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I never even did anything, Tommy fires at his captors, I never touched him.
Yeah, they grin, then why did you leave water droplets everywhere outside of your tank?
He holds down a growl—an angry chittering noise to go along with it—and his tail swishes back and forth angrily behind him, and he restrains the urge to slap it against the glass. I didn’t. I don't even fuckin’ know how to grow legs.
Sure you don't, and Tommy fumes. I don't believe that shit, every mer knows how to walk.
You're not born with that fuckin’ knowledge, you pricks! You're taught how to walk, but the ability to swim is inborn.
Too bad, a smile, a baring of their stupid, stupid, teeth. Lacking of a mer’s usual fangs. You're not getting any shitty food for a week, brat. Have fun.
The tank door closes.
—
Humans, Tommy decides, suck.
He's never exactly liked them, because they're weak and stupid and cruel. Biased, maybe, but he's coming from somewhere that Tommy can justify his reasonings. Being underfed and abused by some idiot humans is a very good reason to be angry at an entire species.
There’s only some humans he liked, but they never ended up being humans in the first place. Mer in disguise.
Or, mer who knew how to walk.
Mer are horribly similar to Sirens, who are just mer if they had bad intentions. And maybe that's a stereotype, but it's what he's heard all of his life, even while in the tank. They also have some sort of fuckmind power, that’s laced in their voices—makes you do what they want. Sirens also can't develop legs, not like mer. But, Tommy’s never met a Siren before, and he doesn't really plan to. He wouldn't be surprised if his captors were Sirens, but Sirens and mer can't spend that long out of water without occasionally dropping back in.
Unfortunately for Tommy, the ability to walk is not something that you're born knowing. You know how to swim, which is a very, very large contrast towards walking, where you use human legs and human feet. Older mer learnt the method for it, Tommy’s ancestors, but since he's grown up in a fuckin’ fishbowl his entire life, he's never learnt how. He knows you split your tail in half so harshly until they split into two different appendages, but alas.
Anyways—he did, fortunately, meet some mer who came to visit his tank. Tommy’s not exactly an exhibit, like he lives at SeaWorld or some shit, but his captors are fishermen. They caught Tommy when he was a child, lured out by some bait they had laid in the ocean.
Mer catching and keeping them in captivity is extremely illegal. If the captors were snitched on, Tommy would be freed. No one who sees him has ever told; he assumes it's because the people holding him paid them a hefty amount to keep their mouths shut. One of the mers he met had a gorgeous tail, a baby blue, fading into a darker one as you went down to the fins. He had come into Tommy’s tank with him—just to check it out—but it wasn't like there was much to see considering the tank is itty-bitty and there's not even much room for Tommy to curl up and sleep.
The mer’s name was Schlatt. The strangest thing about him was that, instead of fins on his temples, he had these big, beige horns curling around some sort of cow-esque ears. Maybe a ram. Tommy hasn't seen enough of the humans’ cattle to know what they belonged to. Either way—someone like Schlatt had to be a unique type of hybrid.
He was nice, too. Funny. Kept him company, made him laugh for the first time in years. Let Tommy scream at him when he got in the tank in the first place—no one’s allowed in it. Not even the captors try, because they know Tommy’s fangs are overgrown and sharp enough to bite off the skin on your neck. You're supposed to trim your fangs, but they won't even come close to making sure Tommy’s a mer that's being taken care of.
All the captors do is the bare minimum. Leave clean water at the top of the tank so he can drink. Drop in crumbs of food—krill, plankton, oysters—every few days just to make sure he doesn't starve.
He’s small. Possibly 5’5, 5’4, and Tommy knows he was supposed to be so much taller, most likely past 6’0. Because of the underfeeding he's endured, he probably won't even go past 5’6. His stomach caves in, you can see his ribs. Eyes, gone from a sparkling blue to a dull gray. His tail is ombré, a bright, crimson red at the top that shifts down to a sunset orange at the fins. His scales are broken, some are missing, some are overlapping each other; his hair—used to be a cropped blonde, is now long, probably reaching the tip of his chin. He's seen his reflection. There’s white streaks that plaster over his forehead, now. The dorsal fin on the back of his tail is chipped at, just like his fins at the end of his tail in general—choppy, fucked.
