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Chapter Text

Tommy was born for the spotlight.

It seemed like an arrogant thing to say, and maybe that’s true. But in all fairness, it wasn’t something said out of proportion. It was true, it was a fact. He was born to be behind the camera, bred and born for his face to be cast on the large stretches of an IMAX movie screen. 

It was in his blood after all, his father was a well-known director throughout Hollywood. Great movies like The Chasing of Elwood Skillet, and inspirational documentaries over the tragic murder of James Canopy. All in his father’s creation, the man was cherished by the nation for his great deeds, Oscars and Academy Awards lined his walls.

Well, they might have, it’s not like Tommy really knows. The man died when he was three and wasn’t around a real lot in the first place, Hollywood was a full-time job after all.

Unlike his father, his mother on the other hand wasn’t famous like the infamous director. The only reason she was even remotely in the public eye was because she married the guy. But that didn’t mean she didn’t have her resources, connections.

His mother was obsessed with money and fame. The second the man died the woman eyed her child like a hawk, looking for anything that could get her remotely any profit. Took his three-year-old ass to every party and affair in the city she was invited to, all in pity for the new widow. Trying to seep out compliments and gazes from anybody who was anyone, trying to get his face out there in the public. 

Tommy vaguely remembers nights sitting on the living room floor, playing with his toys while his mother raged in the kitchen on the telephone. Pacing the tile as she screamed over the phone to producers and talent agencies, trying to get her newly four-year-old son on anywhere or anything she could possibly manage to soak out a quick buck for. 

He didn’t know how the crazed bastard did it, but she did. She somehow landed him a gig as a small part on some shitty TV show at the ripe age of four. Some medical show where he was only going to be on for one tear-jerking episode, having to act like he was a cancer patient about to die in the pediatric unit, crying to his ‘mother’ about he didn’t want to die so young. 

He didn’t know if the director pitied his mother or was afraid of her but either way, Tommy got the part. And everything was history after that.

After his debut on some scraggly, scarcely funded medical program people were astonished by the four-year-old who had the miraculous ability to break out into sobs and blubbering the second the clapperboard snapped shut, the second the scene was called into action he was in action.

Maybe it was psychopathic in some shape of way, but even at such a young age Tommy was able to take whatever emotion someone gave him and just do it. Whatever role, whatever part they wanted him to play he had this estranged ability to take it on with a breathtaking accuracy without question, without hesitance. 

And producers ate that shit up. Getting child actors that didn’t want to run around and play with their little toys and games? Who just wanted to play the role ? It was like looking for a needle in a haystack, especially since there wasn’t much raw talent out there, there weren’t many of him out there.

It was almost like he was the only one.

And gods did they act like it. 

Life after that was a flourish of cameras and old men in barbeque-stained suits shoving him out under the boom mics, self-assured producers bending down and cooing at him his role and part, trying to baby him before shoving him out with the same force as the old men. Just this time with a smile on their face and a new cash prize under their noses.

Tommy was put on Old Navy magazine covers to Anthropologie catalogs, from small parts as the energetic child on Sunday sitcoms to the undead six-year-old on zombie TV shows, dining on his father’s brains.

As much as they loved him for his talent they adored him for his mother’s fawner personality, how she carelessly told the producers and directors that ran her adolescent son to the bone that she took child labor laws as more of a suggestion than actual enforcement. The law that was made to ensure kids like him weren’t being exploited by being forced to work more than seven hours a day, simply brushed off in her eyes. 

It wasn’t like anyone had the guts to snitch about it anyways. As long as he was making others money it didn’t matter if he could barely stand after the numerous takes and outtakes, if he passed out on the shitty little couches scattered around set for the mere hours of the day where he wasn’t being used. While his mother sweet-talked producers into giving him more and more roles to take on, more and more money in her pocket. 

And as he got older it only got better and better for his career and worse and worse for his health, word spread around Hollywood about ‘Tommy Malarvo: the next big thing’. The mere child who could out act middle-aged men who have devoted their lives to the screen, the child who was born for the stage, his father’s passion for film coursing through his veins. 

After a year or two of a continuous cycle of waking up and doing whatever the flurry of assistants and managers, producers and filmmakers told him to do, at the ripe age of eight he finally started to land some bigger roles.

A lot of them were just acting as the younger version of the main character, it wasn’t like many people were out there searching for an eight-year-old to play the lead. But even as young as he was, he knew he had to play the part to the best of his ability. That the big roles like these could make or break his career, and he had to take it by the reigns, show the people he was the future of Hollywood.

And that he did.

Some of his biggest movies to the day were those same roles, playing a young Theseus in a movie retelling of the tragic Greek tale. A movie that took over the box office like a tsunami, money and fame poured into his resume like a waterfall of gold. Suddenly everyone knew him as the blonde child who played the youthful version of the infamous Greek Hero, who some even say played the part better than the actual lead. 

When that movie won an Oscar he remembers that feeling, the feeling of being on top of the world at such a young age. The fact he was in a movie with an Academy Award at eight years old? He was astonished, as was the rest of the world. 

Those small parts on TV shows and kid’s magazine covers were practically nonexistent after that, he was better than those roles by a mile. His eight-year-old ass had standards, he had a minimum wage in the millions . 

He began to star as the young child in heartbreaking features, in one of the more well-known films he was cast in he was a character going through the effects of a child succumbing to a parent’s divorce. The movie was positioned around him as the lead, diving into the mindset of the children left behind in a divorce, what it’s like for such young kids to have to choose a parent in court when it comes down to it.

Tearjerkers, coming-of-age films, even some comedies, you name it and he was in it. Any role that needed a young boy in the frame he was there and ready, always able to provide whatever scene they wanted from him. 

People around the world started to know the name Tommy Malarvo, the kid who was constantly playing the young eight-year-old boy for every movie that asked for it. And even then, as he grew up into his teenage years producers still couldn’t get enough of him. Constantly keeping him busy.

Most child actors fell off the drawing board after they started to age past the twelve or thirteen mark, but not him. Maybe it was his mother, maybe it was his raw talent, maybe it was his long list of box office hits, but they continued to keep him behind the camera. Continued to manage his day-to-day life without a single thought of his interests in mind, simply pushing him into more and more sets, shaking more and more hands.

It became a routine, get up, eat the mandated meals given to him by his superiors, get shoved into a car and get whisked off into his next big thing, the world’s next big thing. Interviews where people asked him about his hobbies and interests and he kept up that big childish smile that everyone associated him with, lying and lying until his lips fell off. 

People saw the big blue eyes and baby fat clinging to his cheeks and called him adorable, unknowing of the eyebags washed away with a swipe of concealer behind it all, the way his hands trembled slightly from exhaustion every fleeting second. Everyone simply knew him as a kid , when you thought of a child you thought of the face of Tommy Malarvo, and that’s what kept his name alive.

And he was slowly but surely working himself out of that hole.

He was going to get older eventually and he had to make sure the people knew he could act as something more than just some incredulous child. So he began pleading for more and more mature roles. While most producers weren’t exactly overjoyed with the prospect of a child playing some of the more mature teenage roles they had, some did relent. 

Besides, his name simply being put onto a feature meant a wave of movie-enjoyers flocking to the theaters. By putting Tommy into maturer roles it would put to the test his acting skills and the people’s desires for him simultaneously. Meaning if he excelled at playing a larger part, in the long run it could make a bigger range of pictures they could shove his face in. 

Or in other words, more money for the filmmakers and more of an opportunity for him, killing two birds with one stone. 

And there was no way in hell the producers were passing up that.

So at fourteen, he started starring in coming of age films, horror, drama, thriller, you name it. His schedule was filled to the brim but he was okay with it, if he took all the long hours and sleepless nights now then once he was older he could finally relax . One day he would be sitting happily on his large sums of money on the coast of Bermuda, being fed grapes as watches the waves wash over the shore, free of the money-haggling vultures controlling his life.

His new wave of genres had people fucking loving it. Again . The child who was known for crying and making parents and hormonal pregnant ladies alike tear up was now making millennials and teens emotional all the same. Making them excited, making them sit on the edge of their seats, making them cheer, scream, sweat he could do it all. He was Tommy Malarvo after all.

Now in interviews, he was known as the teenager who could make quick quips and beckon a laugh out of anybody he wanted to. He had fame, he had a fortune. If he even stepped outside his luscious apartment home he had to be trailed by bodyguards as crowds would swarm him for a picture, an autograph.

Everybody knew his name or at least heard about him once or twice. Fan pages, edits, an adoring swarm of fans that would keep up with his every move. He was the teenager every teen aspired to be, he had that fantasy life everyone dreamed of. The golden child of the nation. He was adored by the public, Tommy Malarvo could do no wrong in their eyes. 

He was on top of the world.

And he still is today, his fifteen-year-old self now stood looking over the city in his luxurious apartment. A large window taking up the entire wall swarmed his home in natural light, modern-esc plants were scattered around the modern white couches and 50 inch TV screens. A large marble-topped kitchen was sat near the corner by the door, with glass lights hanging from the ceiling dazzlingly, black leather bar stools propped up against the island. 

Everything was basked in creams and airy greys, green plants were strewn around in matte black pots. Throw blankets that were never touched because Tommy could never get a fucking break were thrown over the couches, fluffy rugs, a glass coffee table in front of the couch surrounding the TV next to the window. 

And it was all his. 

There was a hallway near the entrance that took you down to the bedrooms, each as lush as the next. Even if only one of them was used.

His mother was currently on ‘vacation’ and had been running his career with his agent from the beaches of the Spanish coast. He’d call it less of a vacation and more of a full fucking move out seeing she has been there for four months. 

Besides, no one really cared if she wasn’t showing up to sets and workshops with him, if he’s there and was doing what he does best, making money, then nobody could give less than a shit if the hag was there with him or not. 

He couldn’t find it in him to care much either, seeing she was spending all of his hard-earned cash on the Spanish countryside. He was pretty sure that’s enough to prove his ‘love’ or whatever. 

He felt Shroud wind through his legs and he looked down to smile at the one-eyed cat. His manager wanted him to get a pet so the fans felt more ‘connected with his personal life’ or whatever the hell that meant. But when she tried to buy him a purebred Simonian he refused, getting his driver to take him down to the local pound. An hour later he took home a five-year-old one-eyed cat named Shroud that no one else wanted to take. 

He didn’t get why no one wanted him, Shroud was the light of his life. He was a big, entirely black, fluffy cat, and when he purred it made Tommy forget about the weight of the world on his shoulders. Shrouds one big green eye was all that mattered.

“How are you today, bud?” He cooes, leaning down to the ground and letting Shroud push his face into Tommy’s hand with an appreciative purr. The boy letting him and petting him just where he likes it, right behind the ears. “Big day today, isn’t it Shroud? Big, big day.” He sweetly murmurs, like how you would to a baby. 

Shroud just leans his head up so Tommy could pet under his chin and he laughs, this fuckin’ cat.

After a moment, he finally hears the inevitable commotion waiting for him behind his door and the star just sighs, sitting down on the floor and leaning onto the glass behind him as the door handle jangles with a key being turned into the multiple locks. Forcefully breaking and entering into his last five seconds of alone time before the day begins. Shroud, the saint, jumps into his lap and rubs against his chest reassuringly, knowing what comes next.

The door flies open with a slam and his usual posse waltz right on in like they own the goddamn place. Tommy’s manager was the first one to break through the doorframe, like usual, in her dark purple pantsuit and brown locks pulled back into a spotless bun, not a loose hair in sight. She had her usual handful of binders in her arms and immediately walked right over to the counter and sat them all down with her prissy fucking huff. He hates that bitch.

His personal assistant, his two wardrobe people, his usual bodyguard (that he actually really likes), and a couple of other people he has no idea what they do but were always in his house anyways walk in behind her, scattering around to do whatever they usually do. 

Once Prissy Teagan, what Tommy has elected to call his manager in his mind, snaps her head over to him it’s usually his calling that the day has started. The boy was sitting over by the window in his pajamas, glowing with the sunrise parting the sky behind him and with the cat in his lap that she's hated from the moment she met the thing. Her mouth downturns into a thin line and the celebrity braces himself. 

“What the hell are you doing Malarvo? Up, up, up. We don’t have all day for you to sit around with that thing , we have work to do.” She hisses, walking over and grabbing him up by the arm. Forcing Shroud to fall out of his lap with a low growl as she makes the star stand before her so she could drag him to his room with his two wardrobe people trailing behind. 

“He’s not a thing .” He angrily grumbles under his breath, priss pants just scoffs with a shake of her head as she lugs him into his bedroom and leaves him with his wardrobe people, parting with a slam of the door.

He has no idea who let that lady think she ruled the fucking world, but she needed to be humbled and soon . The fucker probably thought she was a holy royal highness because she could do whatever she wanted with him until he was eighteen years old and he could finally control his money and who he surrounds himself with. Or maybe it was because she was just a stone-cold bitch.

It was probably the latter.

Just like every morning, his two wardrobe people ruffled through his giant walk-in closet and talked amongst each other about what would look good on him for the day. He didn’t really have a problem with them, his only semblance of hatred for them was only because he wasn’t allowed to pick out his own outfits. But frankly, you wouldn’t want Tommy to pick out outfits for you either, so maybe it was for the best. 

After scrolling through Instagram for a bit and checking out what’s on other celebrities itineraries for the day, as well as messaging a couple of acting friends they finally picked out his clothes for him. One of them laying it on the bed with a smile and their usual ‘tada!’ that never fails to make him smile before he mutters a small thank you and goes into the bathroom to put it on.

It was a muddy blue sweater layered with a white t-shirt underneath, a simple silver chain that he fastens around his neck before moving onto the pants. They were beige polo pants that cuffed at the ankle, long white socks that he had to jump around to pull on. And finally, his signature clean red and white etched sneakers were waiting in the hands of one of his wardrobe personnel right outside the bathroom door. 

They fussed with him in front of the mirror for a little bit, making small talk that he answered to. It was a good way to start the morning anyways, if he went into set looking even the least bit grumpy it could lead to some sort of scandal.

People have been bashed for far less after all.

Once they finished up brushing through his blonde, unruly curls and spraying it with an absurd amount of products, along with adding some natural-looking amount of makeup to his face to clear up the eye bags and blemishes they deemed him good enough. Handing him a pair of small framed black sunglasses and sending him back to his manager waiting impatiently for him in the kitchen. 

“There you are Malarvo, you would think you were caught up in a house fire for how long it was taking you.” His manager ‘jokes’ walking over to him.

“We are literally in the same house.” 

She stands in front of him and grabs his face with her slimy octopus fingers, turning it from side to side. “Alright, good enough. Everyone ready to go?” She calls out into the room, giving his cheek a parting pat.

Curt nods go around the room and Tommy resists the urge to throw his head back and groan, can’t people just chill out for once in their fucking lives? 

“Great, let’s get this show on the road. Malarvo?”

He looks up to her as she nods for him to walk towards the door, his manager and bodyguard following him from behind as he listens to the silent command. The second his face is turned away from her though he rolls his eyes, this is so fucking stupid. 

His bodyguard, Sam, opens the door for him and he smiles up gratefully at the green-haired man, who immediately smiled back with a nod. 

Then he was back to his normal routine, walking down the hallway to the elevator, getting in and pressing the button to go down to the lobby only 15 stories down.

Before the doors slid open he does his annual quick check of himself in the reflection of the metal elevator doors, making sure he’s up to the Tommy Malarvo steaming hot standards. 

The contraption finally slides open and he takes his leave, walking through the lobby and waving to the receptionist with his casual smile that he does every single day. The star loved the way her eyes turned from lazy to starstruck every time he passed through.

The doorman greets him with a big grin and an in awe “Mr. Malarvo,” before pushing open the door for him. He smiles back and nods at the guy as he walks the short path across the sidewalk to the black Camaro awaiting him.

Sam pulls open the car door and Tommy mumbles a grateful ‘thanks’ as he slides into the seat, his manager following suit.

Sam pokes his head into the car and his grin turns fond as they meet eyes, Sam has been his bodyguard for years and has never failed to let the boy down for a single second. “Have a great day Tommy,” He beams, then shuts the car door behind him.

Leaving him alone with Greasy Bessy over here.

“Alright, so for today...” And then he immediately zoned out. This was his normal, Tommy was never told the night before what he was going to be doing the next day, always right before it was going to happen. Meaning every morning his manager gathered him up into the car, so there was no possible way he could avoid her, and told him his daily schedule. 

His agenda was usually filled, including everything from photoshoots to dinners or lunches with potential filmmakers wanting to shove him in their cast list. Events he has to attend, set hours he has to go to (which usually took up most of his time), etc.

Tommy usually ignored her as she ranted on about his day and let her drag him along until he could finally go back to bed. But today was different, because did she just say what he thinks she said?

“What?” Tommy blurts.

“--then after you’ll probably have to talk with the set team, you know how talkati- Oh, you weren’t even listening were you?”

“Yeah, yeah I was. Definitely, just- what did you just say though?”

She rolls her eyes, “I said we’re going to a reading for your newest film ‘Returning From the Pits’ .”

“No, no not that. Who did you just say was going to be in it?” He questions, leg bouncing with anticipation. He couldn’t have heard wrong right? He couldn’t of. 

This time when she smiles, it was as genuine as it gets. “Wilbur Craft, you’ll be co-starring with Wilbur Craft.”

Oh my fucking god.

Oh my- Holy shit. 

Yes, fucking yes-

“Holy shit!” No, no this can’t be real- “ Really?”

His manager nods excitedly, its a miniscule thing but he could see her eagerness reflecting off of his. While Tommy’s ambition was for meeting one of the greats, hers was for the wads of Franklins she’s going to bank off it. 

The star ignores the speculation, Wilbur Craft talking up the entirety of his thoughts. “I’m gonna-” He brushes his hair out of his eyes, looking out the window with an elated chuckle, chest soaring. “I’m gonna be in a Craft movie.”

“That you are.” She savors, resting a hand on his shoulder. “And you’re gonna do great .”

Wilbur Craft. Wilbur fucking Craft is going to be co-starring with him . Tommy . This is- this is the best day of his life. Fuck the Oscars, this right here, best fucking day of the century .

If you thought Tommy Malarvo was famous, gods you haven’t seen shit yet. The Crafts were like gods in Hollywood, the entirety of the movie scene was all held in their palms. 

Wilbur Craft, also known as Wilbur Soot was starring with him. The man known for his handsome looks and his even more charming demeanor, known for the girls around the country that swooned for him was starring with Tommy. The star was famous for the scandals and numerous rumors held behind his name, word spread that it was impossible to deny him, almost like some sort of siren’s call. Whenever Wilbur Craft asked you answered. 

He was notably known for the alluring way he was able to hold himself up, how by just standing in his presence you could feel whatever he wanted you to. Scared, infatuated, charmed, anything . He could do it with simply a look of an eye. 

He was a tall, lanky brunette who always knew how to dress right. While the star was an actor, a great one at that, he was also well known for his talent in music and playing the guitar. His voice was melodic and honey-sweet, sometimes Tommy even turns on his tracks and dances to it in the shower. 

He was fucking awesome. 

He had a brother named Technoblade that was equally as cool if you asked him. While the guy wasn’t exactly known for music per se, he was still as awe-inspiring in the boy’s eyes. Notorious for his long pink hair that was every director’s nightmare, but still somehow getting cast for every gig needing a brute anyway. 

He was most notably known as an action star, a nine-movie-long series called ‘The Blade’ proved that. It was a series about an everyday librarian suiting up at the dead of night to catch the criminals scouring the city, always with some big boss fight at the end of each one.

Tommy wasn’t really a big fan of action, if he did have time to watch a movie or two he would rather watch a classic or something that would make him feel something other than his ears ringing. But he still had to admit, the guy was pretty cool. He has seen a couple of comedies with him in it where they cast the action star as a joke, making him play some unbelievable role for his large frame to try and leech out a laugh or two out of the audience. 

But nonetheless, he was a great actor. He didn’t know much about the man off-screen but he did know the guy dressed like an 1800’s poet, never seen without his signature cream poet’s shirt and black bottoms. Paired with golden jewels and green gems, flashing off his wealth for all eyes to see. 

Tommy has watched a few interviews and the guy was more intimidating than anything, his sitting face was bleak and void of emotion. A lot of girls and guys alike still crushed on him though, the well-kept pink locks always knit into a loose braid kept viewers latched onto the TV screen. 

And finally, there was Phil Craft. Their father. 

And like the rest of the country, Tommy fucking loves the guy.

Phil made the Craft family. The man’s career was purely classics, every motion picture the infamous actor starred in immediately hit Hollywood history. Oscars, Academy Awards, Best Picture, Best Actor, everything . He had it all, any scene or glimpse at him on the movie screen was revolutionary . Phil Craft made people feel things they didn’t even know they could feel, he made it feel as if he was stepping around your living room spitting out lines with heart-stopping ease instead of being mounted on your common room wall.

A single glance at the man was virtually impossible, he was like a magnet pulling your eyes in. Any other actors or actresses in a scene with him all forgotten, you simply couldn’t bear to take your gaze away from the blonde-haired hotshot whenever he hit your retinas. It felt like sinking in his aura whenever you flicked on one of his vintage pictures. 

Tommy himself idolized the man, if he ever had any time to watch a movie it was Phil Crafts. Sometimes he would sit on the floor, jaw dropped as he hypnotically stared at the screen, taking in every movement and word leaving the actor’s lips. Pausing it periodically to try and say Phil’s lines himself, never amounting an ounce to the passion and precision behind the artistry of a Craft film. 

Phil Craft was Hollywood. He was the perfect rendition of an actor.

And Tommy’s going to be co-starring with his son, Wilbur Craft. 

What a fucking day.

______________________________________

Once they finally arrived at the studio he only had to talk to a few unimportant people for a couple minutes before he was finally allowed to go into his dressing room. 

Today was just a table reading anyways, which means they were going to have them all read through the script and test actors capabilities with each other, make some cuts, make some additions yada yada.

He wasn’t worried about it too much, well of that aspect, the only time he was ever cut at a script reading was simply because he was too young. They wanted a thirteen year old and he was only 11 at the time, barely scratching 12 so they let him go. But today they wanted someone just his age for the role, so he didn’t let the idea scare him. 

Thus the second his manager let him go the star booked it straight to his dressing room. Tommy didn’t even look around the room as he barrelled in, shutting the door and locking it behind him, immediately ripping his phone out of his pocket to dial Tubbo at the speed of light.

It only took a few rings until he answered.

“--ommy? What the fuck did I say about calling me so early- It’s like 8 A.M. ”

“Tubbo! Tubbo , you are not gonna believe this- fucking hell you are gonna piss your pants. Piss em, all over--”

“--get to the fucking point or I’m going back to bed.”

Tommy paces the room, feet burning into the carpet, “I’m- Wilbur Craft. I’m going to be in a movie with Wilbur shitting Craft.” 

A beat of silence.

Shuffling was heard on the other end of the line until Tubbo’s starstruck whisper fed through the receiver, “ Wilbur Craft? ”

“I know! I know! It’s crazy, this is crazy. Tubbo I’m gonna die, I’m gonna have a heart attack and die when I see him.”

“You’re- you’re- Wilbur Craft ?!” Voice raised. 

Tommy’s teeth glimmer under the dressing room lights, “Wilbur Craft Tubso, Wilbur Craft .”

“Oh my god. Oh my god .”

“I fucking know, I know !”

“Holy fuck! Fuck dying Tommy, you made it. You fucking- holy shit my best friends in a Craft movie.”

Tommy collapses into a leather couch with a breath of hot air, “I am! I am ! I’m gonna get so many bitches after this just you fuckin’ wait.” Placing the phone on speaker and laying it on the cushion beside him. 

Tubbo develops into crazed stutters for a few seconds, in awe, and Tommy tunes him out for a moment. Letting his brain run like a locomotive as flashes of Wilbur Craft cross his mind. 

Tubbo stops rambling and they sit in a comfortable silence for a moment, Tommy grinning up at the popcorn ceiling like an idiot as he ponders over the man he’s going to be meeting in the coming hour. 

After a beat Tubbo’s voice suddently picks back up, this time sour, “What- Wait- Tommy what the fuck are you gonna do?”

Huh.

The boys grin melts a bit, “What do you mean?”

More shuffling, “You literally fangirl about him like a little bitch constantly , you needa’ make a good first impression.”

“What the fuck?! I do not .”

“You called me crying in the shower because you ‘couldn’t sing like the great Wilbur Soot’.”

“I was close thank you very much, I was like an angel .”

“When you started singing I thought you stuck your head in a garbage disposal.” Tubbo deadpans.

Tommy sits up with an offended grumble, “Y’know what?! I’d like you to try singing like him, because it is hard . Hard . And I would know, because I have the talent to sing just like the fuck.” He stands up, going off speaker.

“If you put me and him on American Idol together, you wouldn’t even know the difference between us.” Tommy sputters, thinking about how he was craving one of those complimentary croissants they serve.

“Trust me, I could hear your goblin voice a mile away.”

“Fuck you bitch boy.” 

