lets out a weird, scratchy grunt. Tommy grunts right back.

"Don't you go makin' too much noise," he instructs. "I've already prolly woken someone tonight, other than you, that is."

Wilbur glares in his direction with milky-white eyes, face mottled blue and brown. Tommy had tried to wash off the dirt, he really had. But decay has already taken a firm grasp on his older brother’s face and body, no matter how much he’d scrubbed at the dark spots. The shell of his former older brother grunts again, this time clearly more irritated than the first.

"I told you," Tommy sighs, flopping back onto his mattress, "that I was sorry about the whole vocal cord thing. How was I to know the shovel would go right through the top of your coffin? Shit coffin, innit? If it couldn't take a shovel?"

Grunt.

"'Sides, you're dead. Not like you can feel it now anyways. And it probably wouldn’t have mattered, what with–”

Grunt. A whistling moan.

"All this hard work on my end and you're gonna complain ? Lay off, pal."

Wilbur opens his mouth and inhales, then exhales a long, shuttering groan. It’s nothing like any of the zombies he’d heard in movies before, or anything at all really. While the book he’d picked up earlier today had been helpful in the beginning processes, Tommy thinks it won’t be particularly helpful now that the ritual is complete. Just to check, though, he snags his backpack with one bare foot and tugs it over by the strap. He pulls out a thick, heavy tome– bright red lettering stares up at him, alongside the cheery face of a housewife. 

“Let’s see,” he says quietly, mostly to himself. Wilbur snorts. “Shut up. How to corral the dead.” He’s dog-eared the pages he required earlier in the night, but skips over them now, flipping page after page. The words seem to melt into each other. It’s not that he can’t read. He’s just bone-dead tired. After a few minutes of aimless flipping of pages and yawning, Tommy decides to give up. This is a morning endeavor, although he can see the sky starting to turn pink through his window and stares. The book ends up on the floor, Tommy’s face crushed against a pillow. Across the way, Wilbur rattles his shackles.

“Stop that,” Tommy slurs, as sleep begins to claim him. “Gotta be… quiet, Wil.” 

At least his brother has the sense to listen, Tommy thinks, drifting off to the musical sound of rotten nails against metal.

Morning comes in a flurry of activity.

It is a Saturday, which means Tommy gets to sleep in and not go to school. Which would be great on any other occasion– barring the one day he wakes up to a dismembered hand on the floor and empty handcuffs still attached to the radiator. 

It takes him a moment to process the sight before him, and then Tommy is throwing off his blanket and skidding across his floor. Somewhere in the distance, a dog is barking. A car alarm is blaring. The sun is up, but not egregiously high in the sky yet, golden rays slick across the floorboards of his room. So around tennish, then. His door is open– he throws himself around the corner, and slams head first into his older brother. 

“Well, good morning to you too,” Technoblade says dryly, fisting a hand in the back of Tommy’s jumper and pulling him backwards. It tugs on his throat, makes him want to cough, but he resists. Technoblade doesn’t seem like he’s seen a ghost. He’s not pale and shit– he seems fine. He’s holding a towel and his hair is down, still in his pajamas. Cartoon pigs stare accusingly at Tommy from their places on Techno’s legs, and the older man pushes his glasses up his nose with one finger. “Where are you going in such a rush?”

“Hungry,” comes Tommy’s immediate response. “Was thinking about cereal. Sugary kind. Wanted it.” 

“You’re so weird,” Techno says with a roll of his eyes, but his fingers stay firmly in Tommy’s sweater as he peers at him. Ducks his head down real low, gets a bit close to Tommy’s face. “And you’ve got eyebags. Are you sure you’re alright? Did you sleep okay last night?”

He’d hardly slept four hours, if he had to guess. “Perfectly fine,” Tommy promises.

“Nightmares?” Techno persists. He’s a stubborn bastard when you get down to it, Tommy knows. He grew up with the guy. “We can always call Puffy again, go back to sessions every other day–”

“Nope!” Tommy rocks on his heels. There is a zombie loose in the house and Techno is pestering him like this? Not to mention, the zombie is made up of the body parts of his recently-deceased other older brother, the very one who put him in that therapy to begin with. The zombie brother that Techno has no idea exists yet, and would probably send him spiraling. Tommy does not want Techno spiraling. “I’m fine, promise. Somebody was, uh, playing music. Below us. Below me, specifically.” 

Techno squints at him like he can tell Tommy’s lying. Which, he probably can. Tommy’s not exactly the best liar out there. But eventually, his grip on the back of Tommy’s jumper relaxes, and he lets out a sigh. One hand comes up to pinch his nose, elbow keeping the towel tucked close to his body. 

“I’m going to shower,” he says. 

“Glad to hear it,” Tommy nods, rocking on his heels slightly. He can see a shadow flickering at the end of the hall. Someone’s moving in the kitchen. “Self care ‘n shit.” 

“Self care ‘n shit indeed,” Techno says with another long-suffering sigh. “I’ve got work late today–”

“Ooookay.”

“–so you’re on your own for dinner. Is that fine? I can leave you a twenty for pizza if you want–” Christ, Techno really is trying. Tommy tries not to think of all the times Wilbur used to order out, how he’d get his pizza– how he’d order half-sardines if he was feeling really bitchy and wanted half of the pie to go to waste. It’d always be funny in hindsight, though. 

“Tech-noblade,” Tommy says, making sure the name jolts in his mouth and doesn’t sit perfectly on his tongue. Techno blinks, lips parted halfway through shaping another sentence full of worry disguised through platitudes and script. “Te-chno. Blade. It’s fine. I can handle myself.”

“I’m just making sure,” Techno says. The kitchen-shadow keeps flickering, and then there’s a slight clattering coming from the kitchen. Both of their heads tilt slightly– Tommy laughs, nervous and jittery. 

“I can!” He promises, tugging himself out of Techno’s grasp and darting around him, weaving a complicated dance of footwork around the hallway as he slams into the walls and bounces off the hardwood. It stings and leaves splinters everywhere he hits, but he has to cover up the noise coming from the kitchen somehow. “Get clean, you filthy bitch!” He crows loudly. Techno sighs, and Tommy pauses on the precipice of the kitchen.

“We’re out of milk,” Techno says after a second of silence between them. Then he shuts the door to the bathroom.

“Fucking shit and piss,” Tommy complains to no one in particular. Or, perhaps to someone, as he whirls around and finds one Wilbur Soot rummaging through the kitchen cabinets sans one hand. “You’re a right cunt, did you know?”

Wilbur groans. Tommy shushes him.

“Techno doesn’t know you’re alive, big man,” he says quietly, hurrying forward and snagging Wilbur’s wrist. It’s cold to the touch– bone sticks out the end of it, flesh torn in places and completely limp in others. It’s disgusting. If Tommy had any less strong of a stomach, he’d probably have thrown up by now. But he’s actually pretty alright with gore and that type of thing, so he just finds himself shoving down the discomfort and staring up at Wilbur’s face. Wilbur looks down at him in turn, lips pulled apart in a perpetual kind of scowl. His teeth are yellowish, and–

“God, your breath stinks,” Tommy complains, raising his free hand to wave at their air between both their faces. “Wilbur fucking Soot, brush your goddamn teeth, at least until they fall out.” 

Wilbur makes a croaking sound, the breath catching in the back of his damaged throat. Tommy had done his best to wrap bandages around it last night, but today they’re coming loose. With each breath, one of the ends of the bandages flutters. 

Tommy would guess that Wilbur is laughing right about now.