His webbed hands are all gross and disgusting, probably plastered completely with some sort of parasite. The scales lining his skin in particular have been picked at by Tommy over the years—exactly why he's taken a liking to a habit of biting his nails and scales, mainly due to nervousness. Or even to get rid of them.
He's a mess. He's uncared for. He's also only seventeen.
A mistake, the losers outside of his tank had said, gentle enough to prick his skin so hard the blood rolled down his fingertips and dyed the water. You weren't supposed to be born, Tommy.
Maybe not, Tommy thinks, grinning. But I can try to live, anyway. Even if I can't fulfill mine, I can sure as fuck try to make your’s hell.
—
“Behave,” one says, throwing him a raw cod fish. He catches it in his mouth, and spits out the spine. “There's someone very important coming today. They're going to see you; don’t fuck this up, or you're not eating for two weeks.”
“I thought you did that anyway,” Tommy mutters under his breath, coughing out a broken, mangled, bloody scale.
They ignore him. They're used to his back talk at this point, they've realized there's no point in getting mad at him because the comments can't hurt them. It makes Tommy grin, though, at the physical responses he receives, despite not getting one verbally. A flick of the wrist, a furrowed brow. Sometimes their lips move downwards more than they already are when they see his face.
Tommy finds pleasure in something so stupid. That they get upset whenever Tommy gets on their nerves, but refuse to give Tommy the happiness of seeing it visibly. Jokes on them. He's more observant than they think.
(Idiots. That's what they get for holding a lot of bigotry within them towards fish-people.)
“Philza,” they say, meeting his eyes. Tommy stares back blankly. “he's got a mountain-sized chip on his shoulder, and is known by half of the higher-ups in our business. Everyone who meets him seems to have the shit knocked out of their ass because he's scary as fuck. Don't ever look him in the eye.”
Internally rolling his eyes—this Philza guy doesn't scare him. He's never been afraid of any of the people they bring around, but he doesn't care, because he keeps his mouth shut simply because he doesn't wanna fuckin’ starve. “He's bringing along some assistants. Don't look at them either, or that's two slashes to your back.”
Tommy shivers. He doesn't like showing that whippings hurt, but he knows they know. Thankfully, they don't happen often, but he’s unlucky enough to have quite enough scars to prove that they happened in the first place. The first time it happened he cried so hard he vomited—second time ended up biting on his fingers so hard he ended up breaking a thumb. Tommy doesn't plan to have a third.
He salutes them, mocking. “You got it, boss.”
They glare at him, and spin on their heels. Their shoes click as they walk down the hallway, brushing up excess water behind themselves. Tommy bites his lip, and scratches at the patch of scales underneath his hip. He winces—that part is sensitive— but continues anyway.
Lowering himself back into the tank, he tries to hide himself away in the stupid fish decorations they had sloppily placed inside for some sort of pathetic decor. If anything, he'd have more room without it here.
Fuck, Tommy mouths, almost a whisper, his eyes watering. Fuck.
—
Philza is a lot more intimidating than he expects him to be. A fine, black suit — paired with a forest green tie. His hair is uncannily similar to Tommy’s, just longer, wavy curls resting against his shoulders, with a light green bucket hat that looks so dumb he can't help but snort, bubbles floating above his head.
He does listen to orders, though, keeping his head down when Philza is looking at him—hiding behind the decor in the tank just to make it easier for himself. It doesn't surprise him one bit at how the detainers make sure to drag the man away whenever he tries to get close to his fishbowl; he’ll squint, try to knock on the glass to get Tommy to look at him, and they’ll go It’s not worth looking at it, move along.
The only time in his life his short stature is helpful is now, because the fact his tail is shorter than an average mer is saving his ass. He can curl up into himself and be confident they can't see him from outside the water.
While Philza is turned away, Tommy’s stomach curls. The blond stands straight with his hands by his sides, but his nails are sharp as fuck. And it looks as almost as the space between his fingers are webbed, matching Tommy’s own hands.
