Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“Tommy! Where are your boots?” Wilbur calls up the stairs, tipping his head back from where he sits on the bottom step to watch an upside-down Tommy stumble into view, tugging a sock onto his foot. Even from here, he can see its shoddy darning, courtesy of Tommy himself.

“Which boots?” Tommy asks, fumbling and having to catch himself on the wall, only a few steps away from a nasty tumble down the stairs. Wilbur pointedly ignores the way his heart jumps into his throat at that prospect.

“You know, the red ones?”

“Scarlet,” Tommy amends, still struggling to get his sock on. He’s had this odd obsession with the specific shades of red for quite a while now, referring to things as vermillion or even cinnabar or madder, colours Wilbur didn’t even know existed until Tommy pointed them out.

Wilbur rolls his eyes. “Okay, scarlet. Where are they?”

“Dunno.”

“What do you mean, you don’t know? They’re your boots, you were wearing them last week!”

“No I wasn’t. I haven’t worn them for ages, bitch.”

Wilbur groans, slumping back on the stairs which dig uncomfortably into his back. He absentmindedly runs a hand across the smooth, sanded edge of one as he glares up at Tommy, who’s finished messing with his sock. He stands at the top of the stairs, hands on hips.

“My old brown ones are fine,” Tommy continues. “I’ll just wear them instead.”

“There’s no way those still fit. How do you still know where those are and not the red–”

“Scarlet.”

“–scarlet ones? You’ve haven’t even had them for half a year yet.”

“It’s been seven months, actually.”

Wilbur drags his hand down his face. “Fuuuck, you’ve been thirteen for seven months. My little brother’s really growing up, huh?”

Tommy scrunches up his face in disgust, a silent signal that Wilbur probably has a stupidly sappy expression on his face right now. He then stomps down the stairs until he’s standing over Wilbur, who has a moment of oh fuck before he has to pull himself forwards to avoid a foot to the face. He does, barely.

“Tommy!” he scolds. Tommy simply giggles in response.

“Nearly got you there, Wil!”

“Yeah, nearly.” Wilbur stands, reaching up a hand to ruffle Tommy’s hair. “C’mon, get down here so I can hug you.”

“And what if I don’t want to?” Tommy crosses his arms and stares down Wilbur. “I quite like being taller than you.”

“Well…” Wilbur trails off, raising a hand to adjust his glasses. “Guess I’ll just have to come up there myself.”

“Ah– wait– Wil, WILBUR–” Tommy shrieks and scrambles away as Wilbur leaps up the stairs after him, his long legs making it easy to catch up to the boy before he’s even halfway down the landing and scoop him up.

“Got you!” Wilbur laughs, swinging Tommy around, his legs dangling a good few inches above the floor. Tommy struggles like an angry cat, scrabbling at Wilbur’s arms wrapped around him. It’s a good thing Wilbur’s wearing sleeves.

“Lemme go, lemme go bitch, you dickhead!”

“Do you surrender?” Wilbur speaks into Tommy’s ear, blowing on it a little for good measure.

Tommy shrieks again, trailing off into a breathy laugh. “Never! Let me go or– or else!”

“Oh nooo, I’m so scared, Tommy whatever will you do to me? Boil me in a pot? String me up on the washing line by my feet?”

“All of those and more!” Tommy pushes his head back, knocking Wilbur on the chin.

“Ow!” He’s determined not to let go however, and readjusts his grip so he can start tickling Tommy, who yells and giggles, coordinated efforts to escape devolving into frantic flailing.

“Wil– please– Wil stop–”

“Do you surrender?” Wilbur says again, just about preventing his own laughter.

“Yes– just– stop it– I’m gonna die– Wilbur!”

Wilbur stops tickling, but keeps Tommy tight in his arms. Tommy hangs there limply, exhausted by his escape attempts. “Say Wilbur is the best brother ever and I love him very much.”

“Fuck you.”

“Tommyyyyy, c’mon, we’re gonna be late if we don’t go soon.”

“Well, just let go of me then.”

“Not until you say Wilbur is the best brother in the whole wide world and I love him more than anyone else.”

Tommy groans, loudly and exaggeratedly. “Fiiine, Wil-bitch is the best brother in the world and I think he’s pretty great. There? Happy now? Let me go.”

“I guess that will suffice.” Wilbur releases Tommy, who hops away and turns to face Wilbur, still acting like he’s ready to flee at any moment. “Brush your hair, I’m surprised a bird hasn’t made a nest in it yet.”

“I could say the same about yours,” Tommy retorts, and Wilbur runs a hand through it automatically.

“I deliberately make mine look like this, though. It’s crafted,” he says, emphasising the last word. “You just look like you’ve been dragged through a bush backwards.”

Tommy grumbles, a few muttered swears spilling from his lips, but trudges off to find a hairbrush. Wilbur makes his way back downstairs and pops into the kitchen to grab Tommy’s lunchbox. His own, wood painted sunflower yellow where Tommy’s is poppy red, lies beside the sink, empty. Wilbur didn’t buy enough food to make lunches for them both this week, but it’s ok, he’ll survive. Tommy needs to eat so he can focus at school.

Wilbur shoves Tommy’s lunchbox in his – crimson, as Tommy repeatedly tells him – backpack and checks that all his textbooks are in there. They are, but several of them are crumpled like they’ve been soaked in water, and the pages are falling out of one of them. Tutting at Tommy’s carelessness, Wilbur picks it up and tries to shuffle the pages back into order. Blue scribbles mar some of them, and Wilbur frowns. 

Tommy never uses blue ink. 

He inspects them more closely, flipping through the crumpled and ripped pages one by one. It turns out that the scribbles aren’t just scribbles, they’re words–

Freak. Bastard. Monster. Weirdo.

Wilbur can’t help the horrified gasp that rips from his throat.

“You weren’t supposed to see that.” Wilbur’s head jerks up to see Tommy standing at the top of the stairs, eyes wide.

“I– Tommy, why didn’t you say anything?”

Tommy makes his way down the stairs slowly, eyes firmly focused on the banister. He pauses on the last step, running his hand over the carved knob at the end. “...I didn’t want to bother you,” he admits softly. “You’re always stressed these days, and it’s not that bad, really.”

“Not that bad?” Wilbur runs a hand through his hair again. “Tommy, you’re being bullied. Why didn’t you tell me?”

“‘Cause I knew you’d get like this!” Tommy spits, shoulders tensing. “It’s just my books, Wil. I’ve had worse.”

“Worse?” Wilbur echoes. It feels like the floor is disappearing beneath his feet, wooden planks slipping one by one into the void. “No one’s– no one’s hurt you, have they?”

Tommy is silent and fidgety, the only answer Wilbur needs. 

Pages flutter through the air as Wilbur drops the book and flings himself at Tommy, wrapping his arms around him and pulling his head into his chest. Tommy returns the hug just as fiercely, hands gripping the fabric of Wilbur’s jumper so tightly it might tear, but Wilbur doesn’t care. Not when his little brother’s being hurt.

“Tommy,” he gasps under his breath.

“Yeah?” Tommy’s voice is just as quiet and choked, fighting back tears.

“It’s–” Wilbur pulls away from Tommy and takes him by the shoulders. “What have they done to you? Tell me, please .”

“Uh, well, they beat me up a few times. Nothing like, super bad, though, just kicked me around a bit.” Tommy twists his hands together and tries to force a smile. “And they’ve stopped now! I set the Blade on them!”

“Techno knows? You told Techno and not me?” Wilbur can’t help the hurt that seeps into his voice. Tommy always used to tell him everything. He’s supposed to be an open book, easy to read and easy to figure out.

Techno hasn’t even alluded to something going on with Tommy either, and that makes something curdle in his stomach, something heavy and angry. Tommy’s his little brother, his responsibility.

“I told you! I didn’t want you to be more stressed! And I didn’t tell Techno, he found out on his own!”

“So you weren’t even going to tell anyone?”

“I was dealing with it just fine!” Tommy huffs loudly, staring at the floor. “Can– we’re gonna be late, can we talk about it later? After school.”

“Tommy–”

“Wilbur please.”

Wilbur exhales heavily, a battle warring within him. On one hand, he wants to sit Tommy down and get every single detail out of him, all about who these bullies are and what they’ve done to him. But on the other, he doesn’t want to push Tommy when he clearly feels uncomfortable talking about it, and this very much isn’t the right moment.

“Later,” Wilbur says. “But you’ve got to promise to tell me everything, okay?”

“Okay,” Tommy replies quietly, hesitantly glancing upwards to meet Wilbur’s eyes. “I promise. Can we go now?”

“Yeah, yeah,” Wilbur steps away from Tommy and glances at the carriage clock on the kitchen dresser. “Oh shit, is that the time?”

Tommy hurries past him and opens the lid of the chest by the front door, rummaging inside for his boots. 

Wilbur grabs his guitar from where he left it in the dining room last night and then checks the stove in the kitchen to make sure it’s not going to burn the house down whilst they’re out. The fire has dimmed to glowing coals and embers, and whilst Wilbur might have to relight it when he gets back, he prefers that to the – admittedly almost insignificant – possibility of returning home to ashes where the house once stood.

The sound of the chest closing with a loud thud echoes into the kitchen, reminding Wilbur that they need to leave, now.

Just before he leaves the kitchen, he spares a glance at the framed photo on the dresser. “Bye Mum, Dad,” he says, fighting the discomfort that swells within him whenever he looks at the picture. Wide smiles and eyes creased with happiness look back at him, forever frozen in time. It’s the same smile that Tommy shows him sometimes, when he’s truly happy.

“Wil- burrr ! We’re gonna be late!”

“Yep, coming!” Wilbur leaves the kitchen behind and joins Tommy at the front door. “Did you make sure your window’s closed?”

“Yes, and all the lamps are snuffed, and I checked the bathroom taps so they’re not dripping. Don’t worry, Wil.”

“Good, great, let’s go.” Wilbur pushes open the front door and steps out onto the covered porch. He casts a quick glance at the sky. “Have you got your coat? It looks like rain.”

“You’re such a fuckin’ worrywart. Yes, I’ve got it.” Tommy steps out past him – coat indeed hanging off his arm – and readjusts his backpack on his shoulders, before marching down the garden path. He stops at the gate, looks back, then pauses with his hand on the latch, scowling at Wilbur.

“What?” Wilbur says sharply.

“You’re not wearing shoes, you dick.”

“Techno!” Wilbur shouts as he throws open the door to the apothecary, the only one in the small town of Arctem, the little bell jingling in an infuriatingly jolly way. Wilbur does not feel jolly. He, in fact, feels pissed and anxious.

“Wil? You good?” Phil’s manning the counter, mid-conversation with a customer: it’s one of those nosy old grandmas who gather in the town square every day to share gossip. Wilbur’s sat within earshot of them a few times and learnt some particularly juicy tidbits, and also heard he and his brother’s names thrown around fairly often. For prime’s sake, why is it so interesting that Tommy jumped into the pond trying to catch a lunch-stealing duck?

“Where’s Techno?” he asks, having to take more care navigating the crowded shop than suits his anger, narrowly avoiding knocking over a shelf of fragile potion bottles with his guitar. Luckily, the crowdedness does not come from people, but from the sheer amount of stuff: boxes of charms and potion displays, arrays of incense and herbs, and of course, no one can ignore the huge decorative cauldron that sits in the corner – Phil doesn’t even use it, he keeps it simply because “it looks pretty”. Crows are carved into the metal, along with complex designs and runes that give Wilbur a headache if he looks at them for too long. He’s never been one for that magic shit.

