Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The idea of an unmarked police car was, frankly, pretty stupid. Unmarked cars only existed to trick idiots who didn’t know enough about keeping their asses out of trouble into fucking up in front of cops. The whole notion fell apart the moment you knew that unmarked cars existed. Once you knew that, you could spot them from a mile away. 

And no one would be caught dead driving a Chevy Tahoe through this shithole.

Tommy wasn’t sure what to do the first time he saw the car parked across the street from the back window, tucked into the side alley, hidden almost entirely from sight by the rusty dumpster. It had tinted windows, an extra antenna, and a poorly disguised row of lights on the dashboard. He knew what it was. There wasn’t a doubt in his mind. He watched it sit there for a few hours before it left, and he watched it come back the next day, and the day after that. It parked, and it waited, and it left.

It was a weird sort of feeling, knowing exactly what was about to happen before anyone else did.

He had debated warning Dream. If he’d told him, they probably could have left in time. They could have been halfway across the country, or halfway across the world depending on their proficiency at forging passports. Dream had talked about moving to Florida. Maybe they would have gone there and sold party drugs to little old white ladies in Sarasota. 

If he had said something, they might have had a chance. If he had said something the second he saw the cars pull up, they might have gotten out. They would have been in the wind. 

But he hadn’t. Part of him wanted to see how this panned out, how long it would take them to realize that shit was currently hitting the fan, how far they could get if they were left up to their own idiotic devices and forced to deal with their own bullshit when it caught up to them. 

Another part of him wanted to see this end. 

But Tommy would have preferred Florida to the situation he found himself in now, sitting on the hard lumpy mattress in a holding cell in the shitty county jail waiting to be tossed one way or another. Which was saying something. 

He’d heard juvie wasn’t so bad. Though he supposed it was possible they’d stretch his trial out until he was 16, and then he’d be sent to big-boy-jail. With Dream. God, that would suck. Would they place them in the same prison? Maybe then Dream would actually make good on his promise to wring Tommy’s neck someday. 

And for Dream... let’s be honest, Dream was going to jail. There was no way he’d get out of it, not this time. He’d been caught red handed, high as a kite in the middle of his own drug den like something straight out of a shitty soap opera or a Netflix original series. George and Sapnap had the unfortunate displeasure of being there with him. He felt only a little bad for them. They weren’t innocent, of course, but at least they weren’t making a profit off of high school addicts. They were all idiots still, though, the three of them. The Dream Team. What a bunch of morons. He wondered what situation they were in right now.

Tommy had already said his piece to the cops and the investigators and whatever lawyer man had come and tried to tell him he shouldn’t be so crass in delivering such a damning account of Dream’s dealing. Dream had gotten out of a sentencing before out of technicality or lack of evidence or on plea bargains, but this time Tommy had been arrested as well, and that had never happened before. He supposed this time, they wanted to cover their bases.

And Tommy wasn’t about to risk his neck protecting Dream. He was sick of this. He thought he could hold out just a few more years, just until he was old enough to get back to figuring his life out and undo the mess Dream had put him in, but maybe this was better. Maybe they could sort something out. 

So he told the truth this time. The asshole could rot for all he cared. He told them everything.

He supposed Dream would be trying to spin the story his own way, though. He always found a way out. Maybe he’d be pinning it on Tommy, telling them it was all his idea, that he was some evil mastermind. But then again, Dream would never let anyone else take the credit for his “genius.” 

Maybe his pride would finally be his downfall. 

Tommy leaned his head against the back of the chair. After two nights in the county’s holding cell, his back had begun to ache even more than it had when he’d first been thrown to the ground and handcuffed. On the morning of his third day, a short cop with a bald head came and told him to follow him out of the cell, took him down the hall to the room where he’d met with the lawyer and the investigators and the other police, and sat him down in the chair to wait. He didn’t ask why he was there, and the cop didn’t tell him. Either he was being charged, or he was being released. Tommy wondered if his mother was there to pick him up. Maybe he’d finally see her after all this time. He didn’t even know if he’d recognize her. 

He stared up at the disgustingly bright lights above him, the terrible strip light kind that they had in school gyms. One of them flickered and buzzed. They all had little insects in them, their silhouettes illuminating their bent legs and broken wings. He glared at them as though that would solve anything. And when two new people walked into the room, he glared at them as well. 

One he recognized, one of the policemen he’d seen a few times wandering about in the station. The other was someone new. She wore a simple outfit, dark pants and a light blue shirt, and her hair was straight and brown. She didn’t look like a lawyer.

“You don’t look like a lawyer,” Tommy said. The woman smiled. 

“I’m not,” she said. “May I sit?” Tommy raised his eyebrows, but said nothing. What was he gonna say, no ? The woman took this silence as permission and pulled out the chair across the table from Tommy. The policeman remained by the door, standing next to the glass mirror that lined the wall. Tommy had avoided looking at his reflection so far, and he intended to continue. “Thomas–”

“Tommy.” The woman blinked, surprised at being cut off. “It’s Tommy.” 

“Tommy,” she said with a nod. “My name is Kathryn. I’m a caseworker with Child Protective Services. Do you know what that is?” Duh. Tommy nodded. “You’ve got a bit of a unique situation going on here. The investigators here have been trying to contact your mother with the information you gave them, but so far they haven’t had much luck.” Sounds about right, Tommy thought. 

“Yes, Clara’s a difficult woman to reach,” Tommy said, making his voice overly formal for emphasis. Considering he hadn’t heard from her in eight years now, that was a bit of an understatement. Kathryn nodded. 

“Yes, it was… surprising to hear you hadn’t had contact with her in so long. But you obviously can’t stay in a holding cell until we reach her, so I’ve been assigned to make sure you’re in a stable living situation while the circumstances sort themselves out.” 

Kathryn spoke with a very sing-song tone. She seemed like the kind of person one might describe as bubbly, and unfortunately for her, Tommy wasn’t very interested in interacting with a bubbly person today. He leaned back in his chair and said nothing. Kathryn smiled at him.

“You’ll be staying at a temporary foster home for the time being,” she said. Tommy raised his eyebrows. A foster home? That was a bit dramatic, wasn’t it?  

“Why can’t I just go home?” Tommy asked. 

“You have no legal guardian there who could care for you,” Kathryn said. Tommy rolled his eyes. Legal guardian. He hadn’t had any kind of guardian in that home, legal or not, ever since his mom left. Why did it matter now and not then? “And, well, your house is actually marked as an active crime scene at the moment, so it wouldn’t really be an option to go back there regardless.” Tommy narrowed his eyes, but to be fair, that answer made more sense than the first one. “Your foster parent is actually someone I’m good friends with, Phil Watson. He’s a psychiatrist.”

“I don’t need a psychiatrist,” Tommy muttered, and Kathryn shook her head. 

“Oh, I didn’t mean to imply you did. You aren’t seeing him for any care. Although if you’re interested, I’m sure he would talk–"

“No.”

“Right. Well, he’s very nice, he’s got two sons a bit older than you as well.” Kathryn pulled a folder out of her bag and placed it on the table in front of her. “I’d like to go over a few things with you first, but after that, he’ll be here to pick you up.”

Chapter Text

“What about the dentist?” Phil asked, not looking away from the road.

“What about the dentist?” 

“When’s the last time you went?” Tommy shrugged. “Best guess.”

“Four years ago?” Tommy said. Phil nodded, his expression neutral. It irritated Tommy. Nothing he said got a rise out of this guy, even when he cursed up a storm or insulted him, which he had done quite a few times by now. Phil just responded with a laugh or a shrug, and Tommy almost missed the way Dream would shout right back at him or throw something to shut him up. It was more entertaining at the very least. 

“We’ll add that to the list as well, then,” Phil said, and Tommy rolled his eyes. Dentists were for pussies.

“Dentists are for pussies,” Tommy said. Phil laughed. 

“You won’t say that when your teeth start falling out,” he said lightheartedly. “And besides, my insurance covers dental, so you might as well.” Tommy crossed his arms and stared pointedly out the window. He didn’t want to go to the dentist. Why was this even a conversation he was having? Three days ago, his house had been raided by a SWAT team, and now he was in some random dude’s car talking about dental health. Ridiculous.

“Wilbur will be home around 4 after school,” Phil said, changing the subject, “And… what’s today, Thursday?” He asked, still not looking away from the road. Phil was apparently a safe driver, which was an unusual experience for Tommy, who was used to screeching stops and turns that left skid marks on the road behind the car. And when Sapnap drove, it was ten times worse. “Techno gets done with work at 6 on Thursdays,” Phil said when Tommy didn’t answer. “So he should be back around 6:30 latest.” 

Tommy said nothing. He didn’t need to know their whole damn schedule. He didn’t answer, instead inspecting the various numbers and indicators on the dashboard. The time read 12:13, 61mph on the speedometer, 210 degrees on the engine temperature gauge, 51,456 miles.

“You’re low on gas,” Tommy said absentmindedly. The little orange light was on. 

“Am I?” Phil asked, peering at the indicator. “Oh. Mind if we stop on the way home?” 

“Why would I care?” Tommy asked, and Phil shrugged. 

“I figure you’ve had a long day. A long couple of days,” Phil said. Tommy didn’t answer. Phil pulled off a few exits later, drove for a few minutes, and then pulled into a gas station. 

Tommy stared out the window while Phil pumped gas. They’d been driving for a little over half an hour, and Phil had said this gas station was right on the way home. Tommy wasn’t necessarily looking forward to living in someone else’s house, but he was looking forward to taking a shower, and that was pretty much the only thing stopping him from unlocking the passenger side door and simply walking off into the unknown. That, and running away was actually much less romantic than people made it seem.

Besides, he only had to deal with it until the courthouse got in touch with his mom. 

When Tommy was a kid, his mom had given him the advice that if an unknown number called, he shouldn’t pick up, and if it was important, they’d leave a message. This advice was fairly irrelevant because he was seven and not yet tall enough to reach the landline, and it was even more irrelevant because she never checked the voicemail anyway, but for some reason it was just one of those things that stuck with him. But he figured that’s what was taking her so long to pick up the damn phone and come get him. 

Kathryn had explained the whole situation to Tommy, or at least, Tommy figured that’s what she was saying the whole time they were in the police station talking, because Tommy had only really tuned in for the important parts. Or most of them at least.

The charges against him had been dropped, partially due to lack of evidence, but mostly because Dream and his accomplices (her words, not his) had told the investigators that he’d had nothing to do with the whole operation. Which was true. Tommy would have gone into their cells and personally strangled them if they’d tried to pin any of their shit on him. At least they had enough humanity left to spare him the trouble of proving his innocence. But he wouldn’t be caught dead thanking them for it. 

Phil was apparently an emergency foster, a title which made Tommy want to sink into the floor and disappear. Kathryn explained it as a short term foster for children in need of an immediate placement. Tommy didn’t appreciate being called a child either. And he certainly wasn’t in need. He could have taken care of himself, he’d done it for the past several years. Set him up with a hotel room and the stash of cash he had kept in the sock drawer of his bedroom and he’d be golden. But the court had made a ruling, so Tommy was stuck with Phil until they figured out the next step. 

Phil put gas in the car until the fuel pump cut him off, and the thump of the thing stopping automatically made Tommy jump. 

Dream never filled the car all the way. He’d always try to stop it at a funny number, 4.20 gallons or some dollars and 69 cents, which he claimed was hilarious, but Tommy knew the real reason he never filled it all the way was because he didn’t want to waste the money, or he didn’t have the money in the first place. He’d put it on a credit card and ignore the overdraft notices that came in the mail at the end of each month, and he’d yell at Tommy for eating too much food, to which Tommy would yell back that he was a growing boy, he needed sustenance, and Dream would say fuck off , and Tommy would say fuck you, bitch, and then they’d fight. Or they wouldn’t. It depended on the day. 

Phil fiddled with the gas pump, taking it out and hooking it back onto the slot before getting back into the car. 

“Sorry about that,” he said as he slid into the driver’s seat. He turned the car on with one of those push button starts that Tommy never understood. You still needed a key to drive the car, so what was the point? “Usually I fill it on the way to work,” Phil said as though he needed to explain it. “Are you hungry? We could go inside the mini-mart for something if you don’t want to wait until we get to the house,” Phil offered, and Tommy raised an eyebrow. 

“Gas station food?” Tommy said. “It’s probably radioactive or some shit,” he said, but he knew damn well he’d eaten gas station hot dogs and stale year-old chips a thousand times before. Didn’t make it any less radioactive, he supposed. Just made him a bit of a hypocrite. 

“They’ve got good slushies,” Phil mused. What kind of psychiatrist drinks gas station slushies? “But I’ll take that as a no?” Tommy didn’t answer, which was apparently answer enough, and Phil exited the station and took a left. “There’s a few stores on the way home from here,” Phil noted. “Anything specific you need before we get back?”

“Like what?” Tommy asked. 

“Medications, special shampoo, favorite snacks?” Phil offered. Tommy raised an eyebrow, but shook his head. Phil nodded, turning back to the road. “Just let me know if you think of anything.” 

The rest of the drive was fairly silent. Phil tried to make some casual conversation with him, but Tommy wasn’t in the mood, so it quickly died off. The radio was turned on and playing some quiet song low enough that Tommy could tune it out as well, so he stared out the window as they drove. 

It wasn’t long before they eventually turned off of a winding road and onto a long driveway with a mailbox at the end of it, a mailbox that was in perfect condition, Tommy might add. The house at the end of the driveway wasn’t massive, but it was bigger than Dream’s place. Though to be fair, most houses were bigger than Dream’s place. It was two stories, with an extension off of one side that had its own walkway and front door. The paint on the house was a little worn, the porch a little worse for wear, but it looked… homey. Ugh. The area around it was dotted with trees, and behind the house there were more densely packed woods.

“Is all of this your land?” Tommy asked, looking around out the window as they pulled up to the garage. 

“Yep,” Phil nodded. “There are some trails through the trees, but I’d rather you didn’t go off exploring them until someone shows you around. Easy to get lost, you know?” Tommy didn’t answer. Phil put the car in park and turned the engine off. He got out of the car, closing his door gently behind him, and Tommy followed after him, opening his door and stepping out.

“Why is your driveway made of fuckin… rocks?” Tommy asked, looking down at the gravel under his feet.

“Easier for upkeep,” Phil said. 

“Rocks?” Tommy asked. Phil nodded. “That’s stupid.” 

“Wil said the same thing,” Phil chuckled. Tommy rolled his eyes.

“‘ Wil’ sounds like a bitch,” he said. 

“Easy,” Phil said, his voice serious but still gentle. Tommy rolled his eyes again. You piss me off, Tommy wanted to say. Why doesn’t anything bother you? I just called your son a bitch, bitch. Fuck. Instead, he ground his teeth. 

Tommy reached into the car and pulled out the little plastic thank you, come again bag that held his current possessions: a toothbrush, given to him on his first day in the holding cell and an miniature tube of toothpaste that had lasted him all of one day; the t-shirt he had been wearing when they raided Dream’s house that now smelled like sweat; two dollars that had been tucked into his jeans pockets, along with a paperclip he had considered using to free himself from handcuffs before he remembered that he had no idea how to do that, and a lone key to Dream’s front door. The bag was depressingly light. 

“Techno lives there, in the extension,” Phil said. 

He gestured for Tommy to follow him towards the house, and Tommy obliged, staring up at the front facade still dazedly wondering how he had managed to get himself into such a mess. Phil unlocked the front door with a silver key. After the door was open, he held it out to Tommy. 

“Here,” he said. Tommy stared blankly at it. “House key. It’s for you.” Tommy narrowed his eyes. “It’ll unlock the front door–” 

“I know what a key does,” he said, finally snapping out of it and taking the key from Phil’s hand. He picked it up like it was a bug, pinching it between two fingers. Phil nodded, holding the door open so Tommy could step inside, and Tommy did, tucking the key into the front pocket of his jeans. 

Phil’s house was exactly what Tommy expected it to look like. And he meant that as an insult, mind you.

Phil had hardwood floors that weren’t scratched or dented or moldy at the edges where they met the walls. There were no water spots on his ceiling, no grey streaks on the carpet in his living room, no smoke stains on the walls. It didn’t smell like weed or sweat or week-old food. It smelled good. It smelled like patchouli and vanilla, and whatever memory was starting to surface in Tommy’s mind, he shoved it down so hard it made his teeth grind against each other. 

“Living room, kitchen…” Phil continued, “and the stairs right here go up to your room, and Wilbur’s of course.” 

Tommy narrowed his eyes. His room? Phil just had a whole extra bedroom laying around? Phil led him up the stairs. There were photos lining the wall: a kid younger than Tommy with bright red hair and a toothy smile; two boys, both older than him, standing in front of a statue, one with long pink hair and an awkward smile, the other with a wide grin and fluffy hair; a boy who looked around his age standing next to a woman with curly platinum blonde hair; a photo of Phil standing with his arms around a smiling, dark haired woman.

“S’that your wife, then?” Tommy asked, squinting at the woman in the photo as they walked by. Phil turned over his shoulder, glancing at the frame. As he did, he smiled softly, nodding as he turned back. 

“Yeah, she was,” he said. He said it so casually Tommy almost didn’t catch the past tense. He felt his cheeks burn.

“Oh,” he said. “She’s– oh. Sorry,” he muttered. 

“Nothin’ to be sorry about, mate. Her name was Kristin,” Phil explained. “She passed away several years ago.”

“Oh,” Tommy said, now hyper aware that he had no idea what to do with his hands. Thankfully, Phil stopped talking. Tommy couldn’t help but think someone could have warned him… hey, don’t mention the guy’s dead wife. But Phil didn’t seem upset. 

“That’s Wil’s room,” Phil said, changing the subject as they got to the top of the stairs. The door was closed. “He’s picky about his stuff, so if you want to look around the rest of the house, just leave that door shut, yeah?” Tommy nodded. “Thanks,” Phil said, as though Tommy would have said anything else. What was he going to say, fuck you, no, I go where I want? Well, actually– “Here’s yours,”  Phil said, interrupting Tommy’s train of thought. 

They’d stopped outside an open door, the first room on the right side of the hallway. Inside, there was a bed against one wall, a bedside table with a lamp on top, a dark wooden dresser, and a large chair in the corner with a fluffy maroon blanket draped over it. There were two windows, and the curtains were open to show a view of the forest that lay behind the house. 

There were clothes on the bed, a pair of black sweatpants and a plain t-shirt, a pair of socks, black briefs. They were folded neatly. There was another blanket, too.

Phil stepped inside, but Tommy stopped awkwardly at the doorway. It felt like a barrier, now, some invisible force holding him back. This wasn’t right. It all felt off, now. Somehow, stepping through the threshold into this room was impossible. It wasn’t his. It wasn’t his room, or his house. It was all just a charade. It was a rug that was going to be pulled out from underneath him eventually, one way or another.

Phil turned back to look at him with that same soft expression, and Tommy felt sour. He hunched his shoulders, looking around the room, around the hallway, looking anywhere but at Phil. 

“There’s some more clothes in the dresser, just basic stuff,” Phil explained, gesturing to the chest of drawers. “But it’s all yours, if you’d like to change. Up to you, of course.” 

Tommy stared at him. He was sure he looked like an idiot, standing there in the hallway saying nothing. Phil waited a moment for his response, but when none came, he just nodded and walked back out of the room. Tommy stepped backwards, letting him pass. 

“And the bathroom is this door right across the hall,” Phil continued with his tour. He pushed the door open. The bathroom was clean and tiled and the window was frosted. “I got you a toothbrush and toothpaste here, and some basic toiletries and stuff,” Phil said, picking up a plastic bin from the bathroom counter. 

There was a little cup in the bin with a red toothbrush in it and Colgate Cavity Protection toothpaste. What was with this guy and dental health? Fucking hell. Tommy was suddenly weirdly self conscious about his breath. Did it smell bad? Was that why this kept coming up? Fuck.

“Uh, what else? Shampoo and conditioner are in here, towels are in this cabinet, there’s, uh… soap, q tips– oh, Wilbur’s got a bluetooth speaker here you can use, too,” Phil said. 

“I don’t have a phone,” Tommy mumbled. 

“Ah,” Phil said. He left it at that, but Tommy knew what he was going through his head. Who doesn’t have a phone these days, probably, and then, oh, right, it’s probably sitting in evidence along with all the rest of his shit, and he would be wrong, because the reason Tommy didn’t have a phone was because Dream shattered his phone a few months ago, and so he took Tommy’s and never bought him a new one. How rude of him to assume. “I’ll leave you to get settled in a bit,” Phil continued. “You can hang out or shower if you want. This door locks,” he said, demonstrating by clicking the little door lock back and forth. “I tend to assume a closed door means do not disturb anyway, but you’re always welcome to a bit more privacy.” 

Tommy stepped back, letting Phil out of the bathroom and back out into the hall. 

“I’m gonna make some lunch, though. Do you like sandwiches? Turkey?” Phil asked. Tommy just shrugged, feeling strangely numb now. Phil smiled, and now it seemed more comforting than it had before. At least he was consistent in his weird friendliness. “I’ll make some. You can come down any time you’re ready, I’ll put them in the fridge.”

Phil stepped past Tommy, walking back toward the stairs.

“And of course come find me if you need anything. I’ll be right down here in the kitchen just answering some emails,” Phil said. Tommy nodded again, his chin barely moving. Phil patted one hand against the bannister, giving Tommy another smile, and then he disappeared down the stairs, leaving Tommy standing alone in the hallway. 

So Tommy stood, motionless, looking dazedly around at this too-clean house that smelled too much like fake fancy scents and decorated with photos and paintings and not a muddy shoe print or a patch of mold in sight, and somehow despite everything he felt more out of place than he’d ever felt in his entire life. Somehow, despite everything, he wanted to be home.

God, what the fuck was going on.  

Something cold began spreading in Tommy’s chest, but he shoved it aside before he could manage to identify it for what it was. Instead, he stepped through the doorway into the bathroom. He closed the door behind him, placing one hand on the frame and the other on the handle and pushed it slowly so that it didn’t make a sound when it clicked shut. And then he stared at the little horizontal lock that Phil had clicked into place so easily before.

Was he really allowed to lock it? There was no way. The last time Tommy had locked his door, Dream had taken it off of its hinges and left it on the trash heap for the garbage truck to take. That was almost two years ago now. 

Phil didn’t seem like the kind of person to do that. He seemed to mean it when he said Tommy could lock it. He couldn’t tell. 

Just in case, Tommy turned on the shower first. The running water pattered against the tub, and it was loud enough that Tommy was fairly certain Phil wouldn’t hear the sound of the lock sliding into place from downstairs. Unless he was listening, in which case he was a fucking creep. Tommy stepped back from the locked door. The room felt small, now. It felt safe. He felt like he could breathe, like the air would go all the way to the bottom of his lungs. 

He sighed, his breath shakier than he expected, and sat on the closed toilet seat with his hands against his knees. The water warmed up, slowly filling the bathroom with steam. For a while, he just sat there, breathing and waiting for that dazed numbness to fade.

It didn’t go away. Eventually, he felt guilty enough about the water he was wasting to actually get up and get into the shower. 

***

He hadn’t expected a shower to feel this fucking good. 

To be fair, it was much needed. He was disgusting. He smelled like ass, his skin grimy and bruised, his hair so oily it looked like it was already wet. Not to mention it had been slowly falling out more and more for the last year for reasons Tommy couldn’t figure out, or didn’t really care to solve. 

But now he was clean, and his hair was all soft, and he had scrubbed all of the shit off of his skin from the holding cell and from Dream’s nasty ass house, and god it was a whole new type of clean to get out of the clean shower, step onto a clean bath mat in a clean bathroom and dry himself with a clean towel, and then walk into a clean house and put on clean clothes. What the fuck. This was amazing. Tommy smelled like fucking daisies. 

He could get used to this. 

Wait. No. Fuck that. What the fuck was he on about. Jesus. 

He dried his hair off (perhaps a bit aggressively) and wrapped the towel around his waist. For a moment, he tried to examine himself in the mirror, but it was still covered in condensation and he couldn’t see anything. Instead, he rolled his shoulders back, stretching out the sore muscles there, and unlocked the bathroom door as quietly as he could. 

Steam poured out into the hall. He wondered how long he’d been in the shower, and then wondered how much water he’d wasted. Oh well. If he needed to justify it, he could just say at least he didn’t smell like a corpse anymore. That had to count for something. 

The clothes Phil left out for him were soft and smelled like lavender detergent. He got dressed quickly, throwing his dirty clothes into a pile on the floor where they looked very out of place, and walked over to the mirror that hung on the closet door. 

He quickly decided that looking at his reflection had been a mistake, and elected to simply completely ignore the fact that he did, in fact, have a real physical body. 

He felt a bit like a stalled car, just standing there not knowing what to do or what direction to move in. He was clean, dried off, and dressed. He rubbed the back of his neck, looking around the room for something to do that wasn’t going downstairs, because interacting with another person right now sounded like torture. No offense to Phil. Well, some offense. The man looked like he needed to be knocked down a few pegs. Instead, he started opening up drawers. 

He didn’t find much that was interesting. There were the extra clothes Phil promised; two more pairs of sweatpants, a few t-shirts, a long sleeved shirt, socks, underwear, the works. In the top drawer of the nightstand there was a notebook and a pen. The pages were blank. There was also a coaster and a little travel pack of tissues. The closet held no more secrets than the drawers, just a sweatshirt and some extra bedding on the top shelf. Tommy sighed. He was running out of things to snoop into.

Eventually, after thoroughly poking around the room, and then the hallway, and then peeking into what he assumed was Phil’s bedroom before pussying out and retreating, he decided the grumble in his stomach was probably trying to tell him something. Reluctantly, he made his way downstairs. 

The kitchen had one of those fancy ass islands in the middle with granite countertops and a whole second sink on one end. Who needed a whole second fucking sink? There was one sink right there already, why did he need a second one? And why did it make Tommy so angry? 

“Oh, hey!” Phil said cheerily. He was sitting at one of the barstools leaning over a laptop. He lowered the screen slightly when Tommy came down the stairs. “You look a bit more refreshed,” he added. 

“Considering I looked like shit before…” Tommy mumbled, but didn’t finish the sentence. Phil got the gist. 

“There’s sandwiches in the fridge,” he said. “And we keep some snacks out on the counter all the time, so you’re always free to–” 

“So what happens next?” Tommy asked, interrupting Phil mid-sentence. Phil blinked at him, closing his mouth for a moment before responding. 

“Do you want to talk about that right now?” he asked. 

“Well, yeah,” Tommy said. “That’s why I asked.”

“I just thought maybe you’d want to think about something else for a bit,” Phil said. 

“How the fuck would I think about anything else,” Tommy said. He knew he was being rude. He was being an asshole, honestly. A real dick. But he couldn’t stop himself. This was stupid. He should be home, or on his own, or in jail for all he cared, not sitting here in some rich doctor’s house being given shampoo and sandwiches and pretending like everything was completely fine when it wasn’t–  

“Fair point,” Phil admitted in that same infuriatingly neutral tone.

“Fuck you,” Tommy said.

Phil stared at him for a moment, pursing his lips, and Tommy stared right back, digging his fingernails into the palms of his hands. He waited for the reaction, for the yelling, for the pity. It didn’t come. 

“Alright,” Phil said calmly, closing his laptop all the way and pushing it aside. “Let’s talk.” Tommy narrowed his eyes, remaining where he stood. “Sure you don’t want a sandwich first?” 

Tommy glanced to the fridge, then back to Phil, and then back to the fridge. Begrudgingly, he walked over, opening the door. It was a well stocked fridge. Unsurprising. On one of the middle shelves there was a white ceramic plate with a few sandwiches on it cut diagonally covered in cling wrap. Tommy took the plate out of the fridge and set it on the far end of the island from where Phil was sitting.

“Do you have coke?” Tommy asked. 

“There’s Pepsi in the side door of the fridge,” Phil said. 

“Pepsi,” Tommy parroted. “Of fucking course. Pepsi . Fuckin’ hell.” He took a can anyway, and then slid himself onto the barstool and tucked his feet up onto the legs of the seat. 

He shoved a sandwich into his mouth and stared at Phil, waiting for him to speak. 

“Look, Tommy, I know this is a lot–”

“I don’t need the pity party,” Tommy interrupted. “ Aw, it must be so hard, aw, how sad, it’s… fuckin’… it’s fine. Yeah? So just– how long do I have to stay here?” Phil took a breath, straightening his back. 

“At least until we can contact your mom,” he said. “That’s step one.”

“There’s more steps? ” Tommy asked incredulously. 

“Well, it’s a complicated situation. The fact that they’re already struggling to make contact is… well, it’s a red flag. You lived with your brother, but your mother never transferred sole custody, and considering the situation that left you in, there's some question as to whether or not she may be involved in your brother’s… business.” 

“Drugs,” Tommy said.

“Yes. Drugs.” 

“That’s stupid,” Tommy said bluntly. “I haven’t seen my mom in years. There’s no way she and Dream were working together. They hate each other. And Dream hates me, so if there was any chance he could have dumped me back with her then he would have taken it.” He took another bite of his sandwich, cracking open the Pepsi with his other hand. Phil nodded solemnly. 

“When was the last time you saw her?” he asked. Tommy rolled his eyes, taking a sip of the Pepsi. 

“Ugh, I don’t know. Years.” Four years. “When I was 11, maybe?” Tommy said, but he knew the exact answer. It was when he was 11, during the summer; June 17th. She didn’t come to see him. She came to ask Dream for money. The two of them fought. Tommy hid in his room, and she left without saying hello. It was two years after she’d left him there, and he hadn’t heard anything about her since.

“That’s… that’s a long time ago,” Phil said, raising his eyebrows.

“Yeah, no shit,” Tommy muttered. 

“Well… alright. The long and short of it is that they’ll contact your mother, get her to come in and tell her side of the story. There’ll be some investigation to see if she’s involved with Dream in any way, and if she’s fit to parent.” Tommy scoffed, but said nothing. “If all that goes well, then you’ll be released into her custody. You’ll both have to stick around to testify in your brother’s trial, of course.” Tommy groaned loudly.

“ Really? ” he asked. “Don’t they have enough evidence? Did they see where we lived? Just throw the bastard in jail and move on.” 

“I’m a little surprised to hear you say that,” Phil said.

“Why? What, you think I’d defend him? Oh, Dweamy Weamy, my big brother, oh please let him go ,” Tommy whined, clasping his hands in front of his chest before rolling his eyes again. “He can fuck off and rot. I don’t care. He deserves it.” Tommy stared down at his stupid fucking Pepsi resting on this stupid fucking granite countertop and he felt himself boiling like a pot of water. “He’s an asshole, and I hate him. He ruined my life. I hate him.” 

Tommy had said that to Dream’s face a hundred times. A thousand. They’d shouted it at each other, screamed it, thrown things while they said it, thrown punches. Tommy had even bit him once. It earned him a black eye. But saying it to someone else… it made his gut twist in knots. Fuck off, he said to himself. Fuck you. He shoved another bite of the sandwich into his mouth, pushing down the sharp feeling in the back of his throat. 

“I’m sorry,” Phil said. Tommy ground his teeth. Don’t say it. “You didn’t deserve any of that–”

“Don’t fucking say that to me!” Tommy shouted, standing and shoving the stool back as he did. “You don’t know shit! Of course I didn’t deserve it! I know it wasn’t my fault, how the fuck would it have been my fault? I was nine. ” Yell at me. Curse me out. Throw something. Do it, I dare you. I dare you.

“I- I didn’t mean–” Phil said, trying to backtrack. Pussy.

“Fuck!” Tommy shouted, throwing his hands in the air. He couldn’t just make it easy, could he? “Put me back in jail, I don’t want to fucking be here, this is stupid. This is all stupid!” 

Tommy grabbed a sandwich, squishing the bread in his fist, before storming past Phil to the stairs and stomping up to his room– not his room. The room. Phil’s room. The room in Phil’s stupid fucking house that was his but it wasn’t really his, because he didn’t have a room now, because everything was fucked and it was his fault .  

“And Pepsi is for bitches!” He shouted over his shoulder. “Buy Coke like a normal fucking person!” 

He slammed the door to the room behind him. The world was spinning. He tried to make it to the bed, but his knees buckled before he got there, and he knelt on the ground trying to take in a full breath of air.

It wasn’t real. It wasn’t real. How could it be real? What the fuck was going on? Everything was fine, and now it was fucked, and how had it all gone so wrong? At least with Dream he knew what to expect. He hated this. It felt fake. He was waiting, just waiting, waiting for the other shoe to drop, waiting to find out it was all pointless, waiting for the fight, for the explosion, for it all to blow up in his face. 

He sat back, putting his head between his knees. Get a hold of yourself, for fucks sake. When did you become such a pussy? You’d think after living with Dream that long that you would have thicker skin. Now you’re gonna cry? Like a little baby? Fuck off. Fuck. No, he wasn’t going to cry. He simply refused.

He let air hiss out from between his teeth, his breath still infuriatingly shaky. He’d dropped the sandwich on the ground. Turkey was stupid anyway. Sandwiches were stupid. God, he didn’t even know what he was saying anymore. He pushed himself to his feet, walking over to the bed and throwing himself onto it facedown against the pillow. 

It was soft. It smelled clean like detergent. He wondered what his mom’s detergent would smell like. What her house would smell like. Probably cigarettes. 

He wondered if she was still a smoker. He’d find out soon enough.

Chapter Text

Tommy woke up to the sound of a door closing downstairs. The sound thudded quietly through the house, making its way through the walls in the slightest of vibrations, but Tommy heard it nonetheless.

He felt disoriented at first. Everything felt different, smelled different– even the air was different. There was a slight breeze above him, coming from a vent in the ceiling of the room. 

There were footsteps downstairs, muffled voices. One was Phil– he could already recognize it easily– but the other was new, younger, louder. He couldn’t tell what they were saying, but at some point their conversation became even quieter, and then louder again, and then someone was walking up the stairs.

Tommy got up from the bed, hesitating before he put his feet on the floor, trying to remember if any boards in this floor would squeak when he stepped on them. But when he stopped and thought about it, he could hardly remember falling asleep. He still felt all foggy. He shook his head, pushed his hair out of his eyes, and stood up. 

The floor didn’t creak. It gave him a bit of relief. 

The footsteps made their way up the stairs, but they didn’t come to the room Tommy was in. Instead, he heard them in the hallway, and then a door across from this room opened, the door Phil had said belonged to his son Wilbur. 

Ugh, Tommy thought. People. 

But he made his way over to the door nonetheless. 

Tommy didn’t like being alone. He’d spent enough time alone, and his thoughts were already bubbling over in his mind. Some part of him always yearned to talk and talk and talk, even when no one gave two shits about what he was saying. Despite the pulse of anxiety and exhaustion that ran through his bones, he opened the door before he could manage to overthink it. Being reckless required very little thought, and it was easier to be impulsive than introspective. 

So he stood in the doorway, peering out into the hall. There was a light on in the room down the hall, now, and a shadow moving around inside. Tommy narrowed his eyes, stepping further out into the hall and tiptoeing toward Wilbur’s room. He craned his neck as he grew closer until finally he saw the occupant. 

Wilbur was tall. He hadn’t expected that. He was tall and lanky with fluffy brown hair, and he wore an off white sweater that was rolled up to his forearms and dark jeans. As Tommy walked up to his door, he watched Wilbur throw a backpack down onto the ground next to his desk chair. 

Tommy inched closer, peering into the room.

It was cluttered, every surface covered in photos or decorations or trinkets of some kind. There were photos and posters on the walls with hardly any paint showing through, like one big collage that stretched across the walls. There were at least three blankets on the bed and way too many pillows for one person to have. Wilbur’s closet door was open, clothes spilling out from hangers and shelves. 

Even though his bedroom seemed like it was overflowing with stuff , it wasn’t messy. Things seemed to have their place, even if their place was a pile on his desk chair or a box of random shit sitting next to his bed. There were post-it notes stuck to his mirror. The calendar hanging by his desk still read January despite the fact that it was March. 

On the desk, there was a white plastic milk crate with a crack in the bottom corner full of record sleeves. There was also a plant that was decidedly dead, the leaves long since dried up and wilted. Why even bother leaving it there?

Tommy ground his teeth, working up some courage, and then finally cleared his throat. Wilbur jumped slightly and turned.

“Oh,” he muttered, and then smiled. He had a skinny face, and lines formed around his eyes and cheeks when spoke. “You must be Tommy,” Wilbur said. Tommy narrowed his eyes. 

“Who the fuck else would I be?” Tommy replied. Great first impression. Top tier. Superb. Wilbur raised his eyebrows.

“Well. Alright,” Wilbur said, turning back to his backpack. He threw a few books and a notebook onto his bed. “Phil said you had a mouth on you,” he added lightheartedly. Tommy rolled his eyes. 

“Why’s he talking about me, ” he mumbled. 

“What else is he gonna talk about? The weather?” Wilbur asked sarcastically. He pulled a laptop from his bag and placed it gently on his desk. It had scratches around the edges, but it seemed pretty new despite that. At some point, Dream had a shitty desktop computer at his place, but it didn’t ever turn on. This looked much nicer than that. “Wilbur,” Wilbur offered by way of introduction, and stretched his hand out. Tommy eyed it with suspicion before slowly reaching out to shake it. 

“Awfully formal,” Tommy said. Wilbur shrugged. He had a firm handshake like some kind of fuckin’ business man. He gave Tommy’s hand a good squeeze before letting go, and Tommy lowered his hand, wondering what his handshake felt like to Wilbur. When was the last time he’d shaken someone’s hand? Had he done it right? He hadn’t even shaken the lawyer’s hand. The silence between them seemed to stretch out a little too long for Tommy’s liking, and he wracked his brain for anything to say. “Why’d you call your dad by his first name?” Tommy asked abruptly.

“Oh,” Wilbur said. “Phil’s not–” Wilbur cut himself off before starting again. “Uh, I’m… adopted. So it just– it makes more sense to call him Phil.” Oh. Tommy blinked. Why the fuck did no one tell me that? 

“Why the fuck did no one tell me that?” Tommy muttered. First no one tells me about his wife, now no one tells me Wilbur isn’t even his son? Wilbur chuckled. 

“I dunno,” he shrugged. “Not super important, I guess.”

“It seems pretty important,” Tommy grumbled.

“Why?” Wilbur challenged. Tommy couldn’t quite tell if he was serious or teasing, his tone unreadable, and every further question he had about Wilbur’s situation with Phil fizzled and died on his tongue.

 “Well– because– you– because Phil– nevermind ,” Tommy sputtered. “Do you even listen to all of these?” Tommy asked, changing the subject as quickly as he could, looking back to the crate of records. He could have sworn he saw Wilbur smirk. 

“No, they’re just for show,” Wilbur sighed dramatically. He turned to his bed, pulling his sweater off over his head, leaving him in a plain white t-shirt. He shook his hair out.

“That’s stupid,” Tommy said. Wilbur pushed his hair out of his eyes and raised his eyebrows at Tommy. 

“I was kidding. Of course I listen to them. What’s the point if you don’t listen to them?” Wilbur asked. Tommy felt blood rush to his cheeks. 

“Well, fuckin’ say that, then,” he grumbled. Wilbur breathed a laugh, shaking his head slightly.

“Sorry, sorry,” he said. “Noted.” Tommy grumbled nothing in particular under his breath, rolling his eyes. “How old are you, Tommy?” 

“What, you and Phil didn’t talk about that?” 

“He said you’re fifteen.” 

“So why did you ask,” Tommy said, more a statement than it was a question. Stop fuckin’ talking about me, he wanted to add, but he didn’t. The idea that Phil and Wilbur had discussed him in some kind of fucked up heart-to-heart made Tommy sick to his stomach. 

“I dunno, man. Trying to make conversation.” 

“Well, you’re shit at it.” 

“Jesus, harsh crowd,” Wilbur sighed, but he smiled nonetheless. What was it with these weirdos and smiling when they were insulted? “What do you want to talk about, then?”

“Who says I want to talk?” Tommy asked, crossing his arms and tilting his head to the side. 

“Wh… you came to me. This is my room ,” Wilbur said. Oh. Shit. Right. 

“Well– it– you– it’s a shit room,” Tommy shot back. “Bitch,” he added for punctuation. Good one. Real smooth. Wilbur pursed his lips slightly, obviously holding back a smile but doing a terrible job at it. He blinked a few times before speaking again.

“You’re free to leave,” Wilbur said. His voice was amused, and he pulled his phone out of his front pocket before plopping down onto his bed and tucking one leg up underneath him. Tommy stood in the doorway, watching him skeptically. He considered it for a second, the idea of simply retreating back to his room, but somehow the tension of talking to Wilbur seemed much more manageable than the acid that rose in his throat at the idea of being alone again.

“Why do you have so much shit on your walls?” Tommy asked instead, stepping into the room finally. Wilbur smiled at him when he did. He had a weirdly expressive face. It threw Tommy off.

“For fun,” Wilbur shrugged. “I dunno. Makes the room feel more… homey,” he said. Tommy raised his eyebrows. Tommy flipped through a few of the records in the crate on Wilbur’s desk before picking one out and examining the cover. “Careful,” Wilbur warned. 

“I’m not gonna fuckin’ break it, I know how to pick up a record,” Tommy said dismissively. But he handled the disk a little more carefully. Wilbur wasn’t outright tired of him already, and honestly, Tommy didn’t want to give him a reason to hate him… yet. Maybe later. He’d keep it in mind. 

“Do you like music?” Wilbur asked. 

“What, are we speed dating?” Tommy responded, flipping the record over to read the song list. 

“Are you physically capable of answering a question without sarcasm, or is that some kind of condition?” Wilbur said, leaning back on his palms on the bed. Tommy glared at him for a moment. 

“I don’t listen to music,” he said finally. 

“What, ever ?” Wil asked, and Tommy shrugged. 

“I mean I’ve heard, fuckin… I don’t know. The classics,” Tommy grumbled. “What the fuck kind of name is Crywank? ” 

“A great fucking name, thank you very much,” Wilbur retorted. 

“Why so defensive? You come up with it?” Tommy teased. 

“It’s a good band,” Wil said, rolling his eyes.

“Sure,” Tommy smirked. 

“You’re gonna come in here and make fun of my music?” Wilbur demanded, feigning hurt. 

“I could make fun of you instead, if you’d like,” Tommy said, tucking the record back into the crate. 

“I’m good, thanks.”

“Suit yourself, king,” Tommy shrugged, and continued flipping through records. “Ah, Los Campesinos, ” he said, playing up the accent.

“You’ve heard of them?” Wilbur asked, leaning forward hopefully. 

“ Nope ,” Tommy said with a shit eating grin.