He’s a mer, Tommy realizes, his eyes homing in on the man even closer, hoping. Or Siren. They said everyone was afraid of him. But he's like me.
He ignores the assistants with a passion, because he doesn't want to get his back slashed with a worn-out, blood-stained whip. They try to peer into his tank—Tommy pointedly looks away, hiding. He can hear heated conversation behind the door, before it stops.
There's a moment, then. “Can I speak to him?”
“Sir, I’d—”
“Can I speak to him?”
Silence, so Tommy assumes he's coming this way. The hatch at the top of his tank creaks—sunlight pours in, lighting up against the mold on the glass—and a face hovers above the glare of the water. Tommy assumes he wants him to swim up and speak to him, but, it's not like he trusts the idea of Philza trying to lure him out to show he's not listening to his captors orders.
“You can come out,” soft, gentle, his voice lighting up Tommy’s darkness, “I know they're mean to you. I’m not going to hurt you—and I know for a fact you don't believe me—but I’ll do my best to convince you.”
Tommy chirps, trilling quietly, questioningly, and it bounces off the walls, hopefully making it to his ears. He replies in kind, clicking his tongue, and Tommy hums, trying to ignore the part of his stomach that becomes infatuated.
It's a little similar to limerence. Maybe Tommy wants Philza to love him, since no one ever has. He's never even spoken to him besides now, but he can feel himself getting attached.
Weak, his mind chants. Love, his heart retorts.
“I promise,” Philza reminds. Tommy moves upward, tail sloshing hesitantly, and his head pokes above the water. “Oh, kid.”
Tommy dips his head shamefully. He must be a sight, hair choppy and ugly, his ears—a crimson red, the webs of the fins flicking pathetically—all messed up. His torso is covered in scars, and like before, he knows Philza can see the way his skin is probably more gray than a pale beige, his bones showing.
“What's your name?”
“Tommy,” he replies, voice tilted. His eyes flick to Phil’s with an interested, yet judging gleam. He glances at him, before looking away once more. “You?”
“Philza, but you can call me Phil,” he smiles tightly, and Tommy can notice how angry he looks. He chitters, asking a silent question.
He clicks back in return. “I’m not angry, not at you. Just—” he cuts himself off, sighing, strained. “you don't deserve this.”
He signs towards his tank. Towards the crumbs of food left besides the hatch. The empty water bowl. “You're being taken care of like a stray dog.”
“It's not like you can do anything,” Tommy mutters. Phil smiles, sad. “I've been here for years. Mer catching is illegal, but everyone who comes by here never snitches because they fuckin’ pay them shit.”
The man grins, cheeky. “See, I have an organization I run,” Tommy raises an eyebrow, “that's not like this one. I’m a mer myself, and I handle multiple different types of mer back at my aquarium.”
“Only mer can take care of mer, Tommy,” Phil stands, brushing himself off. “I came here because my buddy Schlatt let me know there's a mer here that needs help.”
Tommy’s interest piques, and he gasps, almost pulling himself out of the tank. Water splashes onto his shoes, and soaks right into his skin—water doesn't bother mer. “You know Schlatt?”
“He's friends with my son. Let me know I need to come help you out of this shithole.”
Tommy’s nervous his captors will walk in here any moment now—but he trusts Phil. You're too trustful, his brain whispers. He’ll let you down. Tommy reaches up a hand, spreading the fingers out so his webs spread, out on the lid of his tank. “I can't walk.”
“You—” Phil blinks. He doesn't blame him. Not many mer don't know how to walk. “I should expect this. Of course you've never been taught to— fuck— I’m gonna have to carry you back.”
He hisses, baring his fangs at the blond so quickly Phil jumps away at the sight. He knows his pupils dilate like he's a fuckin’ cat when his mad—Tommy would be scared too. “You're not laying a goddamn hand on me.”
Phil raises his hands placatingly, mentally noting to trim his fangs when they bring him home. “That's alright, kiddo, I won’t.”
“Then how am I getting home?”