“Uh – excuse me, madam, just a second – he’s in the back. Want me to get him?” Phil answers, raven wings flaring slightly and blue eyes wide with concern.

“No, I’ll go to him.” Wilbur slips behind the counter. “Don’t mind me.” He pushes aside the heavy curtain that separates the shopfront from the rest of Phil and Techno’s house.

“Oh, alright then. Go outside if you’re going to fight, please.” There’s snark in Phil’s voice; Wilbur doesn’t bother retorting.

The door to the storeroom of the shop is adjacent to the doorway he’s just gone through, propped open by a carved bird doorstop. Probably another crow. Deep humming emanates from inside.

“Techno,” Wilbur says. The man in question has his back to Wilbur, long pink hair braided down his back almost as far as his waist. Wilbur’s asked, but Techno’s never told him whether it’s natural or not – he’s never seen roots showing through, that’s for sure.

“Mornin’ Wilbur,” Techno says, turning to face him, a box full of wood carvings in his arms. One falls out of the box with the movement and rolls along the floor until it comes to rest beside a stack of crates. Somehow, the storeroom is even more crowded than the shop, shelves threatening to collapse below the weight of years’ worth of stuff. It’s not even properly organised either, something that bothers Wilbur immensely, but he’s too cautious to go poking around in here. Not that Techno or Phil would mind – they would probably appreciate it – but Wilbur is not risking touching some unstable spell-to-go and turning himself into a frog or something.

“Wilbur?” Techno asks, and Wilbur realises he’s zoned out, so carried away by his fantasy of seeing actual order in here one day that he completely missed what Techno said next.

“You didn’t tell me Tommy was being bullied.”

“Oh.” Techno freezes, a rabbit caught by the fox’s stare. “Yeah, thaaat. Must've um, slipped my mind or something.”

“Yeah, no, that’s not working. Tommy already told me he asked you not to tell him.”

Techno sighs, shoulders untensing. “Oh good, I don’t have to lie to you.”

“Why didn’t you tell me? I know he asked you not to tell him and you’ve dealt with it, but still. ” Wilbur emphasises the last word heavily, pinning Techno with his gaze. “I would really have liked to know that some shitheads were hurting my little brother.”

“Okay, before you get mad at me, hear me out. I had good reasons.”

“I’m already mad at you, so it’s a bit fucking late for that.”

“I can tell,” Techno scoffs humourlessly. “Let me take this through to Phil and I’ll explain.”

“Fine,” Wilbur scowls, moving back to let Techno pass. “I’ll go wait in the kitchen.” He does just so, throwing himself down on one of the old wooden chairs, and leaning back to rest his shoes on the table. The chair wobbles a bit – it’s the one where Phil had to replace the leg after a nine-year-old Tommy attacked it with a knife (long story) – but he would be admitting defeat if he moved, and Wilbur’s stubborn if nothing else.

Techno appears after less than a minute, looking pointedly at Wilbur’s shoes. 

“I know this table’s had worse on it, don’t glare at me like that.” Wilbur motions to the various burn marks that are either from Phil’s failed experiments or when they forgot to put a mat down to protect the surface from hot pans.

“Doesn’t mean you need to add mud to it as well.”

“Oh, fuck off.” Prime, Wilbur’s already forgetting to be angry with Techno. He needs to get this over with fast. He replaces his feet with his hands, leaning forwards and glaring at Techno. “So, what’s your explanation? Come on Techno, I’m waiting.”

Techno also takes a seat, directly across from Wilbur, standing bolt upright in a way that makes him look oddly like a chastised child. “Alright. So. Uh. Tommy was gettin’ bullied, and I intervened. I was gonna tell you, and then he asked me not to. So I didn’t. I was–”

Wilbur raises an eyebrow.

“–I promise you I was, but then Tommy said he didn’t want to tell you ‘cause you already had enough on your plate. And when I thought about it, I realised he was right for once.”

“I–” Wilbur throws his arms up in frustration. “Why does everyone think that?!”

Techno shrugs. “Perhaps because it’s true?”

“I am perfectly fine– okay, maybe things are a little stressful right now, but I’m managing. I’ve got it all under control. And anyway, we’re not here to talk about me, we’re here to talk about Tommy.” Wilbur rests his head on his hands, allowing himself to show a little more worry, but not enough that it should concern Techno. Hopefully. “What was happening to him?”

“Couple kids were beating him up behind the school as far as I could tell. I only found out because he accidentally showed me the bruises. Then I asked him if I could help – alright, truthfully I kinda forced him to tell me, but that’s not important – and scared ‘em off for him.” Techno’s expression grows a little darker. “They won’t be botherin’ him anymore, that’s for sure.”

Wilbur sighs, burying his head so it can’t be seen. His glasses dig into his cheek uncomfortably. “Thanks, Techno.”

“No problem.” Silence falls, and it’s almost nice. Almost, apart from the fact that Techno’s making a strained expression. Wilbur can see it from behind his hands, peeking through the gaps in his fingers.

“Tommy would ask if you were constipated right now.”

“...Heh?!”

Wilbur giggles, removing his hands from his face so he can see clearly. “What’s up, Techno?”

“Uh, I, I was just gonna say that, if, well, if you ever need any help, or jus’– just need someone to talk to or– or somethin’, you can come to me and Phil.”

“Aww,” Wilbur smiles goofily. Techno’s never one to venture onto an emotional minefield, and Wilbur finds himself almost taken aback by his hesitant steps. “That’s so sweet of you, Techno. In fact, it’s almost brotherly, wouldn’t you agree?”

“I’m gonna stop you right there–”

“Techno and Wilbur, not only brothers-in-arms but brothers in life as well!”

“Isn’t it time you left?”

“Hey, kid.” A raspy voice interrupts Wilbur as he’s tuning his guitar, taking a short break in between crowds of gawking city dwellers, hungry for entertainment as they wait for the airships to refuel.

Situated almost perfectly halfway between the busy port of Essem and the ancient city of Semperth, Arctem makes the perfect refuelling point for airships ferrying goods and passengers between the two cities, and the aerodrome is the town’s backbone, holding most everything else above the water.

Settled awkwardly in a long valley between two high mountain ridges and difficult to access on foot or horse – let alone one of those new-fangled automobiles – the airships are the only reason the town survives, and also practically the only way in or out.

Therefore, they’re the perfect place to attract a crowd, and Wilbur’s found he’s pretty good at that. 

The airship passengers, used to the hustle and bustle of their urban lives, are lured in by Wilbur’s gentle guitar and crooning voice, playing the part of a humble country boy just trying to get by.

It’s all a persona, of course, a second skin he slips on to trick the onlookers into sighing “oh, how quaint,” and chucking a few primes his way. And it works, so every day Wilbur grits his teeth and confines himself to a role he’s never wanted, a role that has him chafing at the bit to escape as he endures the patronising sighs and pitying looks. But he has to – for Tommy, he tells himself.

“Kid, I’m talking to you,” snaps the voice again, shaking Wilbur from his anxious thoughts of how he can stretch out the money he’s earned for today’s and tomorrow’s dinner.

“I’m sorry?” he says, glancing up. His eyes trail up polished shoes, crisply ironed slacks, a jet black, pristine suit-jacket, and finally come to rest on a pair of sharp yellow eyes, glaring at him with a look that, if he truly were a shy country boy, would have him running for the hills. But Wilbur Soot is not the sort to be intimidated by a jumped up city dweller, even if they do cut quite an intimidating figure with huge pointed horns that curl around the man’s head, gleaming just as brightly as his shoes.

“Are you listening, boy?” the businessman – for how could he be anything else – asks harshly.

“Yes sir,” Wilbur replies, setting down his guitar at his side. “Can I help you?” He’s careful to keep his tone neutral, to speak with respect but not grovel. It wouldn’t do for the man to think him disrespectful, but Wilbur will not have him think of him as subservient. He is not to be walked over, and Wilbur lets the man know that by standing, allowing himself to look down on the man.

The businessman’s eyes narrow, yellow slit-pupiled eyes boring into Wilbur’s own plain brown, and he feels a small rush of smug satisfaction.

“Your singing,” the man begins, words slow and deliberate. “It’s fucking shit.”

Oh, so that’s how they’re going to play it.

“Thank you for the advice,” Wilbur replies smoothly. Stay neutral, stay neutral, he reminds himself.

“It wasn’t advice, boy. What’s your name?”

“Wilbur Soot, sir.”

“Age?”

“Seventeen, sir.”

“Hm, a little old then, but not as bad as I was expecting.” The man leans back on his haunches, surveying Wilbur with a calculating gaze.

“What do you mean?” Wilbur asks, scowling a little. That does not sound promising.

“Do you like it here, Wilbur?” The businessman says, gesturing to the town below them. The aerodrome is at the top of a small rise, and Wilbur’s usual spot is in front of the main entrance, at the foot of some bronze statue of an old legendary airship admiral, from back when there were factions and wars. It’s all long past, now, and the only thing that’s shaken up the sleepy town of Arctem in the last few years is the accident that killed Wilbur’s parents and left him a house that costs more money than he can earn to keep and a little brother to raise.

“It’s all I’ve ever known,” Wilbur answers truthfully.

“That’s a shit answer. Just give me a yes or no answer, kid.”

“It’s a bit more complicated than that, sir.” What the fuck does this guy want? If he’s about to drag Wilbur off into some human trafficking ring prime help him– 

“You ever heard of the Manburg Music Academy?”

“Wh– do you mean L’Manburg? The L’Manburg Academy of Music?”

“Yeah yeah, that one.”

“Of course I have, who hasn’t?!” Wilbur exclaims, all thoughts of illegal activities washed away by a surge of interest. “It’s the best school for musicians in the country – scratch that, the fucking continent! All the best artists came from there!”

“Huh. You know your stuff, then?” There’s a self-satisfied smirk on the man’s face, and Wilbur has the mild urge to swing his fist into it. There’s something about this man that just rubs him up the wrong way, like the itch of running your hand up velvet the wrong direction.

“I’d like to say so, yeah,” Wilbur says half-jokingly, “Any musician worth their shit knows about the L’Manburg Academy.” Wilbur has a book that Phil brought him from Essem in pride of place on his shelf: Notable Musicians and Composers of the L’Manburg Royal Academy of Music. He’s read it cover-to-cover more times than he can count, poring over the success stories and wondering, just wondering, if one day he can be like that.

“Your singing might be shit, Wilbur Soot, and your guitar pretty piss-poor as well,” the man continues, waving a hand in Wilbur’s general direction, who furrows his eyebrows in response. “But, but, I think you’ve got potential.”

“Potential?” Wilbur echoes, his brain daring to whirl with possibilities.

“Don’t interrupt me. Yes, potential.” The man leans in close to Wilbur, as if he’s letting him in on some grand secret, the point of one of his horns coming dangerously close to Wilbur’s eye. “And I like potential. I see your potential boy, and I know I can cultivate it. I’ve got connections, contacts, all that shit. So let me offer you a deal: you come with me, agree to let me guide you, and I’ll get you a place at that fucking academy, you hear me?”

Wilbur finds himself shocked into silence, mouth opening and closing like a fish. “Me… a place at the L’Manburg Academy? Me?” he repeats. His hands lie loosely at his side, and he keeps himself vaguely aware of the fountain edge behind him – he might need to sit down.

