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“Wilbur!” Tommy hollers, beaming, as Wilbur joins the call. “How’re you doing, man? What’s going on?”
“Not much,” Wilbur says, and stifles a yawn. “What’s … ‘s there something I was s’posed to be here for?”
Tommy wracks his brain. “Well, I’m streaming,” he says, “at the moment.” As if to agree, his chat flies by at the speed of light, mostly proclamations of SLEEPYBUR and HI WILBURRR and KEKW. “Happy fuckin’ … Christmas, I guess!”
“Mm-hm,” Wilbur mumbles, “‘s … Jesus’s birthday, innit?”
Tommy snorts. “I think that’s the meaning of the word, yeah.” He tabs out of his stream for a moment and adds, “It’s good that you’re here, actually, I need to take a piss. Wilbur, entertain my stream for me.”
He carefully mutes and skids out of his office, but lingers in the hallway. He doesn’t actually need to pee—he’s only been streaming for forty minutes, anyway. He taps Discord instead and messages Wilbur, you should go to sleep.
small child, is Wilbur’s immediate return, and Tommy cracks a grin. hypocrite.
you’re tired.
it’s literally two in the morning, everyone’s tired. Wilbur makes a feeble attempt at a keysmash (aiaugre) and then sends, shouldn’t you be in bed waiting for christmas eve stuff? does your family do that?
Tommy’s heart twists in his chest. He swallows hard, acid in his throat, as he glances down the hallway—and down the hallway, down the stairs, out the door, down the dark road, into his house. His house with … what does it have, really? The kitchen, and the living room, and the bedroom with the big bed and its carefully folded sheets. They’ve … well, they’ve been sitting there. Gathering dust.
nah were not big christmas celebrators, he sends to Wilbur, and huffs, scraping a hand through his hair. His eyelids feel, suddenly, like ten-pound weights are strapped to them. go to sleep will. your tired.
*you’re, Wilbur immediately replies. His bubble in Discord wavers, Wilbur Soot is typing … until finally he says, good night tommy. happy christmas eve eve :]
happy christmas eve eve, Tommy offers, and musters a weak smile. techno gets here tomorrow too!! you have to be rested for him!!!!
alright alright FINE, Wilbur says. He adds a keysmash so Tommy knows he’s joking, and Tommy’s grin widens for a moment before faltering again. bye child.
let me say bye on stream at least, Tommy protests, and hastily tucks his phone back into his pocket, ducking back through the door into his office. He unmutes and roars, “CHAT! Wilbur, what’d you do?”
Wilbur hums. “I told them facts about woodlice.”
“Eugh,” Tommy says mildly, and laughs at Wilbur’s horrified, indignant noise. “Alright, then. I’m actually gonna be off, Will”—he stifles a yawn—“sorry, chat, I know the stream was short but I’m fuckin’ tired, I’ll probably stream sometime during Christmas!”
“You’re not celebrating?” Wilbur says. Tommy hesitates, words bubbling up inside his throat; he swallows them back, with effort. Not onstream. Not onstream.
“Nah, we’re not huge Christmas celebrators,” Tommy says. “Alright, bye, chat!”
He ends stream and turns, slowly, toward the VC they’re still in in Discord. He taps his video on; Wilbur doesn’t, and it makes Tommy uneasy, hesitant, before he huffs at himself and scrubs a hand across his tired eyes. “Will,” he says quietly. “I—”
It would be so easy. I’m alone. I’m alone. Don’t make me stay here alone, please, please, please.
“Go to sleep, Wilbur,” he mutters.
“Sir, yes, sir, TommyInnit,” Wilbur yawns. “Alright. G’night, Tommy. You’re alright, right? Heading back from the office? You won’t be mugged in the street?”
“Haven’t been yet.” The statement sends a flush of warmth through Tommy’s chest. It feels like something from his parents, like they’re still here, telling him gently to be careful, to take breaks, to—to—
They’re gone. He hasn’t gotten a text from them in—what, two weeks?
“Alright, then.” Wilbur leaves the call.
The wind blusters against Tommy’s face as he walks the five blocks home, hands tucked into his pockets, teeth chattering. It’s frigid and bitter and harsh. His house isn’t much better.
His house is cold, and too big, and too empty.
⸻⸻⸻
“TOMMYINNIT,” Wilbur shouts into the microphone, giggling with delight. “Tommy! Tommy, Tommy, you’ll never guess who I just go to meet—”
“Techno!” Tommy exclaims, and shoves himself up from the video he was attempting to edit. “Wha— Techno? Are you there?”
“Unfortunately,” comes Techno’s voice, echoing across the line. Tommy physically pogs. Wilbur laughs.
“I got a hug from him, Tommy,” he says. “A hug from the Technoblade.”
“I can’t believe this,” Tommy says, indignant. “I—what the fuck! Wilbur! I want—I want my Techno Hug—”
“Haha,” Wilbur says, and blows a raspberry. “He’s all mine. You’ve got your parents, I’ve got my Techno and my Phil, we’re even.”
Tommy is struck dumb.
“I don’t have my parents, though,” he says quietly.
Wilbur’s voice falters across the line. “You—what?”