“Someone else will take you,” he says simply, and Tommy snarls.
“I thought you were good."
“I’m sorry!” Phil sounds genuinely sorry, apologetic. Tommy knows he is—but he promised. He promised not even five minutes ago, and he met him five minutes ago, and Tommy’s already been stabbed in the neck with a piece of bone. “I’m sorry, I really am, but there’s no way I can get in any time to teach you to walk while we're here, and I’m sure as hell not forcing you back home. Someone else can do it—my son will. He’s a mer.”
“I don't give two shits that your son is a mer, or that he's your son," and Tommy's hands tremble, “no one is laying their hands on me.”
—
“Stop!” Tommy screams, and he shakes and squirms, attempting to get out of the guy’s grip with the power of a thousand-fucking-suns, “Let me go!”
After Phil had left yesterday with his assistants, it had been hell for Tommy.
He had gotten whipped anyways. Apparently, someone had overheard Phil yesterday, speaking to him—only that they were conversing, not what they were actually saying—and had let his captor know. He got ten slashes consecutively across his spine, it aches, it hurts so fucking bad, he knows it's probably infected and it still hurts even as he screams and sobs in this person’s arms.
Philza and the man had fuckin’ decked the men taking care of him. Tommy had jumped for joy internally, because he's wanted to do that since the dinosaurs roamed, but he couldn't or else he'd get a slap across the face. The guy had pink hair that reached his shoulders, hands in his pockets, a small scar across his nose. Quite clearly a mer, maybe about six foot, twenty-something years old. He's probably Phil’s adopted son, and Tommy recoiled as he had jumped into the tank.
The son—Techno, Phil had called him—was muscular as fuck. The chances of Tommy breaking free were slim, but he had at least some pity for the blond because his crimson eyes didn't look happy in the slightest at the fact he had to take Tommy by force.
I’m sorry, Phil had pleaded, I just want you safe.
He gets it. He does, truly, but he didn't want it to be like this.
“ Please,” his voice dips, shaking, pressing himself against his stupid, muddy, claustrophobic tank. “please, please, please—” he’s full on trembling, his tail barely able to stay still. Techno’s tail is a soft, pastel pink, scars visibly carved into the sides. “I don't want to do this, please, I don’t want to do this—”
“Kid, I’m sorry,” Techno says, moving forward, hands out in front of him. His voice is blank, monotone, but Tommy can tell he's upset. “you can't live like this anymore.”
Techno’s hands curl around his wrists, an arm sliding around his waist, until it’s pressed flat against his chest. His tail swishes in the water shakily, panicky, and Tommy’s hyperventilating so hard he’s surprised he hasn't passed out. “ Stop!”
“Tommy-” the grip loosens, just a little, and Tommy tries to relax- but he can’t. It's been in his blood to fight back, to snarl at his detainers with a nasty glare, with narrowed eyes. Tommy throws a clawed hand in his direction, growling as loud as he can, tail flapping—and hits Techno right across the cheek. He yells out, and Tommy’s eyes widen.
He didn't mean to- he didn't-
Techno cradles his cheek, floating helplessly- and Tommy-
Tommy bursts into tears. Techno’s hands stop, confused, as Tommy cries, spinning himself so he can hide away from Techno’s eyes—he doesn't even know him. He doesn't know him. He doesn't understand. Techno finally gets the nerve to speak up, gently, holding back the pain of the wound. “It's alright, Tommy, we’re gonna help you.”
You’ve done enough, he thinks bitterly, you’ve done a-fuckin’-nough.
Maybe he wants Schlatt. Maybe he wants his captors—because they were a constant, a mean constant, but they were there. He's never had a Phil. He's never had a Techno. But his hands are gentle against his cheeks, even as he's tugged out of the only tank he's lived in his entire life. As Phil hovers in concern, trying to wrap bandages around the open wounds that are his whipping scars. As Techno tries to bridal carry comfortably, to make sure he doesn't fall out.
He feels Techno’s tail fade away into legs, yet Tommy’s own stays out in the water, flopping like a suffocating fish—because that's what Tommy is. A fish, suffocating silently. Tears drip down his cheeks, blending with the leftover droplets of the water from his fishbowl.
