Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

They labeled Tommy a villain when he was fifteen years old. 

He was just a kid then, alone on the streets for the first time and scared. 

His intentions were never to torment the city or to kill civilians in the name of–well, whatever it was villains killed for. He was just a kid who was put in a tough spot, and suddenly he was the most feared “villain” in the city. 

When he was fifteen years old, they gave him the name Red Death and called him a villain. 

In a way the title was refreshing, freeing even. It was everything he had been raised not to be, and he loved it, loved the distance the name and the title gave him from his past. It was like a chasm, so deep and far that he couldn’t see the surface anymore, but none of that mattered. He was free. 

Red Death became a name that crowded the papers. They'd ask who he was, where he’d come from. 

Tommy had become a villain seemingly overnight, he was unpredictable, new, and that only scared them more. They wanted safety and security and feared the unknown that threatened it.

Tommy was many things: feared, powerful, free… but he wasn’t proud. 

He wasn’t proud of the title he had or the name they’d called him, honestly he didn’t think he deserved it. There were villains out there who’d worked for decades, and now here he was, all for the work he’d done in a single night. Tommy never had an evil plan, or a secret lair, or any of the cool things villains had. All he had was a shitty apartment and the clothes on his back, and a desire for more.

He couldn’t be a civilian, and he certainly wouldn’t be a hero, so he did what he had to do. 

At fifteen years old, Red Death killed the top heroes in L’Manberg, and Tommy became a villain. 

Sometimes Tommy wonders if he could have made more money as Red Death. He’d heard of occasions where villains would hold people hostage for ransom or rob a bank, and he’d known a lot of them had their hands in the underground, transporting illegal goods around the city under the cover of night. He wonders if maybe he could’ve had that. Would he be living in some fancy-ass apartment? Would he even need to work?

Some days Tommy was content with his apartment, with his job, but other times…

Other times Tommy wishes he’d never put away his suit and the status that was guaranteed with it. 

He knew that dawning the name wasn’t what he wanted anymore, no matter how much power came with it, it just wasn’t for him. 

He wasn’t built for a power struggle, he wasn’t meant to live that kind of life in the spotlight, so he hid. Living the life of a civilian was simple enough, easy enough. Go to work, pay your bills, and make friends if you have time. It was the type of domestic living that he had craved when he was younger.

And sure, maybe he didn’t deserve to live this life. Maybe he never would, but he could try, right? 

Only sometimes customers make it really damn hard to keep a level head. 

The woman had been an issue from the moment she stepped through the front door, an artificial ‘ding’ alerting the whole restaurant to her presence. Her hair cut alone was enough to know that she had every intention to make a scene, but that didn’t change the fact that she’d been seated in his section, and he’d need to be the one to deal with her. 

He’d strolled over with his nice bravado, and started with the same greeting he gave everyone else. She interrupted him (predictable really), and told him all about how she was in a hurry and that she needed to have her order put in immediately and ‘oh I need this substitution and that because god forbid I have any flavor in my meal.’

And he had stood idly by, fighting back quips and the urge to roll his eyes as he wrote all of it down on a little yellow pad, a fake smile plastered on his lips. 

He hadn’t meant to drop her meal or get her order wrong–in truth, he doesn’t even think he did, it was such a messy, convoluted order that she’d probably forgotten everything she asked for–but that didn’t stop her from complaining to management. 

So now he sat with crossed arms and a bouncing leg, getting lectured for the second time this week about his “poor customer service skills” and “lack of respect” or whatever the fuck it was about this time, wondering if he should’ve been a villain for financial reasons alone.

“Are you even listening to me?” A hand waves in front of his face. Tommy rolls his eyes, leg bouncing just a little bit quicker. He gave an uncaring nod, he’d heard this speech before. Absently, he wonders if the woman even left him a tip. “This is the third customer this month who’s complained about you! Do you even care?”

“No, not really,” He replies in a monotone voice. “She was being a bitch, I didn’t even do anything wrong. ”

“She said you slammed her coffee onto the table-”

“-With grace and excellence really,” Tommy interrupts. 

“-And half of it spilled onto her!”

“It was barely a drop, man. She’s just dramatic.” Tommy sighs, running a hand through blond curls. 

“You’re lucky she didn’t get burnt.” The manager snaps as he slumps back into his chair. 

There are papers scattered all over the desk, a filing cabinet left open in the corner of the room, and Tommy wonders how much longer someone will have to cover his section while he’s trapped in this office. 

“Oh yes, very lucky.” He drawls, boredom thick in his voice. 

His manager–he was new to this location, and instead of memorizing his name Tommy elected to call him Bitch instead–huffs as he props his elbows on the desk so he could rest his head in his hands. “Do you want to lose your job?”

Tommy’s leg stops bouncing and he sits up, straightening himself out. This isn’t the first time he’s been asked that, but something in the way Bitch says it sounds serious, entirely different from the way his old manager would jokingly throw the question around. 

“Not particularly.”