***

“Okay, no, because– I’m gonna say it now, the fuckin– the five day work week is– kids are literally hanging on the edge of their seats waiting for weekends, it’s the only thing they can depend on to be mentally stable. And for what? So we can sit at home doing more work?”

“Well that’s the fucking–”

“It’s ridiculous man, we can’t be expected to work to the bone–”

“Exactly–”

“And they did it in Japan, did you know? Microsoft Japan, in 2019, and you know what?”

“What?” 

“Sales per employee increased 40 percent .”

“That’s a lot of percent,” Tommy nodded sagely. 

“It is , isn’t it?” Wilbur said. “And now they recommend that employees are given the choice to opt for a four day work week, why?”

“Wh–”

“Because it’s better , Tommy, it’s– look you can’t deny Japan’s got a lot of bright ideas, they invented the jet ski for christ’s sake–”

Tommy barked out a laugh, loud and explosive, one he hadn’t even anticipated, but it felt good.

“What, I’m being serious, man!” Wilbur said, holding back a laugh. 

“Does this rant have anything to do with the fact that tomorrow is Friday and you just don't want to go to school?” Tommy asked. Wilbur looked up from his phone, staring blankly at Tommy for a long moment. 

“No,” he said defensively. Tommy laughed again. Wilbur looked down at his phone and tapped a few times before looking back up. “Phil says dinner is almost ready and we can come down whenever,” he said. 

“He texted you? He’s right downstairs,” Tommy said, “Why the fuck did he text you?” 

“He doesn’t like to yell,” Wilbur shrugged.

“Doesn’t like to…” Tommy muttered, furrowing his eyebrows. “Bet he’s one of those gentle parenting types, aye? Doesn’t believe in spanking or whatever?”

“Spanking is obsolete and cruel,” Wilbur said. “It’s just a socially acceptable excuse to beat children.” His tone was suddenly more serious than Tommy expected, and Tommy blinked at him and swallowed hard, nodding slowly. 

“Right,” he said, unsure of what else he was supposed to say.

“Sorry,” Wilbur said sheepishly. “I have a lot of thoughts about… um. Everything.” 

“I can tell,” Tommy said. He shook off the sudden tension he felt. 

“Yeah,” Wilbur said, raising his eyebrows and pursing his lips slightly. “Hm. Anyway, uh… dinner.” 

“Dinner,” Tommy parrotted. Wilbur patted his knee and stood, tucking his phone into his pocket. Tommy stood, too, backing out of Wilbur’s room. He pressed his back against the wall, letting Wilbur pass by him and go down the stairs first. 

He heard Phil’s voice downstairs, and a second one joined it now, rumbly and low, and Tommy couldn’t tell what either of them were saying. Tommy hesitated at the first step, a familiar knot settling in his stomach. He pushed it down, swallowing against the sharpness in his throat, and followed Wilbur into the kitchen with his jaw clenched tight.

"They're next to the- yeah, that one," Phil was saying as he set plates down on the kitchen island. 

They were white ceramic with thin lines of gold running around the edge. There was also a large pot of pasta on a wooden cutting board, a smaller saucepan of sauce, meatballs in a pan, a bowl of parmesan, garlic bread… pasta night. Okay. Tommy could do pasta night. He vaguely remembered Phil asking him if he liked pasta at some point today, but it was all becoming one bit blob of stuff in his head. 

Phil looked up when they walked into the kitchen, and he gave Tommy a soft smile. But to Tommy's relief, he didn't say anything about Tommy's little tantrum earlier, and he hoped it stayed that way. 

Next to Phil, there was another person, a young man, tall with long dyed pink hair that was grown out with dark brown at the roots. It was tied back in a messy braid. He wore dark jeans and a plain black t-shirt, and when he turned, he had a stack of paper napkins in his hand. For some reason, that was what Tommy noticed first. Then he noticed the thick scar that stood out on his arm. He had another one on his face, cutting across his forehead and the bridge of his nose. He was a big dude. Tommy was surprised at how tall he was, and he was jacked, what the fuck. What did Phil say he did for work? Tommy had no clue. Maybe he should have paid attention. For all he knew, this dude fucking killed people for a living. 

"Tommy, this is Techno," Phil said, gesturing between the two of them. Techno smiled slightly. 

"Hey," he said. His voice was gravely, and his teeth were crooked, the kind of crooked that made his canine teeth stick out more than the rest like fucking fangs. It wasn't intimidating at all, definitely not. Tommy was definitely, definitely not intimidated. So unintimidated in fact that he also definitely didn’t forget to breathe for a second.

"Is that your natural hair color, then?" Tommy asked, rolling his shoulders back slightly and straightening his back. Techno blinked at him. 

"Yep," he said. His voice was so deadpan it made Tommy believe him for a second. He raised his eyebrows at Tommy and then set the napkins down on the kitchen island next to the plate of bread. 

"Hah," Tommy huffed, crossing his arms over his chest. Who the fuck dyed their hair pink? What a shitty color. He could have at least dyed it neon pink or something. What was this pastel bullshit? Ridiculous. What was even more ridiculous was that it actually kind of suited him. 

"I'm thinking we do a sort of buffet style, take what you want?" Phil offered, interrupting Tommy’s thoughts. "I kept the meatballs separate, Tommy, I didn't know if you were a vegetarian or not."

"I'll choose not to take offense to that," Tommy muttered. Phil passed him a plate, and then gave one to Wilbur as well. 

"Can we eat in the living room?" Wil asked, leaning over the pasta pot and grabbing the spoon with one hand. "There's a Brooklyn 99 marathon tonight."  Phil narrowed his eyes, but shrugged.

"Yeah, why not. But bring an extra napkin," he said. 

"Nice," Wilbur breathed. He scooped a heap of pasta onto his plate and then passed the spoon to Tommy. "Have you ever seen Brooklyn 99?" He asked as Tommy took it from him. 

"Of course,” Tommy lied. 

“Nice,” Wilbur said again. “Where have you watched to? I think it’s starting early on, but you know, spoilers.” Fuck. 

“Uh… I’ve seen season one,” Tommy mumbled. Wilbur nodded, but didn’t ask any more questions. Thank god. He poked the spoon around in the pasta pot, turning it over and examining the contents closely before scooping some onto his plate. He passed the spoon to Techno. 

The guy had a face that was almost expressionless. It threw Tommy off. At most, he raised his eyebrows or twitched his lips into a smirk. They really had the two ends of the spectrum in this house, huh? Wilbur and Phil both smiled way more than a human being should ever smile, in Tommy’s opinion. But Techno was difficult to read. It made Tommy feel on edge. It was like trying to read Dream when he was angry. 

“Take as much as you want, Tommy,” Phil added, putting some bread onto his own plate. “I made extra.” Techno offered the spoon back to Tommy, and Tommy narrowed his eyes at the utensil before taking it and adding another scoop of pasta to his plate. 

He was hungry. Come to think of it, he really hadn’t eaten much of those sandwiches. And technically speaking there was still half of one sitting on the floor of his room. Shit. He had to clean that up. Damn it. He pictured bugs crawling over it already and felt a bad taste in his mouth. 

With plates full of pasta, sauce, meatballs, and bread, Wilbur led the way into the living room. It was a cozy room, a thick carpet on the floor and paintings on the walls and a big window that looked outside to the yard and trees that were behind the house. There was a couch, a sofa, and an armchair.

“Sit wherever,” Phil said casually. Wilbur and Techno both plopped themselves down on the couch side by side. Wilbur put his feet up on the coffee table, setting the plate down on his lap and stretching his neck back. Tommy walked to the smaller sofa. It faced the exit, and he could see the whole room from that corner. 

“I can’t believe you still have cable,” Techno said. He opened up a can of soda with one hand and draped his other arm over the back of the couch. “You can get everything from subscriptions these days.” 

“I like to watch the premier league matches,” Phil shrugged. 

“You can get those on subscriptions too,” Techno said, raising his eyebrows. 

“Live?” 

“Yeah.” 

“Well then why do I still have cable?” 

“What– why’re you askin’ me? That’s what I just said,” Techno said. “Waste of money. Just pay for the internet.”

“But I have a bundle ,” Phil lamented. 

“Bundles are scams,” Wilbur mumbled through a mouthful of pasta. He flicked through channels on the TV until he got to the one playing his show. 

“Hey, that bundle is what’s letting you watch this show,” Phil pointed out. Wilbur shrugged. Tommy poked at his pasta, observing them. Was this just… normal conversation for them? This was fucking boring. At least Dream and his idiot friends talked about interesting stuff. To be fair, that was mostly illegal shit and drugs, but still. It was interesting. 

“So is Techno adopted as well, then?” Tommy asked. Phil and Wilbur both looked to each other, and Phil opened his mouth but closed it. Tommy was never one to dance around the point, even if what he said came out as rude. Especially when what he said came out as rude. Techno looked up, noodles hanging out of his mouth. 

“Mm,” he hummed. “Mm-mm,” he shook his head and swallowed. “I’m not actually related to Phil and Wilbur at all,” he answered. Tommy blinked at him. Techno hesitated a moment, uncertain, before continuing. “Well, Phil was my foster parent for, uh… a few months? But I turned 18 and emancipated myself,” Techno explained. Tommy had no idea what that meant.

“I mentioned that in the car,” Phil said. “Remember?”

“Not really,” Tommy mumbled. He’d zoned out for most of that ride. Most of the talks with the lawyer, too. Everyone just talked too much. None of it felt important to commit to memory.

“Phil did offer to adopt me, actually,” Techno went on, “But we ended up just bein’ close friends, and I mean, I was practically an adult anyway. Self-sustainin’ and whatnot.” Techno spoke slowly, somehow both deliberately and simultaneously disinterested. 

“So you just… live together,” Tommy said. Techno nodded. “That’s weird.” 

“Two adults livin’ together isn’t really weird, ” he shrugged. “We’re roomies.” The word sounded bizarre coming out of this guy’s mouth. Phil laughed. 

“Weird,” Tommy repeated. “Do you pay rent?”

“I do.” 

“You make your son pay rent?” Tommy asked, turning to Phil.

“He’s not my son, Tommy,” Phil said.

“The social worker lady called him your son,” Tommy retorted. This was getting too confusing. He felt like he couldn’t track all the moving pieces.

“Wilbur is my only son.” 

“But Wilbur’s adopted, yeah?” Tommy asked, raising his eyebrows. 

“He’s still my son,” Phil answered. 

“But that’s not–” Tommy looked over to Wil, his mouth half open to reply sarcastically, but his energy faltered seeing his expression. He wasn’t quite offended, but he was looking at Tommy skeptically, his head ducked slightly like he was waiting to see what Tommy was going to say. Tommy’s mouth felt dry. 

Suddenly, this felt like a test that he hadn’t studied for. What was he supposed to say? How was he supposed to say it? Was he allowed to joke about this? It was seeming like the answer was no, definitely not. No one had given him a rundown on this weird family’s personal affairs and now he was being quizzed on the appropriateness of his reactions, and they were all just looking at him, waiting. Fuck, fuck, fuck. When you make eye contact, do you look at both eyes at once or alternate between them? Tommy looked down at his plate, poking the pasta with his fork.

“No, yeah, I know, I just– I was saying– I meant–” he stuttered, feeling his chest tighten. “Fucking, nevermind,” he grumbled and shoved a piece of garlic bread into his mouth. 

“Kathryn knows Techno’s not my son, I’m not sure why she said that,” Phil shrugged. “Easier to explain I guess.” 

“Who’s Kathryn?” Tommy asked. Phil raised his eyebrows. 

“The… the social worker. Kathryn. You met her at the, uh…” 

“Jail?” Tommy finished his sentence.

“I was going to say police station, ” Phil said. 

“I wasn’t really paying attention, to be honest,” Tommy mumbled. 

“That’s fair,” Phil shrugged. Tommy rolled his eyes, but he wasn’t even sure what he was rolling his eyes at. Just the situation in general. 

“I went to jail once,” Techno said. Tommy balked at him. Techno slowly processed what he’d said, blinking slowly, before looking up. “Maybe that’s, uh… too much information.” 

“What the fuck?” Tommy asked. 

“It was a misunderstandin’,” Techno said, putting a hand up with a half smile that said don’t ask me about this. “Conversation for another day,” he sighed. 

“You can’t just say that and then not explain,” Tommy argued. 

“Watch me,” Techno shrugged. 

“Fuck you,” Tommy said, feeling frustration begin to boil in his chest. Techno’s smile dropped, and Tommy felt a coldness spread in his chest, anticipating his response. Would he yell? Throw something? What kind of person was this guy? Tommy could take him. Probably. Maybe. Jesus, maybe not. What the fuck was he doing? Stop talking.

“Woah, easy,” Techno said. “I didn’t– look, I was just sayin’ I don’t think it’s good dinner conversation–”

“Well, you brought it up,” Tommy retorted, waving his fork at Techno. 

“Yeah,” Techno said, rubbing the back of his neck with one hand. “I was just… tryin’ to be relatable.” 

“Oh, yeah, so relatable, knowing the weird dude who lives here has been to jail , makes me feel so safe,” Tommy muttered and stabbed a piece of pasta with his fork. He was digging himself a hole. A deep hole. Wilbur was watching him with a tense expression, and Techno poked at his food awkwardly. Stop talking, stop talking, stop talking. “But who am I to judge, you’re the one inviting a fuckin’ drug dealer into your home,” Tommy shrugged, swallowing hard. His throat felt sharp. 

“Didn’t they clear you of that charge?” Wilbur asked hesitantly. 

“Probably,” Tommy muttered. “I wasn’t paying attention.” There was an awkward, heavy silence between them. 

The TV played a commercial for a vacuum cleaner. Well that went horribly. Tommy resisted the urge to flee back to the bedroom. He’d already escaped there once. If he did it again, and this time in front of Wilbur and Techno, he’d just look like a coward. And Tommy was not a coward. How had he managed to make this many bad impressions? He and Wilbur had gotten along alright at first, but now Wil sat and picked at his food silently, not even looking up at Tommy, and he felt sour and cold. He pinched his thumb against the side of his finger, a silent reminder to keep his mouth shut. 

Don’t make it worse. 

But why not? This whole situation was bullshit. Why was he so worried about making a good first impression? It wasn’t like any of this mattered. In a couple days he’d be with his mom and everything would be… 

He bit the inside of his cheek, his stomach suddenly tying itself in knots. He wasn’t hungry anymore. Tommy pressed his back against the sofa, wishing he could just disappear into the upholstery and vanish forever. 

“So, um,” Techno said awkwardly. “How’s… school?” Tommy didn’t know if it was directed at him or not. He didn’t care. 

“I need to piss,” he said, and stood abruptly before anyone could say anything. He set the plate down on the coffee table and it clattered loudly, which only made his skin crawl more. 

“The bathroom is–” Phil started, but Tommy interrupted him. 

“I know where it is.” No one said anything else. Tommy didn’t even have to look up to feel their eyes burning into him. Stop looking at me. Stop it. Shut up. Fuck off. 

He got to the kitchen, leaned his back against the wall that divided the rooms, and just stood there like an idiot. Idiot. Why was talking so hard? He didn’t remember it being this exhausted before. When he used to go to school, he didn’t have friends, but at least he could hold a conversation. In the living room, he heard muffled talking. 

“I’m so bad with kids,” Techno groaned. “I told you. Was I this bad with you?” 

“Yep,” Wilbur said without hesitation.

“See?”

“You’re fine, mate,” Phil said. Yeah, it’s all Tommy’s fault anyway, right? “It’s always a little awkward at first.” Jesus, Phil really knew how to spin it, huh? What had that woman said he did for work? Therapist? No. Psych...ologist? Psychic? Psychic? What the fuck. Maybe you really are a dumbass. 

Psychiatrist. That was it. Made sense, now that he thought about it. She’d said a lot of other shit, too. So had that lawyer. Tommy remembered practically none of it. He was beginning to think that was going to come back to bite him in the ass. 

Tommy sighed, pushing away from the wall. He walked down the hall that led away from the kitchen, trying to recall what door had a toilet behind it. He really needed to pay closer attention. He was sure at least some of this was important. But now everything felt like it was muddled together, all mixed up with no timeline and nothing to hold onto.

Eventually, he found the bathroom, and he splashed some cold water onto his face and stared at himself in the mirror for a long moment. Just go eat dinner, he told himself. Go eat dinner, and then you can go to bed, and then you’re one step closer to… something. To whatever comes next. Jesus, what comes next? Tommy shook himself, trying to cut off the spiral before it started. One step at a time. Dinner. Just dinner. 

That was easy enough. Sure. He could do that. Dinner. 

One step at a time. 

Ugh, this fucking sucked.

Chapter Text

“Morning,” Phil said cheerily.

“It’s, like, 2pm,” Tommy grumbled. He hadn’t intended to sleep in this late, but whatever. It didn’t matter, right? No one came and woke him up. No one slammed doors or yelled or threw a garbage bag at him and told him to take out the trash, so he slept in. Sue him. 

“Afternoon, then,” Phil replied. Tommy hummed in response. “Do you want something to eat? We’ve got cereal if you want breakfast, or I could make eggs, or–” 

“Cereal is fine,” Tommy interrupted. He was sure Phil would list a hundred options if he let him. Phil nodded. 

“It’s in the pantry there,” he said. “Milk’s in the fridge.” 

“Where else would it be?” Tommy mumbled, walking over to the pantry first. If Phil heard him, he didn’t answer. The pantry was fully stocked to the point where it almost looked like a grocery store. Tommy found cereals on the top left, Rice Crispies and Special K and Cheerios and Cinnamon Toast Crunch and Grape Nuts– who the fuck eats grape nuts ? He pulled the box of Cheerios off of the shelf, inspecting them. They were the honey nut kind. At least they had some taste in this weird fucking family. 

“Bowls are above the sink to the right, spoons are in the drawer below it,” Phil noted. Tommy silently got a bowl and milk and made his breakfast, throwing a spoon into the bowl before sliding it across the kitchen island to the spot at the other end of the counter from Phil. He threw himself down onto the stool and rested his elbows against the granite, poking at the cereal slowly with his spoon. 

“Did you sleep okay?” Phil asked, closing the lid to his laptop slightly. This was really a talk during meals kind of family, huh? Tommy shrugged. 

“I slept fine,” he replied, shoving a bite of cheerios into his mouth. “It’s fuckin’ quiet here at night.” Phil laughed. 

“Yeah, the middle of nowhere is nice like that.” Tommy hummed. Nice wasn’t the word he’d use to describe it. It was unsettling. He could hear himself breathe. He could have heard a rat piss if he listened closely enough. Did they even have rats here? It seemed like if a rat set foot in this clean ass house it would combust like a sinner in church. 

“Is Wilbur at school?” Tommy asked. He’d heard him walking around early in the morning getting ready. Phil nodded. 

“He’s going over to a friend’s after, though, so he won’t be back until late,” he added. 

So it would just be the two of them for a while. Great. Not awkward at all. Then again, he doubted he would be any less awkward with Wilbur there anyway. And oh, god, did that mean it would just be him and Phil and Techno for dinner? That was even worse. 

“I’m glad you got some good sleep, though, since we have to get up earlier tomorrow,” Phil said. Tommy looked up at him, his mouth full of cheerios. 

“Wha?” he asked, and then chewed and swallowed. “Why? What’s tomorrow?” Phil furrowed his brow slightly in confusion. 

“It’s… the first day of Dream’s trial,” Phil said slowly. What?

“Oh,” Tommy said. What the fuck? “Right.” 

When had he been told that? Phil acted like he should have known. He probably should have known. He definitely should have known. He continued to poke at his cereal, but his stomach felt tighter now. Oh, god. Tomorrow? He had to see Dream tomorrow? Would he have to talk to him? What was he supposed to do? Would he have to talk? Answer questions? 

“Do I have to wear a suit?” Tommy asked. “I don’t own a suit. I don’t even have clothes.” Phil chuckled, and Tommy narrowed his eyes. It was a serious question. 

“No, no, you don’t have to wear a suit. You can borrow a pair of slacks and a button down from Wilbur, you two seem like you’re about the same size. You’re both tall,” Phil said. Great, more hand-me-downs. At least these ones probably didn’t have holes in them. 

“How long will the trial take?” Tommy asked. 

“This session will probably be a few hours,” Phil replied. “It’ll go for the whole morning, I think, that’s three and a half hours, but it might continue after lunch depending on what needs to get done.”

“Wait, this session? There’s more than one trial?” 

“It’s all one trial,” Phil explained. “Multiple sessions over the course of several weeks.” Weeks?

“Right,” Tommy said. Weeks?! How long was this going to take? None of the other trials had taken weeks. Every other time Dream got in trouble for something stupid like this, he got a slap on the wrist or community service. How was this one going to take weeks? He looked up at Phil, his mouth open ready to say as much, but then froze. Phil’s expression sent a clear message: you should know this. Why don’t you know this? Tommy didn’t know shit. His questions turned to ash in his mouth. He elected to change the subject despite the confusion he felt. 

“And what about my mom?” He asked. “Did she finally pick up the phone?” Phil leaned back on his stool, adjusting his posture slightly. 

“She did, actually. I was just about to mention that,” he said. Tommy was honestly surprised. He looked up at Phil, raising his eyebrows. 

“Really?” He asked incredulously. “I can’t believe they actually got her to pick up the phone,” Tommy said, shaking his head. “So what, she comes and gets me then? Where’s she even living these days?” 

“It’s not that simple, actually,” Phil said. He was picking his words carefully, Tommy could tell. He picked up on it immediately. There was something he was leaving unsaid. 

“You said I’d stay here until they found her,” Tommy said. “They found her.”

“I said at least until they found her,” Phil corrected. Tommy rolled his eyes. “There’s a lot more that goes into this–”

“Why do they make it so complicated?” Tommy groaned, interrupting Phil. “This should take, like, an hour at most. Arrest Dream, charge him with selling drugs or whatever, hand me over to my mom, and be done.” 

“I’d love to tell you it’s that simple,” Phil sighed. 

“So what’s the hold up?” Tommy asked, shoving another bite of cereal into his mouth. 

“Well, like I said before, there’s some speculation as to whether or not she’s going to be able to support you, speculation which Clara herself confirmed–” 

“What do you mean, confirmed? ” Tommy demanded. 

“She… expressed some concerns about reclaiming sole custody,” Phil said. Tommy raised his eyebrows. “She’s not certain it’s the best path forward.” Oh. Oh. 

“So she doesn’t want me back,” Tommy said. 

“That’s not what I’m saying–”

“It is, though,” Tommy said, leaning back in his chair. He crossed his arms over his chest and held his breath against the growing tension he felt in his stomach. 

“Tommy, your mother just expressed she’s not confident she’s financially able to care for a child,” Phil said calmly. 

“God you sound just like that fucking lawyer,” Tommy groaned. “She’s had eight years to save money. Dream didn’t have the money to raise a kid, but here we are,” Tommy muttered, keeping his voice low. 

“Look, Tommy, I– I’m not going to lie to you. Ever. Yeah?” Phil asked, and Tommy nodded halfheartedly. “Right now, it doesn’t look good. Kathryn has her concerns about your mother and the situation she’s left you in, and the court is authorizing a more in depth investigation to see if she’s fit to parent…” Tommy groaned loudly, thudding his head down against the table. If someone said fit to parent one more fucking time–

“God, this is all so fucking–  ugh ,” Tommy groaned, leaning back and pressing his palms into his eye sockets so hard he saw stars. 

“I know it’s a lot,” Phil said sympathetically. “The lawyer will walk you through all of it–”

“I don’t want to talk to the lawyer. I don’t want to do this,” Tommy interrupted. “This is bullshit. You said I would just go to my mom and it would all be done.” 

“I didn’t–” 

“And now it’s just gonna go on and on and on, and what, I have to stay here? For how long?” Phil opened his mouth, but Tommy shook his head. “This is stupid. It was so much easier before, at least I knew what was going on! This is all– god, it’s all fucking– I never would have submitted that stupid fucking tip if I knew it was gonna end up like this,” Tommy said, and then paused, realizing what he’d said. 

Phil went silent, staring at him for a moment before speaking. 

“So you… you submitted the tip?” he asked gently. Tommy’s blood ran cold. 

“No. I didn’t. That– that’s not what– no.” 

“Tommy–” 

“That’s not what I meant. It was a fucking… it was a hypothetical. Yeah? Hypothetically, I wouldn’t have… submitted the…” Tommy swallowed hard. “Fuck,” he breathed. 

Fuck, fuck, fuck. He couldn’t take it back. He’d said it, and now he couldn’t take it back. Fix this. Fix this now. Phil opened his mouth, but Tommy cut him off. 

“Don’t tell anyone,” he said, and he cringed at the panic that was dripping from his voice. Phil closed his mouth. “Please.” God, can you hear yourself? But he felt fear building in his chest now, and he didn’t care how pitiful he sounded.

“Just… it’s alright,” Phil said. “Just take a breath, Tommy.” God, fucking psychiatrist ass, seeing right through him. Tommy dug his nails into his palms. 

“No, you don’t– I’m serious. Don’t tell anyone. You can’t–” Tommy groaned again, rubbing his eyes ferociously. Idiot. You can’t just keep your mouth shut, huh? You had one thing you couldn’t let slip and here we are. “You can’t tell anyone.”

“Why?” Phil asked. Tommy ground his teeth. “Tommy, this is important. Your lawyer should know this–”

“He’ll kill me. Dream, he’ll– he will. He’ll find a way. Even if he’s in jail, if he finds out–” Tommy swallowed again and it felt like knives in his throat. “I ruined his life. You can’t tell anyone, you can’t–” 

“Tommy, breathe,” Phil said, his voice calm and even, and he placed his palms flat against the table. “Just talk to me for a second, yeah?” 

“You’re gonna tell the lawyer,” Tommy said, an accusation. 

“I didn’t say that,” Phil shook his head. 

“You didn’t not say that!” He hadn’t intended to raise his voice, but he also hadn’t intended to tell Phil he was the one who submitted that tip, that he was the one who ruined Dream’s life, that he was the one who ruined his own life, and now he was yelling at the one person trying to help him in this whole goddamn world. Fuck. “I’ll run away. If you tell, I’ll run.” Tommy stood, pushing his chair back as he did, and Phil held his palms up like Tommy was aiming a gun at him.

“Tommy–” 

“Stop saying my name like that!” Tommy shouted. “Stop it! Stop fucking–  psychiatrist-ing me! You’re gonna tell the lawyer, don’t lie! You said you wouldn’t lie. You said. ” Tommy stood, facing Phil with his chest heaving like he’d just sprinted a mile, and he bit his lip to stop it from trembling. He was afraid. Why was he so afraid? Pussy. Fuck. Phil took a slow breath. 

“If I’m asked, then yes, I have an obligation to tell him,” he said finally. 

“And what… what if you’re not asked?” Tommy asked cautiously. “What if he doesn’t ask you?” 

“Just… tell me more? Talk to me for a second,” Phil offered, and Tommy groaned, rolling his eyes and taking a step back. “Okay, okay, look– I won’t tell him unless he asks, alright?” Tommy considered it. The lawyer had no reason to ask. No reason. Right? No reason. Definitely. Probably. Hopefully? Fuck. 

“You promise?” Tommy asked. Phil nodded.

“I promise,” he replied. Tommy considered it. Phil’s face looked honest. He had kind eyes, he really did. He looked like he cared. Tommy clenched his fists. 

“Alright,” Tommy said, his voice so quiet it surprised even him.

“Yeah?” Tommy nodded. “Okay. Okay,” Phil sighed. “Can I… can I ask why?” Tommy looked up at him. “Why did you submit the tip?” 

“Oh,” Tommy muttered. That was always the question, wasn’t it? Why? “I don’t know,” he said. “I just… I don’t know. I was tired. And I was angry, and– and he was so fucking sure of himself, and I wanted him to know what it felt like to have the rug pulled out from under you. I didn’t…” Tommy sighed, surprised to hear that his breath was shaky. He sat back down in the bar seat. He rested his hands on the cold granite of the island. “I didn’t know it would go this far,” he admitted quietly. “I didn’t want this. ” 

“What did you want?” Phil asked. 

“I don’t know,” Tommy mumbled. He pressed his palms against his eyes until he saw stars. I just wanted it to stop.

“I can’t imagine what you’re going through,” Phil began. Tommy opened his mouth, but Phil raised a hand to cut him off. “I’m not… psychiatrist-ing you,” he added. “I’m only trying to make this as easy for you as I can. There’s a lot going on, I get that, and I’m here to explain whatever I can and give you a safe place to stay while this gets sorted out. I want you to feel like you have as much control over this as possible.” Tommy blinked at him. 

“Well that’s…” he started, but his sarcasm caught in his throat. “That’s… very nice, actually…” Tommy muttered. 

“Of course,” Phil said gently. 

“I don’t…” Tommy groaned, rubbing his palms into his eyes. “I don’t think I have any control at all,” he admitted. 

“I know it feels like that,” Phil sighed, “A lot of it is out of your hands by design, unfortunately, but you do have a voice in this. Your testimony matters. But you need to tell the truth.” Tommy crossed his arms over his stomach. “Listen, that’s important. You need to tell the truth, the whole truth. If you change your story, you can be deemed an unreliable witness. Do you know what that means?” 

“Yes,” Tommy lied. Phil waited, and Tommy could feel his eyes burning into him. “No,” he finally admitted. 

“That’s fine. It means Dream’s lawyer can argue to have your testimony thrown out.” That seems dramatic.

“Okay,” Tommy said, swallowing. “So... don’t lie.” 

“Yeah, lying in court tends to be a big no-no,” Phil chuckled. Tommy nodded. 

“Got it,” he said. 

“Sarcasm is also probably not a good idea,” Phil added. 

“I wasn’t being–” 

“I just meant in general,” Phil explained. “Just… general rule. And cursing.” 

“No lying, no sarcasm, no cursing,” Tommy repeated. Phil nodded. “Well that’s just my whole brand.” Phil laughed. “So… can I– can I be honest with you?” 

“Always,” Phil said.

“I… have not been paying attention for, like, most of this.” Phil gave him a tired sort of smile. 

“Yeah, I was picking up on that,” he said. “How about we just go over what you need to know for tomorrow?” 

***

By the time Phil was done, Tommy had a headache blooming behind his eyes. He had his head rested against the kitchen island, the cold granite pressing against his skin, his mind spinning in circles trying to keep track of everything. 

“So it’s just Dream’s trial tomorrow, right?” Tommy asked.

“The first day of the trial, yes.” Right . Yes . 

“And the shit with my mom, that’ll be seperate, right? That’s in… family court?” 

“If it goes to trial, yes. It depends on what the investigation brings up.”

“And family court, that’s different because… the… because…” Tommy thudded his head against the counter.

“In criminal court, it’ll be your brother against the government, with the goal of holding him accountable to the fullest extent of the law. Family court will work toward resolving the issue fairly between all individuals involved – so between you and your mom.” That’s a lot of words. Tommy’s head pounded in protest. 

“And that’s where they decide if she’s fit to parent or whatever?” 

“Yes.” 

“And if she is… what if she doesn’t want me? Or what… what if I don’t want to go live with her?” Tommy asked. Phil leaned back in his chair. 

“They’ll take that into consideration,” he said, “but the goal is to keep the family together in most cases.” Tommy pulled his head away from the countertop, rubbing the cold spot on his forehead. 

“And– okay. Why is Dream’s trial taking so long again?”

“Well, it’s not really. It’s actually being sped up significantly due to the circumstances.”

“The circumstances being me,” Tommy said, raising his eyebrows. 

“Your involvement is a major factor, yes. The court takes child endangerment very seriously.” 

Dream had built himself quite a list of charges; endangerment, abuse, criminal negligence, distribution of harmful material to a minor, intentional and unlawful sale of a controlled substance, possession, trafficking, fucking tax evasion for christ’s sake. 

Phil had also said he was fairly confident Tommy’s mother was going to rack up a few charges herself, abandonment at the very least, supervisory neglect, medical neglect, reckless endangerment… it all felt a bit like pin the tail on the donkey, and Tommy was just a cardboard cutout at a kid’s birthday party waiting to be poked full of holes. 

But he tried to focus, this time, he really did. To listen. He’d been told all of this, Phil said. The lawyer had gone over it with him, but Tommy had been too busy counting the bugs in the ceiling light to pay attention. He hadn’t even remembered the lawyer’s name until Phil reminded him. Quackity. He had to remember this time. And the social worker was Kathryn. That wasn’t as important, but Tommy still felt bad for forgetting. 

“Tommy?” Phil asked, snapping Tommy back to the present moment. Tommy hummed, meeting his gaze. “Did you hear what I said?” Fuck. He resisted the urge to lie. 

“I… no,” Tommy admitted. Phil opened his mouth, but Tommy cut him off. “Sorry. I’m trying, I– really, I was listening, it’s just a lot–” Phil shook his head. 

“No, no, it’s alright. I know you’ve been paying attention, mate. We’ve been at it for a while.” Tommy nodded, sighing. He felt himself relax a little. 

“What did you say?” Tommy asked.

“Just that you don’t have to worry about a lot of this for tomorrow,” Phil repeated. “It’ll be basically an introduction to the trial, presenting a bunch of legal documents and both sides of the case. You might have to get up and state your name and relationship to Dream, some basic questions, but it's possible you won’t even be called yet. But we’ll meet with Quackity beforehand and he’ll go over more specifics with you then.” Tommy nodded. He bit the inside of his cheek. 

“And you– you’ll be there,” he said quietly. “Right?” Phil gave him a soft smile. 

“Of course,” he said. “Any time you’re there, I’ll be there, too.” For some reason, despite knowing Phil for hardly a day, that made Tommy breathe a little easier. 

“Okay,” he sighed. 

“Does it all make sense?” Phil asked. Tommy rubbed the back of his neck. 

“Most of it, I think,” he said. “Jesus. It’s a lot.” 

“It is,” Phil agreed. “But I think it’s good to know what’s going on. Might make it a bit less overwhelming.” Tommy nodded. Despite how much information had been thrown his way, he did feel weirdly better. “How about we leave it there, yeah? Take a break, go get lunch or something?”

“Go where?” Tommy asked, looking up at Phil. 

“I don’t know… what are you in the mood for?” Tommy shrugged noncommittally. Food was food, really. He wouldn’t turn it down. “Anything you don’t like?” Tommy shrugged again. “I know a good diner,” Phil said decisively. “They’ll have something you’re into, I’m sure.” 

***

Sleepy’s Diner looked like if you searched “diner” on google and clicked on the first image result. It had red leather seats that were polished until they shone and metal countertops that were worn away where people set their plates down or leaned their elbows while they ate. It had weird lights that buzzed if you listened hard enough, and the menus were laminated in plastic and bordered by fake leather and little ornamental corners. 

But the woman at the door was nice enough that Tommy couldn’t bring himself to make fun of it. 

“Hello! Welcome to Sleepy’s–  oh! ” She stopped when she saw Phil, her eyes widening in recognition. “Phil! Hello!” 

“Niki!” Phil said kindly, and a smile spread across his face. “Hey, I didn’t know you worked this shift.”

“I usually don’t,” Niki explained. “But Ranboo’s going to Tubbo’s for the weekend, so I figured I’d pick up some extra hours.” Phil nodded. “Who’s this?” Niki asked, turning to Tommy. Tommy stared at her blankly. 

“Oh, this is Tommy,” Phil said. “He’s living with us for a while. Tommy, this is Niki.” 

“Hi,” Tommy said with as little emotion as he could muster. Niki beamed at him anyway with a grin that could put the sun to shame. It made him almost want to smile back. Almost. 

“Very nice to meet you,” she said. She sounded shockingly genuine. Not many people were pleased to meet Tommy. 

Niki led them toward a booth at the back of the diner. It was quieter back there, less people, less noise, less annoying silverware scraping against plates. Phil let Tommy choose his seat first, and so Tommy slid into the booth along the back wall, sliding into it with an awkward squeak against the leather. He wiggled a little until his jeans stopped sticking to the seat. 

Niki passed them menus, and Tommy fixed his focus intently on the breakfast side while Niki and Phil talked. He wasn’t sure if Niki was the type to ask questions, but Tommy didn’t want to risk it. He wasn’t in the mood to talk to anyone new, but Niki walked away soon enough anyway.

“The milkshakes are good,” Phil said. “They’re on the other side of the menu.” Tommy flipped it over, and Phil pointed out an extensive milkshake list. “I get the caramel swirl every time I come here.” 

“ You get a milkshake?” Tommy asked incredulously. Phil chuckled. 

“What? They’re good!” He replied. “I’m allowed to have fun.” 

“You’re weird,” Tommy said. Phil shrugged. Tommy shook his head and looked back down at the menu. He ran his fingers over the edge while he read, and eventually, when Niki came back over, he muttered out an order for a cheeseburger and fries and, after a moment of hesitation, an oreo milkshake. Phil ordered himself a club sandwich and a milkshake for himself, and Niki cheerfully thanked them before leaving again. 

“What the fuck is a club sandwich?” Tommy asked, picking at the paper napkin that was wrapped around his silverware. Phil leaned forward slightly, though, his expression changing. 

“Easy… with the cursing,” he said softly. Tommy clenched his jaw. “I’m fine with it at home, but… there’s some kids here, you know?” 

“There’s…” Tommy started, but he craned his neck slightly, looking over the back of Phil’s booth and finding that there were, in fact, two young children sitting a few seats away from them with their parents. Tommy slid back down into his seat. “Oh.” His mouth felt dry for some reason. He reached forward, picking up the red plastic cup of water Niki had set down, and took a drink. 

Now that Tommy thought about it, he hadn’t really been to a restaurant in a long time. He hadn’t really been anywhere at all in a long time. Sometimes he wandered aimlessly around Dream’s neighborhood, and on occasion he convinced Sapnap to drive him to the gas station for food, but that was about it. He felt very aware of his language now, but he didn’t let it show on his face. 

“Me and Wil and Tech come and eat here a lot,” Phil said, blissfully changing the subject. Tommy looked up. “Techno likes cheeseburgers too. He gets ‘em with crispy onions.” 

“Is this place popular?” Tommy asked. 

“Yeah, I’d say so. Been around a long time.” 

“I’ve heard Dream mention it before,” Tommy said, leaning forward and fiddling with the napkin again. 

“Oh?” Phil asked, raising his eyebrows. 

“Yeah, he used to sell weed to high schoolers in the parking lot across the street,” Tommy explained. Phil’s expression dropped. 

“Oh…” he said. “That’s– mm.” 

Tommy held back a smile, biting the inside of his cheek. He wouldn’t lie, it was fun to watch Phil squirm a little. The dude was too sure of himself. 

“He’d bring fries back, though,” Tommy added. “They were stale but… you know,” he muttered. “Still fries.” Phil nodded awkwardly. 

“So you’ve never been here?” Phil asked. Tommy narrowed his eyes. He knew the question; did Dream ever bring you with him? 

“No,” Tommy said carefully. “But clearly you come here often enough to know the waitress’ shift schedules,” he added.

“Oh, no, it’s–” Phil chuckled. “Niki is a family friend. I actually fostered her nephew, Ranboo, for a while, until she was able to adopt him.” Tommy narrowed his eyes at Phil, trying to put together the pieces that he had into any story that made sense, but he found himself coming up blank. 

“How’s that work?” he asked. 

“Well, she couldn’t take him right away for a handful of reasons, legal and financial and whatnot, so Ranboo stayed with me while that got sorted out,” Phil explained. 

“And why’d he have to stay with you in the first place?” Tommy pried. 

“That’s… not really my place to tell you,” Phil said, leaning back against the booth. Tommy rolled his eyes. 

“Why? Not like I’ll ever meet him,” he sighed. 

“It’s a small town,” Phil shrugged. “And you might, actually. At some point we’ll be swinging by his school so you can meet with the academic counselor there.” 

“ What ?” Tommy groaned. “I have to go to school ?” 

“Yes,” Phil said matter-of-factly. “At some point. Probably over the summer, so you won’t have to worry about it for now, but you’re over a year behind at this point. We just want to make a plan for you moving forward.” 

“I don’t want to go back to school,” Tommy grumbled. “School is for bitches .” Phil held up his hand slightly, wincing at the volume at which Tommy had cursed, and Tommy felt guilt bubble up in his chest despite how much he truly didn’t care if anyone heard him. He rolled his eyes, slouching against the booth backrest. He crossed his arms over his stomach. “No one cared that I wasn’t in school before.” 

“It seems they were under the impression you were being homeschooled,” Phil said. Tommy snorted. 

“ Hah. Yeah, sure. Dream was a real scholar. Sure taught me a lot about chemistry,” Tommy scoffed. Phil raised his eyebrows, pursing his lips slightly. 

“Evidently,” he said. Tommy scowled at him. Fuck you, he wanted to say, but then remembered the little kids at the table across from them, and he shut his mouth. He let it burn on his tongue instead. 

He knew eventually he’d have to figure out the whole school thing. When he’d realized last year that Dream couldn’t give less of a shit if he got on the bus or not, he just stopped going. It was easier than he thought. No one talked to him anyway. Or he didn’t talk to anyone. Or both. It didn’t matter. He hadn’t done work in months anyway, and eventually they’d stopped calling home. He figured they’d just given up. 

“School’s important, mate,” Phil said, and Tommy rolled his eyes so hard he wondered if they’d get lost in his head. He didn’t want to talk about this. 

“You’re really gonna give me the school-is-cool pep talk?” He muttered, not looking up. This was stupid. Why was this what they were concerned about? With everything else that was so incredibly, irreversibly fucked up, why did school even matter?

“It is! Come on, I mean– what do you see yourself doing in ten years?” Phil asked. Tommy looked down at his hands, picking at the skin around his thumbnails. 

“Honestly, I didn’t think I’d make it that far,” he mumbled. He felt like there was a rock in his stomach, now. Phil was quiet for a moment, but Tommy didn’t look up. He felt like a live wire, here, all wound up with energy just waiting to start a fire, but he couldn’t. He was trapped out in the open, too self aware to blow up in a place like this but not under control enough not to. He dug his thumbnail into the side of his finger until it ached. 

“We’ll take it one day at a time, then,” Phil said eventually. Tommy looked to the side, avoiding Phil’s gaze. “Is that easier?” Tommy shrugged. Yes. Please. Just make it stop. It didn’t matter. “Let’s kick the school-is-cool talk down the road a little, then.” Tommy sighed out a laugh. If Phil noticed the way his breath shook, he didn’t mention it. 

“Yeah, let’s,” Tommy said. 

Like an angel sent from heaven, Niki reappeared then, carrying with her two massive milkshakes in fancy glasses, as well as a tower of onion rings. 

“On the house,” she said cheerily as she set down the appetizer. Tommy knew he should say thank you , but he couldn’t make the words come out, too busy wondering if this was yet another act of pity. He ducked his head, avoiding her gaze. Even so, he could practically feel her smiling. 