Tommy takes a shaky breath as he realizes what he’s just said. “O-oh,” he croaks. He forces a laugh, dragging up air through the mesh in his lungs until it sounds natural, and his heart pounds. “No, no, my parents—they’ve fuckin’ abandoned me, Wilbur, they left for Tescos two hours ago—”
Wilbur cackles. Techno chuckles, too; Phil’s laugh appears, gently, in the background, and Tommy swallows through it, inhales through the bile in his throat. “This is not a joke,” Tommy proclaims, “how will I feed myself, I’m all alone—”
I’m alone. Please. Please. Please.
“Poor little boy,” Wilbur says, “you’re gonna starve to death, I swear. Or burn down your kitchen.”
Tommy made pancakes this morning. With blueberries, although the blueberries kind of smeared and made the plate look like a murder scene. He figured he might as well have a little festivity, if there wasn’t anyone else here for Christmas Eve. They were good.
“Cereal,” Techno suggests.
Tommy snorts. “Basic bitch.”
“I take offense to that, you dare insult my Kelloggs—”
“Froot Loops,” Wilbur argues.
“Those are nasty.”
“Wha— Technoblade!” Wilbur gasps indignantly. “I’ve changed my mind. Phil, turn around, turn around, I’m sending him back to America. Techno, I can’t— You like cocoa puffs, though, right?”
“I’m gonna be honest, anything with a lot of sugar just tastes bad,” Techno says.
Wilbur makes a mournful noise. Tommy joins him, laughing weakly, banishing every bad thought to the back of his mind. “I can’t believe this, Techno,” Tommy says. “You’re—you’re blasphemous.”
“I’m surprised you know that word, child.”
“Oh, you bastard— I’ve changed my mind, actually, I don’t want a Techno Hug—”
“I mean, that works for me.” Techno conspicuously lowers his voice. “I’m pretty sure he has fleas, Phil, have you checked him for ‘em?” Phil’s laughter peals out, ringing through the undoubtedly-cramped space of the car, where they’re together, and Tommy … is not.
At least that’s a tangible reason why everyone would leave him, Tommy thinks wryly. Too many fleas. No, no—he’s just too annoying to be around.
Or maybe he’s just overthinking. Maybe his parent’s’ve just fuckin’ ditched him and he should stop being weak about it and talk to his—his friends. Yeah.
“Anyway,” Wilbur says, still giggling. “We’re in Brighton! We’ve gotta do that meetup, yeah, I’ll bring the vlog stuff—”
Tommy opens his mouth. Shuts it. Opens it again. “Well, er,” he says, “it doesn’t have to be a vlog—”
“TommyInnit?” Techno says. “Turning down clout? Is this the good timeline? Who’s the president?”
“Queen Elizabeth,” Tommy snarks, biting back a laugh as Techno groans.
“I can’t believe this,” he complains. “We’ve been retaken? By the English? This is—this is a scam. Y’know, Wilbur, I’m starting to think this is actually the worst timeline.”
“Sure, Techno.”
“Alright, Tommy,” Phil calls, “we’ve gotta head out now, we’re getting to my house. Have a good Christmas! We’ll call again!”
“O-oh,” Tommy says, after a moment. “Yeah—yeah. Bye.”
“Bye!” Wilbur chirps, and the stupid goddamn emotions burst out of Tommy like an avalanche, and he swallows hard.
“Wilbur,” he says desperately, “I—I don’t—”
Wilbur hangs up. Tommy takes a shaky breath. I don’t have my parents with me. I’m alone.
I’m lonely.
⸻⸻⸻
TommyInnit: hey wilbur i know this is sudden but can you come pick me up? my parents are gone and i don’t know where
Delete.
TommyInnit: techno im really sorry for short notice but my parents arent here right now and i was wondering if you wanted to spend christmas with
Delete.
TommyInnit: phil do you want to get together for christmas celebration maybe? because i
Delete. Delete it all. Stupid, stupid, stupid.
He scrolls over to the SBI group chat and swallows past the lump in his throat, vision blurring. He swipes at his eyes and curses when he finds water there. “No,” he mumbles to himself, “I—I can’t be crying, I can’t—”
His vision wavers even more. He squeezes his eyes shut and taps out a message. Deletes it. Taps it out again. His finger hovers over the Send button.
No. He can’t.
He buries his face in his hands and makes a low, ragged, sobbing noise. Cursing, he throws his phone at his bed as hard as he possibly can. It hits the pillow with a flump. “Fuck,” Tommy sobs, clutching his hair, and a whine tears itself out of his throat. “Fuck.”
TommyInnit: i’m alone (Sent)
⸻⸻⸻
Wilbur Soot: tommy???
Technoblade: tommy what happened?
Technoblade: if you’re in trouble or in danger tell us right now.
Technoblade: we’ll come get you.
Philza: are you okay mate? what happened?
Wilbur Soot: tommy?
⸻⸻⸻
Tommy flops onto his bed, clocking the side of his head against his phone; he curses again, then louder, louder, louder, shouting “FUCK!” at the top of his lungs. There’s no one here to reprimand him, after all. There’s no one to hear him.
His phone buzzes. Tommy swipes angrily at his eyes. Stupid fucking Christmas, and Christmas Eve. He wants hot chocolate. He wants to go ice skating. He wants goddamn presents beneath the tree, ones he didn’t buy himself, ones wrapped less clumsily than the boxes he carefully tucked paper around. He got his mum a sweater. He got his dad a nice new watch.
Neither of them are here to unwrap them.