“Yes, who else is here? ‘S not like I’m gonna send my bodyguard off to some fancy-as-shit music school, is it?” The man motions to the figure standing behind him, so quiet and muted that Wilbur hadn’t even noticed their presence. “So what d’ya say, boy? You in?”

“What–” Wilbur stammers. “What about the money? The tuition fees?”

“I’m sponsoring you, that’s the thing. All you gotta do is stick with me, kid, and I’ll make all your dreams come true. You don’t want to be stuck in this little backwater shithole forever, do you? Scraping together coins for your next meal? No, Wilbur Soot, come with me, and I’ll make you a star. You could even end up with your own bust in the concert hall.”

His own bust in the L’Manburg Concert Hall? Wilbur allows himself to picture it for a second: a white marble bust of himself, hair just the way he likes it and expression strong and confident, standing alone on a gold engraved plinth. Alone.

“Sir, but, my little brother, he needs me–”

“So what? You gonna let something like that hold you back? C’mon kid, Wilbur my boy–” the man rests a heavy hand on Wilbur’s shoulder, chuckling softly, “–you’ve got potential, remember? You could be rich, so rich! Fuck, you could make enough money to support you and your little brother for the rest of your lives, and your kids after that. Follow your dreams, don’t let anyone hold you back, all that fucking shit, you know what I’m talking about?”

“I– it’s a lot to think about, sir.”

“Well.” The hand drops from Wilbur’s shoulder as the man draws back. “I’ll be back through here in two days on my way back to Essem. If you’re with me, Wilbur, you’ll be here with your shit at midday, ready to go. If not, well, you’re a fucking idiot in my eyes.” And with that, the businessman walks away, hand raised in a lazy farewell. His bodyguard nods at Wilbur before following after.

“Hey!” Wilbur yells, fumbling through confusion and shock and a mild sense of awe. “I don’t even know your fucking name!”

“Schlatt!” The man shouts back. “Remember it!” And he’s gone, through the doors of the aerodrome and back to catch whatever airship he was waiting for in the first place.

Wilbur has to stand there for a little while, replaying the conversation in his mind again and again. He casts his eyes back over Arctem, slowly taking in the quiet town with its scattered, disorganised cottages and streets, and then down the valley, where the river winds in the direction of Essem.

Wilbur runs a hand through his hair, then rubs the back of his neck. 

“Fuck,” he mutters.

“Alright, okay, let me get this straight.” Phil sighs, rubbing his face with his hands. Wilbur watches him from across the table, hands wrapped tightly around a mug of slowly cooling tea. He’s back in Phil and Techno’s kitchen, but this time with Phil; Techno is nowhere to be seen, but Wilbur assumes he’s in the workshop. “This random guy walked up to you, said some random shit, and then offered to get you a place at the fucking L’Manburg Academy?!” Phil’s tone is incredulous, and rightly so; if this hadn’t just happened to Wilbur, he would have never believed it possible – it sounds like something from one of those unrealistic “chosen one” stories. 

He nods weakly. “Yep.”

“What did you say his name was again?”

“Schlatt, that’s what he told me.”

“Hmm, Schlatt.” Phil leans back in his chair, wings flaring behind him for balance. “Name kinda rings a bell… huh.”

“He was some kind of businessman,” Wilbur supplies. “Had these big curly horns, sheep or goat hybrid, I think.”

“Huh, not many hybrids around these days,” Phil remarks.

Wilbur laughs, raising a hand to motion to Phil’s wings. “Says the hybrid himself.”

“Well, it’s not like there’s many others in Arctem apart from Techno and I.”

“True.” Wilbur purses his lips together, trying to name a few off the top of his head. “Umm, how about the old cat hybrid–”

“Oh! That’s it!” Phil claps his hands together. Wilbur jerks his head up in response. “The Schlatts are an old business family, I remember them from when I lived in Essem. Very well established and well off, but not the nicest of folk, if I remember rightly.”

“Yeah, he was a dick,” Wilbur says vehemently. “Real fucking dick, actually. Don’t know why I ever thought about accepting his offer.”

“Now, hold on.” Phil reaches across the table to gently rest a hand on Wilbur’s arm, patting him slightly. “Think about this a little – this could be your chance Wilbur, your only chance. You’ve always dreamed of something like this ever since you were a little boy. I remember, I bought a book for you once, something like–”

“Yeah, I know the one,” Wilbur interjects. “But really Phil, this could be a huge mistake. What if Schlatt’s lying, he could be just stringing me along for a laugh. ‘Oh, look at this nobody from nowhere, let’s wind him up for a laugh!’” Wilbur scoffs, glaring darkly into his tea. “Real funny.”

“Or, he could be speaking the truth, and you get to attend the most prestigious music academy in the country. How many places are even royal-endorsed these days?”

“Heh. Even if it was the truth, it’s not like I could go anyway. I’m not good enough for somewhere like that.”

“Oh Wilbur, don’t say that. I know that your music is amazing, and Techno and Tommy would say the same. You’ve got real talent, you know.” Phil’s tone is warm and genuine, his eyes steady and unflinching. “I think Schlatt was far too harsh with you, but, mate, he’s right. You’ve got potential, so much potential, and this is your chance to turn that into something real. Fuck, you could make a full on career out of this!”

“Phil I–”

“Mate, just entertain the possibility for a second. Let yourself imagine what it’s like. Go on, close your eyes, slow breathing, whatever the fuck you do for those visualisation exercises.”

“Not like I’ll see anything anyway,” mutters Wilbur, but he sits back in his chair and closes his eyes in spite of that, trying to imagine himself as a student at the Academy. He remembers the pictures and prints he’s seen, trying to place himself in that grand foyer, sitting down at a desk in one of the classrooms…

“I can’t do it,” Wilbur groans, flopping forwards to thonk his head on the table. He follows the grain of the table wood with his finger, tracing the whorls and knots. “Just forget I ever mentioned it to you Phil.”

“No!” Phil smacks his hand down on the table, making Wilbur jump. “Wil, I really think you should do this, and I’m not going to stop telling you that!”

Wilbur scowls, arising from a mixture of frustration and confusion. “Why Phil? Why are you so fucking insistent?”

“Because– because this is a once in a lifetime opportunity, and I’m not going to see you give up on it! Do you really want to live out the rest of your days not having taken a risk? Make a leap of faith for once in your life Wil, live a little for god’s sake!”

Wilbur, admittedly, is a little taken aback, head clear from the table and sitting bolt upright, lips pressed tightly together. He hasn’t seen Phil this wound up about something for a long time, not since that week in July when his supplier sent the wrong ingredients and they ended up with a healing potion shortage.

Phil sits back down in his chair from where he’d half stood up, folding his wings neatly behind his back. He sighs, deep and tired-sounding. “And… and your parents would want this for you, I know they would.”

“Oh.” Wilbur swallows, looking down at his now cold mug of tea. “You think they would?” he says quietly.

“Yes, I know they would. Fuck, if your mother was here, she’d have you packed and ready to go already.”

Wilbur laughs softly. “Really?” He wonders what his parents would have said, how they would have convinced him. Maybe his mother would have laughed and shoved him out the door, maybe his father would have put his hands on Wilbur’s shoulders and told him “You can do it son.” However, the accident not only ripped them from his present life, but most of his memories as well, and so Wilbur has no idea what his parents would have said. Most anything related to them is a hazy blur at best. He’s seen doctors aplenty, shrinks, even a few witches and wizards, but nothing’s worked.

“The human brain is a funny thing,” one of the nameless faces had told him, just one in a line of many. “I can’t be sure, but who knows, they might come back someday. Just be patient, and keep yourself healthy, both mentally and physically. That’s the best advice I can give.”

Wilbur tries, but it’s difficult, especially when you’ve got a little brother– “Oh gods Phil, I can’t leave Tommy.” A rush of self loathing fills Wilbur. How could he completely disregard Tommy? What kind of a brother is he?

“Ah. Fuck.”

“Yeah, fuck.” Wilbur groans. He’d just started to properly consider the idea, and now he’s sent crashing back down to reality. “It’s like the whole world is against me.”

“Mate, not the whole world. You’ve got me, and Techno, and Tommy.” Phil smiles at Wilbur, who appreciates Phil’s support so much – he wouldn’t have been able to make it so far without him – but prime does he come across as patronising sometimes.

“Thanks, Phil.” He tries not to come across as sarcastic, but judging from Phil’s expression, he’s failed.

“I mean it, Wil. I’m behind you on this, and I know Tommy and Techno will be as well. I think you should do it, but you also need to decide for yourself. You’ve got a few days, after all. And,” Phil pauses, “Now I’m thinking about it, we could always take Tommy in – there’s a spare room that he could take. It’s not like Techno and I get guests often, after all.”

“What?” 

Wilbur stares wide-eyed at Phil as he voices the very thing that he used to dream about, late at night in the months after their parents died. Tommy was nine, unable to fully understand that their parents were never-ever coming back, and had acted out endlessly because of it, driving Wilbur to the edge and sometimes over it. 

After those times, where the two would lie in separate rooms seething with grief and rage, Wilbur would imagine Tommy gone. Not gone gone , of course, but with someone – anyone, really, but Wilbur could not deny that Phil had never crossed his mind – who would care for him better than Wilbur could, someone who could handle Tommy with his wildness and noise and everything that made him Tommy . 

Then Wilbur would curl up under the covers and cry, hating the fact that he ever entertained letting Tommy be taken from him.

“I– Phil, I couldn’t put that responsibility on you.” Now the thought fills him with dread. How can he let Tommy go, when he’s been the keystone of Wilbur’s life for the past few years. Sometimes Tommy was the only reason Wilbur could get out of bed, knowing if he didn’t, there would be no one to feed him, talk to him, see him off to school with a gentle kiss to the forehead. “Tommy he’s– he’s–” Wilbur sighs, burying his head in his hands. “There’s no gentler way to say this, but he’s a lot to handle. I couldn’t make you take that on. He’s my– my little brother, I should look after him.”

Phil’s unnervingly silent for a while, looking at Wilbur with an expression he can’t quite decipher, but makes him feel uncomfortable and almost… judged? “The fact that you’re saying that tells me I should have offered ages ago. Wil, you’re only seventeen, and you’ve let Tommy become your whole life. Do something for yourself for once, be a teenager, not a parent.”

“I’m not a parent!” Wilbur says defensively, feeling some inexplicable rage wash over him. “I’m just looking after him, like any good older sibling should do! What’s wrong with that?!”

“Most don’t have to like you do,” Phil says quietly. “It’s not– you’re not in the wrong, Wilbur, I’m just saying that you deserve the chance to act like a seventeen year old for once. You’ve done so well these last few years. Really, I should have helped you out more, but you’ve taken it all on by yourself and never asked for help–”

“I have,” Wilbur interrupts, choking out the words past the lump in his throat.

“Teaching you a few recipes hardly counts as helping,” Phil scolds lightly. “What you’ve done is amazing Wil – I could never – but it’s been so hard on you. It’s alright for you to want something else, something new– Oh, oh Wil.”

Phil rises from the table and rushes to embrace Wilbur, who shakes with silent sobs. Phil holds him tight, rocking him from side to side a little. “It’s alright, it’s okay.”