He chirps, weak, and Techno repeats the sound back at him. It's a comforting one, low and gravelly, with a rumble in his chest.
A mistake. You weren't supposed to be born, Tommy.
Comfort. A sought after feeling.
But what is comfort, if you don't deserve it?
—
The first thing he sees when he wakes up is bright light.
He's lying on his stomach, which is strange, and his back burns. That's probably why. There’s compression on his torso, bandages, and it's wrapped around the meat of his hands, too.
He's also in water. On a table. In water.
Maybe a pool? A table placed underneath the water, but elevated enough that half of Tommy is in and the upper half on his body horizontally is out? That could work—so his bandages don't get damp and fuck up the heavily-needed healing process of his whipping leftovers.
He feels clean. His webs feel cleaned of parasites, his hair probably doesn't have any shit in it anymore, lice, bugs, etc. etc. There's bandages on the fins of his tail, his dorsal fin has a gauze on it—also probably why he's not on his back, Tommy, idiot— he also doesn't smell half bad. His fangs are still there, he thinks, his tongue glossing across his teeth. Long and overgrown and poking his inner-lips.
There's someone also watching him.
He turns his head to the side, tail flapping in the water weakly. “Techno,” he croaks.
The man looks heartbroken. Hair falling in his face—his tail is still out, floating in the water sadly. The pink looks darker than usual. “Hullo.”
It's awkward, but Tommy manages to narrow his eyes. “You fuckin’ suck, man.”
“I deserve that, honestly,” Techno lays his clawed hand on his temple. “I truly do. Phil wanted me to come grab you and I wanted to make sure you were safe.”
“You've never even fuckin’ met me.”
“I have now.”
A silence. Tommy sniffles. “I’m sorry for scratching your eyes out,” he glances at the bandaid on his cheek. “I didn’t—”
“It's okay. You were just upset. You've been kept in a box for- what? Over a decade? I’d wanna scar someone's face too.” He chuckles. “But I would like it more if that person wasn't me.”
Another silence. Tommy inhales shakily, holding back tears he hasn't shed in years. His back aches, his scars ache, his head aches, his heart aches. He wants to go home. He doesn't know where that is.
“Where’s Phil?”
“Grabbing Wilbur,” Techno sighs. “my younger brother. By like a year or two. He’s a Siren, by the way. Don't panic, though, he's not like the legends. Well. Kinda. Don’t take my word for it.”
A Siren. He's a Siren. Tommy can't judge Sirens since he's never met them before, but they ultimately scare Tommy. They can fool and trick people, and the look in Techno’s eye doesn't help one bit.
“That's helpful,” he mutters. Techno grins, holding down a snicker.
He swims towards the teen, who looks absolutely exhausted. Ruffling his hair, hesitant, before he dishevels it without holding back. Tommy muffles a smile at the action, and Techno’s lips perk. “Wilbur would like you.”
“Yeah?”
“Mm.”
His eyes flutter, and Techno’s own soften. “Go to sleep, kiddo. I’ll be here when you're up. If I’m not, it’ll be Wil.”
Tommy sleeps.
—
Techno is not there when he wakes up.
It's a Siren. Brown hair curling over an eye, fangs curling out of his mouth meanly, eyes daring. His tail is a mustard yellow, but it changes slightly when the sunlight shines on it. Brown fins on his temples, protruding outwards, brownish-yellow, slitted pupils staring back at him. The scales on his arms are sharper than Tommy’s own, if he squints.
Wilbur. He notices Tommy staring at him, and his fangs make an appearance. “Hello, sweetheart , welcome to the land of the living.”
He doesn't like him. Not one fuckin’ bit, and Tommy doesn't like anyone. “Shut the fuck up.”
“Ooh,” Wilbur gasps, placing a webbed hand over his lips, “he's got a mouth on him, doesn't he?”
Tommy’s fists shake, and he pulls himself into a sitting position, sitting on the table while his tail hangs in the pool. “I already don't like you.”