He grasps for his phone, through the blur of the tears welling in his eyes. “God,” he mumbles. “Who’s …”
He trails off. Wilbur Soot is calling you. Tommy hastily presses the Accept button and sets it to speaker, clearing his throat. He still sounds like he's been crying, but hopefully his voice won’t sound so wavery—
“Tommy,” Wilbur says, “I need to know: Are you safe right now?”
“Huh?” Tommy says.
“Are you safe? Is anything happening that might be a danger to you?”
“What? I—no. No, nothing. I’m at home, Will.” Tommy clears his throat again, dabbing at his eyes; the tears won’t stop flowing. “I’m … I’m fine.”
“Then why’d you send that message?”
Tommy’s chest goes cold. “What message?”
“You—you just wrote I’m alone.” Wilbur exhales harshly. “Tommy, are you—are your parents there right now?”
Tommy squeezes his eyes shut. A tear gathers in the crease of his eyelid and trickles down his cheek, leaving a cold trail behind.
“No,” he whispers, “they—they haven’t been here for—I don’t know. Two weeks? They went on vacation.”
“Without you?” Phil’s voice is incredulous.
“I had school. And … well. Other stuff.” Tommy shrugs aimlessly. “That’s what they said in the—the note, at least. I don’t know. They haven’t been … they haven’t been responding to my calls.”
There’s a snarled curse from Wilbur, a muffled “I’m gonna fucking kill them,” before the audio rustles as the phone seemingly changes hands.
“Tommy,” Techno says quietly, and the raw grief in his voice is … well, it’s unlike anything Tommy’s ever heard, really. Techno doesn’t—he doesn’t—Tommy thought he didn’t care? “Tommy, listen, d’you wanna spend Christmas in your house or in Wilbur’s?”
“Wha—what?” Tommy croaks.
“We’re not gonna leave you alone for Christmas. Of course we’re not doin’ that,” Techno says, and there’s determination in his voice now. He’s set a goal for himself, and he’ll meet it, because he’s—well, he’s Technoblade. “D’you wanna come down to Brighton to stay with us, or should we come up there to spend Christmas in your house?”
Tommy glances up, vision horrendously distorted, at his room—whitewashed, pale, cold. The tree in the corner of the living room is plastic; it’s been a week since Tommy cared enough to turn on the lights. The presents have been sitting there, gathering dust, and some of them probably won’t ever be opened.
“I want to go to Wilbur’s,” he says softly. “I—can I?”
“I wouldn’t dream of sayin’ no,” Techno says. “And Phil and Wilbur wouldn’t, either. Pack a bag, and we’ll meet you at the train station, okay? You’re good to do that?”
“Y-yeah.” Tommy takes a shaky breath. “Techno … you—thank you.”
“Don’t thank me yet,” Techno says gently. “I still haven’t given you a Techno Hug.”
⸻⸻⸻
Tommy all but topples into Techno’s arms when he stumbles off the train.
He’d tried to get some sleep, and failed miserably—too paranoid that the three boxes he was clutching would be stolen, or he’d miss his stop, or somehow he’d wake up and find himself back at home, in his bed, and realize that of course this was all a dream.
But it’s not. He’s pinched himself five times. He’s safe.
Techno’s standing on the platform, and he would be a nondescript white guy if not for the bright red Technoblade merch hoodie. Tommy doesn’t really realize that he’s wobbling until Techno embraces him, squeezing tight. He’s warm. He’s … he’s safe.
Tommy buries his face in Techno’s shoulder. “Thank you,” he chokes. “I—hi, Techno. You’re—you’re here.”
“I’m here,” Techno agrees. On either side, Phil and Wilbur join the hug, clinging tight, and Tommy bites back a sob. “You’re okay, Tommy. You’re not alone anymore.”
⸻⸻⸻
They go home first.
That’s the word that Wilbur uses for it, and when Tommy ducks through the door, he remembers why. He’s only been here once or twice, usually for vlogs, but it’s just lovely. The couch is a dusty old blue. Wilbur’s hung fancy tapestries and crumpled, odd paintings against the walls—for soundproofing, he says, but also because they’re interesting. Someone’s left a candy cane-scented candle burning, which is undoubtedly a fire hazard, but it fills the whole house with clinging warmth.
Techno, in what a sleep-deprived Tommy can only describe as a pro gamer move, sneakily borrows his bags and goes to set them in his room. (His room? He thought he’d be on the couch.) Tommy blinks hard, trying to keep upright. Wilbur derails that immediately by slinging an arm around his shoulders and tugging him over to the couch.
Tommy yawns again, and Wilbur chuckles. “Hey, Toms,” he says quietly. “How’re you doing?”
Tommy blinks. The weight on his chest, now that he’s remembered it, resettles, pressing down, crushing his lungs. He takes a shaky breath and tilts his head onto Wilbur’s shoulder, squeezing his eyes shut.
“Oh—shit, Tommy, don’t cry, don’t cry, please.” Wilbur’s thumb awkwardly wipes away the tears that make it past his eyelids. “We’re gonna have an amazing Christmas, you know that? Better than anything we could’ve done alone. Actually”—Wilbur snorts—“Techno was campaigning for us to steal you from your parents so we could all be together for the holidays. But Phil said you should be able to have family time.” He pauses for a moment, as the air seems to get heavier. “I’m going to call them, if you’re okay with it. Am I allowed to curse?”
Tommy blinks his eyes open to stare at him. Wilbur looks back, entirely earnest. “You …” Tommy huffs a laugh. “They’ll never let me go over to your house to vlog again.”