Wilbur twists into the hug, letting Phil envelop him in his arms. It’s not like he’s touch-starved – Tommy is rather affectionate, especially when he’s sleepy, curling up by Wilbur’s side on the sofa after he’s given up on his homework – but Wilbur’s not been hugged like this, like he’s being supported, like he’s being cared for instead of doing the caring, not in a long, long time. 

It’s enough to let himself cry openly, in loud, ugly sobs, the sort that he can never do at home lest Tommy somehow discover him.

“Oh mate,” Phil repeats, as well as various other vaguely comforting phrases as he holds Wilbur, letting him unleash tears that have been bottled up for years onto his shoulder.

Wilbur’s not quite sure how long it lasts for, but eventually he finds he has no more tears left to cry, and the lifting of a pressure off his chest, one he hadn’t realised existed until it was there no longer. He feels light, almost like he could float away. 

He can’t quite decide if he likes it.

“Uh,” he begins, his tongue heavy in his mouth. “Um, sorry about that Phil. I’ve– um, I’ve quite soaked your shirt.”

Phil steps away and glances down at the dark patch on his shirt. “That’s alright. I think you needed that, after all.”

“...Maybe I did,” Wilbur mumbles, half to himself. Phil smiles and pats his shoulder gently. Wilbur stands, teetering on uncertain legs, but feeling more stable than he has since he first heard Schlatt’s voice. “I, uh– I’m gonna think about it – properly, I promise. I’ll really consider it.”

“Good.”

“And– and thanks for offering to look after Tommy, Phil, I– um– I’ll keep that in mind.”

“It’s no problem,” Phil says, all soft eyes and kind smiles, before he unfocuses for a second. “Oh, do you mind if I tell Techno about this?”

It’s a little embarrassing for Wilbur to admit, but he admires Techno, quite a bit. Techno’s only two years older than Wilbur, but he’s always seemed so much wiser and more self-aware. Yes, he’s a socially awkward nerd, and Wilbur likes nothing more than to remind him of the fact, but Techno always seems to know so much more, and he’s well-travelled, having spent his childhood in Semperth and his early teens in Essem, apprenticed to Phil. 

It’s nothing like Tommy’s hero-worship, but it’s enough to make Wilbur hesitate. “None of this,” he says, waving his hand around. “Nothing about what just happened, but– I guess you can mention the Academy thing. Don’t like, make a big deal out of it though.”

“I’ll try,” Phil says, in a non-committal tone that means he absolutely will and there’s nothing Wilbur can do to stop him.

Wilbur sighs, and glances at the grandfather clock in the corner of the kitchen. “I should go; I need to make sure the oven’s warm in time for dinner.”

“You can stay here for dinner–” Phil begins, but Wilbur interjects.

“I think I want it to be just Tommy and me tonight.” He shifts his weight from foot to foot. “I gotta, you know, tell him and everything.”

“Oh, yeah! Good luck with that, mate.”

“Thank you, Phil.” Wilbur pushes his fringe aside and meets Phil in the eyes. “For everything, really. I would have never made it through these last few years without you.”

“Aw mate!” Phil steps forwards for another hug, but Wilbur ducks away, not ready to let his guard down again.

“I’m alright Phil, uh, see you around. I’ll just, hop out the back here.” Wilbur hurries out of the kitchen and through the stairwell, yelling out a “Bye Techno!” up the stairs before letting himself out the back door. 

After it’s shut behind him, he leans against the varnished wood and sighs deeply, giving himself a moment to gather his frazzled thoughts, trying to draw together a conclusion.

Wilbur taps his fingers on the kitchen table and hums a short tune repetitively, the same few notes over and over. He knows Tommy can feel his anxiety; Wilbur’s spotted him glancing at him out of the corner of his eye a few times, but he hasn’t pointed it out yet.

Wilbur kind of wishes he would. It would make this conversation that needs to happen a whole lot easier. He turns his hand over and raps his knuckles on the table before returning to tapping his fingers. 

And then, like the universe has heard his prayers for once in his life, Tommy speaks. “What’s up with you, then?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Wilbur responds automatically before internally kicking himself.

“You’re not fooling me for a second, Wilbur,” Tommy says, pointing a spoon at him. They’re halfway through dinner: a hodgepodge stew Wilbur cobbled together only half-focused, trying to think of a way to bring up the whole “being offered a place into the school of his dreams” thing. A haphazardly chopped carrot stares mournfully at him. “You’re freaking the fuck out about something.”

“I–” Wilbur starts, before sighing and setting his spoon down on the table. “Yeah, yeah I am.”

“So what is it?” Tommy asks before falling silent, suddenly looking very uncomfortable and shifting on his chair. “Is this about earlier today?”

“Wha– how did you–”

“We literally spoke after you found my books Wil, I told you fuckin’ face-to-face about the bullying.”

“Oh, that.” Wilbur’s eyes widen. “Uh, no, something else happened that somehow managed to trump that, but we do need to talk about that still.”

Tommy turns his face to the ceiling and groans loudly. “Ughhhh, I shouldn’t have reminded you.”

“We can’t just forget about it Tommy!” Wilbur retorts, a spike of guilt stabbing through him as he realises he was going to do just that. “It needs to be stopped – they need to be stopped!”

“Yeah, and what are you gonna do? Talk to the teachers?” Tommy scoffs. “Like they’ll do anything, they hate me just as much.”

“I’m sure that’s not true,” Wilbur says, but it’s a halfhearted refute.

“It is! My maths teacher wouldn’t mark my homework just because I was ten minutes late to the lesson! And in phys-ed I always get picked last for teams!” Tommy presses his lips together and looks down. “...It fuckin’ sucks, actually. It’s not even like I’m bad or anything. Well, most of the time, I’m not bad – if they tell you about the Clementine incident at the next parents’ evening they’re exaggerating.”

Wilbur chuckles despite the severity of the situation, then leans against the table with his hand pressed into his forehead. “Fuck, Tommy. You shouldn’t be experiencing this.”

“No shit,” Tommy responds flatly. “Not like they care about whether it’s a should or shouldn’t – they just are.”

“Can I– would you rather I left it to Techno? You know, since you prefer talking to him about it rather than me– Fuck!” Wilbur groans. “Sorry, that was mean. I didn’t mean it.”

Tommy’s scowl that has been ever-present throughout the conversation darkens. “You still said it.” A pause. “And you know what? Yeah, I would rather tell Techno. I’d rather you kept your nose out of this, and focused on something of your own for once instead of constantly driving yourself up the wall because you think you’re some kind of hero! Because you’re not a fucking hero Wil, you’re my brother, and you don’t need to be a hero!” Tommy’s shouting by the end of his tirade, floodgates ripped open angrily and left falling off their hinges. 

“...You just need to be my brother,” he adds on quietly.

“Oh,” Wilbur says.

“Yeah.” Tommy sits back down and sticks his spoon into his stew. Wilbur hadn’t even noticed he had stood up.

It’s silent for a few moments before Wilbur builds up the courage to speak again. “...Can you promise me you’ll talk to Techno about it?”

Tommy looks up, eyes wide. “You’re– you’re not upset?”

“Well, I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t a little bit,” Wilbur admits. “But I trust Techno to deal with it, and, uh, if I’m honest, I’ve already spoken to him about it.”

“What– and he told you? The bitch!” There’s humour in Tommy’s tone however, something heavy lifting from his voice that Wilbur had hardly even noticed before.

“I was pretty angry at him,” Wilbur laughs. “He folded like paper.”

“Weak-ass motherfucker.”

“Tommy!” Wilbur scolds lightly. He doesn’t know where Tommy picked up his foul mouth, but he blames Phil. Totally no fault of Wilbur’s at all, nope. Not at all.

“It’s true! Techno can’t keep a secret to save his life!”

“He keeps important ones just fine,” Wilbur points out. “He’s bad under peer pressure, that’s all.”

Tommy leans back in his chair and folds his arms. “Yeah, right.” Then his face scrunches suddenly, a thought occurring. “So what trumped all of that? Must be something pretty fuckin’ huge.”

“Uh, yeah, so basically, this random weirdo showed up and…” As succinctly as possible, Wilbur recounts the events of the day to Tommy, from Schlatt’s offer to his conversation with Phil, although he leaves out the bit where he cried like a fucking baby. Tommy doesn’t need to know about that; he already deals with enough of Wilbur’s baggage as is, no need to add more.

When Wilbur finishes, fumbling his way to the end of the recollection, Tommy’s mouth is hanging open, and his eyes are as wide as saucers. His eyebrows are furrowed somewhere between shock and anger. Wilbur sincerely hopes it isn’t anger. “What the fuck. ”

“What the fuck indeed,” Wilbur echoes with the ghost of a giggle. There’s something stupidly comical about Tommy’s reaction that makes him smile despite his anxiety. “But I still don’t know if–”

“That is so fucking cool!” Tommy explodes out of his chair, hands hitting the table with force that rattles the cutlery. “You’re gonna go to some fancy-as-shit music school and become a proper musician, Wilbur! That’s amazing!”

“Yeah, yeah, I think so too,” Wilbur replies, voice growing in strength as he speaks. “It’s pretty fucking crazy, right?”

“You’re gonna be famous!”

“I don’t think that’s quite the case, not everyone who goes there makes it–”

“But you will.” Tommy grins wildly, practically vibrating with excitement. “You’re gonna blow the whole place away, I just know you will.”

Wilbur’s cheeks burn, a lump forming in his throat. Tommy’s eyes are filled with such certainty that it lays on Wilbur like a weighted blanket, heavy on his back. It’s almost unbearable, the belief Tommy has in him.

“Thanks,” Wilbur croaks. “Thank you Tommy.” A breathy high-pitched laugh escapes from his throat, like a kettle’s screeched release of pressure. “You know, I thought you’d be mad at me.”

“Mad? Why the fuck would I be mad?”

“I’m leaving you,” Wilbur says simply.

“You’re not– well, I guess you are, but– you’re not, like, leaving leaving!” Tommy exclaims, leaning over the table with a furrowed expression. “Not like that!”

“But– I’m not gonna be here,” Wilbur responds, frustrated by Tommy’s response. He was expecting anger and anxiety and uncertainty; it’s like he’s been short-changed, almost. “I’m not gonna be here for you, I’m not gonna be here to look after you or be your brother or anything–”

There’s the screech of a chair across stone flags and the slap of socked feet and– oh. Oh.

Tommy’s hugging Wilbur. 

His arms wrap tightly around Wilbur, who’s frozen for a second, brain overwhelmed by the sudden contact and warmth of a human body before he returns the hug with just as much energy, clinging desperately to his brother.

“You’re a fuckin’ idiot Wil,” Tommy mumbles into his jumper. “Just because you’re not gonna be here doesn’t mean you’re not my brother, why would you say that?”

“Yeah, I… I don’t know why I said that.” Wilbur curls his hands into Tommy’s shirt, golden hair tickling his nose. “I guess I was just being stupid.”

“You were.” Tommy’s voice is sharp, and there’s a suspiciously wet glint in his eyes as he draws back. “Now, if you turn into a fancy dickish ponce, that’s another story. I refuse to be family with someone who’s rude to women and customer service people. Only be a dick to men, okay?”

Wilbur smiles, feeling it overtake his whole face. Of course Tommy would say something like that. “Okay. I promise to not turn into a fancy dickish ponce and only be rude to men.”

“Exactly,” Tommy says, with no small amount of satisfaction. “So are you gonna go then?”