“Didn’t plan for you to.” He grins, mocking. “Oh, did that hurt your feelings?”
He turns away, “No. Leave me alone.”
He should feel bad, for turning away on someone who was watching over him, but he can't force himself to.
There's splashing—and Wilbur is gone.
—
He manages to stay away from Wilbur for a few days, only occasionally running into him for a moment—but he swims away before Wilbur can get a word in.
The entire aquarium Phil owns is a complex, surrounded with tons of waterways and different pathways underground that mer and Siren can swim through to get to different parts of the building. Phil and Techno teach him the place, commonly hanging around Tommy while he's alone. It's not like he doesn't meet anyone—he meets tons of new people—which, takes a bit getting used to. He runs a few of them off, like Niki, who has a dark purple tail and pink hair—but she's not a mer or a Siren.
A selkie, Phil had murmured. A half seal, half human creature. They shed their skin when they go on land.
She didn't really appreciate his yelling or baring his fangs at her, but she's getting used to him. Another one is Ranboo, with a mismatched black and white tail, with red and green eyes. He's strangely relaxed, but nervous—Tommy’s quite fond of him. His friend is Tubbo, a quiet mer with a forest green tail. He's like Schlatt, with smaller horns.
Quackity is half duck, half mer. He's got wings and a tail, which is a light-ish, dark-ish navy blue. He’s funny as hell, and keeps Tommy company, along with George, with a cobalt blue Siren tail. Another duo, Sapnap—a fiery orange tail—and Dream—a lime green tail. Jack Manifold is the one he's closest to besides Sapnap, with a tan tail, mixed with specks of gold. Tommy teased him for the red and blue glasses he wears constantly. He's grown quite attached, which- Techno assured, was completely natural and okay. All of them are like his older brothers, but no one beats Techno.
Techno has been extra sweet to him, bringing him different types of fish, giving him affection when Tommy craves, switching his bandages when he asks for it. He ruffles his hair, gives him hugs, let him sleep on his shoulder—he's tried to get Wilbur and Tommy to talk more, but every time he tries, Tommy ends up attempting to bite his arm off.
Phil tries to teach him how to grow legs in his off time, ruffling his hair when he can't figure it out, pacifying him with a gentle smile when he gets pissed off at the difficulty. You'll get it next time, he'd say, I believe in you.
But it never worked.
It’s hard, fitting in. He still jumps whenever Quackity yells too loud or Jack’s voice grates on his nerves. He barks at Dream sometimes and slaps at Niki’s gentle hands when she comes too close. His eyes go blurry, and he wishes he didn't have to hurt the only friends he’s had in years. Wishes he didn’t have to hide the scars that paint his back like a canvas, or that frame his jaw.
Wilbur notices. It's strange that Wilbur notices, considering he's the one person Tommy hasn't connected with. He realizes when Tommy gets insecure and hides his face so no one judges, he realizes when he flicks his tail away so no one can see the choppy edges of the crimson flesh at the end, that sticks to the rest of the muscle. How does Wilbur fuckin’ get it? Tommy thinks. Wilbur doesn't even like me.
“I like you,” Wilbur says, and Tommy jumps out of his skin. “you're a cute kid.”
He shoves down I’m not a kid! “Where the fuck did you come from? How did you-”
Wilbur stares at him, eyes peering through him—he's made of china. His heart isn't his, it's Wilbur’s. The man’s fins flick, his tongue rubbing against a fang. “Sweetheart, you were mumbling.”
Sweetheart is a name Wilbur hasn't dropped since the first day they met. But he only calls him it in front of Tommy himself. Only Tommy in front of their friends.
“Okay.” Tommy blinks, baring his teeth. “And?”
Wilbur’s face doesn't change. Before—Wilbur’s head dips under the surf, and he swims away Tommy is capable of moving.
Oh, Tommy’s head clears. I get it.
—
Wilbur becomes a lot more caring after that interaction. At dinners, he slides him extra krill, and when Tommy glances at him, silently asking for more, he openly hands him his extras. His tail curls around Tommy’s when they rest in the water, like a cat’s around its owner’s ankle. His eyes sparkle a little brighter whenever Tommy asks him to help with something; he gets it. He understands.