“Well, then I’ll just never let you leave.” Wilbur teasingly tightens the arm around Tommy’s shoulders, squishing him close, and Tommy laughs. “You’re under house arrest, TommyInnit. Or—well, Brighton arrest. You’re stuck here now.” He sighs wryly. “At least I wouldn’t ditch you during the goddamn holidays to go on—what? Vacation?”
“Vacation,” Tommy confirms. “They didn’t mention where. I think they went to the Bahamas.”
Wilbur tries and fails to bite back a growl. “On a scale of one to ten,” he says, “and be honest with me, here, could I take your parents in a fight?”
“Eleven,” Tommy says quietly.
Wilbur falters. “Awwww,” he says softly. “You’re tired, Tommy.”
“Mmm. No ‘m not.”
“I don’t know about that. You sound pretty tired to me.”
“Shhh.”
Wilbur chuckles and stands, gently lowering Tommy until he’s lying across the couch, legs tugged up toward his chest to fit. After a moment, darkness lowers over him, a warm weight; Wilbur’s put a blanket on him. “Sleep well, Toms,” Wilbur says.
Tommy squints exhaustedly at his phone. “It’s … only three,” he mumbles.
“Well, your sleep schedule will be fucked, then.” Tommy laughs at the bluntness of the statement, and Wilbur laughs too, smoothing a strand of hair off his forehead. “‘Night, Toms.”
“G’night, Wilby,” Tommy mumbles, and drifts off.
⸻⸻⸻
He wakes up at approximately seven, rather groggily, jolting upright. His first thought process is something like, This isn’t my house, where’s my house, has my house burned down, fuck?
After a moment, he remembers, and exhales. He’s in Wilbur’s house. He’s warm, and comfortable, and he’s not alone.
He slings his legs over the edge of the couch, tugging his phone from where someone’s plugged it in and set it on the coffee table, and shuffles into the kitchen. There’s a good smell coming from somewhere here. It’s Phil, as it turns out—which makes sense, because neither Wilbur nor Techno can cook to save their lives. Phil, who’s chopping nuts and marshmallows and melting chocolate on the stove. Tommy blinks curiously at it.
“What’re you doin’?” he says, stifling a yawn.
Phil turns to him with a smile. “Hey, mate,” he says quietly. “Good morning.”
Tommy blinks. “‘S not morning.”
“Well, you’re right there. I’m making rocky road fudge. Will had all the ingredients.”
Tommy peers curiously at it. “What’s that?”
“Fudge with marshmallows and peanuts in. It’s a good treat. Not really holidays, but eh, I’ll crush some candy canes and sprinkle those over it. Then it’s Christmas fudge.”
“Christmas fudge,” Tommy agrees, and bonks his head against Phil’s shoulder. He has to slump to do it; when Phil blinks curiously at him, Tommy feels his face heat, and clears his throat. “Er—sorry, I just—I wanted to say thanks for coming to get—”
Phil embraces him.
“—me.” Tommy blinks, then hugs him back, muffling his smile in Phil’s itchy, ugly-ass Christmas sweater. “Can I help with the fudge, Phil?”
“Of course, mate. I’m almost done now, just gotta put it in the pan and stick it in the freezer.”
Tommy helpfully distributes the marshmallows through the chocolate, sprinkling peanuts on top, and they tuck the pan into Wilbur’s freezer. Phil offers him a high-five, and Tommy, grinning, gives him one.
His stomach growls, approximately as loudly as the construction site down the street. Phil chuckles.
“Let me go get Will and Techno,” he says, tugging off his apron (borrowed off Wilbur; it reads I’ll Feed All You Fuckers, which is … surprisingly accurate). “Techno’s trying to teach Wilbur how to play Bed Wars. It’s not going too well.”
Wilbur’s indignant shriek echoes from behind the door to his bedroom. Phil chuckles and knocks.
“Phil,” Wilbur protests, yanking the door open. “Free me from this bastard, he’s destroying me at Hypixel party games—” He blinks at Tommy. “Tommy! You’re up! Did you sleep well?”
“Yeah,” Tommy says. “I … think we’re going to get food?”
“Oh, there’s an Indian place down the street that’s great,” Wilbur says. “Let’s go!”
⸻⸻⸻
The waitress blinks at them, wide-eyed. She opens her mouth; hesitates; opens it again. “Er …” she says quietly. “Sir, is this your son?”
Phil smiles wryly and shakes his head. “No, just a friend.”
She turns to Wilbur. “Your brother?”
Wilbur is biting back a smile. “No, not by blood.”
She turns desperately to Techno, as if begging someone to be Tommy’s brother. Techno shakes his head, the corner of his mouth twitching. “Sorry,” he says, “he’s just the communal teenager. Collective brother.”
“Ah,” she squeaks. “Sorry.” Tommy would be too, honestly, if he’d made three assumptions that a random teenager is related to someone, and been wrong each time. He feels kind of bad. “Well. I’ll … be getting your drinks!”
Wilbur giggles once she’s out of earshot. “The poor woman was so confused,” he says, “oh my god—”
Tommy tries and fails to stop beaming. It doesn’t work, even as he presses both hands over his mouth, trying to stifle this fuzzy warmth in his chest that threatens to just fucking burst out—
“I said what I said,” Techno proclaims, apparently in return to something Wilbur’s said, and ruffles Tommy’s hair. “You can’t make fun of me for the truth. He’s the collective brother here.”