“I…” Wilbur hesitates, just for a second, before something solidifies in his mind with a click, and he speaks with more confidence than he’s had since Schlatt opened his fucking mouth.  “Yeah, I am.”

The words echo across the kitchen with a sense of finality.

Two days later, Wilbur waits beside the fountain, near exactly where he was when it all began, his guitar slung across his back and a monstrously huge carpet bag at his side. Phil had thrust it upon him when he heard Wilbur had decided to go, telling him that it was a good luck gift with charms for safe travel woven into the fabric.

Personally, Wilbur thinks the swirling designs are horrendously outdated, but he’d held his tongue and accepted it with a neutral smile. He doesn’t have a bag big enough for all the stuff he needs, so it’ll have to do for now.

Techno helped him lug it up to the aerodrome, complaining the whole time but still refusing to let Wilbur carry it on his own. Tommy wanted to help as well, so Wilbur gave him his guitar to hold, and he had carried it with a gentle reverence. Wilbur never lets anyone else hold his guitar, especially not Tommy ever since the time he got jammy fingerprints all over it as a toddler.

Now Wilbur waits alone. He’d refused to have Tommy and Techno see him off, knowing it would probably get emotional and also he doesn’t trust them not to piss off Schlatt somehow. Techno had been acquiescent, but Tommy complained, grumbling until Techno had to practically drag him away, yelling goodbyes the whole time. Phil had wanted to come as well, but he’d been overwhelmed with a surge of orders for the apothecary, most likely something to do with the sudden change of weather – it’s turned cold and stormy over the last few days, and people have been hounding after cough cures and heating charms.

To be fair, Phil had been all for closing up shop to see Wilbur off, but Wilbur had persuaded him not to. Phil’s magic is invaluable to the town of Arctem, they need him more than Wilbur does, even though it makes his heart twist in his chest to not have Phil there. But Wilbur can manage. He can’t always rely on Phil; he can’t always rely on anyone now he’s on his own. He sure as fuck can’t rely on Schlatt, considering the man never told him exactly when he’d be passing back through, and so Wilbur is forced to wait in a chill wind.

If not for his father’s coat, a battered old thing with a bright yellow patch on one of the elbows, Wilbur would be freezing. He buries himself in the thick fabric, breathing in the hint of cologne and smoke, something that evokes a fuzzy memory of bonfires as a little kid. 

The memory sharpens for a moment and Wilbur remembers being perched on a log, toasting… something – he’s not quite sure what – over flickering flames and glowing embers, his father by his side, directing him on how to turn his stick so he doesn’t set whatever it is on fire. Then the memory crumbles like grains of sand sifting through his fingers. Wilbur tries to keep the pieces together, cupping imaginary hands tightly together but it’s difficult when the drone of an airship fills the air, vibrating through his body like a plucked string–

Wilbur jerks his head up, watching the airship descend. A brightly coloured balloon supports the ship itself, advertisements scrawled across the fabric for contraptions such as a mangle inset with a heating charm so your clothes dry crisp and smart, or the most recent model of bicycle, claiming to have the most comfortable seat this side of the continent.

The ship itself is nothing special, not that different from ordinary sea-faring vessels apart from the metal wires and struts that cradle it below the balloon and the mighty engine on the back, choking out steam and purified smoke as it propels the airship through the sky.

Wilbur shudders. He hasn’t been aboard one since the accident, and although he doesn’t remember the crash, fear still floods his body with cold water and sends a prickling sensation running across his skin.

Focus! This is perfectly safe, the ships on this route are well maintained, you know that!

The airship descends into the aerodrome through the open hatch in the roof, disappearing from Wilbur’s sight, and barely seconds later, the drone of the engine fades and becomes indistinguishable from the hum of activity that is normal for the aerodrome.

Absent-mindedly Wilbur crosses his fingers, hoping that this is Schlatt’s airship and he won’t have to wait another three hours for the next one. That’ll involve lugging all his baggage down the hill into Arctem and trudging into the apothecary like a discharged soldier with nothing to show for himself, and Wilbur doesn’t think he could bear the wait, not with everyone else’s nerves running high alongside his own. He’d rather stay up here in the cold than do that.

Prime, what if Schlatt really was stringing Wilbur along and he’s not going to appear at all, already lounging at his desk back at Essem, laughing about the gullible idiot of a country boy he tricked into imagining above his station. He’ll tell the story at fancy parties, smirking over a glass of wine and recalling the story for other members of high society, and they’ll all laugh at Wilbur for actually believing he was a good enough musician to–

“Well well well, look who it is!” The shout echoes across the plaza, heralding the approach of Schlatt as he exits the aerodrome with a lazy, confident stride, one hand in his pocket and the other half raised to catch Wilbur’s attention. Not that he needed to – the slightly disdainful tone to his voice is unmistakable, and still just as annoying as it was before. Wilbur grimaces minutely, but is careful to school his face into pleasant neutrality as Schlatt nears.

“Mr Schlatt, sir,” he acknowledges, nodding in response.

“So, you decided to take my offer then?” Schlatt pauses a few steps away from Wilbur, his expression that of a cat – or a ram, haha – who’s got the cream. Behind him follows his bodyguard, ever silent. “Ah, silly me. Of course you have.”

“You told me not to bother showing up if I didn’t,” Wilbur retorts, unable to prevent snark seeping into his tone.

“No need to be snappy about it, boy.”

Wilbur scowls. 

“Come on, kid, cheer up!” Schlatt throws an arm around Wilbur’s shoulders, the tip of a horn coming dangerously close to Wilbur’s eye. “Fucking hell, I forgot what a beanpole you are.”

Wilbur forces himself to smile. “I ate a lot of vegetables when I was a kid, sir.”

“Damn right you did.” Schlatt releases Wilbur after a tense few seconds and steps away, brushing at the sleeves of his black jacket. Then he sniffs it, right where it rubbed up against Wilbur’s coat. “We’re gonna need to get you some new clothes, that coat smells like shit.”

“What? It doesn’t–”

“WILBUR!” 

That’s Tommy’s voice. Wilbur whirls around just in time to catch Tommy as he collides with him, a small “umph!” escaping as he does.

“Toms? What’s wrong? Did something happen?” Wilbur crouches down and takes Tommy by the shoulders, looking into watery eyes. “Are you crying?”

“No! Fuck off!” Tommy scrubs furiously at his face. “Big men don’t cry!”

“Yes they do, haven’t you ever seen Techno? Remember when that stray dog got into the shed last winter and had puppies and one died?”

“Yeah but, that’s a good reason to cry! A dog died Wilbur, that’s fucking sad.” Tommy stares at him with solemn, red-rimmed eyes, and out of nowhere Wilbur finds himself overcome with emotion. He ruffles Tommy’s hair and smiles softly.

“So my leaving isn’t a good reason to cry?” he teases softly. “Oh Tommy, I’m hurt, how grievously you wound me.”

“What does grie-ve-ous-ly mean?” Tommy asks, eyebrows furrowed and bottom lip jutting out.

“Really bad, you’ve hurt me really bad.”

“Oh. How?”

Wilbur laughs, letting himself cackle without worry for what Schlatt might think. “Don’t worry about it Tommy.” He stands, and runs his hand through Tommy’s hair one last time.

“Wilbur? Who’s this?” Schlatt asks, crossing his arms and looking at Tommy with a mildly disgruntled expression.

“Oh! This is my little brother sir. Tommy, say hello.”

“Hello! I’m Tommy!” Tommy sticks a hand out, and Schlatt frowns, before giving it a hesitant shake. “I like your horns, can you stab people with them?”

Wilbur freezes, mentally facepalming. This is exactly why he didn’t want Tommy to meet Schlatt, surely he’s going to be offended and if he’s mean to Tommy Wilbur doesn’t know what he’ll do. He eyes the bodyguard carefully; if he punches Schlatt will they just fucking kill him?

Then Schlatt laughs, a throaty, ominous-sounding chuckle. “Sure kiddo, that’s what I do with all the people who piss me off.”

“Woah,” Tommy replies, eyes wide. “That’s poggers.”

“Poggers?” Schlatt echoes.

“Local slang,” Wilbur explains, breathing an internal sigh of relief. “He’s saying it’s cool.”

“Damn right it is! Aren’t you a bloodthirsty little fucker?”

“I’m thirteen actually, not that little.”

“Mouthy kid, just like your brother–” Wilbur winces “–but that’s okay, I like people with a bit of spunk in them.”

“I thought being mouthy was bad,” Tommy says. “That’s what all my teachers tell me.”

“Fuck your teachers!” Schlatt yells, making Tommy flinch and jump back. Wilbur takes half a step forwards, trying to subtly angle himself so he’s between Schlatt and Tommy. Schlatt appears to be attempting to be supportive, but Wilbur see’s Tommy’s fear and he’s moving before he can properly comprehend what he’s doing.

“When does the airship leave? Shouldn’t we be on our way?” Wilbur asks hurriedly.

Schlatt frowns, eyeing up Wilbur’s stance, Tommy with a hand lightly touching Wilbur’s coat, so gently he can barely feel it. Then he steps back, seemingly letting the matter slide. “Yeah, probably. Let’s go.”

“I’m just– just gonna say goodbye to Tommy quickly,” Wilbur says. Schlatt mutters something in response, but Wilbur ignores him, turning to Tommy. “Hey Toms, one last hug?”

“I don’t need one, but I guess if you’re so desperate.” Tommy throws his arms around Wilbur’s middle, squeezing tight. Wilbur returns the hug, enveloping Tommy in his arms like he could protect his little brother from the world.

“You better write, you bitch,” comes Tommy’s muffled words.

“I promise. And you gotta behave for Techno and Phil, yeah?”

“Yeah, of course.”

“Be a good kid, do your homework, I’m sure they’ll help you out if you get stuck.”

“Mhm.”

“And remember to wear your raincoat, the weather’s awful at the moment and I don’t want you to catch a cold.”

“Yeah, yeah, you can shut up now.” Tommy wriggles out of Wilbur’s arms, then reaches up to pat Wilbur on the shoulder. “You be good as well, yeah? Don’t be a fuckin’ idiot. And I want a letter every week, or I’m coming to find you and beat the shit out of you.”

“I wouldn’t expect anything else,” Wilbur chuckles and picks up his bag, then reaches behind to readjust his guitar. “Now you go find Techno before he goes crazy looking for you.”

“He won’t have even noticed I’m gone, I’m the best at being sneaky!” Tommy proclaims. “But yeah, you’re probably right.” He swallows audibly. “Uh, bye Wilbur.”

“Bye Tommy. Love you.” Wilbur takes a deep breath, and then turns away, hefting the huge carpet bag into his arms and staggering towards an impatient Schlatt and emotionless bodyguard. He blinks away tears and ignores the lump in his throat, anxiety crushing down on him.

He’s so tempted to look back, but knows if he does, he’ll break down.

“Love you too,” he hears quietly from behind, almost drowned out when Schlatt claps a hand on his shoulder.

“C’mon loverboy, let’s get you to the big city. Ohhh, I can’t wait to see if you get run over or not!”

Wilbur forces a laugh, unable to tell if Schlatt’s joking or not. “Hopefully– hopefully I’ll be just fine, sir.”

“We’ll see. Essem has the tendency to swallow up the poor bastards who can’t cope. You better not be one of them, or I’ve made a bad investment. You better not disappoint me, boy.”