Bitch sighs, “Look, Tommy. I don’t want to fire you. I know we haven’t known each other long but I could tell you’re a good kid,” A laugh threatens to bubble out of Tommy’s chest.  “You just- you need to be a bit nicer to customers.” He pauses, studying Tommy’s face for any sign that he’s getting through to the boy, but Tommy only nods a slow nod. “Just- don’t let it happen again.”

Huh, maybe naming the man Bitch was too harsh, he was actually kind of okay. The other manager would barely let Tommy get a word of defense whenever situations like this arose, and all he could do was sit back and listen as she would quietly scold him. Tommy was brash and rude. He knew as much, but no one had ever really bothered to let it slide without a write-up.

“I really didn’t mean to,” He starts, “I’m pretty sure she was out to get me.”

“I’m sure she was Tom, I’m sure she was.” Bitch gives Tommy a wave of his hand and the younger boy wastes no time jumping out of his seat and making his way towards the exit, gently closing the office door behind him.

He ignores the sign taped on the front which reads “Michael’s Office” because Bitch is a better name. 

Tommy hates working the night shift. 

For one, it's boring. The setting sun takes most business with it, and the customers coming in after dark are few and far between.

 He doesn’t blame people for not coming in to eat at a shitty diner, streets on this side of town are sketchy, overridden by criminals and low-threat villains alike and nobody wants to get caught up with them. 

He also hates that it messes up his sleep schedule. Not that he ever had one to begin with, but working late hours isn’t really helping him achieve the full eight hours he thinks he could use. 

If there's anything good about the night shift though, it's the people. The morning shift is full of stuck-up, nosey, pricks, and Tommy (surprisingly) has a hard time fitting in. He much prefers the laid-back environment the night shift offers him, and he’d gladly endure the boredom if it meant the night shift crew was going through it with him. 

They weren’t friends by any means–Tommy didn’t have any of those–but most of them were nice, and he figured there were worse people you could spend your nights with. 

Today’s shift had been slow and, except for the visit to Bitch’s office, uneventful. Before long, Tommy found himself wiping down tables closest to the front windows as flickering neon lights illuminate the space in an almost eerie glow. 

The streets outside are empty, dark except for what little light is given by street lamps or the headlights of a passing car, and Tommy silently hopes that his phone has enough battery to keep his flashlight on for the walk back to his apartment. 

The diner is small, which is both a blessing and a curse depending on how busy it is. Booths line the walls, and tables and chairs crowd the rest of the floor. The counter is the main attraction of the whole place really, red-topped chairs and scuff-stained baseboards make for an oddly welcoming area for people who stop in alone for a coffee or a bite to eat. 

A staticy television sits behind the counter, barely within his line of sight. It fills the space with sounds and music alike as the nightly news cycles through, reminding citizens of the upcoming festivities. Pictures of masked men saving kittens from fires and children from car accidents appear on the screen, and Tommy barely bites back a scoff, something angry curling around in his stomach. 

He hates this time of year. 

Behind the counter, his coworker, Niki, cleans the coffee machines, and for a moment her eyes catch him staring at the screen. He turns his gaze back to the task at hand, rubbing harder at a dried spot of ketchup on the table’s surface. 

“You going tomorrow?” she asks, stepping away from the machine to pull pink hair up into a bun on the top of her head. Her voice is bright and almost too cheery for the night shift, but Tommy finds that he doesn’t mind it, her company is nice. She’s quiet, content with keeping to herself. 

He blinks at her, “What?” 

“Monument day,” She says, “The parade tomorrow? Are you going?” 

With the shake of his head, he laughs something hollow, “No. It’s uh, not really my thing.” He thinks of green confetti and strings playing something sad.

Niki hums, turning back to the television. “I heard from a customer that Inferno was going to be there, something about a speech.” Tommy shrugs, pushing through the urge to just freeze at the mention of the hero. 

He’s usually out a lot this time of year, patrolling the upper streets with a careful eye. The people appreciate it, always approaching their top hero with praise and smiling faces. 

Inferno is kind to them, patient. Tommy’s seen videos of him doing a trick more than once for the younger kids, his words of encouragement instilling dangerous confidence in some. 

A speech though, that’d be new. With a slightly shaky hand, Tommy retrieves his phone from his pocket. 

Fifteen minutes ‘till close.

The diner settles back into silence as the two continue cleaning. While Tommy works in the front putting chairs on top of tables and mopping dirty floors, Niki works silently behind the counter, packing away any baked goods that didn’t get sold throughout the day before stepping into the kitchen, the sound of running water echoing through the dining room a moment later. 

There are only eight minutes left when he hears that artificial ding. Tommy forces himself to take a deep breath so that he doesn’t accidentally kill whoever just walked in.

“We’re closed,” He grumbles, eyes trained on the floor as he mops. Maybe this is the worst part of the night shift. There's always some asshole coming in right when it's most inconvenient. Don’t these people have any sort of decency?

“No you’re not,” the guy says, and Tommy can sense something playful in his voice. He strolls up to the counter, knocking twice on the plastic-topped surface. “Niki!” 

Oh, the audacity . 

Tommy looks up right as Niki pops her head out from the kitchen, wearing a warm smile as she dries a glass. “Hey, Wil! Take a seat, I’ll be out in a second!” she greets before ducking back into the kitchen. The guy–Wil, takes a seat, right in front of the TV that’s still talking about monument day. 