“Shut up,” he hisses. “Shh. Like I said, Techno–” As if on cue, the shower starts up, the faint sound of water running filling the kitchen. “–doesn’t know you’re alive. So you can’t just go out here and do whatever you goddamn please, man! You gotta stay in my room. Always. No tearing off your own hand to get out an’ shit.” Tommy gently leads Wilbur back towards the kitchen doorway, making sure that Techno’s in the bathroom before shuffling Wilbur back to his bedroom and shutting the door behind them both. He makes sure to lock it once more, tugging his curtains over the windows while he’s at it. Wilbur stands in the center of his room as he bustles around, watching intently. Tommy stops, leaning down and snags Wilbur’s dismembered hand, turning it once over in his palm.

“This is what we don’t do,” Tommy instructs, marching up to Wilbur and shoving the offending appendage in his face. “We don’t take our body apart, see?” He wiggles his own hand in front of Wilbur’s face. “We keep them here, attached to the rest of us. It’s easy. Now I’ll have to sew it back on you. Dumb bitch.”

Wilbur makes that laughing-wheezing-choking sound again, and Tommy scowls.

“Be glad I kept the first aid kit in my bag after last night,” he says quietly, making sure to keep his voice down as he turns away from Wilbur and rummages with one hand through the open backpack. He pulls out the kit– sitting in the center of his room and gesturing for Wilbur to do the same. It takes a minute, but stiffly, Wilbur sinks to the floor and holds the stump of his arm out when Tommy asks for it. He fumbles with the hand for a second, holding it to the arm and trying to match it up properly. Eventually he just says fuck it and starts to sew– why Techno insisted on keeping a suture kit in the bathroom was beyond Tommy, but he supposes he gets into enough trouble to warrant one. Wilbur sure had. Regardless, it’s coming in handy (no pun intended) now, as Tommy carefully runs even stitches along the length of Wilbur’s wrist and the lower part of his hand and palm. The skin had already been fragile enough for Wilbur to tear it off with minimal force– the stitching isn’t really helping, even as Tommy makes sure to reinforce it. He concentrates carefully, keeping an ear out on the shower as well to make sure Techno’s still occupied as he sews Wilbur’s left hand back onto his body.

“Hm,” Tommy says after a few minutes. Wilbur grunts, and Tommy snips the last stitch into place. Wilbur holds his hand up in the air; it flops over without much fanfare. Clearly trying to do something , Wilbur grunts, staring at his hand through those terrible milky eyes. Tommy watches, fingers twisting in his lap as Wilbur stares and stares and stares, as his fingers don’t even so much as twitch. 

Maybe Tommy needs to get an anatomy book alongside his necromancy one. 

“Boss man,” he says eventually. Wilbur doesn’t respond– he doesn’t even look away from his own hand until Tommy physically reaches up and takes it, pulling it down into his own lap. “Wil. Wilby.” 

That gets his brother’s attention. Wilbur goes quietly still. Tommy’s hit with a wave of something– call it grief, maybe, but perhaps longing is the word to choose in this instance.

“Let me redo your bandages, yeah?” Tommy says after a second. Reattaching Wilbur’s hand has been a failure, but as he wraps Ace bandages around the stitches for safekeeping and gently undoes the messy ones from last night around Wilbur’s neck, he finds himself not minding much. Wilbur’s here, with him, and that’s all that matters. Sound in mind, if not in body. Kind of. 

After another few minutes of wrapping bandages around Wilbur’s neck and wrists and various other decaying body parts, the shower stops running. He quiets down even more, moving around his room less, and holds a finger up to his mouth as footsteps echo outside his room. They pause, and Tommy holds his breath.

Someone knocks. “Tommy?” Techno asks. “Are you in there?”

“Yeah,” he says, a bit breathless. How the fuck would Techno even react if Tommy opened the door right now, to Wilbur sitting in the center of his room? With the bandages wrapped around a good chunk of his body and the rest of his covered up by Wilbur’s old baggy sweaters, he looks… normal. Almost. Like he could be alive by some miracle (he is, but not truly alive). 

“Just checking,” Techno says. His voice is faint, like his head is turned away from the door as he speaks. “I’m going to work.”

“Okay,” Tommy says.

“Do you have plans for the day?” Tommy looks over at Wilbur, who looks back at him, and then tilts his head. Inhales– and Tommy reaches out, slamming a hand over his mouth and shakes his head. No noises , he mouths. Remember .

“I think I’m going to meet Tubbo at the library,” he says out loud. Techno is quiet for a second.

“The library?” He asks, like he can’t really believe it. “For… why?”

“School,” Tommy lies easily. 

“I thought everyone just used Wikipedia these days.”

“We’re doing a project… about.. libraries. So it’s about them. So we wanted to go to one. Physically. In the present.” 

Techno makes a startled kind of laughing noise– Tommy bites his lip. Underneath his hand, Wilbur’s face twists and scowls. Tommy scowls right back. “Okay,” Techno says eventually, once his laughter has subsided. “Have fun at the library with Tubbo, then. Be back before I am, okay?”

“Loud and clear,” Tommy says. “Bye.”

“Bye,” Techno says, and then there are more footsteps heading down the hall, and a door slams.

Tommy heaves out a sigh. Wilbur’s shoulders slump, and he lets out the tiniest of zombie groans.

“You, shut it,” Tommy says, pointing an accusing finger at the man in front of him. “First you get out of fucking containment, now you’re trying to talk to Technoblade– OW! What the fuck! Did you just bite me, you cliche piece of shit?!??”

Libraries are fascinating places to Tommy. Seeing as, in order to not get kicked out of one, a patron must be quiet. Being quiet is not Tommy’s forte, which means that every visit to a library is a challenge in and of itself. 

He’d texted Tubbo as he’d waited to take the bus here, sat in the sticky seats and listening to the tinny voice of khai dreams in his dollar store headphones as a couple made out a few rows ahead of him. Tubbo had said sure, in a bit. Tommy was just a little paranoid about being away from the apartment for so long– he’d left Wilbur with a few of his older books and things, making sure the man was utterly enticed by the scrawling handwriting in his own notebook. Even with Wilbur distracted, he’s worried that something will happen. What if the landlord shows up because of their overdue rent and lets himself in? What if Techno gets laid off, or comes home early? What if Wilbur gets out again, although Tommy’s pretty sure his zombie brother won’t do that again. Tommy had made sure to drill it into his head before he left that Wilbur couldn’t leave the apartment– and he’d locked the deadbolt and the bottom lock as he left, too, so it was a bit of extra security. He’s considering getting a chain lock for the outside of his bedroom door– but that’d be a bit weird to explain to Techno, wouldn’t it?

The library is only about twenty minutes away from Tommy’s apartment, and it’s like a whole other world. He steps off the bus into early summer air, sniffing absently as he tugs out his headphones and shoves them in the smallest pocket of his backpack. He checks his wallet, shoving aside his buscard in order to make sure he still has the library card he’d gotten only just last week before heading inside. He’s hit with a blast of air conditioning as the doors slide open– startled, he blinks, but continues forward. The place is mostly empty even though it’s a Saturday in early spring. Posters line the walls, advertising events, and there’s a shelf of books to his left with a sign that says “FREE!” He stops to poke at them for a second, then continues forward and bypasses the return book slot. He brought the book on the occult with him, but not to return it just yet.

The help desk is his goal– or, it was.

“Uuuuuugh,” Tommy groans, tossing his head back and letting his hair tickle his eyes as he approaches the wooden counter. “Not this bitch again.”

“The sentiment is mutual,” says the worst librarian in the world, peering up at Tommy from where he’s sat reading a shitty romance novel by the looks of it. “But I’d use less vulgar words. Hi, Tommy.”

“Hello, Ran-boo,” Tommy says, shoulders sloping as he plants a hand on the desk and glares down at his newest foe. “I see you’re still on bitch duty. Where all the bitches go. To do bitch things.”