“You still need to make a good first impression y’know,”

Tommy walks up to his dressing room door, deciding to indulge himself with one. “I am the great Tommy Malarvo, I’m not scared of some stupid-”

He turns the door handle, “-little singer that I could best any day with my marvelous throat muscles.”  He steps out and faces the door, not looking around. “And just so you know they are gnarly. Way gnarlier than Wilbur Crafts. ” Tommy adds confidently, pulling the door shut in front of him.

Blissfully ignorant to the force of nature behind him. 

“Stupid, huh?” A voice purred.

Oh fuck.

Oh fucking fuck.

Before you make any assumptions, he would like to say he did not shriek like a little girl and if he did it was manly as he flew twenty feet in the air, skittering away like a fucking raccoon. Dropping his phone with a small thump in the calamity. 

Tommy could hear Tubbo’s off-speaker screaming coming through the now grounded phone but he could barely think properly, nonetheless shut the bitch up.

Wilbur Craft just heard him call him stupid.

Wilbur fucking Craft just heard him call him stupid.

Well folks, its over. Rest in Peace Tommy Malarvo, hello to your local garbage man extraordinaire Tom Malvo. He’s gonna have to change names, move to another country. Do they have garbage men in Russia? Maybe they have deluxe garbage men in Finland.

Finland it is then lads, bye-bye fame and fortune. Hello dumpster diapers.

Tommy slowly turned around to meet the man's cool gaze, feeling searing all the same, body blanching as he pulled a nervous smile on his face as he got his first real life look at his idol.

The star was casually leaned back on the hallway wall, arms crossed over his chest with his ankles intertwined as he leant back. His chin was tilted downwards, scanning over the boy in front of him with a curious gander, making Tommy’s heart jump into his throat. His lips were slimmed into a smirk as his eyes looked Tommy’s form up and down.

He was dressed in a black-fitted turtleneck that was clinging to his frame, with a same shade ebony suit jacket. His pants were the same shade of beige as the youngers but instead he had a black belt holding them up, outfit spun together with black dress shoes. He had golden thin wired glasses held on the bridge of his nose, his molasses locks were blocking out a single hazel eye as he stood. And finally, an expensive looking watch was fastened on his wrist, and a slim golden chain was dangling from his throat, a gleaming emerald fastened onto the gold.

Or in other words, he looked intimidating as fuck. 

And Tommy was screwed. So fucking screwed. 

“Wilbur! My man--!” Fuck, fuck, fuck. “I mean um- Mr. Soot- Mr. Craft? Yeah, yeah um- uh- heyyyyyy, how are- are you today?” Tommy nervously stammers, biting his lip.

The other just narrows his eyes in response, shit.

“Nice weather were having here huh?” Tommy splutters, rocking on the balls of his feet. Kill him, god please kill him. “Nice, nice weather. Mhm, great weather.” Please god someone come airstrike this goddamn hallway, he’s begging you. 

“I guess so.” The older simply hums, his eyes dragging across the youngers frame and it felt as if a surge of ice was plunging through his body. 

Tubbo was still screaming on the other end of the line and Tommy looked down at his phone before gazing back up, Wilbur’s eyes still drilling him to the bone. He gave off a nervous laugh as he stepped on his phone and kicked it backwards, sliding it underneath the hole under the door with a weak, too wide, too fake grin at his now pissy idol.

The man simply watched it slide, looking back up to meet his eyes and shook his head. “So,” He leans off the wall, “I guess you're my great co-star everyones been on and on about. What's the name? ‘Malavo?’ ” 

“ Tommy Malarvo, and um- I guess I am.” He shakily wets his lips, “And um- Mr. Soot- Mr. Craft? I just wanted to say I am so sorry for calling you stupid- That wasn’t my intention at all.” Fuck, he should probably make an excuse. Good idea, he’s great at those. “I didn’t mean to call you stupid. Yeah, I was uh-” Think of a word, c’mon Malarvo. “Stupendous. Yeah, yeah! I was calling you stupendous.”

Wilbur seemingly did not take the bait, simply raising an eyebrow at the words. “And here I thought you weren’t going to be the child they say you are.” He sneers, and it feels like a dagger to his chest. 

Fuck. 

Tommy suddenly feels an urge to go on the defense, even if he should very much not. Especially to Wilbur fucking Craft.

But he couldn’t stop himself before the words slipped out of his lips, “I am not a child.”

Wilbur’s expression only turns amused. 

“Oh?” The celebrity questions sweetly, leaning back against the wall. “Go on, what are you now then?”

“I’m a man.” He snarls, baring his teeth. What the fuck is he doing?

Wilbur lets out a surprised laugh, at him, and Tommy feels his defense slip slightly. “A man.” He laughs. “A man with ‘gnarly throat muscles’ . Fucking hell, never heard that one before.” Lips smug as he mockingly grins, oh this bitch-

“Probably because you aren’t one asshole.” Holy fuck- did he just call Wilbur Craft an asshole?

Is he fucking mental?!

Tommy thought the guy would look mad, at least pissed at the words but he just looked strangely amused out of nowhere, like this was just some little game to him. 

“You really are a child aren’t you?” The man marveled, like he wasn’t even upset at being called an asshole, just intrigued. Wilbur picks himself back up off the wall again with a certain grace to his movements, “I have to admit, I’m not used to being around children not on their knees for my autograph.” He snides egotistically. 

“Well good thing you won’t have to get used to it dickhead.” What the fuck is Tommy on? Did someone drug him in his sleep?

The celebrity just laughs with a shake of his head, striding over to him. “Even better.” He beamed, something dancing in his eyes that Tommy didn't want to acknowledge.

Wilbur finds his self right before Tommy, towering over the youngers figure in front of him. The star had an instinctual urge to back up into the wall, please fucking back up into the wall, but he just holds his ground. Glaring, fucking glaring like an idiot.

The celebrity's grin turns predatory as he watches the child glare at him below, intrigue and delight catching his irises as he looks down on him. 

“I see why they talk. You're quite the child aren’t you?” He spiels, lifting a hand to push a stray curl behind Tommy’s ear.

Tommy jerks away with wide eyes, staring wildly at the moviestar. 

“I--” What is happening? 

Wilbur just scoffs, fondly? Did he hear that right? Before he moved his hand down to graze Tommy’s cheek, gently moving his thumb against the pale skin. Almost possessively, the fuck?

After a moment of Tommy gawking at Wilbur Craft stroking his cheek, stuck in some sort of haze, the man suddenly moved away. Forcing him out of the strange interaction with a jolt.

Wilbur just smiles down at the reaction, looking pleased with himself, before stepping away. Content with whatever the fuck that was as he moves away from the younger, his dangling emerald gleaming under the lamplights. 

“I guess I’ll see you around Malarvo.” He remarks, actually getting his name right, and turns away. Starting to walk down the hallway once again.

“See you never Mr. Craft.” He bitterly huffs back, and he’s definitely still on drugs. What the actual fuck does he think he’s doing?!

Wilbur comes to an abrupt stop and his stomach twists with nausea, shit, shit, shit. Too much, too much, abort- But the star simply glances back at him over his shoulder, an ever the present smile still dawning his lips. 

“Will.”

Uh what.

“What..?”

“Call me Will.” And just like that, after blowing a hole in Tommy’s world, he takes his leave. Leaving Tommy’s slack jaw, starstruck eyes and shocked gasp behind as he slinks off into a room up ahead.

He was on a nickname basis with Wilbur Craft.

Wilbur fucking Craft was Will.

Tubbo’s gonna be so jealous. 

______________________________________

Craft movies were something prestigious.

There was reason people called them ‘Craft movies’ instead of simply saying you were going to a movie with ‘insert Craft’ in it. 

Because each and every one of them were perfect, nothing lower than perfection was accepted for a Craft. If you were walking into a Craft movie theater you knew you were going to walk out feeling something, hooked on the premise of the film. Crying, sweating, jaw dropped, horrified. Whatever they wanted, simply their faces cast on a movie screen will have you bend to their will. 

Their movies were never getting anything below a 96% on the rotten tomatoes scale. A constant wave of Oscar nominations, booming critic reviews, and an adoring fanbase wilting to their every move. Any time they were up for an Academy Award you knew whoever was nominated beside them was done for, nobody beats a Craft. Ever.

He couldn’t even imagine the amount of Oscars Phil Craft has holed up in his home, the house was probably covered in the golden yearned statues. Tommy could imagine the man using them as house plants from the tremendous amount of them he has in his storage. 

A Craft movie was perfect, foolproof, a shining star compared to any other piece of filmmaking. 

And Tommy was starring with one of them. Not just starring, co-starring. Hand and hand, an equal with Wilbur Craft. 

He has a lot to live up to right now, this has to be his best performance yet if he ever wants to make it anywhere in Hollywood once he’s older.

When this movie airs people, fans, critics will swamp the theaters, everybody making the trip to the cinema to watch the magic of Wilbur Craft will be constrained to watch Tommy Malarvo as well.

And he has to make sure people want that, that people watch him with the same awe as they do Wilbur. Make sure their gazes don’t just stay on Wilbur Craft, that they stray their eyes away to watch the beauty he is able to paint on a movie screen too. 

It was a lot to give, to ensure. But he was determined to make it happen no matter what. 

So he finds himself walking into the table reading with his chin up, ignoring the thoughts in his head booming about his last interaction with co-star (god thats weird to say) Wilbur Soot. 

Table reads were probably the easiest while simultaneously not days of his career. Usually his background posse did all the work of getting him into the movie, so when he walks into a table read its most likely his first time meeting the production team. Which includes today.

Script reads, also known as table reads and read-throughs, were pretty much exactly what the name said, you read through the script. Screenwriters made them, printed them and handed them out to the cast, producers, everybody that day. And it was your job to make sure that script stayed in your hands. 

Cuts are made, dialogue perfected, stories are tuned. The day was so story writers knew exactly who and what they wanted in their movies, getting opinions around the board from people who knew exactly what they were talking about, which included him.

Some people are cut if they didn’t merge well with the cast, and he was slightly afraid he was going to be one of them. But casting directors usually don’t slip up with their leads, it was a big choice on who they wanted to be the main characters, the stars of the show.

And they obviously wanted him, bad.

So when he walked in, he did so with his chin up. He didn’t let those little thoughts get to him that he would never amount to anything in this feature, simply forgotten. He was Tommy Malarvo, co-lead with Wilbur Craft. He was gonna do great, he had to do great and letting it get to his head will only disprove that. 

The room was just some sort of large lounge, like how they usually were. Table reads could take hours, meaning everyone needed a comfortable, quiet place to chill out while they all went through the script. Refreshments were scattered around the room, comfy chairs and nice coffee tables were placed expertly around the place. There was a large, unscaved area in the middle of the room that was obviously for the speaker whenever they came about.

Tommy had about thirty minutes before it began but even then he hadn’t even touched the script yet, nor listened to his manager when she told him what the movie was even about. So he desperately needed to scope shit out before he sat down and read through with the rest of the actors and writers conversing around the room. 

He finally walked in and he could immediately score out a few faces in the crowd. Including Wilbur Craft, or Will, talking to who he thinks is one of the studio executives, a glass of champagne in his hand. It was like 10 A.M, the fuck is this guy on?

He saw a couple other celebrities he could name with just a look. Including Niki Minerva talking to who he thinks is Fundy Blake. Tommy remembers the guy had some drama a few years ago but doesn’t remember exact what it was, he made a mental note to not be seen by paparazzi with the guy anyways.

Niki Minerva, unlike Fundy, was cool though. She was in her twenties and was stunning. Niki was known for looking good no matter what she wore, with her bleach blonde hair, almost white, and dark roots edging her short, beach waved locks she looked gorgeous.

A couple other people were scattered around that he didn’t know the names of, cast members, his producer, some department heads, financers, but he was looking for a certain someone, he couldn’t find-

“There you are kid!” A hand claps down on his shoulder and he turns around, the director he was looking for in all his glory.

Alex Quackity.

“What's up Big Q?” He chimes, a childish grin unknowingly growing at the sight of the golden clad man. Quackity had been his director for a few films and he’s gotta say, he loves the guy. Usually directors saw him as some sort of pawn, but Quackity never seemed that way. Always greeting him and talking to him, even if it wasn’t about the movie they were currently shooting, Big Q always had time for him.

The director once told him that he was one of his favorite actors to work with. And Tommy, the praise hound, has looked up to him ever since. Always eager to shoot a movie for Big Q.

“I’m doing good man, doing good.” His golden tooth gleams as he talks, “Excited about the new feature? Heard critics are already talkin’, saying it’s gonna’ be a big hit for the Academy Awards this year.”

“When have they never not said that for a Craft movie?” He replies, digging his hand into his pocket. 

Quackity just snorts and ruffles his hair, the many rings adorning the director's hand slightly dug into his scalp but he couldn’t find it in him to care. “Exactly what I was thinkin’ kid.” 

“So? Ya’ excited?” Quackity takes a quick look over his head before dripping back down to his eyes, “You gotta be kid, I mean you scored a big number here Malarvo, co-starring with a Craft? It’s is as big as it gets out here.” 

“I mean I guess.” He mumbles back, twisting the point of his sneaker into the ground. 

He is excited, really. It’s just- it’s a lot to live up to. As big of a man he is, hes only fifteen, theres no way in hell he could compare to a Craft. The longer he takes small glances at the impending wonder of Wilbur Soot beyond Quackity’s shoulder, it’s started to take a hit on him. 

“Oh kid, don’t be like that.” The other chides, placing a reassuring hand on his shoulder. “C’mon, look at me Malarvo.”

He meets Big Q’s eyes, and they're gentle, lips twisted encouragingly. “Not everybody gets chosen to co-star with a Craft. And you did. You. A fifteen year old kid, that's gotta say something doesn’t it?”

Tommy nods back. “I guess so,”

“Then you should be celebrating! C’mon, you're Tommy Malarvo. Best child actor in the country, maybe the planet. They weren’t making a mistake when they put you in this movie, and from the second I read you on that cast list I knew it.”

“Everyone did. You act like its out of style, and I have no doubt in my mind that you’re going to ace going toe to toe with a Craft. You're inspiring kid, and don’t let anyone let you think otherwise.” Quackity proudly expresses, placing another hand on his other shoulder. Both of his palms pressed against his collarbone, eyes gleaming.

“ Especially Wilbur Craft.”

Tommy lets out a mirthful huff as he smiles gratefully up at Quackity, “Only been here 5 minutes and guess who's already getting sappy.” 

Quackity just snorts, and gives him a playful pat on the shoulder with a “Shut up”. Before an unknown name calls out “Quackity! My man!” and the director just groans, giving him a parting squeeze before looking down and saying a final, “See ya later kid”.

The man steps around him to go greet whoever it was but Tommy spins around and calls out, “Quackity!”

Big Q stops and looks back at him, gaze patient and steady as he divulges the young star. “Yeah?” 

“Thank you. A lot, thank you. That really helped.”

Quackity smiles back at him, “‘Course kid. Besides, I wouldn’t want you embarrassing yourself out there with all that ‘I guess’ nonsense.” 

“Shut up old man, you literally embarrass yourself every day.”

“I’m twenty five .” 

“Old. So old.”

Quackity just rolls his eyes with an amused huff, “ Bye Tommy.”

“Bye Big Q!” He calls out, watching as the man stalked away with a shake of his head.

Tommy smiles to himself as he watched Quackity set off with some random awe-struck personnel talking his ear off, the man impatiently nodding along. Hands clenching around his phone, he pulls it out to text Tubbo, check his Instagram follower count or something ego whirling, only to be interrupted by a hand descending on the top of his head. 

Huh.

He incredulously cranes his head up to see Wilbur Craft standing there beside him, him , his hand simply resting on the top of Tommy’s curls. The fuck-

“Guess we meet again, Malarvo.” Wilbur remarks, looking out in the distance like some cryptic fucking movie villain. What the hell does drinking champagne at 10 A.M do to people?

“It’s literally been an hour.” Tommy deadpans back, feeling a bit more relaxed with the man's presence now he’s known as Will .

The star doesn’t know how many people are exactly Will to Wilbur Craft, but it couldn’t be a lot right? And they were going to be co-stars after all, maybe trying to joke around with the celebrity will do him some good. 

Right?

Will looks down at him, gaze strangely softened. “And?” The celebrity questions charmingly, “Can I not greet my co-star?”

“You can , just not like some fucking Bond villain.” Tommy rebuttals, slapping the hand off of his head unthinkingly. “And stop being all fuckin’ weird and shit.”

Which was apparently not the move. 

Wilbur’s grin turns ruthless as he reaches an arm out, slinging it over the boys shoulders and dragging him tight to the movie stars side. “I don’t think you have a say in the matter Malarvo ,” Spitting his name like an insult as he declares the statement all in one breath, all of the sudden bitter, pulling them over to one of the couches strewn along the reading room. 

“Do you have any fucking idea of who I am? Of what I’m capable of?” The words seep into the boys ears as the brunette turns uptight at the youngers words or movements, who knows. Tommy lets the man effortlessly drag him along, knowing he pushed too far. Fuck. 

He was on nickname basis, fucking nickname basis. 

And guess who already had to mess it up, it’s been 5 minutes, 5 shitting minutes.

They make it to the couch and Wilbur nudges him down onto the cushion with him, people around the room glance over but the second they see Wilbur’s pissy exterior they immediately look away, continuing on with their conversations like this is normal .

“I’m Wilbur fucking Craft,” He hisses into Tommy’s ear, arm strewn over the boys shoulder as he curls the tops of his fingers around the boys throat, sharply pulling him in towards the others face. “And I’m not about to be bad mouthed by a child, my co-star , in my movie.”

And Tommy shouldn’t say this. Tommy should shut the fuck up right now, keep his big fucking mouth closed. He should . It would be so fucking easy.

But this Wilbur guy, his supposed idol, was a bitch .

So he looks Wilbur right in the eyes, searing hazel meeting a baby blue and he snarls back, “ Our movie.” Sealing his fate.

Wilburs face turns to one of fury, his eyes darken into viciousness, his nose scrunches in disgust, the fingers curling around his throat dig deeper. And besides it all Tommy just scowls back, not an inch of self preservation in sight as he stares down the egotistical prick. Wilbur opens his mouth to tell him exactly what he has to think-

Tommy internally braces himself, feeling the wrath wafting off of the livid star.

Wilbur opens his mouth, wide and open and angry, so angry and Tommy squeezes his eyes closed and clenches his fists, ready for the blowout of the century, the end of his career-

Except nothing happens. 

There's no screaming, no snarls, no hisses, no fingers pressing against his throat, closing off his airway.

There's nothing . 

Just silence.

Tommy slowly opens his eyes, hands untensing as he gapes at the sight before him.

Wilbur Crafts mouth hangs open. Speechless.

Wilbur Craft was speechless.

Because of him .

His once fury written eyes were slowly downing away, slowly turning into something fascinated . The man once pissed to his core was now breathing heavily, letting the irritation flow away as he ponders over the child in front of him. Snarl written lips slowly turning blank, something dark glinting into his eyes as they look over him for the first time, really look over him.

A child glaring back at him. A child glaring back at him . Wilbur Craft. 

He looked astonished, enthralled at the idea of it. A mere child, as his co-star, willing to stand up to him. Willing to risk his entire career, his entire lifespan, all to bash Wilbur Soot.

The anger gradually slipped away into nothingness, the longer Wilbur looked, really looked and pondered over the child before him he found himself feeling euphoric . His lips slowly upturning from the once snarl, teeth gleaming, a dark, dangerous glint in his hazel as he watched his little co-star stare him down.

He leaned away from the boys face and into the couch cushion with a new excitement burning through his chest, a plan seeping into his mind. Tugging the child closer to his side with a small noise, only adding to the mans glee.

“I guess you and me will be spending a lot of time together, yeah?” Wilbur speaks up after a second of sickening silence, words eerily tender. Ignoring Tommy’s literal mental breakdown right beside him.

“I mean,” He picks up Tommy’s chin between his fingers, turning it towards his gaze. “It’s our movie afterall.”

______________________________________

Tommy was going to have a heart attack 15. 

That seemed to be a pretty good assumption, seeing he was tucked under the arm of Wilbur Craft. 

In the past hour or two he called one of the greatest actors of all time a bitch, an asshole, a dickhead, and the kicker. You won’t believe this.

He called him weird .

Appalling. Astounding. How dare he?!

And now, after it all, he was tucked under his arm. Tommy Malarvo was tucked under Wilbur Crafts arm getting his shoulder rubbed by the mans thumb.

What the hell.

Apparently after the celebrity has his annual psychotic breakdown or whatever the fuck that just was, the celeb turns cool and collected, satisfied with himself as he sits leisurely on the two person leather couch, feet kicked up onto the coffee table and an a-list celebrity wrapped in his arms. 

Hence why Tommy was now missing his thirty minute scope out of the script, all because he decided to call Wilbur Soot a fucking bond villain, and the fuck decided to act out as one. Like bitch, save that for the big screen, not him .

So now he was diluted down to the apparent ten minutes Wilbur takes to read through the entirety of the script. The star would’ve gotten up and just grabbed one, like any normal person would. But no , he was stuck under this ugly fucks arm, too scared to move an inch, especially after the guys temper tantrum. Tommy wasn’t going to try shit .

The actor has no idea how Wilbur Soot has turned from his idol, to insanic creep in the past thirty minutes. But if anyone was able to achieve it it would be Will Craft himself, so at least that wasn’t out of question.

The star seemed content though for the around twenty minute wait, a hint of bliss sparkling in his features as he hummed a cheery tune under his breath. Holding him close, Wilbur Craft was holding him close , and rubbing a pattern onto Tommy’s shoulder, occasionally moving up to his collarbone as Wilbur was seemingly stuck in thought, what he was thinking about unbeknownst to the boy beside him. 

And Tommy was trying his best not to freak the fuck out.

The teen really just wanted to tell himself that maybe Wilbur Craft was just having a bad day. But that was all thrown down the gutter whenever Tommy looked up to see how the man looked so goddamn happy with himself as he had the infamous child actor hidden in his embrace, humming some victory song under his breath like he just won the fuckin’ World Series. 

His idol, now turned psychotic maniac, was staring out at the rest of the table reading room almost daring somebody to come closer to his prize or whatever Tommy was to the jackass for the moment. Challenging the room to say something about it as he kept him close.

People around the room were looking, that was obvious. He means who wouldn’t look over at Wilbur Craft holding a child . Everyone who looked over at the two though immediately spun back around the second they hit Wilbur’s piercing gaze. Acting oblivious to the scene in front of them, scared of what the Craft may do.

He had no idea what was happening. What did he do to make him act this way? He called the guy an asshole, Wilbur Craft doesn’t tuck you under his arm almost possesively after you call him an asshole. 

Tommy should be kicked to the streets right now, the Malarvo name as dead as his father. But no, he’s fucking getting carresed. Caressed . By a Craft. 

After a painstakingly long wait, one of the Crafts many assistants finally came up to Wilbur and him. A small, tense smile on the assistant face as he handed Wilbur a packet of papers, the script. And thank fucking god, because the guy handed him one too. Give this guy a Nobel Peace Prize right here, right now, because there was no way in hell he was sharing with Creep Mcgee over here. 

Tommy nodded to him with a “thank you,” while Wilbur did absolutely nothing. Simply squeezing his shoulder. The assistant must of never heard gratitude before, go figures , because his face split into a grin as he said a small “you're welcome,” before walking away. 

Wilbur already started flipping through the pages and Tommy placed his own on his lap. The packet thankfully had a summary for the roles and the movie in full at the top. 

The feature was a war movie. Of course it was. Based in the 1960’s when Johnathan, Wilbur Crafts character, chose to willingly go out to war. Leaving Jack, Tommy Malarvo’s role, at home with his abusive mother for four years. Knowing fully well who he was leaving his brother behind with, having gone through it himself.

The movie surrounded itself on Johnathan coming home after the war, meeting his mother and fifteen year old brother after a four year long fight in Vietnam. He came back expecting hugs and a grand welcome only to come home to a bitter brother and less present mother. The entire picture was about Jack and Johnathan learning about each others experiences and long drueling fights between the two, each having their own argument on why the other was wrong.

And all Tommy got from that was that he was going to need a lot of cough drops and honey drizzled tea. Because ‘fights’ meant he was going to be screaming his throat raw at ‘Johnathan’. No doubt in his mind.

He flipped through the packet a bit, it didn’t seem like anything too hard. He could fight with someone, he was born for it after all. Fighting, crying, screaming it all came easy to him. Diving into a characters mind was like childsplay.

Jack hated Johnathan because he didn’t understand why his big brother would leave him behind, especially in a situation where he was endangering dying. Johnathan knew he might never come home and Jack hated him for that, the fact he was okay to leave a young boy alone with his torturous mother. 

He didn’t need to give two shits about Johnathans perspective until it was healing time or whatever. Where he’s 90% sure they are just going to kill off his character the second he forgives the bastard for a tear or two.

And he was going to make those tears run. People are going to choke on their tears and Tommy was going to sit and watch. 