“Aw, thank you Niki,” Phil said, taking his milkshake from her. She set down Tommy’s milkshake in front of him. 

“Your sandwiches will be out in a minute,” Niki added, tucking the serving tray under her arm. 

“No rush,” Phil smiled. 

Niki nodded at them and hurried away. Tommy reached out, taking the straw for the milkshake in his fingers and stirring it aimlessly. The cookie pieces swirled around in the ice cream. He plucked the oreo off of the mound of whipped cream and shoved it into his mouth.

“Wilbur usually gets vanilla,” Phil said. 

“Of course he does,” Tommy mumbled through the cookie. 

“Hm?” Phil raised his eyebrows. 

“Nothing,” Tommy sighed. He took a sip from his milkshake, stirring it with the straw as he did. “I don’t think I made a very good impression on your kids,” he added quietly. He didn’t know exactly why he said it, like the thought passed through his mind and in the same instant it was out his mouth. Phil raised his eyebrows. 

“You and Wil seemed to be getting along?” Phil said, half a question and half a statement. Tommy shrugged. “Well, if it makes you feel any better, Techno said the same about his impression on you, ” he added. 

“Yeah, well, he’s a fuckin’ scary dude,” Tommy muttered, leaning forward to drink more of his milkshake. Phil’s face changed, almost wincing at the statement.

“He’s… he tries not to be,” Phil said, and Tommy was startled by how serious his tone had become. “That’s why he dyed his hair, you know.”

“ That’s why it's pink? To be less intimidating?” Tommy asked incredulously. Phil nodded. 

“Yeah, it’s a funny story actually. This little girl cried when she saw him one day and that night he dyed it.” Tommy raised his eyebrows skeptically. 

“That’s– I mean, that’s kind of sad,” Tommy admitted. 

“It’s a lot funnier when he tells it,” Phil sighed, shaking his head. “But I think the pink suits him, anyway.” 

“It does,” Tommy agreed. “He’s like a little fairy princess, aye.” Phil laughed, leaning back in the booth, and Tommy fought back a smile. 

“That’s a new one,” Phil chuckled. “Don’t think anyone’s ever called him that before.”

“Well I’ll be sure to say it to his face, then,” Tommy said, and Phil smiled, shaking his head. 

“Please do,” he said. Tommy stirred his milkshake with the straw, watching the little oreo bits swirl around, and then looked back up at Phil. The man had kind eyes. It was almost jarring seeing so little harshness in someone’s gaze when they looked at him. 

“Can I ask something?” Tommy said after a moment. Phil raised his eyebrows. Tommy bit the inside of his cheek. “So… Techno’s not your son.” Phil nodded. “But Wilbur… is?” Phil nodded again. He’s adopted, Tommy wanted to add, but it seemed like that didn’t really matter to either of them. Maybe that was better. Family by choice seemed a lot nicer than whatever the hell Tommy’s family was. “Why didn’t you adopt Techno? He said… he said you offered, right?” 

“Ah,” Phil sighed. “I did put it on the table as an option,” he explained, “But Techno… I don’t know. He can probably explain it better than I can, but he just… didn’t want that. I wasn’t really a father to him, I guess. Not in a bad way, just–” Phil narrowed his eyes, trying to find the words. “He needed a friend, you know?” 

“Oh,” Tommy said, but he didn’t really get it. Any of it. How Wilbur could see Phil as a father, how Techno could see him as a friend. How was Tommy supposed to see him? He was just… some guy. Was he supposed to trust him? He didn’t. He definitely didn’t. He for sure, definitely didn’t. 

“I know it’s a little out of the ordinary with Techno living with me still, but it’s what works for us, you know? Think of it like a next door neighbor,” Phil suggested. 

“It’s not that weird,” Tommy admitted. “I mean, Sapnap and George practically lived at Dream’s place.” He paused for a moment, considering the thought. “But I guess that’s not the best gauge for what’s normal.” 

“Yeah, maybe not,” Phil said, and Tommy breathed a laugh. Fuck off, he thought, but it didn’t have any bite to it.

“So why was Techno with you in the first place?” Tommy asked. He took another sip of his milkshake. 

“That’s not really my place to say,” Phil replied, and Tommy narrowed his eyes. 

“What? Why?” Tommy asked, but he could take a guess. “They get to know everything about me but I don’t get to know about them?” 

“Tommy, I can assure you, Techno and Wilbur don’t know everything about you. They know only what I’ve told them–” 

“And what have you told them?” Tommy asked, more of a demand than he intended, but he stuck to his guns, crossing his arms. 

“I told them your brother was arrested on drug charges,” Phil said simply. “And that you would be testifying against him in court, and you needed a place to stay while someone contacted your next of kin.” 

“That’s it?” 

“That’s it.” 

“You told Wilbur I curse a lot,” Tommy muttered. 

“Yes, well, someone had to warn him,” Phil teased. Tommy rolled his eyes, but it was a fair point. “It’s up to you what you want to tell them, Tommy,” he added. God , why did he always have to say things so fucking gently ? It made it much harder to be angry. 

“Okay,” Tommy said. “I have another question.” 

“Sure.” 

“Why do you do this?” Tommy asked. Phil blinked at him. “This… foster… thing. I could be dangerous, you know. I lived with a drug dealer for fu–” he caught himself before he cursed, biting the inside of his cheek. The feeling of being trapped returned. He felt too many eyes on him. “So, what, you couldn't have kids of your own?” 

The silence that followed was heavy and sudden like a tsunami.

It took Tommy a second to process exactly what he’d just said. Phil’s expression dropped almost immediately, and he froze for a second, just blinking at Tommy, and Tommy could practically see the gears turning as he tried to figure out what to say, and oh my god did he really just say that? The dude’s fucking wife is dead, and you asked him that? What the fuck is wrong with you? 

“I just– I thought you’d be a creep,” Tommy said quietly. Oh, yeah, much better. You’re a real class act. Holy fuck. Fix this. Fix this. Shut up. Fix this. He looked down at his hands again, picking the skin around his fingernails. “Well you– you hear a lot of bad shit about… CPS and foster care and shit, you hear stories, you know? People– people worse than Dream, and I– I just– ” Stop talking! Just stop talking. Shut up. Holy fuck, please shut up. There was a beat of silence between them. Phil took a slow breath, a practiced, deliberate breath.

“Is that why you never reported him before now?” Phil questioned. Tommy ground his teeth. No. Fuck off. I don’t know. Stop asking me questions. Phil sighed. “My wife was a child therapist,” he said. Tommy raised his gaze to look at Phil for a moment before dropping it back down to his hands. “Between the two of us we saw a lot of… bad cases. Kids who needed help, who needed somewhere to go. Anywhere to go. Kids in crisis. We… we felt like we could be doing more,” Phil said. It was too simple.

“So, what? It’s just out of the goodness of your heart?” Tommy asked skeptically. People always had a motive. No one ever did shit for free. 

“It was Kristin’s idea, initially. She… passed away before we had our first foster placement. But I know she’d want me to do everything I could, even if she wasn’t here to see it.”

Phil got a faraway look in his eyes when he mentioned her. Kristin. The same look he had when Tommy had pointed out the photo. It wasn’t sad, per say. It was like he was in love. Like he was staring off at some angel only he could see, and Tommy had never seen anyone look like that before. It made some fragment of the skepticism he held so close to his core chip away. I’m sorry, he wanted to say, but the words didn’t come out. What was wrong with him?

“It wasn’t about us, Tommy,” Phil added. “Fostering, or adopting… it should never be about the parents. It’s not a replacement for something you can’t have. It’s about the kids. It’s about you, giving you somewhere safe to just process and get through what you’re going through.” 

“I– I didn’t mean it,” Tommy mumbled, keeping his gaze trained on his hands. “I didn’t mean to say that, about… about having kids. I don’t–” It felt strange, backpedaling like this. He never cared before what he said, never cared that it pissed people off, that it was rude, that it was mean. This felt different. His instincts always told him to double down, to dig a hole, to climb in and bury himself so nothing could ever pull him out. It was easier. This time, he felt sour. “I don’t know why I said that.” 

He knew why. It was because he had no filter. No restraint. His brain always conjured up the most hurtful thing he could say, and he just said it because what else was he supposed to do? There was something wrong with him. Fuck off.

“It’s alright, Tommy,” Phil said gently, because of course he would. Of course he would be fine with it, of course he wouldn’t care, of fucking course because nothing got under his skin, and why did that make Tommy angry? He didn’t want to be angry. It was exhausting. “Really, it is. If it’s any consolation, Kristin and I didn’t actually want biological children.” Tommy looked up. 

“What? Why?” 

“I, uh… I’m not great with babies. They stress me out,” Phil admitted with a chuckle. Phil hates babies. Huh. Who would have guessed. “And we knew it would mean less time for work, and Kristin and I, we really enjoyed doing what we do. Her, especially. She never wanted to take a break.”

He took a breath and reached forward, pulling his milkshake towards him again. It was a good milkshake. Phil had been right about that. The cold made his chest feel a little less tight. 

“She um… she sounds nice,” Tommy mumbled. “Kristin.” Phil smiled, and it was all joy, all genuine. The way his eyes lit up, Tommy wondered if he’d ever really seen someone love before. It was unfamiliar. 

“She was incredible.”

Chapter Text

“I can’t even talk to him?” Tommy asked, narrowing his eyes skeptically at the man sitting across from him. Quackity was weirdly easygoing considering the circumstances. He had dark, soft eyes, a thin line of a smile, and he was short. Tommy didn’t know why that felt important to note, but he noted it nonetheless. 

“I’d advise against it,” Quackity said. He straightened the edge of some papers that sat in front of him. Tommy looked to Phil, but the man wore the same expression as Quackity, so infuriatingly neutral. 

“Why?” Tommy pushed. He picked at the skin around his thumbnails, his hands resting in his lap under the dark wood table. “I haven’t even seen him since we got arrested,” he added. 

In his head, Tommy tried to do the math. The SWAT assholes had slammed down the front door on Tuesday. Everything since then had kind of felt like a blur, half like it was over in the blink of an eye and half like it had already dragged on for the better part of a decade. What day was today? Saturday? That sounded right. 

“That’s by design,” Quackity replied, folding his hands. 

“What the hell does that mean?” Tommy asked. Tommy saw Phil purse his lips slightly. Quackity leaned forward slightly. 

“Every interaction you have with Dream needs to be on the record. We need to know exactly what he’s telling you, what he’s doing, why he’s doing it,” he explained.

“What, you think he’s gonna try to bribe me or something?” Tommy scoffed.

“Maybe. Or threaten you.”

“I’m not scared of him,” Tommy lied, crossing his arms over his chest. 

“Or he could tell you what to say, influence your testimony, or tell you not to testify at all. What Dream says to you now matters. It impacts your statement.”

“I dont give a shit what he says,” Tommy said. 

“Even so. It’s evidence. If you want to speak with him, we can organize an appropriate time and place, but today I’d advise you to keep your distance,” Quackity said gently. He used his hands when he spoke. Tommy watched the way his palms opened and closed, how he folded his fingers over one another, the way he rested them against the table when he was done speaking. 

“So what, just avoid eye contact and pretend he doesn't exist?” Tommy muttered, not meeting Quackity’s gaze. 

“If that makes it easier,” Quackity said simply. Tommy rolled his eyes, leaning back in the chair. 

“ If that makes it easier, ” he mocked under his breath. Quackity said nothing, but smiled slightly. Fuck off, Tommy wanted to say. What would make it easier would be if you assholes stopped dragging this out. But somehow, cursing at his lawyer seemed like a bad idea. After all, the guy was (in theory) on his side. 

It had taken Tommy a solid while to get it through his admittedly thick head that this trial was not Dream versus Tommy, and was, in fact, Dream versus pretty much fucking everyone in the world. Or the country, at least. Maybe just the state. But it was a government of some kind. The point was, Tommy was just one piece of this puzzle. It wasn’t about him. Not now, at least. Not today.

And he would admit, albeit only to himself, that that did make it easier. 

***

Seeing Dream always made Tommy feel like he was entering a bullfight. It made him cold, made his heart leap into his throat. It made him angry. It made him feel like he had to be angry. Like that was the only option here. Like all he had to see was that red and he’d become something else, just charging at anything that moved with intent to kill.

And then he’d blink, and he’d release his fingernails from the indents they’d carved into his palms, and he’d push the adic back down his throat. 

This time was no different. 

***

Up until now, Tommy really thought he wasn’t a complete dumbass. He did okay in school back when he went. Back when he cared. He could write an essay in a few hours if he had to. He could bullshit his way through history tests and keep up in algebra. He knew how to cheat without getting caught, knew how to pick a lock when he forgot his house keys, knew where to kick a man to make it hurt (the balls, in case you were wondering). 

But this… this felt like he’d set foot in another world. 

Quackity had tried his best to explain everything, he really had. Tommy followed along at first. They’d already done the arraignment, had the preliminary trial. Dream had tried for a plea bargain, unsuccessfully for the most part, so it was pushed to trial. And all of those were different somehow, for some reason Tommy couldn't track. There were only so many new words Tommy could learn before it all turned into gibberish. All the information started to bleed into itself after a certain point, and he was already only half paying attention. 

First came opening statements, that much Tommy knew. Prosecution first, then defendant. They used big words, words Tommy figured maybe he would know if he’d stayed in school. Jesus, he was turning into Phil already. They threw around jargon that was supposed to mean something important, he was sure – burden of proof and reasonable doubt and cross-examination – but christ, this was boring. 

How was he supposed to pay attention and understand what was going on? It was decidedly unreasonable. Tommy elected to do neither. 

Instead, he counted the number of wooden panels behind the judge's stand, ran his fingers across the indents in the wood of his seat, examined the little chips of paint that were missing from the ceiling by the light fixtures. He tried to ignore the way the fabric of Phil’s jacket brushed against his arm on one side, tried to ignore the fact that he couldn’t see the doors without craning his neck, tried to ignore the buzz in the lights overhead and the rustling of paper and the sound of everyone breathing. 

He kept his head down, but it wasn’t enough to tune it all out. He listened to the same questions being asked a hundred times in a hundred different ways. 

State your name for the record. Confirm your address. And this has been your place of residence for how long? You were left this residence by your mother, correct? Did she live there with you? And this estate is currently in her name? Do you pay her any form of rent? You filed for unemployment, is this true? Were you actively seeking employment? For how long? An estimate is fine.

Dream’s voice made Tommy grind his teeth. Every yes and no made him feel like he was burning like a road flare.  

Were you the sole occupant of this estate? You lived there with your brother, correct? Please confirm his name for the record. And your brother is how old?

Tommy was surprised to hear Dream knew his age. He’d forgotten his birthday for six years. Though in hindsight, that was probably intentional. 

Were you Tommy’s legal guardian? 

Hearing his own name made Tommy dig his nails into his palms. 

Were you aware that there were illegal substances in the household with you? 

This all seemed so obvious. Couldn’t they skip this? If this was how slow the whole thing was going to take, Tommy was starting to understand why this was going to take weeks and not hours.

Were you aware that there were illegal substances in the household while Tommy was there?

It was ridiculous. Why did they even have to ask? He wanted this to be done. It was only the first day, and he already wanted this to be done. Every new question added fuel to a fire he didn’t even know he was kindling.

Were you aware, did you know, can you confirm, can you repeat, estimate, elaborate, state, for the record, in what way, to what extent, how, why, when, why, why, why–

Regret pooled like tar in Tommy’s chest.

It’s your own fault.

***

“State your name for the record.” 

“Full name please.”

“What is your relationship to the accused?” No sarcasm.

No lying. No cursing, no lying. No cursing, no lying, no sarcasm. Sit up straight. 

“Can you repeat that?” Speak clearly. 

Speak clearly, don’t roll your eyes. No sarcasm, no cursing, no lying. No lying. 

Did you know, can you confirm, can you repeat, elaborate, in what way, how, why, when–

“Were you aware?” I’m not blind. “Please answer questions directly.” No sarcasm. I was aware.

No sarcasm. Speak clearly. Don’t mumble, don’t fidget, don’t cross your arms. Sit on your hands if you have to. Don’t roll your eyes. 

Yes. 

No. 

I don’t know.

“You don’t know?” Please answer questions directly. 

I don’t remember. No lying. No lying. No lying. It was a long time ago. 

“An estimate is fine.” Try. 

Try harder. Think. Think faster. Remember. Speak clearly. Don’t mumble. No sarcasm, no lying, no cursing. Sit up straight. 

His back was starting to hurt.

“Did you know?”

“Were you aware?” 

“How much?” 

“How often?”

“An estimate is fine.” An estimate is fine. No lying. An estimate is fine. Speak clearly.

He was tired. Tired of this. How many questions could one person answer?

Can you repeat that? Pay attention. Don’t fidget. He’s looking at you. 

“Do you remember?” He’s looking at you.

“Can you explain?” He’s looking at you. 

“Is that true?” No lying. No lying. No lying. “Is that true?”

Dream’s gaze was sharp, a challenge, a dare. Say it, it said, go on, say it, pussy. Coward. Fucking say it.

“Is that true?” 

Yes.

“No further questions.”

***

“You did good, Tommy,” Phil said. His voice was low, gentle, but it made Tommy’s head pound nonetheless. He fixed his gaze on the passing trees and steel barricades of the highway.

“I didn’t do anything. I just answered stupid questions,” Tommy mumbled. 

“That’s all it’s gonna be for a bit,” Phil shrugged. He kept both hands on the wheel when he drove. “Cross-examination takes a while. Gotta get everything on the table.” 

Tommy said nothing. He felt heavy, all sour and sore like he’d pulled an all nighter. Every bump in the road that Phil’s car passed over made him tense up even further. His muscles were wound tight like a spring. He wanted to punch something. 

Instead, he balled his hands into fists in his lap until his knuckles turned white. 

“Are you hungry?” Phil asked. “We could get lunch somewhere, if you wanted?” 

The idea of going out somewhere to eat right now made Tommy want to gag. He’d had enough of crowds, of people, of stares, and certainly of questions. Can I take your order? Soup or salad? Do you want fries with that? He was pretty sure if he had to answer any more questions, his brain would turn into putty and come leaking out his ears. 

“Or we can just go back to the house, too. I think we still have leftovers,” Phil suggested. “Or I can order–”

“Just–” Tommy cut him off, and he ground his teeth to stop himself from exploding. “Let’s just go home, yeah?” Not home. Not your home. “Christ,” Tommy mumbled. He pressed his back against the backrest, slumping further down in the passenger seat and staring out the window like it was his full-time job. 

“Sure thing,” Phil said. Tommy let out a slow breath. Just make it back to the house. Just make it back, and then you can… and then… fuck.

***

“How’d it go?” 

“Fuckin’ sucked,” Tommy muttered. He strode straight past Wilbur to the fridge, pulling it open and staring at the inside without really processing what he was seeing. 

“Oh,” Wilbur sighed softly. What the fuck else did he expect? Oh, yeah, it was all sunshine and rainbows, seeing Dream’s ugly fucking face was just splendid. Ten outta ten. 

“Long day,” Phil said. He set his bag down on one of the chairs at the kitchen island, draping his jacket over the seat back. “But we made some good progress.”

“Progress?” Tommy scoffed. “We didn’t do anything .” Tommy grabbed a container of cold pasta from the fridge and closed the door. He opened three cabinets before finding one with plates and then two more before he found cups. They were nice crystal glasses with fancy bases. Of fucking course . “I just sat there and stated my name for the record for three hours and then we left .” 

“Trials like these are a pretty tedious process,” Phil said. Tommy rolled his eyes.

“Yeah, no shit,” he shot back. Tedious for me. You just sat there doing nothing. “It’s fuckin’ bullshit.” He opened up the container of pasta, lifting it to his nose before poking around the contents with a fork. He didn’t trust leftovers. He knew logically this food had only been in the fridge for a couple days, but even so, the acid in his throat wouldn’t go away until he checked every stupid noodle, and even then it lingered.

“I think there’s still some meatballs in the fridge,” Wilbur noted. Tommy didn’t feel like putting in the effort to reply. If there was anything he trusted less than leftovers, it was old meat. He picked up his plate and took it to the microwave, which had far more buttons than any machine needed. He narrowed his eyes at it, closing his food inside and then staring at the various settings. 

“Hit, uh… timed cook ,” Phil said. 

“Where the fuck is timed cook ,” Tommy said. There were too many options. It felt like reading another language. 

“Bottom right,” Wilbur suggested. “Or… no, I think it’s on the left.” 

“You can just enter the time I think, you don’t need to hit the button first,” Phil added.

“It’s asking for a power level,” Tommy muttered. I’m gonna punch something. “I just want to cook it. Why– what the fuck is a power level?”

“Just hit, like, 7 or something,” Wilbur said. 

“It’s out of 100.”

“It’ll add the zero automatically–” 

“Well then why don’t they just make it out of 10?” Tommy demanded. 

“I don’t–”

“What’s the fucking point of having a nice ass microwave if it’s fucking impossible to use?” 

“I can show you how–” Wilbur began, but Tommy was already wrenching the microwave door open again. 

“No, fucking– I’ll eat it cold, it’s not worth the fuckin’ trouble,” he groaned. There was acid in his throat. 

“Tommy, let me–” 

“I’ll eat it cold! It’s fine, it doesn’t matter–” 

“Morning,” Techno said, and Tommy hadn’t even heard him coming. He just showed up in the kitchen doorway to Tommy’s right, the side next to the back stairs, and it was like he appeared out of thin air, and Tommy couldn’t control how hard he flinched in that moment. The plate slipped from his hands, clattering against the floor loudly, and there was a discordant crunch as it broke into pieces. 

The tension in his chest was too much. He felt scattered, torn into pieces. He needed to get it out, needed to explode, he needed noise and anger and screaming, needed to throw something so bad it hurt .

“Oh,” Techno muttered. “I–” 

“It’s fucking one in the afternoon,” Tommy said, whirling on Techno. The man’s mouth was half open. “You’re just waking up?” Hypocrite. Can you even hear yourself?

“It’s my day off,” Techno said simply, as though it was obvious. 

“Oh, good for you! Must be fucking nice,” Tommy shot back. He knelt down, picking up the chunks of ceramic plate off of the ground and throwing them onto the counter beside his empty glass. As he did, he felt something sharp against the side of his finger. “Fuck me,” he groaned. A thin line of blood began to well up along the cut.

“Tommy, don’t worry about that, I can get a dustpan–” Phil started. Fuck you. Fuck you. Fuck you.

“I can clean up my own god damn mess!” Tommy shouted. It wasn’t enough. He felt like he was boiling over. All you fucking do is make messes. The least you could do is try to clean one of them up.

“It just might be easier–” 

“Why do you care about the mess? ” Tommy demanded. “I just broke one of your plates!” You should be angry. You should be pissed off, furious. 

“Accidents happen, mate, it wasn’t on purpose,” Phil shrugged. No. You’re not doing it right. This isn’t how this works. It didn’t feel the same when it was one sided, when Tommy was the only one yelling. It felt like he was so close, so close, but it wasn’t enough. You’re not doing it right, you’re not doing it right, you’re not–

“No! God, will you just– fuck!” Fix it. Fix it. You’re not doing it right. “You should be angry!” Tommy shouted. “It’s a fucking waste of money, I broke one of your stupid nice ass plates and it’s a fucking waste of money!” 

“Really, Tommy, it wasn’t even an expensive plate–”

Tommy moved before he even thought about what he was doing. 

It was a nice glass, a nice crystal glass, Tommy knew. It had to be nice and crystal and expensive, none of that cheap shit, because only a nice crystal glass could shatter into this many pieces. 

Only a nice expensive crystal glass could hit the floor so perfectly, at just the right angle that the little pieces went skittering across the tile. And only a nice expensive crystal glass made that perfect sound when it shattered. Dream’s glasses didn't make that sound. Dream’s glasses crunched when they broke, and the pieces stayed together in big chunks that were easy to clean up and even easier to pick up and throw at your head. Only a nice expensive crystal glass could be thrown once like this before it was practically sand against the tile.

And silence like this could only come after you broke such a nice expensive crystal glass, silence like a lit fuse, like the moment between when the timer runs out and the bomb goes off. Only a nice expensive crystal glass could leave that sound in the air. Tommy knew it. Only a nice expensive crystal glass would leave Phil there with his mouth half open like a fish. 

Go on. Do it. Do it. Scream. Slam a door. Throw something back at me. He could feel it building, the lit fuse almost done burning, and when it was done, then it would explode, all of it, he needed it to explode. Do it. What are you waiting for? It was burning too long. It should have been done by now.

“How about that one?” Tommy demanded. Scream. Throw something. Break something. Yell back. Say it back. Say fuck you, say fuck off, say anything. Why aren't you saying anything? Say something. He was shaking. “Was that one expensive?” 

Phil looked down at the glass that was scattered over the tile. Yell. Scream. Why aren't you saying anything? Tommy clenched his fists so hard he felt his fingernails making indents in his skin. 

"It’s alright," Phil said. No . "It’s just a glass." No. Don't say that. Don't lie.  

“What is wrong with you?” Tommy’s voice cracked when he yelled this time. What’s wrong with me? “You don’t even care? Yell at me! I just fucking broke your shit, you’re not even gonna do anything about it?” You’re not doing it right. Please. 

“I’m not mad–” 

“You’re a fucking liar!” Tommy shouted. “What are you waiting for? What do I have to do?” Just tell me what to do. They were staring at him, all of them, like he was a caged animal, like all that was keeping them safe was this fake apathy, fake understanding, fake pity. 

Phil took another one of those slow, deliberate breaths.

“I’m not going to yell at you, Tommy. I’m not mad,” Phil said. His voice was steady. Tommy felt like the fight had been punched from his lungs. He doubled over, squeezing his eyes shut hard and letting his back slide down the cabinets until he was crouching by the counter. 

“Then what are you good for,” he mumbled, so quietly that he wasn’t even sure if Phil heard him. He pressed his palms into his eyes. The world felt fuzzy at the edges. Exhaustion hit him like a train. 

Why couldn't they just give him this? It all felt wrong, wrong, wrong, they were doing it wrong, and now he was lost, so lost, just tell me what to do. His anger fizzled out, nowhere left to go. Why couldn’t they just give him this? 

The rules had changed. The rug was pulled out from underneath him, and now he was clueless, blind, stumbling into new territory. Dream was predictable. He knew what pissed him off, knew what would make him yell, make him scream, make him throw things, make him shove Tommy up against a wall so hard it made his ribs feel like they were cracked or swing at him or break his shit. He knew the rules. He’d mastered them. 

He hated this. 

The silence between the four of them was heavy, drawing on for what felt like hours until finally Techno cleared his throat. 

“That… that was a wedding gift,” he said, his low, monotone voice sounding out of place as it broke the silence. Tommy raised his head slowly, looking up at the man. “That glass. It was a wedding gift.” If this was Techno’s attempt at making Tommy feel guilty, it wasn’t working. He didn’t care. “That's what you wanted, right? You wanted to break something expensive. Something that would really get Phil mad.” 

"Fuck off,” Tommy muttered, looking back down at his hands. 

"Whatever reaction you’re after, you aren’t gonna get it here,” Techno continued.

"Fuck you,” Tommy breathed. “Leave me alone.”  

"I broke one too. One of those glasses. Did you know you can just order a new one? And you can't even tell now which one was the replacement cus they all look the same.” Techno nudged a piece of glass with his foot. “Maybe it was this one. Who knows."

Fuck off , Tommy thought. 

"I can’t do this," he said. Or maybe it was the other way around. He couldn't really tell right now. 

"You're sitting on glass, you know," Techno said. Tommy looked down and found Techno was right.

"I don’t care,” Tommy muttered. 

“Okay, but– I care. It’s stressin’ me out, so just… stand up and come this way, huh?” 

Tommy sighed. He didn’t have the energy left in him to protest anymore. He knew if he wanted to just sit there for the rest of the day, these idiots would probably let him. But they wouldn’t fight him. So what was the point? 

He stood slowly, pushing himself against the cabinet and standing carefully. The glass on the ground glinted in the light from the fixtures overhead. For such a small glass, there sure were a lot of pieces to pick up. Jesus. What the fuck is wrong with you? Dream would wring your neck for this. But this wasn’t Dream’s house, was it? 

Techno held his hand out, offering it to Tommy to help him jump over the pieces of glass, but Tommy waved it away, opting to use the countertop to balance instead. He wasn’t particularly interested in holding hands right now, thank you very much. 

“Watch that piece,” Techno said softly. 

“Yeah, yeah, I see it,” Tommy mumbled.

“I’m gonna grab the broom,” Phil said. “Can you start grabbing the bigger pieces, Tech?” 

What bigger pieces? Tommy wanted to ask. It’s basically sand. But Techno managed to find a few larger chunks that had skittered across the floor, picking them up carefully between his fingers and placing them on the counter. Phil returned a moment later carrying a broom in one hand and two pairs of shoes in the other. He passed one pair to Techno. 

“Do you, um…” Tommy muttered. “Do you want help?” Phil shook his head, and for some reason that made Tommy feel worse. 

“No, you’re good, mate. Too many cooks, you know?” Tommy had no fucking idea what that meant, but he shrugged nonetheless. 

“Yeah,” he said. “Okay.” 

There was a strange silence in the air, punctuated only by the sound of the broom against the floor and the tinkling of glass as it collected in the dustpan. Tommy watched, his arms crossed over his stomach. His mouth felt dry, and when he swallowed it was sharp.

“Tommy, uh…” Wilbur started, “I was gonna go for a walk. Earlier. So I’m gonna– I mean– do you– you can come, if you want.” 

“A walk?” Tommy asked. Wilbur nodded. “What is this, Victorian England? Who just goes for a walk nowadays?” It was a half baked insult with no real force behind it, and Wilbur knew it. He blinked a few times, slowly. 

“ I’m going for a walk,” Wilbur said. “ You are welcome to join me.” 

He knew Wilbur was probably just trying to get him out of the house so Techno and Phil could clean up the mess he made, but if he ignored that little fact, taking a walk honestly did sound kind of nice. He needed time to think. 

Or not think. 

Not thinking sounded nice. 

“Fine,” Tommy said. Wilbur smiled, almost excitedly.

Chapter Text

“I thought we were just going for a walk,” Tommy grumbled. “What’s all that shit?” In his arms, Wilbur carried a box of what looked like laminated papers, string, and nails, among other things. At Tommy’s comment, he adjusted it, settling it in the crook of his elbow. 

“You’re gonna make fun of me,” he complained lightheartedly. 

“I am not ,” Tommy huffed. Wilbur glanced at him, raising an eyebrow. “Alright, I might . But you should tell me anyway.” Wilbur chuckled, shaking his head. 

“It’s, uh… I like to label the trees.” Tommy blinked at him. 

“What?” 

“See, I told you you’d–” 

“I’m not making fun of you!” Tommy insisted. “I just– what the fuck does that even mean? Labeling the trees?” 

“I just– the different trees. On the property. I like to label them, figure out what type of tree they are, and I take clippings and see how they’re doing,” Wilbur explained. “And I track the rain and the weather and shit and how the roots are doing, and… look, it’s fun, I swear,” Wilbur said defensively, reading the skeptical expression on Tommy’s face. 

“Sure,” Tommy muttered, turning his gaze back to the path in front of them. The woods weren’t dense, but they seemed to stretch on forever. He understood now why Phil had told him not to wander off into them alone. It seemed easy to get turned around. And it seemed easier to get bored to death by Wilbur’s weird tree obsession.

“You’ve gotta have a hobby,” Wilbur shrugged.

“They’re trees, ” Tommy said. “How interesting can they be?” 

“Trees are cool! They’re the oldest living organisms on earth! Did you know the oldest tree grew to be over five thousand years old?”

“Jesus,” Tommy muttered. “If I had to live that long, I think I’d kill myself.” Wilbur made a noise halfway between a laugh and a snort. 

“Christ,” he said, shaking his head. “Don’t say that.” 

“What? I’m kidding, ” Tommy sighed

“Still,” Wilbur said.

“Fine. Then… I’d commit arson.” 

“You know what, yeah, that’s better,” Wilbur laughed. He adjusted the box of tree labels and pegs in his hands, shifting them from one arm to the other. “You know, trees are actually really good at recovering from fires.”

“How?” Tommy asked, raising an eyebrow. Wilbur smiled excitedly, keeping his gaze fixed on the path ahead of them. 

“Well, there’s trees that sprout buds from underground root systems,” he explained. “So when trees burn down, the roots survive because they’re protected under the soil, and then they sprout. And the dead trees are like fertilizer. Like, the California horse-chestnut tree has fire-induced sprouts.” 

“Uh huh.” 

“And like, some pine trees evolved these really thick pine cones that have a layer of resin around the outside so when a forest fire goes through, the seed survives, because the fire goes so fast that it doesn’t stick around long enough to incinerate the seeds, yeah?” 

“Yeah,” Tommy nodded. 

“And trees in fire prone areas develop this thicker bark which doesn’t burn as easily, and– actually, it’s really cool, because trees didn’t used to have bark, like a really long time ago, there were just these massive super tall fungi instead.” 

“Like mushrooms?” 

“Yeah! There’s fossils of them, they’re really interesting, they were called prototaxites . They’re extinct now, though, but– oh, but mushrooms and fungi still help trees out, like– sometimes trees in a forest share their glucose with each other using mycorrhizal fungi.”

“They share it?” 

“Yeah, it’s a symbiotic relationship! How cool is that?”

“But how’s that work?” 

“It means the organisms help each other mutually,” Wilbur explained.

“No, the fuckin’... mozarella fungi or whatever. How’s that work?” Wilbur laughed. 

“Mycorrhizal, not mozzarella. Mozzarella is a cheese.”

“Yeah, I know that, ” Tommy said, rolling his eyes. “How’s the fungus work?” 

Wilbur told him. 

He told him about mycorrhizal fungi, how it was important to the rhizosphere, which was just a fancy word for root system , and how mushrooms were important to soil chemistry and plant nutrition, and how there were a bunch of mushrooms in these woods that he wanted to learn about too, and how one of them was called a sulfur shelf , but it was known as chicken of the woods, which made Tommy laugh. Apparently it was edible, but Wilbur hadn’t had the balls to try to cook it yet. 

And no, not all of the mushrooms were edible. Yes, some were poisonous. Yes, very poisonous. No, you don’t taste them to find out, put that down.

There were fungi that hurt trees, too, like sooty mold abd oak wilt and what the fuck is “butt rot?” That’s a real thing? You’re not fucking with me?

“I’m not lying! It’s a real thing,” Wilbur said between laughs. “It’s– the fungus attacks the thick part of the trunk right where it connects to the soil.” 

“You’re telling me trees have butts, ” Tommy wheezed. 

“Sometimes!”

“That’s fuckin’ ridiculous,” Tommy cackled. “I don’t believe you.” 

“Why would I lie about butt rot, Tommy? It’s a very serious condition, it affects millions–” Wilbur cut himself off laughing. “Millions of butts everywhere!”

“Jesus christ,” Tommy said, coughing as he recovered from his laughing fit. “So have any of your trees got butt rot, Wilbur?” 

“No, my trees have very healthy butts, thank you very much,” Wilbur nodded sagely. 

“Good for them,” Tommy sighed. “Gotta have a healthy butt.” 

“True,” Wilbur said. “A while ago some of them had root rot,” he added. “But that’s why it’s kinda fun to track the trees. I can see, like… if they’re healthy, how the leaves look, or if there’s fungus or something. Or bugs. Sometimes there’s infestations.” 

“Gross,” Tommy said, suddenly very aware of the fact that there were probably bugs all around them. He folded his arms tightly across his chest. 

“It’s not gross, ” Wilbur said. “We’re outside. That’s where bugs are supposed to be.” 

“Awfully fuckin’ bold of them,” Tommy mumbled, and Wilbur laughed. 

Tommy hated bugs, more than almost anything. His mind wandered back to Dream’s house for a moment, and then he remembered what Phil had told him, that Wilbur and Techno really didn’t know anything about his life before now. He looked down at the trail as he walked, sticks and leaves crunching underfoot, and for some reason, he decided to open his mouth. 

“Dream’s house was always infested,” he said. Wilbur looked over at him, his eyebrows raised, before looking back to the path as he waited for Tommy to continue. “If it wasn’t roaches it was fruit flies or bed bugs or rats.”

“You had rats?”

“We had everything. It was fuckin’... it made me so paranoid.” 

“I can imagine,” Wilbur said. Tommy shook his head. 

“No, I mean… it was like every time I saw something move out of the corner of my eye, I thought it was a roach, or I thought they were in my food, or on my skin.” 

“I lived in a house like that for a bit,” Wilbur said. “They had to move all of us out of there so they could treat it.” All of you? Evidently, Wilbur picked up on Tommy’s confusion. “It was a group home,” he explained. “Foster care.” 

“Oh,” Tommy said. “So you were… before Phil, um…” He had no idea how to ask what he was trying to ask, but Wilbur blissfully understood. 

“I was in the system since I was six,” he said. “My parents died when I was really young, and I lived with my grandparents for a while but… they had no idea how to deal with me. Honestly, no one did. I was a bit of a problem kid.” 

“You?” Tommy asked incredulously. 

“What? I don’t look the part?” 

“Not really…” Tommy muttered. 

“Well, it’s the truth,” Wilbur said simply. “I was a little shit. I still am, sometimes. But Phil’s much more patient than most.” Yeah, I’m starting to get that.

“But I thought…” Tommy said, and then paused, trying to figure out how to word it without causing any more problems. “Don’t… don’t little kids usually get adopted?”

“I had a bite record, Tommy. How many people do you think are lining up to adopt the kid with the bite record?” Wilbur demanded. Tommy shrugged. 

“I used to bite Dream all the time,” he said. Wilbur laughed at that, shaking his head. “When I was younger, he’d always beat me in fights cus I hadn’t hit a growth spurt yet, so I had to bite him to get him off me. Either that or a swift kick in the balls did the trick. He deserved it, though.”

“Sounds like it,” Wilbur muttered, and then he paused. “Sorry. Maybe that’s not my place to say.” Tommy shook his head. 

“No, it’s fine. You’re right,” he said. “He was a dick.” Tommy bit the inside of his cheek. Was? He still is. He’s not dead, idiot. He’s just… he’s… “It feels different this time,” Tommy murmured. 

“What?” Wilbur asked. 

“Just… everything,” Tommy shrugged. He sighed. “I don’t know. Dream’s been in trouble before, but he always just got a slap on the wrist… it was never this big. It was little shit, possession or public intoxication or– one time he got arrested for pissing in a fountain.” Wilbur made a noise like he was trying to hold in a laugh, but it came out as a snort instead. 

“Sorry, sorry,” he said. “That’s… yeah.” 

“But this time it’s… it’s big. I wasn’t expecting it to be so big.” 

“They were probably trying to build a case,” Wilbur noted. Tommy glanced over at him. 

“What do you mean?” he asked. 

“Well… sometimes, with… drugs and stuff… the police will let a bunch of little charges slide so that they can make a big bust and make it stick. It’s… it’s like, they can put a dude away for a year for smoking a little weed, or they can wait and gather evidence and put away a drug dealer for life.” 

For life.

“Oh,” Tommy sighed. That made sense, actually. Surprisingly. Maybe that was why it felt so out of nowhere. “Why do you know all that?” 

“I dunno, man, I read a lot. I fell down a rabbit hole on the internet a while ago about drug busts and organized crime and shit.” 

“Oh.” They walked in silence for a moment before Tommy spoke again. “Do you think they’ll put Dream away for life?” he asked. He didn’t know why he was asking Wilbur. It wasn’t like the guy was a lawyer. He was just a kid. Just like Tommy. 

“Maybe,” Wilbur said. “Honestly, I mean, they might. I don’t know much about the case, just… just what Phil told me, and what was on the news.” Dream was on the news? “It seemed like it was a big bust, though.” 

“He sold to high schoolers,” Tommy said. “I think he single-handedly kicked off the crack problem at our old school.” 

“I read about that,” Wilbur nodded. “If he sold to minors, that’s already a hell of a charge.” Tommy hummed. He looked down, stepping over a fallen branch that blocked the trail. 

“And he–” Tommy cut himself off. 

Was he really talking about this? To some stranger? Part of him was screaming at him, shut up, just stop talking, but another part just wanted to talk, to get it out there. It felt like saying this here, in the middle of nowhere, walking through the woods with someone he barely knew, it would just disappear. No one would really hear it. The world would keep turning. His words would vanish into the air and nothing would change. He sighed. 

“He’s got other charges, too,” Tommy said finally. Wilbur was quiet, but Tommy could feel his gaze burning into him. “Charges about me. Or– or related to me.” He rubbed his hand over his arm. “Child abuse and shit. Neglect.” 

“Oh.” 

“Was that in the news, too?” Tommy asked. Please say no. Blissfully, Wilbur shook his head. 

“There’s laws about that, I think. To keep your privacy. I um… I didn’t know,” Wilbur said quietly. Tommy nodded. Good. He felt a little better knowing that. Probably could have guessed it. Anyone could probably guess it, looking at you. Have you looked in the mirror lately?

“Okay,” Tommy said, unsure of what else to say. They walked a few more steps in silence before Wilbur stopped. Tommy looked up, but Wil was staring off to the side. Slowly, he began picking his way off of the trail through the underbrush. Tommy walked behind him, following his footsteps awkwardly. 

“This is a chinese elm,” Wilbur said, nodding towards a tree a few feet in front of them. He rummaged through the box in his arms, pulling out a little wooden post and a flat rock, and then he passed the box into Tommy’s arms. Tommy fumbled with it for a moment, but eventually settled it into the crook of his elbow. “You can tell because of the bark. It peels differently,” he explained. As he did, he chipped a piece of the bark off, leaving a bare spot that was almost orange underneath. He passed it into Tommy’s hand. 

Wilbur knelt, hammering the stake into the ground in front of the tree with the rock. Tommy watched him silently. Eventually, Wilbur held out a hand. 

“Pass me the box?” he asked, and Tommy obliged. He fixed the little sign to the post with a zip tie. “Elms are cool cus they’re all one tree,” he said as he worked. “They send roots out, and then new trees grow out of the roots, and they spread like that. So this one is probably connected to the same root system as that one.” Wilbur pointed to another elm further back into the woods. 

“That’s cool,” Tommy said. “It’s like a weed.” 

“Kind of, yeah,” Wilbur said. He stood up, tapping the sign with his foot to make sure it would stay in place, and then he bit the inside of his cheek. “I, um… I’m really sorry about everything that’s going on, Tommy,” he said. Tommy felt his cheeks burn. This was the awkward part. This was why he didn’t open his mouth.