“Please refrain from cursing in the library,” Ranboo says with a grin, all cheeky smiles and faux-pleasantries. Tommy knows it’s a lie. Beneath the thick veneer of boy-next-door and poofy hair, Ranboo is pure evil. He just knows it! “How can I help you today?”

“Books,” Tommy grunts. “Need ‘em.”

“I would sure hope so,” Ranboo says, setting his book down and interlocking his fingers. He leans forward on his elbows, raising a brow. “What kind of books?”

“Doctor shit,” Tommy says, whirling a finger in the air. “You know, the kind where they put people back together again.”

“Gotta be more... specific than that,” Ranboo says. Tommy sighs heavily.

“Anatomy,” he enunciates, sounding out each and every syllable of the word. “Bodies. The human physique, pal.” 

“Ooooh,” Ranboo nods, as if he can see right through Tommy and into the bullshit that lies at his very center. Maybe even perhaps, through that layer too. God, Tommy hates this guy for so many reasons. This is just one of them: his Knowing Looks. “I see. Anatomy books. Well, that’s gonna be in reference, so to the left. Anatomy is a science, so that’s… 500s, I think. Wait.” Ranboo ducks his head to the side, staring at one of the one million sticky notes stuck to everything behind the desk. “Yep, 500s. So the third or fourth aisle is the best bet.”

Reason number two to hate Ranboo: his dumb fucking brain and how helpful it can be.

“Thank you,” Tommy grunts out, because he’s at least going to be polite to his number one enemy. “I will be sure to use the knowledge in that book to it’s fullest extent when I murder you–”

“Tommy! Ranboo!” 

Reason number three to hate Ranboo bounds up beside the both of them, nearly crashing into the help desk before skidding to a stop and dropping his backpack on the floor. “Hi!” Tubbo chirps, staring between the two of them with a grin wider than the English channel. Ranboo has split into a grin of his own at Tubbo’s arrival, and he says nothing about how loud Tubbo is being or how Tubbo climbs over the help desk in order to properly give Ranboo a noogie. 

“Hi Tubbo,” Ranboo says fondly, still with that dumbass smile on his face. Tommy crosses his arms. Reason number three is the worst.

“Hi Tubbo,” he grits out. “My bestest friend in the whole entire world.” 

“Tommy!” Tubbo bares his teeth in that way that he does, all smiles. “I figured I’d pop down right after you texted me, I was already up and Dad’s been gone, so– how’ve you been?”

“You saw me yesterday,” Tommy points out, watching as Tubbo slides back over the top of the help desk and swoops down to pick up his abandoned backpack. He adjusts his own grip on the straps of his own, foot tapping a bit. “Remember. At school.”

“Riiight,” Tubbo says. “School. I hate school. Why are we at a library, even?”

“I work here?” Ranboo offers. 

“Shit occupation,” Tommy says with a nod. Tubbo nods along. 

“He’s right,” he says. Ranboo splutters.

“But– you were just– he was just asking me to help find him a book!” He says, throwing a hand out. “And I’m the one being attacked? Hey!” 

“Tommy was looking for a book?” Tubbo squints at Ranboo, then turns and squints at Tommy. Then promptly bursts into laughter. And hell if that doesn’t sting a bit. Tommy scowls, reaching out with one hand to give Tubbo a whap on the top of his head.

“Fuck off!” He says. “I can do what I want! You can’t even read!” 

“That joke’s older than Philza Minecraft,” Tubbo says keenly, and Tommy just scowls harder at the mention of his neighbor. “And I can read, I just can’t read well. That’s why I get Ranboo to do it for me.” Tubbo leans in conspiratorially. “We’re working on weaning him off the romantic crap.” 

“Good,” Tommy hisses, ignoring Ranboo’s outraged cries behind them both. He turns on his heel, pinning the taller down in a piercing gaze. “You stay here. I am going to go find my book. Tubbo, get us a table.”

Tubbo salutes, and Ranboo snorts. “Let me know if you need any help!” He calls out, but Tommy makes sure to pointedly ignore him as he stalks away and to the right, following Ranboo’s directions from before. It can’t be too hard to find an anatomy book– contrary to popular belief, Tommy is actually quite smart when he wants to be. Ranboo had been talking shit about dew or something earlier, but Tommy simply browses through the aisles as he goes, running his fingers along the plasticy spines of books and pausing for a moment to pull one out. It cracks as it opens, and he runs his fingers over the pages and then sniffs. It’s plasticy still, and definitely not an anatomy book, so back to the shelves it goes. Finally, he finds what he thinks will be helpful– an anatomy textbook, with chapters on skeletal structures and muscle groups and pretty much everything you’d need to know about the human body. 

Any other research Tommy is going to do online. Simply for the sole purpose of not looking weird when he takes this one out today.

He can already hear Tubbo and Ranboo chattering as he heads back through the stacks, ducking around the opposite way and coming around from the left this time. Ranboo’s still at the help desk– Tubbo is now sitting on the counter, swinging his legs as he talks.

“–enson,” he says, flicking his hair out of his face with a twitch of his neck. “It glows in the dark. I think you’d like it, boss man. Kind of your speed. Oh, hey Tommy! Did you find your book?”

In response, Tommy slams the book down on the counter next to him, and then follows it up by slamming down his library card. Ranboo winces each time.

“You know libraries are supposed to be quiet, right?” He asks, taking the card and scanning it with a flash of red and a beep! “Like, to keep things calm?”

“Nothing is ever calm with me, Big Man Tommy around,” Tommy proclaims. “So it can’t be quiet.”

“Be glad no one else but you two are here,” Ranboo says, holding Tommy’s card between two fingers and pointing with it. Tubbo grins, Tommy scowls. “Otherwise I’d have to kick you out.”

“Oh, I’d like to see you try, tall… boy,” Tommy says, watching as Ranboo leans back in his stupid office chair and clicks with the computer mouse. It fills up the spaces between their sentences, the ambiance settling some of Tommy’s nerves. Only for them to light up immediately again when Ranboo speaks next.

“You’ve got a book out right now,” he says. “ Start Your Day With Death: How to Bring Necromancy into Your Day-to-Day Life …?”

Tommy stares. Tubbo pointedly looks down at the human skeleton and muscle figure on the desk between them all.

“Some light reading,” Tommy says. “No connection. Whatsoever.” 

“Well,” Ranboo says lightly, a bit breathless. “Uh. That’s not due for another two weeks, so you’re fine. Just the anatomy book?” 

“Just the anatomy book.”

“Alrighty then.” Ranboo flips open the inside cover and scans it, the beeping coming again. Tommy’s too busy tapping his toes and not freaking out to really notice as he does it, not until Ranboo is handing the book back and he’s able to shove it away into his backpack. “There you go. All set. It’s due in three weeks–”

“Thanks!” Tommy says, much too quickly for his own liking. Wilbur’s probably gotten bored by now of the things Tommy left him with– the twenty minute bus ride home is going to feel like hours at this rate. “Well, that’s all I came for. Gonna head out. Thanks for the help, Ranboob.”

“My name is Ranboo–”

Tubbo pipes up: “Now hold on a minute, you invited me– ”

“Bye!” Tommy’s escape is on foot, with two books in his backpack and library card clutched tightly in his hand. His mind is on Wilbur and the potential disaster waiting for him when he gets back to the apartment– not the two friends he just left behind. He misses the way Tubbo swirls his head around to Ranboo as the doors shut behind him. He misses the look they exchange, completely and utterly baffled.