“You having fun over there?” Wilbur picks up and he jerks, looking up to the man.

“Whats it to you?” Tommy spits back.

He guessed Wilbur was already over getting all pissyfooted about Tommy’s snips. Not even that, he now seemed overjoyed that Tommy was talking back to him. Like some fucking teeter-totter, this guy was unhinged.

The celeb just pulls him in closer, Tommy grumbling all the way as he was now pressed flush with the elders ribcage, happily tracing away a pattern on his skin. “I just wanna know whats got you all riled up Toms, no need to get all huffy about it.” He chides.

Toms?

Did he just call him Toms?

It was apparently Tommy’s turn to become speechless as he snaps his head up to look at the man, who didn’t give two flying shits about Tommy’s overarching thoughts. Casually leaning back against the couch reading the script in his lap, using his thumb and index finger to flip the page with a loud flourish as he flicks through the papers, his other arm slung around Tommy’s chest. 

The other wasn’t even sparing him a look but Tommy could tell he knew exactly what he just said. And the shithead was obviously happy about it. 

And wanted Tommy to know he was happy about it.

This pretencious fuck-

A clatter was heard as a piece of silverware was clanged against a wine glass, gaining the attention of the entire room.

Signaling it was time for the real part of the day, the actual table read.

After the producer clanged his glass he went on this long spiel about the great history of moviemaking, a buncha bullshit just to fill up much needed time. He thanked the investors and financers, the director, some heads of departments, and then he finally got around to Wilbur Craft. 

“--And to the Craft family, for gracing us all with the pleasure of having the prestigious Wilbur Craft in the studio today.” He flatters raising a glass, the bootlicker, and the rest of the room follows suit.

Tommy has no idea why adults drink at 10 fucking A.M, but they all did anyways. Everyone raising a glass to the esteemed man and the teen could feel their eyes on him simultaneously. All downing a glass while Tommy just looked around, he could hear Wilbur snort into his champagne as Tommy just watched them all drink. 

“Alright everybody, please get seated, get comfortable, this is going to be a long day so everybody get comfy. You're all in for it now.” The producer calls out to the lounge of ranging list celebrities. 

Shuffling and quiet small talk fills the room as everybody gets seated, nobody even remotely getting close to the couch off to the side where him and the Craft were sitting. The few stragglers without a seating arrangement all preferring to sit on the floor than by the few seats surrounding the two. 

Tommy decides to take getting comfy to heart, squirming under Wilbur’s grip so his back wasn’t pushed up against his side. 

As much as Tommy wanted to squirm away, the actor already pissed the guy off enough today, and it was only 10 A.M. And since he had an entire day, plus the few months of filming left to please the celebrity he relented for just not being in such an awkward position.

Wilbur did not seem to be happy with Tommy’s new determination to move around, tightening his grip warningly until he realized the star was just trying to find a snug spot on the couch where the teen didn’t feel as stiff as a board. 

Tommy ended up wedging himself between his side, and way too far away from the other armrest for the boys liking. But it wasn't like he could do shit about it, Wilbur Craft was holding him like some giant fucking teddy bear. 

And before Tommy could even think, preoccupied by wiggling into a better position on the couch the literal strangest thing that has ever happened, happened.

Wilbur Soot picked up the hand from around his waist and placed it on top of is head, and stroked. 

Fucking stroked. 

He was getting pet, Tommy Malarvo was getting pet, like some fucking dog. By Wilbur Craft.

Tommy has no idea how this was the strangest part of his day. He called Wilbur Craft an asshole, a bitch, a dickhead, and the greatest of all Tommy called him weird. Shocking. He watched the guy have a psychotic breakdown right in front of his eyes,

And this was somehow the worst. Getting stroked. He was getting his head scratched by Wilbur Soot.

Tommy let out a shuddering breath as he looked up at Wilbur, the other moving his hand so he could keep brushing through the boys curls as he looked up. Winding his fingers through the gold and pulling through gently.

“What- what are you doing?” Tommy questioned, feeling out of place.

Wilbur met his eyes and had the audacity to looked confused. “What do you mean?” 

“The y’know- the-” He doesn't want to say it, please don't make it say it. He jerked his head up to gesture to the hand on his head. “That!” 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about Tommy,” When he obviously does know what he was talking about. Pulling a curl out and twirling it around his finger. “I’m not doing anything.”

“Yes you fucking are.” He grumbles back, tugging his head away. Only for Wilburs fingers to tighten, not enough to hurt, but enough to pull his head back where he could comb through the unruly locks. 

“Hey--! Stop that.” The younger curses, trying to yank the digits out of his curls. 

“Why should I?” The elder questions, smug dancing in his words. “You obviously like it after all.”

“I do not.” He rebuttals, scowling at the star.

“Tommy you’re an actor. Act all you want but I can see right through it, you like it.” 

Tommy crosses his arms across his chest with a huff, “You're not superman bitch, you aren’t seeing through shit.”

Wilbur snorts with a snobbish undertone, “No, but I am a Craft.”

“Thats not even cool, that’s like so thirty minutes ago.”

“The ‘man with gnarly throat muscles ’ I met an hour ago didn’t seem to agree with that.”

“Yeah, thats why I said thirty minutes ago. Keep up prick.”

Wilbur just looks down at him and gives an amused huff, eyes fond? Is Tommy on drugs? Is this what death is like? Is hell fucking sitting on this couch with Ego Amigo beside him?

Fuck, it definitley is.

A clang of a glass is heard again, everyone now in their seats. The producer, some others and Big Q stands in the middle of the room with a camera set up behind them so they could record the table read.

“Alright, lets get this show on the road. Craft? Malarvo?”

Wilbur looks down on him with one last comb through his gold. “You ready?”

“Born ready dick.”

________________________________________

The script reading wasn’t terrible.

Tommy really thought it would be, readings could last hours and especially it being a Craft movie? It had to be up to Wilbur’s standards to the digit, there couldn’t be a single etch of misspoken dialogue, mediocre acting, nothing.

Which was Tommy’s specialty.

Tommy killed it this morning, he didn’t know if it was because he was already pissed at Wilbur or what. But his character Jack was pissy and fiery, just how they liked it. 

Him and Wilbur ended up going into the middle of the room and he couldn’t find it in himself to be intimidated anymore by the mans presence. He was a nutjob, but apparently he was a nutjob that liked Tommy. Meaning the child actor could use that to his advantage.

If Wilbur had some weird marveling moment before when his co-star told him the feature was their movie instead of just his, you should've seen his face when they started working through the opening scenes. When he finally figured out that Tommy wasn’t just some child actor, that he was the child actor.

The way his eyes widened, his jaw going slack just a tad as it gradually morphed into a gleaming grin as Tommy, Jack, read out lines with the actress casted as his mother, Clara Puffy. The way he looked enamored almost, like the more he watched Tommy the more his appreciation grew for the young moviestar. The more adoring he grew towards the child before him, a dark pleasure swirling in his chest. 

A possessive need forming in his mind. 

They switched around for a bit, going through lines and takes with other actresses and actors. Fixing up dialogue, Wilbur gave most of the changes snobbily but Tommy helped with a couple solves as well. They tried some new directions, talking with screenwriters, among other things, Wilbur charming as ever.

It was any other table read. He thought it wouldn't be, but when him and Wilbur got in the middle of the circle he just dived into his character instead of noticing it was Wilbur Craft. The only person in front of him was Jonathan, who Jack thought was a traitorous bitch. Jacks only desire being to prove that to him, but Johnathan wouldn’t budge.

Wilbur was Johnathan and Tommy was Jack. It was almost refreshing being up there with an actor that didn’t break character every thirty seconds, someone who knew what they were doing. It was nice, it was him and Wilbur, finding their way through the scene with ease.

He felt his anger towards the man melt away a bit as they worked through lines among other things together, the idolization slowly growing back at a tenfold as Wilbur eased through the dialogue with a Craft flourish. That nice, relaxed feeling of just being able to act brushing away his previous anger. Like drinking Dasani all your life and finally finding Fuji water, he never wanted to go back. 

Once the production team deemed them both good enough for the moment, evaporating any worry he might of had about getting cut, Wilbur dragged them back over to the couch to watch some other minor roles go through their dialogue. 

They weren’t done yet though, the team was all just working through the misfits for a bit before they called them back to make some final touch ups, leaving him and Wilbur sitting on the couch again at around two, time really flying by.

“I gotta admit Toms, you’re quite the force out there.” 

Tommy looks back up at him, not having the energy to fight about the nickname. “Can’t say the same for you.” The star lies through his teeth.

“Oh c’mon gremlin, you looked as happy as a kid on Christmas day up there with me.” Wilbur jabs, “Finally coming to your senses, huh?”

“Shut up. You still aren’t cool.” The actor defends.

“I think the ladies would say differently.” He charms.

“The ladies are all just using you as a bridge to get to me, so stay mad prick.” 

“Oh are they now?” Wilbur laughs, kicking his feet up on the table. “And where are all of your little women right now?” 

Tommy scuffs his foot on the floor, “At my house, duh.” 

“Oh yeah?” Wilbur challenges, opening his mouth to go on before pausing for a second, seemingly in thought. Tommy could practically hear the gears whirring around in the others brain as he keeps quiet for a moment. 

After a few seconds of the others mouth staying sealed, Tommy surveying him skeptically, suddenly his eyes slowly lit up with feat, a joyous smile spreading across his lips like honey-butter. Almost like some sort of plan just formed in his mind.

“Then show me.”

“What?” 

“You heard me, after the reading, take me to your house.” He states like some casual conversation, like it's an everyday thing to invite a Craft to your home. Like Tommy was going to invite him to his house. 

“The fuck?! No.” Tommy practically yells, turning fully towards him.

“Okay, then come to mine.”

Is this guy mental?!

“You- what- no. I’m not going to your fucking house.” The star communicates with a wild expression.

“Why not?” He questions sweetly, like Tommy’s the issue here. 

“Because- Why?! I’m not going to your home when we barely know each other.” 

Wilbur just throws an arm up on the back of the couch, casual as ever in a situation that is very much not . “Then lets get to know each other then gremlin.” The other smiles. 

“What if I don’t wanna know you?! How ‘bout that?” Tommy rebuttals.

“We’re co-stars Toms,” He states matter-of factly, reaching his hand out to cup his cheek. “Were going to be spending a lot of time with each other after all, why not make it easier?”

“This does not seem easier.” He says, jerking his face away.

Wilbur eyes him for a second until he eventually figures out Tommy’s not going to relent, sighing. “Y’know what? Fine, coffee shop. 8 A.M tomorrow, I’ll make some calls and make sure theres a couple cameras. You get your photo, I get my quality time with my little co-star.” 

What?

Did he just- 

Did Tommy just gaslight Wilbur Craft into getting fucking paparazzi for them?! 

Holy shit, he did. He didn’t even mean to and- Oh my fuck he did. He outsmarted Wilbur shitting Craft without even trying. Holy fuckin’ shit, damn watch out America cause Tommy Malarvo going up in life, hell yeah baby. Ridin’ in style at 8 A.M tomorrow. 

Maybe he could try and get more out of the guy… He means if Tommy’s so great at gaslighting and all..

Wilbur somehow read his fucking mind because before he could even open his mouth he scolds, “A couple photos and thats it. You aren’t getting anything beyond that gremlin.” 

Tommy crosses his arms over his chest and tries to pull a Wilbur on Wilbur, “What if I don’t go then, hm? Whatcha gonna do then big man?”

The other leans down daringly towards him, Tommy did not gulp thank you very much. “You’re really going to miss getting prints of you out with Wilbur Craft? ” 

He leans back casually, “And here I thought you were smarter than that child.”

Fuck.

Fine alright? Fine . He’s still exploiting Wilbur okay? It’s just maybe Wilburs exploiting a little back, but Tommy getting so much more exploiting him than Wilbur is Tommy so he’s still the bigger man. Take that bitch.

“Fine,” He angrily huffs. 

“Deal.”

________________________________________

Tommy finds himself sitting in a coffee shop at 7:55 sharp the next morning. 

He’s guessing Wilbur is going to take the liberty to be fashionably late or whatever, and Tommy’s fine with that. Just peachy . 

So he sat there, after the lady behind the counter gave him his drink she was nowhere to be seen. Or thats what she wanted him to think, the star could see her peeking out behind the doorframe into the backroom on the phone with somebody, giggling and frantically whispering into the phone as she admirably eyes him sitting there. 

Tommy didn't mind.

He ended up sitting there for about a good 10 minutes until a black car pulled up to the cafe, several paparazzi were already taking photos of him through the coffee shop window. Tommy already accustomed to the way camera flashes blind his irises. So you could imagine their surprise when an expensive ass car rolled up to the small shop.

The star held back a groan, he really didn’t want to talk to Wilbur. Especially now he knows the guys a creep and the fact he has to deal with him when it’s this fucking early. But it was a necessary sacrifice, being seen with the famed moviestar will swirl up fans and shit into a frenzy. And y’know Tommy loves that. 

The car door flew open with a Craft™️ flourish, a single leg sticking out of the doorframe until the morning glow developed into a whirr of flashing cameras and people swarming the Craft. 

Tommy didn’t even bother looking, simply taking a sip of his hot chocolate before resting his face on his hand, trying to get rid of the residue sleepiness still clinging to him and the groan building up in his throat.

The chime of the doorbell rang and the star just rolled his eyes, looking up and already knowing what hes going to see. Wilbur in some extravagant clothing piece and a charming grin splitting his face like the red sea.

What Tommy didn’t understand was that that was only the half truth.

Because Wilbur Craft did walk into the cafe, a charming grin split on his face.

But he wasn’t the only one.

Technoblade stood beside him.

Technoblade.

Somebody please kill him. 

His face slipped out of his palm and he almost bashed his head into the table as he incredulously stared at the two. Jaw slack as Wilbur looked over to him, tipping his sunglasses at the awestruck teen before strolling up to the counter. 

Technoblade was trailing behind him. The man was dressed in a white, slightly see-through collared shirt. The first few buttons were unbuttoned around his throat as his collar was trailed with golden jewelry. He was holding a blood red suit jacket between his fingers, throwing it carelessly over his shoulder. Wrist draped with golden and emerald gems. His long pink hair was twisted into a braid as it trailed down his collarbone, black pants and slacks bringing the outfit together. 

All Tommy wanted was a nice burial, alright? Is that too much to ask?

He didn’t think the guy was going to kill him per se, but after he kills Wilbur for even bringing his ass here Tommy’s for sure going to be six feet under. 

Unlike Tommy, lady at the counter was having the time of her life. She looked on the verge of fucking combusting as she gapes at the two, eyes as wide as saucers and mouth hanging open for the whole wide world to see.

“Oh my god- Oh my- hey um- Welcome to uh- where do I work? Yeah! Um welcome,” She giggles hazily, “what can I get you two- I mean Mr. Craft- Misters Craft-?”

Wilbur stopped her hysterical rambling with a slap of his palm against the counter, leaning towards her. 

What the fuck was this guy’s problem and leaning? 

“Mocha Latte and a black coffee,” He pulls a bill out of his pocket and Tommy could see the franklin on it. Tommy only tipped fifty, fucking show off- “Keep the change.” He says with a careless smile, and the teens surprised lady behind the counter hasn’t passed out on the spot. 

Techno turns around with a huff, towards him, and Tommy really wishes he passed out on the spot too. God save the queen, and him.  

Techno just stares at him for a moment, expression blank as he just looks at him. Nothing behind the man’s eyes before suddenly realization strikes his features, nudging Wilbur and twisting towards him. 

“You didn’t tell me ya’ kids Theseus.” Voice thick and monotone, if black molasses had a voice it would be Technos, gruff and surly.

Wilbur casts Tommy a glance before looking back at his brother once again, “Not my fault you didn’t do your research.” The star wily states, both brothers standing near the counter. 

“You still coulda’ told me.” Techno grunts back.

Did Technoblade see Tommy’s movie? He did not seem like the guy who sits around watching tragic Greek tales, especially the movie retelling of Theseus. He was an action star not a history buff. 

Wait- was Technoblade a nerd?!

Holy shit Technoblade was a nerd.

Tommy’s so going to tell Tubbo. 

“I’m not a nerd.” A voice gruffly picks up out of nowhere and Tommy falls headfirst out of his thoughts. 

Wait- did he fucking say that out loud?!?

God fucking damnit.

How the hell is he so bad at first impressions?

Tommy opens his mouth to defend himself but Wilbur beats him to it, “You fucking watch all that history shit religiously. ‘Course you’re a nerd.” The star rejoices with a snicker, sliding the pair of sunglasses off his eyes and to the top of his hair.

Techno just grunts back and before he could say anything more lady behind the counter comes back with their drinks, sliding it across the table top as her eye twitches from hysteria. Is she okay?

The Crafts don't seem to mind that they just broke a woman at all, Wilbur simply taking their drinks with his trademarked smile before handing the black coffee to Techno, walking over to Tommy’s table.

“Why the fuck did you bring him here?” Tommy hisses faintly the second he gets close.

“Good morning to you too, gremlin.” The celebrity greets, sliding into the booth with Techno hot on his heels.

“I thought you just said it was going to be you and me.”

“All I said was that I was going to bring a few cameras,” He gestures innocently at the cameras flashing at them outside the cafe window. “Nothing about who joins me.” He smoothes.

Fucking bitch. 

Tommy just grumbles in answer as he looks around. “Well,” He sarcastically remarks, “What now?” 

Wilbur’s face turned gleeful, “We get to know each other.”

“If I heard right us co-stars will be getting to know each other. I didn’t know I was being cast in ‘The Blade’.”

Techno grunts angrily and Tommy snaps his head back over, kinda forgetting the guy was here too. Which was strange to say since his presence was suffocating, the blank, barren stare dug into the jeweled man’s eyes felt like a mantra in Tommy’s ears to shut the fuck up and stop insulting the infamous celebrity in front of him.  

But eh, it’s 8 A.M and he’s already made a shit impression. All he could do now was go with it.

“What? I told you he has a mouth, Techno.” Wilbur suddenly addresses his brother at the grunt, he looks back to the teen and something longing and dangerous gleamed through his eyes, restless and hungry. “That’s why I like him.” 

“You didn’t tell me he was going to sit here and insult me.” Techno protests, glaring back at the moviestar.

Wilbur just shrugs. “Should've came prepared, Blade.” 

Wilbur was talking about him?! To Technoblade?!

“Huh?” 

“Don’t worry about it Toms, so.. What do you wanna talk about?”

What does he want to talk about?! God, what does he want to talk about. Maybe something about what the fuck was going on?! Y’know, just maybe.

Tommy didn’t ask that though, even if he badly wanted and needed to. Instead, he decided to address the elephant in the room.

“Are you really a nerd?”

Techno glares at him, trying to force Tommy into wilting but Tommy needed to know. He needed to know that Techno was a nerd. He had to tell everyone. 

Finally after a few seconds of intense glaring Techno drags a hand across his face with a groan, “No, I’m not a nerd.”

“Big man, big man lying to yourself? At this day in age? Thats just sad, real sad.”

“I’m not lying to myself, I’m not a nerd.”

“I see the signs Blade, eye bags? Intense emotional baggage? You clearly have a chronic case of denial-”

“ I do not.”

“My hypothesis? Must be from a deep, deep underlying case of nerdism. Treatment? Telling me the truth, right here, right now big man.” He iterates by clasping his hands together and leaning towards the action star. 

Techno glares with the wrath of a thousand suns, “I’m not in denial.” He fucking growls, like some sort of caged animal. 

Holy fucking shit.

He totally was a nerd.

Tommy simply raises his hands up in surrender, glee catching in his chest. “Let’s not get too hasty here Big Blade, I’m just warnin’ you. Left untreated?” He leans back into the booth. 

“Death. 100% rate of death.”

If Tommy wasn’t sure Technoblade wasn’t the real Blade he would've thought his head was going to get chopped off real soon. 

The brute swung his head back incredously towards his brother.  “Him? Out of everybody you could've chose, you want him?”

Uhh what…

“You aren’t even giving him a chance Techno, c’mon I know you loved him as Theseus.” Wilbur slides with a sip of his drink. 

“And apparently my love stopped there.” He spits back.

Wilbur gestures to Tommy with his eyes, “Look at him Tech, really look at him.”

Is he hallucinating?

What the actual fuck were they talking about?

Techno heatedly huffs but picks up his gaze back to the teen anyways, looking at him for a beat before sighing. “Fine.” 

“Favorite film, go.” 

“What the fuck are you two on about?!” He abruptly yells out, ignoring the question, darting his eyes between the two brothers. 

Pinky Pie over here did not look patient with him at all, or his choice to yell back at them instead of answering the stupid ass question when Tommy’s was obviously more of a necessity.

“Favorite. Film.” 

What the fuck does Tommy even answer to that? What the fuck were they talking about? ‘Out of everybody you could’ve chose, you want him?’ Want him? Who wants him? As a co-star? He already is one-- what do they want?

Tommy’s mind was begging for him to ask, to demand answers, but Techno’s gaze was so intense, boring into his skull and trying to enforce his mouth to spit up an answer. And the teen already made such a bad impression towards the action star. Tommy couldn’t afford making him pissier. 

He can’t tell them a Phil Craft picture- that would be fangirling and Tommy was not a fangirl, he had priorities and making sure the Crafts knew that was on the top of the list. 

Does he want him to say an action movie? No, this is a test. If Tommy answered back some big mission impossible shit then he would be a suck up, and he isn’t sucking up to the fucking Blade.

Does he answer truthfully? There can’t be an issue in that right? If he says his own movie he would be selfish and cocky, if he says a Wilbur Craft picture that could be seen as trying to pick favorites and intentionally piss the guy off. 

Truthful it is then he guesses. 

Ughhhhhh now Tommy’s going to be the nerd. 

Tommy tried one last ditch attempt to get out of the question, looking down sheepishly as he grouches. “Do I have to?”

“Theseus.”

“Fine! Okay, okay I will. Geez-” The star gulps, darting his gaze between Techno and the numerous photo vultures haunting the cafe window outside, snapping pictures of the three. 

Tommy bites his lip before looking back up at Techno, sighing he snoops down to the table, covering his lips away from the paparazzi with a palm blocking the view of his future words towards the brute, leaning towards Techno. 

“You can’t tell anyone, okay?” He nearly whispers, casting a weary glance at lady behind the counter who is standing there mesmerized, occasionally twitching as she goes crossed eyed at the trio. Seriously, is she fucking okay? 

Techno’s irritation slips away slightly at the vulnerability, turning amused as he quirks an eyebrow up, crossing his arms as he laxes back into the booth. “What? You scared your fans are going to know your a nerd too?”

Tommy makes an offended gasp, “I’ll have you know I am not some fucking nerd like you Tech-no-blade. That title goes to you and yourself only.” 

“Guess whose in denial now,” Wilbur mocks with a laugh at the disgruntled glare he gets in return.

“Am. Not.”

Techno pulls out a hand and leisurely takes a sip of his coffee, “Go on, enlighten me Theseus. What’s your little nerd movie?”

Yeah, fuck you too Blade. 

Tommy huffs and looks down at his shoes, watching his toes wiggle under the material as he grumbles the cursed name of the movie inconspicuously. 

“I can’t hear you, Malarvo.” Techno taunts, he could hear the smug smile in his voice.

Pricks, the lot of them. 

Tommy grumbles the film a little louder this time, but the mumbling is still hushed, barely audible to the human ear.

“C’mon Toms, it can’t be that bad.” Wilbur coaxes, but Tommy could hear the eagerness to know the picture hidden in the young stars mind. 

Killing him would be a whole lot faster than the shit he’s going to get for this. 

Stupid, idiotic, dumbass, nerds. 

Please god, he’s begging you. End his suffering.

“Achilles of Phthia,”  Tommy finally huffs out reluctantly, cheeks blushed red as he grips the cushion of the booth between his fingers, knuckles white. 

And Wilbur cackles.

Cackles.

Tommy’s going to gouge out his eyes, just you fucking wait. 

“Oh my god. You’re fucking kidding me.” The celebrity says with a disbelieving chuckle. Laughter between his words, “Both of you? Greek nerds? Who would've thought.” The celebrity snorts and points over to his brother, “I thought you were on my side gremlin, you were supposed to save me from this freaks ‘greek tragedy’ bullshit.”

Tommy barely peaks his eyes up at Techno as Wilbur laughs on and on about the young actors apparent love for greek mythology. The man wasn’t reacting to Wilbur’s words at the slightest, both eyes latched onto the youngers embarrassed form. The earlier irritation gone in a flash all for the utter of three words, a common denominator between the two that leaves the pink-haired celebrity as captivated as his brother for the childish teen. 

Something pleased was taking over the brutes face like an ambush, irked features contorted into that same dark, craving look the star found familiar with Wilbur. Except this time it was much less distinct, notable. Tommy questioned if it was even real, if it was just a trick of light. 

Wilbur’s laughter dies down into a standpoint and Tommy watches as both brothers meet eyes, the musician turned to the other questioning for a moment until Techno gestured over to him with a simple tilt of a head, a turn of his lips and an ominous glint in his eyes.