“Yeah,” Tommy said awkwardly. “It’s… it’s a lot.” 

“Yeah.” 

“I just–” Tommy ground his teeth. His mouth felt dry. “I just want it to go back to normal. It always went back to normal before. This time it’s different, and… I don’t know. It’s like I’m just getting dragged along, and no one even cares that it’s my life that’s getting fucked up.” Your life was already fucked up. Why is this any different?

“I get that,” Wilbur said. “I mean– I’ve felt like that before. Before I came to Phil I–” Wilbur paused and took a breath, like this was important, like this was something Tommy shouldn’t just tune out like he did with everything else. “I was in the hospital,” Wilbur said. It sounded like a confession. “Psych ward.” Oh. “It was state mandated. Involuntary commitment. But I was angry. God, I was so angry. Like, nothing I said mattered. I didn’t want to be there, but no one cared.” 

“Oh,” Tommy said dumbly. He didn’t know what to say. He wanted to say sorry, but he didn’t. He wanted to ask why, but he didn’t do that, either.

“It was out of my control. To be fair, it was out of their control, too. What were they gonna do, just let me go?” Wilbur asked with a chuckle. Tommy didn’t know if he was allowed to laugh at that. “So I tried to fight it, every step of the way. I did anything I could to make it harder, so maybe they’d stop and go, maybe this is more effort that it’s worth, and they’d let me out, and… man, it sounds like I’m making it about myself,” Wilbur laughed.

“No, you– you’re not,” Tommy insisted. Keep talking, he wanted to say. He didn’t know why. Listening to Wilbur talk was like listening to music. It was easy. 

“What I’m trying to say is, I’ve been there. I know it’s not the same, and I’m not trying to… just, I think I know what you’re feeling. Kind of. Like… like everything’s spiraling, and you’re trying to stop it, but you can’t. It’s like taping together broken glass.” 

“What are you, a fuckin’ poet or something?” Tommy asked. “Jesus.” Wilbur laughed, shaking his head. Tommy sighed. “I just feel like I don’t know what I’m doing,” he admitted. “I’m all tense and wound up like a fuckin’ – like… I don’t know.” 

“Look, Tommy, if… if there’s anyone who even remotely gets what you’re going through right now, it’s gonna be the people in this house. Me and Techno and Phil… we’ve seen it. We’ve lived it. At a certain point, it–” Wilbur paused, taking a breath as he figured out his words. “It feels better to just let go. Control what you can, and what you can’t, let someone else deal with it.” Tommy swallowed back the sharp feeling in his throat. “It takes a weight off your chest. You know?” 

He didn’t know. All he knew was that weight, that dense, suffocating weight. All he knew was fight and survive, one more day, one more hour, one more second, until eventually he knew all those seconds would add up and he’d be done, he’d be out, but he didn’t know what that out looked like. He never thought ahead that far. And now he was in it more than he ever was before. Now he was trapped. The rules had changed, and the enemy had changed, and the battlefield had changed, and he was stuck. 

If Wilbur noticed Tommy was crying, he didn’t say anything. In his head, it was Dream’s voice who taunted him now; oh, little baby gonna cry? Gonna throw a tantrum just like always? 

Fuck off. 

“Do you think Phil is mad at me?” Tommy asked instead, wiping his nose with the back of his hand. Oh yeah, much better, that makes you sound much less like a fucking child.

“No,” Wilbur responded confidently. “Not at all, Tommy. I don’t think Phil has an angry bone in his body.” Tommy nodded, though he didn’t know if he fully believed it yet. “Besides, he knew today was going to be a rough day. He’s seen a lot of trials. The first day is always difficult.” 

“Oh,” Tommy said. He didn’t like feeling predictable. “Does it… does it get easier?” 

“Not really,” Wilbur shrugged. Tommy hummed. Somewhere far away, a bird took flight, rustling leaves as it did. 

“I didn’t mean to break that glass,” Tommy admitted. “I just… it just happened.”

“Yeah, I know,” Wilbur said. 

“Was it really a wedding gift?” 

“Yeah.” 

“Shit.” 

“Don’t worry about it. Techno broke one too, he wasn’t lying about that.” 

“On purpose?”

Willbur took a second to consider it, but eventually, he shrugged. 

“I dunno, actually. I wasn’t here yet,” he said. 

“Oh,” Tommy said. “Right.” He picked at the skin around his fingernails. “So was… was Techno Phil’s first uh… foster kid?” He had no idea if that was the right way to phrase that.

“No,” Wilbur replied. “His second. First was this kid named Fundy. He was a kleptomaniac.” 

“A klepto… what the fuck is that?” Tommy asked. “Sounds like some kind of serial killer.” Wilbur laughed. 

“No, no, it’s uh… it means he stole shit. He stole a lot of shit,” he explained. “Phil was kind of his last chance. He got in big trouble.” 

“So where is he now?”

“He got a scholarship to a boarding school, actually. Turned his life around and all that. Transferred fosters to be closer to the school, and aged out of the system,” Wilbur said. “He’s doing pretty good from what Phil’s told me.” 

“I used to steal shit,” Tommy said. “Food and clothes and stuff.” He didn’t know why he was telling Wilbur this, but it was easy to talk to him. He seemed like he could keep a secret. Tommy wondered what he looked like in Wilbur’s head, a picture puzzled together from little pieces, just some kid who bit his brother and used to steal clothes.

“Probably a good idea to stop doing that,” Wilbur shrugged. 

“No shit,” Tommy said. “I wondered if they were gonna arrest me for that when they busted Dream, but they just let me go.” 

“Bigger fish to fry,” Wilbur nodded solemnly. 

“I guess.” 

“You remember what I said about building a case? Waiting for a bunch of little charges?” Tommy nodded. “That’s what they did with Fundy. Phil said he was stealing from some big chain, and they waited until he’d stolen enough to make it a felony-level charge instead of just petty theft.” 

“They can do that?” Tommy balked. 

“Yeah. Kind of a dick move, if you ask me. They almost ruined his whole life. He just needed help.” 

“Fuck,” Tommy muttered. “Yeah.” 

Wilbur paused, looking off of the path to the right for a moment before slowly picking his way toward another tree. It already had a label on it; white oak. Tommy started to follow him, but Wilbur held out a hand. 

“This one had ants all over it last time I checked,” he said. Tommy made a sour face and stepped back onto the trail. Ants were the worst. There were always ants at Dream’s house. The fucker never cleaned up his food. Tommy wasn’t a neat person by any means, but at least he did his dishes. 

“So after Fundy, that was when Phil got Techno?” Tommy asked, and then winced. That was definitely not the right way to phrase that, like Techno was some stray dog from the pound. If Wilbur reacted, Tommy couldn’t see it with his back turned. Maybe that was better. 

“Yeah,” Wilbur said.

“Was he, like… what was his deal?” Tommy asked cautiously. Wilbur leaned in to inspect the tree. 

“Uh… he was kinda like you, I guess,” Wilbur said. Tommy raised his eyebrows even though Wilbur couldn’t see it. “He got removed from his family. He was seventeen, I think. But he didn’t grow up in the system or anything.” 

“Why?” Tommy asked. “I mean, why was he removed?” Wilbur turned back, picking his way back to the trail. 

“Shitty situation,” he shrugged. Tommy thought back to the scars that cut their way across Techno’s face and arm. He wondered where they were from. “You can ask him about it, he’ll tell you. He doesn’t mind.” God, this family and their privacy. Makes it much harder to talk shit behind someone’s back.

“I don’t think he likes me,” Tommy muttered. Wilbur laughed, but Tommy couldn’t see why it was funny. 

“He likes you,” he assured him. “You don’t have to worry about ol’ Technoblade.” 

“His full name is Technoblade? ” Tommy asked incredulously. “That’s the scariest fuckin’ shit I’ve ever heard!” 

“Oh, please, he’s a big baby,” Wilbur laughed. 

“Jesus,” Tommy mumbled. 

“You just have to get to know him,” Wilbur said. That seemed harder than it sounded. He and Techno had only spoken twice so far, and both times Tommy had told him to fuck off. Which, in hindsight, was a dick move. And potentially dangerous. But mostly just a dick move.

“He looks like he could throw me a hundred yards with one hand,” Tommy muttered, shaking his head. “What’s he even do for a living?” 

“He’s a mechanic,” Wilbur replied. Oh, that adds up. He didn’t know why it made sense, but it did. “I know he’s a little intimidating,” Wilbur continued. A little? “But he’s a great guy. He got me through some really bad times.” 

Tommy was wary of Techno. He’d never say it, but the guy reminded him of Dream in some way he couldn’t really put into words. They were different, he knew; the way they carried themselves, the way they spoke, their little mannerisms… they weren’t the same. Not even in the slightest. But it was something about the energy Techno carried with him, the weight that it held, the way it hung in the air around them, like something bottled up. 

But Tommy thought back to right after he broke the glass, how Techno had known exactly what Tommy had wanted, exactly what he was thinking. What he needed to hear. The rules were different here. It seemed like Techno had once had to learn that as well. They were different. Techno didn’t deserve to be compared to Dream, Tommy knew it. No one deserved that.

“I’ve been kind of a dick to him,” Tommy admitted. 

“A little,” Wilbur shrugged, but he smiled. “Techno doesn’t hold grudges, though.” That felt too good to be true. But then again, so did all of this. Despite his instincts, he was starting to trust these people when that said stuff like that. I’m not going to yell at you, Phil said. Whatever reaction you’re after, you aren’t going to get it here, Techno said. It feels better to just let go.

No one is going to yell at you. No one will throw shit. No one will hit you. It was unfamiliar to feel this safe. 

“Can you… when we get back, can you show me how to use the microwave?” Tommy asked, crossing his arms. “I don’t like cold pasta.” Wilbur smiled and breathed out a laugh. 

“Sure thing,” he said. “Are you hungry? We can head back.”

Chapter Text

Tommy really, truly considered lying, because let’s be honest, it would have been fuckin’ hilarious.  

They’re torturing me, he would say. They lock me in my room and tap on the windows like a fish tank. I get one meal a day, and it’s a single peanut on a paper plate. They make me drink milk. Just whole glasses of milk. Can you believe it? Get me out of this place. 

He always had a flair for the dramatic. The look on her face would make it worth it, he was sure.

But when Kathryn was there, sitting in front of him at the kitchen island with a paper take-out cup of coffee cupped in her hands, just staring at Tommy so expectantly, he couldn’t bring himself to say any of it. How’s it been going here? 

“It’s fine,” he said instead. 

“Yeah?” 

Tommy just shrugged. He tucked his legs up against the legs of his seat, looking down at his hands. 

Phil had assured him that this was just a routine visit; social workers often checked in on foster placements to make sure they were doing alright, or to check that the space was safe and suitable, or to address any concerns. 

Tommy had a lot of concerns, to be fair, but none of them were really about Phil.

In fact, he was sure Phil probably had more concerns about Tommy than the other way around. He wondered if he’d mentioned anything about the broken glass to Kathryn. Phil was true to his word, at least; when Tommy and Wilbur had returned from his walk, he remained unbothered, so either he had Hulk levels of anger management or he was telling the truth when he said he wasn’t angry. 

Techno and Phil had cleaned up the glass, leaving no trace of the event, but Tommy still felt like he should avoid the kitchen, scurrying off as soon as his pasta was warmed up. 

The weekend passed aimlessly. Wilbur did homework, Phil did work work, and Techno worked Sundays, apparently, which sounded to Tommy like an absolute nightmare. Maybe that was why Wilbur was so passionate about the four day work week . Wasn’t working on Sunday supposed to be against the law? Or against the bible… it was certainly one of the two.

When Monday rolled around, it was the most Monday Monday Tommy had experienced in a while. Dream and his idiot friends treated every day like it was the weekend, and since Tommy had stopped bothering to go to school, half the time he hardly even knew what day it was. It was worse when Dream took his phone. Then all the days just blurred into one.

But Monday here felt like a real Monday. Wilbur left for school early in the morning, and when Tommy came downstairs, he found a note from Phil stuck to the counter; on the phone for appointments until noon – Kathryn is stopping by at 1 to check in. TV remote is by the couch, if you want to watch something :) 

So he was a smiley face man, eh? Vaguely, Tommy remembered Phil mentioning something about Kathryn’s visit the day before. He ate, threw his bowl in the sink, backtracked and actually washed it and put it in the damn dishwasher, and then showered. 

Kathryn came right on time. 

Phil had one of those doorbells that was all digital, so when she rang, it played a little tune through the house. Tommy jumped anyway. They greeted each other like good friends, a little laugh, a joke. She passed a folder into his hands, and Phil accepted it with a smile. 

“Paperwork?” he asked. 

“Paperwork,” she nodded. 

“I’ll take care of this in my office, leave you two to talk?” he suggested, and so here they were, sitting awkwardly across from each other at the kitchen island. Kathryn had brought a box of donuts, and Tommy poked at the sprinkles that were stuck in the icing of the one in front of him. 

Kathryn had a nice face. She had soft eyes, a slight smile, warm, dark skin. Her hair was tied back. She had a nice watch that she wasn’t wearing last time. Or at least, it looked nice to Tommy, but he probably wasn’t the best judge. 

“I’d just like to check in with you first,” Kathryn said. “See how you’re doing, how you’re settling in.” Tommy nodded. “I know it’s a big change, a lot’s going on. I want to make sure you feel safe here.” Safe? Why wouldn’t he feel safe? Tommy shrugged. 

“Yeah, it’s… it’s fine,” he mumbled. 

“You’re eating enough?”

“Yeah,” Tommy shrugged again.

“Sleeping okay?” Tommy bit the inside of his cheek. 

“I’m… I guess I’m not really sleeping great,” he admitted. “It’s not– I mean, it’s not Phil’s fault or anything… it’s just, it’s really quiet. At night. I’m not used to it,” Tommy explained. What an asshole, complaining his house is too quiet? Why don’t you complain that the shower is too hot or the food is too cooked? 

“I can mention it to Phil, if you want,” Kathryn offered. 

“What’s he gonna do about it? Set off a car alarm?” Tommy muttered. Kathryn breathed out a laugh. 

“He might be able to think of something,” she said. Tommy looked down and took another bite of his donut. “He said you and Wilbur seem like you’re getting along, though?” 

“Mm,” Tommy hummed as he chewed. “He talks a lot.”

“Is that a good thing?” Kathryn asked. Tommy nodded. 

“Yeah, he’s… fun to listen to,” Tommy said. “He knows a lot of shit.” 

“That he does,” Kathryn laughed. Tommy blinked at her. “I met him a few times. I was on Techno’s case as well, a few years ago.” 

“Is that how you know Phil?” Tommy asked. Kathryn nodded. 

“We kept in touch,” she said with a smile. “Techno and I still go get lunch sometimes, too.” 

“So, what, you specialize in damaged kids then?” Tommy muttered. Kathryn gave him a sympathetic look, furrowing her brow. 

“Tommy, you’re not damaged ,” she said. Her voice was gentle, but it still felt like he was being scolded. His mouth felt dry.

“Why’d you tell me Techno was Phil’s son?” Tommy asked, changing the subject abruptly. 

“Sorry?”

“When we met. You told me Phil had two sons, but it’s just Wilbur. Techno’s not his son.” 

“Oh,” she said. “It was easier to explain, I suppose. I’m sorry if it caused any confusion, I assumed Phil would explain it all to you once you were with him.” 

“Well, he– he did ,” Tommy mumbled. I just wasn’t paying attention. “I just– it was weird. They were weird about it.” 

“I’m sorry,” she said. “I should have been clearer.” He didn’t want her to be sorry. He didn’t know what he wanted, but he didn’t want her to apologize… now he just felt bad. 

“It’s fine,” he mumbled, and shoved another bite of donut into his mouth. “They weren’t… Phil wasn’t mad about it or anything. He’s um…” Tommy wiped the side of his mouth. “He’s actually pretty nice.” Kathryn smiled.

“I’m glad you think so,” she said. “I was hoping with everything being so uncertain right now that Phil could give you a bit of stability.” 

Stable was a good word for Phil. He was consistent. He was predictable, in a way… in a similar way to how Dream was predictable, but the opposite. Where he could count on Dream to ignore him, he could count on Phil to listen. Where Dream would yell, Phil would explain. Where Dream would lash out, Phil would take a breath. Tommy had given him quite a few reasons to take a breath. 

“So you’re doing alright here? Any concerns, complaints…?” Tommy shrugged. “Alright. Well, if you need anything, you’re always free to call me. You have my number, right?” 

Tommy cast his gaze up to the ceiling, trying to remember. He knew she’d given him a business card… “Here,” she said, pulling another card out of her pocket. He gave her half a smile and took it, flipping it around in his fingers. He still didn’t have a cell phone, but he didn’t say that. He wasn’t going to call her, anyway. 

“So, if you don’t have any concerns, there is something else we need to discuss,” Kathryn said gently, like she was trying to soften a blow. “I’d like to ask you some questions about your mother, if that’s alright?” 

Tommy regretted letting the conversation move on, now. He should have complained. The microwave is too complicated, the kitchen has too many cabinets, there’s only Pepsi. They still have cable TV. Surely that’s a red flag. Anything to avoid talking about this. But Kathryn had already moved on, so Tommy was along for the ride. He bit down on the side of his tongue and shrugged stiffly.

“Okay,” Kathryn said. She opened up the folder in front of her and pulled out a notepad and a pen. Oh, so this is official. On the record type shit. Fuckin’ hell. “First, I’d like to go over some information with you. I think Phil has told you some details of this situation?” 

“Some,” Tommy shrugged. 

“What has he told you?” Kathryn asked. Tommy sighed. 

“Uh… he said, um,” Tommy narrowed his eyes, trying to remember exactly what Phil had said. It had been a long few days. “You were having trouble contacting her. And then she said, um…” She said she didn’t want me. “She didn’t have money, or something. And that you guys were investigating her for…” Abandonment. Neglect. Endangerment. “Stuff,” Tommy finished. Kathryn nodded. 

“Alright, good. That’s all true,” she said. “We had a lot of difficulty getting in touch with her, even when we called from Dream’s phone.”

“Yeah, I don’t think they’ve talked in a long time,” Tommy shrugged. He wasn’t surprised to hear she’d dodged their calls. She didn’t want anything to do with Dream. Or Tommy. 

“Once we got through to her, though, she confirmed she knew that you were in your brother’s care, and that she’d left you with him voluntarily. But she couldn’t give us any basic information for you, like medical history, school records. She didn’t seem surprised to hear Dream had been arrested.”

“I don’t think even god would be surprised to hear Dream was arrested,” Tommy muttered. 

“Do you think she was aware that Dream was involved in illegal activities while you were there with him?” 

“Probably,” Tommy shrugged. “He didn’t try to hide it from her.” Kathryn nodded and wrote a few things down on her notepad. Her handwriting was messy. Tommy couldn’t make out what it said. 

“Our investigation now is to figure out exactly what the circumstances were leading up to this point,” Kathryn explained. “To figure out the full story, from all sides.” 

“Then what?” Tommy asked, looking up. “When you know the whole story, what happens then?” 

“I can’t say for sure,” Kathryn said. “We’ll work with a few parties involved to see what the next steps are, and try to reach a consensus on what will work best for you and your mother.” So you’ll decide if she has to take me back or not.

“What do you need to know, then?” Tommy asked. The sooner they got this over with, the better. 

“We’re cross-checking Clara’s story right now,” Kathryn said. “Establishing a timeline, basically. She said she left you with Dream about six years ago, is that right?” Tommy nodded. “Did she ever come visit?” Tommy nodded again. “Do you remember how many times?” 

“I think… four times when I was there,” Tommy sighed. 

“Do you remember when?” 

“Like the dates?” 

“Whatever you can remember. The dates, or the general–” 

“The last one was June 17th, four years ago,” Tommy interrupted. Kathryn nodded, jotting down notes. “Before that I think she came twice right after she left, and then once a few months later.” 

“Do you know why she came?” 

“She came for some of her stuff the first few times,” Tommy sighed. “And she said she was checking up on me, but she didn’t stay long. And the last time, she came because she needed to borrow money.” 

“From Dream?” Tommy nodded. “Did he give it to her?” 

“Not as much as she wanted. They fought about it.” 

“Verbal fight, or physical fight?” 

“Verbal,” Tommy said, shaking his head. “I don’t think Dream would hit a woman. He drew the line at kids, I guess.” Tommy said it with a half smile, but Kathryn didn’t laugh. She just wrote something down solemnly. Tommy let his expression drop. 

“And did she tell you anything about why she was leaving you with Dream?” Tommy looked down at his hands. 

“She said… it would be better. For both of us.” 

“Both of you, as in… you and Dream? Or you and her?” 

“Me and her, I think. I don’t think she cared much about what Dream wanted.” 

“What did Dream think about her leaving?” Kathryn asked, raising her eyebrows.

“He was… annoyed, at first, I guess. But he had a deal with my mom, she would pay for the house and send him money and shit, and he had to take care of me. And he didn’t have a job, so…” Tommy shrugged. “He didn’t want to be stuck with me.”

Dream had made that clear a hundred times. I’m not your fucking dad, he would say. Stop looking at me like that.

One memory stood out in particular. Dream had run out of cash, and Tommy didn’t have money for lunch. He was angry, and he was broke, and he threw Tommy’s backpack across the room so hard that it broke one of the zippers and made papers fly out of the pockets. 

But that wasn’t the part that stuck. Dream threw shit all the time. The part that stuck was what he said while he did it–  I didn’t sign up for this shit. I can’t do this. I’m just a kid. In that moment, Tommy felt guilty just for being alive. 

“So, if Dream didn’t agree to look after you, she would have sold the house?” Kathryn asked. Tommy nodded stiffly, swallowing hard against the sharp feeling that had suddenly blossomed in the back of his throat. 

Kathryn had a hundred questions. Tommy only had half the answers. Some of it, he remembered, little things like if she ever called or if she left a contact number or if she checked in on Tommy, the last time he’d been to a doctor (he couldn’t remember), if he knew his insurance information (he didn’t), if he felt safe with Dream, safe in that house, safe and secure and cared for, but Kathryn already knew the answer to that one. 

Other things, he didn’t know; some of it was stuff Dream never told him, like how much money their mother had given him, or how often she sent it, or what it was meant for, or if she’d ever bought drugs from him, or if she’d ever bailed him out. 

To be fair, Dream didn’t tell Tommy much of anything, especially when it came to money. It was still half a mystery to Tommy whether Dream was actually broke or if he just wanted Tommy to think that he was broke so he had an excuse not to buy shit for him. He felt like Dream wouldn’t go through the effort of selling illegal substances if it didn’t at the very least put food on the table. 

And if he was broke, then he was an idiot. Hell, even Tommy could have budgeted his money better than that. At least he had savings. It was 183 dollars and 83 cents rolled up in an old sock and shoved into a hold in the ceiling of his room at Dream’s place, but it was still savings. Speaking of which… Tommy wondered if he could even get that sock back, now. According to Quackity, his house was still an active crime scene. He wondered if they’d found his emergency stash. It would probably be more concerning if they hadn’t. 

Eventually, Kathryn seemed to run out of questions. 

Tommy felt like there wasn’t possibly this much to say about his mother. He’d hardly even heard her name once in the past four years since she’d last stopped by. But Kathryn had to go through, step by step, checking each of the claims Clara had made– and apparently, she’d made quite a few that Tommy disagreed with, namely the ones where she had supposedly spoken with him on the phone to see how he was doing or stopped by the house to check in. 

“Look, Kathy– can I call you Kathy?” Kathryn laughed, shaking her head lightly.

“Sure,” she said. 

“Kathy, I’ll make it easy for you,” Tommy said eventually, “Whatever Clara tells you about how she’s spoken to me since she left, or checked in, or whatever, she’s lying. She’s lying, or I’m crazy.” Kathryn nodded, that same neutral, gentle nod she’d been doing this whole time, and wrote something down.

She had a whole two pages of notes by the time they were finished talking. Tommy had stopped trying to read what she wrote, even though she assured him she was just writing things down to make sure her record was correct. He wondered if she made her handwriting messy on purpose. 

“Well, I appreciate you answering honestly, Tommy,” Kathryn said kindly. 

“Sure,” Tommy shrugged. 

“Tommy… I want to ask you something– off the record,” Kathryn said. She placed her pen down on the notepad, covering it with her hands, and she leaned forward slightly. For some reason, it made Tommy nervous.  “Whatever you say, it won’t have any impact on any decision that’s made.”

“Uh… okay,” Tommy said hesitantly. Kathryn folded her hands over one another.

“Knowing only what you know now, if you were given the choice… would you want to go live with your mother?” 

“Oh,” Tommy said. 

He was expecting a much worse question, honestly. Something more dramatic. Do you think it was your fault? Do you blame yourself? There is a runaway train headed for five people tied to the tracks, and if you pull a lever, the train will switch to a different set of tracks, but your mother is tied up there. Do you pull the lever, or do you–

“Not just would you, ” Kathryn clarified. “Would you want to? ” 

“I, um… well…I don’t know,” he said. He had to stop and actually think, then. 

What he wanted didn’t really seem like it had come into play recently. 

Now, he was being asked, and it… he didn’t know how to answer. He looked up at Kathryn for a hint, a clue, some indication of the right answer here, but she just blinked at him, her expression as neutral and warm as always. Tommy let his gaze drop back down to his hands. 

“I guess–” Tommy started, but stopped himself, biting his tongue. “Well– I mean, I don’t…” Why was this so hard? “Do I have to answer?” Tommy mumbled, half to himself. 

“You don’t have to answer anything you don’t want to,” Kathryn said, shaking her head. “I just want to hear from you, what you want out of this.” 

“I don’t want anything out of this,” Tommy shrugged. He pulled a bit of skin away from his thumb, and it left a red spot behind. Kathryn leaned back, placing her hands in her lap. 

“I don’t think that’s entirely true,” she said. Tommy clenched his jaw. 

“What are you, a fuckin’ therapist?” He demanded. 

He regretted saying it a second later when the silence between them stretched on just a moment too long. He flicked his gaze up to Kathryn’s, but she was still just waiting patiently. He really did miss being able to yell fuck you and hear it thrown right back at him. No one knew how to have a good fight around here. It made things much more boring.

“I just don’t see why it matters,” Tommy shrugged. He leaned back, folding his arms over his stomach.

“It matters to me,” Kathryn said simply. Tommy looked up at her, inspecting her face. If she was lying, she was one hell of a liar. 

“Yeah, well…” Tommy started, but he didn’t know where he was going with it. He sighed. “No, I don’t want to live with my mom,” he muttered. “Alright? I don’t– I don’t even know her. And she doesn’t even want me back anyway, so… so why would I want her back?” 

Kathryn opened her mouth, but Tommy cut her off. 

“I mean, you’d think after everything that’s happened that she’d at least try to fuckin’ help, you know? You’d think she’d try to fix her fucking mistakes, but all of a sudden she, what, she doesn’t have the money? Or the time?” 

“Tommy–” 

“Dream didn’t have the money either, but she still dumped me with him, and he didn’t fuckin’ sign up to take care of a kid, so I’m sure that fucked him up– and frankly, it makes sense why he turned out the way he did, and who knows, maybe it was justified–” 

“Well, now hold on–”

“And now she’s trying to act like she kept tabs on me this whole time? Like she was such a good mom, like she– like she actually cared at all? She doesn’t want me back. And if she says she does, she’s a fuckin’ liar, cus I know she blames me for my dad leaving, Dream told me, so if you’re trying to send me back to her then just–” 

“Tommy, listen ,” Kathryn said firmly, and Tommy realized he was out of breath. He inhaled shakily, a cough getting stuck in his throat. “No one is sending you anywhere right now, okay?”

“But–” 

“No decision is going to be made until after your brother’s trial concludes. That’s step one. We don’t move forward until we have the whole picture,” Kathryn said. Her voice was steady and sure. It made Tommy feel like there was steady ground under his feet despite the floaty feeling in his head. “If you’re comfortable with it, you’ll stay here with Phil until then. You said before you felt safe here. Is that still true?” 

Tommy sniffed, wiping his nose with the back of his hand, but Kathryn still waited expectantly. 

“Yes,” he said quietly.

“Good,” she nodded. “It wouldn’t make any sense to uproot you and keep changing the situation if you’re feeling secure here, right? I think some consistency would go a long way right now.” God, please, Tommy wanted to say. Instead, he shrugged. “So for now, that’s all we’re aiming for. A little stability. We’ll sort some stuff out in the background, get some pieces ready, but you leave that to me, okay?” 

“Okay,” Tommy mumbled, nodding.

“Okay,” Kathryn said gently. She stood slowly, walking over to one of the kitchen cabinets. “Do you want water?” She asked. Tommy opened his mouth to tell her no, I’m fine, it’s fine, but she continued, opening a second cabinet where she found cups, and she grabbed two of them. “I’ll get us both a glass. Those donuts make me thirsty.” Tommy closed his mouth. 

“Yeah,” he shrugged. “Alright.” She smiled, filling the glasses at the fridge, and slid one across the counter to Tommy. 

She went the long way back around the island to her seat instead of walking behind Tommy’s back, and Tommy was getting the sense that she’s done all this before. That Phil had done all this before. That everyone but him had done all of this before, and he wished that they’d just tell him how he was supposed to get through it already. It felt like a test he hadn’t studied for, like some kind of ridiculous stress dream where you were running down a hallway but your shoes were made out of glue and your feet were actually just two fish stuck to your ankles. Not that he was speaking from experience.

He took a sip of his water, and it helped push down the rock in his throat. 

“I’m gonna tell you something, Tommy, and I hope you take it to heart,” Kathryn said, her voice serious all of a sudden, and Tommy looked up. "Just because you can explain someone’s actions doesn’t mean they’re justified.” Tommy furrowed his brow. “Maybe your father’s absence had some role in your mother’s choice to leave you with Dream–” Tommy felt the sour feeling come back – “and maybe Dream never should have been left to parent a child, and yes, all of that probably had a lot of negative effects on both of them,” she continued. No shit. “But that doesn’t justify any of the things they did to you.” 

‘The things they did to you.’ See? You can’t say it either.

Tommy hunched his shoulders, crossing his arms in front of him on the counter and resting his head on his wrist. 

“Yeah,” Tommy muttered, his voice muffled. “I know,” he said. I know. I know. I know. All he ever did was exist, and it was too much for them. How was that his fault? People always blame anyone but themselves. Tommy didn’t have the luxury of a scapegoat. 

“Alright,” Kathryn said, but it didn’t sound like she believed him. He didn’t have it in him to get angry at her, though. She was just doing her job. 

“Do I… do I really have to go to school?” He asked dejectedly, changing the subject. Kathryn smiled sympathetically at him. 

“Ah,” she said. “Yes.” Tommy groaned dramatically. “Unfortunately, that’s a rule we can’t negotiate on.” 

“That’s balls,” Tommy grumbled. “School is for pu– uh… losers.” Kathryn chuckled. 

“Look at it this way,” she said. “It’s something to do. You’ll get out of the house, make some friends, get a change of scenery?” Tommy made a half-hearted noise of protest, but relented. She was right, it would be nice to mix it up a little… not like he had anything better to do. 

“You would make a good car salesman,” Tommy noted, taking another sip of water. 

“I’ll choose to take that as a compliment,” Kathryn said, holding back a smile. 

“Mm,” Tommy hummed. “Please do.” She laughed. “What kind of car do you drive, Kathy?” Tommy asked, leaning back in his seat. 

“Guess,” Kathryn prompted. Tommy narrowed his eyes. 

“Porsche,” he said. “White. Red leather seats. Two doors.” Kathryn raised her eyebrows.

“How did you know?” She asked, dumbfounded. Tommy balked at her. 

“I got that right?” He demanded, but she laughed, covering her mouth with one hand. 

“No, Tommy, I’m messing with you,” she chuckled. “I drive a Toyota.” 

“Oh,” Tommy mumbled. 

“Do I really look like I’d own a Porsche? I didn’t think my midlife crisis was showing that bad,” Kathryn said, feigning hurt. 

“It’s a good look on you, don’t worry about it,” Tommy shrugged. 

“What’s a good look?” Phil asked, walking back into the kitchen. He held Kathryn’s folder in his hands.

“Mid life crisis,” Kathryn said simply. 

“Ah,” Phil sighed. He held the folder out, and Kathryn took it with a smile. “Very true. Been thinking about getting one of those for myself.” 

“I’ve heard they’re a lot of fun,” Tommy mused. “Personally, I’ve decided to have an ongoing crisis.”

“How’s that goin’ for you?” Phil asked. 

“You tell me,” Tommy shrugged. Phil chuckled, shaking his head. Tommy held back a smile. 

“All this looks good, Phil,” Kathryn said, flipping through the folder.

“Didn’t miss anything?” Phil asked, and Kathryn shook her head. “Those double sided ones get me sometimes.” Is this what adults talk about? Paperwork? Tommy took another bite of his donut. “Did you two talk about everything you had to get to?” Phil asked. 

“We were actually just about to talk over the school situation,” Kathryn nodded. Tommy regretted bringing it up. “You mentioned you’ve been talking with the school, right?” 

“I have,” Phil said. “Puffy said we can come by anytime this week, except Thursday, and Tommy can spend the day.” 

“Who’s Puffy ?” Tommy said, his voice half muffled by the donut.

“The guidance counselor at Mount Beacon,” Phil explained. “She’ll be the one helping you figure out your schedule for the summer and for next year. She’s great, you’ll love her. The kids call her Captain. ”

Chapter Text

“No, because it’s fucking criminal to charge that much– because the thing is, when you buy a server from a hosting company, you don’t get a dedicated machine. You get a machine which is shared with like twenty to thirty other different users. So it costs the hosting company like fifty dollars a month to host the server. And then on that server they can have twenty other ones which host other servers which they can charge thirty dollars a month for. So they’re getting…” Tubbo paused, glancing upwards and moving his mouth as he did the math mentally. “ Six hundred dollars a month back on their investment.”

“Minus the cost of running the machine,” Ranboo added.

“Makes you want to start a fuckin’ server hosting company,” Tubbo sighed, shaking his head.

“Has anyone ever told you that you talk a lot?” Tommy asked, raising his eyebrows.

“Oh, yeah, loads, ” Tubbo said with a wide grin. “Ranboo says it all the time, actually.”

“Wh– I do not ,” Ranboo sputtered.

“No, but you think it,” Tubbo shrugged.

“That’s–” Ranboo narrowed his eyes at Tubbo, but relented. ”Alright, maybe sometimes– but it’s not a bad thing. You say a lot of interesting things.”

“I do, don’t I?” Tubbo beamed. “I’m a very interesting person.” Tommy laughed, shaking his head. “But you have to admit, it’s a total scam.” 

“Sounds like a scam,” Tommy agreed. “Bet it makes a load of money, though.” 

“I could run a server hosting company, yeah? And I could charge people only what it costed to run the machines, and just break even every time. I’d put everyone out of business.” 

“I feel like there’s more to it than that,” Ranboo added quietly. 

“Nope, I’ve made up my mind. I’ll be like Robin Hood but for server hosting.” 

“That’s… not how Robin Hood works,” Ranboo muttered, adjusting his bag over his shoulder. 

He had one of those over-the-shoulder style messenger bags, the ones that looked like they would absolutely kill your back, but when Tommy had expressed that sentiment Ranboo had just shrugged and said he switched it every so often. 

“It’s awfully floral,” Tommy had noted, observing the blue and red colorful pattern on the canvas. 

“What’s wrong with flowers?” Ranboo asked, holding the bag a little closer to himself. “My Aunt Niki gave this to me.”

“I didn’t say anything was wrong with it,” Tommy said. “You do you, king. It’s… wh– it’s certainly colorful.” 

“Thank you,” Ranboo mumbled. “I think.” 

They had just finished a painfully long math class, and about halfway through, Tommy had realized that he really was out of practice in this whole school thing. He spent most of the class counting the tiles on the floor, and when he was through with that, he counted the number of chair legs in the classroom (which bizarrely came out to an odd number). 

But blissfully, he wasn’t actually expected to participate or even pay attention. When Phil had dropped him off and introduced him to Puffy, a tall woman with long, curly, graying hair, she thought it would be a “good idea” for him to have a look around, visit some classrooms, and get a feel for what his curriculum would look like moving forward.

Tommy expressed how much that sounded like torture, but Puffy laughed him off, instead introducing Tommy to her son, Tubbo. Tommy noticed two things right away about Tubbo: first, that his hair was equally as fluffy as Puffy’s, and second, that he was the same kid who was pictured in one of the many photographs on Phil’s wall by the staircase. 

He was a difficult person to forget; the lower right half of his face and neck was pink and scarred, and on his right hand he was missing three fingers. Where the digits would have been, there were black prosthetic fingers that opened and closed as he moved his wrist. He was short, much shorter than Tommy, but for some reason he gave off more energy than anyone Tommy had ever met, and he cursed like a sailor, which was saying something coming from Tommy.

And once Tommy was introduced to Tubbo, he was consequently also introduced to Ranboo, because as he would learn, the two of them were practically joined at the hip. 

They were an odd pair, both intensely identifiable– Ranboo was taller than Tommy, and probably also taller than Techno and Wilbur too, and frankly taller than most people Tommy had ever met, a fact which Tommy did not hesitate to point out, along with the fact that half of Ranboo’s hair was practically white, including his left eyebrow and eyelashes. 

“It’s vitiligo,” Ranboo had explained, far too politely, in response to Tommy’s abrasive question of did you fuckin’ bleach your eyelashes? “It’s a lack of pigmentation in your skin and hair.”

“That sounds like a disease,” Tommy replied. 

“It… it is a disease…” Ranboo mumbled, furrowing his eyebrows. 

“Yeah, well,” Tommy muttered, but he didn’t have any way to finish that thought. 

It didn’t take long for Tommy to put all the moving pieces together. This was the Ranboo that Phil had mentioned, the Ranboo whose Aunt Niki worked at Sleepy’s Diner, and this was the Tubbo that Niki had mentioned when Tommy and Phil had gone there for lunch the other day. Somehow that felt like it happened yesterday and at the same time a hundred years ago. 

There were a lot of people to keep track of all of a sudden. Tommy had only really mentally prepared to talk to one person, maybe two. That had quickly turned into three, which had turned into more now that Tommy would be visiting classes, and since Tommy couldn’t come up with any real reason not to take a tour with Tubbo and Ranboo, he was along for the ride now. 

High school was truly just as overwhelming as Tommy remembered it being before he stopped going. Mount Beacon was smaller than Tommy’s old school, and it was cleaner, too, but the crowds of students that walked through the halls made his palms sweat and the way the bell rang sharply through the halls made him remember all the tests he never had enough time to finish. Tubbo and Ranboo’s math class passed slowly, and by the end of it, Tommy was only reminded of how much catch up work he’d have to do to understand any of it. 

“It’s not as complicated as it looks,” Tubbo reassured him. “Plus, Sam’s a good teacher. I wish he would teach precalc next year, too. I’ve heard Ponk is a hard grader.” 

“What’s with the first-name-basis thing with your teachers?” Tommy asked, raising an eyebrow. “That’s weird. I’ve never called a teacher by their first name.” 

“Eh, that’s just how it is here,” Tubbo shrugged. “Some of them have nicknames, too, like, we’ve got Bad next period for English but some of the seniors call him Bad Boy, ” he laughed. 

“That sounds like a lawsuit waiting to happen,” Tommy mumbled. 

“It’s more fun than calling him Mr. Halo, ” Tubbo said. “A lot of kids call Puffy the Captain because she runs a tight ship. Get it?” He slowed his pace as he came to his locker. Tommy pressed his back against the wall, trying to stay out of the way of the passing parade of students as Ranboo and Tubbo both dug around for their books and swapped out binders. 

“I always liked English class,” Tommy mused absentmindedly, watching Ranboo slide The Great Gatsby into his bag. 

“Me too,” Ranboo said. “I’ve never been good at math.”

“I hate English,” Tubbo groaned. “I can’t fucking read.” Tommy snorted. 

“Yeah, that was always the boring part,” Tommy replied.

“No, I mean I literally can’t read!” Tubbo repeated. “I’m dyslexic. English class is practically torture , I swear to god, man.” He slammed his locker closed for punctuation. “I would rather shoot myself in the foot.” 

“That’s a bit dramatic,” Ranboo said, switching his bag from one shoulder to the other. “At least you’ve got Tina to help you out.” Ranboo turned to Tommy. “That’s his paraprofessional. She helps with accommodations.” 

“I mean it,” Tubbo doubled down, not giving Tommy a chance to reply, “give me a gun and I’ll do it right now–” 

“ Tubbo! God,” Ranboo interrupted. “You can’t say that, we’re in a school .” 

“What, you want me to lie? ” Tubbo asked. “ They started making their way down the hallway toward the English classroom. 

“I want you to not talk about guns in school,” Ranboo hissed, hunching his shoulders slightly. 

“Oh, come on, I’ve said much worse and gotten away with it,” Tubbo shrugged. 

“Flawless logic,” Tommy noted. Tubbo grinned.

“Don’t encourage him,” Ranboo groaned. “He already almost got detention this week.” 

“For what?” Tommy asked, raising his eyebrows. 

“I accidentally told my Spanish teacher to fuck off,” Tubbo said sheepishly. 

“Accidentally? Like you had the wrong translation?” Tommy asked. 

“No, I said it in English. I just didn’t mean to say it out loud.” Tommy barked out a laugh, holding a hand over his stomach to stop himself from doubling over. Tubbo grinned wider, and Ranboo tried and failed to hold back a smile. 

“How did you not get detention for that?” Tommy asked incredulously.

“I came by during study hall and helped clean up the classroom,” Tubbo shrugged. “Though I was told I needed to ‘ work on my filter,’” he added.

“That’s accurate,” Ranboo sighed.

“I make Ranboo nervous,” Tubbo said proudly.

“Everything makes me nervous,” Ranboo mumbled. 

“So you’re saying I’m not special?” 

“Wh– no , that’s– that’s not what I said–” Ranboo sputtered.

“Sounds like that’s what you were saying,” Tommy said, raising his eyebrows. 

“Can’t believe Ranboo doesn’t think I’m special,” Tubbo lamented. Ranboo groaned dramatically, tilting his head back as he walked. “I reckon I’m quite special.”

“S’that what your mom tells you?” Tommy asked.

“Every day!” Tubbo laughed. 

***

“You’re staying with Phil, right?” Tubbo asked as they walked. The hallways were practically empty now with everyone else in class. Ranboo had some kind of special meeting with a handful of teachers that Tubbo had called “big brain hours” (and which Ranboo had explained was actually just an IEP meeting), but Tubbo had a study hall, so he was walking Tommy back to the front office. “That’s what Puffy told me.”

