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Tommy leans over the edge of the stand until he can balance enough to lift his feet off the ground and sighs. Today has been a very slow day. There is nothing he’d like to do more than to get out of this wretched flower stand, maybe find some inn to wash dishes at or castle cleaning to do, but no— it just had to be this. Tubbo was very insistent upon it (I know the owner! he repeated, bouncing on the balls of his feet), and now Tommy’s got no way out.
It’s not that bad, though. At least it smells nice, and he can take breaks, and the owner is a kind young woman that sees everything with an air of maturity, which Tommy isn’t used to. Kind of like Wilbur, maybe, but Wilbur likes to hide Tommy’s paints and rough up his room and tousle his hair whenever he’s within an inch of him.
He’s more unruly on the good days— the ones where the sun is almost orange as it dips below the horizon, and the evening is so very cool, and he can run barefoot across their property for as long as he wants before he is tired. Tubbo joins him, and Wilbur does when he feels like it, but Phil always used to watch from behind the scenes unless they dragged him out by the hand. It’s always been fun when they get along.
It isn’t when they don’t. Those are the days where Wilbur throws things, where Wilbur can’t even get out of bed, where Wilbur curses out the name of every hybrid in existence. The same days where it hurts Tommy, mentally, to drag his own body out of his bed and listen to Wilbur scream, hurts to tend to the cattle all by himself, hurts to hunt down Tubbo and hurts to laugh and hurts to throw handfuls of straw at him (because it makes him sneeze and then giggle).
He does it all anyway, though, because Wilbur needs him, and because he can’t risk being caught. If he shows any hint of anything that isn’t normal, someone will get suspicious, and he can’t have that happening when—
That reminds him. The sun is high in the sky. Reminiscence is the key to forgetting the passage of time. Tubbo is a few stalls over in the market, but it’s his shift now, and Tommy will have no mercy. “Tubbo!” he cries, hopping down off the front of the stand, yanking up his satchel, and coming around the edge of the booth, stepping right into the messily paved cobble road. He spots his best friend from over the sea of heads and comes up with a master plan, racing towards him.
When he gets there, he shoves two hands into Tubbo’s back; instantly, the shorter boy goes stumbling forward before whipping around. There is the brilliance of his plan.
“Dickhead!” Tubbo yelps, much to the chagrin of the elderly men and women that run their stalls all down the street around them. “Could have given me a bit of warning.”
“You know the rules: no leaving the booth until my shift is over. Therefore… no prior warnings allowed.” Tommy puffs his chest out, grinning like a madman. “Niki’s words. Not mine.”
Tubbo smacks him in the arm, because Niki didn’t set that rule up with regard to Tommy ambushing Tubbo the second his shift ends, and Tommy laughs, waving at the woman who owns the stall they’re closest to. “Puffy!” he shouts, and extends an arm, palm facing her. The woman sighs fondly and inspects her crate of apples, turning them over and over until she finds one with a bruise. She tosses it, and it sails past Tubbo’s head, right into Tommy’s hand. He’s a good catch; always has been.
He beams, and Tubbo elbows him in the ribs when he sticks out one more hand. “You’re greedy,” Tubbo says, and Tommy laughs distractedly as Puffy gives him a look from where she stands.
“It’s called business, bee boy.” (Sometimes Tommy worries that that nickname will make people think Tubbo’s a hybrid, and everyone knows what would happen to him after that, but it still slips out sometimes; he’s working on it). One free apple is already cutting it close, but two? He rarely gets away with that. It’s been a while since the last time Puffy gave in, though, and she looks like she’s in the best of moods—
Yes! The second apple glints in the blistering sun as it comes towards him. Tommy glances down at it for examination; this one has rotted even more than the last. He switches it to his dominant hand and stuffs the nicer one away into his bag, practically unhinging his jaw to take a monstrous bite out of the apple he’s been given. “Thank youuu!” he calls through his mouthful, bumping shoulders with Tubbo, and juice runs down his chin. “Suck on that, bitch.”
Tubbo jostles him back just as hard. “Someone’s in a good mood,” the shorter chirps, and then sobers. “Rocks today?”