It’s an offering of friendship. Wilbur’s trying to get through to him.
It takes weeks, Tommy knows, but they’re brought together by an invisible string. Maybe the clinking of two red cups together, a third one as well; Techno, if he so chose. A hole in his heart gapes, and it's filled by someone like Wilbur. A Siren.
Shocker.
He likes Wilbur, he finds. When he's not making fun of Tommy for something extremely trivial, he's sweet, he's nice. He’s finally moved nicknames, from sweetheart—to now darling, or my love, or lovely. He drops a baby once, but that was when Tommy was crying from a nightmare, and the first person he went to was Wilbur. Tommy never blushed when he was called the original, he doesn't blush, but something about the others really prods at him in the best way possible.
It's comforting to have someone so affectionate towards him. George is practically the opposite, constantly insulting him—Tommy knows he cares, because his eyes soften whenever Tommy looks upset—and it's nice to have someone who can handle a little steam that isn't Schlatt.
Techno’s noticed, too. He asked him about it.
“So you like Wilbur now?” Techno’s fangs gleam. “I didn't know you could make such a hard decision so easily, so quickly, Tommy.”
“Shut up,” Tommy deflects the question. “I don't like him.”
"Sure you don't,” he muses, pulling his hair into a small ponytail. “sure, sure.”
Techno's definitely an older brother to him, then. He's a prick, a bitch, and a loser! All in one. (Just like Wil—does that make Wilbur his brother, too?) “I hate you.”
“No lying,” Techno deadpans, clicking. “So dishonorable of you.”
Wilbur makes his way over, throwing his arm over Techno’s and Tommy’s shoulders. Techno recoils at the contact, and Tommy glares at him for doing it in the first place. “You love me, sweetheart, you know you do.”
That's the first time a pet name was used in front of someone besides the two of them alone. Tommy flushes at the look Techno gives him. His chirp moves into the sound of a trill, irritated. “Throw yourself into incoming traffic, Wil.”
Wilbur’s hand cups his cheek from where it sits, laying on his shoulder, curling up to grab his face gently. “I don't think I will, bro, I just don't think I will.”
—
He wakes up in a cold sweat, that night. Cold fingers ghosting his cheeks, pulling at his shirt, his hair, an evil chuckle—the harsh sound of a rope hitting skin, of bare hands touching bare shoulders, bare cheeks. Blood rolling down his spine, his face, off his jaw and into the water.
It's too small! Tommy would scream at them. I can’t fuckin’ breathe, man! Please!
And they'd never listen, because of course they wouldn't. They'd pretend they're not holding a literal child hostage, away from somewhere where he could be safe. Safe away from their grimy, bloody hands.
Safe in Sapnap’s palms, his arms holding him close. Dream's bright green eyes, matching his tail. Of Quackity’s yellow wings, how they flutter when he calls him Big Q. How Niki smiles bigger whenever he thanks her for making him something sweet. How Ranboo’s tail flutters faster happily whenever Tommy gives him a hug, or when Tubbo sighs when he ruffles his overgrown fluff. Or when Phil lets him sleep up against his side, lying in the pool, his green tail flapping softly, as to not wake him up.
How Techno would hold his face so gently he can't feel him, ground him, let him know he's okay. How Wilbur would take him by the chin and tell him it’ll get better.
He's been through hell, he knows that much. He knows he deserved better than what he was given. That he deserved to be loved, to be cared for, the way he is by all his friends now.
Wilbur. He wants Wilbur. And Techno. And Phil. For someone to hold him close—something he's hated ever since they brought him into that damn tank—to be touched so gently he knows he's alright. That he's protected from someone who doesn't deserve someone like himself.
He swims to Wilbur’s quarters, tears running down his cheeks, but they float away underwater. “Wil?”