Wilbur eventually settles into realization, both eyeing each other with the same revereing, possessive gander. Smiles wringing into grins as they consider each other, considering the idea of the adored child star across from them, thoughts aligned like a parallel line of railroad tracks. 

And before Tommy could even realize what they might possibly be thinking, it was over.

He was theirs. 

Only to be written in stone, evermore. 

______________________________________

After all of that, the mocking, the jokes, the atrocious ripping apart of Tommy Malarvo’s beloved reputation of being the biggest man in existence. 

(He isn’t a nerd by the way, shut the fuck up.)

Wilbur Craft seemed to change directions for the better. 

The fuck was actually turning out to be nice. 

He knows, right?! It was fucking crazy, insane, wack, preposterous.

That was not how he thought working with Wilbur would go, he thought it was going to be Nightmare on Elm Street: The Sequel working with the crazed shitter. You don’t expect much out of a guy who has a psychotic breakdown in the middle of a table reading. 

But Tommy’s starting to think maybe theres another reason behind it all, that maybe Tuesdays were Heroin Tuesdays to the Craft, or just maybe he has some sort of chronic condition that makes him turn into Miley Cyrus 2012 whenever he’s around children. 

But somehow, someway, Wilbur has ended up being actually fun to be around with after the whole coffee fiasco.

Tommy’s fans were tripping balls after the photos found there way to the internet, all humming and buzzing with excitement on twitter and other media outlets about the trios meetup at the cafe, most posts were all rumors about what they were doing with the Malarvo boy. But other than that it was mostly questions and all capped texts about whats to come next in the Malarvo and Craft name. 

When in reality it was just them bashing the manliest of men for an hour and a half.

Tommy’s first thought was that the publicity was the reason behind why Wilbur was being nice to him all of the sudden, finally realizing what he could get out of being friends with the great Tommy Malarvo. 

However, for some odd reason it seemed like that wasn’t the case.

It started the day they began shooting the film, seeming like any other normal first day. Tommy got his own trailer in the parking lot. A pretty nice thing, complete with a small kitchen, a bathroom, a TV and lounge sort of area, and a bed tucked into the end of the automobile, taking over the entire end wall. 

But that was a pretty normal occurrence in the Malarvo career line, he always had a trailer. 

What wasn’t normal however was Wilbur Craft’s apparent attitude change.

Because the second he walked into the studio on the first day, walked into Wilbur’s line of sight, he was immediately embraced.

And he hasn’t been let go since. 

Okay, maybe that was an exaggeration. But only a bit, because it is true. The shitter was like a fucking starved octopus and Tommy was an inc sac. Who the fuck was going to tell this shithead theres a staples down the street, and curling around him isn’t going to fix his ink cartlidge problems, who knows.

It was fucking strange. And while he knew Wilbur had a touching problem before, he couldn’t help but notice this time it was different.

The guy turned protective. Tommy had no idea what to call the event at the script reading, and yeah there was probably some sort of protective gleam in his eye then, maybe Tommy missed something or another. But now it wasn’t a prediction, it wasn’t an assumption, it was a fact.

Wilbur Craft was protective over him, ‘big man’ extraordinaire Tommy Malarvo. 

It was a whole new level of protective at that matter, Tommy couldn’t go anywhere where he wasn’t being guarded by the man like he was the fucking Constitution in a National Treasure film.

Anywhere he went there was an arm slung around his shoulder, walking to get a bagel? Embraced. Leaving his trailer after hiding away from his manager? Tucked into his side. Talking to another actor or filmmaker? Immediately cornered and enveloped.

After they finished a scene and were deemed a thumbs up by the director and set crew, Wilbur was on him at all times. Keeping contact in some way or another, dragging the grumbling child along with him wherever he pleased. 

Even if that meant sitting through hour long talks between the Craft and a producer, team executive, anybody. The jackass had Tommy sitting right there with him, unable to leave.

It wasn’t like he didn’t try, he did. But there was some complications with those attempts, and by the end of the day Tommy ended up sitting there twiddling his thumbs while Wilbur Craft charmed the crew to anything he wanted, not saying a peep about it. 

Although, Tommy did learn a lot by sitting there by Will as he rambled for hours. Including exactly how much a Craft actually influences a film. He had no idea until he was forced to endure all of it, watching Wilbur gaslight the team to twist the film into exactly what he sought out to be in. Without a single ounce of opinion from anybody else. Always having this impeccable talent to leave the person he manipulated feel as if they made up all the changes on their own. 

The fuck made cuts for whoever he wanted, even if it was in the middle of production. Recasted new roles, changed the script, enforced retakes on scenes. All with a hidden threat of the Craft name hidden under the demands. 

Tommy tried to speak up about it after Wilbur pulled him away from the long drooling spews, but he was only given vague answers before he was dragged along to the next thing. 

It was crazy, it was fucking nuts. Watching as Wilbur Craft kept him hidden in his embrace while he walked around with that almighty big ego of his, all of the allure and glamor on the planet fixed into one single man. A single man who wanted Tommy next to his side at all times.

And it sucked ass. It did! It sucked so much ass. So much ass in fact there wasn’t club left in LA from all the ass that sucked from the Craft’s fucking problem with encircling him like he was a worm and the other was a bird who wanted a midnight snack.

But even if Tommy would rather become a fucking groundhog rather than admit it. Even if he was very vocal about his hatred towards the bear hugs and arms slung around his shoulders, the hours wasted tucked under the mans side watching as he dwindles this, his, movie away from the original viewpoint into a Crafts.

It- it wasn’t all that bad.

Just- just hear him out, okay? He wasn’t going soft , he wasn’t shit. Just- hugs came near and far, okay? The majority of hugs and touches he has gotten his entire fifteen years of fame were either from his father, that died when he was three years old. And the frequent hugs from fans who wanted a photo with him, or simply wanted to hug him before he signed away an autograph.

And whenever Wilbur touched him, even if it was during his plots for evil. (Like making Jake a vegan, who the fuck cares if Jake was vegan?!) His touch was always soothing, gentle, adoring. Everything Tommy never had, the hands pressed tenderly on his shoulders, the ruffles of his locks, the long digits threading through them, the hugs tangling around body, face pressed against Wilbur’s chest, the palms pressed against his cheek.

It was everything Tommy always wanted. 

Being leaned into his side, it was kind of nice okay? It was, people don’t lean into Wilbur Crafts side, and he was getting enforced to. Like, how cool is that?!

Okay, maybe it wasn’t that cool. But let him have his moment, alright? It was cool. 

While Tommy started to build more of a friendship with the man, started to actually talk to him instead of snark. He somehow found some sort of refuge in it, in his touch.

Somewhere along the way Tommy slowly stopped thinking of Wilbur as the psychotic maniac who has a touching issue, stopped viewing his touch as creepy, possessive. He found himself starting to view Wilbur as like some sort of friend, his touch as a needed part of their friendship. 

Behind closed doors Wilbur was a lot nicer too. Which added to the appeal.  That charming, bad boy demeanor that constantly followed him around like some sort of lap dog, gone, without a trace whenever it was just the two of them alone.

Wilbur Craft was Will. Even if that took a coffee shop and a script reading to find, he was. 

Tommy Malarvo was his friend.

And if that wasn’t the weirdest shit you ever heard, he doesn’t know what is.

Set days usually started with his normal daily routine, getting there with the squeaky, obnoxious rambling of Prissy Teagan before he was dropped off and walked into the dressing room with his bodyguard Sam, getting his hair and makeup done, wardrobe changed by the many tailors and costume designers that worked for the film while he read and memorized the lines for the day.

Once everything was done he got shipped off to the director, Big Q, and the expensive, high quality cameras. Got the sweat wiped off his brow one last time before he strutted up to the green screens and met Wilbur Craft’s eyes waiting for him. An enthralling smirk morphing into a warm beam as they met eyes. 

And after that all he had to do was act.

Then immediately after his work was done for the day lie to his manager that he had to do a couple more takes so he could go into Wilbur’s trailer, dressing room, a private lounge, etc and could goof off with the prestigious man.

Tommy had learned a lot about Wilbur during his days simply being tucked under the bitches arm, which might’ve help build that friendship to the place he could goof off like that. Including one, lighthearted bickering was a-okay. And anything past that was very much not . Two, slapping away hands and arms, pushing away from the man, was all out of mention, don’t even fucking think about doing it.

And three, Wilbur ate sand as a kid.

He thinks you could guess Tommy’s favorite fact about Wilbur. 

He ate sand as a kid. Wilbur Craft ate fucking sand as a kid. 

It was the best thing he had ever heard in his life, entire fifteen years of eavesdropping in on all of Hollywood's greatest secrets. Affairs, scandals, dick sizes. He’s heard it all.

Except just that. That Wilbur Craft ate sand as a kid. 

Fucking sand.

And it was just what he needed to start opening up to the the celebrity.

Tommy developed a tendency to… how do you put this..

Bash Wilburs entire reputation to the ground with a flaming sledgehammer after he heard the news.

He mocked the guy like it was out of style, calling him sandman, crabcake, sand witch, sandy tits. Everything a-z, he dragged his prissy ass to the dirt. 

But the strangest thing was, instead of being mad, pissed about Tommy making fun of him, instead of going into a psychotic breakdown part two for all the mocks and jokes. Wilbur did the impossible-

Wilbur indulged him.

The two became a force to be reckoned with on set once the teen discovered Wilbur actually had a sense of humor, whenever they weren't shooting, whenever they weren’t talking with the boring old white men who ran their mouths like the worlds ending tomorrow.

They were bickering.

All the fucking time. 

They got into it about everything, the Trojan War? Tommy doesn’t even know what the fuck that was, but they were jabbing each other about if for hours. Blue macaws? He now has a thirty foot long google search list about the endangered species, and Wilbur Craft now has a deal with him that he would get one tattooed on his ass if the movie surpasses one billion in box office revenue.

The two of them became some sort of duo on set, they were constantly seen out together. People started to just expect him to be next to Wilbur, on the very few occasions he wasn’t standing with an arm tucked around him people were ambushing him with questions over why the celebrity wasn’t by his side. And Tommy couldn’t help but be overjoyed by it, Wilbur was turning out to be actually pretty fucking cool.

Whenever Wilbur was talking to anybody else, Tommy Malarvo obviously stuck to his side like velcro, it was all charm and appeal. The man had his chin up higher than the snob faced noses of rich ladies who call caviar their favorite dish. He always seemed to be at lax, a gleam in his eyes that he already knew he won, whatever he was talking about Wilbur knew what he wanted and knew exactly how to take it. Without fail.

But for some reason that all changed when it was the two of them alone. His chin lowered to meet his eyes, the gleam changed into something new, warm, something dangerous. All of the falsetto that came packed with the grand Wilbur Craft was buried deep, pushed away only for Tommy’s eyes.

And Tommy took that to heart. 

After about a week of this new friendship and constant bickering between the two, he employed Wilbur to band together for the greater good. To go on Instagram and DM random, snobby influencers that think they are some prestigious bitch because they could sell two dollar makeup and tell them that they, Wilbur Craft and Tommy Malarvo, loved their stuff and then right after go to another cocky account to tell them that the person they just DMed sucked shit. Starting a war between the two.

Usually things like that would get him canceled, and he voiced that exact thought to Wilbur but the Craft simply brushed it off and told him he’d pay his way out of any scandal he might get into.

And who’d pass up on fucking that?!

Maybe it was a little mean. Okay, it was really bitching mean. But who cared? He was rich, he was famous, and he was sitting next to Wilbur Craft who was cackling at his shenanigans. Making Wilbur laugh fueled something inside him, made his chest flutter with something foreign, made his face light up more than it has in years. It was where he felt happiest, and if that was starting an actual fucking warzone in the middle of Instagram, then so be it. 

They started to do all kinds of things together, after about two weeks on set they were already starting a competition to see who could catch the most food in their mouth at unplanned times. At any point of the day they could throw a snack at the other and they had to catch it in there mouth, or else they lost Big Man points. 

It was Tommy’s idea, and it seemed to fuel Wilbur’s fire to the point where he was constantly being bombarded with goldfish and marshmallows being thrown at his head, a mischievous smirk holding the ammo.  

The two ended up having to give the competition up when Tommy threw a nacho with guacamole at Wilbur and it went all over his hair in the middle of a mexican restaurant the Craft took him to. Saying he wanted to be seen out with Tommy Malarvo more often, and there was no way in hell Tommy was passing up on that. 

Problem was, they ended up having a food fight in the middle of the restaurant, both leaving with big grins and salsa smeared all over their faces, careless to the paparazzi and news outlets screaming their names right outside the door, trying to get the story as they walked to the car.

The photo of the two was everywhere . It was of Wilbur looking down at him, eyes fond and lips quirked wide as Tommy looked up at him, childish glee and a quesadilla mashed into his hair, the numerous flashes spread all over lighting the darkness of the night around them as their eyes lit up by just looking each other, each mischievous and playful as they looked upon the other.

It was, life was fucking bonkers after that. Wilbur Craft didn’t play around with children, he was a movie star, a Craft. He wasn’t seen around with guacamole smeared down his neck, a mystery sauce clinging to his chocolate curls. And epecially , he was certainly not seen around with a child actor who looked like he just jumped out of a fucking dumpster with some fancy cologne. 

But the second Wilbur Craft took a look at him for the first time in that reading room, he seemed to be able to let all that go just for him. It wasn’t like it was affecting his career, not in the slightest. He still did interviews where he was a snobby, girl swooning bitch. Still had that charismatic glint in his eye as he strutted down the street with Tommy Malarvo by his side. 

And that only added to the captivation of it all, that Wilbur Soot was fond for a child and no one else. That he was able to let go of all that falsetto whenever he was around the infamous Tommy Malarvo, turn that narcissistic, admirable look to himself to fond and precious whenever he set his eyes to the child always beside him. 

And people ate it up. 

People were like badgers trying to muck around and get the story between the two. Why out of nowhere they were everywhere together, why Wilbur Craft was seen suddenly tuned fond, affectionate. Out and about playing around with the famous, golden child of the country Tommy Malarvo. 

Both of their PR teams were having a field day with the new excitement over the duo. Tommy suddenly found he didn’t have any free time at all, always being shoved out on the streets with Wilbur Craft, swarmed with media outlets and interviewers following them around. Trying to catch the two wherever they went, PR planning shit for them constantly. 

It was out of nowhere, one second Wilbur was a psychotic maniac and the next he was his ‘brother’ according to the entire internet. 

They went to ice cream shops, where the entire shop was stocked full of paparazzi, press outlets, youtubers, influencers. Anyone who could take a photo or a video with a license, there. 

It was kinda traumatizing if you ask Tommy, he felt like a fucking sardine packed in there trying to eat ice cream with Wilbur. But being packed in a little box seemed to be where the Craft thrived. Sitting there leisurely as he joked with Tommy, not even casting a glance at the numerous vultures trying to get their picture.

It didn’t take long for until Tommy found himself embracing it as well, racing with the man for who could eat their cone from the bottom up the fastest. The teen obviously winning. Wilbur glaring at him like he just killed his mother, mischievously, before lunging over the table to smear ice cream all over his face. Laughing harder than he ever has on camera before.

Photos of them being covered in food seemed to be more and more of a common occurrence. 

The videos and photos of the two getting ice cream, rolling around on the floor while shoving the desert into their faces was not seen disrespectful at all somehow. It was probably the fact the Craft family donated a whopping 50 thousand dollars to the small business when the phots were taken, but Tommy likes to think it was because he slapped the shit out of Wilbur with a waffle cone. 

Which by the way, was voted best photo of the year by Teen Weekly.

This rampage for content with the two continued on, after a photoshoot on a day he didn’t have to go in to the studio their PR teams planned them to both go to some skate park with a pro skateboarder. Trying to get them to learn how to skate. 

Well, it was more Tommy learned how to skate. With his pink kneepads and dora the explorer helmet as Wilbur laughed at him off to the side. Occasionally coming over to help hold him up as he shouted profanities every twenty seconds after almost falling off the board onto his face. All of the interview outlets surrounding them with their video cameras as Tommy skated face first into a bush. 

During all of the commotion he even got posted on Wilbur’s instagram, a photo of the two was the first of many after their first appearance together. It was of him and the celebrity when Wilbur took him to some art museum and they had some big, priceless painting behind them that apparently made art history or some bullshit, called the ‘Mono Laura’ or some shit, fuck if he knows.

He was standing on his tippy toes with Wilbur’s arm wrapped around him, a giant gleaming grin that hurt his cheeks from how wide it was while Wilbur had his graceful, casual smile. Only this time it looked like he trying miserably to hold back his snickers as Tommy tried to match his insane height.

People were fucking loving it, again . Tommy Malarvo and Wilbur Craft found their way into being the talk of the nation. Everyone wanted to know what shenanigans they would get in to next. And the teen had to admit, he loved it too. Not only the publicity he got off it, but the friend he made through it all. 

The internet was practically on fire, twitters #1 hashtag was #crimeboys for an entire three weeks, only sweeping down to second after the dog from some sitcom died. Crimeboys was apparently a nickname given to them after they were seen constanly out together doing something stupid and stupider by the minute, endearing to the public and swirling up every fan and casual watchers eyes onto their phone screens as they ached to figure out the story between the two.

The fans didn’t know about the movie yet, since it was still in production. So they both had the job to keep it all under wraps before making a big show out of the reveal that the reason their both out together all the time was because they were playing co-leads in an up and coming film.

Interviews with him and the Craft were flooding in, all asking how they met and they both kept their mouths sealed. Wilbur clasping his hand over his lips whenever Tommy opened his mouth to spoil, joking with the interviewer that Tommy couldn’t keep his mouth shut about it for the life of him.

Tommy was still slightly afraid Wilbur was doing it all for the publicity. He means who wouldn’t? But for some reason it just- it didn't seem true. There was a lot that happened behind the scenes that seemed too real, too-

He didn’t know, but it just couldn’t be fake. It couldn't. 

Maybe it was the overbearing protectiveness, the way Wilbur’s eyes turn blaring whenever someone looks at Tommy with even remotely any malice. The way Wilbur failed miserably to hide his smile during Tommy’s antics, even the greatest actor in the world couldn’t stand to not crack Tommy’s quips and jokes. 

It was nice, refreshing even. To have somebody by his side who cared about him. Yeah, he did have Tubbo but his friend was thousands of miles away at most times and although he was only one phone call away it was just so much different to have somebody real, a real person next to you to help lick your wounds. 

And if he missed the dark looks that followed his frame whenever he looked away, the outright ominous thoughts that rolled around in the man’s brain as he talked the guy’s ear off with his childish fixations. Then that was for Wilbur to know, and for Tommy only when the time comes.

Tommy was at the highlight of his life. Everything was going great, they were about a month into production and everything was handy dandy. The film was going amazing so far and the fans were riled to their core by the idea of the two. Leaving Tommy as happy as could be, the constant praise and adoration poured into his ego was fueling the praise hound inside of him. The way Wilbur appreciated him just as the media did was fueling that warm, gooey feeling inside of him, even if Wilbur adored him in a way that Tommy would never approve of.  

They bickered on screen, they bickered on set, they bickered when they were alone. In interviews, the fans were enraptured by it all, the young star telling stories about the pranks they set up around the studio. Wilbur letting him ramble while he looked over to the boy affectionately as Tommy talked about the way Quackity shat his pants after they bought a tarantula and put it in the director’s car. Telling another story about how he accidentally walked in on Wilbur using tinder, in which the man immediately developed into denial about it to the interviewer. 

People believed him, obviously , the lying cunt. 

Wilbur kept up the charisma while Tommy kept up the childishness. It wasn’t even acting at this point, the two just fit together like two pieces of velcro and everybody could see it. The only way you could part the two was if you physically ripped them apart, something the Craft would never allow. 

And today was like any other day, instead of going out they had a long day at the studio, which was okay. They didn’t need to go out every day. It was getting late by the time they finished up at set, so instead of going home he decided to sit with Wilbur after little convincing from the man. 

Which left him to where he he is now, sitting on Wilbur’s couch in the Craft’s trailer as he poured out a glass of wine and Tubbo texted Tommy about his english teacher.

Tubbo wasn’t an actor like him, the only reason they met was because his dad was the famous Jebediah Schlatt. Known for his comedy acting. The fuck was always in some big shot comedy movie about his sad life where he was dating/married to some beautiful woman while he looked like he just crawled out of a sewer with the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles. The movie was always shot in Vegas or some shit as he tried to get his girl back in some hilarious way.

He met Tubbo when his friend was on set with his dad while Tommy was playing Schlatt’s son as some small part in one of his comedy movies. They needed him on set constantly for a week for only a five minute scene, thinking they were going to use him a lot more than they did. 

Schlatt saw the bored eight year old Tommy and saw his same age son Tubbo and decided to set them up for a playdate in the comedy stars dressing room now stocked to the ceiling with toys for his kid before taking his leave with a ruffle of Tubbo’s hair. 

And they stuck together like glue ever since. 

The glup glup glup of Wilbur’s red wine trudged him out of his vigorous tapping spree of trying to coax Tubbo out of murdering his english teacher. Looking up to the celebrity as Wilbur set the bottle down and took a sip with a sighed ‘ah’ before setting his gaze back to the child beside him, face twisting to a smile as he looks upon the big blue eyes watching him. 

He walks over with his glass and drops gracefully onto the couch beside him, ruffling his golden curls before wrapping an arm around the youngers waist and pulling him flush against his chest, Tommy leaning in appreciatively.

After a moment of bliss by Wilbur’s side he hears a ping of his messages and reaches over to make a grab for his phone. Reading out Tubbo’s text on how his english teacher had the audacity to say Tubbo Schlatt was ‘below average’ and needed ‘extra tutoring’. 

“Who’s that?” Wilbur speaks up, all while taking a sip of his glass with his gaze drowned in the Disney movie playing on the TV screen he mockingly put on for Tommy. 

“Tubbo. He says he’s going to use his dad’s mercedes to run over his english teacher.”

The celebrity snorts, “Course he is. Didn’t he want to murder his history teacher last week?”

“Thats what I said! But apparently that was last week, he’s moved on now.”

Tommy had told Wilbur all about Tubbo after the guy told him about his friendship with Schlatt. Apparently they were just as inseparable as Tubbo and Tommy, and the two were known to be seen at bars and shit together back in the day.

Wilbur just hummed and squeezed him a bit and Tommy took the liberty to curl up right next to the movie stars side after he texted a goodnight to Tubbo once his friend told him he's going to bed for the night. Promptly shoving his face into Wilbur’s sweater as the other rubs up and down his his back lazily and takes ocasional sips of wine.

Something he forgot to mention, just a bit, maybe it wasn’t only just arms slung around his shoulder. 

Ever since the first time they met at the reading, Wilbur has only got steadily more demanding with his commands for Tommy to soften up around him and let him coddle and hold the boy, let him keep contact with him in front of the people roaming around set. 

Though, Tommy couldn’t find it in himself to mind too much. Even if he should. He didn’t know if it was the publicity getting to his head or the obviously touch starved part of him yearning to be close to the Craft, to let him card through his hair and sit beside the warmth leaking from the celebrities side, but whenever Wilbur pulled him over he couldn’t find it in himself to move away. 

Right after the table reading Tommy still had the courage to try to pull away and fight the star whenever Wilbur tried to yank him into his embrace when the cameras weren’t around, or when Wilbur went to have those famous hour long talks with Tommy Malarvo tucked under his arm. Scared for his big man reputation of not subcombing to the urge to become a mushy, little affection leach being ripped away from him. 

But the Craft had none of that, keeping him pinned in his embrace behind closed doors. It got to the point where Wilbur was hissing into his ear threats towards his career if he didn’t stop and drop the act, obviously having the upper hand. The demeaning words always leaving him a limp, slumped image of himself. Letting the celebrities humming and tender fingers do whatever they pleased. 

Later Tommy found himself willingly crawling over, letting the ministrations overtake his mind and body instead of being a worrywart about it. Not worrying about the way the stars eyes darkened whenever he didn’t listen to the other, the way the fingers yanked at his hair whenever he tried to slither away, the almost obsessive eyes that followed his every move, the possessive squeezes and glares that overtook the celebrity whenever someone else looked at the, his , child with even remotely any bitterness, telling him to go to another room as he ‘had a talk’ with the assailant.

Tommy tried to push those memories away at any chance he got, trying to tell himself he was just interpreting the situation wrong, that it was his fault for thinking of it that way other than Wilbur’s doing. 

And it worked, somewhat. As long as he kept Wilbur happy everybody else was grateful for it, including him. Wilbur wasn’t psychotic, insane, he wasn’t shit . Tommy just had a bad first impression with the star, and that wasn’t anything to put blame on Wilbur for, especially when his first meeting with the famed man he was shit talking him in front of his very eyes. 

The fans loved them. Together. Sitting around and telling himself things are wrong, that what Wilbur was doing was wrong was only going to mess up that for him and his long in the making career. He was in the highlight of his life, he was in an infamous duo with Wilbur Craft. He was friends with Wilbur Craft. If that meant he was subject to some needed, forced, affection every once in a while, then he’d have to deal with it. 