Tommy leans on him, still grinning. “Okay,” he says softly. “I’m okay with that.”
They eat Indian food, smiling and cackling and jokingly arguing across the table, as Wilbur shovels naan into his mouth and Techno teases them for struggling through the spicy curry. (“It’s not even spicy, guys, I can’t believe the British are actually this weak,” Techno says, fighting down a laugh. Tommy flips him off.)
“Just think,” Phil points out. “This is just Christmas Eve. Tomorrow will be even better.”
Tommy blinks. Tomorrow … is Christmas. And he’ll be allowed to stay.
He grins down at the tabletop. “Yeah,” he says softly. “It’ll be great.”
⸻⸻⸻
“Tommy!” Wilbur hollers joyously, and Tommy jolts upright.
“Huh?” He whips his head back and forth, eyes wide; the blanket is tangled around his legs, as he realizes when he attempts to get out of bed and flops to the carpet. Wilbur cackles as Tommy groans and pushes himself up. “Wha’s goin’ on?”
“It’s Christmas!” Wilbur says.
Tommy flips him off, rubbing at his eyes. “‘M goin’ back to sleep.”
“It’s ten in the morning.”
“I don’t care.”
“I booked tickets to ice skate.”
Tommy’s eyes widen. “Really?”
“Yeah!” Wilbur laughs as Tommy finally manages to detangle the blanket from his legs and haul himself back up onto the bed, burying his face in a pillow. “C’mon, Toms, it’ll be fun—”
“Mmm,” Tommy groans. “Gimme a second. I’m—I’m comin’.”
“We’re gonna swing by a Christmas market on the way back.”
“Alright, motherfucker, okay!” Tommy laughs and pushes himself out of bed, groaning. He bonks Wilbur’s shoulder with his own, sending him stumbling to the side before Wilbur laughs and slings an arm round his shoulders. “Let’s go, then, bastard—”
“You’re wearing fuzzy penguin socks, Toms.”
Tommy wrinkles his nose down at his pajamas. “Give me five minutes to get dressed,” he concedes, and Wilbur chuckles as he heads right back into the bedroom.
⸻⸻⸻
The wind is chilly and brisk, but it feels nice—at least to Tommy and Phil, who’re used to being up north. Wilbur complains mildly, but he’s used to it too. Techno, on the other hand, is not having a good time.
“I’m goin’ back to America,” Techno grumbles, burrowing into his coat. “This is disgustin’.”
“Didn’t you go to college in, like, a place with cold winters?” Tommy asks curiously.
“Yeah, but I didn’t like it, that’s the point here.” Wilbur laughs and steers Techno over to the pavement, where the buildings block most of the wind. “How much do plane tickets cost again?”
“Too much,” Wilbur says somberly. “I’m so sorry, Technoblade, I’m afraid you’ll never be able to go back to America again without going broke. You’ll just have to stay here with us.”
“I think I’d actually rather go broke.”
“You’re literally the worst brother,” Tommy complains. Techno turns toward him curiously, and Tommy blinks, face heating. “Fake brother,” he corrects. “You’re a—a bad actor.”
Wilbur giggles. “We’re just a family here,” he says. “Family dynamic. Raking in the clout.”
“That’s my phrase,” Techno points out. “Oh, is that the market?”
Wilbur glances over his shoulder and grins. “Yep!” he says. “There it is! Ice skating, here we come.”
⸻⸻⸻
“Philllll,” Tommy calls desperately, “help meee—”
Phil laughs and skates effortlessly over to him. Tommy groans, tilting his head back for the drama of it; when he loses his balance, he yelps and grapples for the railing. Phil takes his hand gently. “Alright, mate,” he says, “you’re fine. Try to push off.”
“I don’t think that’s a good idea, Phil,” Tommy says, “just—just from prior experience—”
“You have prior experience?”
“The point there, Phil, is I have none, I have no prior experience at all.” Phil tugs him away from the railing, and Tommy curses, clinging to his shoulder. “I am—I am very afraid. Incredibly afraid right now.”
“There, there,” Phil says sympathetically. “C’mon, here’s how you do it. Push off with one foot, then the other.”
Tommy pushes, and wobbles, and yelps. Phil laughs.
“Alright, I’ll tow you,” he says. “Just stay still, mate, and watch my feet so you know what to do.”
Tommy squints down at Phil’s skates as they move, and finally gets it—push off, one, two, one, two, left, right, left, right. “Oh,” he says, “that’s how they work.”
“Yep,” Phil says brightly. “Alright, now try it yourself!”
Tommy clings to Phil’s hand like a lifeline as he hesitantly pushes off. He lets out a victorious cry as he moves forward, and doesn’t fall. “Phil! Phil, look, I’m doing it—”
“You are!” Phil agrees, laughing. He tows a carefully-skating Tommy over to Wilbur and Techno, who have been taking loops around the rink. “Boys! Take Tommy with you!”
“Yes, Dadza,” Wilbur says, grinning, and offers Tommy his hand. Tommy grips it tight, careful to stay balanced; Techno offers a hand on his other side, and now Tommy’s being supported by two brothers, so that’s good. If he’s falling, he’s taking them down with him. More motivation for them to keep him upright.
“Here we go,” Techno says, as they set off around the rink. “Skatin’, skatin’, skatin’—”
“Techno, did you even have an ice rink in California?”