A yawn; a tail flaps around the room, water rushing in his direction. “I- hm? Tommy- what the fuck are you-”
“ Wil,” Tommy says, urgently, softly, yearningly . “Wilbur, Wil, please-”
Wilbur has a few seconds of shock, of him blinking in confusion before golden pupils widen and his arms outstretch to let Tommy tumble into them. “Oh, angel,”
“I’m sorry,” Tommy mutters for context, “but I need this— I need this.”
He holds Wilbur tight, and Wilbur’s own set softly on the back of his head, thumb rubbing back and forth softly. His other hand presses gently against his spine, yellow tail curling around him protectively, shielding him. Tommy’s own curls up into itself, so he can press further into his torso. “You can have as much as you want, kid, you can.”
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” the tears are gone, he won't cry—he doesn't cry, not if he has to—he won't do it. He won't. “I- Wil-”
“I've got you,” Wilbur fills in for him. “I know I didn't a few weeks ago, months, maybe, but I've got you. You're alright. You're not there anymore. Techno told me about the conditions you were stuck in, and trust me, Tommy, you don't deserve that. You're a good kid. Better than what I took you for.”
“I trust you,” he breathes. And he does. He trusts the brunette with his life. He'd hand the man his heart and let him point a loaded gun at it. “I trust you, so much, I do, I do. You and Techno and Phil. And everyone else.”
“I’m glad,” his hands press down a little harder, grounding. “I’m glad.”
Tommy, eventually, chooses to lay in Wilbur's arms until morning, because leaving is too much of a hassle, and going back to his own hidey-hole is so unappealing he says fuck it and stays with Wil. The man in question doesn't mind, letting Tommy stay wrapped up in his hold until the sun rises, and they swim out of his quarters, hand in hand. Techno shoots them a horribly fond, knowing smile, choosing not to acknowledge the leftover tear tracks left there just earlier.
(To eat, everyone else shifts into their leg form, except George, Wilbur, and Tommy. Sirens can't shift, and Tommy can't walk, so they lay in the water portion. Everyone else sits at a table. This time, Techno stayed in the water with them.)
After breakfast, after Wilbur and Tommy kick each other's ankles like children, after Techno knocks his shoulders against Tommy’s, making him drop his orange juice, Tommy tugs both of them by the hand into the water.
And they play like children. Tommy follows after their tails, both of them taunting him; it's what he needs, really, after getting comfort ( comfort, Tommy realizes. I got what I wanted all this time. I thought I never could.) from Wilbur, after having such a shitty night. He needed to mess around with the two people that mean most in his shitty life.
(Well. Not so shitty. Not after meeting them.)
Tommy crunches on a salmon, his fangs ripping into it like a feral animal. “Thank you.”
Wilbur stays quiet, and Techno sighs, fond. “For what, hm?”
Cracking his knuckles, he elaborates, “For being here.”
—
“Do you think we’d be here now?”
Tommy turns to him, shifting from foot to foot. He kicks at a stray pebble, turning around to blink slowly at Wilbur, who kicks up his tail in the water, waving at him like it's a hand saying hello. “Where?”
Wilbur looks at him up and down, at his legs. “Here.”
Oh. Tommy turns to Techno, whose got a blanket over his head, slumped against Phil—who chats to Techno idly, even if the pink-haired man won't respond properly. “Here?”
“Here,” Wilbur lays a hand on his cheek. “you've come so far, my dear.”
“I never thought I wouldn't be stuck in that tank.”
“They got taken into custody, too.” Tommy turns to stare at him, gasping, his eyes widening. He finishes Wilbur’s sentence. “My—”
“Your captors, those pricks. They found them. They're going to jail, for a lifetime. Child abuse, illegal mer containment, other shit, but we got you out of there.”
Tommy’s eyes are full with tears when he glances back up. “You saved me. All three of you.”
Wilbur smiles. “You've been saved.”
"I never thought you'd ever like me, either. I thought I was stuck with you just—hating me forever."
"I never hated you," Wilbur sighs fondly, "I wanted to get under your skin."
"Of course you did."
"But know we love you, Tommy. We do."
He knows. He'll know till the end of time. Till he dies. Till he no longer pumps blood through his body.
And—that is something, Tommy finds comfort in.