He’s tall, lanky in a way that even the pastel sweater he wears can’t hide. An old brown coat is thrown over his shoulder. It looks heavy, fitted more for winter weather and not the cool spring they’ve been having so far. He turns after a moment, meeting Tommy’s eye through round, wiry glasses. He props both elbows onto the counter and kicks his feet out in front of him, legs crossing at the ankles, giving the blond a teasing smile. 

Tommy turns, biting back the itch to tell this guy off, and begins to collect a stray syrup bottle left on a nearby table. “Well someone’s prickly,” the man mutters just loud enough for Tommy to hear, and he spins back around.

“Fuck off,” he scoffs, and the guy’s eyes widen as he brings his hand to his mouth in mock offense. 

“And here I thought the wait staff was supposed to be nice to customers.” He says as his head tilts a bit to the side. Clearly, he’s trying to egg Tommy on–to get on his nerves, but it’s not going to work. 

It’s not. 

“Are you buying something?” Tommy asks. Wil shakes his head, brown curls bouncing with the movement, “Then you’re not a customer, dickhead.” 

He laughs, loud and warm, and Tommy cracks a smile as he finishes cleaning the last spot of dirt on the tiled floor. It comes up easy enough, and before long Tommy’s crossing the diner to return the mop to its spot behind the counter.

 Wil tracks him as he does, watching with curious eyes. Tommy can practically hear gears turning in the man's head. 

He abandons the relaxed pose as Tommy rounds the edge of the countertop, and instead spins back around to face the television. The news has moved on from monument day and onto whatever hero-villain fight happened today. Tommy watches for a moment as shaky footage shows Inferno throwing a string of fire at Blade, who brings the flat side of his axe up to block the flames, white boar mask barely peeking over the edge. 

The screen goes black with a satisfying click . ”I was watching that!” Wil scoffs, hands reaching out to swipe for the remote Tommy’s placed just out of his reach. 

“You say that as if they haven’t been recycling the same footage all day now,” he sighs. This particular fight took place hours ago, by now the clean-up crews are mostly done and the streets have been reopened. “Besides, only customers get to watch the TV” Tommy throws in with a shit-eating grin. 

Wil huffs, and a matching smile creeps over his lips, “Isn’t it past your bedtime, child?”

“Oh, I’m much too big of a man to have a bedtime. It's a shame though, you missed the early bird specials today.” Tommy shrugs, “I guess there's always tomorrow.”

“Are you calling me old?”

“If the shoe fits, bitch.” Tommy retorts, and Wil leans back as he barks out a laugh. There’s a shuffling from the back and Tommy turns to see Niki, her bright uniform now replaced with a light gray sweater and her typical work bag strung over her shoulder.

“You two better not be bullying each other.” She says with a smile. 

Wil shakes his head. “Me? Bully a child? Niki, I would never.”

“Niki,” Tommy starts as he places a friendly hand on her shoulder, “your friend is a bitch.” She raises a hand to her mouth, laughing at Wil’s gaping mouth. 

“Kid’s got you pegged.” She says, throwing an arm around Tommy’s shoulders and pulling him into her side. She’s warm, the sweater is so much softer than it looks and Tommy can’t help but lean into the touch just a little bit. He gives the man a smug grin and a wink and Wil goans, dramatically collapsing onto the counter with a light thump . Tommy barely suppresses a laugh at the way his face squishes against the countertop. “Oh get up,” She chides, letting go of Tommy so she can lean forward and smack Wi’s head. 

He sits back up in an instant, that same look of mock offense spread across his face again. Something buzzes in his pocket, and he pulls out his phone, checking it for only a second before quickly putting it away again. “We should better get going, are you all set here?” He asks, and the sudden seriousness is enough to wipe even Tommy’s smile off his face. 

“I think I’m ready,” she tells him, and that cheery tone doesn’t falter as she turns to Tommy, “Will you be alright to lock up?” 

She says it as if he hasn’t closed by himself numerous times before. Like he hasn’t locked the door and walked back much later than this. “I’ll be alright, you two going on a date or something?” Niki’s eyes widen and Wil’s cheeks flush red. Tommy can’t help but laugh. 

“Nope!” She laughs along. “Just friends Tommy, just friends!” She gives him a playful shove before rounding the counter. Wil stands, shoving his hands deep into the pockets of an old brown coat. “We’re meeting up with some other friends for a game night.”

“Sounds boring.” Tommy drawls.

“Yea?” Wil scoffs, “And what are you going to do? Algebra homework?” 

“I, for one, am going to go hang out with my many, many women, thank you very much.” 

Niki giggles and the two make their way to the door. They walk slowly, chatting among themselves as they make their way across the diner. It seems nice, to have someone to walk with. They talk as though they’ve known each other for years, and Tommy wonders if he’ll ever have someone to talk like that with. 

The doorbell dings. Tommy sends a smile to the two as Niki says her goodbyes before walking out into the night. “It was nice to meet you, child!” Wil calls.

“The names Tommy, prick!” He yells back. He lifts his hand up, curling all but one finger to his palm as a silent ‘fuck you’. 