“Yeah,” Tommy nodded. He was slowly getting used to the idea of people talking about him. No one ever talked about him before. It made him feel exposed, but it was easier than explaining, he supposed. 

“Nice,” Tubbo said. “Well, I guess… not nice, but… y’know. Phil’s nice.” 

“Uh huh,” Tommy mumbled. “You and Ranboo both stayed with him for a while, right?” 

“Yep,” Tubbo nodded. “We were with him at the same time. I was there first, and then Ranboo came for a while until Niki could get him.” 

“Yeah, Phil mentioned that,” Tommy said. “Are you, um. You’re not related to Puffy though, are you?” 

“No,” Tubbo replied. “I went to this school before my accident, and Puffy and I were already close ‘cus she used to work at the middle school, too. And then after, it sort of just… I dunno. It worked out, cus you know, Niki moved closer so that Ranboo could stay somewhere familiar, too.” 

Tommy wondered where he would wind up after all of this. He didn’t even know where his mom was living now, just that it was somewhere far. Absentmindedly, he realized that his mom would probably sell Dream’s house once this was all squared away. He still hadn’t been back there since the arrest. 

“Were you and Ranboo friends before… uh…” Tommy started, but he didn’t know how to say what he clearly meant. 

“Nope,” Tubbo said cheerily. “We met at Phil’s. Ranboo used to go to a different school, so we didn’t know each other before that.” 

“You seem close,” Tommy noted. 

“Yeah, we are,” Tubbo grinned. “I told Ranboo we should get married for tax purposes.” Tommy breathed a laugh, shaking his head. 

“Is that allowed?” 

“Maybe,” Tubbo shrugged. “Who’s gonna stop us?” 

“The government, probably,” Tommy said. 

“Eh,” Tubbo sighed, waving him off. Tommy laughed. “When has the government ever stopped anyone from doing anything illegal?”

“You know, usually I’d agree with you, Tubs,” Tommy said, “But recent events have proven me wrong.” 

“Oh,” Tubbo said. “Right. Sorry big man. The government has stopped at least one person from doing something illegal.” The comment took Tommy off guard, and he laughed hard before clapping a hand over his mouth when he realized people in the classrooms along the hallway could definitely hear him. 

“Jesus,” he wheezed. “ Technically there were three people. Four, if you count my mom.”

“Who’re the three?” Tubbo asked.

“Dream and his idiot friends,” Tommy said. “Sapnap and George. The Dream Team .” 

“Oh my god, they called themselves the Dream Team ?” Tubbo asked. 

“I know right?” 

“That’s a bit much.”

“That’s what I told them,” Tommy sighed, shaking his head. It would have been cool if they were a band, maybe, or a football club, but sitting on shitty couches smoking weed wasn’t exactly the dream if you asked Tommy. To each their own, I guess.

When they rounded the corner of the hallway, Tommy saw the sign for the main office sticking out over the doorway. He hadn’t really wanted to spend the day with Tubbo and Ranboo when he first got there, but now that he was faced with the bigger beast of figuring out his school dilemma, the idea of Tubbo leaving him alone with Puffy now was much worse. He bit the inside of his cheek as they grew nearer, but Tubbo led him on, and eventually they were standing in front of the office. Tubbo peered inside, knocking on the doorframe as he entered.

Puffy stood up from her desk, smiling brightly as Tubbo and Tommy entered.

“Did you guys have fun?” she asked. Her voice was light and cheerful.

“Yeah!” Tubbo said. “I think so?” He added, turning to Tommy. 

“Oh– yeah,” Tommy agreed. “It was, uh… interesting,” he added. Oh, yeah, that makes it sound like you had a blast. “It’s a very nice school.” Good save.

“I’m glad,” Puffy smiled, and for some reason Tommy felt like he’d passed a test. “Tommy, we’re just going to chat in my office over here.” She gestured to a room to the left of the front desk. From where he stood, Tommy could see a couch, warm light, and a windowsill decorated with trinkets.

“Do you have meetings after school today?” Tubbo asked Puffy. 

“Yep,” she replied. “Sorry kiddo.”

“I’ll forgive you on one condition,” Tubbo said. 

“Yes, we can get Taco Bell,” Puffy sighed. 

“Nice,” Tubbo grinned. “You’re forgiven.” Puffy laughed, shaking her head.

“Alright, go on. Get back to class.” 

“I’m in a study hall!” Tubbo protested, but he stepped back toward the door. “It was nice to meet you, Tommy,” he said. 

“You too,” Tommy said, waving awkwardly as Tubbo ducked out of the office. He popped his head back in again a split second later.

“Oh! Do you, uh– I can give you my phone number, if you want? If you’re gonna be here for a bit, maybe we can– you know, I dunno, hang out or something?” Tubbo started to fish his phone out of his back pocket.

“Oh, I don’t– I can get it from Phil,” Tommy said, cutting himself off. I don’t have a phone. Tubbo slowed, putting his phone back into his pocket. 

“Oh,” he said. “Alright! Good luck!” He caught himself again before leaving. “Not that you’d need luck. I mean have fun. Or– you know what, I’m just going to leave. Nice meeting you! Again!” 

And then he was gone, and Tommy was blinking at the spot where he was standing. 

“You can come have a seat in here,” Puffy said, gesturing for Tommy to follow her into her office. He pulled his gaze away from the door and walked after her.

It was a small room; a couch, a desk, a few cabinets. There was a large plant in the corner that grew tall spiky leaves. It was impressively green, and Tommy would have thought it was fake if it weren’t for one browning stem near the bottom. Tommy sat down on the couch, and Puffy settled herself in a chair across from him. 

“So you had a good time with Tubbo and Ranboo?” She asked. 

“Yeah, I mean,” he shrugged, “I haven’t been to school in a while. I’m a little out of practice.” Puffy smiled at him. 

“Well, hopefully it won’t be too difficult to get back into the swing of things,” she said.

“ Hopefully ,” Tommy sighed under his breath. He leaned back against the couch. “You’ve got some hard fuckin’ maths,” he added. “Shit– I mean– sorry, I– I shouldn’t… curse…” 

“Don’t worry about it,” Puffy smiled, waving it off. “As for the math, Tubbo’s in advanced algebra, so it might not be anything you’ve seen before,” she added. Tommy tried to remember the last math class he took. Geometry, maybe? That was the one with shapes, right? He distinctly remembered failing a test with triangles on it.

“Sounds terrible.” 

“He likes it! He and Ranboo both like to challenge themselves with things like that. Tubbo’s also in the computer science elective,” Puffy said.

“You must be very proud ,” Tommy muttered. There was something in his voice he couldn’t quite stamp out, a bitterness, maybe, or envy. He picked at his fingers. 

“There are a lot of electives you could try out here, Tommy, I’m sure you could find one you like–”

“I’m not here to try out electives , though, am I?” Tommy interrupted. Puffy blinked at him. “So get to it then,” Tommy said, a little more harshly than he wanted to, but at this point it was practically in his blood to double down. He crossed his arms. “Ask whatever you have to ask.” You really don’t know how to make friends, huh? Much easier this way, I bet. Puffy pursed her lips slightly, but she kept her eyes kind, which was honestly impressive.

“Tommy, whatever I ask you, it’s because I’m trying to help,” she said.

“Help what?” Tommy demanded.

“Help you. Help you get you back on track,” Puffy offered. “Take control of your education again, get caught up.” There’s no way I’m catching up, Tommy thought. He’d sunk this ship. He was too far behind. Just another thing he’d screwed himself over with.

“Seems like a lot of work,” Tommy mumbled. 

“It’s important work, though.”

“You’re saying that because you have to,” Tommy groaned, rolling his eyes. Puffy smiled at him sympathetically. It made him want to gag.

“That doesn’t mean I don't mean it,” she said. “Come on, just talk me through it first.” 

Puffy asked him questions about his old school, his grades, his extracurriculars (which he didn’t have many of). She went over the records she had access to, checking the information to make sure it was accurate. She asked him about his teachers, and whether or not there was a guidance counselor there (there was), and whether or not he’d ever gone to see them (he hadn’t). 

“And then when did you stop attending classes?” Puffy asked, clearly trying to make her tone as gentle as possible. Tommy sighed. 

“Sometime after Christmas break,” he said. “Last year,” he added quietly. 

“What about homeschool work?” Tommy stifled a laugh, clearing his throat. 

“I uh… no, I didn’t do homeschool,” Tommy answered. He wondered what kind of elaborate lie Dream had spun to make it seem like Tommy was somehow furthering his education from that shithole. 

“You didn’t complete any homeschooling at all?” Puffy asked.

“I didn’t even start ,” Tommy said. “I don’t think there was a single book at Dream’s house that wasn’t hollowed out and filled with–” he paused, glancing up to see Puffy’s expression shift. “Nevermind.” 

“So you stopped completing any coursework after that last date, then? Sometime in the second semester?” she asked. 

Tommy nodded tensely. He felt he’d just been caught skipping school for the first time, like he’d missed some big test or left his homework at home. Except it was a year too late. Puffy let out a slow breath, and it didn’t help the pit in Tommy’s stomach. But then she put her pencil down. 

“You’re not in trouble, Tommy,” Puffy said. Tommy looked up, blinking at her. “You seem nervous. This isn’t a punishment. I hope I’m not giving you that impression?”

“No, you’re not, I… uh…” Tommy didn’t know how to answer. He looked down at his hands, picking at the skin around his nails. “I just… didn’t really think it through, I guess,” Tommy admitted. 

“Think what through?” 

“School stuff,” Tommy shrugged. “I knew I should have kept going but… I dunno.”

“Did you like school?” Puffy asked. Tommy shrugged again.

“It was fine, I guess,” he said. “I didn’t… I didn’t hate it, it’s just… it’s just– it’s pointless now.”

“Why do you say that?” 

“Cus it just is, ” Tommy groaned, tilting his head back. “It’s a waste of time. For me and for you. I’ll be sixteen soon and then I can just… then no one has to worry about it anymore.” 

“And what will you do then?” Puffy asked. “Let's say you turn sixteen and drop out. Legally, you can, I’m sure you know that. So what then?” She asked it as though Tommy had a plan. He never had a plan.

“I don’t know,” Tommy muttered. “I didn’t think that far ahead. It’s not my style .” He rolled his shoulders back, attempting to put on an air of confidence. Puffy didn’t seem like she was buying it.

“But you don’t want to come back to school,” Puffy said. “Why not?” 

“I don’t know,” Tommy repeated.

“Why did you stop going?” Tommy bit down on the inside of his cheek. 

“I don’t know ,” he said. I don’t know. I don’t know . 

It was the truth, in a way. It was over a year ago, now. At the time, it was winter, and it was cold, and the days were dark and miserable. And he just didn’t care. Dream didn’t care, and his mom didn’t care, and no one cared, so why was he expected to care? So his grades slipped, and kept slipping, and no one cared. And his attendance followed soon after, and fell, and kept falling, and it didn’t matter. A sick day turned into a sick week turned into a sick month. No one texted him. He would wake up after the sun had already set and trudge around the house in a daze until it was time to go back to sleep. 

It was numb, and it was angry, and it was silence, and it was fighting, and it was acid in his throat, and then it bubbled over. 

And here he was. 

There wasn’t a reason, not one he could put to words, anyway. Briefly, he wished he could just show her; this is what it felt like. Would you go to school if it felt like this? Could you do it? Could you do any of it? But he couldn’t, and it wouldn’t matter anyway, so he folded his arms over his stomach and pushed down the sharpness in his throat. 

Puffy sighed, placing her hands gently on table. 

“Okay,” She said softly. “Tommy, I… I don’t blame you, you know. With everything that was going on, I don’t think anyone could expect you to prioritize school.” 

Something about the word “ was” got under Tommy’s skin. Something about the way everyone seemed to be treating this like it was all in the past, something about the way life kept going on, the way it went on without him.

“And it shouldn’t have been your responsibility to keep yourself in school, or to keep yourself on track. You should have had support with that,” Puffy went on. “I’m sorry,” she added. 

Tommy blinked at her.

“Why are you sorry?” He asked, his frustration fizzling out.

“Well, I figure I’m not really the one you want to talk to right now,” she said. “I’m the one trying to get you to go back to school in the middle of all this. And I know that’s not what you want.” I don’t know what I want.

“I figured I’d have to deal with it at some point,” Tommy sighed. 

“Even so, I don’t want it to be something that you’re stressing about,” Puffy said. “Can I make you an offer?”

“An… an offer?” Tommy asked. Puffy nodded.

“Based on everything you’ve told me, and the records that we have on file,” she explained, adjusting a few of the papers in front of her, “I think the easiest path forward would be for you to take summer courses to complete your freshman year. You might have to test out of some course requirements, but that way you won’t have to repeat 9th grade. And then next school year, you would start 10th.”

“I don’t have to repeat freshman year?” Tommy asked, leaning forward slightly. 

“No, not if you complete your outstanding coursework,” Puffy explained. “Your old school logged grades per quarter. You passed the first two quarters, so you completed that semester. And you even ended a few of your third quarter classes with a passing grade before you stopped attending. So if we get you enrolled in summer make-up courses to fulfill those requirements, you can start again in the fall, just a year behind.”

“That’s…” Tommy pressed his back against the chair. “That’s, um… that’s easier than I thought it would be.” Puffy smiled.

“And then you get to decide. If you hate it, you hate it. You can drop out if you truly see no value in it.” That’s it? “Does that change your mind at all?” she asked, raising her eyebrows. 

“I… I mean I hadn’t, uh… made up my mind just yet,” Tommy stammered. “I wasn’t lying, I don’t hate school, I just– it’s not my strong suit, you know? It’s…” He bit the inside of his cheek again. There was a sore spot growing there.

“We can work to figure something out to help with the workload, or to get you support where you need it,” Puffy said. Tommy narrowed his eyes for a moment. He didn’t want help. Or maybe he didn’t want to need help.

“I’ll give it a try, I guess, ” Tommy muttered, folding his arms. Puffy’s eyes brightened. 

“I appreciate that,” she said. It sounded genuine. “I can send you home with some information on the summer programs you’ll be enrolled in, actually.” Puffy stood, walking over to a large gray filing cabinet in the corner of the office. She rooted around for a moment, pulling out a few papers and a folder. “You don’t have to look at it just yet. Or any time soon, for that matter.” 

She passed the folder into Tommy’s hand, and he flipped through some of the pages detailing the school’s summer schooling curriculum. 

“But don’t worry about that for now,” Puffy smiled. “We can go over the specifics next time we meet. And if you’re interested, I might be able to get you some of the reading and worksets early.”

“I am decidedly not interested,” Tommy said. “With all due respect. I really don’t want to do homework right now.”

“Of course,” Puffy laughed.

***

“I’m not supposed to get in the car with strangers. What’s the code word?”

Techno blinked at him, his mouth half open.

“It’s a joke,” Tommy sighed, rolling his eyes and opening the passenger side door of Techno’s car. “Where’s Phil?” 

“Oh,” Techno said. “Uh, patient emergency. He had to go to the office.” Tommy nodded, closing the door behind him as he slid into his seat. Techno had his hair pulled back into a bun, little pieces popping out the sides, and his shirt was stained in a few spots with something dark and splotchy. Tommy looked back to the school where Puffy was standing at the front door, watching to make sure he was going to get home safe. He waved at her, and she smiled, raising her hand in a farewell. 

“Hi Miss Puffy,” Techno called, leaning forward in his seat to wave at her through Tommy’s open window. He smelled like motor oil.

“Nice to see you, Techno! Drive safe!” Puffy called back before walking back into the school. 

“Yeah, drive safe, ” Tommy mumbled. He slid down in his seat. “How do you know Puffy?” Tommy asked. 

“Seatbelt,” Techno replied. Tommy groaned. 

“Yeah, yeah, I was getting to that,” he said, rolling his eyes. He reached up, pulling the nylon strap over his chest and fastening it with a click. After all the times Sapnap had nearly hurtled them into oncoming traffic, he never got in a car without his seatbelt on. Techno put the car in gear, and Tommy realized it was a stick shift. 

“I took Tubbo and Ranboo to school a handful of times,” Techno explained, answering Tommy’s previous question. “So Puffy and I have talked some. But I never went to school here, if that’s what you’re asking.” 

Tommy hummed in response. They sat in awkward silence for a second, a second which stretched onto a few seconds, and then onto a very long pause, and Tommy wondered if the entire car ride was going to be like this. He half suspected that this was Phil’s scheme to get him and Techno to actually talk to each other, but he didn’t think the man would stoop so low as to fake an emergency. 

“I didn’t expect you to drive a shitty car,” Tommy said as they turned off of school property. “You don’t seem like a shitty car guy.”

“Ouch,” Techno said, but the sheer monotone in his voice removed all real hurt from the sentiment. “It’s vintage.” 

“It’s a stick shift. Does it even have airbags?” 

“Yes, it has airbags,” Techno sighed. “You think Phil would let me pick you up in a car that doesn’t have airbags? It’s the brakes you gotta worry about.” Tommy lurched forward slightly. 

“ What? ” 

Techno breathed a laugh, and Tommy rolled his eyes, crossing his arms as he leaned back in his seat.

“Hah hah,” he muttered. They slowed to a stop at a red light.

“Oh, uh… Phil told me to give this to you,” Techno said. He opened up the center console, pulling out a phone, sleek and black with a thin case on the back. He passed it into Tommy’s hand. Tommy stared at it for a moment like Techno had just passed him a newborn baby. “It’s got some apps on it, phone numbers and stuff. I think Phil and Wilbur have unlimited data, so… do with that what you will.”

“Unlimited data, aye?” Tommy muttered, sitting up straighter in his seat. He clicked the home button of the phone, watching the screen light up. It was wild to see a phone screen that wasn’t entirely shattered. There was no way this was his, right? It was too nice. Too new. Jesus, he hoped it wasn’t new. Tommy had a bad track record with new things.

“Yeah, Wilbur streams a lot of music and videos and stuff, so Phil figured it’d be cheaper than going over on the bill every month,” Techno shrugged.

“How about you, are you an unlimited data man?” Tommy asked. 

“No,” Techno replied. “I don’t uh… I don’t even have a smartphone.”

“What?” Tommy asked, turning his slowly to Techno. Any qualms he had about accepting the phone were a second thought, now. Techno kept his eyes forward as the light turned green, turning left at the arrow.

“I don’t have a smartphone,” he repeated. “I have a, uh. I have a flip phone.”

“A fucking what?” Tommy asked incredulously. 

“A flip phone.”

“You’re fuckin’ with me,” Tommy laughed. “You’re gonna have one of those new weird samsung ones, that gimmicky shit where it opens and closes but it’s like a thousand dollars.”

“No, honest to god, it’s… here, look–”

“Don’t text and drive, man.”

“I’m not– I’m just showin’ you,” Techno huffed. He fished his phone out of his back pocket, leaning forward slightly in his seat to do so. Without looking, he passed the phone over to Tommy. “Here,” he said. 

“Holy shit, you weren’t kidding,” Tommy muttered, flipping the plastic phone open. “This thing is a fuckin’ fossil.”

“It’s easy to use,” Techno shrugged. He pulled onto the highway. 

“How do you text? It’s all numbers.”

“You click the button until it gets to the letter you need–”

“You have a message from Phil,” Tommy interrupted, navigating through the texting app. “He says, okay, drive safe. Oh and one from Maria – who’s Maria, your girlfriend?”

“My boss,” Techno said.

“Doesn't mean she can’t be your girlfriend. What about Daniel? You two seem awfully close.”

“I think that’s the pizza delivery guy from last weekend.”

“Oh, yeah, the pizza guy, ” Tommy said, winking at Techno and nudging him with his elbow. Techno breathed a laugh.

“I’ll tell you what, you’ll be the first to know if that develops into a romance,” he said, shaking his head.

“Wait– your most recent conversations are with Phil, Wilbur, your boss, and a pizza delivery guy ?”

“What’s wrong with that?” Tommy laughed and kept clicking through the phone, figuring out how to get back to the home screen and flipping through the options. “If you’re gonna snoop, at least tell me what you’re finding,” Techno added.

“Do you have games?” Tommy asked instead, exiting out of the messages app. Techno chuckled.

“Uh… tetris is on there, and minesweeper I think. And pacman, but don't open that.”

“What are you hiding in pacman?”

“I’m not hidin’ anything. I’ve got a solid five year streak goin’ and i don't wanna lose it,” Techno said defensively. 

“I’m good at pacman,” Tommy said with far too much confidence for someone who had never played pacman before. “Probably.” He fiddled around with the buttons until he managed to start a tetris game, digital music coming through the speakers. “This is not as exciting as I thought it would be,” he sighed.

“It’s tetris on a flip phone, Tommy, how much more excitin’ can it get?” Techno asked, and Tommy snorted. 

“I can’t believe you own a flip phone. Makes you look like a drug dealer.”

“What? How?” Techno laughed. 

“I don’t know, man, I don’t make the rules. But you should take my word for it, I know a lot about these things you know,” Tommy said assuredly. 

“Can’t argue with that, I guess,” Techno sighed. 

“Exactly. Because I'm right.” Tommy handed the phone back to Techno, and Techno tucked it back into his pocket.

“Well, look, you should set up that phone. Phil added the three of us to your contacts, plus some emergency numbers, and Puffy’s email I think. And we can give you Tubbo and Ranboo’s numbers, if you want them.”

Tommy opened up the smartphone again, tapping until he got to the contacts app. He found Phil’s number, and Wilbur's, and Techno’s, and then about a dozen emergency contact numbers from roadside assistance to emergency counseling to 911, as though Tommy needed a contact card for 911. The phone worked smoothly, no lag or glitching or anything. Man, maybe it was new. Phil wouldn’t get him a new phone, right? You should just break it now. You’ll shatter it eventually, anyway, right? Throw it out the window or something. Tommy gripped the phone tighter, not quite trusting the impulsive part of his brain not to follow through on that thought.

“There’s a sleep app on there, too,” Techno added. “Phil asked me for recommendations, so that’s the one that I use. It’s got a bunch of ambient noises to fall asleep to.”

“The hell is ambient noise? ” Tommy asked. He opened up an app with a little moon icon called Rest Easy. 

“It's like background noise. I listen to ocean sounds.”

“ Ocean sounds ?”

“Yeah, waves and wind and stuff. Seagulls. But the seagulls aren’t really that relaxing, they’re kind of loud. And a little jarring.” 

“Uh huh.” Tommy scrolled through some of the sounds under the ambient noises tab. He clicked on ocean waves, then rain, then wilderness. “Some of these do not sound relaxing in the slightest,” he noted. He played city noises, which consisted of honking cars and traffic sounds. When the sound of a siren played through the speakers, Techno winced, and Tommy thought he saw him grip the wheel a little tighter.

“To each their own, I guess,” Techno said, somewhat tensely. Tommy hummed.

“You’re both very safe drivers, you and Phil, you know that?” he said, glancing over at Techno’s speedometer.

“How so?”

“You’re drivin’ the speed limit and shit. Wearing your seatbelt.” 

“That’s a pretty low bar, Tommy.”

“What can I say, I’ve got low standards,” Tommy shrugged. “It’s refreshing to see a check engine light that isn’t constantly on.”

“I’m a mechanic, Tommy. It would be pretty embarrassing if my check engine light was on.”

“I bet you use your turn signal when you merge, too.”

“That’s… that’s what it’s there for,” Techno said, confused. 

“Debatable.” Techno scoffed, shaking his head. “How about left turns on red? Do you do those?”

“Left turn on… Tommy, that’s… that’s completely against the law.”

“ What?” Tommy asked. Techno gave him a look out of the corner of his eye.

“Yeah, like… fully illegal. That’s just runnin’ a red light.” 

“Oh my god, how did Sapnap even have a license?” Tommy muttered.

“I truly do not know.”

“He even offered to teach me how to drive once,” Tommy breathed, leaning back against his seat. 

“Dodged a bullet with that one. Aren’t you only 15?”

“Mans turned left on red and you think he cared that I wasn’t old enough to drive?” 

“Fair,” Techno said. “Actually, I think I drove for the first time when I was 14, so I’m not one to talk.”

“Isn’t that even more illegal?”

“Less illegal than driving drunk,” Techno shrugged.

“You were drunk ?” Tommy demanded. This story was making less and less sense. Techno shook his head, waving one hand slightly.

“No, I wasn’t drunk. My step-dad was drunk. I had to pick him up.”

“Oh, yeah, that clears everything up, makes so much sense, thanks,” Tommy muttered sarcastically. Techno breathed a laugh. 

“I’m bad at telling stories in the right order,” Techno sighed, shaking his head. 

“I gathered that.” 

“He, uh… he had a DUI, so his car had one of those breathalyzer things on it so it wouldn’t let him start the car unless he blew under a 0.08,” Techno explained. Tommy nodded. “But he didn’t want to leave the car at the bar, and he didn’t want to get another DUI, so he made me walk there and drive him home.”

“ That was the best solution he could think of?” 

“I didn’t say he was smart,” Techno shrugged.

“He sounds… uh… interesting.”

“That’s one way to put it,” Techno said simply.

Tommy hummed, flipping the phone around in his hand a few times. It felt cold. He looked out the passenger window at the passing trees. There were questions burning on his tongue, one piling onto the next. Tommy had always been curious. Curious and impulsive. It’s what always got him in trouble. So considering that, this was the most restraint Tommy had ever exercised before in not prying into someone’s personal life. 

But he wasn’t as anxious here as he thought he’d be sitting in the car with Techno. The silence between them wasn’t tense. Tommy didn’t feel like he was waiting for an explosion or a bomb to go off. He felt like he was just… existing. It was easy. Everything was so much easier these days. 

He took a breath and gave it a shot.

“Wilbur said, um… well, we– I was asking about uh–” Jesus Christ, will you just spit it out? “He said when you came to live with Phil, it was kind of the same situation as me, where… where you were removed from your, uh. Your family.” Techno raised his eyebrows, glancing over at Tommy before looking back at the road. 

“That’s right,” he said simply. Man, you don’t make this easy do you?

“Well, he said you wouldn’t mind if I asked you why,” Tommy said. 

“Oh,” Techno said. “Yeah, I don’t, uh… I don’t mind. What do you want to know?” Tommy considered the question for a moment before answering. 

“Whatever you want to tell me,” he shrugged. Techno smiled at him from the corner of his mouth. 

“Alright,” he said. 

As they drove, Techno told him about his family: about his mother who only saw the best in people, about his father who never saw the best in her. When he died, suddenly and unexpectedly, she remarried, he said, but she was never the same. 

And when she died, he never was certain whether or not it was an accident. Car crashes were hard like that. 

So it was him, and his stepfather, and his stepfather’s children; two sons and a daughter. 

But, you know, boys will be boys. Techno told him how they never stopped fighting, not a day in their lives, how it was like war. It was brutal, no one to blame, really. They were all angry, all at each other's throats, all hours of the day. 

To Tommy, this felt strangely like looking into a mirror.

Techno told him how one day it went too far, and they fought too hard, and when the cops were called, it was a little too obvious what was going on. They arrested his stepdad, because what else were they supposed to do, and his siblings blamed him, because what else were they supposed to do. Tommy wondered if Dream blamed him. He wondered if his mother blamed him. Probably. What else were they supposed to do?

Tommy knew Techno was leaving details out. He knew what a lie looked like, the way Techno’s knuckles tightened on the steering wheel, the way he shifted in his seat sometimes, the pause in his words, the weight they held.

When Techno talked about how they fought, Tommy let his eyes wander to the scar on Techno’s right arm. It was made up of two straight lines that overlapped slightly, one longer than the other, both thick but long since healed. He didn’t let himself look up at the scar on Techno’s face, though. Maybe Techno would be alright with him asking about them, about how he got them. But maybe he wouldn’t. Tommy didn’t want to risk that.

Techno spoke like it was someone else's story, though. He had a distance from it that Tommy hadn’t expected. It was simply factual, simply a past event, a story. Like it didn’t matter anymore. And maybe it didn’t matter anymore. Techno seemed fine, now. He seemed happy. He had a house, a home, a family, a job, a stupid flip phone and a vintage car and on his days off he woke up after noon and complained about cable television.

And as Techno told his story and laughed at the little details, Tommy wondered how long it would take to get to that point, to the point where he could tell this story like it was someone else’s, to the point where it didn’t feel like it was setting a fire underneath him, where he wasn’t just waiting until the next time he boiled over. 

He wondered, when was the last time Techno boiled over? They weren’t the same. Techno was like a still lake, where no matter the size of the rock or the force you threw it with, the water would always settle and the ripples would pass.

They were different, he realized; not Techno and Tommy, though, but Techno and Dream. Tommy felt guilty for comparing them, now. He almost wanted to apologize, but he knew it wouldn’t mean anything. No one but Tommy knew what a true offense it was to be compared to Dream. 

So instead, he listened, and he didn’t interrupt, and whatever Techno chose to leave out, he assumed there was good reason. 

And when he was done, Tommy dug his thumbnail into his finger and swallowed hard.

“I, um…” Tommy mumbled, running his fingers across his palm. “I guess you’re probably curious about me, too,” he said quietly. “Phil said he didn’t tell you–”

“You don’t gotta tell me anything, Tommy,” Techno said, shaking his head. Tommy glanced over at him, closing his mouth. “This isn’t a trade, you know. I’m not expecting anythin’ from you.”

“But–” 

“I told you what I told you because I wanted to,” Techno shrugged. “Not because I wanted information in return.” The acid feeling left Tommy’s throat. 

“Oh,” he said. He looked down at his hands. “I don’t… I don’t really wanna talk about it right now, then,” he mumbled. 

“That’s fine,” Techno said. It sounded genuine. 

“Thanks,” Tommy breathed. “And, um… thanks for telling me… all that.”

“It’s in the past,” Techno said. Tommy nodded tensely. “Someday, it’ll be in the past for you, too,” he added, his voice a little more gentle than usual. 

I don’t think so, Tommy thought. I don’t think this feeling goes away.  

But he didn’t say that.

Chapter Text

It seemed to Tommy like every single courtroom was made out of the same wood. This same reddish, smooth, shiny wood that made up the rails and the chairs and the tables and the fancy little emblem carved above the judges stand. Every courtroom he’d ever seen had this same kind and color of wood, as though they were copy and pasted one after another like those suburban retirement neighborhood houses where every house was the same design just turned ninety degrees.

Though, the number of courtrooms Tommy had seen was limited, of course, to this one, the one across the hall that he’d seen through an open door, and the one that was on an episode of Law and Order that Dream had watched before their TV shit the bed. 

But man, it was a pretty distinct wood. Maple or cherry or walnut or something. He would bet money on it that Wilbur would be able to identify it. He wondered what he was up to right now. Probably sitting in some boring ass chemistry class trying not to fall asleep, or complaining about the four day work week, or–

“And did you notice any pattern to this behavior?” 

Tommy blinked, his thoughts refocusing. Right. Pay attention. Idiot.  

He felt like he’d done this before. 

“Um…” Tommy furrowed his brow. “Not really,” he said. “Well, he–” Tommy glanced up and found himself catching Dream’s gaze. It was sharp, steady, patient, and it made him feel cold. He looked away quickly, clenching his teeth. 

Quackity had advised him to pretend Dream wasn’t even there. It was much harder than Tommy had anticipated. He had spent a long time pretending that Dream didn’t exist– he didn’t know why it was so difficult now. He dropped his gaze, looking back down at the red wood of the witness stand and clearing his throat. 

“He came home late some days, I guess. Fridays, usually,” Tommy said finally, directing the answer to the table rather than to the lawyer who stood in front of him. That was how I knew what day it was, half the time, he thought to himself. He wondered if he should say that out loud. Was he supposed to say that out loud? He glanced up at Quackity as though the man would know what he was thinking, but the man just blinked at him. 

“How late?” 

“Like… I don’t know. 2 in the morning? I didn’t keep track.” 

Tommy wished that Quackity was the one asking the questions right now, not this dude in front of him. Quackity was much easier to talk to than this lawyer. Attorney Stott, Quackity said his name was. He was the state’s attorney, the one who was building the case against Dream. Tommy supposed that meant they were on the same side, but he still felt antsy under the man’s gaze.

“Every Friday?” Stott asked. 

“Um… most Fridays,” Tommy corrected.

“About how many times a month?” 

“I don’t know,” Tommy mumbled. 

“An estimate is fine.” An estimate is fine, an estimate is fine, an estimate is fine. Christ, Tommy was sick of this. 

“Two or three times a month, I guess. But it wasn’t just Fridays.”

“What other days?” 

“I don’t know, it’s not like he had a schedule,” Tommy muttered. 

“And were you aware of his activities when he was out of the house during that time?” the lawyer asked.

“Probably selling crack to high schoolers, I guess,” Tommy muttered without thinking. 

“Objection,” Dream’s lawyer said firmly, standing up, and Tommy flinched. “That statement is speculation.” Tommy didn’t know what that meant. 

“Sustained,” the judge said, and then turned to Tommy. “The witness is reminded to keep all statements purely factual,” he said. Tommy felt his mouth go dry like he was a child being reprimanded. He nodded. When he glanced back over to Dream, he could have sworn he saw him smirk. It made him tense. 

“Again, were you definitely aware of his activities when he was out of the house?” Stott asked, repeating his question. Tommy tried to remind himself that he wasn’t the one being accused of anything here. All you have to do is answer the questions. That’s it. Just answer.

“I don’t know,” Tommy said quietly. He dug his thumbnail into the skin on his other hand. What was he supposed to say? What was relevant? Wasn’t everything relevant? Was he just supposed to wait until they asked the right questions? He didn’t know what he was doing. Fuck. “He said he was making money.” 

“Did Dream ever mention the manner in which he was making money?” Yeah, he was probably fuckin’ selling crack to high schoolers, weren’t you listening? Tommy clenched his fists. 

“I don’t… I don’t think so,” he said. When he looked up, he caught Dream’s eye again. He didn’t mean to. It just kept happening. He was sitting right there, right at the front, wearing that stupid bright orange jumpsuit. Tommy half expected him to be handcuffed, chained to the bench or something, but he wasn’t. 

You’ll be totally safe, Quackity had assured him. The guards are armed. And I doubt he’ll try anything. 

Tommy wasn’t so sure. It felt like Dream could do anything he put his mind to, sometimes. Weasel his way out of anything, always get what he wanted. And if he wanted to wring Tommy’s neck, Tommy was sure he’d find a way. 

He glanced down at the black number printed on Dream’s jumpsuit, and then down further to Dream’s hands that rested on the table in front of him, and then over to the police officer who sat nearby, and then to the gun that was holstered on the officer’s belt, and then to the door, and then to the clock above the door, and then it felt like everything in the room was slowly pressing in on him. 

Fuck, fuck, fuck. Breathe. Just breathe. Take one of those big breaths that Phil always takes. It got stuck somewhere in his chest. Fuck, that didn’t fucking work at all. Fuck. 

“You don’t think so?” The lawyer asked, and Tommy hardly remembered what question he had been replying to. 

“Well, I mean, it’s implied, isn’t it?” Tommy said, crossing his arms over his stomach. The lawyer pursed his lips slightly, and Tommy ground his teeth.

“Did he ever explicitly explain to you–” 

“I don’t know,” Tommy interrupted. He’s just doing his job, he tried to remind himself. This isn’t about you. Stop making it about you. “Maybe at some point. I knew what he was doing even if he didn’t say it every time he walked out the door, it was obvious.” 

“Why was it obvious?” 

“Because we lived in a drug den, why do you think?” Tommy asked. He felt his frustration bleeding into his tone. He could feel every eye in the room burning into him. He wanted to be done. He wanted to leave. He wanted to run, but he couldn’t, because he was stuck here. It made him feel sour. “He left with a full backpack and came back with enough cash to buy groceries for the week, so what else was he doing?” He looked over at Dream again, some sickening part of him wanting to ask him to confirm, wanting to ask right? That’s what you were doing, right? Tell them. Tell them I’m not just crazy. Dream stared at him, holding his gaze, unwavering.

The lawyer nodded, approaching him slightly, and Tommy felt every muscle in his body tense, but he couldn’t look away from Dream.  

“Do you want to take a break?” he asked, but his voice sounded like it was underwater. Tommy swallowed hard, acid rising in his throat. 

And then Dream smiled. Just slightly. Just a little twitch of the corner of his mouth, a slight raise in his eyebrow. It was hardly even a smirk, but it was enough .

“ Stop fuckin’ smiling at me! ” Tommy shouted, standing up halfway out of his chair. 

It was like something else was moving him, something else making his voice. Dream wasn’t smiling anymore. Tommy wondered if he was even smiling in the first place, if he’d just imagined it, if he’d just worked himself up over nothing and set himself off. Tell them you smiled at me, he wanted to scream. 

Tell them I’m not crazy. You were making fun of me, tell them. Fucking tell them!

Everything felt freezing like he’d just been thrown out into the rain in winter. He couldn’t catch his breath. Everyone was looking at him, because what else would they be looking at? He could feel all of their eyes boring into him like cigarette burns on his skin. He felt angry, and then underneath that, he started to feel panic. 

Holy fuck. I just swore in court. I just fucking swore in front of a whole room of lawyers and judges and jury and what the fuck happens now? That’s bad, right? There were only like three rules to follow and I fucked it up.

“Your honor, I’d like to request a recess,” Quackity said hurriedly, standing up from his seat. Tommy hardly registered it, like it was a mile away. “My client is in distress.” The statement made Tommy’s face burn. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the judge nod. 

“The court will stand at recess until 1:30,” he said. Quackity nodded, shuffling out from his seat and approaching the stand to get to Tommy. 

“I’m sorry–” Tommy started, but his voice got stuck in his throat, like he was choking on it. You ruined it, you ruined it, you ruined it–

“Nah, it’s alright,” Quackity said, offering Tommy a hand to step down from the stand. Tommy didn’t take it, instead holding his hands close to his chest. “Come on, we’re gonna go somewhere quieter,” Quackity added, stepping back to let Tommy down. 

Tommy stood, and he felt like his knees were jelly. He leaned against the stand as he stood, his vision tunneling just on what was right in front of him, the reddish wood paneling of the stand, his hand gripping the edge, the carpeted step down. He heard movement and quiet voices from the gallery. Wait, he thought. I want… Where’s– 

“Phil,” he said, all he could manage to get out. Why was he so out of breath?

“Phil’s coming, too,” Quackity said gently. Tommy hated how quickly relief pooled in his stomach. 

“I’m sorry, I didn’t– I just got– I got overwhelmed, and I don’t, or I didn’t mean to curse, I just–” Quackity ushered him out of the side door of the courtroom, and in the empty hallway, Tommy finally felt like he wasn’t under water. 

“It’s alright,” Quackity cut him off, gesturing for Tommy to follow him off to the side. “Do you want to sit?” Tommy shook his head, pressing his back against the cold wall behind him. 

“I ruined it,” he muttered to himself, squeezing his eyes shut. “I fucked up, right?” 

“Tommy, believe me, everyone in there has heard it before,” Quackity said, his tone far too lighthearted for how Tommy felt. 

“No, I’m– I wasn’t supposed to curse, that– that’s what Phil said, and–” Tommy bit down on the side of his cheek. You can be deemed an unreliable witness. Phil’s words echoed in his head. Do you know what that means? It means Dream’s lawyer can argue to have your testimony thrown out.

You fucked it all up. Just like always. That’s what it means.

“One f-bomb isn’t the end of the world,” Quackity said, shaking his head. “Trust me.” That’s frankly a pretty big request , Tommy thought. Next to them, the courtroom door swung open again, and Tommy flinched. 

“Just me,” Phil said, stepping through the door. From inside, Tommy could hear voices, quiet conversations. It was muted again when the door shut. Tommy tried to release the tension in his shoulders, but he felt shaky and out of his own control. “Take a breath for me, mate,” Phil said, his voice calm and almost casual. “Come on. You’re holding it in right now.” I am?

Tommy forced himself to breathe out and realized his chest was burning. When he inhaled again, it was shaky, but it made him feel a little less like he was about to explode. 

“There you go,” Phil said. He sounded proud. Tommy hated the way his heart swelled. “Slow yourself down a bit, yeah?” Tommy coughed, his throat burning as he breathed in and out. He pressed himself against the wall, feeling the little bumps in the panes of wood against his back. It was weirdly grounding.

“I didn’t mean to yell,” Tommy said. “I didn’t mean to curse, I just– They’re all gonna think I’m crazy,” Tommy groaned, pressing the heels of his palms into his eyes. “I swear to god, he smiled at me.”

“I believe you,” Phil said gently. The sentiment made Tommy sucked in another shaky breath. “Do you want to sit?” Tommy nodded.

“I don’t know why it set me off like that,” Tommy muttered. Yes you do. You know exactly why. You’ve got six years worth of reasons why. He let Phil lead him over to a hard wooden bench that was against the hallway wall.

“It’s stressful being up there,” Phil shrugged. Tommy sat and rested his chin against the heel of his hand, letting out an unsteady sigh. 

“Fuck,” he said, shaking his head. “Jesus.” He felt the first pinpricks of a headache growing at the base of his skull. “Oh my god, I said fuck in court,” he said. It was like every few seconds he re-realized that fact, and every time it sunk further into his stomach. What happens next? What now? How badly did I fuck this up? Is that it? Am I done? “What–” He felt dizzy all of a sudden, setting his hands against his knees to keep himself upright. 

“Breathe,” Phil said. Tommy groaned out a strained exhale. Phil knelt down in front of him, but Tommy kept his gaze trained on his own hands. “It’s alright. No harm, right?” 

“Wh– no, I… you said no cursing,” Tommy said, but Phil shook his head. 

“I meant that as a general guideline,” he said.

“But they’ll– they’re gonna throw out my testimony or something–” 

“Tommy, nothing like that is going to happen,” Quackity cut him off. “Everyone here recognizes that this is difficult for you. I don’t think anyone in their right mind would fault you for getting overwhelmed on the stand.” 

Tommy ground his teeth at the word overwhelmed, but he couldn’t deny that it was exactly what happened. He got too stuck in his own head, too frustrated, too fixated. He felt himself spinning in circles and just like always, he couldn’t stop it, and just like always, it bubbled over into anger. 

“Even if you were being intentionally disrespectful, you’d get a warning before anything else,” Quackity added.

“Right,” Phil nodded. “This isn’t a one chance situation, mate. Nothing happens because you said ‘fuck’.” 

That was the first time Tommy had heard Phil curse. He wasn’t sure why, but it made him laugh, just a little. It sounded so strange coming from him. 

“What?” Phil asked. Tommy shook his head.

“You said fuck ,” he said, failing to hold back a smile. Phil breathed out a laugh. 

“I curse all the time,” he shook his head, smiling. “You should hear me with Techno sometimes, the little shit.” Tommy barked a laugh that echoed through the hallway. He cleared his throat, running his thumb over the back of his hand. 