Tommy swallows, thinking of the apple in his bag and dragging the back of his hand across his mouth. “Not today,” he says finally, wincing on the inside, because it always feels bad turning Tubbo down when he can’t explain why. “I’m... with someone else today. I can come for dinner? Your dad thinks I’m the best thing since mainsails,” he boasts, trying to make up for it, but Tubbo still looks disappointed. Tommy’s pretty sure he doesn’t realize how easy it is to see in the tightness of his eyes.
“You’re never free anymore,” Tubbo mumbles, butting his forehead against Tommy’s shoulder. Even over the bustle of the crowd around them, and the clopping of horses’ hooves against the cobble, Tommy can pick out the glints of disappointment in his best friend’s voice. “I thought you didn’t have any other friends.”
Oh, his stomach hurts. Tommy scrunches his nose, but he lifts a hand, wrapping it in the fabric across Tubbo’s back and forcing him to stay still for a moment. He never knows how to deal with these stupid decisions aside from writing everything off with an ill-timed joke. “Clingy,” he whispers, knocking his chin against the top of Tubbos’ head gently. “I… didn’t mean to double book. Really. You and me, Rocks, tomorrow,” he promises, even though he knows it’s hard to guarantee, with… well.
“Rocks tomorrow,” Tubbo agrees, but leans more weight against his shoulder, and Tommy knows he doesn’t believe it’ll really happen, and then somebody is shouting from the stall Tommy has left unmanned, and he lifts his head to find Puffy staring at them knowingly, and Tubbo slips away from him like sand through parted fingers, and Tommy drops back to his own body, and it’s hot, and, and, and.
He forces a smile that he hopes will look natural and throws himself into the swing of things again, for the sake of normalcy. “Dinner!” he shouts over his shoulder as Tubbo’s reminder, and hears a nondescript call in reply; he whoops, letting the wind cradle his face, and takes off running, apple thudding against his thigh from inside his bag as he sprints away.
It doesn’t take him long to reach the Rocks. It never has; Tommy is a fast runner, and at this point, after making the trip repeatedly throughout his life, he knows the fastest way, the best shortcuts, the easiest route. Today, he loses his shoes somewhere around three quarters of the way there, and it doesn’t matter; he’ll come back for them later.
He’s already on the hidden beach, anyway. He can hear the clamor of the docks floating along on the wind that carries it all the way out here, but he’s a lot further down the coast than that, now, at a cove surrounded by rocky outcrops. There is limited sand, but the exposed beach that is left feels nice between his toes; why waste the opportunity with his shoes on?
Tommy reaches the spot where the beach ends and clambers up onto the rocks, hoisting himself up levels and levels of craggy basalt. They start to smoothen out, and soon, they are just stepping stones, until:
Long, braided pink hair. Ruffled clothes. The edge of a tusk peeks from around the silhouette.
“Brought you an apple, dipshit,” Tommy says, and pulls the fruit from his bag, chucking it rapid-fire at the hybrid’s head.
Techno turns and catches it before it hits him, and lowers it to inspect it. “Fancy meeting you here,” he says, and the voice is familiar by now: low, a little gravelly, but welcoming. Techno’s a lot nicer than any hybrid he’s ever met, which is really saying a lot, because on the outside he looks kind of mean and Phil harbored some really sweet ones before he—
“Me or the apple?” Tommy grins, trotting over to where Techno sits at the edge of the rocks and plopping down beside him, swinging his legs over the edge. While Techno sits stagnantly, Tommy swings his feet in the open air. It feels good to be back. His apple, which he’s been holding the whole way here, is half gone thanks to the bites he’s already snuck in so far.
Techno doesn’t answer at first, and Tommy looks over to find him studying the apple closely. “What? It’s not like I poisoned it.” He laughs, but he’s heard the stories: princes and kings in far off kingdoms, suffering a long-awaited death by tainted meals. He doesn’t want Techno to think he’s like that. He hopes Techno has more trust for him than that.
“You wouldn’t be able to pull off a successful poisoning,” Techno drawls, taking a fearless bite out of the apple, and Tommy elbows him in the same manner he’d elbow Tubbo (though Techno clearly takes to it much less kindly, because Tommy receives one of his looks for it).
“You’re a bitch.” Clearly, Techno wasn’t inspecting the apple for poison. As Tommy takes another huge bite of his own, he wonders what’s going on with the older one.