“Well then it was nice to meet you, Tommy, I’m Wilbur.” He says and slips through the door. It closes with a soft click , and Tommy watches as the pair leave, neon lights barely reflecting in Wilbur’s glasses. 

Once they’re out of sight, Tommy makes his way to the back, grabbing his bag from his locker before punching out and making his way to the front door. With the flick of a light switch, the diner is plunged into darkness, and Tommy locks the door behind him. 

The street outside is dark save for flickering street lamps, the pavement is cracked and uneven. It’s almost dangerous to walk along if you aren't used to it, but Tommy’s walked this route hundreds of times. He knows where it dips and curves, where the curb is cracked. He could walk this route in his sleep if he wanted. 

Shadows curl around the buildings, wrapping everything in a silent darkness that’s almost unnerving, but Tommy’s a big man, and big men aren’t scared of the dark. His phone’s battery is low, but he turns the flashlight on anyway.

The journey back to the apartment is easy enough, and Tommy’s thankful that the streets are empty. Areas like this aren’t the safest at night, and he’d heard stories of kids who wandered out too far, dragged into alleyways or abandoned buildings never to be seen again, and while Tommy’s confident he’d be okay, he’d rather not take his chances. 

When the battery dies, and the flashlight turns off, he relies on his muscle memory to carry him back to his apartment. The darkness consumes the streets, allowing the mice to sneak through alleys and under dumpsters, their light footsteps the only indication that they were there at all. 

The dark moves and ripples when the lights flicker, but Tommy’s eyes are trained on the ground, focused on moving one foot in front of the other. He doesn’t see the shadows themselves gliding across buildings or watching him with glowing eyes. They gather like a school of fish watching a worm on a hook, never too far away, but just out of sight.

One foot in front of the other. 

A chill runs down Tommy’s spine, the air colder than he expected. Today’s been warmer than usual, humid even. 

The shadows wait, and the shadows watch, undetected. 

They only leave once he gets inside.

Chapter Text

Tommy wasn’t the type of guy to usually go through with bad ideas–not anymore at least.

He was impulsive when he was younger, always getting in trouble whenever he’d speak out of line or take something he shouldn’t have. Learning how to wait and be patient hadn’t come naturally, but withheld meals and the occasional slap on the wrist made the lesson stick soon enough. 

He was told that patience was a valuable skill, that without it he’d end up on the streets or in a cell, and Tommy knew what happened to kids alone on the street. So he learned to bite his tongue and stay out of the way, pushing down the voice in the back of his head that told him to take a little bit more.

It was like putting a lid on a boiling pot and trusting that it will keep all the water in, even when the water gets hotter and the bubbles grow angrier. He learned to be patient, and throughout it all the lid stayed on tight, never coming off even when the water boiled over, putting out the flame beneath the burner.

Old habits die hard though, at least that's the excuse Tommy used whenever he’d curse at customers or ‘borrow’ from the convenience store down the street.

The diner was closed, and all non-essential businesses were required to shut their doors for Monument Day, and that left Tommy with an uncomfortable gap in his day. He was used to working. While the break was nice, there was a bundle of contempt growing in his chest that he couldn’t quite shake. The apartment was practically empty–Tommy hadn’t bothered to decorate in his time here–and without much else to do he turned to the TV. That activity hadn’t lasted long though, pictures of fallen heroes crowded what little channels Tommy’s TV had access to, and after a while, he couldn’t stomach the recycled media. 

He ached to do something, so when the second-hand couch became too uncomfortable, he tried to cook. The cup of instant noodles hadn’t been horrible, but it was hard to find comfort in the meal when a sinking feeling made its home in his gut. The apartment was too small, constricting almost, and the abandoned suit hidden deep within his closet only worsened the claustrophobia. 

He had tried to get rid of it before, tried to cut it up until it was unrecognizable. He had gotten close, holding the scissors up to the fabric, but he couldn’t bring himself to close his hand. The suit was more than death. It was more than fear. Red Death had freed Tommy, and he wasn’t quite sure he was ready to let that go yet. 

So the suit was folded up and placed in the closet, only concealed by what little clothes Tommy was able to get at the time. He hoped that he’d never need to use it again, that his days biting his tongue and enduring harsh lessons with even harsher punishments were over, but until he could be sure, the suit would stay, just out of sight. 

Some days the urge to dig it out from under the clothes had become too big, too crushing, and Tommy would sit on his bed, staring at the closet doors as if his gaze could kill those too. On those days, the distance seemed to be the only way to make the feeling go away. 

Today was one of those days. 

It was a bad idea, that much was clear from the way his stomach twisted when he opened the door, but he couldn’t stand sitting around in the apartment alone for a moment more. 

Maybe a walk wouldn’t be too bad.

The sun hung high in the sky, but the streets were empty. There are a few stragglers here and there, nearly all of them making their way to where the parade would be held. 

If it was anything like last year, the parade would be big. He had stayed holed up in his apartment, hidden under every blanket he could get his hands on, and watched as heroes lined the streets. 