“Yeah, duh. Some small towns have rollerbladers, though, when it’s not winter, or if it’s hot year-round. I’ve heard of that.”
“That’s so weird,” Tommy says.
“It might surprise you to know that not everyone lives in a snow globe, Tommy.”
Wilbur giggles. “There, there, Techno. We know you’re cold, it’s okay—”
“I am cold, actually. I think I deserve some reward for this—”
“Oh, come on, now, you know the reward is getting to hang out with Tommy—”
Tommy blinks. Techno huffs fondly and squeezes Tommy’s hand. “I can’t believe you’d call me out like this, Wilbur. Am I—am I soft now? Am I kind?”
“Not to me, you’re not,” Wilbur says teasingly. “But to Tommy? All the fucking time, man. You’re like—you’re like Scrooge.”
“Ebenezer Scrooge?” Tommy says. “We had to read that for school.”
“No, Scrooge McDuck, I never bothered to read that book.” Techno snorts. “I’m serious here! You’ve been visited by the ghosts of goddamn Be-Nice-To-Tommy and now you’re spreading joy and giving away your wealth—”
“Tommy doesn’t need my wealth.”
Tommy pouts. “But Technoooo—”
“I’m not givin’ you my money. Start a lemonade stand.”
“In winter?”
“I’m just throwin’ out ideas, here, don’t shoot the messenger.”
They round the turn, and Tommy realizes that they’ve been skating this entire time. They’ve—they’ve gone the whole way around the rink! He’s done it! Tommy whirls around, wobbling a bit, and shouts, “Phil! I did it! And I didn’t even fall on my arse—”
“Shit,” Wilbur squeaks, and then Tommy’s tilting off-balance with a thud.
Groaning, he opens his eyes. He’s flat on his back, ice creeping its way up his back; the wetness has already invaded the butt of his jeans, which is just—just insulting, honestly. Techno and Wilbur are sprawled on either side of him, in similar situations.
“Wilbur,” Techno groans, “has anyone ever told you this great riddle about not draggin’ your friends with you when you jump off cliffs?”
“I’ve never heard of that riddle before,” Tommy says curiously.
“Well, I’m makin’ it up now.” Techno pushes himself carefully to his feet, arms out for balance; Phil glides over to them, giggling, and carefully tows Tommy and Wilbur over to the side so they can haul themselves up with the railing. “Phil?”
“Yeah, it’s time to head out,” Phil says, still fighting a laugh. “We’re visiting the holiday market, right?”
“Yep!” Wilbur says, and wobbles a moment before regaining his balance. He looks relieved as he begins to skate over to the exit. “I want all the holiday knickknacks, Philza Minecraft. Let’s go.”
⸻⸻⸻
“Ooh!” Tommy says, for the fifteenth time.
Techno huffs fondly as Tommy whirls toward the hot chocolate stand, eyes wide. The wind wafts the heavenly scent of melting marshmallows toward them. He grabs hold of Techno’s wrist and tugs him over, joining the line.
“What’re you gettin’?” Techno says curiously.
Tommy squints over toward the menu. “I dunno,” he says. “What’s—ooh, look at that! They’ve got caramel and whipped cream and everything.”
Techno chuckles. “So basically, you want every topping at once.”
“No, not necessari—” Tommy wrinkles his nose. “Maybe.”
Techno laughs as they move up in line, till they’re finally able to order. “Two hot chocolates,” Techno says, before Tommy can open his mouth. “One with all the toppings and one with marshmallows and chocolate sprinkles.”
The cashier beams. “Coming right up,” they say. “Are you two brothers?”
“No,” Techno says, ruffling Tommy’s hair. “I’m just babysitting.”
“Well, you’re doing a great job. That’ll be 10.75.”
Tommy rummages in his pocket, but again, Techno beats him to it, offering up his credit card. Tommy blinks at him as he accepts his steaming cup of hot chocolate. “I could’ve paid,” he protests.
“Nah,” Techno says. “It’s my treat.”
“But you—” Tommy scrunches his brows. Techno snorts and pokes the bridge of his nose until his expression smoothes out. “Okay, I guess. Thanks, Techno.”
“No problem, Tommy.” Techno tilts his head toward the hot chocolate. “You might wanna start drinkin’ that before all the caramel and chocolate and marshmallows merge together.”
“Hot chocolate soup,” Tommy says thoughtfully, and takes a slurp.
Techno laughs and wipes whipped cream off his nose. “Hot chocolate soup,” he agrees. “Let’s go find Phil and Wilbur. I bet they got caught up in the antique section or somethin’.”
⸻⸻⸻
Tommy feels like he’s holding his breath as they walk back home.
He’s warm—full to bursting with warmth, really, steaming away at his insides in a way that feels light as air, as he complains about having to walk all the way back from downtown until Wilbur begrudgingly crouches down and offers him a piggy-back ride. Tommy tucks his chin onto Wilbur’s shoulder as they set off again, and Phils surreptitiously snaps a photo, and Tommy … thinks.
It’s Christmas. They’ve gone over the plans, obviously—already it’s approaching half past four, and they decided they’d open their presents from each other when they got home and then go out to dinner at some expensive restaurant, for a fancy Christmas experience. So Tommy’s giving his gifts. Which would be fine, but …
Well.