The bus ride, as predicted, feels like hours. Tommy doesn’t listen to music on the way home, simply filled with anxiety instead– what was he thinking, leaving Wilbur at home like this? It’s like having a toddler, except your toddler is six foot five inches tall, strong, and undead. Tommy berates himself internally– surely by now someone has found out. He’s expecting cop cars lined up around the apartment building at least. 

Thankfully, the streets are empty as he hops off the bus and bolts inside. The elevator is out of order (like it has been for the past eight months) and Tommy doesn’t hesitate, using his shoulder to heave open the door to the stairs and blasting up them, all the way to the fourth floor. He’s panting by the time he gets there, but that’s okay. He takes a second to peer through the criss-crossed glass window in the door to the hallway– it’s empty, which is a good sign. Either they’re lying in wait, or nothing has happened.

Slowly, Tommy pushes open the door to the hall of his home. No swat team bursts out, so he continues. Step by step down the hallway, fingers balled up tightly in his pockets and pressing so deeply into his palms he’s probably drawing blood.

“Tommy?” 

He startles, whirling around. He’d been nearly home– nearly home! God fucking dammit.

Philza Minecraft is staring at him through the crack of his apartment door, blue eyes curious and wary. After a second he opens it a bit further– inside, Tommy can see the beginning hints of the man’s giant fish tank. Phil’s dressed in a green cardigan, glasses shoved up into his hair that’s pulled into a low ponytail. 

“Hello,” Tommy says, pretending like he’s not vibrating with anxiety. “Philza Minecraft. You are so brave, did you know that?”

“You tell me all the time,” Phil says, face morphing a bit into a smile. For all the jokes Tommy makes about him, Phil’s actually great– he’s one of the best people Tommy knows, actually. He would never admit it, but Tommy looks up to him in a way that he doesn’t do often. Phil’s just so nice it’s hard to ignore. “Why’re you sneaking around the halls like you’re in trouble?”

“Oh you know me,” Tommy says, forcing a laugh. It comes out too forced. Fuck. “When am I not in trouble?” 

“Fair point,” Phil says. “Just checking. I’ll tell the cops you were with me.”

That joke hits a bit too close to home, considering Tommy was definitely doing highly illegal shit last night. He laughs anyways. Phil joins him this time, smiling as he leans against the doorframe. 

“Thanks,” Tommy says. “Always know I can count on you, Phil my buddy.” 

“Sure thing, mate,” Phil says. “By the way– heard something in your apartment earlier.” Tommy’s blood turns to slush in his veins, icy cold and frozen. “Like someone knocked over a shelf or a plate? Dunno what it was–”

“Techno got a cat.” The lie slips out so quick and so easily that Tommy thinks he might’ve panicked a bit too much. Phil’s eyes widen and then soften slightly, especially at the mention of Techno.

None of them would ever admit it, but in the decade they’d been living here, Phil had almost become paternal.

“Ah,” he says. “A cat.”

“She’s cool,” Tommy says. “Breaks shit. Like me. We’re kindred souls, me and her.” 

“Well then,” Phil says with a smile. “Tell your cat I say hello. I’ll have to come visit at some point.”

“‘Course,” Tommy says, internally screaming. “Maybe when Techno gets home.” 

“He asked me to keep an eye on you, you know,” Phil says. Tommy just wants to turn around and put the key in the lock and go inside– scold Wilbur, make sure he’s okay and not decaying on the floor of the kitchen or something. Put him back together using the anatomy book and shit. Not sit here and chat. “Ever since, ah. Everything went down. So forgive me if I’m a little overbearing, yeah?”

“You’re forgiven,” Tommy says immediately, scooting backwards a bit on his feet. God, he just wants to leave and not think about Wilbur– or, about the Wilbur that was, or the awful few weeks after It happened and the casseroles and potlucks and funerals and court case and bills and– “Could never be mad at you, Philza Minecraft. You’re simply too old.”

“Oh, fuck off,” Phil says with a wheeze. He waves a hand. “Go get your cat, you fuck.”

“Techno’s cat.”

“Techno’s cat, then. Go. I have work anyways.”

“Okay. Have a nice day, Philza Minecraft.”

“You too, Tommy Soot.” The last name physically pains him to hear, but Tommy thinks he holds it together well enough as Phil shuts his front door. It echoes in the hallway as he turns, blinking back frustrated, anxious tears and fumbles with his key. First the bottom lock, then the top, then he’s shoving the door open with his shoulder as it sticks from the humidity and slamming it shut behind him.

The apartment echoes, quiet and still. No one’s been home since he left, he can tell. However…

A face peers out from the hallway, a pair of glasses sat neatly on his nose.

“Hey, Wil,” Tommy says quietly, watching his older brother creep out of the hallway and pause, shuffling footsteps stopping as he stares at Tommy. He’d left the glasses in the box with the rest of Wilbur’s things– he’d thought maybe if he let Wilbur rummage through it, it might… help remind him of how things used to be.

How they’d race through the hallway, chasing each other in just their socks and ignoring the splinters until later. How they’d order out for dinner after burning yet another pan, how Tommy would steal the very same glasses sitting on Wil’s nose right now and tear through the apartment like an overexcited cat, until Wilbur would– Wilbur would–

Tommy looks up from his spot on the floor, head buried into his knees, and sniffles slightly. There’s a hand on his head– it’s cold, but the weight is there, and after a moment, stiff fingers worm their way deeper into Tommy’s hair. It’s getting long, he thinks as he watches the body in front of him move jerkily. He needs a haircut. He’s long overdue. 

...Wil used to cut his hair, right in the center of the kitchen with the old dull scissors they keep on top of the fridge.

Carefully, Tommy reaches up and shoves Wilbur’s hand off his head.

“Stop bein’ a creep,” he says, wiping his snotty nose on his sleeve and sniffling. His throat is thick and mucusy, eyelashes heavy with dampness. Above him, Wilbur grunts. “You heard what I said. I got you something.” He shifts, pulling his backpack out from under him where the books had been uncomfortably pushing into his butt. He sits more securely with his back against the door, unzipping the largest compartment and pulling out the anatomy book. “I can fix your hand now, maybe.”

Wilbur grunts, and puts his functioning hand back into Tommy’s hair. He’s clumsy. It bumps his nose first (smelling of dirt and death), and then his eyes, and then finally slips into his hair once more.

It’s enough for now.

Back in Tommy’s room, surgery does not go as planned.

Tommy tries. He really does. He sits on the floor with the anatomy book spread out beside him and Wilbur, Wilbur’s hand in his lap and sutures snipped open in order to access the muscle once more. Tommy is really glad he’s not bad with gore– he thinks if Tubbo or Ranboo tried this shit, there’d be issues. But Tommy’s fine, especially as he tries to reattach muscles and ligaments in the right order.

Key word: tries. It’s not working. Wilbur sits patiently and lets him try, but after an hour or so of abject failure, his zombie older brother pulls his hand away and out of Tommy’s grasp.

“Hey!” He protests. “I was getting it!” 

Wilbur just grunts. Tommy grunts in return, scowling deeply over at him. Wilbur opens his mouth, and lets his tongue loll out, purpley and splotchy and kind of gross. 

“Fuck you,” Tommy says. “I was getting it.” 

Wilbur looks at him as though he’s saying really? Were you really, Toms? His tongue is still out though, and after a moment, Tommy reaches over and pokes it back into his mouth because it’s clear Wilbur can’t do it himself.

“You’re so dumb,” Tommy informs him with all the assuredly of a male engineering student who just got assigned a group project. “Literally the dumbest. Stupidest, that’s you.”

Wilbur makes that laughing noise again, the one that Tommy is quickly coming to realize means he’s thoroughly amused. He sticks his tongue out in return, since Wilbur wanted to play childish games first. After a second, he reaches back out and takes Wil’s hand in order to wrap bandages around it. If he can’t make it functional again, then he’ll at least make it pretty.