They made speeches with grandiose promises of safety–even when they knew chaos and destruction had been promised by a new trio of villains who were eager to fill the shoes Red Death left behind.

Vendors set up booths along every street corner, selling fried food and cheap clothes that, no matter how many times you washed them, would always be a little too itchy. In the end, the quality didn’t matter much when the public would buy anything with a hero's face on it, eager to throw their money at whatever foundation or charity promised to bring Red Death to justice. 

The first Monument Day had been difficult, leaving Tommy exhausted even though he barely left the couch. Every time someone spoke his name he’d retreat just a little further into the cocoon of fabric and pillows, gloved hands clutching a small stuffed cow just a little closer to his chest. It had helped a bit, reintroducing some sort of soft comfort that he hadn’t had since he was younger. 

The day was still scary, dangerous even for someone like Tommy. With the sheer amount of heroes who make appearances, going would be like strolling right into the lion's den. The streets would be packed, heroes perched atop every rooftop, keeping a watchful eye over the crowd while speakers sang songs of remembrance and celebration. For one day, the city would unite to commemorate their beloved heroes, completely oblivious to the acts going on behind closed doors. 

Everything about the day filled Tommy with a sort of restless energy only moving could resolve, so when he rounded the block and saw his apartment complex in sight, he decided to turn and head in a new direction. 

It was nice, and spontaneous in a familiar way. Whenever he’d get bored of walking along a street he recognized, finding new sights was as easy as turning right instead of continuing forward. Sometimes he would wander a bit too close to where a crowd had formed, and he would switch directions again, letting his feet carry him until the noise was just a light buzz. 

In all honesty, he wasn’t quite sure where he was, or how he’d go about getting back. Somewhere along the way he stopped keeping track of the street signs, stopped remembering the ones he’d passed already, but the hum of the festivities nearby told him he was close enough to Main Street, and he knew how to get back from there. Maybe if he could get close enough he could find a building he recognized?

It was odd–willingly approaching such an event–everything in Tommy’s being was screaming at him to go , that these people would kill him if they knew, but the new desire to get back easily overpowered any fears he had. So he moved, making his way down an alleyway until the hum of people turned into a roar. 

When he emerges from the alleyway, he finds himself at the edge of a crowd, and it is big. Hundreds, maybe thousands of people stood idle on the streets, none of them moving. Surely all these people weren’t waiting for the parade–that wasn’t until later in the evening–but they were waiting for something.  

He looks to the side, blue eyes scanning the storefronts as he looks for anything familiar. He finds a bakery, the flags outside a striped white and black, and the dread pools at the bottom of his stomach as he realizes exactly where he is. 

He’s on the wrong side of the street. The wrong side of the crowd. Going around would take time, it would be a hassle. So he takes a slow step into the mass. 

The first thing Tommy notices is how different being in it was. He’s never been in a place with so many people before. It’s hot and stuffy, and as he wanders further into the multitude of people, he finds it harder to move. Bodies would shift, sending an elbow into his back that pushed him towards the center of the street. It’s difficult to navigate, with all the heads turning and talking, the noise seemed to drown out his thoughts. 

Among the crowd, at the end of the street, stood a lone stage shrouded in greens and blues and purples. A single microphone stands in the center, silent and still as projector screens reflect the scene on each side of the stage. 

These people aren’t waiting for the parade, Tommy realizes, they’re waiting for a speech. 

Inferno’s speech. 

All around, speakers crackle, the steady music replaced by sharp feedback and the howl of the wind. A wave of silence washes over the sea of people as heads turn towards the stage in quiet anticipation. Then a figure approaches the microphone. Tommy’s heart pounds, his breath quickening as he looks around frantically, hoping for any kind of break in the people so that he could get out, but the crowd surges. Tommy’s pushed forward closer to the hero–closer to the danger. 

Inferno looks almost the same as he did the last time Tommy had seen him, the simple white armor layered atop a black turtleneck was cleaner, no longer singed or dirty, and his hair was tied back with a simple white bandana. The mask covering his face was newer, upgraded if Tommy had to guess. The old fabric has been swapped with metal filters, similar to that of a gas mask, protruding from it, strikingly white against the rest of the black mask. 

His eyes though, were different, older almost. Tommy had remembered those eyes being kind, filled with an inspiring sort of confidence whenever the man would sneak treats and extra dessert into the blond’s room long after dinner had passed. 

Though something about them now seemed wrong, like they’d been shadowed by a bad mix of pressure and grief. It makes him look like a new man all together. 

Tommy had known him as Sapnap, his true name, but somehow those hardened eyes made him look more like his carefully crafted hero persona. 

He clears his throat, the sound echoing through the street as it bounces off buildings. A second hush fell over the crowd, silencing those who were still murmuring, and all attention turns to Sapnap, to Inferno. “I would just like to start this off by saying thank you.” His voice is even in a way that’s rehearsed, loud and commanding, and Tommy finds that he couldn’t tear his eyes from the hero. 

“As you know, on this day, two years ago, two of the top three ranking heroes of the city were murdered. I considered them both close friends–brothers even–and not a day goes by where I don’t miss them both.” He pauses, his shoulders rising with a steady breath. 