Techno chuffs. “You’re not stealthy,” he replies, accompanied by another bite, and Tommy bats him on the arm.
“If I wasn’t stealthy, everyone would know already.”
They dissolve into silence, each aware of what Tommy’s referring to. On the good days, it’s easy to cover up. On the bad ones, the sweat beads at his brow faster than normal, and he shrivels under the heat of the sun like a slowly dying corn plant. Tommy doesn’t know where the good streaks end and the bad ones begin— that’s where it gets a little muddled— but Techno can always tell.
Maybe that’s why the piglin hybrid is so off today. Maybe he’s sensing the signs of an upcoming rough patch. Tommy thinks, reflects: is it the beginning of a bad streak? Can’t be, surely, he reasons, because he agreed to have dinner at Tubbo’s and meet him here tomorrow, and Wilbur isn’t in that awful of a mood, and it’s been fine for the past few weeks.... oh. Oh, he realizes.
If it’s been fine the past few weeks, it probably won’t be much longer.
He curls in on himself, and his counterpart seems to notice. Techno turns, finally, to look at him, and Tommy feels battered pride rush through his chest, instantly sitting up straighter. It takes a lot to make Techno really pay attention, he’s discovered over the past weeks (no, months). Has he done something right today? Surely, if he has, it’s not the start of a bad streak. Can’t be.
Maybe Techno will thank him for the food. Tommy’s been bringing more and more around, as many scraps as he can carry without seeming suspicious, because he knows Techno doesn’t normally get anything other than the crops he already grows, which can be… limited in variety. Tommy’s seen his garden, after finally convincing Techno to let him come home with him one day— once the trust was built up past the point of no return. He likes Techno’s, stays over as much as he can get away with it. Especially during the bad weeks.
Techno never comes into town, not to trade or to shop or for festivals. The tusks, the ears, the chuffing— paired with the bright, glinting gold jewelry hanging off of him in every place imaginable, he’s a walking target. Techno rarely presents in human form, and Tommy wonders how he’s gotten away with it, living like this for so long. He must be lonely, right?
Well, that’s why Tommy’s here, even if Techno pretends not to like it.
Eventually, the piglin hybrid speaks, which is what Tommy’s been practically holding his breath waiting for. “Come on,” says Techno in between calculated bites of his apple, waving a hand. “Can’t put it off forever.”
Tommy’s expression sours. This is not what he’s been waiting for. He ducks his head to avoid the gaze, legs slowing where they’re kicking, and takes a purposefully loud bite, the crunch echoing across the water. He was hoping Techno wouldn’t make him do this today, that it could just be a nice little meeting at the Rocks, but here he is— juice running down his face, back hunched over, hair hanging in his eyes— afraid again.
“I don’t wanna,” he says dutifully, leaning away when Techno swats at him— says it like a child, because the youngest always seem to get their way, and Tommy wishes he could be young again (because so many good things from his childhood have since faded into dust).
Unfortunately, this does not work on Technoblade, who always tells Tommy how much he doesn’t even like children, anyway. “You’re a brat,” his elder replies, exhaling. “Come on. You don’t get this chance every day.”
That reminds him— not every day is true. “Oh, Tubbo’s coming down here tomorrow night,” Tommy butts in, “don’t come round.” He stretches, taking another bite of his apple before he continues. Sometimes, it’s beneficial to master the art of stalling for time. The more he talks now, the less likely it is for Techno to follow up on his prompting from earlier. “I don’t want him to see you,” Tommy says, legs starting back up: back and forth, back and forth, back and forth. He worries for Techno. “‘Kay?”
Techno glances towards the sun, and Tommy feels hot with awkward tension as soon as his gaze is no longer focused on him. There’s been some sort of mistake. The air between them shifts, and there’s something off—
“So it’s like that,” Techno replies dryly. “You’re too ashamed for anyone to see me.”