“So it’s not, um,” Tommy started, trying to find the right words. “It’s really not a big thing that I cursed?”

“Well, you know…” Quackity shrugged. “I wouldn’t make a habit of it.” Tommy’s cheeks burned slightly. “But it’s fine. Judge Thompson recognizes that this is a hard spot for you. I’m sure it can’t be easy even just being in the same room as your brother right now.”

“I just wasn’t expecting to get so mad at him,” Tommy said, shaking his head. He leaned back against the bench. “But he just sits there and stares and I dunno… it puts me on edge.” 

“How about I talk with some folks and we can see about you giving a written testimony or a deposition wherever possible?” Quackity asked. 

“What’s that mean?” Tommy replied, raising an eyebrow. 

“It’s an opportunity for you to give your testimony and answer questions from the lawyers outside of court,” Quackity explained. “A deposition is a recorded testimony. It’ll just be you and some lawyers and a court reporter. You could also give an affidavit.”

“An alpha who?” Tommy asked. Quackity laughed. 

“ Affidavit, ” he corrected. “It’s a written testimony. You sign off on it that it’s the truth in front of a few officials. Either way, you wouldn’t have to be directly in the courtroom like today.” 

“So… so no Dream?” Tommy asked. He hated how much he sounded like a child.

“No Dream, and no jury. Judge Thompson might attend a deposition, but not necessarily. It might help keep you out of court when you don’t absolutely need to be here,” Quackity added. 

“That sounds nice,” Tommy sighed, nodding. 

“I’ll see what we can arrange,” Quackity said, smiling kindly. “For today, though, do you think you can get back on the stand?” Tommy swallowed hard, but he nodded again. 

“Yeah, I can… I’ll deal with it. Sorry I… you know. Freaked out.” 

“Honestly, Tommy, I’d be a little more concerned if you were breezing right through all of this no problem,” Quackity laughed, and Tommy smiled. 

***

Phil decided to bring home takeout. 

Phil decided to bring home a lot of takeout. 

He and Tommy carted bags of burgers and fries and soft drinks inside into the kitchen, setting them down onto the island. As soon as they’d walked in through the front door, Wilbur had run downstairs – or rather, he’d practically thrown himself down the stairs, swinging himself around the corner by holding onto the banister. 

“Wil, I’ve told you a thousand times, if you break the rail doing that, you’re paying to fix it,” Phil scolded, but it was half hearted at best, and Wilbur hardly even acknowledged it.

“I’m assuming court sucked,” Wilbur said. He grabbed a straw from the counter and punched it through his sprite lid.

“How very wise of you,” Tommy sighed. He took a stack of plates from the cabinet above the sink and set them down on the granite. When he looked up, he saw Techno entering at the far end of the kitchen. 

“Where’d you go?” he asked Phil. 

“Paradise Burgers,” Phil replied. Techno hummed a deep, rumbly sound and smiled, evidently very happy with that answer. “I have truly awful news for you, though, bud,” Phil added. Techno narrowed his eyes, freezing in his approach of the food on the island. “They’re discontinuing the peppercorn burger.” 

“ No, ” Techno breathed.

“Sorry,” Phil shook his head. “There was a sign at the hostess stand.” 

“This is the worst thing that’s ever happened to me,” Techno said, entirely deadpan. 

“Techno, mate, you’re an orphan,” Phil sighed. 

“This is the second worst thing that’s ever happened to me,” Techno said, again, entirely deadpan. “The peppercorn? ” Techno whined. “Why the peppercorn ? What did the peppercorn ever do to them?” He slouched over to the island, pulling out a wrapped burger dejectedly. 

“One of the waiters said that the A1 burger is pretty similar?” Phil offered. 

“Blasphemy,” Techno muttered. Tommy held back a laugh. Techno placed his burger onto a plate, dumping a handful of fries next to it as well as some onion rings. “I bet Lydia had something to do with this. She’s always had it out to get me.” He popped a fry into his mouth. 

“Lydia is the nicest waitress we’ve ever had apart from Niki,” Wilbur said, waving Techno off dismissively. 

“It’s the nice ones that catch you off guard,” Techno huffed. “The peppercorn, ” he added, barely a whisper, shaking his head. Despite his apparent grieving, he took a truly behemoth bite out of his burger. 

“Might want to savor it a bit, eh?” Tommy said. Techno grumbled something under his breath. Phil patted him on the shoulder lightly, stepping past him to get his own plate of food. 

“At least Sleepy’s still has your favorite cheeseburger,” Wilbur noted. 

“Don’t jinx it,” Techno warned, his voice low. Even though Tommy knew he was joking, his ‘serious voice’ was still chilling. 

“Sorry, sorry,” Wilbur laughed. “Damn, now I want a milkshake,” he added. 

“Ooh,” Phil said. “Ah. Too late. Should’ve texted me on the way home.” 

“You didn’t tell me you were even getting food until you already got it,” Wilbur lamented. “If you’d asked …”

“You’d just get a vanilla shake anyway,” Tommy said. He popped a fry into his mouth. “What’s the point of getting a milkshake if you’re gonna get vanilla.”

“Vanilla is a perfectly good flavor, thank you very much,” Wilbur huffed. 

“For pussies,” Tommy teased, smirking. 

“Fuck off,” Wilbur said, throwing a fry at Tommy. It bounced off of his cheek. 

“Not my fault you don’t have any taste,” Tommy shrugged. Wilbur groaned, tilting his head back. 

“I never get any respect in this house,” he muttered, shoving a bite of burger into his mouth. “It’s a nightmare.” 

“Truly,” Techno said in his usual monotone. Tommy stifled a laugh. 

“Don’t truly me, you’re the worst of it,” Wilbur shot back. 

“ Me? ” Techno said innocently. 

“ You ,” Wilbur repeated, narrowing his eyes. 

“I have no idea what you mean,” Techno shrugged, taking another bite from his burger.

“I’m going to cut your hair off while you sleep and donate it to Wigs for Kids ,” Wilbur said. Tommy choked on his fry.

“Then I’ll put Nair in your shampoo,” Techno replied simply.

“Boys,” Phil warned, but it was an empty threat, as though he was simply saying it because he knew he was probably supposed to. 

“You should do hair dye instead,” Tommy said. “I put green hair dye in Dream’s shampoo once.” Wilbur gawked at him. 

“That’s brilliant,” he breathed. Tommy laughed. 

“I called him the green teletubby for a month,” Tommy said. “Which would make you tinky-winky,” Tommy said to Techno. 

“Tinky-winky’s the purple one,” Techno replied, shaking his head. Tommy blinked at him, his mouth hanging half open for a moment. 

“Why the fuck do you know that?” 

“I read a lot,” Techno shrugged. Tommy laughed so hard his stomach hurt.

Chapter Text

Dream’s house was no longer a crime scene. 

That was legally speaking, of course. Generally, it would always be a crime scene to Tommy, but in the eyes of the law, everything to be discovered there had already been noted, examined, or carted off in little plastic baggies labeled evidence. And some of that evidence was already in little plastic baggies. 

Dream’s house was no longer a crime scene, and therefore Tommy was informed that he was now permitted to go and retrieve his things– that is, everything that was still there and that wasn’t locked away. Which left him where he was now, sitting in Phil’s car, parked outside of the run-down one story house that he’d grown up in. The paint on the siding was chipping, and there was a blue tarp stapled to the roof where there had been a leak, and the grass out front was brown and patchy. 

It wasn’t a Phil house. It wasn’t well kept, it didn’t have a fancy stone driveway or a freshly painted front door or a mailbox with their last name on it. It was a Dream house. It was a Tommy house. And now, Tommy felt an unfamiliar feeling blooming in his chest. He was embarrassed. 

No one ever came over to Dream’s house, other than the usual suspects. Tommy never invited friends over. He never had friends to invite over. No one ever visited. There was never any reason to clean up, to make the beds, to vacuum the floor, to do the dishes that piled up in the sink. Dream didn’t care, so Tommy didn’t care. It wasn’t like it was Tommy’s responsibility. It wasn’t like it was Tommy’s house. 

But now it was Tommy’s house. Now it was his, and everything in it was on him, and Phil would see it, and he would see the state it was left in, the state of the kitchen and the living room and the bedrooms, and he would know . 

And just the idea of him knowing made Tommy feel frozen, like he couldn’t move to open the car door if he wanted to, like he couldn’t make himself walk down the cracked walkway to the rotting front steps and open the creaky door and set foot into that house. His house.

“You can go in by yourself, if you want,” Phil offered gently, startling Tommy out of his thoughts. “I can wait in the car.” 

“No,” Tommy said, almost too quickly. He shook his head. “I… um. I want you to come in with me.” The embarrassment that he felt at the idea of showing Phil the house was nothing compared to the fear he felt at going in alone. 

It was irrational, he knew. Of course he knew. Dream was in jail, far from here, kept under lock and key. He knew. But being here, being home , he saw him everywhere; waiting in the window, sitting on the front porch, ready to jump out from behind doors or hiding in closets. You ruined my life, he’d say. I’ll kill you. I mean it this time. I’ll kill you . Tommy believed him. 

“Okay,” Phil nodded. When Tommy said nothing, sitting in silence and flipping the house key over in his palm a few times, he continued. “We don’t have to do this today, you know–”

“I just want to get it over with,” Tommy interrupted. One and done. Easy. And then he never had to come back here again. Or at least, not for a while. He was beginning to realize that there weren’t really any certainties in his life at the moment. Just get it over with.  

He shoved open the passenger side door, stepping out of the car before he had time to second guess himself any further. He heard Phil get out of the car, too, closing his door much more gently than Tommy had closed his. 

Tommy didn’t look back as he walked up to the front porch. He heard Phil’s footsteps behind him, heard him fumble with the car keys for a moment, and then a second later the little blip of the car locking. He kept his sights trained on the door, though. He held the house key tightly in his hand. The notches in the metal dug into his palm. 

He half expected the door to be covered with police tape, do not enter , something cliche, something that really shouted a drug dealer lives here. Or used to live here. He wondered if this was one of those things where they had to alert the whole neighborhood, post it in the local paper or something. Though to be fair, most of the neighborhood was probably already well aware. If it wasn’t the SWAT team that gave it away, he was sure the cops and investigators crawling around the place probably did. 

Tommy flipped the key around once more in his palm as he walked up the front steps. They creaked the way they always did. When he got to the front door, he realized he didn’t need the key, though. 

The front door was hanging off of two hinges, the one at the bottom completely ripped from the door. The frame was splintered where the lock should have gone into the slot, bent inward where the police had kicked it in. When Tommy pushed the door open with the toe of his shoe, the bottom corner scraped on the floor. 

He stared at it for a moment, let out a sigh, and then tucked the key back into the front pocket of his jeans.

“Do you think they’ll pay to get that fixed?” Tommy asked over his shoulder as Phil came up the front steps. “Deadlocks aren’t cheap, you know. Do I mail them the bill, or…?” Tommy turned to Phil to find the man’s face full of sympathy, and he closed his mouth. “You’re right. Doesn’t matter,” he said tensely. Before Phil could reply, he stepped inside. 

The house was cleaner than Tommy remembered it being. He wondered how much they’d taken, how much was sitting in plastic bags and evidence drawers. The coffee table was clear of its usual paraphernalia, as was the kitchen counter and the dining room table. Any sign of Dream’s activities was gone, minus the smoke stains on the walls and the smell that lingered, and that probably would continue to linger until the house was old and torn down and left to a pile of wooden planks, and even then it would probably still smell like weed and smoke. 

“They could have at least done the dishes if they were already gonna clean up,” Tommy mumbled. He hit the light switch next to the door and the dim overhead bulb flickered to life. He paced a few steps into the living room, taking a breath. “Home sweet home,” he said finally, glancing back at Phil.

Phil was looking around, his eyes catching on little things around the room; the dishes in the sink, the mold where the walls met the floor and the ceiling, the stains and scratches and dents in the walls. His gaze lingered for an extra moment on a particularly large hole in one wall near the kitchen, dented in and crumbling at the edges. 

That was me, Tommy wanted to say proudly. He and Dream had fought, like they always did, about who knows what, and Dream had thrown him straight through the drywall. That one’s mine. I made that one. Can’t you see the resemblance? It’s like looking in a mirror. 

But he had a feeling Phil wouldn’t find it funny. There was still a scar on Tommy’s back from that ordeal. 

Phil returned his focus to Tommy after a moment, and Tommy held his gaze, wondering what he would say.

“Nice, aye?” Tommy raised his eyebrows. “ Mi casa es your casa or whatever,” he added, shrugging his shoulders. Although, he supposed, it wasn’t actually his house. It wasn’t even Dream’s house. He wondered if his mother would even want to keep this place if she knew how it looked. “I’d offer you a glass of water, but I’m pretty sure if you dropped a match into our sink it would explode.” 

Phil nodded awkwardly. He looked hilariously out of place here. He was too well dressed even in his jeans, hair too neat, fingernails too clean, shoes too new. Tommy, though… Tommy fit right in. He fit like a missing puzzle piece, the only thing this disgusting house needed to feel complete. They’d only been here for a minute and Tommy already felt that grime returning to his skin. 

Tommy wished Phil would just say something already. You live like this? maybe, or, jesus christ, or gee, this sure is a lovely home you’ve got here, did you decorate it yourself? 

“Do you have a suitcase you can use to pack some of your things?” Phil asked. Tommy sighed. You’re no fun, he thought.

“Yeah,” he said. He let his shoulders sag and walked past the kitchen and living room over to the back end of the house. The whole thing was essentially just a big rectangle with rooms off the back end. If this was a trendy neighborhood, maybe someone would have called it an open concept.  

The door to Dream’s room was wide open. Inside, Tommy saw that it had been pretty much cleaned out, the sheets gone from the bed, clothes gone from the closet, everything on his dresser and windowsill taken away. 

He didn’t care enough about Dream’s shit to look inside any further. Maybe that was self centered. Who knows. 

Tommy’s room was the furthest back room in the house, all the way at the back end. There was no door, just empty old brass hinges and a frame like a portal into his allotted section of the madness that had been this house. He used to imagine sometimes when he stepped across this threshold like he was leaving this world and entering another, somewhere different, somewhere else. Anywhere else. Anywhere else. 

Now, when he stepped through, it was still his house. It was still the same, just smaller. It felt smaller, somehow. It felt crowded. 

There was a disconnect here that Tommy wasn’t expecting. 

A numbness, like he was half underwater. Seeing his overturned room didn’t make him angry like he was expecting. He didn’t care that some stranger had looked through his shit, and he didn’t care that they’d piled his clothes up on his mattress that now had no sheet on it, and he didn’t care that there was shit missing. It was emptier, but so was he. 

“Tommy?” Phil’s voice cut through the buzz in Tommy’s head. He breathed in sharply, straightening his back, and glanced over at where Phil stood, a few feet behind him, just inside the doorframe of the room.

“Mhm,” Tommy hummed, not knowing exactly what he meant by the sound, but nonetheless he jarred himself into motion and went to the closet to pull a ratty old suitcase from under a pile of laundry. He tossed it onto a corner of his bed that was free. Okay. I can do this. 

“You don’t have to take everything at once,” Phil noted. “We can always come back.” 

Everything was a word that struck Tommy. As he looked around at all of the things in his room, the laundry, the crumpled papers, a blanket in the corner, a sweater, a jacket on a broken hanger, paper bags and part of a cardboard box and shoes with soles that were falling apart, it didn’t feel like an everything . It hardly even felt like a something, maybe more of an anything, but mostly a nothing.

That’s what it was. A nothing.  

Tommy shook himself. Focus. All he had to do was pack. That was easy, right? Why did all of the easy things feel so hard these days? Just pack, just talk, just testify, just answer questions, just pay attention.

He picked up a shirt from the bed, an old gray shirt with a hole in the neckline, but it didn’t seem worth taking, and then a pair of jeans that were a size too big because somewhere along the way Tommy had lost weight without meaning to, but they didn’t seem worth taking, and then socks with holes in them, all with holes in them, and none of them seemed worth taking either. 

He was a broken record, picking things up and putting them down somewhere else, somewhere that made less sense, but somehow made more sense than putting them in the suitcase, which remained empty while he spun in slow circles around the room becoming dizzy with the nothing of it all. It didn’t make sense. He couldn’t make it make sense. Taking any of this with him felt wrong. Removing it from the house felt wrong, like stealing from a museum. It was nothing, and it didn’t matter, so why was it so hard? 

He felt cold and sweaty at the same time, knowing Phil was watching. It was like the house was watching, too, eyes staring at him from the cracks between floorboards and from the holes in the walls and from the dark of the closet. There was nothing there. There was nothing here. He couldn’t focus. 

Eventually, that nothing became too much. 

He opened a drawer and dug through the stupid shirts and socks that were shoved inside, and of course he didn’t want to take any of it, but the drawer wouldn’t close again, probably because some fabric was stuck on the back corner. 

When he pushed it, it didn’t budge, and when he shoved it, it made a cracking sound, and when Tommy kicked it, it made his toes hurt even through his sneakers. 

“ Fuck ,” he hissed, and then kicked it again in the same spot with the same foot so that it hurt just the same way. 

He felt the jolt of pain all the way up his shin. The drawer still didn’t go all the way in, stuck open the tiniest bit, but somehow that felt like the worst thing in the world. He yanked it out again, intending to try slamming it back into the dresser again, but instead it came free from the dresser entirely and crashed to the floor. It landed directly on top of his foot. 

“ Fuck!” Tommy shouted, sliding his foot out from underneath it. “Son of a bitch–”

“Hold on, hold on,” Phil interrupted, holding a hand out to Tommy just as he was winding up to kick the stupid fucking drawer one more time. “You’re gonna hurt yourself–” 

“I don’t care, ” Tommy whined. God, he sounded like such a child. “Everything in this stupid house is always fucking broken ,” he said, kicking the drawer again for good measure. The jolt of pain that shocked up his leg was strangely grounding. Something at the back of his throat felt sharp. “This is the easiest fucking thing in the world and I can’t even– fuckin’–  fuck. ” 

Tommy sunk down onto the bed, the mattress springs creaking underneath him as he did. He felt dizzy, the way he felt as a kid when he was about to throw up, like the room was spinning around him and he was all cold sweat and nerves. 

“Okay, let’s just sit for a second,” Phil said. His voice sounded like it was underwater. If he said anything after that, Tommy didn’t hear it, squeezing his eyes shut. 

He felt his blood roaring in his ears like a rainstorm, and it was all he could do not to throw up or pass out or shit himself, or all three, because god he felt like he was getting close to a heart attack right now, or maybe he’d been poisoned, or maybe when the SWAT team kicked the door down they’d shaken the asbestos loose from the plaster in the ceiling and he was suffocating–

Acid rose in his throat and coated the back of his tongue, the bitterness of it startling him into sucking in air. It whistled in his chest, almost comically, like he was an old man catching his breath. It was the same sound he made when Dream would knock the wind out of him, when he’d land a kick a little too square in the chest or throw him down a little too hard. 

The desperation felt the same, too, the same as when they’d fight. Dream was always bigger, always stronger. Tommy was faster, but Dream swung harder, and it was always a waiting game in the end. Lose interest, get bored, get tired, move on, forget what we were even fighting about . Just let it be over. 

He sucked in another breath.

In some absent corner of his mind, he knew Phil was talking to him, probably saying something far too calmly in that stupid gentle voice he used when things were going too fast in Tommy’s head, which to be fair was pretty often. 

The worst part was that it worked, though. 

He registered the words slowly, reluctantly; breathe, and it’ll pass, and in, and out, and in, and out, and good, and can you hear me?

“Yeah,” Tommy wheezed, and then “ fuck. ” 

“It’ll pass,” Phil said. “Just breathe slow.” 

Easier said than done.

“Yeah, I know,” Phil sighed. Tommy blinked.

“I didn’t mean to say that out loud,” he mumbled, and Phil breathed a laugh. 

Tommy shook his head, trying to clear the stars that danced in his vision. He was still sitting on the edge of the bed, his fists balled into the fabric of the mattress cover. Phil was knelt in front of him with one hand resting gently on Tommy’s knee. He hadn’t noticed the touch until now. His eyes lingered on it, and for a while, he just stared and breathed in and breathed out. Eventually, he found his voice again. 

“Fuck,” he said. He had considered apologizing, but sorry sounded a bit too pathetic right now even for his standards. He was shaking. “Ugh.” 

“Just sit for a minute,” Phil said, patting Tommy’s knee before removing his hand. The absence of the weight and warmth was more startling than the touch itself. Tommy wiped his nose with the back of his hand, blinking slowly. He still felt half underwater, weighed down by something just slightly stronger than gravity. 

“Yeah,” he sighed. “Christ. Did I throw up?” He asked. “It tastes like I threw up.” 

“No, you didn’t,” Phil assured him. 

“Good,” Tommy muttered. “That’d be real fuckin’ embarassing.” 

“Do you want some water?” Phil offered, but Tommy shook his head. 

“Nah, it’s fuckin…” Tommy cleared his throat. “Nasty,” he said. “We don’t have one of those fridge door filters like you’ve got,” Tommy laughed half-heartedly. “Tastes like gasoline.” 

“Okay,” Phil said gently. 

Tommy breathed in through his nose again, trying to get the air all the way into the bottom of his lungs. He felt disoriented, like hours could have passed without him noticing, or just seconds. His back was damp with sweat. 

“That was a big one, huh?” Phil noted quietly.

“A big what?” Tommy asked, raising his eyebrows. 

“Panic attack,” Phil said simply. 

“‘S that what that was?” Tommy asked. His hands were still shaking as he stared at them. “Awfully dramatic name for it,” he added under his breath. Phil hummed. Tommy leaned back on the palms of his hands, tilting his head back. “Awfully dramatic in general, I suppose.” He hated the way his voice was still shaky. 

“It’s overwhelming,” Phil supplied. “All this.” Tommy huffed for a moment, running a hand through his hair and pushing it back. 

“It’s just packing a fuckin’ bag,” Tommy muttered. Pussy. He’d really freaked out over something this fucking stupid? Over packing? Fuck. The tension that remained in his chest muddled with embarrassment and anger and something bubbling under the surface he couldn’t quite place. 

“It’s not just the packing, though,” Phil said. “Coming back here, after everything, seeing your home like this, and then having to leave again, figuring out what to take with you…” Tommy blinked at him, and then looked back down at his hands. 

“It’s nothing new, ” Tommy muttered. “It’s the same shit as always, it’s– I mean, if anything, it’s better, right?” Phil raised his eyebrows.

“Why do you say that?” 

“Cus he’s not here,” Tommy shrugged, staring down at his hands. “Shouldn’t that be better?” Why doesn’t it feel better? 

“Different doesn’t always mean better,” Phil said gently. “Change can be just as overwhelming as anything else. Sometimes it can be more.” 

“It’s… yeah, I mean, it’s a– a bit…” He let out a slow breath, and it shook in his chest. “ Overwhelming .” He rubbed his palms together. “I just– I don’t know where to start. I don’t want to start.” 

“We don’t have to do this today,” Phil said, his voice ever gentle. He meant well, but the idea of coming back struck even more tension into Tommy’s chest. “We could come back–” 

“No, I don’t–” Tommy pressed the heels of his palms to his eyes until he saw stars. “I don’t want to come back. I don’t want to be here, and I don’t want to pack, and I don’t– I don’t want it,” Tommy groaned. “I don’t want any of it, I don’t even want to look at it.” When he opened his eyes, he kept his gaze trained on the floor, avoiding Phil, avoiding the piles of clothes and the shit on the floor and the drawer that he’d yanked out of the dresser. 

“I don’t think I understand,” Phil said. His voice was so collected and so intentional. It made Tommy feel even more confused.

It was all so fucked, now. 

This was just another reminder; the door that was knocked off its hinges, the sheets stripped from the bed, the dishes that sat gathering mold in the sink, and now this, his shitty clothes in his too-small too-dirty room… and what would he do with them? Pack them up, load them into Phil’s nice car, cart them away to Phil’s nice house and tuck them in folded piles into Phil’s nice dresser drawers? How was he supposed to hide the way they stank of smoke and mildew, the holes that dotted the hemlines, the way none of them fit quite right? 

This was where his shit belonged – where he belonged, if he wasn’t careful. He fit in here, like a puzzle piece, and the more he took from this place and carried with him, the harder it would be to cut himself from the cloth of this place. 

He stared at the ground like a child throwing a tantrum, waiting to get his way. I want to go home, he thought, but he didn’t quite know what that meant. 

“I don’t want any of it,” Tommy repeated. He couldn’t put it into words. Or rather, he couldn’t make the words come out.

Phil seemed to consider the situation for a moment, quietly, before he spoke. He was always so careful. Tommy wondered what it was like to think before you speak. 

“Okay,” he said as though he was musing over a riddle. “So let’s leave.” Tommy looked up, raising his eyebrows.

“What?” 

“What?” Phil asked. “Let’s leave. You don’t have to take any of this with you if you don’t want it.”

“But it’s my shit ,” Tommy protested. 

“It’s not going anywhere,” Phil shrugged. “It’s still yours, just… here. It can stay here. And we can leave.” Tommy blinked at him. 

“But I don’t have any clothes,” he said. “If I leave all my shit here then– then I don’t have anything at all,” Tommy mumbled, half to himself. Having nothing was almost worse than having what he already had, which was hardly anything, but it was still something . Both options made his chest ache. Though he supposed, at the moment, that might just be a constant state of being. 

“Can I offer a suggestion?” Phil asked. Tommy looked up, raising his eyebrows. “I was going to propose this anyway, once we got a feel for what you had and what you needed, but there’s a nice shopping district downtown…”

Tommy groaned, knowing exactly where this was going. 

“I hate shopping,” he said, flopping back against the bed. Phil breathed a laugh. 

“Why’s that?” He asked.

“Fuckin… boring,” Tommy groaned, rubbing his eyes with the palms of his hands. “I don’t have money, anyway,” he added, and then paused, furrowing his brow. 

He pushed himself upright, standing up on top of the bed and shoving his hand up through the hole in the ceiling where the plaster was broken away. He ignored the look Phil was definitely giving him, stretching up on his toes to pat around the empty space there. His fingers met cobwebs and dust. 

“Damn it,” he said. 183 dollars and 83 cents, down the fucking drain. Probably sitting in some drawer at a police station being tested for cocaine residue. Fuck. “Yeah,” Tommy sighed, sitting back down on the bed. “No money.” 

“Did you… have money up there?” Phil asked confusedly. Tommy nodded, wiping a spider web off of his hand onto the bed. “Well, I wasn’t asking you to pay anyway,” Phil said. Tommy furrowed his brow. 

“I don’t need–” charity, donations, your fucking pity– Tommy cut himself off before he could say something he’d regret, grinding his teeth together. “Don’t spend your money on me,” he said instead. Anger was a reflex that Phil didn’t deserve directed at him. And if Tommy didn’t recognize that, then maybe his temper was just as bad as Dream’s. That thought made his stomach turn. 

“Would it help if it wasn’t my money?” Phil posited. Tommy raised his eyebrows.

“You’re gonna make Techno buy me new clothes?” He asked, and Phil laughed, shaking his head. 

“No, no, not… no. I get money from the state to cover costs when I foster. Food and necessities and whatnot,” he explained. 

“You get paid?” Tommy asked. That made him feel… something. He wasn’t sure what. Embarrassed? Angry? 

“Oh, that’s not– no,” Phil said, and Tommy could see him trying to find the words to explain. “The state provides foster parents with an allowance to cover any additional costs. It’s called a stipend. It’s not money for me, it’s for you.” 

“So they’ve just got money to throw at kids now?” Tommy muttered. “Where’s that been all this time?” Phil opened his mouth, but didn’t have a response. “Seems like there should be some steps before jumping right to damage control , that’s all I’m saying,” Tommy sighed. 

“The system certainly has its flaws,” Phil said, his voice more serious than Tommy anticipated. “You never should have been in this situation,” he added quietly. Now it was Tommy’s turn to be at a loss for words. He bit the inside of his cheek, looking awkwardly around his room. He felt the need to defend it somehow, and he also felt the need to burn it to the ground.

“Yeah, well,” he said, settling for indifference. “Shit happens. Can we leave?” 

“Sure, mate,” Phil nodded, smiling slightly. Tommy stood, pushing off the bed. They walked toward the door – or rather, the doorframe. Phil’s eyes lingered on the empty hinges for a moment as he walked through. Tommy turned to face the room before he exited. 

He wondered when he’d grown so detached from this place. Once upon a time, he had things here. He had little glass coke bottles lined up on a shelf, and an origami crane on his dresser, and an old soft blanket he’d taken from his mother’s house when she dropped him off here. Once upon a time, he felt love for this house. Once upon a time, he was a kid excited to live with his brother, convinced it would be something spectacular, something exciting, that they would break rules and stay up late and maybe he’d learn to ride a bike or work a stick shift or shave his face with a razor. 

Maybe in some alternate universe, his room looked like Wilbur’s, walls covered in posters and closet overflowing and desk piled with knick knacks and sentimental shit. Maybe he was jealous now, looking at what was his, wondering what could have been his. 

If he could have slammed a door, he would have. It felt like his exit needed sound, some kind of punctuation, a real fuck you just to send him off. But his room didn’t have a door to slam, and the front door didn’t close all the way now, so instead, Tommy left the house in eerie silence. 

Stepping outside felt like pulling himself from a grave, but he didn’t feel like a corpse. He felt alive. With his back to the house, and Phil’s back to him, he let himself smile. Something about leaving this time was more satisfying than he expected.

Chapter Text

“Do me a favor and call Wil?” Phil asked as they slid back into the car. “You have your phone, yeah?” 

“Yeah,” Tommy mumbled. He leaned forward awkwardly in the seat, pulling the phone out of his back pocket. He slid his thumb across it to bring the screen up. 

“You can put a password on that if you want,” Phil noted. 

“I don’t know how to do that,” Tommy said absentmindedly, opening up the contacts app. 

“It’s in settings,” Phil said. He turned the car on, and the AC came to life, putting a chill on Tommy’s skin. He began pulling away from Dream’s house, and Tommy made every effort not to look back at it. It seemed Phil wanted to get them away from that place as soon as possible, and Tommy wouldn’t admit it, but he appreciated it. 

“I’d just forget it,” Tommy shrugged. He clicked on Wilbur’s name, noticing briefly that his last name was Soot and not Watson , and then held the phone up to his ear. It rang four times before going to voicemail. “He didn’t pick up.” 

“Huh,” Phil said. He got a look on his face for half a second, but Tommy didn’t know what it meant. “Try again?” Tommy tried again. “No?” He shook his head. “Huh.” He said again. “Try Techno.” 

Tommy did. He clicked through to Techno’s name, and remembered as he clicked it that Techno’s full name was fucking Technoblade . The phone rang twice before he picked up. 

“Hulloooooo,” Techno said, drawing out the ‘o’ in the word. 

“It’s Tommy,” Tommy said. 

“Yeah, I’ve got your number,” Techno said. His voice sounded deeper over the phone. 

“I didn’t know if it would tell you who was calling on that old ass phone,” Tommy said, shrugging even though Techno couldn’t see him. 

“Tommy, I have caller ID. It’s a flip phone, not a brick.”

“Could have fooled me.” 

“Put him on speaker,” Phil said. Tommy did. “Hey, Tech. Where’s Wil? He didn’t pick up.” 

“He’s here, just blastin’ music at the moment. Here.” There was a brief pause, and then they could hear muffled, garbled music coming through the phone. “Can you hear it?” 

“What’s he up to?” Phil asked. 

“Cleanin’ I think,” Techno said. Tommy could practically hear the shrug in his voice. Phil nodded silently. 

“We’re going to Oakridge downtown,” Phil said, turning left at a stop sign. Tommy had stopped recognizing where they were, which was a blessing in disguise. “I know you needed to get your computer fixed, and Wil likes that record store. Wanna meet us there?” 

“Oh, yeah. I was puttin’ that off. Lemme ask Wil,” Techno mumbled. There was a rustling, and then the sound of a door opening. The music they had heard quietly in the background got louder. “Wil,” Techno called. There was a pause, the music still coming garbled through the speaker. “Wilbur,” he called louder. “Phil’s on the phone– I said Phil is on the– can you turn the music…?” The sound of his voice cut in and out with the music. 

“Jesus, how loud does he play that shit?” Tommy asked. Phil smiled slightly, shaking his head. 

“We’re goin’ to Oakwood,” Techno said. “Oakwood.” He repeated at the exact same volume. “Oak– will you just turn the music down?” There was a pause. Tommy could have sworn he heard Wil’s voice for a split second, but it was drowned out by what sounded like a sea shanty. “No, I know it’s a good song. I’m– Wilbur, I’m not gonna sing along with you–” Another pause. “Tommy I’m gonna call you back.”

“Have fun with your karaoke,” Tommy said. 

“I’m not–” Techno sounded exasperated. “Just gimme a minute.” The line went dead. Tommy snorted a laugh. 

“Does he do that often?” Tommy asked, turning to Phil. “Blast music?” 

“When he’s home alone, sometimes.”

“Why does he spend his free time cleaning, though? That’s fuckin’ weird,” Tommy said. Phil came to a traffic light, coming slowly to a stop. Tommy was still baffled by what it felt like to be in the car with a safe driver. There was no whiplash, no squealing stops, no gripping the seat. 

“He gets into a mood sometimes,” Phil said. Tommy expected him to say more, but he didn’t. The light turned, and he went right. “You should start thinking of a list, things you want to get.” Tommy groaned dramatically, thudding his head back against the headrest. “What?” Phil asked. 

“This is why I hate shopping,” Tommy sighed. 

“We haven’t even started yet,” Phil laughed. Tommy groaned again. 

“I don’t know what to get,” Tommy said. 

“Start with basics,” Phil suggested. “Jeans, some plain t-shirts, socks. A pair of shoes.” 

“What’s wrong with my shoes?” Tommy asked, looking down at his sneakers. They were beat to shit with holes in the canvas, stained laces, and the sole was coming off of the toe on the left one. “Don’t answer that,” Tommy added. 

“Wilbur can help,” Phil said. “He’s good at shopping. Got a good eye for fashion.” 

“Uh huh,” Tommy mumbled, looking out the window. The phone started buzzing, making him jump. The caller ID said Technoblade. He picked it up, putting it to his ear. 

“Technoblade,” Tommy said. There was a pause like Techno was startled by hearing his own name. Tommy held back a smile. 

“Uh… we’re comin’ to Oakwood.” There was a notable lack of blasting music in the background now. “I’ll text you when we get there?” 

“Okay,” Tommy said. 

“Okay.” 

“Okay.” There was another pause.

“Uh… okay.” Tommy didn’t say anything. “See you soon?”  

“Okay,” Tommy said, hanging up the phone. Phil laughed, and Tommy looked over at him.

“You and Techno are equally bad at phone calls,” Phil observed. Tommy raised his eyebrows.
“He doesn’t even say goodbye before he hangs up,” Phil said. 

“Yeah, but he’s got a flip phone.” 

“What’s that got to do with it?” Phil laughed.

“I dunno. He’s got an excuse. No one expects you to be good at technology when you’ve got a flip phone,” Tommy shrugged. “Bet he signs his text messages with his name, too.” 

“He’s not seventy years old, Tommy,” Phil shook his head, smiling. 

“He acts like it,” Tommy sighed. 

“He’s got an old soul,” Phil said. 

“The hell does that mean?” Tommy asked. “How do you have an old soul?” 

“I dunno, it’s just something people say,” Phil shrugged. “Means he acts mature, wise, you know.” Tommy considered this, thinking about everything he knew about Techno. Mature wasn’t a very accurate word, but maybe wise was. He seemed to know a lot. He always knew what Tommy was thinking, what he needed to hear. But it was clearly something he’d learned, something that wasn’t instinctual, but something that he had lived through himself. 

“That just sounds like a nice way to say he grew up too fast,” Tommy mumbled. Phil glanced over at him before looking back to the road. 

“You’re not wrong,” he said, more solemnly than Tommy expected. He had to remind himself sometimes that Techno had seen violence in his past as well, just as much as Tommy. Maybe more. It left a mark. But Techno wore it with measured grace, a strange sort of confidence, a certainty in who he was and who he wasn’t that Tommy didn’t have. 

The phone buzzed in his hand and Tommy looked down at it, shaken from his thoughts. There was a text on the screen from Techno that read ETA 1:32 c u soon. It made him smile for some reason, something about the exactness of the time, or the abbreviation of “see you” that didn’t fit with Techno’s personality, but made sense considering the work it took to type out messages on a flip phone. 

“Techno says they’ll get there at 1:30 ish,” Tommy reported to Phil. 

“Perfect.”

***

“Get in loser, we’re going shopping.” 

“Was that a fuckin’ Mean Girls reference?” Tommy asked, raising his eyebrows incredulously at the sentence that just came out of Techno’s mouth. 

“I dunno,” Techno shrugged as he put the car into park. “Wilbur told me to say it.” Tommy snorted.

“Aw, no, you ruined it,” Wilbur groaned from the passenger seat. “And you were supposed to honk.” 

“Why would I honk?” 

“For the bit,” Wilbur sighed. “No attention to detail.” He slid out from the car, closing the door behind him. Techno followed, slower. He was wearing his hair half up with a little bun in the back. Tommy noticed the roots were growing out some. 

“I’m not gonna honk in a crowded shoppin’ center, Wilbur.” Techno said. 

“Like I said,” Wilbur muttered, looking at Tommy with a half smile on his face. “No attention to detail.” 

“Honestly,” Tommy said, shaking his head dramatically. Wilbur patted Tommy on the shoulder, and Techno locked the car with a click. 

Oakridge wasn’t what Tommy expected when Phil mentioned it earlier. He had anticipated a mall, someplace with grossly white tiles and teenagers running around and moms window shopping at Ann Taylor or Gap or whatever. It wasn’t really a mall though, more of a downtown area with stores and restaurants and whatnot. 

He’d thought maybe he’d been here once before, but just in passing. He hadn’t really spent time shopping in recent years, but this place looked nice. It was a sunny day, warm with a breeze. It was hard to be in a bad mood, unfortunately. Hiding behind a bad mood was much easier than admitting he was having fun. 

“What are we shopping for?” Wilbur asked, raising his eyebrows. He was wearing a button down shirt, which Tommy only noted because he couldn’t stop thinking about how uncomfortable it would be to be wearing a button down shirt right now. What man chooses to wear a button down shirt? Honestly. Tommy opened his mouth to answer, but didn’t really know what to say. What are we shopping for? I dunno. Ideally nothing, but apparently anything, and if Phil had his way, everything. He shrugged.

“Tommy just needs to get some basics, jeans and some shirts,” Phil said, answering for him. “And new shoes,” he added. 

“Oh, I need to get a new pair of converse, actually,” Wilbur said. “The soles of mine wore through.”

“You go through shoes way too fast,” Techno said. “Good pair of shoes should last you years.” 

“I never said I was buying good shoes, Techno. No one buys converse thinking they’re going to last a lifetime,” Wilbur shook his head. 

“Why would you buy shoes if you know they aren’t going to last?” 

“Why do we do anything, Techno? Life is a nightmare, I might as well wear bad shoes.” 

“That’s awfully dramatic,” Phil said, furrowing his brow. 

“But true,” Wilbur sighed. 

“That’s up for debate. Here,” Phil said, cutting Wilbur off before he could actually debate . He fished his wallet out of his back pocket, pulling out a card and holding it out to Wil. Tommy watched him pass the credit card into Wilbur’s hand with astonishment. 

“Thanks,” Wil said, tucking it into his pocket as though it were the most normal thing in the world. Phil just handed over his credit card? Dream would have cut off Tommy’s hands if he ever even reached for his wallet. 

“Don’t go crazy,” Phil said. “I’m gonna go with Tech, I’ve been thinking about replacing my computer, and I might be able to get us a discount.” 

“Senior citizen?” Wilbur asked, raising an eyebrow. 

“Watch it,” Phil warned. “You two stick together,” he added, but he looked at WIlbur when he said it, which to Tommy made it pretty clear–  don’t let Tommy run off. Might as well get him a child leash while they were at it, huh? One of those little backpacks? The ones that look like monkeys, and you hold onto the tail. That’ll be the day. 

He’d been on his own for years. Being tied to another person now felt strange. It almost made him want to wander away more, but he’d feel too guilty about the heart attack that he’d give Wil. 

“Yep,” Wil said simply, already looking around at the surrounding stores. A lot of them seemed like niche stores; a bike shop, a little gardening store, a few very fancy looking boutiques with mannequins in the windows. “We’ll meet back up for lunch in a bit?” 

“Yeah, or if you and Tommy get hungry you can grab something yourselves. Just keep in touch,” Phil said. 

“Will do,” Wilbur said. "Tech, gimme the keys in case we want to drop stuff in the car."

"No," Techno said, handing over the car keys as he did. 

"You're so funny," Wilbur said with absolutely no emotion in his voice. Techno half-smiled, and his canine tooth stuck out like a little fang. It was much less intimidating than when Tommy first met him. It was kind of endearing. He was almost disappointed that Phil and Techno weren't coming with them, but shopping for computers sounded even more boring than shopping for clothes. 

"If you see a pair of earbuds, buy 'em for me and I'll pay you back," Techno added. 

"You're going to a computer store," Wilbur said. "They'll have them there." 

"They're all gonna be expensive," Techno shook his head. "Spend like, ten dollars max."

"You're allowed to buy nice things, you know," Wil said. The statement carried a little weight to it. 

"Eh," Techno shrugged, and he didn't elaborate more than that. “You gonna buy ‘em or not?” 

"I'll keep an eye out," Wil said. 

"Thanks."

“Have fun, don’t let Techno buy something shitty,” Wilbur added. Phil laughed, nodding. He and Techno turned and walked off down the street. “Techno always buys shitty technology,” Wil said to Tommy. He turned the opposite way that Phil and Techno walked, and Tommy followed. 

“I can tell by the flip phone,” Tommy nodded. 

“He buys stuff that lasts a long time with everything else,” Wil shrugged. “But for some reason he buys awful technology. It works, yeah, but it’s like using a brick to fix a window.” Tommy snorted.

“Seems like that just makes life difficult,” he said. 

“Yeah,” Wil replied. “He doesn’t like to buy nice things, honestly. Phil finally managed to convince him that investing in good quality stuff was a good idea, but for some reason he drew the line at smartphones and computers.” 

“Weird. It sucked not having a phone, but that flip phone would have driven me crazy,” Tommy said. 

“Yeah, I can’t imagine texting like that,” Wilbur laughed. “Oh, speaking of texting,” he added, “Tubbo messaged me asking for your number.” 