It wasn’t like it was hurting him, was it?

Even if it meant dealing with the temper, the times when he got into even the slightest quarrel with the celebrity that wasn’t simply lighthearted bickering, and it was like something took over the man. While it never got any more violent than yanks and pushes, the occasional iron shackle grip against his skin, the words spat at him felt worse than a stab to his gut. 

Unfiltered seethes directed towards Tommy that he was an ungrateful brat for taking for granted Wilbur’s generosity, that he was doing Tommy a favor for even gracing him with his presence, nonetheless seen out with him. Long dragged out spews of Wilbur rambling on about his ego, his greatness, how the world was at his feet.

Usually, it developed into a digression of how he believed Tommy was destined for so much more by his side, how he believed that Tommy could be the next Hollywood, the next him. 

The next Craft, by everything but blood. 

The spews always ended with Wilbur sitting down next to him and brushing the hair out of his eyes, something needlessly affectionate, cupping his cheek, wiping away the stray tears left from the man’s outrage. Telling him gently that he just wanted to raise the stardom inside of him, keep it all to himself, have front row tickets to watch the future of Tommy, never Tommy Malarvo.  

Ending with Wilbur looking at him like he wanted to say so much more, always ending with a comma and never a period. Looking at him wildly with this untamed look to his eye, craving something only Tommy had, the stardom burning inside of him. 

The teen had to admit, it was unnerving sometimes. The way Wilbur looked at him left him shaken and eyes burned with tears. The harsh vocabulary turned to praise leaving him unknowing what to think. 

But at the end of the day, the celebrity always cooed at the unshed waterworks and wrapped him up in a sympathetic hug, so it was okay. Had to be. Nothing was wrong, it was Wilbur Craft he was talking about, if anything Tommy was just being a big, overthinking baby anyways. 

Tommy means, yeah Wilbur’s eyes and lips may turn protective and vicious whenever he read any criticism from a critic or fan on Tommy’s performance, sometimes even dismissing himself from the room to make a phone call after a particularly harsh take. 

Yeah, sometimes Wilbur left the room with a commanding ‘stay’ when his phone rang, a command which Tommy never listened to because he wasn’t some fucking dog. Placing his ear against the door as he could hear Wilbur pacing outside in the hallway. He didn’t ever know what the guy was talking about, but it seemed like he was planning something of some sort. Saying things about ‘after the premier’ and asking ‘if Phil had approved’ or some shit like that.

Tommy could never make it out, so he usually found himself back on the couch and waiting for Wilbur to come back to him, pushing the words out of his mind. 

But that was normal, Wilbur had his quirks but it was okay. Tommy was getting so much fame and attention there was no reason to hold up on the thought. How sometimes at night he stares up at his ceiling while his mind buzzes with irrational thoughts about the tidbits of things he heard the celebrity say, things that couldn’t be normal. Things that he tried to tell himself that he never heard. 

Everything was okay, it will be okay. He had Wilbur by his side, nothing could go wrong.

Right?

Tommy curled up tighter around the celebrity at the thought, wrapping his arms around the other’s waist and nuzzling into his soft, expensive sweater further. Drawing in a deep breath of the sweet cinnamon and gingerbread smell that he found dear in his heart, a smell that came with Wilbur.

The boy felt Wilbur kiss his temple when he tucked his head under his chin, and he closed his eyes in return with a small longing sigh when Wilbur began to rub up and down his back, scratching where it’s just right, the man in turn burying his nose into Tommy’s hair with a sigh of relief.

And that’s just what they did. They sat just like that for a little while, Wilbur drinking his wine and switching the channel with Tommy Malarvo tucked away in his lap, curling his fingers into the back of his hair and kneading his way through the gold, occasionally scratching patterns into the scalp behind his curls.

He carded his fingers up and down throughout the golden fluff, eventually  moving his fingers down to his nape, only to play with the baby hairs still sticking out on the back of his neck.

Tommy felt his eyes droop and didn’t think twice about it, absent minded to the fact his manager had no idea where he was, or that he needed to go home and see Shroud, that his team was going to be clueless the next morning, the responsibilities that he would be leaving behind when he shut his eyes. 

He found himself letting them slip closed as Tommy let his mind focus on the affection surrounding him, the chin propped up against his hair, the fingers trailing his spine, and the quiet buzz of the television behind him.

Tommy didn’t feel the way the face in his hair twisted into a smile as his breath evened out into sleep, Wilbur doing nothing to wake him up, dark and eager of the future for the child buried in his protection, didn’t hear the possessive “Mine” whispered reverently into the air above his head, didn’t feel the arms tightening around him.

All he felt was the darkness taking over, succumbing him to the dim drifts of slumber.

______________________________________

The trailer door swiped open with just barely a twinge of a rusty squeak, the respected Alex Quackity walking through the door and closing it behind him.

“Help yourself to some wine, Quackity.” Wilbur leisurely dictates while gesturing with his free hand to the upscale-priced bottle of red sitting on the counter. 

Quackity looked over but he wasn’t looking at him nor the bottle, figures, his now bewildered eyes were latched on to the small lump under the blankets beside him, the golden curls peeking out from under the duvet.

Tommy. 

Wilbur understood why all two pairs of eyes in the room fell directly on his child’s curled-up form, the way the world’s eyes all drift to the golden boys acting and reputation. What he didn’t understand was why people looked at him for only that when there was so much more under the surface, such an adorable face peeking out of the soft weaves of the blanket.

He had been trying to get Tommy to trust him enough to fall asleep in his presence for what felt like centuries now. Always fleeing to his sanctuary whenever he had free time after the clock ticked any time after nine or ten.

When Wilbur should be his sanctuary.

Tommy fell asleep about an hour ago and the treasured celebrity took the liberty to scoop the young boy’s form up and into his arms, the soft golden curls resting against his nape, and eased them both into the trailer bed. Finally able to make the call he’s been wanting to make since Techno came to the same realization he did.

That there’s a new Craft waiting to be taken home, born into the wrong arms, and waiting to be returned once again. 

“What the fuck do you think you're doing, Craft?” Quackity outwardly replies, voice level and flat. Almost as if he’s trying to keep his composure. Defensive over the young blonde laying boneless in his lap, in the lion’s den. 

The actor has a feeling the composures not going to last long by the time their done today.

Wilbur twirls a finger through the golden curls sleeping soundly against his chest, a warning , and Quackity’s careful eyes watch him like a hawk. “What ever do you mean?” The movie star conveys with a vicious smirk.

“You called me. And if it’s the type of call I think it is, then you don’t call me about Tommy Malarvo.” Quackity spits back ignorantly. 

“Well, it’s a good thing it isn't.” Wilbur charms. 

“Then why the hell am I here?”

Fed up with the attitude, Wilbur enthralls with faux sweetness. “Y’know Q, I thought we were friends.” Wilbur brushes through the curls, looking down at Tommy with a thoughtful expression. 

“We've been working with each other for years, so why don’t you grab a glass of wine, like I asked, and we can talk about this like men.” Peeking his cruel eyes up at the man. 

Quackity, the imbecile, does not do what he asks at all, simply scowling at the star.

Instead of being smart, the director continuously demands. “What’s the plan?” 

Wilbur just sighs, the stubborn bastard. He keeps his gaze down at the slumbering boy against his chest, how his cheek was slightly smooshed into his sweater with a thin line of drool pooling under it. Fucking adorable . Tommy’s face was slightly disgruntled against him, somehow even looking angry in his sleep. 

He impulsively began to run his fingers through the child’s hair again, Tommy making a quiet, sleepy hum at the movement and snuggling further into his chest with an “mmph”, and Wilbur had to physically restrain the urge to coo at the younger. A warm, gooey affection swirling in his chest as he relents to just press a featherlight kiss to his temple with a meager, fond smile before pulling away to look up triumphantly at Quackity.

The director did not seem happy in the slightest with Wilbur’s display of affection, arms crossed against his chest and foot tapping impatiently on the ground. A defensive glare set into his eyes as he must’ve thought he had the upper ground in some way, that by simply being invited into a room with the Craft gave him some sort of jurisdiction for his tantrum. Gave him some sort of reasoning to think he could go toe to toe with Wilbur Craft. 

That he was allowed to demand answers from him, instead of begging for forgiveness. 

Wilbur didn’t understand the man’s behavior at all, his father was known for the power he holds over Hollywood, over him, the ruined careers and lives he’s left in his wake to get there. You don’t get to where he is without walking over people, after all, a lesson well kept by his two (almost three) sons. 

He kept his intentions clear, trying to get through Quackity’s head that he held Tommy all in his palms, a clear indication of mine crawling through his movements as he pulls a stray curl off the sleeping child’s scalp and twirls it around his finger. 

Wilbur finally answers the question once he finally sees the first flicker of doubt in the director’s eyes. “Phil Craft, my father, has quite the reputation. The Craft name is lined with prestigious actors, the best of the best.”

“Get to the point.” 

Wilbur rolls his eyes at the director’s ignorance. You’d think after a few years of this bullshit he’d finally get it in his fucking pea-sized brain. “You took up quite the liking for Tommy, didn't you?” 

Quackity’s mouth flies open but Wilbur simply places a hand up to stop him, a fierce turn to his irises. “Don’t lie to me Quackity, I read the casting director’s notes. How you practically begged them to make Jack’s role meant for a younger part so your little golden boy could get recognition in a Craft film.” The celebrity spat. 

Quackity blanches for a moment, only to regain his composure and reset his posture, brow and mouth set into a thin line. “And?” 

The irritation chases away from his features as this time when Wilbur Craft smiles it’s sickeningly sweet, turning his gaze down to the drowsy boy so he could drag his thumb possessively down the pale of his cheek adoringly, cupping his jawline lightly once he reaches it. 

“And I’m glad you did.”

It’s silent for only a moment.

“What?!”

Wilbur shakes his head. “Everybody could see it, you did, he’s perfect.” 

The star picks up his hand and trails the fingers through the boys hair, “Golden hair, sapphire blue eyes,” Wilbur tracks his fingers over the closed pupils, brushing over them. “Those big toothy grins that could light up the world. My world.”

“He’s just a little kid.” Wilbur marvels, words airy. “A little kid in a world that could care less about his age, the life he deserves. All alone, no one to go to.”

“What the fuck are you implying?”

“I’m implying Quackity.” The celebrity leans back into the pillows, ensuring an arm is still wrapped around the youngers shoulders, a sinister look in his eye. 

“That I think a family reunion is in order.”

The director only turns confused. “Don’t family reunions defeat the purpose if you fucking live with them?”

Wilbur scoffs with a roll of his eyes, “Can’t you see it?” He hysterically murmurs, grabbing Tommy’s sleeping face all in one hand, squishing his cheeks between his fingers and thumb so he could turn it towards Quackity. The boy grumbled sleepily but the star couldn’t care less. “He’s talented, you know it just as the world does. So fucking talented. God, I’d be surprised if Phil could do the things this mere child could at his age.”

“All eyes are on him at all times, all of mine. He could act out anything you give him. I’ll be fucking surprised if anybody even takes a glance at me, Wilbur Craft, in this movie.” Getting wrapped up in his words Wilbur turns the boy’s face towards him all in one quick movement, watching as his child's eyes blearily blink open he promptly develops into tender shushing, letting go and pulling his small head right back where it came from, under his chin. Resting his jawline on the child’s curls. 

He runs his fingers through the boy’s hair once again, listening intently as his breath falls steady, easing away into a quiet snooze as he nuzzles further into Wilbur’s chest with a small, sleepy noise. His forehead pushed into his neck with a short breath of air.

“He’s a force of nature behind a camera, and a small child everywhere else,” Wilbur mutters, his voice falling calmer just as the sleeping child. He rugs the boy further into his embrace and buried his nose into the boys curls with a crescent moon smile. “He’s adorable. He’s perfect, in every single way.”

Quackity just stares at him puzzled for a moment, and Wilbur catches the moment he strikes realization. Eyes widening only a smidgen. 

“You want him- you want him to be a Craft?”

Wilbur grins, predatory.

“I always wanted a little brother.” 

They sit and stare at each other, no one making a single sound until Quackity eventually breaks it. A crude laugh leaving his lips. 

Quackity brushes the hair out of his eyes in disbelief, a bitter scoff escaping. “You’re fucking insane, insane. He’s a kid. A fucking kid Wilbur- you can’t just-”

“And when’s that ever stopped me before, Quackity?” The movie star interrupts, patience falling at the seams. 

“You know what we do, you know what these ‘calls’ are for. You don’t get to where we are without stepping over a few people, you didn’t get to where you are without it.”

“Without me.”

Wilbur is the only one laughing this time, “I want to know who told you could walk in here and think you can fucking question me? I made you, the only reason you're in a thirty-mile radius of Hollywood is because of me.”

“And to think I wasted all this time just for you to come in here and mock me. Like you have some sort of power over me.” The Craft shakes his head, something ruthless digging into his ribcage. “I could ruin you in my sleep ‘director’, just you watch.” He seethes.

Quackity’s eyes were blown wide, shoulders tense, nails dug into his palm enough to draw blood.

“I want what’s mine. And either your gonna help me take it or I can send your ass to the streets.” Wilbur sneers.

“I’ve done it before, we’ve done it before. Together. And if you want to fight with me on it? I’d have no issue with replacing you. There’s many more where you came from.”

Wilbur’s hands weave through gold possessively, “Tommy’s mine, mine. He was born to be a Craft, born to be in my arms, born to be mine. And if you want to undermine that? Sit here and call me insane as if I didn’t build everything you have?”

Quackity gulps.

“You’re as dead as his mother.”

He watches as the man goes through a full-body shudder, frowning and shakily wetting his lips. “His- his mother?”

Wilbur draws back by taking in a deep breath, forcing himself to calm down as he quickly checks on Tommy to make sure he didn’t wake. Either the boy sleeps like some form of rock or has the ear canal of an 80 year old because he didn’t do as much as stir during the altercation. Still left sleepily content in fisting Wilbur’s sweater gently and shoving his face into the darkness between the pillow and the musician’s throat. 

The star sighs, impulsively pulling the blanket up a tad further over the curve of Tommy’s shoulder. “From my sources, apparently the bitch has been on the Spanish coast spending away all of my sunshine’s money for the past six months.”

To Quackity's credit, his voice only trembles slightly. “And what do you want me to do?”

Wilbur smiles and it isn’t charming, it isn’t warm, it isn’t anything he’s felt in the past few weeks around the light of the world, his world. It’s malicious, unforgiving. Nothing you’d ever want to see on the lips of someone as powerful as him, as a Craft.

“What you do best, of course.” Wilbur charms, insanic glee feeding his very bones. 

“The night of the premiere, I want you to put a bullet in her head.”

Chapter Text

Ring. Ring. Ring.

Tommy groaned, scrunching up his nose in distaste as the annoying blares of a phone ringing intruded his eardrums. His body felt too heavy and sore to move, almost as if he just swam 20 laps through cough syrup in an olympic sized pool. The only sluggish thought he could whip up through the haze was that he wasn’t moving anytime soon. Fuck you Steve Jobs.

He turned his slack body further into the warm thing below and surrounding him, pressing his nose deeper into a soft, weirdly squishy something with a content little hum when he finally found the perfect spot. Snuggled deep into a pleasant, almost familiar, warmth that curled protectively around him. Encroaching him to fall back asleep.

Staying awake for the moment seemed like too much of a hassle, and he found himself letting the world slip through his fingers once mo-

Ring. Ring. Ring.

Son of a bitch.

He groaned again as the ringing continued, why him? Can’t bitches understand the importance of beauty sleep? How the fuck else was Tommy Malarvo meant to be this drop dead gorgeous? Just because he lived in LA didn’t mean he was up to getting botched every Tuesday and Wednesday afternoon.

He drowsily wrapped his arms and body farther into the relaxing warmth with a trailed off grumble. Burrowing his face deeper into the the- the- the body pillow? Heated blanket? Shroud? No- that can’t- his brow furrowed deeper in confusion. What he was sleeping on was way too… Big?

At that matter it was… was really big… and long..? Huh?

How many fucking party platters had his assistant fed Shroud..?

Wait. Could cats even get this big?

Who- What- Where was he?

Ring. Ring. Ring.

What the fuck is going on?

He was about to pick up his head and slam whoevers fucking phone was ringing like no tomorrow into the wall, or into whatever the hell he was sleeping on when that something, someone? huffed disturbingly above him, almost as if they were just woken up.

Wait.

Above him?

He now realized that same something was resting on the top of his cheek and he could feel the rest of it moving beneath him and his chest, the movement in harmony with the even puffs of air the boy sluggishly now understood was breathing, the warmth against his forehead bobbing in tune whenever air was released and taken back in.

Tommy wasn’t even on the cusp of figuring out what the hell was going, his best guess being he was kidnapped by a snuggly ass alien, when a hand dropped down into his curls.

The actor let out a deep, even breath of air as whoever it was took a handful of his golden curls and massaged the scalp beneath with an enchanting brush through his hair. Scratching the boy's scalp with perfectly trimmed nails where it was just right- oh my god, and the effect was instant.

Tommy slumped over like a high schooler after a single shot of alcohol.

Ring. Ring. Ring.

Tommy could feel the thing pressed up against his forehead rumble in tune as the sound of a very familiar pissed off groan sounded above him. The teen instinctively tensed up as memories tugged at the back of mind, the reality of the situation backhanding him in the face.

But before he could even move a finger, even begin to attempt to peel back his eyelids-

Ring. Ring-

CRASH

A sickening crack rang throughout the, what he was now realizing, trailer and his eyes flew open without missing a beat. His body was on autopilot as he flung himself to sit up. The smash of 21’ was promptly followed by clambers and clatters as the phone, is that his fucking phone? rolled around on the floor in misery.

What in the actual fuck.

Tommy threw himself awake. Jumping up and out of Wreck It Ralph's arms to see the catastrophe. His breath hitched as he whipped his gaze to his Phil Craft signed phone case (don’t fucking ask) surrounded in a pool of broken glass and bits and pieces of his phone.

That's his-

His phone-

His poor, poor phone.

Oh my god.

Tommy’s breath shuddered as he looked upon the crime scene, on the verge of tears. He felt like the Virgin Mary when the Romans ratioed her son. Except worse. This- this was the worst day of his life.

It was the end of days. The end of Worlds.

All of his hours on Cow Wow Farmers 2. Gone. The undeniable proof of his and Tubbo’s two hundred hour facetime streak. Gone. The history of text messages between him and Oprah Winfrey.

Oprah. Winfrey.

All gone.

The peace shattered around them just as his phone did. Rage churned within him as he clutched the blankets pooled around him to stop himself from utterly obliterating the prick he knew was behind him. The absolute dickhead who just ruined his chances with Oprah. Oprah fucking Winfrey.

Tommy slowly, carefully spun his head around. Soaking in every second he could before he would face the ruthless wrongun behind him. Every second before he avenges his queen, his martyr, his empress.

Oprah.

The assailant, the dirty Wilbur Craft, only let out a satisfied hum with himself at his wreckage. At the crude death of Tommy’s phone, of Oprah. The sick bastard had the audacity to look absolutely, no doubtedly pleased with himself. A smirk crafting his lips like a symphony.

Oh Tommy knows a way or two on how to fix that-

“A shame, you really should've turned off your ringe-”

“Fuck you bitch!”

“Get the hell off me!”

The teen had launched himself at the other with a howl of rage. Going straight for the throat as Wilbur Craft screeches like a little girl.

Oprah Winfrey will be avenged today ladies and gents.

He swats out like a cat as he flings himself into Wilbur like fucking batwoman, trying to catch any sort of skin, Wilbur’s eyes were blown wide as he tried to wrangle the blonde off him.

“Are you fucking feral?!”

“You bitch!”

Tommy tussled against him and suddenly he got an amazing, foolproof idea. Go for the eyes. But the second he reached up anywhere near Wilbur’s perfect fuckin’ face the mans face set hard as stone. He grabbed him by the shoulders and shoved him off his body with a newfound determination.

The ladies.

Tommy landed with a thump and with a pocket of air leaving his lungs in a thick gasp. He quickly composed himself, Oprah Winfrey doesn’t talk to wimps. Doesn’t keep contact with pussies. And Tommy was certainly not a pussy, he was a man and he was proud.

It didn’t matter he was.. a bit.. just a tiny bit scared of Wilbur. It wasn’t by a lot! Men with gains aren’t scared of men who look like Mr. Krabs without the shell.

It just– Tommy has never launched himself at Wilbur before. And Wilbur had a tendency to be a bit.. unpredictable. Not in a bad way of course, never in a bad way. He just- he didn’t really know what was to come next.

But today he was fighting tooth and nail for the honor of Oprah Winfrey. Whatever punishment is to come he will take with pride for his lord and savior, the queen herself.

Missus Oprah Gail Winfrey.

The pride for his savior courses through his veins and he begins to pick himself up to run back into battle once again. A pillow in hand and a broken piece of his nail resting on his belt. And the liberty of the Winfrey name held with valor against his chest, right above his heart.

His enemy, though, only backstabs him in return. Flopping over the second he tries to pick himself up until the fool was sitting atop of him and pinning his shoulders. Tommy couldn’t help but admit he was slightly relieved when Wilbur, the merciless murderer, didn’t have any sort of his usual telltale signs of the beginnings to his unreliable rage.

The fuck was still smirking like an idiot, michief gleaming through his retnas.

Still high off the homicide he committed today.

The dirty fuck-

Tommy went for the throat this time.

“What the-! Tommy, no. Heel. Heel.”

Wilbur grabbed and restrained his upper arms against the mattress the moment he shot his hands up, effectively pinning the wiggling boy.

“You traitor! What the hell was that for?!” Tommy screeched.

“Tommy, you're fucking rich enough to buy a private island for shits sake, you’re fine.”

“And how the fuck am I supposed to buy Oprah Winfrey?! Huh?”

“Oprah Winfrey?”

Tommy let out another wordless cry of fury at the mention of her name, this time kicking out his legs but Wilbur wasn’t having it. Pinning his appendages down by his knees.

When all hope was lost on ripping the bitches esophagus out, he finally got his best idea yet.

Tommy sunk his teeth into Wilbur’s arm.

Wilbur cried out in sheer disgust. Taking his hand off the child's skin to shake his arm vigorously in the air as he looked absolutely mortified with the thick glob of saliva dangling off his wrist, making gagging sounds along the way.

“Wha- ouhh- did you just fucking bite me?!”

Tommy didn't have a chance to answer, nor was he going to answer. He didn’t deserve shit after the heartbreak he put the teen through. Tommy rolled out from under the bitches tooth marked arm like how you would wrap a burrito, tossing himself to the other end of the bed, before he sat up like some fucking track star and tried to barell himself through the air to the ground below.

There was one thing he underestimated though.

Wilbur’s resilience.

The next thing he knew a hand clenched around his upper arm and yanked him back right before he hit the ground. Tommy screeched like a man for the second time that morning as he was dragged backwards unwillingly, kicking and screaming, before the final nail hammered down into the coffin.

Two lanky arms wrapped up and around his shoulders and he couldn’t even react before they were pulling him in the rest of the short length between them. Tommy was effectively crushed into a hard surface behind his back, Wilbur’s torso.

Tommy let out a little oomph from the impact but he recollected himself when he felt Wilbur lean down dangerously over him, spurring out like a mantra.

“Fuck you, fuck you, fuck you, fuck y-”

“That's it.”

His words were cut off by a hand slapping over his mouth, the other arm still pinning Tommy’s arms to his sides. And the teen immediately developed into a slur of muffled protests, wiggling around like an earthworm as he tried to squirm away from the grip encasing him.

Every self preserving instinct left inside of him screamed at the top of their lungs to shut the fuck up, stop but you know Tommy doesn’t listen to those. Instead he was busy balling up a glob of slobber in his mouth, ready to spit spat spackle a bitc-

“Tommy.”

Oh.

Oh.

Fuck.

Wilbur's voice was as hard as stone, an unbreakable force of rigid commandment lacing all but a single word and Tommy gulped. It was stern, steely. In normal Wilbur fashion, it didn’t leave any room for Tommy’s shit. And he found himself curling into himself slightly in return, going still in the actor's hold as he dropped his head in surrender.

It was less angry than the normal Wilbur spurs, more stern than anything he was used to. It was probably the easiest Wilbur’s let him off in a while and he didn’t want to take it for granted. Especially since he just bit the guy to get up and out of his arms, the biggest crime of the century if he’s ever seen one.

Knowing the fight was over, even if surrendering to Wilbur was not how he wanted to start his morning, he still slumped into his arms. Leaning all his weight back into his chest and swallowing down the ammo balled up in his mouth.

The hand slid off his mouth and he couldn’t help the little apologetic noise that churned from the back of his throat when the man's hand was slightly wet from the onslaught of his earlier screaming.