Oh, fuck, Tommy realizes what he’s done too late, but that’s not it, that’s not it at all. He feels so bad, guilt dripping off of him like beads of sweat, and scrambles to make excuses, to try to clarify: “No, I— I mean— you’re, you know, the—” He tries so many times, and with each comes more anxiety, more confusion, more mess that he doesn’t know how to handle, more red dusted across his cheeks and more heat down his collar— Prime, it’s really hot. “Fuck, I’m sorry,” he fumbles, a last ditch effort as his vision swirls with spots. “I didn’t… you know I…”
And as his heart pounds faster, he realizes: Oh. It’s happening now. Tommy wasn’t ready for this, really, but here he is, managing it; heat radiates from him, and the sun feels too overbearing all of a sudden. The water crashes up against the rocks, and Tommy pulls his feet up from over the edge, terrified that the waves will cut him a new bone structure. It hurts more than it normally does: there is so much heat, and then fire, and ash, and rods forming off of his skin that split off and float in taunting circles around him—
His body aches. Tommy heaves a breath, and then another, and it’s a little harder, what with the flames licking up off of his skin.
He leans into Techno’s side and is greeted with a welcoming arm around his shoulders, stabilizing him as he crashes into the elder’s chest. He groans, and Techno smooths his hair down around the flames.
Tommy coughs up soot, sighs, closes his eyes. It’s done.
He’s shifted.
“You really need to be doing this more often,” Techno chides, gathering him up and pulling him to sit more vertically. “Hurt, didn’t it?” And Tommy knows he’s right, knows he shouldn’t be holding it off for so long every day, knows that Techno has been doing this for way longer than him. Knows that Techno got a rise out of him on purpose. Bastard. He doesn’t have the energy to point it out.
Quietly, he forces out: “It’s fine,” but the nausea hits, and he sinks into Techno’s side, skin flaming.
“You’re singing my clothes.”
“Mmgnnh.”
They remain for a minute or two, Tommy soaking up as much of Techno’s attention as he possibly can, because it hurts, spending all his days in human form like that. Half-shifting is hard when he doesn’t practice it enough, but the less he does it, the more it hurts to accomplish, so he tries every day.
Some days, though, there’s no Techno time, and too much Wilbur time, and Tommy’s got a lot on his plate— like tomorrow, when he’s going to meet Tubbo here. He can’t have Tubbo knowing he’s— he’s all—
Blaze. Tommy’s a blaze hybrid, and if he knows what’s good for him, he’ll keep it to himself.
“I don’t want to go home,” he whines to Techno, burrowing further into the only stability he has. “Wilbur is… Oh, Techno, he hates me.”
“He’s a dick.”
“But he’s not, that’s the problem,” Tommy mutters, knocking a fist into the side of his head out of frustration. Techno takes it and pulls it down until his arm hangs at his side again, and Tommy doesn’t have the strength to lift it and try again, so he sinks lower. “He’s lovely to me, Techno, all of the time, it’s just— if he knew I was a hybrid, he’d—” Tommy breaks off.
It has been three years since Phil died, and Tommy misses him every day without fail. Phil was the only one who knew, before Techno, and it isn’t like Tommy to get hung up about it, but it hurts physically and mentally to shift, and— and he thinks about it all the time. Because it’s not like he doesn’t trust Techno. He does. Very much, actually. But Phil was his dad, and the only family Tommy trusted enough, and now he’s… it’s just disheartening.
Tommy told Phil months before he was killed, that he was a hybrid, and it was the most liberating experience he’s had to date.
Phil used to take hybrids in, hide them in his house, smuggle them across the borders. Anything he had to do. He always thought it was unfair that they didn’t get a life like any other person. He never knew he was harboring one the whole time, until Tommy finally got too scared, too lonely, had to come clean. He was showing signs for weeks before he finally gathered up the courage, but Phil was…
So nice to him. Phil did everything he was supposed to. He consoled Tommy after the nightmares, held him tightly, told him it was okay that he was a hybrid. Told him that didn’t make him any less of a person. Told him he deserved as much as the rest of them.
Then they knocked, late at night, and bound his wrists. Dragged him out of the house, kicking, screaming, Tommy can still remember the look in his eyes, the fear, the desperation, he knows it was mirrored in his own, he knows their throats were mutually raw from terrified, begging screams—
They killed him for it.
Wilbur turned into a monster, then, for a while. Said he hated all hybrids. Said maybe they deserved to be hunted, if they got innocent people dragged into the mix and slaughtered. Said he swore to Prime he’d strangle the next one he saw.
He didn’t mean it. Tommy knows he didn’t mean it. On the worst days, though, it slips out.