Wilbur swallows. He hopes not. He can do this. For Tommy, he can do this.

Chapter Text

Tommy waves his ticket past the officer’s nose with a flourish, unable to hide his smug grin. The officer stares back, unamused, and snatches the ticket out of Tommy’s hand with surprising grace.

“Third class passengers are that way and to the left, down the stairs,” she drones, not even looking as she stamps it and hands it back to Tommy. “If it’s your first time aboard an airship please take one of the leaflets here, it should tell you everything you need to know. We ask that you do not go out on deck today as we have a lack of staff to keep you safe.”

Tommy grabs a leaflet and scowls at the officer as he walks in the direction they had pointed, down the thin strip of deck between the first class cabin and the railing. Once she’s turned to the next passenger, he flips her the bird. Just because his clothes are a little ratty and his backpack is held together with some poorly sewn stitches, they immediately assume he’s third class?! Despicable. That’s– that’s classist, that is!

Tommy reaches the end of the first class cabin and looks left. A staircase descends into the bowels of the ship, a smart little sign telling him “This way for Second and Third Class Passengers”. Tommy glances down at his – sadly – third class ticket, then back over his shoulder. 

Behind him, the stone back wall of the aerodrome blocks out the view of Arctem, which he knows sits just behind it. The sun is just peeking up and over the tall hills that cradle the village, bathing the grey stone in golden yellow. On the other side, people in the village will be waking up and getting ready to go about their day… including the inhabitants on a certain apothecary.

Tommy takes a deep breath, pushes back his shoulders, and marches down the stairs. 

He grips tightly to the metal railing as he descends, hopping his hand over every little bracket that keeps it firmly attached to the wooden boards. It’s well lit, lanterns hanging from hooks jutting out from the walls or ceiling, although the ones up at the top aren’t lit due to the daylight creeping in.

He reaches the entrance to second class first, a pair of open doors with a ‘2’ carved into them, surrounded by simple swirling shapes and designs. Nothing overly elaborate, like the gold leaf of the first class cabin, but simple and pretty. Tommy can appreciate simple and pretty. 

Inside is much the same, simple, but clean and nice-looking, with padded benches and small tables bolted to the floor.

Tommy flattens himself to the wall as a family walks past, a mother hurrying her two small children along. The mother spares him a quick look, as if questioning his position, one foot still on the stairs and the other on the small landing in front of the doors, but walks past without saying anything.

Beyond the landing, the stairs continue down, and it almost seems dimmer, the lanterns more spaced out. The scent of sweat wafts up, Tommy wrinkling up his nose in response. He looks back at the doors to second class, then towards third class, before turning about and walking into the second class section with his head held high.

He beelines for a spare space on a bench and drops down onto it with a sigh, before slinging his backpack onto his lap and wrapping himself around it, his heart pumping. He has no idea if he’ll get found out, and what the consequences of that might be, but he has no desire whatsoever to sit in third class for the whole eight hour journey.

Wilbur had said they don’t even have windows down there, and never had he gone a flight without someone throwing up, be it from motion sickness or something else. Despite his complaints, he never spent the extra coin for second class, claiming to not have the money. Tommy had always scoffed inwardly at that; surely Schlatt had to be giving him a decent allowance, considering how filthy rich the guy had seemed that one time Tommy had met him.

Wilbur wouldn’t even accept Phil’s offers to pay for a better ticket on the return trip either, being all proud and “oh Phil, I couldn’t accept this!” and shit.

Wilbur’s an idiot. A stupid, fuck-faced, idiotic idiot–

Everything lurches for a second, and the guy sitting next to Tommy neatly slams into him as everyone in the cabin readjusts themselves. “What the fuck?” Tommy gasps under his breath, gaze shooting around the cabin. Nobody but him seems to be worried however, apart from the women from earlier fussing over one of her kids, hiccuping with tears and clinging to a skinned knee.

“Is this your first time flying?” questions a voice from beside him. It’s the man whose nose nearly collided with Tommy’s shoulder, and Tommy’s eyes are instantly drawn to the hideous mismatched jacket he’s wearing, looking like it’s been patched together out of various different items of clothing. It takes every ounce of his self control not to ask why this dude looks like a circus performer, and what comes out instead is: “The fuck you want to know?”

The guy giggles, seemingly unbothered. “Airships always have a bit of turbulence when they take off; you get used to it.”

“Oh. Right. I knew that,” Tommy mutters, drawing his arms defensively around his backpack. As he does so, something presses up against his forearm.

It’s a small woven charm, two wooden sticks bound perpendicularly, with green and gold thread wrapped around them until it forms a diamond shape. Red string attaches it to Tommy’s backpack with a complex knot, one that Tommy’s not sure he could undo himself. The sight of it fills Tommy with a burning, frustrated anger, but also an odd sense of embarrassment.

He’s almost tempted to try and chew the charm off, but something stops him. Techno and Phil rarely make charms of this strength, after all. Tommy wraps a hand around it and squeezes tight.

Technically, he shouldn’t even have it, had things gone to plan for once.

✧

“Tommy, what are you doing?” A deep voice rumbles and eyes flash in the not quite darkness of very early morning, the only light in the kitchen being the soft filtering in of moonlight through the curtains.

Tommy, to his credit, does not scream, instead letting out a very Big Man squeak. “Tech– Technoblade, what are you doing here?!”

“This is my house,” Techno responds, deadpan. “What are you doin’ up so early?”

“I’m– I’m just– I’m getting a drink!” Tommy motions to his water bottle sitting in the sink, lying on its side where Tommy had knocked it over in his fright.

“Riiight,” Techno says slowly. “And does that explain the bag?”

“Oh, that.” Tommy’s rucksack sits on the table innocently, packed to the brim. “Uh, don’t worry about that. It’s not important.”

Techno hums. “What’s your plan Tommy?”

“Sorry?” Something cold floods through Tommy’s veins. “My plan? What plan are you talking about? I don’t– I don’t have a plan.”

“Tommy.”

Tommy tries to stem his quickening breaths. “Fuck off! I’m not doing anything wrong!”

“Well, forgive me for thinking so.”

“Yeah, fuck you bitch. Apology not accepted and all that.” Tommy turns back to the sink, picking up his bottle with a trembling hand. He turns the tap back on and fills it back up, letting the rush of water drown out his racing heart. Techno can’t know. If Techno knows he’ll stop him and Tommy can’t be stopped because when will he next have a chance and then all the money he’s been saving up for years will be wasted and the airship ticket wasn’t cheap by any measure, especially not to a recently sixteen-year-old surviving on Phil’s idea of an allowance–

Tommy screws the lid on his water bottle and shuts the tap off. In the sudden silence, the rustling of paper is all he can hear as Techno does… whatever a Technoblade does behind him.

Tommy groans inwardly. He’d been hoping Techno would have just fucked off back to bed or something. Why was he up at this time anyway? Tommy had made sure to be up and gone before the clocktower struck six – Phil’s usual rising time – and Techno often wouldn’t wake for an hour or so after that.

“Can’t you just go away–” Tommy begins as he turns around to face Techno once again, and his heart plummets. Everything seems to slip into slow motion as Techno puts down the letter Tommy had left on the table. The very important, very secret, very not-to-be-read-until-much-later running away letter.

“Y’know, I’m honestly surprised it took you this long,” Techno drawls, his bright eyes pinning Tommy to the spot like a hawk facing down its prey. “The day after your sixteenth birthday? Awfully poetic, if you ask me.”

“Didn’t fucking ask, you prick,” Tommy mutters, resolutely focusing on the letter and not Techno’s fathomless expression as he takes a step forwards, water bottle still in hand. “What are you gonna do now then? Are you gonna tell Phil or something? Get me grounded?” His voice takes on a mocking tone as he emphasises the last word. “Stop me from being the only one who actually fucking cares about Wilbur enough to go looking for him?”

“I– hey, I do care about Wilbur–”

“Well then, fucking act like it!” Tommy only just resists the urge to shout, forcing the words out as an angry hiss as he launches himself forwards and grabs Techno by the shirt. “Every time I try to talk about him both you and Phil change the subject! Do you not care anymore?! Are you just that shitty a person that the moment he acts a bit of a dick you wash your hands of him?! Well, newsflash, fucker, that’s my brother, and just because he went a bit weird and– and dropped off the fucking map, that doesn’t mean I don’t care about him anymore!”

“Tommy–”

“Save it, Techno, I don’t give a fuck about what you’re gonna say–”

“Tommy!” Techno stares right back at Tommy, their faces only inches apart. Angry blue meets steely red. “Shut up and let me speak.”

Tommy lets go of Techno’s shirt and takes a few steps backwards. “...Fine. Go ahead then.”

“I’m not going to stop you going after Wilbur.” Techno pauses after he says this, appearing faintly smug.

“Oh.” Tommy’s not quite sure about how he’s supposed to respond to this. “Thanks, I guess.”

“I– is that it?”

“Uh, yeah.”

“You’re not even going to ask why?”

“Well, I don’t really care. Can I go now?”

“I– you really don’t want to know why?”

Tommy groans loudly, tipping his head towards the ceiling. “Fucker-no-blade, why oh why are you just letting me wander off on a dangerous journey to go find my missing brother?”

“I do not appreciate that nickname.” Techno sits back down. “Well, y’see, if he hadn’t asked me not to, I probably would have, but then again, with that flu going ‘round and everythin’ that’s happened the last few months, I have been kinda busy.”

Now that gets Tommy’s attention. “You– you’ve spoken to him?! When? Where? What the fuck is going on, Techno?!”

“Hold on, hold on.” Techno raises his hands. “Not, uh, recently or anythin’, it was last time he was home.”

“Oh.” Tommy purses his lips together and glances at the floor. The last time Wilbur had come home had been a messy, painful affair, one of smashed glasses and raised voices. “What did he say?”

“Ah, he asked me… about causes, and about how important I thought they were. And then he told me that if he went – AWOL, absent without leave, he described it as – not to come looking, because it meant he didn’t want to be found.”

“He… doesn’t want to be found?” Tommy echoes. “What do you mean Techno? How could you just fucking sit on this and not tell me? Does Phil know? Have the both of you known the entire time and that’s why you won’t talk about him?”

“Phil doesn’t know. Wilbur swore me to secrecy, an’ I respected that.”

“Well apparently, that means jack shit since you’re telling me now.”

“This is– this is different!”

“I don’t fucking care! You’ve known something this entire time and you haven’t told us! I don’t care that Wilbur swore you to secrecy, he’s a fucking bitch and so are you! I hate you, Technoblade! I hate you!” If Phil hasn’t woken up with the volume Tommy’s been shouting at it’s a fucking miracle.

“It’s not been easy for me either! What was I supposed to do, Wilbur trusted me with this, and he seemed to know what he was doing!”

“Yeah, if dropping off the face of the Earth is knowing what he was doing! Fuck you, Technoblade.” Tommy grabs his rucksack from the table. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have an airship to catch,” he says, voice steely-cold.

Techno just sits there, eyes averted. “One second.” Then he rises and exits the room, feet pattering up the stairs.

Oh fuck, is he going to get Phil? Tommy edges towards the door, but not before remembering to shove his water bottle in his already bulging backpack. He has his hand on the doorknob when Techno returns, hissing at him from the top of the stairs. “Don’t move!”

Instinctively, Tommy freezes, and Techno’s several steps down before he twists the doorknob again, and cool wind teases through the crack of the open door.