Not even a second later a finger hooked under his chin and Tommy squeezed his eyes shut as Wilbur slowly turned his face upwards to where he could get a good look at him. His curls rested on the A-list celebrities shoulder blade while Wilbur took his time inching his chin to the light.

He let a deep exhale out of nose, telling himself it’ll all be okay.

Because it will be, Wilbur’s his best friend. Even if he was a dirty prick who had no respect for Oprah, or just not throwing peoples phones at fucking walls willy nilly. He still wanted the best for him, and Tommy wholeheartedly felt the same way back.

He wouldn’t hurt him. He wouldn’t.

Tommy hated how he had to convince himself that.

He waited for the words, the spew. Maybe, hopefully, just an amused huff and a knock it off before they could go on with their days. Maybe he could try and convince his manager to let him and Wilbur go out to that new froyo shop after set, get some good pictures, sit around under the heat of the sun with some ice cream, with good company.

Tommy knew they were coming. Knew it. No doubt in his mind. Wilbur was just taking his sweet time-

Actually, now that he thinks about it, he was taking a lot of time.

Like a concerning amount of time.

Huh.

Tommy’s shoulders slumped bit by bit the longer they just sat there. Nobody made a sound, nobody moved. The only fragment of noise was the far away caws of morning birds singing from outside.

Gods to be them.

The hooked finger disappeared out of nowhere and Tommy resisted the urge to blanche. Still keeping his head in place. The fuck? His mind was running a mile a minute when the actor behind him mumbled something unintelligible, questioning? under his breath. And a thumb brushed over the pale of cheek, gently stroking underneath his eyes-

No.

His eyes flew open as he stared at Wilbur wildly. Tommy’s face was tilted back on his shoulder and the celebrity looked upside down to his eyes but he could still see his facial features. See the way his eyes went through all the stages. From surprised, to questioning, to dark as he trailed his fingers over Tommy’s smudged foundation.

Trailed his fingers over the deep, gouging, seemingly bruised, eye bags hanging under his eyes.

Oh fuck.

Wilbur's eyes tracked over his skin just as his fingers, the slight frown line from before was taken with the wind as a grimace drags down his face. Irises lit dire and cruel.

God fucking damnit.

One thing. All he had to do was hide one fucking thing-

“Will, I-” Tommy starts, not knowing what to say. Where to start. The urge to defend himself was excruciating. He could see in the very corner of his eye the pale concealer smudged over the cream pillow where he was sleeping with Wilbur earlier last night. He could feel the pasty shit still clung to his face in odd areas, almost like he fucking rubbed it off on the godamn pillow all night.

Because that's exactly what he did. He fucking rubbed that shit all over. Like some dog rubbing off his slobber.

Fuck the Oscars. Tommy needs his own personal award for being the stupidest shit alive.

“Tommy, I’m only going to ask this once.” Wilbur begins, low and threatening. The man sounding as if he's trying to keep himself from combusting into a pile of flames.

The early morning light shines through the curtains of the trailer, a sunrise hanging shallow in the sky.

“Who the fuck was calling you?”

Fuck.

Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck.

He felt like he was in a spongebob episode, the mayday, mayday alarms blaring through his brain. He could feel the miniature hims screaming and panicking, running for their lives as they pull all the files of memories from the drawers and throw them into the air in a fit of panic.

Because Tommy knows exactly who was calling him.

Knows exactly what the fuck they were calling for.

And he knows exactly why he doesn’t fucking stay the night with Wilbur.

All because of one person, one damning lady.

Prissy Teagan.

His manager.

His cold blooded, thick skulled, hellion of a manager.

That same manager who was going to walk into an empty penthouse, an empty bed, and her empty soul will begin a rage brought up from all seven rings of hell.

And she was going to murder him. Stab him right through the heart. Tie a string around his lungs and slowly pull them out from his throat. Throw him into a pit of magma, happily watching as he skitters across the surface until slowly sinking into his doom.

He was dead. He was so dead.

Tommy could see Wilbur noticing his panic, the way the boy in his hold gapes like a fish and a choked little noise parts his lips. See the way his eyes only darkened all the more, an overcast of murky ebony dragging across his 5 o’clock.

He looked menacing. Absolutely, no doubtedly, livid. And Tommy, for some reason, was ready for it. He knew it was to come.

Tommy knew why he was mad. Fuck, he’s been waiting for him to figure it out for weeks. At this point, he hated to admit it, but he was kind of hoping Wilbur didn’t know already, that Wilbur was more than that.

That he was more than one of them.

That to Wilbur he was more than just Tommy Malarvo. That in Wilbur’s eyes he wasn’t just another face among the sea of people getting exploited by the media.

That to somebody in this world he could just be Tommy. Not Tommy Malarvo, just Tommy.

The thing was, it was early morning. And his best guess, from the way his manager was frantically calling him, it was somewhere around 4 a.m. Possibly edging onto 5.

Set for Return from the Pits started at two p.m., and for what Wilbur knew, Tommy only went on to work for a total of seven hours. Ending at nine o’clock sharp every night.

Usually studios didn’t really follow the seven hours sharp rule of working him, a part of his whole schtick was that nobody gave two shits about his well being. Or child labor laws. And Tommy understood and did everything without complaining anyways, even if he didn’t have a choice, and continued to live off only a few hours of sleep.

But for some odd reason, a dot he’s now connecting with the fact Wilbur Craft was merely standing in the same studio as him, they never extended his load a single hour past the seven hour mark. Every night he left at 9 o’clock sharp.

And every night, without fail, he’d tell Wilbur he was going home, straight off to bed. Every night he’d tell him that he had a cat to see, made up some bullshit excuse about how he was tired and wanted to go get some shut eye. Every night he’d tell him that he was sorry, that he’d catch him tomorrow.

When in reality it was just some lie. A coverup as he was shot off to set for the second time that day, shooting some Netflix horror show about extraterrestrial life, that looked like they were just ground out of a meat grinder, that landed on earth and a band of kids had to come together to save the planet.

It was cheesy as shit but it made money, publicity, and people fucking loved his character, and him simetameously, since his entire purpose was to be the comic relief. Set hours for that one was kind of wonky, and they weren’t really set times like with RFTP. But they mostly ran from 10 p.m. to 5 a.m or 5 a.m. to noon. However, he was technically only a side character so he only had to go in a couple days a week.

But the thing was, the fact that his character even fucking existed at the same time as Returning From the Pits was a crime. An actual, federal fucking crime that nobody wanted to give a fuck about. Child labor laws were just some facade in their eyes. A little law they can bypass any time they please. Mostly because of his mothers insistence that she doesn’t care, and won’t report.

It didn’t bother him anymore. Well, in more accurate terms it didn’t bother him ever. He wasn’t allowed to let it bother him. He didn’t have the time to whine and cry, and all that bullshit about it. Tommy Malarvo was born to make money, and that’s all that matters.

But the point is, with the mix of all the sudden publicity consisting of him and Wilbur, the shooting of an Oscar-worthy picture, and the entire series he was shooting with Netflix. Including the dinners, the lunches, the meetings, wasted time trying to convince Wilbur he wasn’t as busy as he was. Mindlessly following him around like he had nothing better to do.

He didn’t have much time to sleep.

And his deep purple, borderline black, eye bags that took about two pounds of make-up to cover up showed it.

A realization he could slowly see dawning on Wilbur.

God really needs to get his ass in here and kick his ass already.

“I-” Is the only thing he could possibly manage to pathetically croak out, chest heaving, pupils blown wide as he skittishly gapes up at Wilbur. An ache in his bones leaving him ready to bolt any minute, a wish that he knows won't be granted any time soon.

The Craft looked as if he was in some renaissance painting, a king copped with a stoic face, commanding virtue to his rule. The man's lip was just so everly downturned into a frown, the thing passionately dragging down on his frown line. His brow set as hard as the rocky cliffs of the Niagara, and his eyes reflected with a gleam of fury. Wrath. Arms smothering from where they were coiled around the boy in his grip.

Wilbur lowers down grievously and it settles somewhere deep in his gut. Curling out and away as far as he could without seeming like he was struggling. He hated this. Why did he ever fucking sleep here?

The Craft was leaning dangerously over him. Rage running behind his eyes like a mighty river. And Tommy kind of wished he had a taser, zap it out of him or some shit.

“Sunshine,” Wilbur begins low, malicious, a tone nowhere near how much adoration the nickname was usually poured with, the word spat with embers of fire. Leaving the boy’s eyes burning in passing. The actor was smiling with way too many teeth to be even remotely pleased in this situation. “This isn’t me fucking asking. This isn’t some cute game. You’re going to tell me who the fuck was calling you this earl-”

Wilbur’s line was only to be interrupted with the most holy sound he’s ever heard.

KNOCK. KNOCK. KNOCK.

You know, maybe Tommy will invest in Christianity after all.

At that moment the actor felt the need to fall to his knees and clasp his hands in the air. Thank you.

The trailer rattled slightly with the force of the knocks and the relief in his body was instant. His shoulders slumped and he took his split second chance to look away from the man's scorching gaze. Finally noticing how hard he was clenching his fists and relieving the pressure with a small, unnoticeable breath of fresh air.

That was a close on-

As quick as a cobra snapping on his meal, Tommy blanched as Wilbur immediately wrenched off of him with a huff. Not truly pushing him away, but pulling away from him so fast Tommy gasped, then settling his position at unbridling rigid. Tommy’s eyes silently tracked Wilbur as the elder snapped up with a posture laced undeniably with pure, gut-wrenching indignation.

The actor couldnt help but fear for the life of whoever the hell knocked on the door this early, because there’s no fucking hope. For them. Nor him.

Somebody better order a body bag.. or two.

Wilbur stalked towards the door, body tense and fists clenched at his sides in pure ire. The fact that bruises under his eyes smaller than the size of a quarter could cause this much fury in a man is almost completely unbelievable.

Tommy watched in utter horror as he ripped the door open, making it slam against the wall of the luxury trailer with a sickening bam. And saw none other than Niki Minerva standing outside with a basket of muffins, and the pleasant, bootlicking, smile on her face quickly sliding into a matching expression of Tommy’s.

Unadulterated fear.

…Also, even through the fear and insistent trembling of his limbs, Tommy couldn’t help but wonder.. why was she here at 4 in the morning?

“What?” Wilbur spat with the wrath of a thousand suns, and Tommy was surprised the sound didn’t come with the ‘pew pew pew’ of fucking lasers shooting out of the celebrities eyes to completely disintegrate the blonde sweetheart in front of him.

“Oh- um. I’m sorry to bother- I didnt realize- I just wanted to bring some muffins like usual-“

SLAM

Wilbur, the fucking gentleman, had slammed the door in Niki’s face before the poor girl could even finish her stammering. And all the thanking the lord Tommy was doing seemed completely for nothing as Wilbur’s gleaming eyes of outrage snapped back to where he had unconsciously curled up on the bed in fear.

He was so fucked. This was an absolute 0/10 moment. Why the fuck did the universe hate him? Why bless him with an astute amount of handsomeness, talent, and an endless amount of bitches and fame just so he could get struck down right here right now by Wilbur shitting Craft?

“Tommy.” Wilbur threw him sky-high out of his thoughts. “I asked you a fucking question.”

Fuck.

Lying was… not an option. It couldn’t be. Wilbur was so riled up already, and he knew how to read the child star like a book. He always did. Last time Tommy tried to lie to him it-

It didn’t end well.

The celebrity deserved the truth. He did. Even if he seemed all scary now, and wrathful, vengeful, and a whole slew of words. But he was a good guy. A great guy. The best. Right? And he won’t hurt Tommy.. he wouldn’t.

Would he?

And if Tommy did get murdered then well. Um.

He hopes there’s pizza rolls at his funeral.

“Will.. I don’t.. I’m sorry.” Tommy stammers, not even knowing where the hell to begin. How do you even tell someone, let alone Wilbur Craft, that you have been lying to them for months on end?

Wilbur huffs unambiguously before advancing towards him, each step shaking the goddamn trailer, and Tommy can’t help himself from the full body shudder, trying to curl in on himself as much as humanly possible. He felt like Mario and Wilbur was Bowser, except Tommy had 0 power ups and was unable to move in fear.

So instead, he focused all his self preservation into hunching his shoulders over his throat, and ducking his head.

“All you're doing, Toms, is denying the inevitable.“ He spits the nickname like it’s poisonous honey, sickly sweet but oh so dreadful. Simultaneously fingers grip his chin, wrenching his gaze to meet the deep hazel analyzing every molecule of his form.

Wilbur stares him down for what feels like hours, but most likely only seconds, before Tommy watches his eyes lit with hunger. A plan. The snarl reverts slowly into a smirk, one so charismatic and formidable, that Tommy knows what’s coming next. Knows Wilbur’s going in for the kill.

He’s used to it after all.

“Oh Tommy,” He cooes, and Tommy hates how it sounds so innocent and so sickeningly rotten at the same time. It makes him want to hurl. ”You know better than this. You know I have connections everywhere.” The sweetness in his voice cuts off there. “And if you think for a second that I won’t find out who's calling you this early. That I won’t find out why you look so utterly sleep deprived.”

“I swear Tommy, if you lie to me and I have to find out from anyone else but you-“

“It was my manager-!” Tommy can’t help but interrupt, his autopilot making the decision before he could even truly understand what he was doing. He takes a deep breath in and out, trying to calm the heart between his ribs that seemed almost like it was going to break into a full bloody sprint out of his chest and smack onto the floor in front of them.

Tommy’s manager is 100% going to boil him like a lobster for admitting this.

“I- it was my manager.” Tommy meekly whispers. This is so fucked. He cannot believe he is admitting this. “This morning.. at 4. I was supposed to be on set. But I’m- I’m- here.” Tommy finishes with a shudder.

Wilbur achieved a feat Tommy couldn’t believe was even fucking possible, as his eyes turned a shade even darker than before. The thin line his lips had set into, and the brow that looked like if it turned any more downwards it’d be in the South Pole surfing with the penguins betrayed the false calmness of his next word.

“Set.”

“I- I’m filming a show. Second season.” He nervously wets his lips. “Y’know the one where I murdered that alien and it turned into a- a stupid meme.” He laughs nervously, almost begging Wilbur to laugh with him. Or at least not look at him like steam was going to blow out his ears and his hair wasn’t going to light on goddamn fire.

“But-! It’s only a few days a week. It’s not bad- it’s just to help my mom pay for bills and stuff-“

“You’re fucking kidding me.”

“And I’m fine-. I’m used to it. I’ve shot multiple movies at a time for years. It’s not a big deal-“

And Wilbur-

His face was impossibly blank. Tommy was usually able to read him but this. This was different. Wilbur’s never gotten mad at him like this before, Tommy’s never dealt with anything like this before.

After what feels like hours of Wilbur looking at him like he was trying to decide between chopping him up or cooking him into a Tommy stew Wilbur finally speaks up. Voice low and dripping precariously with malice. “Not a big deal.” Wilbur finally mocks, but not like he was trying to be funny. No, like it was ridiculous. Like Tommy was being completely outrageous. The sound, the sight, makes Tommy’s hands squeeze himself even tighter into a ball, if it was even possible. He said too much. Fuck he said way too much.

He’s so dead.

“Not a big deal?” The man practically.. cackles? And he looks.. Wilbur’s not.. but he looks insane. Wilbur’s not insane. Tommy knows that, better than anyone, Wilbur was his friend, his best friend. Practically brothers. Maybe. Possibly. But-

This is really fucking bad.

“Of course it’s not a fucking big deal. Why would it be?” He ‘jokes’. Even though his words convey that he agrees with Tommy, it’s very obvious he does not. Tommy watches eerily silent, not daring to even breathe, as the man stands up and begins pacing the floor.

“What? Because while I trusted you were at your vacant apartment. That I let you stay in. Safe. Asleep.” Every word punches a hole in his chest.

“You, a 15 year old, have been working 14 hour fucking days under my watch.” Wilbur runs his hand through his hair, letting out an unbelieving laugh. But he’s not humored at all. Nowhere near it. “This whole entire time. All so your goddamn mother could have a few extra martini’s as her fat ass tans all day in Bermuda.”

How the hell did he know that?

He never told him anything about his mother.

“What-?”

”Don’t even start.” Wilbur stops pacing with a morbid finish, and Tommy squeezes his legs so far into his chest he’s surprised he hasn’t morphed into a ball of blonde and blue.

Wilbur grabs his own hair with his hand, pulling it with an irate huff of amusement. “God Tommy, I love you.” Wilbur’s breaths indignantly. Eyes cast maddening as they boring into his very soul. “Are you unable to open your senseless eyes and see that? In a world where everyone else refuses to care about you, I do.” He blinks the unshed tears out of his eyes, trying desperately to keep them in before suddenly Wilbur speaks up again. “Blood isn’t everything, sunshine. Which is proven by the bitch you call a mother. You have nobody but me. Nobody.”

Wilbur’s all teeth now, walking towards him reverently. “And I love you. You have no idea the sheer magnitude of what I am doing for you. All I am doing to try to help keep you safe.”

”Is this really all a game for you? An easy in to the the fame for you? The fortune? The boatloads of attention you get from simply being in my presence? Are you truly that self centered?”

Tommy blanks. Fuck. No- no. “Will- What? No. No.”

“Then how is this the way you repay me? By lying.” He takes a step closer. ”By leaving me.” Again, until he is towering right over Tommy, forcing the blonde to crane his neck to see him. “All so you can destroy yourself for that avaricious cunt who wouldn’t even fathom thinking of you as anything but an ATM?”

Tommy felt a lump clogging his throat, and he didn’t even attempt to hold back the tears this time.

“And if you can’t understand how much I love you? If you’re willing to continue to throw it all away for that batty, narcissistic tramp.” Each word he spits set a blaze in the trailer, both of Wilbur’s hands move to sit on both sides of his throat. “If you’re able to act like the incompetent, incorrigible child you are and hold secrets to this magnitude then you must’ve also used your imbecilic brain to figure that there will be consequences.” He seethes.

Wilbur’s hands squeeze lightly, it doesn’t restrict his airway in the slightest, nor hurt as it’s more of a warning, but it forces out a weak whine Tommy was holding, who raises a trembling hand up to the ire-ridden man’s wrist.

“Because, sunshine, if you insist on acting like such a child then I fear I’m going to have to go ahead and treat you like one.”

And Tommy-

Well.

He’s fucking screwed.

—————————————

The last time Tommy was in the car with Wilbur, it was nothing like this.

They were on the way to some Vanity Fair interview together, something where instead of being interviewed they were going to interview each other. Tommy was slightly nervous about it, as he’s never interviewed someone before, and was doing what he usually did when he was nervous, rambled.

Wilbur listened indulgently as Tommy told him about the time he broke a boom mic when he was 8 years old by stealing it, sneaking it off to his dressing room, acting like it was a wizard’s staff before accidentally snapping it in half trying to cast spells on his stuffed animals.

He, conveniently, did not tell Wilbur about his mothers wrath when she found out.

However, Wilbur’s wrath currently felt slightly nostalgic to that memory.

Tommy was presently sitting on Wilbur’s lap in the car, which is a traffic hazard but the hazard that would come with trying to inch away would be much worse than any car wreck, with his chest against Wilbur’s. He let his arms wrap around the celebrities neck and tucked his face into the darkness between the Craft’s shoulder and the seat of the car.

Tommy just wants you to know he is a humongous man. The biggest, actually. He could take down a WWE wrestler with a look he was so fearsome. But Wilbur…

Wilbur was kind. He was. He was a good person, a better person than Tommy. He was funny and intelligent and when he was around Tommy, and in a good mood, it’s some of the happiest memories he’s ever had.

But right now.. the man scared him. Enlightened a fear so deep at his core he could barely do anything but sniffle into his shoulder and try to stay as quiet as possible.

What Tommy had was great. He was on top of the world, the top of his game. He was at the highlight of his life currently. But, like usual, he obviously had to go and fuck it all up. Everything was Tommy’s fault. He fucked up beyond belief. He deserved to be yelled at. To be punished.

To be completely honest, Wilbur was merciful for not kicking him out and promising to ruin his career right then and there. Leaving him for the streets.

Leaving him better than what would happen if he stayed.

Tommy lied. After everything Wilbur did for him. The fame and fortune the older has gotten him, the role of a lifetime. Not only that but the friendship, the love he was shown by him when no one else would.

Even if most the time it was less love and more obsession.

The fact the Craft was able to still hold him right now, nonetheless not throw him out the moving car and watch as Tommy got ran over a semi, rub his back as the child actor sniffled and shook like a stupid fucking baby is the nicest thing anyone has ever done for him.

Tommy was so fucking mad at himself. So mad. He should’ve told him. He knew he was defying Wilbur by not telling him, but he greatly underestimated how angry he would get.

He should’ve told him everything, and now it’s too late.

Tommy tensley listened to the sound of keystrokes as Wilbur typed up an enrapturing storm on his phone. He had tried to glance over his shoulder to see who he was texting, the anxiety eating away a hole in his stomach, but Wilbur had grabbed the back of his head and pushed it back into his shoulder. Hissing a short “Don’t.”

So he sat there. Not knowing where they were going. Or who the Craft was texting so vigorously. Or most importantly, what Wilbur was going to do.

Tommy wouldn’t be surprised if he was fired by now from his Netflix series. He missed call time. Not only is he late, but he didn’t even show up. That’s is the #1 thing you can’t do. Right next to burning the place down. A one way ticket to getting fired. He had never missed set in his entire life. Tommy Malarvo has had pneumonia, the stomach flu, bronchitis, and practically every disease in the medical books and he has still found his way behind the camera.

He threw everything away for a nap. A fucking cuddle session.

The actor also wouldn’t be surprised if Prissy Teagan had yapped about his great misfortune this morning to his mom already, meaning his mom was zealously calling his broken lump of a phone. She probably thinks he ran away or some shit. Unbeknownst to her, Tommy was instead on one of the most famous actors in the world’s lap being shot off to god knows where.

And he couldn’t get himself to move.

Wilbur huffed, and Tommy tensed until he heard the telltale sound of his phone clicking off. The child didn’t dare to move as he felt a hand land into the back of his hair, and the feeling of Wilbur pulling through his unruly curls.

Tommy hiccuped a little harder.

He didn’t deserve the affection. Tommy’s a selfish, narcissistic asshole. Just like his mother. Just like Wilbur said. All he cared about was money and fame while Wilbur was worried sick about him.

He didn’t deserve anything.

The Craft sighed heavily, and he felt his shoulders slump beneath his cheek. “I know Toms, I know.” He rubbed circles into his back. “It’s okay sweetheart.”

Tommy squeezed his arms tighter around Wilbur. He knew he deserved it but he desperately didn’t want Will to yell at him anymore. He wanted to go back to the giggling and wrestling this morning, or even when Wilbur threw his phone, containing his priceless messages with Oprah Winfrey. At least then he was smiling, and Tommy wasn’t shaking like a leaf wondering where everything went wrong.

He hated these moments. The moments where everything was fine and then he shuts his eyes and the next thing he knows he said the wrong thing, or accidentally pulled away a little too far, and Wilbur got lost in his madness.

And it wasn’t like he hated Wilbur. Far from it. Tommy- he- he loved him. And everything was fine, really, it was. Because the good outweighed the bad a tenfold. It did. Hell, he’s one of the most talked about people in the world right now. He’s best friends with a Craft. And he has a career, a life, people would give up everything and anything they own to have.

He can’t complain when his life is so great. How could he? There are people starving on the streets, people who don’t have a home to go back to, and he’s being a whining, childish baby because Wilbur raised his voice at him?

Tommy needs to get a fucking grip.

It’s just- he can’t stop the nagging thought prodding the back of his brain.

If everything was so okay, if his life was so perfect, why couldn’t he stop crying?

Why could he not stop shaking?

“Oh Toms,” Wilbur sighed again. Squeezing him tighter. “You know I hate yelling at you. You just need to understand, get it through that thick, stubborn skull of yours that I love you.” He felt the hand in his curls move to cup his cheek and pull it away from his shoulder, Tommy going with a whimper.

“Everything I do for you is out of love. But, how am I supposed to love you if you won’t let me?” Wilbur’s eyes shone with.. love? Possessiveness. Adoration? Obsession.

“‘M sorry.” Tommy mumbles, sheepishly looking down to where he could twist Wilbur’s sweater in his fingers in anxiety.

“Things are going to change, love. I wasn’t doing my job before, and that’s on me. I’m
going to fix this. All you need to do is just let me.”

Let him- Let him do what?

“What-“ Tommy sniffled. “What are you going to do?”

Wilbur smiled and the curve of it, the misshapen smirk paired with that rotten gleam in his eyes made Tommy want to crawl in a hole and never peek out. It was completely smug, utterly delighted, and incessantly dark all in equal measures.

“Oh, you’ll see.” Wilbur pressed a kiss to his temple, smiling with one too many teeth to be anything but inanely unnatural.

“All in due time, sunshine.”

———————————————

Christmas was coming.

To Tommy, Christmas was never much. He never really cared for Christmas, especially since gifts were always just clothing that he could wear for paparazzi and cologne that clogged his nose endlessly.