“Will,” he says softly, and Wilbur hums, tilting his head to face Tommy, as best he can. “Are you … I mean, d’you think they’ll like the presents I got them?”
His parents didn’t get him any presents. Not this year. Last year it was an envelope with a Hallmark card and a forty-dollar Xbox gift card. He barely even plays Xbox. And it’s fine if they didn’t get him any presents, it’s not that that makes him feel so goddamn hollow, but—
“Of course,” Wilbur says.
Tommy exhales. “No matter what they are?”
“As long as you got them presents because you were thinking of them and thought they’d like it, then they’ll love them,” Wilbur says. “No matter what. You could get me an empty pot and say you thought it’d look good with my setup and I’d probably keep it on my desk.”
Tommy giggles. “What if I told you I got you a tiny pot?”
“Well, I’d have to drag you to the plant nursery to pick out a flower to put in it,” Wilbur says matter-of-factly. “Don’t worry, Toms. They’ll love you no matter what you get them.”
“Okay,” Tommy says softly. He tucks his chin onto the shoulder of Wilbur’s soft coat and hums. “Thanks, Will.”
“No problem. Now c’mon, we’ve gotta catch up—” and Tommy shrieks and clings tight as Wilbur bursts into a run, their laughter echoing through the frigid air as he dashes down the street.
⸻⸻⸻
“Presents!” Phil claps his hands. “Alright, alright, who wants to go first?”
Silence. Phil chuckles. “Well, it’s me, then. Here you all go!” He pushes his three packages in their respective directions. “You know what, let’s just divide them all for each other and then we can figure out how to open them later.”
Tommy nods quietly and tucks his legs in, sitting cross-legged on the rug. (Wilbur’s coffee table has been dishonorably transferred to the kitchen, where it sits, looking particularly out of place.) He sets his packages carefully in front of Wilbur, Phil, and Techno, and blinks as he looks back to the carpet in front of him and finds the carpet … gone. It’s been covered with bags and wrapping paper.
“Oh,” Tommy says. Phil chuckles. “Er—how do we open them now?”
Techno shrugs. “Open the presents from one person, say thanks, make the rounds?”
“That’s actually smart, Techno,” Wilbur muses, “it’s almost like you went to college or something. Wow.”
Techno snorts and kicks his ankle fondly. “Alright, guys, just for that we’re openin’ Wilbur’s presents first.”
“Fine by me.” Wilbur nudges Tommy’s shoulder excitedly. “Open it, open it, open it! You’re gonna love it, I promise—”
Tommy shifts through the three ridiculous packages to find the biggest one, and his jaw drops. “Will, I—”
“Shhh, you haven’t even opened it yet,” Wilbur says, “pretend you don’t know what it is.”
Tommy tugs the wrapping paper off it almost reverently, eyes wide. “Holy shit,” he says, as he yanks the tape off the cardboard box and wrenches it open. “Will! It’s—it’s a guitar!”
“It is!” Wilbur says happily. “You mentioned wanting to learn.”
“I mean—I did, but holy shit, Will, this is—” Tommy sets it, very carefully, on the floor, and leans over to tackle him in a hug. Wilbur laughs and hugs him back.
Techno clears his throat. “That was lovely,” he says, and catches Tommy’s eye, shooting him a secret grin. “Can we go now? Y’know, the other two members of your family? We all know Tommy’s the favorite, but you don’t have to make it obvious.”
“I do, though,” Wilbur argues. “It’s funnier that way.” Tommy’s cheeks heat. His face hurts from smiling so wide.
“Anyway,” Techno says. “This is a book.”
“It is indeed.”
“It’s a very nice book.” Techno sets the copy of the Odyssey, complete with detailed, full-color illustrations, gently behind him on the carpet. “Thanks, Will.”
“Of course.”
“Excuse me,” Phil says, “I’m being ignored.” He chuckles as Will laughs and turns to him. “Thank you, Wilbur. These are lovely.”
“I crocheted it myself!” Wilbur beams. He gestures toward the two scarves—one of them green, with a clumsy crimson heart near the end, and the other blue and quite a bit more even. “I also bought the other one so you had something that would actually keep you warm.”
“I love this one better,” Phil declares, and winds the green scarf round his neck, setting the other one out of the way behind him. “Thank you, Wilbur.”
Wilbur grins. “I’m the best Christmas gifter,” he says. “I’m challenging you all. Beat me.”
“Bet,” Techno says, with a raised eyebrow, which everyone takes as a cue to open the packages from him, all carefully wrapped in brown paper.
“Ooh!” Wilbur says. “A beanie!” He turns it over and dissolves into cackles. “Oh my fucking god—”
“Specially made just for you, Wilbur,” Techno says, clearly fighting back a smirk. Wilbur turns the beanie to display the eyes along the hem—allmost like the fuckin’ Ranbeanie or something, if not for the beady Technoblade eyes printed on it. “Hope you enjoy.”
“I’m never taking this off,” Wilbur declares. He tugs it on over his head. “And thanks for the poetry book, too.”
“Thought you’d like it for lyric inspiration,” Techno says, and leans back against Wilbur’s couch. “Phil?”
“It’s wonderful, mate,” Phil says. “I’m gonna ignore the Swiss Army Knife and focus on the pretty painting.”
“You’re just gonna ignore the knife?” Tommy giggles. “Is this—is this canon? Canon confirmation that—that character Philza does not use knives in his Hardcore world? Is this lore, Phil?”