“You knew them as Requiem and Dream.” He continues, voice unwavering, “They cared for this city and the people in it, and protected it until their dying breath. As devastated as their passing was, I know better than anyone that they would not want you to mourn them, but to celebrate .” the words come out wet, and he takes another breath. “Remember what they stood for, so that their memory can live on.”

Tommy looks around, all eyes are on the hero. He takes a slow step to the side, then another. His thin frame weaves through the people, their eyes wet as they listen.

“I assure you the Commission, other heroes, and myself are still trying to find Red Death.” Tommy freezes at the sound of his pseudonym, suddenly overcome with a numbing fear that makes his heart pound and his own breath falter. “He is dangerous, and he must pay for the lives he took from us.” The crowd breaks and several people shout out in agreement. Bodies press into his back, pushing him forward again as they cheer, arms flying into the air. 

Inferno nods, letting the people roar for a second, then he clears his throat again. “Remember the lives he took from us today, so that tomorrow the search can continue!” They erupt again, deafening screams and shouts reverberating in Tommy’s skull as he looks around, frantically trying to find a way to get back to the sidewalk and away .

Because they want him dead and he’s just standing there like a fucking dumbass. 

Tommy’s stranded, a lone boat out at sea as a hurricane surges around him, pushing him every which way until he’s dizzy. It’s loud and overwhelming, and he wants nothing more than to curl up in every blanket and pillow back at his apartment and never come out. 

He blinks, and the hero on the stage is gone, but the cheering doesn’t cease. It wraps around him in a panic that makes his hands feel warm, a long-neglected power begins to surge through him for the first time in years. 

He thinks of a suit, hidden away collecting dust, and he wishes for the confidence he had when he’d first tried it on. 

His eyes land on a sign he just barely recognizes, a beacon in the chaos. He doesn’t think, he just shoves his hands deep into his pockets and moves, weaving through the mass like a string on a needle. 

People bump into him, hands brushing him as he moves. Each new point of contact sends a new wave of adrenaline through his veins, a new burning sensation to his fingertips, but he keeps going. He shoulders his way to the other side of the street, step by step, until the sidewalk is just a few feet away. 

Six. 

Three. 

Another step, and a body moves in front of him, blocking his path. He leans, trying to go behind them but an arm reaches out, cold hands wrapping around his arm and pulling him back. Tommy’s face twists into a snarl.

“Are you alright?” The person asks, and Tommy whips his head up, the snarl melting off his face when he meets the eyes of a man he recognizes. 

Punz. 

Tommy had only seen him in person once, but he looked nearly the same, practically untouched by time since the last time they’d crossed paths. He wore the same suit, armor similar to Inferno’s with the exception of gold detailing. It’s carved into the metal, creating a glittering array of symbols and shapes. Few people know how to use enchantments, but whoever made this armor made it to last, to protect. A simple gold medallion with red jewels hung around his neck, a soft glow barely visible unless you were close.

And Tommy is close, he can practically see the air rippling around the object. 

The man wasn’t even a hero. He’d only arrived on the scene shortly before Tommy did. Full of charisma and confidence, he started as a vigilante of sorts, sweeping the lower streets clean of petty crime before he’d caught Dream’s attention. He’d been offered a spot in the tower where he’d be surrounded by other heroes. 

This man had been guaranteed fame and money, but he’d declined, uninterested in the structure the Committee's contract had outlined. 

Punz was known to be ruthless. He worked for himself and himself only, abiding by his own unwritten laws and effortlessly avoiding that of any heroes. He was a man that had no interest in being leashed and trained to perform petty tricks, so he only offered his help if the appropriate compensation was provided. Monument Day would be a day where the Committee wanted all hands on deck, there wouldn’t be a second thought about paying a vigilante to keep an eye on the crowd. 

Suddenly, Tommy was thankful they’d first met when his own face was covered by a blood-soaked mask. The hero’s uncovered eyes bared no hints of recognition, only a bit of concern for a scared child on the streets. “I-I’m okay.” Tommy stutters, and the vigilante’s eyebrows furrowed as blue eyes find Tommy’s hands in his pockets. 

“Mind showing me what’s in your pockets?” he asked, voice just loud enough to hear over the shouts of the people behind them. Confusion reads clear in the teenager’s face, uncertain as to why Punz would need to see his hands until it dawns on him: he thinks Tommy’s a pickpocket afraid of being caught. 

A nervous laugh bubbles up from the back of his throat and he does as he’s told, pulling both pockets inside out. “I’m not stealing anything man, I’m just–trying to get out of the crowd, claustrophobia ‘s a bitch.” Punz weighs the excuse, watching Tommy’s face for any signs of a lie. A moment passes, the silence between them growing before he nods, the grip on Tommy’s arm easing up a bit. 

“Do you want some help getting to the market site? It’s a lot less crowded over there.” Tommy fights the shiver threatening to run down his entire body. The idea of going anywhere with someone who was associated with the heroes made him want to curl up and die, he’d already made that mistake before. 

So Tommy shakes his head, taking a step back as he tears his arm from the vigilante’s hand. Punz gives him another nod before walking back in the direction of the stage, easily disappearing into a group of people. 