“So,” Tommy says, getting up off the hardwood floor and kicking his blanket back onto his mattress. He’s got no bedframe– it’s easy to just lift his foot and deposit the mess where it’s supposed to go. Around the rest of the room lies the contents from Wilbur’s box, various journals and pictures scattered around the floorboards. He bends over and starts to neaten things aimlessly. “Phil said he heard something break. What did you do?”

Wilbur watches from his spot on the floor as Tommy snags another polaroid, tucking it neatly into the shoebox labeled with his name. He says nothing– not even a noise.

“Not gonna tell me then, hmm?” Tommy asks, tipping his head to look at him, half upside-down. His hair hangs funny in his face, bouncing blond curls framing his vision and blocking some parts of his room from view. Wilbur, however, is center stage and impossible to ignore. “That’s fine. I’ll find it in a bit, once I clean up this mess you made.” He reaches down again to get another polaroid, and pauses.

The picture isn’t that old. He can still remember the day it was taken clearly– maybe a month or two before Wilbur’s death. In it, Tommy is centered in the frame. Hair a little shorter, eyes a little brighter. He’s lit up by golden hour, sitting on a park bench with an ice cream in hand and the river behind them. Wilbur’s face is smushed into frame, a wide smile splitting his features and turning his normal bitchface into a paragon of joy. Tommy looks mildly uninterested– he can remember being too involved in his dripping ice cream to want to properly take part in the picture. Now, though, he stares.

“Do you remember this?” He asks quietly, turning the photo around once it’s become a bit too painful to look at anymore. He holds it out– Wilbur leans in, eyes flicking over the surface of the glossy paper. “That’s me, big man. And you.” 

Wilbur looks vacant as he stares at the paper, then makes a slightly distressed noise in the back of his ruined throat. His one functional hand reaches out, a shaking finger landing square on Picture-Tommy’s face.

“–om– mee,” Wilbur croaks. It’s the most coherent thing he’s said since Tommy had dragged him out of his grave, and it’s–

“Yeah,” Tommy says, a bit choked up. “Tommy. And Wilbur, you were there too, don’t forget.”

He has a feeling Wilbur already has, based on the way his older brother grasps the picture and takes it from him, staring intently, like looking at it long enough might bring back the recollection of the day.

“Alright,” Tommy says after an undetermined amount of time, reaching out to snag the picture and take it back. “Alright. Enough fucking– reminiscing, and shit. I’m hungry. You didn’t let me get breakfast, so we need to eat. Specifically me. I don’t think zombies eat.” 

It takes a second, but Wilbur snaps out of his funk. He clacks his teeth.

“No,” Tommy says, putting the picture away and slamming the lid on the shoebox before securely depositing it back in his closet. “You don’t eat people. You’re not that kind of zombie. I made sure of that.” 

Wilbur clacks his teeth again, more insistently.

“I suppose we could try feeding you, see what happens. I just don’t want to gum up the works, or make my room smell worse than it already does.” 

Clack clack clack. Tommy laughs, pushing open his bedroom door. Wilbur follows, a bit like a large, dead cat would follow if the cat story he’d told Phil had been true. When Tommy stops in front of their kitchen cabinets, Wilbur bumps into him, swaying slightly on his feet. Tommy just leans back into his chest, ignoring the faint aroma of death as he opens the cabinets and peers inside. “Cereal, oatmeal, pasta,” he says quietly, mostly to himself. “Pasta’s not really a breakfast food though, innit?”

Wilbur grunts noncommittally. 

“Yeah, you’re right. Oatmeal’s fine then. As long as the strawberries haven’t gone bad.” Tommy turns, still keeping his back pressed up against Wil as he opens the fridge and checks. A sour smell wafts over them both when he cracks open the milk– “Eugh!”– and after a bit of microwaving and stirring, Tommy’s got a bonafide oatmeal breakfast in hand. 

“Cinnamon and sugar,” he tells Wilbur, holding the bowl up to his nose. “Can you smell it?”

Wilbur shakes his head minutely. Tommy sighs.

“Shame,” he says. “Smells real good, even if I had to use water for it.”

Wilbur grunts. Tommy rummages in their silverware drawer and pulls out a second spoon.

“Want a bite?” He asks, dipping it into the oatmeal and holding it up to Wil’s level. Wilbur, who’s looking at this spoonful like it’s a new challenge on the Great British Baking Show or some shit. A mystery he must figure out, a complex recipe to decipher. He looks baffled. Tommy snickers. “Just take the bite, big man.” 

After a second, Wilbur leans in and takes the bite. It’s messy. What doesn’t make it into his mouth gloops down his chin and makes a mess of his sweater, and Wilbur opens and closes his mouth in a facsimile of chewing for a second. It’s like he’s forgotten how to eat already– Tommy waits patiently, staring at him. Wilbur stares back, never breaking eye contact as he moves his mouth.

Then, without much warning, he opens his mouth wide again. The rest of the oatmeal drips out and lands with a splat! on the floor. Tommy shrieks.

Later, after Tommy’s found another jumper for Wilbur to wear and wiped the oatmeal chunks off of the kitchen floor, they’re both sitting on the couch, the TV on and in front of them but neither of them watching it. They had been, but then Wilbur had gotten bored and started chewing on his non-functional hand and Tommy had to find some way to entertain him.

“This,” Tommy says, pointing at a page of a photo album sitting open in front of them both, “is when Techno dressed us up as Greek heroes for Halloween. I was Theseus, see? No one knew what we were, but it was fun. I think he just didn’t have enough money for proper costumes, honestly, so we just used bed sheets. Worked though, didn’t it?” Wilbur nods, fingers shaking a bit as he goes to turn the next page. His useless hand is busy propping the book up. 

“Oh, yeah,” Tommy says as the next row of pictures comes into view. “Remember this? The amusement park? Phil came with us too– you remember Phil, yeah?” Wilbur smiles a bit, and Tommy nods. “Yeah! We rode the rides and got cotton candy. Or, you did. For me. Techno was the bag bitch. He didn’t want to go on any rides. This was during his emo phase,” Tommy whispers, and Wilbur makes that laughing noise again. Below them, Tommy’s own smiling face beams up, the flashing lights of an arcade immortalized behind him. He can just see the outline of Techno’s shoulder in the photo, taken by their older neighbor. 

Wilbur smiles, disjointed and almost sad. He traces one unsteady finger over Tommy’s pictured face, and Tommy watches quietly.

“Pretty cool, innit?” He asks. Wilbur grunts.

Behind them, a key turns in the apartment’s lock. Tommy freezes. Wilbur does too, a turn of his head however betraying interest in the sound. There’s the moment where everything slots into place– whoever it is will see Wilbur (someone who was definitely dead not twenty-four hours ago) and Tommy panics. Without thinking, he grabs the top of Wilbur’s head and pushes him down below the couch.

“Tommy?” Techno’s voice rings out in the apartment as Wilbur falls to the floor with a thump. Tommy scrambles to get on top of the couch, kicking one foot down to press Wilbur to the floor as he groans a little bit in displeasure. “Was that you?”

“Sure was!” Tommy calls out, voice just the tiniest bit frantic. Come on Tommy, hide it better! The door swings shut, and a second later Techno comes around the corner and into view. He pauses– keys frozen in his hand as he stares at Tommy who is perched on the back of the couch. From his position, he shouldn’t be able to see Wilbur. 

“What are you doing?” Techno asks, raising a brow. 

“What are you doing?” Tommy retaliates with. “Shouldn’t you be at work?” 