Tommy leans into Techno’s side, emanating heat, and Techno’s hand gravitates to his hair, which is (undoubtedly) in flames. The piglin hybrid ruffles it anyway. “I don’t know,” Tommy says eventually. He’s told Techno a lot of it, even some things about Phil. Mostly about Wilbur, though, because that’s where he struggles the greatest.
Because he’s a hybrid, and Wilbur’s not, and Wilbur would hate him if he ever knew— “He’s always there for me,” Tommy mumbles, half reminding himself that there are always good days and half trying to convince Techno he isn’t all that bad. “I love him. He’s my brother, Techno.”
And Techno’s arm tightens around him, pulling him in, squeezing his shoulder. Something is mumbled, ferociously protective, under his breath, and Tommy’s not sure exactly what it is, he misses it, really, but he thinks— he’s pretty sure— if he’s not mistaken, then Techno says— he says—
“I’m your brother.”
Oh.
Tommy freezes up, the oxygen leaving his lungs, and for a second, it’s definitely hard to breathe. Because Techno— Techno’s never said this before, even though Tommy thinks it sometimes, wonders if it would be okay to say, to ask. He never did before, though. Really, he thought he’d be the first one to say it, if anything, and now there’s— now there’s—
His chest tightens. The flames piled atop his head shoot two feet higher, and he burns like the sun, and the red tinge to his face deepens significantly, and carefully, he snakes his arms around Techno’s torso. And usually, maybe, Techno would bat his hand away, because he’s not really that big on the whole touchy-touchy thing. Usually, maybe, Techno would make a joke, because for as much as Tommy calls Tubbo clingy, he’s really the one who clings to people like a moth to a lantern.
Techno does not bat his hand away, nor does he make a joke, and this fuels Tommy’s confidence, until his hands are locked on the other side of Techno, and then it’s a— it’s a hug. It’s a real live hug, from Technoblade. The scary piglin hybrid, piglin warrior. And maybe it’s really a hug from Tommy to Techno, but the logistics don’t really matter, right? Because Techno’s still got an arm around him, and really it’s, oh, it’s exactly what he needs.
His eyes overflow, staining Techno’s clothes with the promises his family has broken, and Techno says nothing as the tears hiss and evaporate under the heat of his blazeborn skin, but Tommy knows it’s okay by the soft, recurrent chuffing, no matter how quiet it is.
A shaky breath. “Thank you,” he whispers into Techno’s chest, and maybe it’s muffled, maybe Techno doesn’t hear him, but that’s okay. He’ll say it again later. He always does, because Techno always knows exactly what will help. That’s why he’s been following him around, anyway. Judging by this, there’s a chance it doesn’t annoy Techno as much as he pretends it does. As much as Tommy thinks it might.
“Tommy?”
And that is not Techno’s voice, and his world is falling to pieces before he even looks.
Tommy practically jumps out of his own skin, eyes wide as saucers as he jerks back from Techno like he wasn’t just holding onto him for dear life. A tremble starts first in his slender fingers, tinged pink with calcic flames, but then it spreads to his joints, deep into his bones, until his lungs quiver with every breath and he can feel the tremors deep in the very soles of his heart.
“Oh,” he says faintly.
“What the fuck did you do to my brother?” says Wilbur, much less faintly.
Tommy was not ready for this, but it seems like Techno was, because he stands quickly, all in one swoop. Tommy joins him, hanging frightenedly off of his elbow and swallowing. “Don’t— it’s okay,” he tells Techno, but he should have known Wilbur would find out eventually, and Techno always has a sword strapped to his belt, and his hand brushes the hilt, and Tommy worries that something’s going to go terribly, horribly wrong.
Tommy steps in front of him, turns toward him with a begging plea in his eyes. He’s my brother, he tells Techno with his eyes, and the tall man huffs through his nose, his own gaze burning holes through Tommy’s own.
So am I, it says.
“Tommy,” says Wilbur, louder, and finally, Tommy complies, swiveling around.
“Um,” he says. “Surprise! Happy birthday. Well, that’s in a few months, but consider it an early present,” he says, and he wishes it could sound strong, wishes he could sound steady, but his voice shakes like a leaf, and he feels brittle— like the slightest breeze could snap him in half, reduce him to pieces.