“Oh,” Tommy said. He meant to give Wilbur some kind of explanation, but he couldn’t think of a good excuse that made sense, or that was less embarrassing than the truth, which was that he didn’t think that Tubbo would actually want to talk to him. 

“Yeah, I didn’t want to give it to him because I didn’t know if you… I dunno. If you wanted him to have it?” 

“You can give it to him,” Tommy shrugged. “I don’t mind.” 

“Okay,” Wil said hesitantly, like he wanted to say more. “I think you and Tubbo could be good friends,” he added. 

“I think Phil said the same thing,” Tommy mumbled. They came to a crosswalk and stopped, waiting for the signal to turn. “I guess I just don’t want to make friends if I’m gonna have to leave anyway,” he admitted. For some reason, it was much easier than he thought to actually say out loud. Wilbur hummed. 

“I get that,” he said. The light changed to a walk signal, and they started across the street. “You could always stay in touch, though. The internet is cool like that.” Tommy shrugged again. 

“I guess,” he said. 

Wilbur dropped it after that, but Tommy did want to talk to Tubbo, if he was being honest. He and Ranboo were fun to hang out with, and generally, Tommy didn’t have much to do during the day other than scroll through YouTube or play Solitaire, and that was getting old. Puffy had sent Wilbur home with some workbooks for Tommy to get started on to gauge where he was at with school, and he was so bored some days that he actually opened one of them up. 

“Where are we going, anyway?” Tommy asked.

“Urban Outfitters,” Wil answered. The name rang a bell, but Tommy didn’t think he’d ever been there. “They’ve got the shoes I want there, and we could find you some jeans too. You want Vans? You seem like a Vans man."

"The shoes?"

"No, the car," Wilbur said sarcastically. 

"I don't think Phil would appreciate you buying me a car," Tommy said. "But if you insist."

"Let's not get ahead of ourselves here," Wilbur shook his head. "Shoes first."

"Yes, shoes first. Then car," Tommy nodded sagely. Wilbur nudged him with his elbow, laughing. As they walked, it was obvious why Dream had never brought Tommy here; the two of them would have stuck out like a sore thumb. All of the stores here had a specific look, like someone tried their hardest to make them look like they were little mom and pop shops, but the price of a t-shirt was through the roof. Tommy felt like if he walked into one of those boutiques with his joggers and t-shirt and falling-apart-shoes, someone would spray him with a bottle like a stray cat and shoo him out the door. 

"Here," Wil said, jarring Tommy from his thoughts. Wilbur walked into the store before Tommy had a chance to get anxious about it, and then they were inside. It smelled like the candle aisle at a Target. "Shoes are downstairs," Wilbur added. "I want to see what they have, then we can look around."

"Uh huh," Tommy nodded, trailing behind Wil. There was music on in the store, and it was big and crowded, walls covered in clothes and t-shirts and record sleeves and posters, and everything looked simultaneously old and new at the same time. It was difficult to focus on anything in particular, so Tommy trained his eyes down at Wilbur's heel, following him downstairs. 

It was quieter there, to Tommy's relief. Along the back wall was a display of different shoes. 

"Any idea what you want?" Wilbur asked. Tommy stared at the wall for a moment and then shrugged. 

"I dunno," he mumbled. 

"You gotta give me something to work with," Wil said. Tommy groaned, admittedly a bit dramatically. 

"I told Phil, I'm bad at shopping." 

"You can't be bad at shopping," Wilbur laughed. 

"Watch me," Tommy shot back, and Wilbur shook his head. 

"Alright. I'll shop for you then," he said. "And you just say yay or nay. Easy enough?" 

"I guess," Tommy said.

"Great!" Wilbur said, rubbing his hands together. He looked bizarrely excited. "I'm good at guessing styles." 

"I don't think I have a style, " Tommy said as Wilbur started looking more closely at the shoes on the wall. 

"That's what they all say," Wilbur said, smiling. 

He pulled a pair of white high top converse from the wall, as well as a dark green pair of Vans, a pair of white sneakers with stripes on the sides, and a checkered black and white shoes which he picked up, stared at, and then put back. Tommy didn't know exactly what about him gave off the vibe that he wouldn't like checkered shoes, but whatever it was, it was right, so he wasn't about to complain. 

"Okay," Wilbur said, holding the shoes in his arms awkwardly. "What's your shoe size?" 

"Uh…" Tommy knelt down, pulling down the tongue of his shoe to check the size. "It doesn't say." 

"You don't know your shoe size?" 

"I don't even know my phone number."

"Here," Wilbur said, nudging a metal sizer toward Tommy with his toe. "Take your shoe off-"

"I know what I'm doing," Tommy cut him off, and Wilbur stifled a laugh. 

"Okay, okay. Look, yay or nay?" He asked, holding the three shoes out in his arms. Tommy examined them for a moment. 

"Um… yay… nay, yay." He said. Wilbur put the green Vans back into the shelf and then went to the piles of boxes lined up along the nearby wall to find the right sizes of the converse and sneakers. 

"See, I had a feeling you were gonna say no to the green ones," Wilbur said.

"Then why did you grab them?"

"I wanted to test the theory," Wilbur shrugged. "Ok, put these on." 

***

In the end, Tommy decided on the white sneakers with the stripes on the sides. They seemed like they would last longer than canvas shoes, which he was sure would be something Techno would approve of. Wilbur had suggested that he just buy both, but even the pair he decided on was far more expensive than anything Tommy would buy for himself. It took Wilbur a while to convince him that it was okay, and eventually the deciding factor was that if he used Phil's stipend money to buy shoes, it would be like free money. And Tommy wouldn't say no to free money. He wasn't that stupid. 

Wilbur tried to decide between white high top converse and red high top converse, and spent about half a second measuring the pros and cons of each before electing to just buy both. Which brought their total to approximately $180 dollars in shoes, which, if Tommy had spent his own money, would have left him with 3 dollars and 83 cents, which wasn't even enough to buy himself a meal, and just the idea of that made his stomach tie in knots. It wasn’t his money though. It didn’t matter. 

He tried to convince himself of that, but it wasn’t going very well. Something about spending so much felt sour. 

The feeling only got worse when Wilbur tried to find him jeans. Tommy watched him pick his way through piles of dark-wash and distressed and held up what looked like practically identical pants, which was all well and good until Tommy caught sight of the price tag. 

“Who the hell pays ninety dollars for a pair of jeans?” He asked incredulously. 

“They’re Levi’s,” Wilbur shrugged, picking up another pair to drape over his arm.

“That doesn’t answer my question at all,” Tommy muttered.

“They’re nice, you’ll like ‘em,” Wilbur said, waving Tommy off. 

“I don’t– look, I don’t want to spend that much on a pair of pants.” 

“It’s not your money,” Wilbur said, “So don’t worry about it.” His tone was lighthearted, but it made Tommy bite his cheek. 

“I’m worrying about it,” Tommy mumbled. Wilbur picked up another pair. “Seriously, just… isn’t there somewhere less expensive?” 

“I mean, everything around here is pretty bougie.” 

“Bougie?” 

“Like, it’s all nice. Kinda expensive, but not in a crazy way? It comes from the word bourgeoisie , which is like, middle to upper class in French–” 

“Ninety dollars for a pair of jeans is pretty fuckin’ crazy to me,” Tommy cut him off.

“These ones are two hundred,” Wilbur said, holding up another pair.

“Wh– they’ve got holes in them,” Tommy said.

“It’s fashion.”

“I thought you said expensive stuff was supposed to last a long time. How are they gonna last a long time if they’ve already got holes in ‘em?” 

“I don’t know, I didn’t invent jeans,” Wilbur said. 

“Christ,” Tommy muttered. Wilbur picked up another pair and held them out. “How much are those?” 

“Do you like them?” 

“Not if I don’t know how much they are,” Tommy said. 

“But do you like them?” Wilbur pressed. 

Tommy was starting to feel the ugly tension of frustration build in his stomach. Just fuckin’ tell me how much they are, he wanted to say. Stop making me guess at shit. Instead, he rolled his eyes, digging his fingernail into the side of his thumb. Wil opened his mouth again, some half-baked cocky reply clearly on the tip of his tongue, but there must have been a look on Tommy’s face that made him pause.

“No, you’re right, these ones are shit. Most of this designer stuff doesn’t hold up, anyway,” Wilbur said, putting the jeans back onto the table they came from.

“Then why charge so much for it?” Tommy asked, cringing at how whiney he sounded. 

“Brand recognition,” Wilbur said as though it was obvious. “Actually though,” he added, his eyes lighting up for a moment. “I’ve got a better idea.” He dumped the pile of jeans in his arms back onto the table haphazardly. 

“You’re just gonna leave those there?” Tommy asked. Wilbur blinked at him. “Someone’s gonna have to fold those.” 

“Yeah, they get paid to do that,” Wilbur shrugged. “It’s fine. Come on. You still want the shoes?” 

“Are they good, or are they gonna fall apart?” Tommy asked skeptically. 

“No, those ones are good. Good brand,” Wilbur replied. Tommy didn’t have the energy to doubt him. This place was giving him a headache. “Plus, they suit you.” The corner of Tommy’s mouth twitched into a smile. “Come on.” 

Wilbur wove his way past tables and clothing racks until he got to the register. He swiped Phil’s credit card, signing the little screen with a squiggle. Tommy was pretty sure it was illegal to sign off on someone else’s card, but Tommy had learned his lesson on snitching lately.

Wilbur carried the bag, shouldering his way out the door of the store and walking back the way they came. Tommy hurried after him.

“Why do you walk so fast?” He said, jogging to catch up.

“Places to be, Toms,” Wilbur said with a grin. Tommy rolled his eyes.

“You’re in an awfully good mood,” Tommy noted.

“It’s a beautiful day,” Wilbur shrugged. “And I like shopping.” 

“I can tell,” Tommy sighed.

“What’s not to like?” Wilbur said, spinning around. He walked backwards down the sidewalk, which made Tommy stressed out of his mind. 

“The spending money part, for one,” Tommy said. “And the part where it’s boring as hell.” 

“Well, I’ve got a solution to the first one,” Wilbur said. 

“Stealing?” 

“What? No. Well…” He considered it briefly. “No.” Tommy snorted. “Techno keeps telling me to go to this thrift store called The Nook that’s got a ton of vintage stuff.” 

“I thought vintage was more expensive,” Tommy said. 

“Only if you’re a capitalist,” Wilbur said.

“What does that even mean?” 

“It means that trade and industry are controlled by private owners rather than the state–” Wilbur backed into a stop sign, his head making a hollow thud against the metal. “Fuckin’ hell.” He rubbed the back of his head, stumbling as he faced forward again. Tommy barked out a laugh.

“What’d you do that for?” he asked, a shit eating grin on his face.

“I didn’t do it on purpose, you little gremlin,” Wilbur groaned. Tommy laughed again. Wil fished around in his pocket for a moment, pulling out Techno’s keys. When they got closer to the car, he popped the trunk, throwing the bag of shoes inside. “You wanna drive there or walk?” He asked, turning to face Tommy. He sat on the edge of the trunk. Tommy stretched his arms back, looking up at the sky. 

The sun hit his face, making his cheeks feel warm. For once, things felt normal. He wasn’t the poster child for abandonment issues or the face of a child abuse PSA. He was just a kid going shopping at a bougie little downtown mall.

“Let’s walk,” he said, looking back down at Wilbur. “Like you said. It's a beautiful day.”

“Wanna wear your new shoes?” Wilbur asked, grinning. 

“Do you want to wear your new shoes?” Tommy asked. 

“Tommy, I thought you’d never ask,” Wil replied, already pulling a box from the trunk.

Chapter Text

"But then in 1953 they introduced the Corvette, which is actually named after a warship– oh, this is a good song," Wilbur said, interrupting himself before Tommy had the chance to. 

"You've said that about the past three songs," Tommy noted. 

"And?" Wilbur challenged. "They're all good songs."

"Sure," Tommy said.

"What, you disagree?"

"I dunno, music all sounds the same," Tommy shrugged. Wilbur stared at him with his mouth half open like a fish. After a moment, he blinked.

"I'm going to pretend you didn't say that," he said quietly. 

"Whatever helps you sleep at night," Tommy smirked. "Why are we talking cars now? I thought you were the tree guy."

"I can have more than one hobby, Tommy," Wilbur said. " Tree guy ," he muttered to himself, shaking his head. "Hold this one up." Wilbur passed him a blue t-shirt with black pocket on one side of the chest. Tommy held it by the hanger under his chin. "Hm."

"Hm?" Tommy echoed.

"Not your color," Wil said, taking the shirt back and slotting it back into place on the rack. 

"I don't get how you just know these things," Tommy mumbled. 

"What, about the Corvette? Google is a helluva thing–"

"No, the- the clothes stuff," Tommy said. "I don't give a shit about the car." 

"Hurtful, but I'll let it slide."

“Respectfully.” 

“Oh, well if it’s respectful, ” Wilbur said, waving his hand dramatically without finishing the sentence. “First you insult my music, then you insult my cars. What’s next?” 

“I could insult your personality?” Tommy suggested. 

“You already do that. Have some originality.” 

“Your fashion sense?”

“Childhood bullies already have you covered there.”

“How about your receding hairline?”

“ There we go,” Wilbur grinned. Tommy snorted a laugh.

“You’re like a misogynist,” Tommy shook his head. 

Wilbur paused, his hand hovering over another hanger, and then turned to Tommy, painfully slow.

“ I beg your pardon? ” he asked, his voice quiet in almost disbelief. Tommy furrowed his brow.

“A… a misogynist,” Tommy repeated, less sure of himself now. “You know, those people who like pain?” Wilbur pressed his lips into a thin line, barely holding back a smile. 

“Masochist,” he said as gently as possible. “You mean masochist. ” 

“Oh,” Tommy said. He felt his cheeks go hot. “Well what’s a misogynist then?” 

“Someone who hates women,” Wilbur supplied. 

“Oh, well I love women,” Tommy said matter-of-factly. Wilbur laughed. “Look, I dropped out of school, okay? I don’t know words.” 

“You know plenty of words,” Wilbur scoffed. 

“Name one. ” 

“Fuck.” 

“Touche.” Wilbur rolled his eyes. “Although cursing is much more frowned upon than I’m used to in recent weeks,” Tommy sighed. 

“Unfortunate,” Wilbur said. “Here.” He held out a dusty looking teal sweater.

“It’s summer,” Tommy said. 

“And?” Wilbur challenged. Tommy took the sweater and held it up to his chest. “That’s a better color on you.” 

“I thought you said blue wasn’t my color?” 

“Teal’s not blue,” Wilbur said, taking the sweater back and draping it over his arm with a handful of other shirts and a pair of jeans they’d already picked out. 

“Looks awfully blue to me,” Tommy mumbled. “Maybe I’ll just do what Techno does and wear the same outfit every day. Seems easier.” 

“Tommy, that’s a uniform. He wears that for work.”

“It’s a good look, though,” Tommy said.

“It’s just coveralls and a white t-shirt.”

“And?” Tommy challenged. 

“That’s my line,” Wilbur pouted. “Much more to life than coveralls and a white t-shirt. One nice sweater goes a long way in this economy.”

“I don’t know what that means,” Tommy said. “Why do you talk like that? What, are you some kind of comedian?” 

“So you admit I’m funny?”

“I admit nothing without my lawyer,” Tommy said, crossing his arms. 

“Well, at least you’ve learned something from this whole experience,” Wilbur replied. 

“I’d say I’ve learned quite a bit from this whole experience, as a matter of fact,” Tommy muttered.

“Yeah, I’ll bet,” Wilbur sighed. He reached the end of the rack and wandered his way over to another one. Tommy went to the other side, pretending to look through the shirts without really knowing what he would even start to look for. “When’s your next court date anyway?” Tommy furrowed his brow.

“Next Monday, I think,” he said. Wilbur hummed. 

“You know, I could come with you if you wanted,” he noted. Tommy looked up at him, but he was still searching through the racks.

“Really?” He asked. He wasn’t sure why he didn’t quite believe the offer, and he also wasn’t sure why it made him warm and cold at the same time. 

“Sure,” Wilbur said. “I’m sure it can’t be a lot of fun by yourself.” 

“I’ve got Phil,” Tommy pointed out, a little quicker than he’d like to admit to himself. 

“Phil’s Phil though,” Wilbur said. “He’s great, don’t get me wrong. But not the same as a friend.” 

Tommy knew what Wilbur was doing– testing the waters, calling himself a friend. He couldn’t honestly identify how he felt about that. To say it was a confusing word to him was an understatement. Tommy didn’t know what counted as a friend. The usual tests didn’t seem to apply to him. He never had anyone come over to his house, never had sleepovers, never went out to get lunch or dinner or go to the movies. He didn’t text anyone. He didn’t hang out with anyone at school, back when he went. And if the only qualification was talking, then the bar was on the fucking floor. If that was the only requirement, then he and Dream might as well have been friends, and even the Devil could tell that wasn’t true.

“Up to you, of course,” Wilbur shrugged, and Tommy realized he’d never replied. Fuck.

“I, uh…” Tommy cleared his throat. “I’ll think about it,” he said. Oh, yeah, that’s probably exactly the reply he wanted. “Phil would let you skip school?” 

“Yeah, he won’t care,” Wil said. “I get good enough grades. And it’s nearing the end of the year anyway, so no one cares about anything.” 

“I feel like your teachers would have something to say about that,” Tommy said, smirking. 

“Better than what your teachers have to say about you,” Wilbur shrugged. 

The smile dropped off of Tommy’s face faster than he could manage to stop it. 

He blinked at Wilbur dumbly, but Wil was still flicking through hangers on the rack, not even looking up. It was a joke, he knew. Just another back and forth. But Tommy couldn’t produce a response even if he wanted to, something between fuck you and did you really just say that and that wasn’t my fault.  

But maybe it was his fault. Who else’s fault could it be, really? Maybe he expected Dream to notice that he was home during the day and kick his ass to get him to go to school, or maybe he thought if he ditched for long enough they would call his mom and she’d come looking for him. He wondered what his teachers did have to say about him. When they called home, what did they say? When they called his mom and she told them he was being homeschooled, how did they react? What had he done to make them believe her so easily? Fuck you . 

Tommy realized his mouth was hanging half open, and he closed his teeth with a quiet click. If Wil had noticed the moment of pause he took at that comment, he didn’t show it. He evidently found another shirt he liked and started pulling it off the rack, and Tommy looked down. Slowly, and very intentionally, he let those insults die on his tongue.

“School is for pussies anyway, right?” He said halfheartedly. Wilbur chuckled. 

“Couldn’t have said it better myself,” he sighed. “How about this one?” Wilbur held up a dark red t-shirt with embroidered text across the front. “I feel like red is your color.” 

“Yeah?” Tommy asked. Wilbur passed the shirt over the rack to him, and Tommy held it up.

“Yeah,” Wilbur said, nodding. When Tommy didn’t say anything, he tilted his head slightly. “What, you don’t like it?” 

“No, it’s good,” Tommy said, trying to fix his tone. Pull it together. You were just having fun, right? Don’t ruin it for both of you. He cleared his throat. “It’s a good color. Like a fancy car.” 

“Oh, so now we like cars?” 

“ Cool cars,” Tommy said. “ New cars. Not cars from nineteen-twenty-whatever.”

“Nineteen- fifty - three, ” Wilbur corrected. “And they make new Corvettes, you know. They come in red, too.” 

“Think that stipend is enough to buy me one of those? I feel like making Mr. Government buy me a sports car would make me feel a lot better about all this,” Tommy said, passing the red shirt back into Wilbur’s hand, where it was draped over the growing pile they’d accumulated. 

“Money doesn’t solve everything, you know,” Wilbur said.

“Oh, really?” Tommy challenged. “What exactly would money not solve?”

“Well, a driver’s license, for one. Money won’t buy you that. So even if they give you a fancy red corvette, you’d still probably crash it.” 

“People with driver's licenses crash cars all the time,” Tommy pointed out. “I’d say the majority of people who crash cars have driver’s licenses. I’d say that having a driver's license makes you more likely to crash a car, in fact.”

“Oh, is that what you’d say?” 

“It is,” Tommy nodded. “And if everyone who crashes a car has a driver’s license, then there’s clearly a link there.”

“This seems like a prime example of correlation not causation,” Wilbur sighed. 

“Stop sayin’ words like I’m supposed to know what they mean,” Tommy huffed.

“ Having a driver’s license does not make you more likely to crash a car,” Wilbur said. “ Driving a car makes you more likely to crash a car. Having a driver’s license while driving a car makes you less likely to crash that car.” 

“This is too much math.”

“It’s probability,” Wilbur corrected him.

“That’s still math .”

“Probability is cool math,” Wilbur said, sounding like the lamest math teacher in the world. 

“Oh my god ,” Tommy groaned, rolling his eyes. “I take it back, you should definitely skip school. It would do you some good. Christ. Cool math. ”

“It is a bit of an oxymoron, aye?” 

“What did you just call me?”

“Jesus,” Wilbur sighed.

“I’m kidding, I know what that one means,” Tommy smirked at him. “But you’re on thin ice.” Wilbur snorted.

“Duly noted,” he said with a nod. “How about this one?” Wilbur passed another shirt over the rack to Tommy, but as soon as he took it out of his hand, the smell of cigarette smoke hit his nose and he scrunched his face up. 

“No,” he said, handing it back to Wilbur without even looking at it.

“What?” 

“Smells like smoke,” Tommy said, shaking his head. 

“Really?” Wilbur said. He lifted the shirt up to his nose. “Oh. It’s a little… sour? Is that it?” 

“Yeah,” Tommy said. “Doesn’t wash out easy. George smoked so much there were smoke stains on the walls.” 

“George?” Wilbur asked, hanging the shirt up on the rack again. 

“He’s, um… a friend of Dream’s,” Tommy said. 

“He lived with you?” Wilbur asked, raising his eyebrows. 

“I mean… not technically. But he was over at the house all the time, him and Sapnap.”

“Sapnap’s the bad driver, right?” Wilbur asked. Tommy snorted. 

“Yeah,” he laughed. “How did you know that?” 

“Techno mentioned it,” Wilbur shrugged. “Something about turning left on a red light.” 

“Thought you all didn’t talk about each other's business behind their backs,” Tommy said, feigning hurt. “Something about not my story to tell.”

“That only applies to important shit,” Wilbur said.

“Why do you all say that anyway? I’ve never met a family less willing to talk shit about other people.” Wilbur laughed. 

“I mean, Phil’s a psychiatrist. His language just tends to rub off on us, I guess?” he said. “He’s all about privacy and trust and all that.” 

“Frankly, it’s kind of refreshing,” Tommy admitted. “Privacy and trust were not Dream’s strong suits. In fact, I would say they were actively his weakest characteristics. Did you know I didn’t have a door to my room?” Tommy asked, knowing full well there was no way Wilbur could have possibly known that. 

“What?” Wilbur said, looking up from the clothing rack. “There just… wasn’t any door?” 

“There was ,” Tommy clarified. “Dream just took it off the hinges.” 

“Wh…” Wilbur scrunched his face up, trying to make sense of that. “Why,” he said with very little inflection, as though it was a statement rather than a question.

“Cus I locked it,” Tommy shrugged. 

“That explains very little.” 

“I dunno, he was just… like that,” Tommy said, fiddling with a random hanger on the rack. “Paranoid and… controlling. He didn’t like that I had space that wasn’t his.”

“That’s ridiculous,” Wilbur said. “It was your house, too.” 

“Didn’t feel like it,” Tommy mumbled. “Technically, it wasn’t either of our houses. It was my mom’s.” 

“Well… where was your mom?” Wilbur asked cautiously. Tommy blinked at the plastic hanger he had been picking at. 

“That’s a great question,” he laughed, but it was much more bitter than he intended it to be. When he looked up, Wilbur was just watching him, waiting. “I guess I really haven’t told you any of this, huh?” Tommy said. Wilbur shook his head. “I’m surprised you didn’t ask.” 

“I didn’t want to pry,” Wilbur shrugged. “When I got to Phil’s, the last thing I wanted to do was answer a hundred questions. And I mean, it’s worse for you because you have to answer all those questions in court, too.” 

“It’s not my ideal passtime,” Tommy said. “You wanna know something fucked?” Wilbur raised his eyebrows at him. “I don’t actually know where my mom was. Like, she wasn’t home. Obviously. She left me there with Dream and moved but… I never knew where.” 

“Like not at all?” 

“I didn’t even know the state. And I feel like… I dunno, like maybe it was intentional.” Tommy expected Wilbur to have something to say about that, but if he did, he kept it to himself. Tommy looked back down at the rack and picked at the neckline of a random sweatshirt. “Maybe I’m just… I feel like no one told me where she was so that I couldn’t run back to her.” 

“Did Dream know where she was?” Wilbur asked. Tommy shrugged. 

“I think so,” he replied. “He must’ve. But he never told me. Maybe I just didn’t try hard enough to get an answer when I asked.” 

“You shouldn’t have had to ask,” Wilbur said simply. Huh. Hadn’t thought of it like that.  

“Yeah, well,” Tommy said dismissively. “We don’t pick our families, I guess.” Wilbur stared off to the side for a moment, clearly thinking about something, before looking back at Tommy. 

“Can I ask you something?” 

“Only if I can ask you something back,” Tommy said. Wilbur narrowed his eyes slightly. 

“Deal.” 

“Shoot.” 

“What about your dad?” Tommy opened his mouth slightly, unsure of how to answer. 

“What about him?” He replied. 

“I mean… did you know him? What role did he have in all this?” Wilbur asked. 

“When I was a kid,” Tommy said. “He left when I was seven.” 

“I’m guessing you don’t know where he is, either.” 

“Bingo,” Tommy said. “He’s on a whole other level, though. I don’t even know if he’s alive. At least I knew my mom existed.” 

“Why did he leave?” Wilbur asked. Tommy was about to answer, but he was suddenly very aware of the fact that they were having this conversation in the middle of a goddamn kitschy vintage store with Tommy picking through hangers of grandpa sweaters. What a fuckin’ day. But there was no one else around really, except Sam, the owner, and he was all the way at the front where Tommy was 80% sure he’d seen a dog, too. 

“Do you want the sad answer?” Tommy asked in return. Wilbur looked like he didn’t know how to answer that. “Dream said that my mom told him it was because of me,” Tommy said, looking back down at the clothing rack. They were getting to the end of it now, but Tommy had long since stopped actually looking for clothes. “I believe it, though. I don’t usually believe shit Dream’s told me, but that one… I dunno. It adds up.”

“Tommy–”

“Not–” Tommy cut him off, “Not in like, a fucked up way, or a… a mean, self-deprecating way. I know it wasn’t my fault, but it was because of me. I mean, just… I remember the way he was to me, and to my mom. And Dream said he wasn’t always like that.” 

“So we’re trusting the things Dream says now?” Wilbur asked sarcastically, but the way he said it made Tommy feel sour, like he needed to defend Dream for some reason. Like he wasn’t supposed to let other people talk about his family that way. He was angry, and then he was angry that he was angry. 

“This was before,” Tommy snapped, his tone coming through much more aggressively than he intended. “Before the… everything. We used to get along, you know. Before. We used to get along.” 

Before and used to were words that stung worse than cuts and bruises. Worse more because they were true. They used to get along. They used to be brothers, real brothers, before . Before, Dream used to walk Tommy to the bus stop, and watch TV with him, and he would push him over when they played in the yard like brothers were supposed to, and when Tommy cried he’d brush him off and make him promise not to tell. 

Before, Dream would play music for Tommy when their parents were fighting, and he’d close the door and pass him the second controller and let him pick first on Mario Kart even though Tommy always picked Peach and Dream would make fun of him for not picking Shy Guy, who was, objectively, the best character. And then eventually when they heard the front door slam, it was Dream who would go downstairs first to see if the storm had passed, and he would come back with Welch’s gummies and a coke even though Tommy wasn’t supposed to drink soda.

And then at some point, Dream stopped bringing Tommy upstairs when their parents fought, and instead he started watching them, listening, and then he started yelling with them, and Tommy would watch from the stairs. And at some point, Dream started feeling cold, like he wasn’t all there, like he was someone else and himself at the same time, still a brother, but not quite a son. And at some point, someone broke a window, and that was the last straw, it seemed. The front door slammed and no one went looking, and that was it. 

“Dad didn’t want another kid, you know,” Dream had told him. “That’s why he’s so angry all the time.”

They sold the house and the yard and the Mario Kart game and the controllers and they moved, and the fighting didn’t stop. 

The front door slammed on that house, too. 

And Tommy thought maybe now, maybe now the yelling would stop, and they’d go back to being brothers.

And maybe he could blame his dad for fucking it all up, but it felt worse for some reason blaming someone who wasn’t there, like all his anger had nowhere to go and just wound up in dead space, the same way blaming his mother felt the same. Empty. A threat with nothing behind it. So instead, all that anger just sat in that house and festered like an open wound, like a candle burning from both ends, and Tommy was one end, and Dream was the other, and in the middle was Tommy now; after . 

“I think my dad was hitting him,” Tommy said, not quite sure why he was telling this to Wilbur. “I don’t know for sure. Not like Dream would tell me that stuff. We didn’t exactly have many heart-to-hearts. But he hates him a lot more than I do, so…” 

“Did he ever hit you?” Wilbur asked. 

“Once,” Tommy said. “But Dream kicked his ass for it.” He smiled slightly at the memory. It only took one punch to the jaw back then to send Tommy to the ground, but in an instant Dream put himself between them. 

“You won’t lay a hand on him again. I’ll kill you if you do, I fuckin’ swear to god.” And evidently, his dad believed him. Talk about the pot calling the kettle black. Tommy wondered when that version of Dream had disappeared.

“I guess that’s all fucked now anyway, though,” Tommy muttered. Thinking about before hurt. It was pointless. Tommy knew it wasn’t his fault that his dad left, or that his mom left him there with Dream, or that Dream turned into the person he was now. He was a kid. Only idiots blamed kids for that shit. But this, though? This was Tommy’s fault. He was the one who made the call. He submitted the tip. He got Dream arrested, and he put himself in this situation. Couldn’t just wait it out, could you?

“Sorry,” Wilbur said. It was unclear exactly what he was apologizing for. 

“It is what it is,” Tommy replied. “Is there a changing room or something, or do you just buy shit and hope it fits?” Wilbur blinked at him for a second before realizing what he was talking about. 

“Oh,” he said. “Yeah, they’re at the back there,” he nodded his head toward a few curtained dressing rooms along the back wall of the shop. “I want to look through the collared shirts though quick.” 

“I don’t get how you’re comfortable in those,” Tommy shook his head. He followed Wilbur over to another rack. “You tell me I can’t wear the same thing every day but all you wear is sweaters and collared shirts.” 

“It’s my brand,” Wilbur shrugged. He started flipping through hangers. “What was your question for me, by the way?” he asked. 

“What?” 

“Before, I asked if I could ask you a question, and you said only if I can ask you one, too or something, right?” 

“Oh,” Tommy said. “Well… I feel like it’s rude.”

“I don’t mind,” Wilbur said. “Freebie. Ask whatever you want, no consequences.” Tommy narrowed his eyes. Like everything else, it sounded too good to be true. But then again, like everything else, none of this family had given Tommy any reason not to trust their word. 

“Okay…” he said. “Well. Um.” Spit it out. Jesus. “Why were you in the hospital?” Wilbur looked over at him briefly before looking back at the rack. 

“When?” He asked. 

“Before you got to Phil’s,” Tommy said. “You said– when we talked in the woods, remember–” 

“Oh, right,” Wilbur cut him off. “Yeah. I tried to kill myself.” 

Tommy expected Wilbur to say something more, just kidding, or haha imagine, or psych! How could someone say something like that with such bluntness? But he didn’t say anything. He just kept flicking through hangers, pulling one out by the shoulder to inspect the pattern. 

“You’re serious?” 

“I wouldn’t joke about that,” Wilbur said simply. 

“You just… you said it so easily.” 

“I don’t like to make a big deal about it.” He pulled a shirt from the rack and draped it over his arm. “It was a couple years ago, anyway,” he added.

“So you haven’t– you’re not still, um…” 

“No,” Wilbur said. “I haven’t thought about it in a while. And I haven’t done anything about it since I got to Phil’s.” Tommy bit the inside of his cheek, watching Wilbur carefully. Wil looked up at him and raised his eyebrows. “What, are you surprised?” 

“You just seem so… put together,” Tommy said. Wilbur laughed. 

“Now that’s surprising.” he chuckled. “Not many people tell me that.” 

“Why?” Tommy asked. “You get… good grades, and you do your homework, and you cook dinner, and you live in a nice house, and…” 

“Tommy, that’s a very recent development,” Wilbur said, shaking his head. “I couldn’t do anything right, before. Nothing ever made sense. I felt like an alien in my own mind, like I was watching myself destroy my own life from the outside.” Tommy blinked at him. 

“So what did you do?” 

“Well, we both know what I tried first,” Wilbur said, smiling like Tommy was supposed to laugh at that. He didn’t. What was he supposed to say? Oh haha yeah, that! Good one. Wil cleared his throat. “And then I went on medication.” 

“You’re on drugs?” 

“That feels like an oversimplification,” Wilbur said. “But yes. And therapy. Which is truly the greatest drug of all.” 

“Wh… what?” Tommy shook his head. Wilbur laughed. 

“Sorry,” he said. “I’m too casual about all this, I know.”

“I’m not gonna tell you how to talk about it,” Tommy replied. “Christ knows I’m not exactly a model example of how to communicate properly.” 

“I don’t think you do too bad for yourself,” Wilbur smiled. Tommy bit the inside of his cheek, looking down at the clothing rack in front of him. 

“Thanks,” he muttered. “Your turn.”

“What?”

“Your turn to ask a question,” Tommy clarified. 

“Oh,” Wilbur mumbled. “We’re– are we doing like– are we doing an I go, you go thing?” 

“Yeah, why not?” Tommy asked. “Easier than waiting for things to just come up in conversation, aye?” 

“Fair point,” Wilbur said. “Anything you don’t want to talk about?” Tommy considered the question for a moment. 

“Nah, not really.” 

“Okay,” Wilbur said. “Uh… how come you aren’t in school?” He asked. 

“Stopped going,” Tommy replied bluntly. “And no one noticed. So here we are.” 

“Seems like a major oversight,” Wilbur said. 

“My theory is that they were just waiting it out until I was sixteen and they didn’t have to worry about me anymore,” Tommy shrugged. It was more fucked up when he said it out loud. 

“Did you like school?” Wil asked. 

“I dunno,” Tommy replied. “It was fine. It was more something to do, you know? Something to get out of the house. But then it just became… monotonous. But then I guess staying home wasn’t much better, so I didn’t really do myself any favors.”

“Sounds like it was chaotic,” Wilbur said. He pulled another shirt from the rack and draped it over his arm. 

“That’s an understatement.”

“Your turn,” Wilbur prompted. 

“Okay, um,” Tommy hummed, “Favorite… snack?” Wilbur snorted.

“What?” Wilbur scoffed. 

“I couldn’t think of anything good,” Tommy mumbled. 

“Reese's Peanut Butter Cups. Now ask me a better one.” 

“Okay. How come Phil adopted you?” Tommy asked. Wilbur half smiled. 

“Well, I’d like to believe it’s because he enjoys my company,” he said without missing a beat, but then he sighed. “I don’t know, he’s… we’re family. I don’t know how to explain it, it was just… it felt right. I never thought– you know, growing up in the system, I was skeptical I’d ever really feel like I knew what family was.” 

“How’d… how’d you know?” Tommy asked hesitantly. Wilbur paused, thinking about it for a moment.

“I felt safe,” he answered eventually. 

“That’s it?” 

“I mean, there’s always more to it than that,” Wilbur sighed. “But for me, that meant a lot.” Tommy figured it would mean a lot for himself as well. He couldn’t put a finger on the last time he felt safe. Maybe back when Dream stood between him and their father. He remembered feeling something, then. He didn’t know if it was safety, or security. Maybe it was pride. Maybe it should have been fear. I want to feel safe, Tommy thought.

“Your turn,” he said instead.

“Did you ever take any drugs when you were with Dream?”

“No,” Tommy said immediately. “Never.” 

“You weren’t curious?” Tommy stared at him, and the look on his face must have been pretty grim, because Wilbur immediately said, “Sorry.” 

“I’m not interested in ruining my life the way they ruined theirs,” Tommy said.

“Understandable,” Wilbur nodded. 

“I find other, more creative, ways to ruin my life, thank you.” 

“Less understandable,” Wilbur nodded. Tommy laughed, shaking his head. 

“How about you?” Tommy asked. “Have you done… anything?” 

“Other than the ones I’m prescribed?” Wil asked in return. Tommy nodded. “A few times. Or… more than a few. Nothing crazy, though. I had bad friends when I was younger.” He didn’t seem to elaborate any more on that, choosing instead to start walking toward the changing rooms. Tommy followed behind him. 

“Done shopping?” he asked. 

“I want to look at the records, still,” Wilbur said. “But other stuff like socks and stuff we should just go to a chain store or something. I don’t think vintage socks are a thing.” 

“Not a thing I want, anyway.”

“Here,” Wilbur said, passing a pile of clothes into Tommy’s arms.

“Thanks.” Tommy took the pile and draped them over his forearm. “Thanks for, um. Shopping with me. Or shopping for me, really.” 

“I’m having fun,” Wilbur smiled. “Try some stuff on. Show me stuff you like, okay?” Tommy had a vague memory of his mom saying something similar when they went shopping for school clothes when he was a kid. He breathed out a laugh. 

“Yeah, okay,” he said. They stepped into curtained changing rooms that were right next to each other. Tommy closed his curtain, dropping his pile of clothes off on the little stool in the corner of the room. He pulled his shirt off over his head. 

In the mirror, he looked oddly clean. No cuts, no bruises, no grime. Normal. He wasn’t used to it. 

“Tommy, I’ve got another question,” Wilbur said through the curtain. 

“Yeah,” Tommy replied. He started pulling a sweater on over his head. 

“Where’d all your clothes go?” 

“What?” 

“Well, Phil said you were going to your place to pick up clothes and stuff, right? You didn’t have, like… socks and shirts and stuff there?” 

“I…” Freaked the fuck out. Almost vomited. Might’ve passed out. “Got overwhelmed. And all of my stuff smelled like mold and smoke and I don’t know,” Tommy shrugged as though Wilbur could see him. “I didn’t like how gross it made me feel.” 

“I guess that makes sense,” Wilbur said. 

“And I– I don’t even know what I’d keep anyway, because I don’t know if I’m staying there… I mean probably not, right? Why would my mom want to keep that place? So then it’s like, why bother keeping anything ?” 

The teal sweater looked nice, Tommy had to admit. With a pair of jeans and his new vans, he almost looked like he had his shit together. 

“Okay, second question,” Wilbur said. “Entirely unrelated.” 

“Mhm?” 

“You really don’t listen to any music?” Wilbur asked. Tommy laughed. “Like none at all ?” 

“Never really had a need.” 

“There’s always a need ,” Wilbur sighed. “Music is like… a God given right.” 

“Wish God would give me a few other rights, first,” Tommy muttered under his breath. 

“I bet I could find something you’d be into,” Wilbur said confidently. 

“Be my guest,” Tommy said. “This black pair of jeans doesn’t fit.” 

A few sweaters, five t-shirts, a couple pairs of jeans later, Tommy had a meager wardrobe going. A wardrobe that didn’t cost a couple hundred dollars, might he add. It wasn’t covered in mold and holes, but it also wasn’t designer, which made Tommy Goldilocks in this particular scenario. 

“I’m done,” Tommy called over to Wilbur. “I don’t get how I’m done before you, considering you had, what, four shirts?” 

“ Five, ” Wilbur said. “And I’m deciding between two.”

“Just get both,” Tommy said. There was a pause. 

“Excellent point.” Tommy snorted, gathering his clothes back into his arms.

“Are you getting all of yours, then?” He pulled the curtain of his changing room open, and in front of him, there was a massive white pile of fur. “Or just– Jesus christ!” Tommy shouted, jumping back. His hand caught on the curtain, and he almost pulled it straight off of the rail. “God,” he muttered, shaking his head as he steadied himself. The dog in front of him looked up, its head cocked to the side.

“What?” Wilbur asked, poking his head out of the side of his curtain. 

“It’s a dog,” Tommy breathed, holding a hand over his chest. “Scared the fuck out of me.” 

“Aw, it’s Fran!” Wilbur said. “Hi Fran!” He put on a puppy voice. “ Who’s the best girl? ” Fran wagged her tail. She was a big fluffy dog, totally white, and puffy as a cloud. Her tongue hung out of her mouth. “Is it you?” She wagged her tail harder. 

“It looks like a marshmallow,” Tommy said. 

“ She,” Wilbur corrected, “is a little baby. She’s a samoyed,” he explained, pulling his head back behind the curtain. Tommy could hear the rustle of fabric as he got dressed. “Pet her! She likes belly rubs.” 

“I’m not really a dog pers– oh,” Tommy cut himself as Fran walked up to him, nudging her whole head into his hand. “Holy fuck she’s so soft.” 

“I know right?” Wilbur said. He opened up the curtain, still buttoning his top button. “Hi Frannie!” Fran wiggled over to Wilbur, licked his hand, and then immediately threw herself down onto the floor with a thud and showed Wil her belly. “Hey little big head!” He thumped her on her side. 

“You give weird nicknames,” Tommy noted. 

“What? She’s little, and she’s got a big head. I’d say it's a very appropriate nickname,” he replied, switching into a baby voice for the second half of his sentence. Tommy crouched down next to them and rubbed Fran’s chest. “I keep telling Phil we should get a dog,” Wilbur went on. “Wouldn’t that be fun? We could get a rescue. I feel like it would be fitting,” he joked. 

“Funny,” Tommy said. He found a spot on Fran’s chest that made her scratch at the air with her leg. Fuck, that’s fuckin’ adorable. Jesus.  

“Right?” Wilbur put his hands on either side of his head and flopped her ears around. She made a tongue-out grunting sound, smiling big. “Ugh. What a sweet puppy.” He thumped her twice on her stomach and stood up, grunting like an old man. “She’s Sam’s dog,” Wilbur explained. 

“Sam?” 

“Sam Nook. He owns the place.” 

“Convenient last name,” Tommy said. 

“Yeah, it’s a neat pun, isn’t it? The Nook, Sam Nook, eh?” Tommy breathed a laugh. 

“Sure.” 

“Party pooper,” Wilbur sighed. “Come on, let's look at the records before we leave.” 