Techno lets his keys fall from his hand onto the table with a clatter, and Tommy shifts uncomfortably on his spot on the couch. Below him, Wilbur is shuffling slightly, limbs splayed out against the carpet and a look on his face that screams he’s confused. 

“Calvin let me off early,” Techno says hesitantly. “I thought we could order pizza together.” He turns, setting his bag down on the chairs. He’s side eyeing Tommy as he does, who in turn is staring right back. “What’s on the coffee table?”

“Photo album,” Tommy says. He’s not about to lie. Quick, redirect the conversation, if Techno takes two steps forward– “Pizza sounds good. Get the menu, maybe?” 

“Don’t you just want the usual?”

“Breadsticks, fucker. I want breadsticks too.”

“Those are like, an extra seven dollars, Tommy,” Techno complains, but he turns and ducks into the kitchen. Tommy can hear the sound of their junk drawer opening and Techno rummaging for the menu– he’s got one chance. Quickly, Tommy slips off the couch and urges Wilbur upwards, tugging him along and hurrying him towards the hallway. Nearly there–

“What kind of breadsticks?” Techno asks, voice getting louder. Tommy’s eyes widen– he snags a blanket just in time, holding it up as Wilbur hunches over. “...what the hell are you doing?” 

Tommy uses one foot and nudges it out, pushing Wilbur behind the hallway wall with one sharp shove to where he can’t be seen.

He folds the blanket in half.

“Cleaning up,” he says with a scowl, heart pounding as Techno blinks at him. “What? Never heard of folding blankets before?”

“...maybe I should call Puffy again,” Techno says. It’s clearly meant to be lighthearted, but something about his tone makes the hairs on the back of Tommy’s neck bristle. “Tommy, cleaning? What a world. Do you want garlic breadsticks or regular?” 

Tommy drapes the blanket over his arms as he folds it, keeping his eyes on Techno and not Wilbur, who is staring at him with confusion not a foot to his left. God. This is a right comedy, isn’t it? “Sure,” he says. “Garlic is good.”

“Yeah,” Techno says noncommittally, and then pats his pockets. “My phone. I’ll order?” 

“Sure thing,” Tommy says, watching as Techno turns and disappears back into the kitchen, muttering something about his phone. The moment he’s gone, Tommy’s throwing the blanket down and scrambling to the side, pushing Wilbur down the hallway and towards his open bedroom door.

“Go go go!” He whispers, pounding one fist against his older brother’s back as Wilbur shuffles his way down the hall, finally taking the left into Tommy’s bedroom. Tommy slams the door behind him, staring at the scratched and dented wood with an intense feeling of relief. 

“Tommy?” He turns, finding Techno at the end of the hallway, phone in hand. The blanket is strewn at his feet, crumpled. Technoblade pokes it with one foot and then raises an eyebrow at him. “Are you… alright?”

“...fine, big guy,” Tommy says. He forces a smile, jaunts his way back down the hall and shoves his hands in his pockets. He ignores the shuffling sounds from his room, bonking his shoulder against Techno’s. “Tired. So. Garlic bread?” 

Techno’s gaze lingers on the hallway, on Tommy’s door. He tries not to let it freak him out, and eventually, Techno turns his eyes back to Tommy and nods a bit.

“Garlic bread,” he agrees.

Pizza comes and sooner than later, bellies are warm and full. Tommy sticks around with Techno for a little bit– does the usual pleasantries as they wait for delivery, asks about his day and listens as Techno complains about the customers at the shop he works at. Tommy wonders how he found himself with two book-obsessed acquaintances– Ranboo works at a library, Techno at a bookshop. Just his luck. And both of them are overbearing and annoying! Granted, Techno is cooler than Ranboo for sure, just by the virtue of being Tommy’s older brother. That is generally how it works; Techno is cooler and Ranboo is dumb. They’re both nerds, though. Tommy never hesitates to point that out.

Eventually, though, the anxiety rises too quickly in him and swamps over the rest of his feelings like a tsunami. Tommy pushes through the mucky thoughts of discovery and makes up and excuse– homework, the project with Tubbo he needs to work on, just general exhaustion. 

Techno doesn’t argue as he makes his escape. He doesn’t argue very much with Tommy anymore– he used to, but not now.

Tommy pauses as he heads to the hallway, one hand on the painted wall and fingernails digging into the plaster. He glances back– Techno’s head is bowed slightly, one hand smushed against his cheek as he sits on the couch. An open pizza box is on the coffee table, the TV playing a slideshow of generic landscapes that lights up the room in shifting shades of greens and blues and yellows. The whole apartment is warm, smells like pizza. 

He watches as Techno thumbs a finger over the corner of the photo album he’d had out earlier. It’s probably still open to the amusement park page, although Tommy can’t see what picture he’s looking at specifically. After a moment, Techno shifts, lowering his head further into his hand and pressing his fingers into his forehead and eyes in some bowed mourning pose.

Tommy grips the wall a little tighter, and then ducks into the hall and back to his own room. 

Wilbur is on his bed when he gets there, quietly staring out the window. Tommy grimaces– he doesn’t want dead brother all over his bed, even if Wilbur is clean and shit. Tommy had made sure of that. He didn’t want Wilbur to look like a monster, even if he technically was one. 

“Get off,” he instructs, plopping onto the mattress beside him. Wilbur’s eyes are locked on the window still, but he obliges, slipping off the mattress and onto the floor. “Thanks for being quiet.”

Wilbur grunts. Tommy watches as he shuffles over to the window. After a second, he follows, fingers stumbling on the lock and then prying it open with a shrieking noise that comes with all of the windows in the apartment. Fresh air rolls into the room– dispels some of the smell of death and decay, rubber and garbage floating in instead. It smells like city, and Tommy doesn’t hesitate to lean his head out the sill and stare over the horizon line. Wilbur joins him.

“Kinda shit view,” Tommy says apologetically. They can only really see brick walls of the apartment complex next to them, and beyond that, filthy roofs. “The view from your room was better.”

Wilbur grunts.

“I know. Your and Techno’s room, sorry. He sleeps on the couch most days now, though. Especially if he’s working an early shift.” 

Another grunt. Wilbur leans over slightly, pressing his heavy weight against Tommy, who doesn’t hesitate to lean back. A breeze ruffles both their hair, and Tommy squints in the evening light. The sun is almost gone. 

“I’ve missed you,” Tommy says quietly, staring out over the burnt-blacktop roofs and inhaling the smell of city. Somewhere out there, a mugger sleeps in a jail for a crime that left a family grieving. “Really bad, Wil.”

Wilbur leans his head against Tommy’s and says nothing. Tommy’s not expecting him too. His presence there is just enough.

The door to his room swings open.

“Hey,” Techno says. “Tommy, I was thinking, tomorrow we could go see W–”

He’d forgotten to lock the door.

Technoblade stops, one hand on the doorknob, the other brushing back a strand of pink hair off his shoulder that had escaped the braid. He stands there, staring at the two of them sitting at the open window and blinks.

Tommy tries not to throw up.

Techno moves first. He does the opposite of what Tommy is expecting: he closes the door. Then reopens it again, fingers gripping the knob with such intensity Tommy thinks he might break something. Tommy holds his breath and Wilbur turns his head, staring at Techno with wide, blue, milky eyes. 

“Tommy,” Techno says after a second. “I think I’m hallucinating.”

Wilbur groans. Techno inhales sharply, and then sits down on the ground with a thump.

“I’m sorry,” Tommy says first off, hands flying through the air as he desperately scooches over on his knees towards Techno. “Technoblade, this is not what it looks like, this is– it’s a doll, or it’s– it’s not a hallucination, per say, but it is in fact, not real. Not real. I’m gaslighting you. This isn’t real. Promise. Please go away.” 