“You sound like your chat,” Phil says wryly, grinning. “Open yours, Tommy!”
Tommy tugs the wrapping paper off and blinks. Then he beams.
“I wasn’t sure what to get you,” Techno says, shrugging. “Hence the coupon book.”
Tommy flips hastily through the pages. One Bed Wars session (1 hour). One stream. Help with schoolwork. Hang out with you. Listen to you talk about something you really like that makes me really bored.
“Awww,” Wilbur says. “That’s cute.”
Tommy joke-indignantly scrunches his brows. “I can’t believe this, Techno,” he says. “You—you wouldn’t help me with my schoolwork without a fuckin’ coupon? I hate you.”
Techno rolls his eyes fondly. “I’ll help with whatever, whenever,” he says softly. “This is just an instant-reward kind of thing. Give you a feeling of power, maybe.”
“Don’t do that,” Wilbur says, “it’ll go to his head,” and Tommy laughs.
“Phil’s turn,” he says. Phil grins.
They all end up getting the same thing from Phil, and all three of them shriek with joy (well, Tommy and Wilbur do; Techno gasps delightedly). “Phil!” Tommy crows. “Disney World!”
Phil laughs. “Not Disney World,” he says, “Universal, and those’re just stand-ins, I scribbled ‘em on pieces of paper. But if we ever end up in America—” He shrugs. Tommy grins.
“I can’t believe you’re gonna go to Disney World instead of Disney Land,” Techno says, making a tsk noise. “We’re goin’ to Florida? Think of all the Florida men—”
“I can meet Dream!” Tommy shouts, as he realizes.
“Oh, no,” Wilbur says, “Phil, Phil, rebook the tickets to Disney Land—”
“Too late,” Tommy says excitedly, “dudududu—”
Wilbur sighs fondly and ruffles Tommy’s hair. “You’re a good dad, Phil,” he directs to Phil, “especially for somebody who doesn’t actually have kids.”
Phil snorts. “Thanks, mate.”
“Thanks, Phil,” Tommy chimes in. He plonks the bow from Phil’s package so that it sticks to his knee. “I’m excited to go to Disney with you.”
“Universal.”
“Same difference.”
Phil sighs. “Well,” he says. “One more person! Everybody open Tommy’s presents.”
Shit, Tommy thinks, and blinks. Wilbur gives him a soft smile as he tugs the wrapping paper off it.
“Oh,” Techno says, and flips the cover open. “Aww, Tommy, is this a scrapbook?”
Tommy’s face heats. “Y-yeah,” he mumbles, “it’s—I mean, you don’t have to like it, or keep it, or whatever—”
“I love it,” Techno says promptly, and flips another page. Tommy blinks. “Did you just keep all these pictures? And cut them out?”
Tommy clears his throat. “Er—I—yeah,” he says quietly. “It’s a lot of Minecraft screenshots, sorry, but I kept a bunch of stuff and just … kinda collected it all year.”
“This is so cool,” Phil says. “And they’re all different?”
Tommy nods. “They’re different,” he says. “I put a lot of Hardcore stuff on yours, look, I pressed flowers for Flowerfall—”
“Holy shit, that’s amazing,” Phil says earnestly, and Tommy blinks. “Can I hug you?” Tommy leans in, and Phil hugs him tight. “Thank you, mate. These are wonderful.”
“They’re fantastic,” Wilbur proclaims, as Tommy draws back, and slings an arm around his shoulders, yanking him into another hug. Tommy squawks, then laughs aloud. “Thanks, Toms. I’m framing it.”
“I don’t think that’s what you’re meant to do with scrapbooks.”
“Well, I’ll frame each individual page, then. Beat that. Bam.”
Tommy giggles. “Thanks, guys,” he says softly. “For—for everything. The presents, and—well, for letting me come stay here for Christmas, and doing everything today, and—”
“Of course, Tommy,” Phil interrupts. He leans over to set a gentle hand atop Tommy’s, squeezing his hand. “It’s not—this isn’t something you have to earn. You’re family. You’re always welcome here.”
“What he said, gremlin,” Wilbur agrees. Techno nods, offering two thumbs up.
Tommy grins. “I love you guys, you know.” Softer, “You’re a good family.”
“Awww,” Phil says, and swipes at his eyes. “I’m gonna cry.”
“Not before I do,” Wilbur says, sniffling.
“Ha,” Techno says. “Imagine cryin’.”
Tommy catches him surreptitiously dabbing at his eyes and beams. “Best Christmas ever.”
⸻⸻⸻
Mother: Tommy??? You aren’t in the house, where are you?? Are you alright??
Tommy glances, blinking, down at his phone. The screen catches Wilbur’s eye too, then Phil’s, then Techno’s; suddenly they’ve assembled themselves around him, like Tommy’s very own task force of Protect TommyInnit At All Costs.
Wilbur narrows his eyes down at the text. “Can I beat them up now, Tommy? Please? Pleeease?”
Tommy huffs fondly. “Nah,” he says. “You won’t need to.”
Tommy: i’m fine. i’m with family for the holidays.
“Awww,” Phil says. “C’mere, Toms. Group hug.”
They assemble into one, and Tommy, grinning, clings tight. “This was—this was really nice,” he says softly. “Spending Christmas with you guys.”
“It’s only the first,” Techno says. “Don’t worry, Tommy. Next year’s right around the corner.”