Today, Tommy still couldn’t find himself to give a fuck about Christmas.

If anything, to be completely truthful here, he was slightly scared for Christmas.

Filming for Return from the Pits was almost over. And by Christmas it would be completely over. It flew by like a leaf in the wind, reaching high above the heads of all those watching it before crashing down to the concrete below, to inevitably be stomped on by a child for a good ‘crunch’.

Everything was high up in the sky. Everything was going wonderful for Tommy. He was booked and busy, and running a muck trying to keep it that way, keep himself famous enough so directors couldn’t keep their hands off of him.

And then the incident, as Tommy likes to call it, happened.

And now nothing has been the same ever since.

Wilbur had first dropped him off at his apartment after he found out about Tommy’s secret. Telling him that all his plans were cancelled for the day, and to stay there. Before sweeping out of the room with a flourish to take an ‘important’ phone call.

Tommy didn’t miss the Craft body guard standing at his door after Wilbur left.

The next day, Tommy woke up to a new phone on his kitchen counter, and a Technoblade on his sofa.

A Technoblade who with a quirk to his lips, a gleaming smile for anyone else, was officially the one who broke the news to him that his manager, Prissy Teagan, had been arrested for child abuse and tax fraud.

And that her replacement would be coming in later that day.

As much as he hated Prissy Teagan with all his guts, he had to refrain from ripping out Techno’s shitty pink locs right then and there.

Instead of just firing her, or giving her a stern talking to.. they arrested her? Framed her. That’s not.. that’s not fixing things. That’s making them worse. And there’s no doubt in his mind that the news had already gobbled the story up and created some big sob story on how she abused him.

Tommy wasn’t- he wasn’t abused. She never hit him. Never. She talked down to him. She screamed at him. Called him names he, a profanity addicted teen, didn’t even want to say himself. But she wasn’t abusing him.

What she was doing was good for him. She was making him more and more famous by the minute. And sure, he heavily disliked the cunt, but not to the point he wanted her to rot in a cell for the rest of her life.

But that wasn’t all, to even further twist the knife in Techno told him that his Netflix show had been cancelled.

Cancelled.

‘Coincidentally.’ ‘A true disappointment.’ Techno had said with a face of utter glee betraying his words.

Tommy almost ripped out the brute's hair and then his own.

That show had gotten so much attention, so many fans to the point there was no way it was coincidentally cancelled. The ratings for it were sky high, and the amount of money it poured in for the studio was enough to feed countries.

He loved his co-stars, as they were all the same age as him. And he genuinely enjoyed his role. And now?

Tommy barely knew what to think. Or say. Or do. Or anything. His mind was at a tug of war. Wilbur said he’d fix things, that he was going to help him. That he loved him. But-

Is this love?

Tommy knew he couldn’t think like that. Wilbur was better than anyone else he ever knew. Wilbur was his best friend, through thick and thin. He cared about him. Something nobody else had even thought to do before.

“You have nobody but me. Nobody.”

Wilbur was helping him.

So why was Tommy so depressed?

The new manager, Charlie, a fucking wimp, showed him his new schedule which was a complete steaming pile of absolutely nothing.

He wasn’t allowed to do anything.

They lowered his time at Return from the Pits, making it so they extended film time a month so he could have a three-day-a-week schedule. To top it off he had maybe an interview a month. Possibly a photo shoot every few weeks if he was lucky.

And that’s it.

How the fuck they cleared this with his mother, Tommy might never know. How they convinced the greedy woman to deal with not getting a paycheck in the millions every week was a feat Tommy himself was never able to do.

Fuck, he hasn’t even talked to his mother. He called her and she didn’t even bother to answer. Tommy was slightly convinced she was dead, because that’s the only rational explanation to why she wasn’t throwing an absolute fit at the actors schedule, but he checked his credit card statements and she was still in Bermuda, spending away all his money.

So she was simply ignoring him.

Tommy didn’t really know what to think about that one.

On the other hand, Wilbur was doing the absolute opposite of ignoring him as he was overjoyed with Tommy’s new predicament. Ceaselessly detailing to Tommy that the boy had worked long enough and he deserved rest. He deserved to relax.

In their arms, forevermore.

Spoiler alert: Tommy was physically unable to relax.

He had spent years on the go. He never had off days. Even if he was on deaths door type of ill. He was never taught how calm his body, let his mind stop racing with the endless laundry list of tasks he had each day. The only times he could slightly let himself go was between numerous takes and outtakes or the few hours he got for sleep every night.

Without a schedule, without anything to do, Tommy was going to go fucking stir crazy.

To add to the boys inner turmoil, Tommy was a praise hound. He adored it when people commemorated him. He was addicted to it. Maybe it’s narcissistic, scratch that- it definitely was, but it’s incredibly hard to not be egocentric when the world is practically obsessed with you.

How were people going to praise him if he was sitting on the couch all day?

It was an ugly thought, it really was. Entirely self absorbed, and made his mind churn back to when Wilbur had asked him if that’s all he cared about. If Tommy truly cared about anyone else but fame.

And it wasn’t true. It wasn’t. He cared about Wilbur. Tubbo. With time, he’s started to like Technoblade more and more. Even if it’s hard to admit, he does care for his mother. Even though she didn’t really care about him she’s still his mom. And she fought the hardest for his career out of anybody, without her he would be a nobody.

Even if it was all for her own personal gain.

But, nevertheless, back to his point: life is a whole lot easier when people on the internet can’t shut up about how much they love you.

And without any projects except his short time at Return from the Pits, he was desperate to get that love and attention from somewhere, anywhere else.

Wilbur and Technoblade ended up being his saving grace.

Apparently the two had simply decided, with no input from Tommy, that the boys apartment was their new housing situation. When he came back from set for his one out three days a week his eyes almost bugged out of his head like a prey animal at the sight of all their shit in his house.

The Pre-Wilbur Tommy Malarvo inside of him reared its ugly head, ready to throw a hissy fit and kick them the fuck out. But when he looked back at Wilbur to say something-

Tommy let them move in.

Wilbur decided he was sleeping with Tommy from now on, every night. Which was… hard to adjust to. He had never slept with anyone before, except the one night with Wilbur that ended less than adequate.

But it wasn’t really like he had much of a choice.

He’d never admit to anyone this, ever. Not even Wilbur. But it ended up being kind of nice. Wilbur was warm, and if Tommy followed the unspoken rules between the two it usually fell in Tommy’s favor and he was blessed with a warm slumber wrapped up in the arms of someone who truly loved him.

Even if the love was so much more than Tommy could handle. 

Additionally, Tommy was slowly coming to the realization that ever since him and Wilbur’s fight Tommy’s interactions with others had been dwindled down to 2. Techno and Wilbur.

At set the celebrity would watch him like a hawk, and would downright refuse to let him out of his sight. Which was fine. Tommy didn’t mind, it was just Wilbur caring, even if he did it in a slightly different way than others would.

And Wilbur did give a fuck more than others. Because nowadays when he goes back to set his co stars would fucking refuse to talk to him. Anytime he’d try to joke around with them they’d look at him with some wild, scared look in their eye before walking away. It was shit and strange, and he didn’t even know where it came from.

And what’s even shittier and stranger was Tubbo. With all of Tommy’s newfound time he decided making bothering Tubbo a top priority, but his best friend barely responded to him anymore. And when he did it was short responses, usually sounding annoyed.

The boy didn’t even know what he did.

He finally got the courage to ask Tubbo if he was mad, and all he got back was a ‘You know what you did.’ Before he was blocked.

His best friend of 7 years had blocked him.

Tommy didn't- what happened. Tubbo had been his closet ally for almost a decade. The last words he had exchanged with the boy before everything went to shit was telling him goodnight. And look at them now. He doesn't even have a way to get in touch with his best friend. 

Through all the tears and bargaining, trying to rack his mind for where he fucked up, Wilbur always seemed to be right there to comfort him about it.

At least he still had Wilbur.

Tommy also found himself having to adjust to Wilbur’s downright murderous looking brother, Technoblade.

Techno was somewhat of an enigma. Tommy was already accustomed to Wilbur. But with Techno, he had no idea what to expect at first. He had only met the fuck once at a coffee shop, where on first encounter the dickwad had taken the liberty to bash Tommy’s manhood. To the ground.

And that is the one thing you don’t mess with.

But Tommy, ever the saint, decided to forgive. Because that is what heroes do. And Tommy was a gracious man, merciful even, generous, so unbelievably kind-

And because Technoblade let him ride his motorcycle.

The fucker had a motorcycle. A motorcycle. And a cool one at that, all black and sleek and shiny and fast. So goddamn fast.

Riding that thing was the coolest thing he has ever done.

Before he, the miraculous wordsmith he was, convinced Techno to even let him look at his motorcycle, let alone ride it, Tommy started his newfound relationship with the Blade by analyzing that he was kind of a weird dude. Actually, let him rephrase. A very weird dude.

He was quiet, enjoyed books a little too much to be anything but a nerd. For example, the cuntswab brought a crate of books to his apartment, and when asked why he needed a goddamn chest of novels all he got was a huff and a ’There’s more in the hall.’

It was strange. The guy was an action star and he acted more like an intimidating, geriatric English teacher. Except he was buff. Too buff. With long pink hair. And badass scars across his face that reeked of battles fought to match.

Except the fact they were all just actors. And those scars were probably cat scratches and consequences of clumsy footing.

Right?

Techno was also kind of- menacing. He was everywhere, all at once. His steps were completely silent for such a massive man, and anytime Tommy would do anything even slightly disapproving Techno was always one step behind him ready to scare the ever living shit out of Tommy.

It wasn’t like he was doing anything bad, he was just bored. Out of his goddamn mind. And if reckless behavior was the solve to his increasing boredom then who was Tommy to deny his need for chaos?

After his second attempt of trying to see how many stairs his vases could roll down before it shattered, Techno had definitely wiped that endeavor clean from his head.

In his boredom, his attempts to subdue Technoblade into conversation seemed to be the most challenging of them all. It was like pulling teeth. Picking a topic to get the man to gush with him about was quite the mission.

He began trying to talk to him about how much of a ladies man Tommy was, truly the greatest conversation starter ever, only to receive grunts and looks. The audacity. He then tried to talk Techno into an arm wrestling competition, because Tommy was so unbelievably strong, the strongest man to ever live even, and Techno had the guts to say ‘No.’ before returning to his book.

The idiot. Tommy did not take no for an answer.

After 3 hours of begging, poking, and threatening to turn on Peppa Pig in every TV in the apartment til the end of time, all he had to show for his efforts was a sore arm and a way too amused Technoblade for his liking.

Fucking prick.

Tommy had other conversation starters up his sleeves, including indulging topics such as Moana the Disney princess, the historical importance of butter sculptures, and how Cloudy with a Chance of Meatballs was truly a cinematic masterpiece.

Every one of his attempts of conversation making failed miserably.

Instead of endlessly bothering Techno, he tried using his phone more to cure his boredom, and to help him settle with the fact Techno didn’t want to talk to him about anything but books and Greek myths, a line Tommy was unwilling to cross.

With his newfound phone usage he realized something miraculous. He didn’t need to go to interviews for people to notice him... because there was this wonderful thing called Tik Tok.

And Tommy was going to use it for evil.

Tommy chose the perfect night for his master plan, Wilbur wasn’t there, apparently out networking or some shit, he kinda zoned out when Wilbur told him where he was going, only caring about the fact that that night was the night for chaos.

The hardest thing was finding the perfect filter for his newest video. Additionally, an impeccable song. It took some time, and some weird looks from Technoblade as he tested out some outrageous music, until finally he settled on the perfect song.

Tommy waited until Technoblade was sleeping, a plan that apparently is much harder than it sounds because the guy just… doesn’t sleep? Or simply has a terrible sleep schedule as the child actor had to wait til 3 a.m. until the Blade finally would put down his book and would slump into Tommy’s guest room pillows.

Perfect.

He stood over the man’s body menacingly. A nefarious smile spreading across his cheeks before he turned his phone sound off, to not wake the beast, and pressed record.

And then with a few wicked edits, his finger pressed down on post.

Even after the two hour PR training video Techno forced him to watch, the entire time spent snickering at Techno’s resentful expression, he still defends the fact it was totally worth it.

Wilbur and his fans agreed too.

With time, and a whole lot of pranks, he slowly came to the realization he kinda slightly liked Technoblade. A very weird concept, he knows. However, his liking for the Blade never reached such a height as when the brute let it slip that he owned a motorcycle.

Which then became Tommy’s entire personality to force Techno to let him ride said motorcycle.

The amount of begging he went through was criminal. Tommy had become a living, walking menace as he spent hours on end poking Techno and pleading with him to let him ride it.

He even tried to ambush him. With a blanket. Over his face. Using a wonderful fake deep voice, that was 100% believable, to demand that Techno ‘let’s Tommy Malarvo ride his motorcycle or he would suffocate him to his doom.’

Tommy wasn’t allowed to do anything but sit in Techno’s lap for an hour after that one. The man mockingly instructing Tommy he was in ‘time-out’.

After that comment… it was quickly changed to two hours after Tommy’s second murder attempt of the night.

…It was almost required of him to mention that he didn’t like everything about the Blade. Especially the fact that Techno apparently had a severe case of Wilburism up his sleeve.

It didn’t start out that way, but the man was slowly, gradually turning nearly as bad as Wilbur. Always wanting to be fucking near him and shit.

Tommy didn’t even really notice it at first. Pre-Wilbur Tommy, or B.W. (Before Wilbur) Tommy Malarvo 100% would’ve. And he would’ve thrown a punch or two even at the idea of it. The boy was never used to being the center of affection. The actor doesn’t even know the last time someone touched his hair and it wasn’t Wilbur.

It was hard to think about how much he has changed since he met the burnette celebrity.

How much of himself he was letting go.

He hated how when The Blade started doing it, running his fingers through his hair, slinging his arm around Tommy’s shoulder, he didn’t even really question it at first. When his brains finally caught up to what was happening he felt almost like a trained dog, and the asshole noticed it too because he’d always get that stupid smug look on his face that Tommy wanted to rip off with his teeth.

He was very hesitant to be defiant with Techno. Knowing Wilbur.. they are related. And Tommy knows the unspoken rules with Wilbur like the back of his hand. He knows all the tips and tricks to keep the prestigious actor happy.

But do the same rules apply with Techno?

And what happens when he breaks them?

It was hard to even think about provoking the brute. Even though Tommy was quite the gigantuous man, Technoblade was huge.

He was reminded every time the Blade wrapped an arm around him. The pure musculature enclosing him in reminding him how easily the Craft could just barely squeeze and pop! Tommy would be in two different pieces.

Finally, when he got the courage to try and push Techno away, test his limits by calling the man some of Tommy’s most PG profanities, because he wasn’t a complete idiot and didn’t want his brains to be used to dye the white rug, he wasn’t met with endless berating and looming decrees of threats.

Instead he was met with brief squeezes that stopped his lung function for half a second, or sharp grips that were just a tad bit light enough to not bruise, or a gentle, threatening, hand laid on Tommy’s windpipe, not squeezing but reminding that he could.

And looks, quirks to his lips and eyes that burned holes through the boys skull that made him shut the fuck up.

Because those looks spoke more words than anything Wilbur had ever said.

And it- it wasn’t like it was bad. Far from it. Techno wasn’t hurting him. And he preferred it to Wilbur’s ways of keeping him in check to be honest. Most of the time the brute was just there, mocking him and letting Tommy annoy him all day. Not many people would do that. God, he didn’t even have enough fingers to count how many people would stick him on a rocket ship and shoot him off to the stratosphere for his shenanigans, and Techno never would.

Half the time, he indulged him.

If that meant he had to deal with a little affection, then he guesses he could begrudgingly accept that.

He knew though if he kept up the attitude around the Craft it would only get worse, and the fact he was only getting squeezed and looks of ire was a blessing itself. Tommy could already see the slightly more patient than Wilbur but still short temper the man kept, and it was in his greatest interest to just go ahead and give in.

It was for the best really, for everyone.

He wasn’t a pussy, shut the fuck up.

He knew if he fought or if he didn’t fight he would end up in the same position anyways. Just one would be with tears and his heart jackhammering in his chest. And it wasn’t like they were being mean, they were kind. Who else would want to pet his hair and hold him close? Tell him endlessly how much they loved him.

How they refuse to let him go.

How they won’t let anyone else love him.

How they wanted to keep him all to themselves.

Nobody.

Nobody cares about him, except them.

But, all of that is just water under the bridge. And there were more important things in the world, so skipping past all the stupid morbid shit to get back to the main topic at hand: the motorcycle.

It took a lot of willpower, strength, and talent to convince Technoblade. Especially since Tommy was impossible to deny. Techno held up a good fight though, but like always, Tommy and his power to convince pulled through. After days of begging, poking, prodding, throwing pillows, and nights of turning on motorcycle documentaries and giving Technoblade the look, eventually he was able to strike a deal out of him.

The sacrifice Tommy had to give up… it was a lot. But even if he had to make a very stupid, but totally worth it, ultimatum to even ride the damn thing with the action star, Tommy couldn’t find it in himself to care.

Because it was a motorcycle.

The first conditions of his endeavor, the Blade telling him with an exhausted expression after all the nights Tommy had kept him up begging, was he had to promise to keep his arms around Techno’s stomach and to wear an entire hazmats suit worth of protective gear.

It was easier to ignore how ridiculous he looked when he was zooming through the air at 60 miles per hour.

The second, was to not tell Wilbur.

Tommy decided for his and Techno’s sake, along with the fate of the world, that was probably for the best.

And third and foremost, the one that was truly the kicker.

Tommy had to move into their penthouse.

Tommy had to think about that one.. Because that would be crazy. Insane even. What would he do about Shroud? And all his stuff? What about Shrouds shrine he had in the back of his closet?

Pre-Wilbur Tommy couldn’t even imagine going to Wilbur’s house, nonetheless being asked to live with them? Full time? He wanted to start throwing shit even at the idea, he didn’t want to leave his apartment, was it a little lonely and boring, sure, but he grew up here.

How would they convince his mom?

But.. on the other hand, he was already living with them. The only thing that would really change was the location, and Shroud’s anxiety. Shroud was a very resilient cat, but still moving would put a lot of stress on him, especially since he only had one eye.

Tommy didn’t know what to do, and when Techno had told him with that stupid smirk on his lips he gaped at him like a fish out of water.

It wasn’t until Techno told him they had a pool that Tommy agreed.

In return for his agreement, the actor had taken him to some back country roads in the middle of nowhere in his pickup truck, which kind of spiked Tommy’s anxiety on if this would end up on a murder documentary, and had unloaded his motorcycle and laid down the ground rules.

Tommy didn’t really listen, all he could think about was motorcycle.

He was bouncing up and down by the time Techno had helped him up on it, and he even let him play the music.

Riding around on the motorcycle listening to Shut up and Drive was a top 10 Tommy moment.

How Wilbur didn’t find out was absolutely clueless to him. Truly showed Tommy’s genius and acting skills. But apparently Techno had simply told him Tommy is moving in and Wilbur’s face had lit up like a Christmas tree.

Tommy really hopes Wilbur doesn’t prod into as of why he was moving in.

It was strange living somewhere else at first. He had lived in a few places before, moving around with studios and where they wanted to shoot scenes, but the apartments were always smaller and obviously temporary.

Tommy had 0 clue on how long he’d have to be staying in this place.

Wilbur had told him it was technically Techno’s place, and they all had different penthouses and one communal mansion.

A communal mansion, which contains the oh holy Phil Craft.

Tommy wanted to know everything about Phil Craft. Not making every conversation about their father was physically painful. He got a few tidbits out of them, but most of the time when he’d bring it up he got called a fan girl and he shut down conversation right there.

He was not a fan girl.

But Phil was just so fucking cool. He was the best actor to ever live. He was a generational talent, one that people hundreds of years from now would still call revolutionary. And Tommy was friends with his sons. He needed to know everything. His favorite color, favorite food, what makes him wake up in the morning, where he keeps all his Oscars, if he ever leaves his windows open so Tommy could go see him.

He wanted to meet him so bad.

But no, Phil was busy. He had things to do. ‘Are we not enough for you?’ Would get thrown into the argument and Tommy’s incessant ramblings about Phil would promptly shut up.

His need to meet Phil Craft was beyond human comprehension, and his patience was wearing thin. Especially mixed with the fact he was now living in Techno’s gargantuous penthouse and apparently Phil doesn’t visit his sons.

Or Tommy.

Techno’s place was something out of a movie itself. It was fancy as hell. The place was clearly a multimillion dollar establishment. Ornate light fixtures, fucking animal pelts instead of blankets, candle holders made of what looks like gold.

The entire place was draped in burgundy’s and golds, the windows looked straight out of the 19th century as they were black and gothic-like. Everything was simply beautiful.

This thing was so big it could fit the whole family of Who’s. All like 800 of them or whatever the fuck.

And apparently it was only meant to house Techno, very occasionally at that.

Wealth disparity is fucking insane.

Tommy’s issues with boredom were qualmed slightly at the new place. As there was so much more to do here than at his comparably tiny apartment.

Wilbur and Techno’s moods also got considerably different now that he was living with them. The amount of times he would be doing something and he’d be picked up and dragged off to just go sit with one of them has increased as well.

Sitting seemed to be Tommy’s only job besides his 3 days a week now, as they always wanted him near them being a pliable ragdoll and nothing else.

Wilbur’s ramblings and ceaseless whispers had begun to pick up, and even Techno would hold him close and refuse to let go for hours on end.

Tommy didn’t really know what normal friendship behaviors were, he hadn’t been close with a lot of people in his life, only Tubbo which was a long distance relationship.

God he misses Tubbo.

But he didn’t really know what friends would do with one another.

Was this it? Or was this.. something else?

Any complaints he made were immediately stamped out, harsh words dictating that Tommy was being ridiculous and a brat made it hard to decipher if this was what friends were for.

Nevertheless, he knew the basic facts. They weren’t hurting him. He had filmed a movie about childhood abuse one time, where he was the child of a drunk dad who refused to stop hitting him. This was nothing like that. Quite the opposite really, as they were protective, fiercely so. And half the time it felt like all they wanted to do was wrap him up in bubble wrap and stick him in a bunker.

Tommy was fine. Even if his new schedule made his anxiety skyrocket, they changed it to help him. They arrested his manager and cancelled his show to demonstrate their love. And maybe it’s slightly over the top, but Wilbur said he was better off this way.

And who was he to deny Wilbur Craft?

Even if Wilbur’s temper with him got shorter and shorter after the incident. And the amount of energy he had to put in to keep Wilbur happy was steadily increasing. Everything was still okay, because it was worth it, the amount of time and energy they were putting in with him to keep him safe was a fair trade for all the times Tommy had to stop himself from shoving the musician away and calling him weird again.

Tommy didn’t even know if he should be fighting anymore. There were caring for him. How much of an inconsiderate brat did he have to be to tell them to fuck off?

And the child actor wasn’t even able to think about it, because somehow Wilbur could tell when the thought even crossed his mind, almost like he could read his mind, and it...

It wouldn’t end up well.

Tommy’s tears had become much more of a common occurrence. And it wasn’t Wilbur’s fault, or even Techno’s, it was his own. Tommy just couldn’t stop fucking up. He didn’t know if it was the move, or the fact Shroud was on edge, or the fact he was on edge. However, he physically couldn’t stop purposefully trying to rile Wilbur up out of anxiety or squirming a bit too much to the point where Wilbur had to berate him.

Tommy just wasn’t used to doing nothing all day. It was ingrained in his mind to always be doing something ever since he was a little kid. So when they wanted him to sit with them, or lay down like a puppet with cut strings it made his mind go into overdrive in less than 15-20 minutes. His hands would start shaking and he couldn’t help but move around to try and qualm his need to get up and start pacing.

Back when he still had his normal schedule it was easier because he’d already be tired from the wear of the cycle of work and he could sit with Wilbur for what seemed like hours. But now? Tommy literally felt like his soul was going to leave his body, and his skin was going to sear off if he wasn’t constantly doing something productive. And the two brothers seemed adamant on making Tommy a living, breathing couch potato.

They both didn’t understand him, which he gets, because Tommy was just being stupid. Beyond that, it’s his fault anyway for giving into the urge to go run around the house like a madman. It was gradually making Wilbur unhappier with him, and Techno-

Techno could be terrifying.

The longer he stayed at their place the more Techno had to correct him. And even though it was nothing like Wilbur, it made his hair shoot up on the back of his hand and his forehead drip in sweat.

Tommy usually spent his time trying to invest his energy in his phone or watching an endless amount of movies while he paced the living room. However, his reckless need to do everything and anything was the martyr to piss the Blade off.

Tommy had decided, like a moron, he was going to try the trend on Tik Tok where you take a knife and try and tap it between each one of your fingers to the tune of some song. It was incredibly stupid, astronomically idiotic, but he decided he was bored, it was something to do, and nothing was going to happen anyway.