“Tommy.”

“This is one big practical joke! Ha ha! Hahaha! Ha! What a joker, I am, this is a hologram! Tubbo made it for me, isn’t it cool? The best! I am the best joker, the Joker, like from the movie. Society, hurr durr, I’m the Joker–” 

Wilbur groans in agreement. He hasn’t moved, not even when Tommy did. Techno is still sitting on the floor in a state of mild shock it seems, one hand dragging down his face and pulling at one eye as he stares at his undead twin. 

“Tommy,” he interrupts again. Tommy’s words peter out, awkward laughter fading into silence. Somewhere out his open window, he can hear the sounds of a city awake and alive. Cars, dogs, people. It rings in the silence of the room. “Tommy, why is Wil– what did you do ?” 

“Surprise,” Tommy says weakly. “Happy… birthday?” 

“It is not my birthday,” Techno says.

“Merry Christmas?”

“Bruh.” 

“I–” Tommy swallows, then reaches out and grabs his backpack. Pulls out the book he’d found by chance not a week ago, holds it out. “I found this. I thought– our family is already weird, yeah? You know? We’re weird. What’s a little more weirdness?” 

“...” Techno stares at the cover of the book, the title, the lady in a red apron with a spatula and devil’s horns. Tommy’s fingers are shaking a little as he holds it out.

“...we’re not this weird,” Techno says after a second, licking his lips and gaze flicking over to Wilbur. It’s like he can’t look at him, like Wilbur is the brightest thing in the room. Techno can’t seem to look away, but staring for too long is painful. Tommy knows the feeling. “Not this weird, Tommy. Oh, my god. Did you dig him up?” 

“Maybe.”

“Oh, my god.” Techno leans back against the doorframe, bringing both hands up to his face for a second and burying his expression in them. Not being able to see him is worse than seeing him, Tommy thinks. Now, he has no idea what Techno is thinking. Not that he would usually. Techno’s expressive when he wants to be, but facial expression has always been hard for the three of them. Even Tommy at times. 

“I’m feeling awfully overwhelmed,” Tommy says quietly, letting the book clatter to the floor. Techno snorts.

“You’re overwhelmed?” He asks. “Heh? You? How long has he– earlier, you were being weird, you were– hiding him. Oh my god.” 

“Not long,” Tommy says truthfully. Behind them, Wilbur is silent. Watching. Occasionally, he twitches. “A day.” 

Techno mutters to himself quietly. It’s a habit that’s normal, and Tommy leans back, gives him a moment. He reaches a hand out, and Wilbur meets him halfway. His fingers are cold– Tommy rubs them between his own like maybe it’ll warm him up. Tommy had always run the warmest of the three– Wilbur had always been cold, and Techno had an unnatural affinity for blankets, all the time. Wilbur smiles at him, crooked. His glasses are slightly tilted, and so Tommy takes a minute to reach out and straighten them.

“It’s really him,” Techno says with his throat clogged. Tommy glances back over– Wilbur lets his hand drop from Tommy’s. Their eldest brother is staring at them with a confounded look, pain written in between the confusion and just the tiniest hint of– something else. Maybe relief. Welcoming. 

“Yeah,” Tommy says. He’s not sure what else to say. Techno is still staring at Wilbur, eyes furrowed, and his expression goes from bewildered to something a bit harsher. His eyes drop gently– he breathes in, and then out.

“He can’t stay,” Technoblade says, and Tommy’s heart drops out of his chest and lands on the floor.

“No,” Tommy says, scrambling to his feet as Techno hauls himself upwards and takes another step into the room. “Techno, no no no– no–”

“He can’t stay, Tommy,” Techno insists. “You just– you messed with life and death, this isn’t–” 

“I couldn’t just leave him!” Tommy cries, a storm in his stomach, a hurricane brewing on his temples. Pounding heart and blood rushing in his ears as panic sets in, an all-encompassing tempest. He can hear nothing but himself. “Techno, we couldn’t just– we need him!” 

Techno takes another step, and Tommy throws himself at him, fingers clutching at the front of his sweater like it might stop him from advancing. Techno’s hands come to his shoulders, holding him there quietly, looking down on him with a weird sort of look. “He can’t stay,” Techno says gently. “Tommy, what were you thinkin’? He was dead. The dead stay dead for a reason.” 

“But it was my fault!”

The room goes very, very quiet.

Wilbur makes a sound, gentle and broken. Tommy turns to look at him, the way his hair falls over his eyes in a fuzzy cloud, how his eyes are white and pale and not the comforting warmth he used to know. The bandages around his neck are slightly stained brown and red, the seepage of fluid through them from the day shining through. One hand is limp by his side– the other is outstretched still, towards them both.

“It was my fault,” Tommy says quietly, hands still gripping onto Techno’s shirt like maybe it’ll stop him from continuing to see, like maybe they can reverse time and just go back to when Wilbur was in Tommy’s room and safely hidden and no one was talking about putting him back. “It was my fault, Techno–”

He sinks once more against the floor. It hurts against his knees, but that’s okay. Techno sinks with him, arms drawing up and around his shoulders and pulling him in tightly, until Tommy’s shoulder-to-shoulder with him and warm heat is all against his front. Alive. Breathing.

Tommy can feel Techno’s heartbeat against his own.

“It wasn’t your fault, Tommy,” Techno is saying, sounding mildly horrified. “Tommy, no, it wasn’t.”

“It was, though,” he breathes, arms hanging limply at his sides. He’s exhausted– any spitfire in him has been put out, the sheer emotional toll too much to handle. “If I hadn’t been being a brat that morning, Wil wouldn’t have been late, and he would’ve take his normal train and not the later one and maybe the guy wouldn’t have tried to– maybe he would’ve lived, Techno, maybe there might’ve been more people around and instead he– he died all alone and it was– it was–”

“It wasn’t anybody’s fault,” Techno says quietly, one hand rubbing up and down Tommy’s back. It’s grounding. He settles into the feeling like it’s a second skin. “Least of all yours.” 

“If I had just listened– that’s why I brought him back–”

“No, Tommy,” Techno cuts him off gently, fingers so, so gentle. His voice is low, and rough. It takes Tommy a minute to realize it but Techno’s crying, too. “No. Sometimes things just… happen. None of us can change when they do. And it’s not fair. And sometimes it’s not right. People leave before they’re ready, or before you’re ready.” There’s a shred of bitterness there. “Sometimes, people put the weight of the sky on your shoulders before you’re ready to take it. God, Tommy, I know. I do. This hurts me too.” Tommy sniffles. Techno’s hand stills, then continues.

“...but,” he says, voice uncharacteristically gentle. “The sky’s pretty, isn’t it?” 

Tommy nods, unsure as to where Techno’s going with this. “Yeah.” 

“Clouds. Sunsets. Sunrises. The stars, at night. The moon and the sun. Holding it up, just for other people to be able to look at it– that’s worth it. But the sky is big and it is so heavy, Tommy. Don’t put it on yourself. Don’t give yourself that weight before you’re ready for it, if at all. I won’t let you.” Techno pulls back, hands gripping Tommy’s shoulders and meeting his gaze. His eyes are rimmed with red– but they’re still the same warm brown Tommy has known his whole life. While Tommy’s might be as blue as the sky, Techno is the earth– grounding.

“What happened to Wilbur is not your fault,” Techno says. Firm. Confident in the truth of the statement. He’s staring at him still, holding that eye contact. “And I think he’d agree with you.” 

“You can ask him,” Tommy says weakly, trying to joke, trying to detach from the vulnerability at their fingertips. “He’s right there.”

It kind of falls flat as Techno looks over at Wilbur, who’s still sitting on the floor looking mildly startled. Tommy looks over too, then reaches out one limp hand and beckons.