“Please, Tommy, wait.” The urgency in Techno’s voice catches him off guard. He’s biting his lower lip, uncharacteristically anxious, or at least in the fact that he’s actually showing it. There’s something clenched in his right hand, and he brings it to Tommy’s backpack, fiddling with a metal ring on the side.

“What– fuck are you doing Techno?” Tommy asks, trying to twist and see, but Techno cuffs him lightly over the head and tells him not to move.

“It’s our strongest protection and luck charm,” Techno says, stepping back to reveal a woven green and gold charm hanging from Tommy’s bag. It’s not that big, easy to hide in a hand. “Both Phil and I worked on it, it’s the most powerful charm we own.”

“Wh– how long did it take you to make?” Tommy asks, tapping it with a finger.

“Four months, give or take a few weeks.”

“Four– four months?!” Tommy splutters. “That’s– just how expensive is this thing?!”

“Don’t sell it.”

Tommy drops his hand and glares at Techno. “Wasn’t planning on it.”

“Good. It’s for you, and you only.”

“...Okay.” All the anger is gone from the air, leaving only an uncomfortable awkwardness. “Did– did you guys know I was gonna go find Wil?”

“Well. I had a feeling you would. Don’t know about Phil though, no idea what’s going through his head about Wilbur if I’m honest.”

“That’s one thing we’re in agreement about, at least.” Tommy shuffles from foot to foot. “And uh, you’re not gonna stop me going?”

“Nope. After all, you’d just try again in a little while, wouldn’t you?”

“Yeah.”

“...It’s just a shame we’re so busy here, I guess. You stay safe, yeah?”

“Will do,” Tommy grunts, and exits Phil and Techno’s apothecary, shutting the door behind him.

✧

Tommy zones back in to the weirdo guy nattering on about airships still, something about the way turbulence can affect a flight, both the negatives and the positives. The topic sends an uncomfortable shiver up his spine. He finds his hand curling around the charm, as if it could protect him now.

…Could it? Tommy has never really taken much interest in how magic works, despite often letting Techno drone on about the finer mechanics of it to him, simply letting the words float in through one ear and out the other. Now if only he had listened, he might have more of an idea on how this thing exactly works.

“–And if the wind hits at this exact angle whilst the airship is listing strongly to the other side, it can flip it completely upside down; that’s how most crashes happen, actually!”

“Can you shut the fuck up,” Tommy groans, burying his head into his backpack as nausea lurches in his stomach out of nowhere. His palms are clammy with sweat and the room feels several degrees – warmer? colder? Tommy can’t fucking tell – all of a sudden.

“Oh, uh, sure man! Sorry, I forgot this is your first time flying!” The man laughs awkwardly.

“Mind your own business, dickhead.” If only he knew how Tommy’s parents died.

It’s been long enough that thinking about it doesn’t hurt, exactly – there’s no way he’d be on an airship otherwise – but it does make Tommy’s stomach turn. Or maybe that’s just motion sickness.

A moment of silence. “You’re kinda rude, you know.”

“I don’t give a shit.”

The silence stretches for longer this time, and the man laughs again, a sharp sound that grates on Tommy’s ears. He shoots him a glare, but there’s no malice in the guy’s eyes.

“I’m Karl!” The man – Karl – extends a hand to Tommy. “I work for a newspaper company up near Semperth, but I’m coming over to Essem for a couple weeks to work on an article for the music academy.”

“The music academy?” Tommy echoes, raising his head. “The L’Manburg Academy of Music Shit or whatever it’s called?”

“Yeah! That one! Do you know it?” Karl twists to face Tommy a little more. 

“Not really, but– uhm– my brother, uh, he attends it,” Tommy replies hesitantly.

“Oh! That’s so cool! What does he think of it? Does he know how the application process works? Do you think I could talk to him – I want to get interviews with a few of the students!”

Tommy shrinks away from Karl. “I don’t– I’m not– no, sorry.”

“Oh,” Karl sits back, eyebrows twisted upwards. “Uh, sorry, I didn’t mean to pry. Is he– are you– uh, never mind, don’t worry about it! There’s what, a few hundred students? I can surely find a few to talk to out of that.”

Tommy nods a little. “Uh–” he coughs a bit, “Good– good luck.”

“Thanks!” Karl responds enthusiastically.

After that, the two lapse into awkward silence. Tommy avoids looking over in Karl’s direction lest he take it as an invitation to start up conversation again. Tommy has absolutely no desire to talk to him again, but the lack of conversation allows his thoughts to spiral, leading him down paths he’s been resolutely avoiding thinking about until now.

He’s been planning this for literal months, squirrelling away all of his allowance and doing odd jobs for extra money. He wrote a step by step plan of action and then burnt it in the fire, irrationally terrified that Phil or Techno would find it.

So far, Step One: get on an airship to Essem, is going pretty well. Excellently, in fact. He’s on an airship, and it’s going to Essem. That’s a roaring success. 

Step Two: find Wilbur, is a little more nebulous. Actually, Tommy could probably split it into two. 

Step Two A: find the Academy, and Step Two B: find Wilbur. Yeah. Okay. That’s doable. This is doable. Tommy can do this, he is going to do the fuck out of this.

The airship trembles a little, hardly anything near like when it was taking off, but enough to send Tommy scrambling for the nearest porthole. Unfortunately, that leads to him moving in Karl’s direction, making Karl jump away with a startled yelp, “Woah, dude!”

Tommy ignores him. Outside, the world is cloaked in grey, no longer the dawn-streaked blue it had been when Tommy boarded. If he tilts his head at an awkward angle he can just about see the ground below, distant and fuzzy looking, gentle green with a blue-grey ribbon threading through it. He wonders if it’s the same Prime River that cuts through Arctem’s valley and meanders all the way to the sea, where Essem sits at its mouth. Nothing… seems out of place.

Tommy returns to his seat from before, grabbing his rucksack and pulling it back onto his lap. His leg judders up and down. Everything is fine. They’re not going to crash. They’re not going to crash. They’re not going to crash. 

Tommy lets out a shuddery breath, trying to do that thing Techno talked about with “controlling his breathing”. In for five, hold for four, out for seven – or something like that anyway. 

He can see Karl giving him A Look out of the corner of his eye, and glares back at him. “Stop ogling me, prick.”

Again, that anxious high-pitched giggle. “I was just a bit worried about you, y’know? Are you sure you should be travelling on your own?”

“I am perfectly fuckin’ fine, I’ll have you know,” Tommy snipes. “I– A Big Man like me doesn’t have any issues with flying, much less on his own.”

“I mean it’s alright if you do,” Karl says quickly. “I practically peed my pants when I first flew, my parents were so embarrassed!”

“That’s disgusting.”

“I was eight!”

“So? When I was eight I was not pissing myself.”

“What were you doing when you were eight?” Karl asks.

“When I was eight…” Tommy trails off and thinks for a bit. “I think that was the year Wilbur dared me to climb the tallest tree in the forest because he could and thought I couldn’t, and I did it just to show him, like, fuck off Wil I can do anything you can do, but then I slipped, and I thought it would be funny if I pretended to be dead – he freaked out like crazy, it was hilarious – but then we realised I had actually broken my leg and he had to carry me home.” Tommy smiles at the memory, and how Wilbur was crying more than he was. “We got in so much trouble, we thought our mum was gonna rip us a new one!”

“Is Wilbur your brother? The one attending the Academy?”

“Oh– yeah, yeah he is. He’s my brother.” Tommy pauses for a second. “He’s really cool, y’know! Like, he didn’t even have to take an entrance exam for the Academy, this random business fucker just approached him one day and was like, your singing’s good, I’ll be your sponsor and bam!” Tommy smacks his hands together. “Off he goes!”

“He didn’t have to take the entrance exam? I thought the entrance criteria was really strict?”

“Dunno.” Tommy shrugs, leaning back in his seat. “This guy must have had enough power to get the academy guys to agree to it.”

Karl’s silent for a second, eyebrows furrowed before saying slowly, “Is that– y’know, fair?”

Tommy stops. “I– well– Wilbur’s really good anyway, like, I know he would have gotten in if he’d taken the exam, so– so it doesn’t really matter, does it?”

Karl makes a noncommittal noise. “Sure, if you’re so certain.”

Tommy scowls, an uncomfortable feeling settling in his stomach. He said Wilbur would pass the exam, but he also knows that Wilbur tends to get anxious and flunk exams, even if he knows the subject really well.

But, in that case, doesn’t it make it better that he didn’t have to take the entrance exam? Tommy would say so. However, Karl’s question makes itself known in his mind. Was it fair? Tommy… doesn’t know.

He shoves the thoughts away for now. He’ll think about that later, once he’s found Wilbur. That’s what he needs to focus on right now. Everything else can wait.

“So, Karl,” Tommy begins, smirking at the man in question. “What’s the worst word you know?”

✧

Tommy’s coat is made to be waterproof and warm, but the charm is old and the hour of rain he’s just wandered through has got the better of the charm, leaving him bedraggled and frozen to the bone.

Buildings taller than he’s ever experienced rise around him, and only the driving rain stops him from constantly having his head upturned, unused to his surroundings. The street is wide and paved with smooth cobbles, nothing like the beaten dirt, pot-holed roads of Arctem. They’re wider as well, with houses squeezed up against each other. Tommy doesn’t think he’s seen a single blade of grass since he’s entered the city save for that one house with overgrown window boxes.

Tommy’s shoes slip on the cobbles, and he fumbles for a moment before catching himself.

“Careful kid!” calls a woman from across the street; a lamplighter with a ladder under her arm and the other clutching a toolbox of some sort. “You should be at home, you’ll get ill in this weather!”

Tommy tries not to scowl at her. “I know!” he calls back, hurrying on past.

Tommy really hopes he doesn’t get ill. It’s the last thing he needs right now, and if he does, he might just go marching back to the aerodrome staff and complain to them. It’s their fault he’s out here right now, in the rain and the gloom without any idea of where to go.

Tommy had arrived in Essem not that long after midday, ready to find his way to the Academy, but his plans had been rudely interrupted by a little thing called “being a sixteen-year-old travelling without official identification”. Now, either of those on their own wouldn’t have been too much of an issue, and the identification thing was just a mistake, since most people on the airship he was travelling on came from further afield from Arctem, as well as Arctem not actually having the facilities for Tommy to get the proper papers. However, for some reason, his age seemed to concern the aerodrome staff, asking him questions like where he was going and did he have a contact in Essem they could speak to.

In the end, he had slipped away after there was a commotion – a couple having a spat that got physical or something – but hours upon hours had passed whilst he was stuck in the aerodrome – seriously, he’d been waiting on a random bench for ageees before they’d even started to deal with him – and upon escaping the barrage of questions, he’d been faced with the twisting streets of Essem, and so, so many people. 

Tommy had found himself caught in the flow, driven down streets and having the sights and scents of the city thrust upon him.

He’d found himself on a street stuffed with market stalls, people yelling about what good deals they had and reaching out to potential customers, literally in some cases, as Tommy found when a hand snagged his jumper.

“Try this! Try this!” a shopkeeper had urged, trying to force some sort of pie into Tommy’s hands. Overwhelmed, Tommy had pulled away, made sure his backpack was firmly on his back, and hurried away to find a quieter street. In perhaps not the most sensible decision, he’d darted into the nearest quiet alleyway, leaning up against the wall for support, trying to calm his shuddering breaths.