“Tommy,” Wilbur repeats, again, for the third time, as if he doesn’t realize it’s freaking Tommy out. Which is really weird, because Tommy’s pretty sure his hands are visibly shaking. Maybe Wilbur didn’t get the hint. Maybe Wilbur thinks it’s one of his hybrid traits. Maybe Wilbur has his hand on his bow, and maybe Tommy’s about to meet his end. If not physical, he will reach his wit’s end, at least.
He just has to hold out hope that the maybes aren’t true.
“That’s my name,” he says, weakly, and laughs. His voice breaks in the process. “I’m surprised you remember. I mean, I’m always hanging out at the Rocks and shit, you know, it’s like I… like I moved out.” It’s a line Wilbur used on him once, in a heated debate. An emotional one. Wilbur said he felt like he never saw Tommy anymore. Tommy remembers screaming that day, remembers slamming a cabinet and wishing to Prime that Wilbur wasn’t his brother.
They made up a day later.
He’s not sure the cycle will rinse and repeat this time.
“What happened to you?” asks Wilbur, eyes wide. “I mean—” He shakes his head and smooths his hair down, seeming to regret asking it like that, which is a little weird. Because Wilbur hates hybrids. He should be acting like this. To be completely honest, Tommy expected it to be worse.
Maybe it will be, later. Maybe he’s still processing right now. Still in shock. “Um,” he mutters. “Are you, uh, are you— you know. Mad?”
Wilbur looks like he’s breaking into pieces, and rightfully so. Tommy’s pretty sure he never expected to have a filthy hybrid for a brother. A Phil-killer.
Oh, ouch.
Tommy still has a hand looped around the crook of Techno’s elbow. Carefully, he pulls it back, lets his arm hang at his side. Then that feels too vulnerable, so he crosses them over his stomach, still burning brightly. The wind blows, shaking the trees at the edge of the forest beyond the Rocks; behind him, the water crashes against the edge of the outcrop in the biggest wave of the afternoon, and salty droplets spray his back.
He feels his flame flicker, and he dampens, hunching over slightly as it slowly, gradually goes out. The blaze rods that hovered near his shoulders sink back from whence they came, and his skin goes pale and clammy rather than scalding.
And then it’s just Tommy, human again. “I can, um, make it better,” he says, nervously, because nobody is speaking, and Wilbur is just staring at him. Maybe crying. Tommy’s a little too far to tell. “I won’t shift around you. I swear. And, um, I won’t tell anyone else, or cause any trouble, and— and this is Techno, by the way. He’s my, uh, my friend. He’s cool.”
Tommy glances to Techno. Techno glances back. It is silent. Wilbur’s shoulders shake, one hand coming to cover his mouth. Maybe he’s grieving in advance. Maybe he’s already planning the way in which he’ll kill Tommy where he stands, strike him dead for the fire that surrounds him.
“Just please, um,” Tommy starts up again, because he can’t bear the volume of silence, “don’t hurt me. I mean, I— I didn’t do it on purpose—”
“Oh, my sunflower,” says Wilbur, and then his ears elongate, and his nose becomes flatter, and whoa, is that a tail? Fuck, absolutely; it’s a scaly tail if he’s seeing this right. Then Wil’s nails sharpen, and his teeth sharpen, and there are fins, gills, narrower eyes, and he wonders: am I hallucinating?
“Tommy, I’m so sorry,” Wilbur says, his voice breaking, and Tommy flies toward him like hail crashing down from the heavens, barreling into his chest and wrapping his arms tightly, so tightly, around his brother as he lets out the loudest sob he has in a while. It’s clear as day now, what once would have been so obscure, so unnoticed, but Tommy can see it— he can tell— the signs are obvious—
His brother is a hybrid. Who would have fucking guessed?
“I didn’t know,” Tommy blubbers dumbly, face hot with shame and guilt and embarrassment, and Wilbur smooths his hair down, rocking him back and forth.
“I didn’t, either,” Wilbur whispers, and then shushes him gently, holding him, and it’s everything he’s been wanting, really. They’ve spent so long dancing around each other, so long picking up after each other’s fitful messes borne of rage and suffering that could have easily been avoided. A few minutes ago, the world was ending, and now it seems so… trivial.
“Tommy,” Wilbur says, and this time, it’s not terrifying. This time, Tommy doesn’t move, clinging tightly to his brother, his inexplicably hybrid brother, and it isn’t until Wilbur gently pries his fingers away that he finally leans back.