Tommy finally makes the final step onto the sidewalk with a deep breath and slumped shoulders. The adrenaline in his system is quickly running out, any energy he’d had slowly draining along with it. A quick glance around tells him all he needs to know about where he was, so he sets off down the closest side street. 

The apartment complex isn’t far, Tommy must have made an entire loop around the Monument Day events when he was walking. The streets were just as bare as when he left, the occasional ball or other abandoned toy rolling across cracked pavement, waiting for its owner to pick it up and take it home. 

With sore legs and burning lungs, he finally made it inside the apartment, never so relieved to see the drab walls and stained furniture. The sun sat bright in the sky, beams of light cutting through plastic blinds covering the bed in stripes.

Tommy didn’t bother to close them when he laid down, hugging the cow close to his chest as he used his feet to kick the blankets over himself.

Tired eyes found familiar closet doors, closed and locked, watching as the light moved against the splintering wood. Somewhere, a crowd cheers for a parade, but Tommy can’t bring himself to care. 

Monument day fucking sucks, so Tommy had no issue sleeping through what was left of it.

Chapter Text

It was shaping up to be a pretty shitty day. 

Tommy had slept past his alarm, the bundle of light blankets far too comfortable to leave, and had arrived to work late wearing a wrinkled shirt and dark circles under his eyes. 

His manager, predictably, had been pissed. He’d threatened Tommy with another write-up before sending him off to deal with the customers beginning to funnel in through the door. Tommy was starting to get tired of hearing “it can’t happen again”. Some faces were new, some old, but all equally painful to wait on. 

While the day prior had left Tommy’s customers energized and refreshed, it left him with renewed paranoia and pounding trepidation. 

The diner was noisy, voices clashing and dancing around one another as some playlist full of modern hits played through scratchy speakers. The television sat muted on the counter, flashing pictures of heroes giving smiling children balloons and high-fives. 

Today would be a long day, eight-hour shifts always were–and a part of Tommy desperately wanted to just leave and go back to his apartment. He was tired, fatigue clinging to his bones in a way that made everything sluggish. The feeling only worsened when every glance at the clock showed that the time was crawling by just as slowly as Tommy felt. 

He moved through it robotically, filling glasses when asked and keeping banter with coworkers to a minimum. Before long the hours had ticked by, leaving Tommy sore and irritable as he moved towards the end of his shift. 

His last set of customers had been worse than average, they’d left their table a mess of condiments and cutlery that had been a pain to clean. It took everything Tommy had not to gag at the combination of sauces and spices someone had made on their plate, but thanks to his incredibly strong willpower, he’d gotten through it. 

After the table had been cleaned and the dirty dishes were passed off to whatever poor busboy was working that day, he retreated to the back of the restaurant, leaning against a wall with a silent prayer to whatever gods were out there to keep his section empty for the next hour. 

For the most part, Tommy enjoyed his job. The constant moving and talking had kept him occupied for hours, and keeping his mind full of orders and requests kept him from thinking too much about anything else. The hours were usually good, and the pay was even better, leaving Tommy with just enough to get through the month without the need of roommates or a second job, but other days he absolutely hated it. Some days things just moved too fast, making Tommy’s head feel like a top spinning out of control until it crashes. 

Today, Tommy just wanted to go back to bed. 

“Tommy!” Someone up front called, interrupting his thoughts, “You got a table!” 

He groans, head rolling back and around as he pushes himself off the wall with his shoulder. The walk to the front is agonizing. His feet are sore, and with every step the noise from the dining room just gets louder and louder, filling his head like cotton. He blinks, and he’s standing at the counter. 

Speakers blast fuzzy music into his ears as he looks over the dining room, eyes landing on the one man seated in his section. He’s just a guy at first, seated with his back to the counter, but a familiar corduroy coat thrown over the chair beside him is enough for Tommy to recognize Wilbur. 

The man’s head is rested on his palm, tilted down to look over the menu as wire rims slowly slide down the bridge of his nose. His other hand taps something fast onto the tabletop before pausing to readjust his glasses, picking the rhythm back up a moment later. 

His whole aesthetic screams “smart artist”, and if Tommy hadn’t met him already, he’d think Wilbur was just some stuck-up university student who goes on and on about society and morality or some shit. 

Well- actually, Tommy had only briefly spoken to the guy once, he’s definitely not the one to say Wilbur doesn’t do that. He probably goes on the “holier than thou” bullshit often. 

Regardless, Tommy’s shift was almost over, and if he wanted to go to bed on time he’d have to take care of his section, which meant talking to Wilbur. So with a breath, he was off, hiding every hint of exhaustion and annoyance behind a wall of false confidence as he approached the table. 

“Ahh, so the bitch returns,” he says, and Wilbur startles, turning wide eyes towards Tommy. Barely a second passes before the man lets out a breath, his calm demeanor returning nearly instantly. 

“Fucking- You scared me, man.” 

Tommy shrugs, grabbing a pen from his belt and tapping it on his notepad. “You gonna order, bitch? Or do I need to guess what you want?”

Wilbur sputters out a laugh, “What happened to being nice? I’m a paying customer, you know.”