When he inevitably cut himself Techno had came in the room at his yelp and had stared him down with the same ferocity as if he stabbed himself in the gut, a deep unforgiving ire (that reminded him so much of Wilbur’s) before slinging a huffy Tommy over his shoulder and wrapping his finger in 1500 bandages and not letting him do anything but lay in bed the rest of the day.

Tommy wasn’t allowed in the kitchen anymore.

Or to be alone.

The mix of everything was leaving Tommy irritated. Even if he loves them both, (he loves them he loves them he loves them he has to keep telling himself) and it was incredibly hard and wrong to think badly of them, the fact the only thing he was allowed to do was sit around and think made his mind churn with the irrational.

All the things Wilbur would listlessly ramble about for hours on end, the nights he’d hold him close and when he thought Tommy was asleep he’d whisper how ‘he’d never let him go’. The days he’d come back from his errands to wrap Tommy up in blankets and tell him he was never going to let Tommy leave his sight again. And if Tommy had anything to say about it, he couldn’t manage to get a word out to even defend himself.

The smug, possessive bits and pieces of conversation Techno would say in passing that would make his gut clench. The way he’d catch Techno just staring at him time to time, and could see the endless gears turning in the man’s brain with thoughts he could never decipher.

Combined with the fact that no one else talked to him anymore made it especially hard to get through the days that seemed to refuse to end. Especially Tubbo, Tommy had gone over every text, every word he had said to him about a hundred and two times and couldn’t find out what he did wrong. Nor could he even apologize cause he was blocked.

And he had no idea what to even apologize for.

The combination of everything left him in a weird state of paranoia and anxiety. Constantly on edge at all times, it was getting harder to eat because he was always nauseous, but the brothers would never allow him to skip a meal. And the fact he was never allowed to be alone anymore made it hard for him to breathe. He was suffocating.

His pacing wasn’t allowed anymore, which made it worse. And they are just helping him. They are just helping him. They are just helping him.

But if they are helping him why can’t his hands stop shaking?

He can’t think like that. They love him. No one else loves him. They do.

Please can he just stop thinking like that.

The only place he could feel slightly normal was set. Even if everyone hated him nowadays except the Crafts.

But once filming ended for Return from the Pits? When he had nothing left but sitting in this penthouse all day?

Surrounded by the arms that would never let him go.

Tommy was not excited for Christmas, not at all.

———————————————

Tommy was slightly freaking out.

It wasn’t a bad anxiety attack like his usual ones, this time it was a mix of excitement and anticipation.

Wilbur said he had a surprise for him.

A surprise, Tommy doesn’t know the last time he got a surprise, and he’s not taking it for granted this time even for a second.

He didn’t even know what it could be, Christmas was coming up in a day or two so he is guessing it had something to do with that. But other than the general date he had 0 idea what the surprise could entail.

He had a few small guesses. He had an idea it wasn’t any kind of object, because both Wilbur and Techno simply buy him stuff like it's out of style for no apparent reason at all. Video games, consoles, record players, remote control cars. Anything he could ever think of they always just handed it to him like it was nothing.

Tommy was always very appreciative, he was, especially since the only things he had ever gotten bought for him was clothes and items that would make him look better for the cameras

It’s just, Tommy was rich. He could always buy this stuff for himself. And he was still very thankful for it all, but the fact Wilbur said he was really going to like this surprise, made him think it wasn’t an object.

The second thing that gave him the idea it wasn’t an object, was the fact they were all in a car.

Oh, and he was blindfolded.

Maybe it was a location? Tommy didn’t really ever talk about ever going anywhere in particular. A Christmas vacation would be awesome, but they didn’t pack any bags or anything.

So Tommy was left with the only option available, begging them to tell him.

“C’monnn, please. You have to tell me. Is it a vacation? Oooh, holy shit, are we going to the chocolate museum? I could totally go for some chocolate right now-“

“Gremlin.” Wilbur sighs exasperatedly beside him, a palm landing on top of his head. “Be patient. You’ll see when we get there.”

“Techno, Techno. You cannot deny me. Give me a clue. Give me anything.” Tommy begs desperately, slumping his body forward to blindly reach for the man, only to hit his legs? Chest? Something. Instead.

“Do you really want to ruin your surprise this badly, Theseus?” He sounds amused. Tommy doesn’t even think before he responds.

“Yes. Yes, yes. Please.”

“Tommy, no. Not happening. See, look we’re pulling up right now.” Wilbur dictates like an idiot, because no, Tommy cannot see.

Tommy opens his mouth to tell Wilbur that, the dumbass, until the car recoils to an abrupt stop.

Holy shit. Holy shit. It’s surprise time.

Tommy was practically jumping up and down when he heard the door open, and immediately tried to throw himself out the car. However, instead of reaching sweet sweet freedom two lanky arms pulled him back by his middle.

“Do you seriously have no survival instincts-“

“Let go, let go, let go.”

He heard Techno clamber out of the vehicle until the sound of a sigh whistled deeply into the dead of night’s air, and the Blade finally huffed. “Okay, give him to me.”

The arms around his middle very much did not give him to Techno, the dick, instead they coiled tighter, pulling him in flush with the man’s chest.

Oh shit.

“Be good.” Was whispered harshly in his ear, the heat of the man’s breath against the pale of his cheek making Tommy freeze. Tommy’s heart clenched, fuck.

But then, in one moment to the next, almost like it never even happened, the gorilla glue of a hold encasing him immediately let up.

The tense air between the three of them could still be cut with safety scissors.

He got out the car much more calmly this time.

Techno's hands landed on his shoulders, guiding him out of the vehicle as he still couldn’t see, helping his feet remain steady on the concrete below him as they waited for Wilbur to exit the car.

The concrete gave him some sort of clue for what his surprise could be, that weren’t in the middle of the woods. That was always a plus. Not having his surprise being fed to the wolves is a great way to start his Christmas gift.

“Can I take my blindfold off now?” The boy whined, desperate to just know already, craning his neck up to the actor holding his shoulders.

“Not yet.” He spoke up, making Tommy’s shoulders slump. Tommy opened his mouth to ask what was going on when-

“Oh my god-!” A very high-pitched feminine voice spoke up, sounding slightly far in the distance. Tommy snapped his head over to the sound on instinct before being reminded he was currently blind. “No way- It’s the Crafts-!“

Ugh, what about Tommy? He’s here too.

Wilbur groaned, “Fucking hell.” A hand wrapped around his wrist, pulling him harshly to urge him to move with. “C’mon, we don’t have time to deal with the vermin.”

Tommy happened to like his fans. Which is exactly why that girl should be squealing at the sight of him, not Wilbur.

He didn’t have too much time to ponder on it as he stumbled along trying to find his way to follow Wilbur. Techno behind him with a palm on each shoulder guiding him to wherever the burnette pleased.

He heard a door open in front of him, a little chime sounding as it swung, before he was finally out of the cool air of the night and basking in the warmth of central heat.

His ears were enraptured by the sound of clinking? And polite conversation? However, it was all hushed out with the sound of blaring Italian music. What the..a

“Oh! H-Hello there, sirs. Thank you, thank you so much for coming in tonight. It is an honor. I will be happy to lead you to-“ The guy sounded posh, fancy even. Tommy never cared for that fancy shit. Where the hell were they-

“We got it.” Wilbur snapped. Stopping the elegant man in his ramblings. He felt the palm gripping his arm leave him, before immediately being replaced by two on Tommy’s massive biceps.

“Alright Toms, you ready?” The indignation in his voice had completely seeped away from his prior snap at the bystander, being replaced with something so profoundly sweet it made Tommy relax under the hands holding him.

Surprise time.

Tommy couldn’t help but bounce his feet slightly. “Yes, holy shit, so ready. I’ve never been more ready in my life- Is it even possible to be this-“

Techno made a huff of amusement and the palm on his shoulder ruffled his hair, Wilbur snorted too.

“I don’t know Toms, you don’t sound very ready for me.” Wilbur said saccharine sweet with the fucking audacity. Tommy could not be more ready if he tried.

Tommy’s mouth flew open to declare this, but Techno beat him to it. “Stop pestering him Will, a second longer and he looks like he’s about to blow.”

“Fine.” Will exhales. “Just follow my lead, okay?”

Yes. Yes he could do that. He could definitely do that.

Techno’s hands return to his shoulders, and Wilbur’s arm returns to his wrist.

And suddenly everything is a maze.

Wilbur told him to follow his lead, as if he was promising to protect him from the outside world, but that was obviously a horrible, terrible downright lie.

“Ow-! What the fuck-“

Cackling rang through the room. “You gotta be more careful-“

Tommy slammed into what felt like a table, fancy affronted gasps sounding from all around. “Holy fuck. This is- I’m sorry-“

He got pulled back by evil hands. Evil fuck you octopus hands. That dragged him away to his next table of victims.

This was not a surprise. This was blasphemy.

“Wilbur, you will die at my-“ He ran into a wall? A pole? It could be an ancient totem of worship for all he knows.

The only thing he does know is when he gets the damn blindfold off he swears to-

“Oh my god-! Your face.” Wilbur cackles, and he could feel Techno snort behind him.

Tommy will be committing homicide tonight.

Tommy reaches his arms out to attack. Nobody stages up the godly being that is Tommy Malarvo like this.

“Wilbur-"

Two hands grab his palms and shove them back into his chest. “Okay fine, fine. Here we are. Calm down, you goblin.” Wilbur laughs, the fucking maniac. And the walking finally stops, and he hears a door open in front of him.

Tommy is carefully shuffled inside this time, about damn time. Then the sound of the door closing behind him leaves him standing in the middle of an unknown room, with an unknown surprise.

He really needs this blindfold off.

Techno’s hands finally release his shoulders, and Wilbur’s hand moves up to cup his cheek. He feels fingers messing with the blindfold on the back of his head.

Will bends his face down to the shell of his ear, before whispering reverently,

“Merry Christmas, sunshine.”

The blindfold falls away and Tommy blinks harshly at the onslaught of light demolishing his retinas.

He’s in a room- a normal room with a table and-

No.

No.

No way.

No fucking way.

Oh.

My.

God.

His entire body trembles with the force of his glee. His jaw hangs so far op3n he’s surprised it doesn’t fall right off.

He’s-

Phil Craft sits in front of him.

Phil. Craft.

Best. Surprise. Ever.

———————————————

”I think you broke him.” Techno deadpans from beside him.

Tommy is too awestruck to call him a bitch.

He wants to cry. To scream. To make any sound except the gasp he made as Techno directed him to sit next to Phil Craft.

Phil. Craft.

He’s here. He’s next to Tommy. He’s next to Tommy. He’s eating chicken Alfredo. Tommy needs to remember that. He needs to remember every pore, every wrinkle, every molecule of his face.

He needs to remember everything about this moment.

His jaw is still hanging in a dazed haze but he doesn’t care. He can’t. What does he- How-

Phil Craft.

He can’t breathe.

“…Mate? Are you alright?” Phil asks skeptically. His voice. It’s inspiring. It’s reverent. He needs to hold these words close to him until the end of time.

Phil is his hero.

He has loved Phil Craft since he could speak. Walk, talk, anything. The man is the greatest thing to ever happen to cinema. He is the greatest thing to ever happen to the world.

He’s already done his spiel about how incredible Phil was, but it almost didn’t seem like enough. Tommy’s watched every single one of his movies at least 10 times, his favorite ones at least 20. He would’ve to a tenfold if he had more time on his hands.

Phil was an inspiration to the entire world. Everyone and their moms wants to be Phil. Tommy wanted to be Phil.

Tommy Malarvo is going to explode.

Phil, the miraculous, philosophical phenomenon of a man he is, was wearing a silk dark green suit jacket with a button up black dress shirt underneath. He looked intimidatingly sensational. Tommy couldn’t see his pants because they were all sitting but he is guessing they are just as unparalleled as the rest of the outfit. They have to be, there is no other option because Phil is astounding.

He is everything.

“Mate..?” He hears out of Phil’s outstanding lips. And it’s like music to his ears-

And oh. He’s been gaping. For way too long.

Tommy realized, oh fuck, he’s nervous.

And when he got nervous he usually did the same exact thing. Every time.

Rambled.

“Phil. Phil. You’re- Phil.“ Tommy whispers the name like it’s holy.

Because it is.

Phil laughed. Laughed. Tommy made him laugh.

It sounded like church bells, like the sound angels would make whisking across the sky. He wants a recording of it so he could listen to it forever.

“Yeah mate, that’s my name.”

Holy shit. That’s so cool. That was his name.

He heard Wilbur snort from somewhere in the room but Tommy doesn’t care, fuck Wilbur. Phil is here.

Tommy can’t hold himself back. “I- Oh my God. You’re Phil.” Tommy already said that. He needs a new line. Quick. “You’re like- like- Phil.“

Fuck that’s the same line.

Tommy quickly follows up. “You are so so cool. Cooler than Wilbur. So much. And Technoblade. But that’s easy to do. You’re- Phil.”

Phil smiles at him humorously. Like he thinks what the boy is saying is amusing. Like he thinks Tommy is funny.

This is the best day of his life.

“And you’re Tommy. My boys have told me a lot about you.” The Craft beams and Tommy’s eyes almost roll to the back of his head.

They’ve told him a lot about him? Phil knows who he is?

Holy shit.

“They’ve both had a lot of generous things to say about you, mate. Wilbur says you’re quite the actor.” Tommy’s jaw goes slack again.

This was 100%, no doubt, the best Christmas gift. Ever.

“Oh- oh. Yeah, I’m pretty cool.” Tommy humbly recites, giving a nod. Because if Phil thinks he’s a good actor then he definitely is.

The man chuckles like he said something hilarious. And places his hand on his shoulder.

Can this day get even better?

“It’s good to finally meet you, mate. It’s been too long without exchanging pleasantries.” The 4-time Oscar award winning actor reveals, like it’s not the most insane thing ever that Phil was waiting to meet him.

Tommy’s been waiting his entire life.

He should probably respond to that with something formal and articulate. Something he’s been trained thousands of times to say with fancy producers, directors and investors. He knows exactly how to talk rich person speak, and he’s also an actor. A great one at that. He could act away his star-struckness into a formal conversation.

But that’s what thinking Tommy would do, and right now he is definitely not using his brain.

“What’s your favorite color? Your favorite film? What’s your favorite movie you’ve filmed?” Tommy whizzes out every thought that has ever come into his brain. ”Mine is definitely ‘The Repeat’ as the plot twist and cinematography are clearly phenomenal. I mean obviously because it won 2 Academy Awards and a People’s Choice and a SAG award and like 4 Golden Globes-“

“Tommy.” Wilbur hisses from across the table, cutting off Tommy’s rambling with a click of his jaw. Tommy looks over to see his facial expression-

“Will, lay off the boy. He’s just excited, aren’t you mate?” Phil grins down at him and he grins appreciatively back.

So cool.

“If I am going to answer your questions, you wouldn’t mind if I had a few of my own, would you?”

No. He would never mind.

Tommy shakes his head vigorously, a smile permanently gracing his face. He wouldn’t be surprised if his face gets stuck like this. And in return for meeting Phil Cart, Tommy could 100% be fine with his face being stuck like this until the end of time. 

“Alright,” He snickers, “To start off my favorite color is green. Dark, about the color of my suit jacket.” Tommy casts his eyes down to it, a very good choice of color. A 10/10 he could say.

“Wilbur tells me he met you on set, but I never heard how you met Techno. How’d that ever happen?”

Very mediocre question to ask, especially because it’s about Techno. But Tommy is ever the gentleman, and it’s Phil. So he will answer all the same.

“Um- We met at a coffee shop, the one on Broad street. Where we enjoyed a pleasant conversation.” Tommy placates, because was it pleasant? No. But he’s not telling Phil that.

“Pleasant.” Techno scoffs beside him. And Tommy is seriously going to make him pay if he continues. “The first words you told were that I had a chronic case of nerdism.”

Tommy makes an affronted gasp before swinging his head over to Techno. “Don’t tell him that-!” Tommy jabs his finger out. “That was between us.”

“You literally did it in front of 15 paparazzi.”

“It’s not my fault if it’s true! What was I supposed to do? Lie to the masses? Allow you to continue to brainwash them into thinking you’re normal. I’m not a heathen-“

Phil’s laughing beside him but Tommy is too focused on defending his honor.

“Just because I enjoy Greek myths does not mean I have a chronic case of nerdism-“

“Oh me me me I’m Technoblade and I’m sick with denial and being a history ne-“

“Need I tell Phil your favorite movie?”

“Don’t you fucking da-!”

“Boys.” All discussion comes to a halt. Ah fuck. He’s really done it this time.

Before he could really think deeply into what Phil hated him even would mean for his dignity, Tommy looks back to see Phil smiling? Almost like he was barely holding back laughter?

What..

“You two.” The Craft smiles and shakes his head. “Well I guess that answers my question… What was your second question again?”

Oh shit, yeah. The questions.

Ummm. Fuck. Tommy has to think about it and he’s blanking.

Oh right.

“Favorite film?” Tommy whispers, not wanting to make Phil mad. Even though he doesn’t seem like he’s about to blow up in the slightest Tommy was just bashing his son right in front of his very eyes.

How is he still alive?

Why is Phil not yelling at him?

“Right. I’d have to think about that one. I have a few favorites but I think ‘The Notebook’ is definitely the top of my list.”

A… romance.

Phil’s favorite movie was a romance..? A cheesy one at that.

He… what?

Tommy can’t help it, his lips beat his fucking idiotic mind. “A romance..?”

Oh fuck.

He’s a fucking idiot.

He’s so dead. Phil’s going to hate him until he dies. And his death might be very soon at this point. Phil was going to bash his head against the chicken Alfredo. He was going to die drowning in Alfredo sauce.

Tommy is an idiot. He called his son a stupid nerd in front of him and then what? He made fun of Phil Crafts favorite movie?

Tommy blanches to apologize but Phil beats him to it by laughing..?

Laughing?

This guy sure does laugh a lot.

Phil hums at the end of his laughter. “Astute observation, mate.” He jokes. “I know it’s cheesy, but I’ve always just been a sucker for romances. It’s just never been my favorite genre to act in is all.”

And oh.. well that makes sense. Tommy likes movies film buffs would scoff at too. Some of his favorite films have been animated pieces.

“So, Wilbur told me about how he fixed your schedule, how have you been liking your easier days so far?”
Phil asks pleasantly, like it’s casual conversation.

He kinda hates that he has to lie on this one. He’s a good liar, he is. Only time it’s hard is when the proof is literally written all over him face, only to be washed off with a makeup wipe or a stupid fucking pillow.

Tommy knows that his new schedule is to help him, but in reality he really misses being busy all the time. Desperately.

Tommy smiles like he’s been trained, which is most likely a bad move because he’s had a glass face this entire time and now he’s slightly obviously throwing that away for a fake one. He just hopes it’s not too noticeable.

He clenches the leather of his seat. “It’s been good. It’s much better than before, I like it a lot more.“ Fuck, he needs to add more. Kiss ass, that’s always a good choice.

“Your sons have been very helpful.” Tommy tacks on.

Phil looks at him deeply for a moment, the way he was analyzing Tommy’s facial expression felt like he was prying him apart. Tommy knows his acting skills are rusty. Tommy's heart begins racing again. Fuck he knows. He knows.

“I’m glad.” The prestigious man finally settles on, “What happened with your manager is completely unacceptable. I’m overjoyed that my sons were able to get you out of such a situation.”

Tommy can’t help but shoot his eyes over to Wilbur sitting across from him. The actor was holding the menu in front of his facial features but the boy could see the eyes pinning him to his seat just over the edge of the menu.

He definitely knows.

God dammit. This is why he doesn’t fuck with his schedule so much, his acting gets sloppy.

“Favorite film I’ve ever been a part of? That was your final question, wasn’t it?” Phil startles him out of his thoughts, making his eyes dart back to the pillar of dramatical achievement.

“Oh, uh. Yeah.” Tommy can’t help but stammer. Fuck, he needs to get it together. He can’t behave like this.

This was a surprise. And he was messing it all up, like usual.

“Hmm.” Phil begins, placing a finger against his chin like he was a warlock in a novel about to weave a tale. “While I did enjoy filming ‘The Repeat’, and could definitely see why that’s your favorite, I’d have to say ‘Man’s Escape from Demise’ is my most prized picture.”

Aw fuck that’s such a good one. He should’ve said that as his favorite.

Tommy hums thoughtfully, with a slight jealous tint since he’s an absolute idiot and that is obviously the best movie.

“I’ve been meaning to ask mate,” Phil begins and Tommy turns his listening ears on eagerly.

“My sons told me about your mother.”

And-

Fuck.

God fucking damnit.

This was about to be an absolute pile of dogshit of a question. A question he’d rather fall from a 70 story building than answer. A question he’d like to walk back to the kitchen of this restaurant with to beat it with a meat tenderizer.

“They told me she’s been in Spain for quite a while mate.” Tommy for the life of him still does not know how they figured that shit out. It’s not public knowledge in the slightest, or really to anyone’s intelligence but his, his credit card provider, and his mothers.

Nor their business. But it seems like the Crafts didn’t mind snooping around in his private life.

Phil’s face hardened above him, from the ever present smile showing off the dimples on his cheeks to a thin line that shouted danger.

God damn it. Nothing good ever comes when people bring up his mother.

“Has she always been like this? This neglectful?” Phil… spat? From his small time with the man it’s been all smiles, pleasantries and laughter but now.. Tommy desperately missed that. The Phil that was once talking to him about his favorite color and now..

The boy suddenly became very aware of the fact that he was surrounded on all sides, and his chair was the farthest from the door.

He wouldn’t need to run though, would he? They wouldn’t hurt him. They wouldn’t.

They wouldn’t.

They wouldn’t. 

“I take good care of what’s mine, mate. My sons are my prized possessions.“ A hand came up to cup his cheek, his fingertips slightly digging into his jawline. “Which means I don’t take a mothers negligence lightly.”

Phil tilts his head to the side at Tommy’s stumped silence. Almost like a rabid bird about to bite off the head of its prey.

“You know just as I do it’s not fit for a child such as you to lead a life without a support system. Without love.”

Tommy wants to go back to being slammed against restaurant tables like a shitty game of Plinko.

“So I just need you to tell me how serious this situation is.” Phil’s head moves impossibly closer to Tommy’s face, dipping his head so he could whisper right into the shell of his ear.

“So I know how to deal with it.”

Tommy- fuck. What..

What does that even mean?

Deal with her? Like… Sue her? If he sues her that would be practically suing Tommy and Tommy doesn’t want that. He had a whole plan. Turn 18, run away, live the rest of his life filming a movie a year and sitting on giant heaps of money.

Phil couldn’t sue her.

Maybe he wanted to have a stern conversation with her? He doesn’t really want Phil to meet his mom. She was incredibly ditsy, and self centered, he did not want the man he looked up to so to think he turned out anyway like her. Or even have the chance to make a comparison between the two.

It’s not like.. well she has broke a few federal laws, but other than that she didn’t hit him. And that’s all that matters right?

And it was all to help his career. And it definitely has, seeing he is sitting between 3 of the greatest actors of all time.

“I- um.” Tommy gulps. Where does he even begin? “She just- uh.” The urge to vomit was ever increasing.

“She’s um.. different than other parents. I think- I mean know, know, she cares about me.” The words escape him like a landslide, sliding down the mountain that was his lips quick, too quick, and utterly devastating.

Tommy clenches his hands against the seat again, scuffing his shoes against the floor. “She just um- cares differently than you probably do for your sons. My mom just shows love in an… unconventional way.”

Yeah. Yeah. That’s good. Unconventional. An absolute intellectual word for the prodigy of a man he is. That’s the direction he should take with this. God he’s a genius, an absolute intellectual. How is it even possible to be this smart?

“Unconventional.” Phil states, tasting the word like it’s ash, and Tommy can’t read his features. Impossibly blank, like a chalkboard with no fruitless scribbling on it, and as if he raked his fingers down it it would make a banshee like screech.

“Mhm.” Tommy mutters, voice slightly trembling. “She’s not around a lot but it’s okay. Because um. Well, she was around a lot when I was younger, and honestly now it’s better this way. Easier, y’know?”

Wilbur makes an incredulous scoff from across the table and Tommy doesn’t even dare to look at him. He didn’t say anything wrong did he? He just said it as it was, and he didn’t say anything bad about his mom either so they can’t get mad at her.

Or him.

Could they?

Phil’s hand releases from his face and Tommy blanches trying to figure out if that’s a good or a bad thing. 20 minutes ago he would’ve said that was a very bad thing, but now he’s secretly overjoyed about it.

Phil’s gaze leaves his, and he meets the eyes of his two sons. His gaze scorching with something Tommy can’t help but look away from. Tommy bites his lip, casting his eyes down to his lap, wanting nothing more but to get out of this suffocating room.

“Well,” Phil begins, a morbid tint lacing the word. A finality to it that felt almost as if he made up his mind. He’d sorted his thoughts enough to make a decision.

A decision on what Tommy might never know.

Nor ever approve of.

“This is going to be one hell of a premier, won’t it mate?”