“Wil,” he says quietly, watching as his brother makes his way over on unsteady hands and knees. “Hi.”

Wilbur– Wilbur’s shell– groans. Techno inhales sharply.

“He’s still Wilbur,” Tommy explains. “Just… missing a bit. Wilbur, slightly to the left.” 

“Missing a bit of limbs,” Techno continues, already having noticed the absent hand and bandages wrapped over nearly every inch of exposed skin. “Tommy, what the hell.”

“Turns out I’m real good at necromancy,” Tommy says. “Guess magic runs in the family.” 

“Wil’s persuasion and my whole ‘hearing voices’ schtick doesn’t really hold a candle to this,” Techno says, reaching out and gently slipping the glasses off of Wilbur’s face. He doesn’t protest as they go. Just watches with those blank eyes. They’re unsettling, really, but they’re Wilbur’s so Tommy has a hard time noticing it.

“I always knew I was the coolest brother,” Tommy says quietly. Techno snorts. Wilbur lets out a gross kind of exhale.

“...Wil,” Techno says after a second. “Are you really in there?”

Nod.

“Huh.” Techno looks distinctly constipated, turning the glasses over and over in his hands. Tommy takes a moment to wipe at his face and dispel the tears licking his lips and resisting the urge to spit the phlegm out of his mouth. “Are you…” Techno struggles for a moment, and Tommy turns his attention back to him. Techno, who is looking at Wilbur, who is looking at Techno.

Sometimes, Tommy couldn’t ever see how they were twins. It was dumb. Techno was shorter and had pink hair and was dumb. Wilbur was taller and had brown hair and was cool.

Here, they’ve never looked more alike. Techno, face overwrit by devastation. Wilbur, blankly staring back.

“Are you happy?” He finally asks. “Here?” 

Wilbur does not move.

Wilbur stays where he is, entirely still. Tommy sucks in a breath, a certain dread overcoming him as–

As Wilbur shakes his head stiffly.

“What?” He breathes. “But you– I thought you’d want to be alive, Wil, don’t you want to be alive?” 

“Tommy,” Techno says gently. “This isn’t living.”

“But he’s with us,” Tommy pleads. “Here, not– not wherever you go when you die– Wilbur, c’mon!” 

“He’s not all here, Tommy,” Techno says quietly. “It’s not an exact science. And his body won’t stay like this. It’ll decay. It is decaying. We can’t keep that around the house, much less let Wilbur live in a body like that.”

“So we’ll get him a new one–”

“No. No, Tommy, listen–”

“I don’t want him to go, I don’t want him to go, not again! Not again!”

“Tommy–”

“My fault again–”

“It’s not your fault–”

Wilbur groans, leaning forward and bonking his head so hard against Tommy’s that he physically recoils, swearing violently for a moment and reflexively bringing a hand up to his head. “Fucking hell!” He says loudly through the tears, the shock pulling him out of the spiral for a moment. “Wilbur!”

Wilbur groans, brows furrowing in a gesture that is so distinctly Wilbur that it hurts to see. Wil reaches out with one unsteady, shaking hand and pokes his own chest, then pokes Techno’s.

“What?” Tommy asks. Techno frowns. 

“Are you saying for him to listen to me?” Techno asks after a second. Wilbur nods, grunting again. Tommy gapes.

“Dickhead,” he says. “I can’t believe you’re siding with him even now.” 

That gets a good laugh out of all three of them. Tommy leans into Techno’s chest once more, staring at Wilbur long and hard for a good moment. Wilbur stares back, eyes heavy and milky and decidedly dead. Tommy wonders why he ever thought this was a good idea– well, he knows why. He knows, because that crippling guilt and loneliness is with him still. Tommy doesn’t ever think he’ll ever be able to get rid of it, no matter how much therapy he attends or how many brothers he raises from the dead. Something like that– a weight like the sky– it’s not easy to get rid of.

Wilbur grunts quietly. Techno nods, his chin bumping Tommy’s head.

“Is there a way to reverse it?” Techno asks, the question clearly pointed at Tommy. He thinks of the book sitting on the floor, and the stupid lady in a red apron on the front, advertising deals with the devil. Stupid lady.

“Yeah,” he says, throat clogged. “Yeah. It’s… yeah.”

“Okay,” Techno says. “Can you do it?”

Tommy thinks. Can he? Sure. Does he want to? Absolutely the fuck not.

Wilbur leans into his gaze again, and smiles gently. It’s the uncanny valley.

“...yes,” Tommy says, swallowing hard. It does nothing to dispel the cotton lining the walls of his esophagus, or the gross smell of mucus that’s probably permanently etched in the smell centers of his brain from crying. “Yes.” Techno heaves a sigh, adjusting one arm around Tommy’s shoulders, and Wilbur shuffles for a second before carefully joining them. Another arm around Tommy, and a firm weight on the top of his head. A hand.

“Wilbur,” Techno says softly, one arm still around Tommy’s shoulders and now supporting Wilbur’s. “Are you ready to go?”

Wilbur turns his ghostly gaze from Techno to Tommy, and then back to Techno. He nods.

Tommy sniffles.

“It’s okay,” Techno says quietly, although he’s teary too as Wilbur scrunches his fingers up and down on Tommy’s head. Wilbur leans forward– Techno meets him halfway, bumping their foreheads together gently. “It’s okay.”

Tommy doesn’t think the second reassurance was for him, but that’s alright. He just leans in, slotting between his brothers in the place he’s always belonged for the last time. 

Home has never felt so bittersweet. 

When Wilbur Soot dies for a second time, he is not alone. Tommy holds his hand as he recites the incantation needed to send him back to where all dead souls go. Technoblade is there with them in the dead of night, a shovel by his feet as a grave lies reopened for a third and final time. Wilbur Soot dies a second time smiling, surrounded by the people he loves most dearly. Tommy is the first to start piling dirt back onto his grave, mixing rose petals in with the soil and watching as his brother disappears back to the earth, never to rise again. He sits there after they’ve refilled the hole, staring at the freshly turned dirt and clutching a pair of glasses until the sun rises. Only then does Technoblade make them both go home.

Phil is in their kitchen when they arrive. How and why is unclear, but neither of them care. He’s made pancakes.

He doesn’t question the dirt coating both their arms, or the redness to their eyes. He just piles on pancakes when their plates get low and promises them, in no uncertain terms, that peace is guaranteed.

There are three plates set out at the breakfast table that Phil puts out. Neither of them question it. 

That afternoon, there’s a knock on their door. Phil is gone, having done the dishes and shown himself out. Techno and Tommy had collapsed onto the couch and dozed most of the day away with full stomachs– occasionally, one of them would cry, or both of them, and that would be that. Tommy’s lying on top of Techno’s chest when the knock comes, the older twin holding a book against his back and reading aimlessly.

“I’ll get it,” Tommy says, rolling off the couch and Techno in turn. Techno hums– Tommy is expecting Phil at the door again.

“Hi,” Ranboo says.

“Tommy!” Tubbo chirps from just in front of him. “You weren’t in school! We came to make sure you–” Tubbo seems to rethink his word choices here. 

“We came to make sure you were okay,” Ranboo cuts in. “After, uh. All that.”

“All that” is one way to put it. Tommy surveys them both, eyes the six-pack of Coke that Tubbo’s got dangling from his fingertips, and then opens the door a bit more to let them in.

“Tommy?” Techno’s voice echoes through the apartment. Strangely, it feels more occupied than it had just a day ago. Warm. Loving. Filled, perhaps, with people who love. “Who is it?” 

Still giving Ranboo the side-eye, Tommy responds.

“Friends.”