Tommy followed Wil up to the front right corner of the store, and Fran followed Tommy, panting lightly. The front of the store had records hung up on the walls and stored in crates, similar to the milk crate of records Wil had in his room. There were instruments on the wall as well, a few guitars, one electric, something that looked like a medieval lyre, and a banjo. They were all well over a few hundred dollars. 

Wilbur flicked through records in the crates, calling out names to Tommy that he’d never heard before, or that he’d only heard in passing at the very least, and none that he remembered ever listening to. Wilbur picked out a few for him anyway. 

“We’ve got a record player in the living room,” Wilbur said. “I’ll show you how to use it.” 

“Sounds fun,” Tommy said, and he meant it. With a few records and a pile of clothes in hand, they made their way to the front of the store, where there was a man standing with his elbows on the counter, looking at his phone. When they approached, he looked up. 

“Sam,” Wilbur greeted him. 

“Wil,” Sam smiled. “All set?” Wilbur nodded, placing his items on the counter and then scooping Tommy’s stuff out of his arms and setting it down as well. “I’ve got something you might like,” Sam added, picking through their pile. 

“Oh?” Wilbur raised his eyebrows. Sam smiled. 

“Look,” he said. He ducked his head below the counter for a moment before popping up again, this time with a record in his hand. It was black with four men’s pictures, and even Tommy knew enough about music to know they were the Beatles. At the top, it said Let It Be. “Limited edition, white vinyl, issued in the UK in 1978.” 

“Shit,” Wilbur said, his eyes lighting up. Sam slid the record out of the sleeve, holding it carefully like he was holding a newborn baby. It was white, and the middle was black with a green apple picture on it cut in half. 

“Just got it in yesterday,” Sam continued. “Figured I’d hold onto it for you for a few days and see if you came by. Figured you’d appreciate it more than most.” 

“Shit,” Wilbur said again. “How much?” 

“Three hundred,” Sam said. “But I’d do two-fifty for a friend.” Tommy’s eyes widened. An hour ago, a ninety dollar pair of jeans gave him whiplash. This was a record. How could someone possibly spend that much on music?  

“Not bad,” Wilbur said. Sam passed the record into Wilbur’s hands. 

“ Not bad?” Tommy hissed. 

“It’s rare, man!” Wilbur said. He flipped the record over in his hands carefully. 

“Do you even listen to the Beatles?” 

“Everyone listens to the Beatles.” 

“I don’t.” 

“You don’t count,” Wilbur rolled his eyes. 

“Ouch,” Tommy feigned hurt.

“Two hundred?” Wilbur asked, turning to Sam. 

“You’re actually thinking about buying it?” Tommy asked. 

“It’s vintage!” Wilbur protested. “Phil owes me a graduation present, anyway.” 

“It’s two hundred dollars, ” Tommy replied. 

“Two twenty-five,” Sam said, either correcting Tommy or making a counter-offer, or both. 

“Deal,” Wilbur said. Tommy blinked at him dumbly, his mouth half open. Sam smiled and shook Wilbur’s hand. “Just tell Phil we bought, like… a lot of clothes.” Tommy furrowed his brow at him. It was already over his head to understand how someone could buy a record that expensive in the first place, but it didn’t feel right to watch Wilbur hand over Phil’s credit card for the purchase. Was he actually supposed to lie? Did Wilbur want Tommy to cover for him? “Our secret, yeah?” 

Tommy felt half sour, part of him swelling with the thrill of being trusted to keep a secret, and part of him already bubbling with guilt. He bit the inside of his cheek, wincing when he hit a sore spot. Wilbur was looking at him expectantly, and as much as he hated himself for it, all he wanted was to impress Wilbur. To be someone who listens to music and shops at cool vintage stores and who’s friends with the owner. To do something cool. To keep a secret.

“Yeah,” he muttered. “Sure.” 

“Thanks, Toms,” Wilbur smiled, clapping him on the shoulder. Despite himself, Tommy felt proud.

Chapter Text

It was too fucking early, in Tommy’s humble opinion, for anyone to be yelling this loud. It was always something, wasn’t it? None of them could ever just hang out, there was always something to get angry about or fight over or giggle uncontrollably like they were in fucking middle school instead of grown adults. Dream was, shockingly, the most mature out of their stupid little group, but frankly that wasn't saying much. He was only responsible because he handled the money.

Tommy turned over, burying his face into the mattress and holding his pillow over his head. If he tried hard enough, he'd be able to pretend the fight wasn't happening at all, and his half asleep brain could just tune it out again like always. He didn’t need to care about what Dream and his friends were arguing about this time, or any time. 

It doesn’t concern you, he reminded himself in some attempt to convince himself to fall back asleep. If it did, Dream would have come in here and kicked your ass by now.  

He heard something slam, and a clatter like something being dropped. Or thrown. George liked to throw things. He was like a toddler that way. Tommy rolled his eyes and flipped to his other side. 

Think happy thoughts.  

Once, when they were little, Tommy asked Dream how he fell asleep so fast, and Dream had told him to close his eyes and think about ice cream. Dream fell asleep a few minutes later, but Tommy laid awake thinking about how there were way too many flavors of ice cream in the world, and how anyone who ate ice cream with bananas in it clearly had some kind of trauma, and how one time when Tommy asked what was in the “moose tracks” flavor, the ice cream lady laughed at him instead of answering, as though moose tracks was clearly explanation enough–

There was a hand on Tommy’s shoulder. 

If he had half a brain cell left, he would have thought for more than a second about his next move, but intelligence wasn’t exactly his strongest attribute, and so his reaction was much less of a “what’s going on?” and more of a swift kick to the balls . 

He threw the pillow off of his head, sitting bolt upright and finally opening his eyes for the first time since he’d half woken up earlier. And it was only then that he realized that he wasn’t actually still at Dream’s house. It was weird, looking around and seeing freshly painted walls and a clean carpet where he expected the usual grimy bedroom he’d grown to hate so much. And it was even more disorienting to see that the person who he’d kicked in the balls wasn’t actually Dream, and was, unfortunately, the most intimidating person in this household. Tommy could only see the top of his pink hair peeking up over the edge of the bed where he had doubled over. 

“Fuckin’ hell,” Tommy said, rubbing his eyes. “Did I kick you?”

“ Uh huh ,” Techno wheezed. 

“In the balls?” 

“ Something like that,” he breathed, tucking his head down further. “That’s a mean roundhouse.”

“Why were you grabbing me?” Tommy demanded, sitting up further. He could still hear a muffled fight. He wondered if someone was watching TV downstairs. Maybe that was what woke him in the first place…

“You’re not even gonna say sorry?” Techno groaned, sitting back on the heels of his palms and breathing like a yoga instructor, in through the nose and out through the mouth. 

“You came into my room. You don’t even live here. Isn’t this technically breaking and entering? Self defense.” Tommy heard something slam downstairs, something that was definitely not on TV. He felt the vibration in the floor. “Why are you in here, anyway? What’s going on?” 

“Just… hold your horses for a second, okay?” Techno said, gathering himself. 

“Hold my… how old are you again?” 

“Too old for this,” he muttered, pushing himself up to his feet. Tommy heard another slam from downstairs, followed by yelling. It sounded like Wilbur, but he didn’t seem the type to yell.

“Jesus, sorry, okay? What’s going on?” 

“We’re going for a drive,” Techno said. He walked stiffly over to the lamp on the bedside table and turned it on. It made Tommy’s eyes hurt. 

“What? Why? It’s like–” he reached over to check his phone. “You’re waking me up at one in the morning to go for a drive ?” 

“Yes. Are you wearin’ pants? Where are your shoes?” 

Tommy blinked at him slowly, trying to piece together what was going on. It was early, or late depending on your view of things, and he was so sure, just a few minutes ago, that he was stuck squarely where he had started, burying his face into a lumpy mattress back at Dream’s place and tuning out some meaningless argument. And then Techno was in his room, or in Phil’s room, at Phil’s house, which Techno also shared but not really, which either made it much less weird or much more weird that he was here asking Tommy if he had pants on. 

He felt… disoriented.

“Is that Wilbur yelling?” Tommy asked, neglecting to answer either of Techno’s questions. “Why’s he yelling? Who’s he yelling at?”

“Here,” Techno said. He held out a box that contained the shoes that Tommy had only bought earlier that day, the white ones with the stripes, and for some reason it made acid rise in his throat. 

“ Stop ,” he said, and with far more conviction than he was expecting from himself. “Stop it. You’re freaking me out, okay? I’m sorry I kicked you in the balls. Is that what you want to hear?” Techno stared at Tommy for a long moment, long enough that he wondered if Techno was actually going to say anything in response to that. Maybe he’d knocked a few brain cells loose with that kick as well. Tommy could still hear voices from downstairs. But then Techno blinked and slowly lowered the box to set it on the bed. He took a very intentional breath. 

“No, I’m… I’m sorry. The fighting, it just– it sets me on edge,” he said. 

“What’s going on?” Tommy asked. He opened the shoebox. Techno wordlessly tossed him a pair of socks. “Who’s Wil fighting with? Phil?” 

“Yeah,” Techno said. “They’re– I can explain in a minute, once we’re out of the house, okay?” Tommy nodded. “Wilbur’s having a bad night, and Phil texted me askin’ to just get both of us out of the house while they work it out. He doesn’t want you to hear it.” 

“He doesn’t need to worry about me,” Tommy muttered. “I’m used to fighting.” 

“He doesn’t want you to hear it here ,” Techno clarified. Tommy wasn’t exactly sure what that meant, but he put his shoes on nonetheless. “We’re going right to the garage. Don’t get involved.” 

“Okay…” Weird way to break in new shoes. Tommy furrowed his brow, standing up from the bed and grabbing his phone. What the hell are they fighting over? He unplugged his phone and put it in the pocket of his sweatpants. “Is this– am I just not allowed to ask questions, or…?” 

“Phil found out that Wilbur spent a bunch of his money when you two were out,” Techno said. Tommy bit the inside of his lip. “Something about a fancy old record.” 

“I tried to talk him out of it,” Tommy said hurriedly. “Or– well, I kind of tried. I– he said Phil would be fine with it, but then he also said not to tell him, so I didn’t know if I should–” 

“This isn’t on you, Tommy,” Techno shook his head. “Don’t worry about it. They’re gonna work it out, and–”

Wilbur shouted something that sounded vulgar, but it was so loud and so scrambled that Tommy couldn’t quite make it out with any certainty. Regardless, it made Techno flinch, his shoulders pulling up slightly towards his ears in a way Tommy never would have expected from him. Techno just shook his head, motioning silently for them to keep going and get to the garage. Don’t get involved.

They started down the front stairs, and Tommy wondered if he was supposed to be tiptoeing or not. Was this supposed to be sneaky? Were they sneaking out? Did Wilbur even know that Techno was rushing him out of the house like this? 

He heard Phil’s voice, quiet and calm as ever, but it seemed like it was doing nothing to calm Wilbur down.

“You just think I’m acting crazy, right?” Wil shouted. Don’t get involved, Tommy reminded himself. 

Phil said something in response, but Tommy couldn’t hear it from the bottom of the stairs. 

“No, you do. Everyone does! I bet Techno and Tommy are up there laughing to themselves, oh Wilbur’s so fucking crazy–  no, you know what? I bet,” Wilbur laughed, and it was almost scary hearing it in the darkness of the front hallway. “I bet Tommy fucking told you, right?” Wilbur asked. “Of course he did.”

Tommy’s stomach sank. He didn’t. He didn’t say a word , he wasn’t a snitch. He’d mastered the art of keeping his mouth shut, except for– except for when he reported Dream. Maybe that’s all that stuck in Wilbur’s head, then, right? That he’d sell out his own family? His chest felt tight, tense with the sudden need to defend himself, to clear his name. He cut across Techno in a beeline for the kitchen, ignoring Techno’s attempt to grab his arm and hold him back.

“Wilbur, Tommy didn’t–” Phil started, but Tommy cut him off.

“I didn’t say anything,” Tommy said as soon as he got to the doorway. Wilbur whirled around to look at him, and Tommy took a step back. If looks could kill, he’d be six feet under fuckin’ yesterday. There was something so distinctly off about him. He looked different, a stark black and white switch from the bubbly happiness he’d given off earlier that day. His eyes seemed glassy.

“Tommy–” Phil started, but Tommy cut him off. 

“I didn’t say anything ,” Tommy repeated, swallowing hard. He was afraid. Almost as afraid as he was of Dream, sometimes, a fear of not knowing what to expect. “And I don’t– I don’t think that you’re crazy–” Tommy said, but he didn’t know what he was trying to do. Clear his name? Comfort? Diffuse the tension? He felt Techno’s hand on his shoulder, so bizarrely gentle. 

“Oh so, what, you didn’t trust me, then?” Wilbur said, turning back to Phil. “That’s it? Why are you checking your bank account right when we get home?” 

“I gave you my card to buy clothes, Wil–” 

“And I bought clothes! I bought clothes for fucking– for Tommy, and for myself, and you said that you owed me a present for graduation–” 

It was as though Wilbur had forgotten Tommy was there at all, forgotten that he’d said anything, forgotten that he was standing right there in the doorway waiting for an acknowledgement, you’re right Tommy, I’m sorry I doubted you, I know you’d never sell me out . I’m sorry for scaring you. It didn’t come.

“That’s not the point, Wil–” 

“What’s the fucking difference?” Wilbur demanded. “I buy this record now, or ten records later for the same price, the money still gets spent!” 

“We’ve talked about this. You can’t just spend money impulsively on things, this isn’t what we do. We talk about it, and–” 

“Well, what’s the point of having money if you don’t spend it?” Wilbur threw his hands up in the air. Techno tugged on Tommy’s shoulder, and Tommy let him pull him back into the hallway, slowly backing out of the kitchen like a matador watching a bull. “You won’t let me get a job–” 

“I never said that–” 

“You don’t have to! You think I won’t be able to keep it, you think I’m gonna fuck it up like everything else! I’m just a project to you, a failed fucking project! You failed and you don’t want to admit it,” Wilbur shouted, his voice cracking with the volume. Tommy felt cold. 

“Come on,” Techno said quietly, opening the garage door, and Tommy hadn’t realized they’d backed so far away from the kitchen. 

“Sorry,” Tommy mumbled under his breath. Don’t get involved. It was such a simple instruction. What if he’d just made it worse?

“It’s not your fault,” Techno shook his head. He closed the garage door behind them. The sound of yelling was muffled. Tommy couldn’t tell what they were saying anymore. “I’m just glad he didn’t turn it around on you. He does that sometimes.” He sounded like he was speaking from experience. Techno opened the driver’s side door of his car and slid into the seat. Tommy followed suit, walking around to the other side. 

“Does he… do this often?” Tommy asked. He felt like he half-knew the answer. He’d been there several weeks now, so it couldn’t happen that frequently, but it had obviously happened enough before for Techno and Phil to have some kind of plan worked out. 

Techno turned on the car and pressed the button to open the garage door, waiting in silence for it to roll all the way up. He took a breath and slowly backed out, and for a moment, Tommy wondered if he’d even heard his question, but then he spoke. 

“He’s bipolar,” Techno said quietly. 

“What?” 

“He’s bipolar. He was manic before, this whole week. Phil clocked it, that’s why he was checking the bank account, he– he shouldn’t have given Wilbur his card. I told him not to–” Techno cut himself off, breathing out slowly. His right hand was shaking, and he balled it into a fist against his thigh. Tommy didn’t know what half of all of that meant, but it seemed like the wrong time to ask. “Tommy, just do me a favor, okay?” Techno asked. 

“Okay?” 

“Just… talk. Talk about anything. Anything else.”

“What?” Suddenly words escaped him. He was so able to put his foot in his mouth every chance he got from oversharing, and now he couldn’t think of a single thing to say. 

“I’m not good at… at the fighting . I usually get out of the house faster than that. Not that– not that gettin’ you wasn’t the right thing to do, obviously, just– it took longer, and– it’s just one of those things– I need to think about something else.”

“I get it,” Tommy said, cutting him off. Just say anything. He needs you to say anything. He needs you. “You– uh, you’re…” Oh my god just say something. “Uh, you– oh! You’re a, uh, a safe driver,” he said. It was the first thing that popped into his head. Just say whatever pops into your head . 

Techno furrowed his brow. 

“Yeah, you– I mean, you’re all– even though you’re… stressed…” Tommy continued, “you still drive safe. And Sapnap, he was one of Dream’s friends– did you know they called themselves the Dream Team? How pretentious is that?” 

Techno breathed out what could have been an attempt at a laugh. 

“He used to drive like shit, even when he wasn’t stressed. I mean, I think he actually drove worse when he wasn’t stressed, weirdly enough. It was that adrenaline junkie thing, yeah?” Techno hummed. “Not that… not that he wasn’t already a junkie,” Tommy mumbled. That earned him a snort. “I feel like I’ve told you about him. He was the one who turned left on red, remember?” 

“Oh, that guy,” Techno said quietly. 

“Yeah, that guy. You know, he was kind of nice to me sometimes. In like, a crazy drug addicted uncle kind of way. You know, saying it out loud, that doesn’t sound great. But you know, he bought me snacks when they went to the gas station and shit. Which, like… it’s nice when someone thinks of you.” 

Techno flipped on his turn signal at a red light, waiting patiently for it to turn. His grip seemed a little looser. 

“Are you a snacker?” Tommy asked. 

“Am I… a snacker ?” Techno repeated?

“You know, like… when I was little, my mom used to say I was always grazing. Like, I never sat down and had a meal, I just had snacks here and there and hopefully I’d get my calories. Dream was the same way. Is , I guess. Well… I don’t know if they have snacks in jail.”

“They don’t,” Techno said simply. Tommy glanced over to him, but quickly looked back to the road, trying not to make Techno more stressed.

“Well, I guess he’s pretty bummed, then,” Tommy shrugged. 

“I feel like he’s probably bummed about more than just the snacks,” Techno noted. 

“Probably,” Tommy sighed. “I ratted him out, you know,” he added quietly. It was one of those things he just wanted off of his chest. It wasn’t like it was a secret, more that it was something he knew no one but a lawyer was going to ask him, and this seemed like as good a time as any. Say anything. Techno turned to him slightly, and Tommy could feel his eyes on him for a moment before he looked back to the road. 

“I didn’t know that,” he said softly.

“I told Wilbur.” 

“Well, Wilbur didn't tell me. We don't get in each other's business. House rule, remember?” Techno reminded him. They were consistent, Tommy had to give them that. He half expected one of these days to find out that Phil had spilled all of his secrets to Wilbur and Techno as some sort of gotcha! You thought you could trust us? Psych! But no.

“No matter what?”

“Well, I mean… Phil's a mandatory reporter, so I guess– not no matter what , but… you know. Mostly.” 

“What's that? Mandatory reporter?” Tommy asked. 

“It means if he, uh, suspects abuse or something, he's gotta report it to someone,” Techno explained. Tommy nodded.

“Oh. Well I make that job easy for him, I guess,” he joked, and Techno breathed a laugh, shaking his head. 

“Takes guts, though.” 

“What?” 

“Callin’ the cops on your brother,” Techno said. Tommy furrowed his brow.

“Not really,” he scoffed. 

“No, it does. It takes guts. You didn’t know how that was gonna turn out.” 

“Yeah, cus this is loads better.” 

“Well, what did you want?” Techno asked. Tommy glanced over to him, raising his eyebrows. “What’s the ideal? You call the cops on Dream, that’s step one. What’s step two?” Tommy leaned back in his seat. 

“I didn’t think about it that much.” 

“You had to have some idea,” Techno pushed. 

“Step two was… I dunno. He disappears. He’s out of my life, forever. Maybe.” 

“Maybe?” 

“This– this is not a great conversation for one in the morning,” Tommy muttered. 

“This is the only type of conversation for one in the morning,” Techno refuted. “Look, I’ll tell you mine. Step one was to kick my stepdad’s ass for laying a hand on his daughter. Step two was to go to jail, probably for murder,” he chuckled, like it was supposed to be funny. “Step three was that I’d go to one of those rehab prisons where they teach you anger management skills, or where they train service dog puppies or somethin’ like that.” 

“You trained a puppy in prison?” Tommy asked, which was clearly the most important part of anything Techno had said.

“I didn’t go to prison,” Techno said. “I got placed with Phil instead.” 

“Lame. Bet you wish you could have gotten a prison puppy,” Tommy mumbled. Techno snorted. 

“For sure,” he said. “That would have been way better.” 

“Yeah, Phil really fucked your plans up, aye?” Techno shook his head. 

“Definitely. I tell him every day.” Tommy laughed.

“I really didn’t have a step two, though,” he admitted, looking down at his hands. “I barely even had a step one. I didn’t really think about it. I know that sounds dumb.” 

“Not everything has a reason, I guess.” Techno shrugged.

“I had a reason , I just didn’t have an end goal. I didn’t think it through, I just did it.” 

“If you had known where it was going to go, would you still have done it?” Techno asked. Tommy furrowed his brow. 

“Like, if I knew everything was gonna be the same as it is now?” 

“Yeah,” Techno nodded. 

“So far… Yeah, I mean… I think I would. Even with all the shit hitting the fan, I feel like I kinda know what’s going on now. It’s all still fucked, but… you know.” 

“Yeah, I know,” Techno sighed. They were quiet for a moment, just watching the road. Techno pulled onto the highway, and Tommy wondered absentmindedly where they were going, and he thought about asking, but it felt wrong to know. Like this was supposed to be some cosmic journey that no one knew the destination of. 

“Do you feel better now?” Tommy asked instead. 

“Heh?” Techno glanced at him.

“You know. Before, you… asked me to talk to you. Cus you were all…” Tommy made a noise like someone’s grandpa being startled by a spider. He wiggled his fingers for good measure. 

“Oh,” Techno chuckled. “Yeah. I do, actually,” he said like he was surprised about it. “Thanks.” 

“No problem,” Tommy shrugged. “I have no shortage of wisdom to share.” 

“And all this falls in the wisdom category?” Techno asked. 

“Where else would it fall?” 

“Fair point.” Techno sighed, leaning back in his seat and stretching his neck. He rested one elbow against the window ledge. He took a breath in, another one of those yoga instructor breaths, except this one didn’t have as much you kicked me in the balls energy and more I’m calming myself down energy. “I’m sorry for freakin’ you out, though.” 

“What was even going on?” Tommy asked. “Were they even fighting about the money? It sounded like it was… more…” 

“It– it’s not really… the reason for the fight isn’t really relevant, honestly,” Techno said, which didn’t really clarify anything. “But yeah, it was about the money. Phil checked his bank account after you two went shopping because he got a high charge alert, and he went to ask Wilbur about it, and– well, you saw the aftermath. It just escalated. Wilbur… he tends to escalate when he’s– do you know what mania is?” 

“Like… maniac? Like crazy people?” Techno opened his mouth, but Tommy interrupted. “Is it something to do with bipolar? You said Wilbur was bipolar. I thought that was, like, an insult, right? Like what you call people when they’re being moody and annoying.” 

“That’s not– no, Tommy,” Techno shook his head.

“That’s what Dream used to say about my mom,” Tommy mumbled. Now that he thought about it, maybe it was a dick thing to say. He shut his mouth. 

“It’s a diagnosis. People like to say it like it’s the same as being moody, like… like how people say I’m so OCD when what they really mean is that they’re meticulous.” 

“What’s meticulous?” 

“Someone who has a lot of attention to detail. Neat and tidy.” 

“That’s not the same as OCD?” 

“We can unpack that later,” Techno said, and Tommy bit the inside of his cheek, embarrassed. “Bipolar is… it’s a mental illness. It’s a mood disorder, it means that you get episodes of mania and depression that you can’t control, and they can last weeks sometimes. Months.” 

“He’s gonna be like that for months? ” Tommy asked. 

“No, Wil’s on a medication that works pretty well to shorten his episodes, make them less severe,” Techno explained.

“So he’s… he’s maniac right now?” 

“Manic,” Techno corrected.

“Manic.” Techno nodded. “What’s that mean?” 

“Mania is…” Techno searched for the words. “Wilbur explained it to me like he felt like he was on top of the world. Like he’d suddenly become this superhuman. He didn’t need sleep, he was on top of his work, he was productive, like there was time and energy for everything in the world.” 

“That’s a bad thing?” Tommy raised his eyebrows. 

“Yeah,” Techno nodded. “It means he thinks nothin’ can hurt him, like he’s invincible. He gets impulsive, does dangerous stuff. Thrill seeking behaviors, Phil called it. When he was younger, he used to run away from his foster homes, or he’d steal money and buy whatever he wanted, max out credit cards…” 

“Oh,” Tommy muttered. 

“And he can get delusions,” Techno added. “He’ll get paranoid that people are spying on him, or lying to him, or working against him somehow. That’s why he thought we were listening in on him, and why he thought you told Phil about the money he spent. They’re not as bad as they were, now that he’s on a good mood stabilizer.” Tommy nodded slowly, trying to sort all of this information in his head in a way that made sense.

“Are you… are you allowed to tell me all this?” He asked. “What about the whole privacy rule?” 

“Wilbur was trying to find a way to talk to you about it before, actually,” Techno said. He merged into an exit lane on the highway. Tommy found the route vaguely familiar. “I told him I could talk to you if he wanted, but we never really got around to it. But I know Wil. He’d rather I explain it to you now than him do it when we get back home.” 

“Oh,” Tommy said again. “Okay.” 

“Look, the important thing is, he’s fine, okay?” Techno said reassuringly. “Phil’s got a good handle on how to help Wil when he’s in an episode. He’s safe, and he’ll be fine.” Techno seemed like he wasn’t just saying it to Tommy, but he was saying it to himself as well. 

“Yeah,” Tommy said quietly. “Is this why he likes trees so much?” he asked.

“I dunno,” Techno chuckled. He flicked on his turn signal, turning right at a traffic light. “Maybe. Probably? I think he’s just like that. He needs an outlet, you know? Something interesting, something creative. A good focus for his energy.” 

“So he picked trees? ” 

“I picked cars,” Techno shrugged. Tommy glanced at him, raising his eyebrows. 

“Are you… are you also bipolar?” 

“Oh,” Techno said. “No. I’m autistic.”

“But you don’t look autistic–” Tommy cut himself off, closing his mouth and biting down on the inside of his lip. Techno just smiled at him. 

“I’ve heard it all before, Tommy. It’s okay.” 

“I just meant, like– you don’t– you don’t act, like… you act really norm–” he cut himself off again. “No. Sorry.” 

“Tommy–”

“Sorry. Sorry, sorry, I didn’t mean– that’s not okay to say, right? Fuck.” 

“Yeah, I mean, autism doesn’t really have a look , you know? Sometimes certain symptoms are more visible than others, but not always. Everyone’s different.” 

“I knew a couple kids with autism in school,” Tommy added, like that somehow made him more credible. “Which is… irrelevant… now that I think about it. Because… yep.” He shut his mouth again. Techno laughed. 

He pulled the car into a parking lot, and Tommy looked up to see the glowing Sleepy’s Diner sign above them. He knew the route seemed familiar. 

“Come on,” Techno said, putting the car in park. “Let’s get milkshakes.” Tommy knew there was a lot he didn’t know. He’d admit it. But it was only now that he was realizing that all the things Dream or his mom had said about things like this were probably, or almost certainly, incredibly offensive. He remembered when he was younger, he liked to spin around in circles when he was bored because it made his head feel funny, and his mom used to dig her nails into his arm and tell him to stop. 

“People will think you’re autistic.” She said it like it was a death sentence. She also used to call him a parrot because he repeated everything he heard, but that particular sentiment seemed like something he shouldn’t repeat. In fact, a lot of what she said seemed like something he shouldn’t repeat. A lot of what Dream said, too. 

He wished he knew things. 

It seemed so simple. Techno knew things. Phil knew things. Wilbur knew things. They knew what all these words meant, and they knew how things worked like taxes and bills and credit cards and how to manage money and how to fix a car, and they knew what a courtroom looked like, and they knew how to go shopping, and they knew how to buy nice shoes. Tommy didn’t know things. He didn’t even know what he didn’t know. He just found out as he went when he said offensive shit and wished he hadn’t even opened his mouth. 

“Tommy, I can practically hear you overthinking this,” Techno said as they walked into the diner. The little bell over the door jingled. “Don’t stress. You didn’t know.” 

Exactly. 

The hostess led them to a booth, and Tommy and Techno slid into opposite sides of the table. Techno thanked her for the menus, and she made her way back to the front. 

“Is this place open twenty-four hours?” 

“Twenty-three, technically,” Techno said. “Convenient for late night milkshakes.” 

“For sure,” Tommy said tensely. 

“Tommy,” Techno said, and Tommy looked up. “It’s really okay.” 

“No, it’s… I just don’t know things,” Tommy whined. He sounded like such a baby.

“You don’t learn unless you ask. And that wasn’t the most insulting thing someone’s said to me by a longshot. You should have heard the things my step dad called me,” Techno smiled, but Tommy didn’t understand how he could just laugh about that. 

“Thanks for… talking to me about stuff,” Tommy said awkwardly.

“No problem,” Techno replied. “That’s where a lot of this misinformation comes from,” he added. “No one talks about it. Mental health, illnesses, all that. Trauma and mood disorders and depression, especially when it gets ugly. When it’s not all sunshine and rainbows.” 

“Yeah,” Tommy said. “No one ever talked to me about any of this. Or about anything, really. I feel like I just… like I’m stunted, somehow. Like I should know more than I do, but now I’m too embarrassed to ask because I feel like I should know,” he admitted.

“Well, how about this? You can ask me whatever you want, no judgment. I’ll explain whatever you want,” Techno suggested. Tommy looked up at him from his menu, but Techno was browsing the milkshake flavors. Tommy smiled slightly. 

“That sounds good,” he said quietly. 

Tommy ordered an oreo milkshake just like the last time he was here with Phil, and Techno ordered a dark chocolate shake with strawberries. Tommy informed Techno that dark chocolate was fucking nasty, to which Techno replied that it was healthy, which was ridiculous, because if you’re already getting a milkshake, then why get a healthy milkshake? It was a valid argument. 

But a healthy milkshake was better than no milkshake at all, which is what Tommy got, because they were all out of oreos for the oreo milkshakes. 

“This is unbelievable,” he said, thudding his forehead against the diner table. “How will I ever recover from this.” 

“We could go buy oreos?” Techno suggested. 

“It’s 2 in the morning,” Tommy mumbled.

“You could get another flavor?” 

“This is my worst nightmare.” 

“That’s awfully dramatic,” Techno said.

“No, this is my lowest moment. Nothing could be worse.”

“Well, that means everything can only get better from here, right?”

“Do you… want another milkshake flavor?” The waitress asked, still standing by the side of their table. “We’ve got a kit kat one that’s pretty popular?” Tommy sighed slowly, sitting back up. 

“That would be lovely, thank you,” he said. She smiled at him and took their menus. “We should get Wilbur a vanilla shake before we leave,” Tommy added, turning back to Techno. He hummed and nodded, leaning back in the booth and putting one arm over the seat. “Do you come here every time that Wilbur’s… that he and Phil fight?” It felt weird to say that Wilbur and Phil were “fighting.” Phil wasn’t really fighting. Phil was talking, and Wilbur was fighting. But the semantics didn’t matter. 

“Not always,” Techno shrugged. “I usually just drive, honestly. There’s some good mountain roads around here that are fun to explore. But I was in the mood for a milkshake tonight, and I figured… well, I thought it would be kinda boring for you to just drive around with me for an hour.” 

“I feel like it wouldn’t be so bad,” Tommy said. “I meant what I said before, you really are a safe driver.” Tommy didn’t know what it was about driving, but for some reason it always stood out to him as a signal of character. Dream drove like he didn’t care that anyone else was on the road. Sapnap drove like he was trying his hardest to get as close to dying as possible without actually dying. George crashed Sapnap’s car the first time he drove it, and was promptly banned from the wheel. 

Tommy wondered if he would be a good driver. He felt like he could be a good driver. But he just hoped he hadn’t inherited his brother’s road rage. 

“Well, you’re a good distraction,” Techno said, and then paused, considering what he’d said. “I meant that as a good thing,” he clarified. “It’s nice to just… talk to someone, you know? There’s a lot of things I can be there for, for Wilbur, but when he starts yelling like that it just sets me on edge. It’s one of those things.” 

“You know, it’s kind of the opposite for me?” Tommy said. Techno raised his eyebrows. “I guess I’m so used to the fighting. But the way you guys talk to each other… you listen, and you say exactly what you mean, and it all makes sense. It’s not what I’m used to. Makes me feel like I don’t actually have to be angry all the time.” 

Techno smiled at him, and weirdly, it wasn’t until that moment that Tommy really thought about it as a good thing. With nowhere for that anger to go, it made everything else clearer, despite the anticipation he felt waiting for the other shoe to drop. Even if this was only temporary, even if a few weeks from now he was somewhere else, if his mother got full custody, if Dream was charged and gone forever, at least he had this little pocket of sanity. 

“Sometimes a change of pace is nice,” Techno said. Tommy nodded. “And honestly, it’s not that hard to drive safe.” 

“Theoretically,” Tommy said, “If I wanted to learn how to drive…”

“I think Phil would kill me if I let you drive.”

“Even just for a minute?” 

“Yes. You’d never find my body.” 

“I don’t think Phil has it in him to kill anyone,” Tommy countered. 

“That’s exactly why he’d get away with it,” Techno replied. 

The waitress brought their milkshakes out, setting them down on the table in big glass cups with cookie crumbs and chocolate syrup around the rims. They even brought out the extra shake from the blender in a second cup, which was apparently a perk of going in the middle of the night when no one else was there. Techno walked Tommy through how to drive a car, which was difficult to understand in theory without actually sitting in a car, but the challenge made it much more interesting. 

Tommy was pretty sure that Techno was just making some things up, like the “automatic U-turn button,” and the “parachute deployment switch,” and the “cruise control.” 

They talked about driving, and how Techno found it relaxing, and how he liked to wake up early just to watch the sun rise on his drive to work. Tommy also used to watch the sun rise in the mornings. He would climb onto Dream’s roof and fall asleep up there, and the sun in the morning would wake him up, until he had to stop because he accidentally broke the gutter drain climbing down and knocked the wind out of himself. He laid on the ground for an hour thinking he broke a rib before he got up and realized he was fine, just newly afraid of heights. 

Techno told Tommy about the time he jumped off of his step dad’s balcony trying to jump into a kiddie pool, and he only broke his left pinkie. He showed Tommy the weird way it healed, sticking up slightly and bent out from his palm. Tommy showed Techno the scar he had on his arm from when he jumped out of a tree and landed on a rock, and then showed Techno the scar that was right next to that one from when Dream stabbed him with a fork when they were younger. 

As it turned out, Techno also had a fork scar. 

Techno had a lot of scars. Tommy did too. Eventually, they ended up trading stories back and forth about injuries or fights or accidental impalements, or intentional impalements in some cases. Techno very casually mentioned that the scar that cut across his face was from when his step dad threw him into a glass coffee table, a fact which took Tommy a moment to process, and another moment to ask if the scar on his arm came from the same fight. It didn’t. 

In fact, he didn’t remember which fight that one came from.

“You know that saying, so angry you’re seeing red? ” Techno asked him. Tommy nodded. “I always thought that was a metaphor when I was younger, but it’s not really. It was like blacking out, sometimes. I don’t remember most of those fights. You’d think I would,” he said, half lost in thought. “I remember the sirens, though. That last time.” 

Techno took another sip of his milkshake, and Tommy did the same. He sucked in air as he reached the bottom of the shake. 

“They didn’t use sirens when they arrested Dream,” he said, and sucked in more air. Two sides of the same coin, aye?

Techno’s phone buzzed on the table, and Tommy remembered that they were here for a reason, not just to get milkshakes. Techno picked it up, reading from the screen before typing something back. 

“Phil says we should come back,” he said. 

“Is Wilbur… okay?” Tommy asked. 

“Yeah,” Techno said. He waved down the waitress, and she made her way over. “Can we get a vanilla milkshake, a caramel swirl, and the check?” 

“You can pay up front,” she said, smiling. “I’ll bring the shakes right out.” 

“Thank you,” Techno replied. She walked back to the kitchens. “He’s calmed down,” he said, turning back to Tommy. “They worked it out, he’s gonna see his psychiatrist tomorrow, but he and Phil talked it out and he’s doing better now.”

“Phil’s not his psychiatrist?” Tommy asked. Techno shook his head. 

“He gives his opinion, but it’s a conflict of interest. They need a neutral third party,” Techno explained. Tommy nodded, and they both slid their way out of the booth. He felt weirdly anxious about returning to the house now, like he didn’t know what to expect. Would it feel different, like a bubble had burst? Was this the other shoe? 

Techno paid the bill, the waitress brought them the vanilla shake in a big styrofoam cup, and they made their way back to the car. 

“So is Wil, like, back to himself now, or…?” Tommy asked. Techno started the engine. 

“He’s… well, he took a medication that helps calm him down, so he might seem kind of out of it, or a little drowsy. But he’s still himself,” he said. Tommy nodded, picking at the skin on the side of his finger. “I can’t really tell you what to expect, honestly,” Techno continued. “Sometimes he recovers from it fast, sometimes he doesn’t. He hasn’t had an episode in a while. I think he was hoping he wouldn’t have one in front of you, so he might be kind of upset about that.” 

“Okay,” Tommy said, unsure of what else he was supposed to say. In front of you. That was good, maybe. But something about it felt wrong. Like Wilbur was just passing the time, waiting for him to leave so that he could go back to normal, or stop hiding something about himself. It was a reminder that this was temporary. 

“We should, uh… do this again, though,” Techno said, startling Tommy from his thoughts. They pulled out of the parking lot. “Not the manic episode part, of course, but the diner part. That was fun.” Tommy smiled halfheartedly.

“Yeah, it was,” he said. There was a feeling in his chest like cold water running down his throat. He clenched his teeth, looking out the window. He didn’t want to leave. He didn’t want to go home, and he didn’t want to be in the car, and he didn’t want the clock to turn from 2:46 to 2:47, because for some reason it felt like the end of the world for time to keep passing in that moment.

“Don’t stress about it, okay?” Techno reassured him.

“I’m not,” Tommy said, but his voice cracked hard. He wiped the back of his hand across his eyes roughly. “I’m not, I’m not stressed about that,” he mumbled. 

“What’s goin’ on?” Techno asked gently. 

“Nothing,” Tommy said. “Nothing’s wrong , everything is fine, that’s… I don’t know,” he sighed. “I… like how things are… right now,” he chose his words carefully. “And I don’t want it to change.” Techno glanced over at him as he pulled back onto the highway. 

“Change is part of life,” Techno said, like some kind of self help book. “But whatever happens, we’re not goin’ anywhere.” Tommy let out a breath. “I mean it.” Somehow, Tommy didn’t even have to say exactly what he meant for Techno to get it. “But if you’re uncomfortable talking to Wil tonight, I’m sure he’d understand.” 

“No, I… I want to make sure he’s okay. I don’t want him to think this changes anything.” Techno smiled slightly, nodding.

“He’ll appreciate it,” he said. “He cares a lot about you, you know.” Tommy didn’t think this many people had cared about him all at once in his entire life. 

Techno let Tommy roll the windows down while they drove. The wind whipped through the car, and it felt different for some reason knowing it was the middle of the night. When they pulled back into the driveway, Tommy could hear crickets coming from the woods that he hadn’t noticed before. There were lights on inside. 

The house was quieter when they went back in through the garage door. Tommy could hear voices, but it wasn’t Phil or Wilbur. It sounded like a movie was playing in the living room. Techno let Tommy walk in front of him, hanging his keys up by the garage. 

“Is that Legally Blonde?” Tommy asked before he had a chance to stop himself. Elle Woods was on the tv screen, her little chihuahua marching along behind her. He turned to look at Wilbur, who was sitting on the couch. He was huddled up in a blanket, his chin resting on his knees. There was a big bottle of water in front of him on the coffee table and a hot cup of tea that was still steaming slightly. He looked exhausted, but he smiled tiredly when he saw Tommy and Techno walk in. 

“Sure is,” he said. His voice sounded a little hoarse. Tommy wondered how long he’d fought with Phil for before they’d been called home. “Iconic movie.” 

“I like the big final court scene,” Tommy said. “Oh, and we got you a milkshake,” he remembered, wiggling the styrofoam cup in his hand. “Vanilla.”

“Really?” Wilbur said, smiling. Tommy brought it over to him, and Wilbur unwound his hand from the blanket to take it. “Thank you. And, um… sorry.” He looked down at his hands. “I hope I didn’t, uh,” Wilbur paused, stirring the milkshake with his straw. “Freak you out.” 

“I’m pretty sure I freaked you out, too, when I got here, so,” Tommy shrugged. “Call it even?” Wilbur looked up at Tommy. There was something about him that was off, still. His eyes still seemed glassy, his pupils a little too wide, his facial expressions a little too slow. Tommy pushed away memories of Dream when he looked like that, out of it, not all there. It made him want to walk away. It made him want to run. He hated that look. 

But Wilbur wasn’t Dream. 

“Do you want to watch the movie with me?” Wilbur asked.

“Sure,” Tommy replied. He threw himself down heavily on the couch next to Wilbur. “Popcorn?” 

“Phil’s making some right now,” Wilbur smiled. 

Techno sat down in the armchair to their left, kicking the leg rest out and leaning back. Tommy settled down into the couch, and as he did, Wilbur unwound some of the blanket from his legs and threw it across Tommy’s lap. On the screen, Elle Woods was giving her pink scented resume to her professor. 

“I’m sorry,” Wilbur said again, quietly. “I, um… I’m sorry if I scared you.” 

“Takes more than that to chase me off,” Tommy said, trying to keep his tone lighthearted. “Really, Wil. It’s okay. Techno, uh, explained some stuff.” Wilbur nodded. 

“Thanks,” he said, looking over at Techno. Techno smiled at him and nodded his head. 

“Popcorn,” Phil announced, walking into the living room from the kitchen. The smell of warm butter flowed into the room. 

“Milkshake,” Techno replied, holding up the caramel swirl milkshake in the styrofoam Sleepy’s cup. 

“Amazing,” Phil sighed. He passed Wilbur the popcorn bowl and took the milkshake from Techno. Wilbur nestled the popcorn in his lap, sliding down in his seat so he could put his feet up on the coffee table. Phil sat down, putting his feet up as well and punching his straw through the top of his cup. Wilbur sighed, wiggling so that the blanket covered his arms. 

“Can you turn the volume up, dad?” he asked sleepily. Tommy looked over at Phil, who paused for a moment, blinked, and then reached for the remote. “Thanks,” Wilbur mumbled. He leaned his head up against Tommy’s arm. 

“Sure thing, kiddo,” Phil said quietly.

This was one of those moments Tommy wanted to pause, but it wasn’t cold like it was in the car.