Essem is so much bigger than Tommy imagines, and he likes to think that he’s got a pretty good imagination. 

He’s been unable to find the Academy despite an hour or so of wandering, combing up and down streets, and then the ominous clouds had brought rain, sputtering turning into a steady shower, and now it is getting dark, and Tommy is hopelessly lost – can you be lost if you didn’t know where you were in the first place? – and there’s a weird smell in the air, of all things. 

He wonders if this is just how cities smell.

Tommy had seen a grocers’ denoting this area as the Essem Quays, but that was of no help to him when he had no clue where the Academy actually was. At this point he was probably better off finding somewhere to stay for the night and making his way to the Academy first thing in the morning.

Wilbur could wait one more day, couldn’t he?

Tommy ignores the roiling guilt in his stomach and makes a vow to himself to stay at the next inn he sees. He’s brought more than enough money; the money he’d saved for the airship ticket had been only the tip of the iceberg. Tommy could probably afford to stay at the cushiest hotel in the city for a night or two no problem.

As Tommy rounds a corner, the weird smell intensifies, and he finds himself looking at a plane of black beyond a short wall.

“What the fuck?” he gasps under his breath, running forwards. The wall only comes up to his midriff, but on the other side it drops away until it hits pebbles far below, wet surfaces reflecting off the weak light from streetlamps, and beyond them that same plane of black. Tommy squints through the rain and the dark. Is it… moving?

Abruptly, Tommy realises he’s looking at the sea. The actual goddamn sea. “Fucking hell,” he says. “Fucking hell!”

When Tommy had read of the sea, he had read of blue tipped with white foam, gentle rolling waves and a promise of adventure. What he sees before him now is a dark abyss of black, in no way inviting or beautiful, but a creature that devours and swallows the land. He can hear the surf now that he’s aware of it, the gentle crash and rumble of water shifting pebbles, fraction of inch by fraction of inch.

Tommy is not used to feeling small. Techno’s admission, the airship journey, Essem itself, and now the sea… he feels engulfed by things so much greater than him, floundering for purchase. A small fish in a big pond; Wilbur wrote that in one of his letters, and Tommy finds the phrase painfully accurate. Wilbur always seemed to be able to articulate his feelings in a way Tommy never could, capturing them in a grace and frame of delicate words whilst Tommy stutters and stumbles.

He grips the rough stone of the seawall tightly, ignoring the way it digs into the soft flesh of his palms. He can do this. He can do this.

“I can do this.”

He’s going to find Wilbur, and everything will be fine.

Tommy turns abruptly, his desire to continue on reinvigorated. He turns his back to the sea; he will not let that darkness consume his thoughts, fixing his gaze instead on a lantern hanging next to a sign – slightly tilted – affixed to the side of a thin, tall house, the flowerbed in front densely populated with dark, flowering bushes.

The sign, only readable because of the neighbouring lantern, reads “The Happy Muffin’s B&B”. Tommy frowns. Well. That’s a sign from the gods if he’s ever seen one, despite the shit name for a bed and breakfast.

Upon closer inspection, the sign seems to be slightly burnt, and there are occasional cracks in the plaster coating the front of the B&B, but it appears fine enough for Tommy’s standards. He chances a glance through the ground floor window, spying a well-lit room with a counter and a wall behind it decorated by pigeonholes and a rack of keys. 

He tries the door: it’s unlocked, and opens without issue, although easier than he was expecting, causing him to lurch forwards, hand still attached to the doorknob.

A bell jingles merrily, announcing Tommy’s arrival. He freezes for a second, but thankfully, there’s no one around to see his stumble. He closes the door quickly and wanders across the room to tap his fingers on the counter. It’s good wood, he notes absentmindedly, strong and difficult to score with a fingernail.

“Hello!” he yells after about thirty seconds. It’s late, okay, and he’s tired! The sooner he gets a room for the night, the sooner he can sleep, and the sooner tomorrow will come.

“One second!” calls a voice, high-pitched and nasal. There’s a half-open door to the side of the counter, and Tommy hears the thump of heavy footsteps approaching rapidly. “Excuse me, I wasn’t expecting a customer at this time, and with this weather–”

“What the fuck.”

A demon – a fucking full blooded, humongous demon – enters the room, ducking slightly to not hit the top of the doorframe. They’re the full works, with coal black skin and pure white eyes that glow a little, and the other light sources in the room seem to dim slightly when their eyes focus on Tommy. “Language!” they squeak.

“Huh?” Tommy squints.

“Read the house rules, it’s number one!” The demon extends a clawed finger to a board next to the front door. Tommy, reeling slightly from this entire interaction, follows.

BAD’S HOUSE RULES

1. No swearing
2. Please do not fight other guests
3. No magic rituals inside
4. Quiet time is between 9pm and 6am
5. Check out by 11am

“Who names their kid fuckin’ Bad?” Tommy says on impulse.

“Language!”

“Sorry, sorry!” Tommy holds his hands up in surrender, grinning awkwardly. “Just slipped out, y’know.”

The demon sighs a little, before shuffling behind the counter and leaning on it a little. “I am Bad, and I am the owner of this establishment. Are you here to buy a room for the night?”

“Uh– yeah, yeah I am.” Tommy shoves his backpack off and starts to rummage for the scrap of fabric he wrapped his money in. “How much?”

“For a single night, with breakfast included, that’ll be six coronets.”

“What the– heck man, that’s so expensive!”

“I think you’ll find it’s actually a pretty decent price, especially compared to some of the overpriced hotels in the city centre.”

Tommy, too tired to fight much, continues rummaging whilst glaring at Bad. “If I find out you’re scamming me, I’ll shank you.”

“Hey!” Bad motions to the sign.

“It doesn’t say no fighting the owner.” Tommy finally extracts his money with a triumphant pull and smirks at Bad whilst counting out six coronets.

Bad crosses his arms. “I should add that.”

“You probably should big man. Might fix a few problems.”

“Are you suggesting I regularly fight with my customers?”

Tommy pauses to think, tilting his head to the side. “...Possibly?”

“Well, for your information, most boarders here consider me a lovely host.”

“Whatever you tell yourself so you can sleep at night.” Tommy slides the coins across the counter.

“You are incredibly rude,” Bad replies, but he takes the money anyway and plucks a key from the rack behind him, and ducks down behind the counter to grab a large leatherbound book. “I’ll show you to your room in just a second, but I need to take down some basic information first. Name?”

“Tommy Soot,” Tommy answers distractedly, peering at the rack of keys, which is smaller than he first realised, counting one, two, three… “Wait, how many people are actually staying here at the moment?”

“Oh, we have six rooms, but only one of them apart from yours is actually occupied at the moment!” Bad says perkily, before sighing, his tail drooping. “We don’t get many customers – most tourists prefer to stay in the city centre, or the prettier part of the shorefront. But we more than make up for our position with lovely rooms, great service, and the best breakfast you’ll find in the whole city!”

Tommy raises an eyebrow, and opens his mouth to point out the instability of that claim, but what comes out instead is, rather embarrassingly, a yawn.

“Oh, sorry! I’m sure you must be exhausted after a long day of travel– where are you from, may I ask?”

“Arctem. Tiny little village in the middle of fucking nowhere.”

“Language! Arctem… never heard of it.”

“I did say it was from the middle of nowhere.” Tommy starts counting the number of scratches on the counter, no doubt caused by Bad’s razor-sharp claws. Does he ever accidentally cut himself on them? And if so, does he ever file them down?

“And are you planning on staying for longer than one night? We offer a special discount for longer term stays.”

“Dunno. Just the one for now.”

“Alright… and finally, are you in any trouble with the law? Just need to know whether I should be worried about police coming ‘round and stomping all over my nice floors. I had them relaid just last year, you know.”

“...Nope. Hm. Shouldn’t do, at least. Depends what happens.” Tommy shrugs.

“Well… do try to stay out of trouble, for my sake. I wouldn’t want to see a young man like you get wrapped up in something bigger than he expected, I’ve seen it happen quite a bit. This city isn’t kind to outsiders.”

“Yeah yeah, I get it. It will swallow you up and spit you out, all that bad shit.”

“Langua–”

“Soooorry.”

Bad sighs. “Come on then, I’ll show you to your room. It’s on the second floor, so just up here.” Tommy shoulders his backpack and trails Bad up two flights of steep, twisting stairs – the stairwell is so narrow that Bad’s shoulders brush against the sides and he has to stay slightly hunched to stop his horns brushing the ceiling. They emerge onto a small landing, empty of windows apart from one at the very end, a slightly wilted bouquet in a vase sitting on the windowsill. There are three doors leading off to assumed rooms.

“You’ll be staying in number five.” Bad motions to the door closest to the stairs, a brass five attached to light-coloured wood. “ There’s a bathroom at the end of the hall, there’s nobody else staying on this floor at the moment so it’s just for you! Breakfast is at seven, but as long as you’re down by eight there should still be something available.” He trails off, tapping his chin with a clawed finger. “I think that’s everything… oh! Do you want to be woken up in the morning?”

“Uh, no, I’m good. Thanks though.”

“Great! If you need me, go to the ground floor, past room one, and there’s a door marked ‘Private’ with a bell next to it. Just ring the bell or knock on the door, although I do ask that you use it only in emergencies.” Bad places the room key into Tommy’s hand, then freezes suddenly, cocking his head. “Oh, I think my son has just gotten home!”

“You have a son?” How does Bad know? Is it some weird demon shit Tommy doesn’t get?

“Yes! You’ll probably meet him in the morning, he helps me out sometimes! Alright, you’re all sorted?”

Tommy nods.

“Awesome! I’ll see you in the morning! Sweet dreams!” Bad hurries off down the stairs, but manages to catch his horns on the ceiling as he does, and Tommy catches a muffled “Oh– muffin!” before the demon is gone, leaving Tommy alone, turning over a small metal key in his hand.

“Muffin?” Tommy queries aloud to himself. “What a weird guy.”

Although most definitely a wrong’un, Bad seems not to be a serial killer, and Tommy’s so tired that he doesn’t really give a fuck as long as he’s got somewhere warm to sleep.

His room is small, but not tiny, and simple, but not barren. There’s a bed, a wardrobe, and a small table and chair, which Tommy immediately dumps his bag onto and goes to use the bathroom. Upon his return, he opens the window, a simple sash one that looks out onto the shorefront below and the sea beyond. The smell, which Tommy now realises was that of the sea, wafts into his nostrils and he closes the window again quickly, resisting the urge to sneeze. He pulls the curtains closed and throws himself on the bed with a huff, ignoring the ferocious creak of the bedsprings. Fuck it, if the bed breaks he’s sleeping on it anyway.

As he lies there, breathing softly, Tommy’s mind wanders, back across the leagues and leagues of land to a little apothecary in a tiny, not-very-well-known village. He wonders how Phil took the news; how Techno would have explained the situation. Did Techno tell Phil about Wilbur’s “cause” as well? He hopes Phil tore him a new one, although that’s unlikely. Techno and Phil are as thick as thieves, and have been since Tommy knew them both.

Tommy turns onto his side, curling into himself a little. How could Techno keep something like that a secret? No matter he’d been sworn to secrecy himself – with what Wilbur apparently said, he could be in danger or something!

Tommy groans and turns his face downwards, fisting a hand in the quilt. “What have you done, Wil?” he murmurs aloud. “What have you done?”