“I’m so sorry.”
The tears don’t evaporate this time. Tommy sways on his feet when he doesn’t have anything to cling to anymore, and Wilbur’s hands come to his shoulders, steadying him just like they always do. “I’m sorry for never being around. I’m sorry for yelling. I’m sorry,” Tommy says, because maybe if he apologizes, too, the guilt will go away. It feels so good to know that it wasn’t just him, to know that it was never Wilbur’s intention to hurt him. Wilbur never knew. Wilbur was just talking about…
“It was never your fault,” Wilbur replies. “I am so proud of you, Tommy,” (and it makes so much heat rise in his chest), and fuck, Wilbur must feel awful about himself, too, Tommy thinks. Wilbur must feel exactly like he does. The irony of the situation is not lost on him.
Tommy laughs. “We both fucked it for each other, then, huh?” And Wilbur smiles, and the flames flicker, and Tommy is all in, flipping inside out and upside down until his skin is alight with licking flames of honey and sugar, the rods melting out of him and swirling in hyperactive circles behind him, dripping a questionable molten substance. Wilbur finally tears his eyes off Tommy, glancing past him, over his shoulder. Whatever he sees makes his smile lose some of its luster.
Tommy dances backwards, turns, and there is Techno, still standing tall (and incredibly ominously). Tommy reaches with burning hands for his elbow and grins, linking their arms. “This is Techno,” he tells Wilbur again, better than the first time. One brother to another, the two stare at each other across the open space, Wilbur seeming slightly unnerved and Techno seeming slightly unnerv ing (the latter perhaps more than slightly).
Techno has the high ground. Tommy’s arm tightens in his, and Techno seems not to want to display any sign of vulnerability, but Tommy can sense the little lean. Tommy knows he’s there for him. He leans into Techno’s side full force, a grin plastered across his face. “We are best friends,” he announces, and Techno scoffs, finally speaking for the first time since Wilbur had arrived.
“Oh, please.”
“Come on,” Tommy teases, “don’t pretend like you weren’t just—” sitting over on the rocks with your arm around my shoulders—
“Theseus.”
He laughs, and doesn’t let go, and beckons Wilbur over. “Don’t be such a pussy. I’m the one who thought I was going to get thrown out. Disowned, to add some flavor.”
“Tommy,” scolds Wilbur, his eyebrows shooting up at the joke. “Don’t… say that. I never would have…”
Tommy reaches out, tired of his mindless fumbling. He doesn’t want to have the real conversation here— Techno won’t be pleased, and as much as Tommy depends on him, he can’t let him strangle the breath out of Wilbur like he knows Techno wants to. “Shut up. You’re being a little bitch,” he says instead, wrapping his free arm in Wilbur’s and dragging him closer.
“Now,” Tommy begins anew, “let’s try it again.” Wilbur surveys him with mild confusion but a hearty amount of fondness, sort of like Phil would, maybe, if he were alive, and Techno chuffs quietly, barely audible but there all the same. Tommy takes a moment to admire the situation, but evidently, it’s one moment too many.
“Hurry up,” says Wilbur, “you’re hot.” And oh, Tommy’s just realized that Wilbur probably isn’t as good at dealing with the heat that emanates from him as Techno is. Tommy soaks in the sight of his scales, webbed fins sprouting where his ears should be, the way his fingers have elongated. The man is quite the sea monster.
“Alright, alright, already,” Tommy laughs. “Wilbur, this is Techno, my—”
There is a shared glance. Red eyes glint, and Tommy leans his flaming head on Techno’s shoulder, because he knows he can handle it. “This is Techno, my brother,” he says, quietly, and something in Techno’s eyes flickers in a good way, and something in Wilbur’s flickers in a bad way.
They are brothers. He’s never said that out loud before.
He’s got to get over it. There’s more work to do. Now, to even out the score: “Techno,” Tommy goes on carefully, hoping against hope that the two of them will eventually find some way to get along.
“Mmm.”
“This is Wilbur.” This next glance is softer, deeper, soaked with memories and shared traumas that they bear in their weary arms. “My brother.”
Wilbur smiles. Techno chuffs. The wind settles invitingly upon their shoulders, and Tommy’s flame does not blow out.