Tommy gives him a dead-pan stare, “No shit, you wouldn’t be sitting here if you weren’t going to pay.” 

With a smile, Wilbur straightens in his chair. “I could call for your manager, you know, for being rude.” He says softly, and there's a glint in the man's eye. 

Tommy falters for just a second, mouth hanging open as he tries to figure out if he should apologize or keep going; but he’s got nothing, words having left him like waves leave the sand. If he gets another complaint–especially on the same day he was late–that’d be it, practically back on the streets with his luck. Tommy enjoyed this, and what? He was going to lose it because he was joking around with a random customer? 

Wil snorts, pulling Tommy out of his head with the slamming of a hand against the tabletop. He dissolves into a fit of giggles. It takes a moment for him to calm down, every time the man finally stops laughing he looks back to Tommy before losing it again at whatever expression is etched onto his face. 

“Not funny,” Tommy grumbles. 

He clicks his pen, once, twice, then a third time before Wilbur catches his breath, slumping back into his chair with a sigh. “I mean, it’s a little funny,” he says, “You should see your face man, you looked like a fish with the way your mouth hung open.” His jaw goes slack in a frail attempt at recreating the expression, but Tommy doesn’t lighten up, instead, he takes a small step back, putting just a little more space between him and Wil. 

Wilbur notices, of course, and his face softens just a little bit. “Ok, ok, not funny. Sorry, I forgot that the management here is weirdly strict sometimes.” 

Tommy shrugs, tapping the tip of his pen against his notepad again, “What could I get for you?” He asks, making sure to exaggerate his customer service voice. “You’re right in time for those early-bird specials I mentioned the other night, old man.” he cracks a smile, settling back into whatever banter the two were doing before.

“Oh shove off, child. I can’t be that much older than you. What are you, like eighteen? Nineteen?”

“Seventeen.”

“Ok, well–” He stammers, looking up as he struggles to do the math in his head. “That’s only like eight years.”

“So the specials today are–”

“Stop!” He shouts, “I don’t like it when I’m the one being called old, we save that treatment for my dad.” 

Tommy snorts, rolling his shoulders back to release some tension that’s built up over the day. “I just thought you’d want to know since your age is clearly affecting your ability to do basic subtraction.” he gets a glare from Wil, “Careful, your brain might explode if you think about it too much.” 

Wilbur shakes his head, using a hand to rub at the bridge of his nose as he whispers “prime help me”, so soft Tommy only knows that's what he says by the way his mouth curls around the words. 

The diner is starting to quiet down, with most of the customers enjoying a late lunch making their way out, leaving only employees and people coming in to enjoy an early dinner. The music has been turned down, low enough so that the TV can be heard. 

The evening news theme plays, noticeable against the chatter of customers. From the kitchen, a timer beeps, and Tommy clicks his pen again. “Do you know what you want? My shift ends soon and I’d rather not have to stay late to wait on your lazy ass.” 

Finally, Wilbur closes the menu, handing it to Tommy with a smile. “I’ll have a chocolate chip muffin.”

“It’s nearly dinner time.” 

Wilbur hums, “Figured I’d make it something small so it’s not too heavy for you.” he teases, leaning back as he makes a ‘shoo’ motion with his hand. With a huff, Tommy shoves his pad and pen back into his pocket and turns towards the pastry cabinet. 

The smell of sweet bread and cookies hits him as soon as he opens the little door. Scents of sugar, vanilla, and chocolate all combine to create something mouth-watering as he reaches into the case, picking out the smallest chocolate chip muffin he could find before walking over to the register to punch in the ticket. It spits out a receipt with a ding, and Tommy wastes no time tearing it from the printer and shoving it into his pocket. 

Tommy makes his way back over to the table, Wilbur’s got his back to him again, typing something on his phone before pressing send and placing it face down on the table. He turns when Tommy approaches, tilting his head to get a look as the plated pastry is thrown haphazardly onto the wooden surface. He gives another hum of approval, nodding a silent thank you. 

The two wait for a moment, unmoving. Wilbur watches the plate, practically drinking the muffin in with unmoving eyes while Tommy stands nearby, expecting the older man to ask for more. Surely a muffin wasn’t all he wanted. “Is… there anything else I could get for you?” 

Wil shakes his head, “No this is good, thank you. Wouldn’t want to keep you late or anything, I’m sure you’ve got a lot of homework to do.” 

Tommy scoffs, retrieving a wrinkled check from his pocket and setting it on the edge of the table, just barely out of Wilbur’s reach. “I already told you, I don’t have homework, only my many, many–”

“Women, yes” he finishes while tearing a generous piece off the muffin, “So you’ve said.” He puts the bite into his mouth, chewing slowly. Tommy turns, fully intending to leave Wil to his snack, but before he could get far he hears a muffled “wait.” 

So he goes back. 

As he’s finishing his bite, Wilbur’s reaching for his coat, effortlessly slipping it on. It looks worn and old, but also warm. It’s clearly something expensive that was made to last. “Do you work tomorrow?” He asks, and Tommy rolls his eyes, of course his charm would attract people back, why wouldn’t it? 

“I do…” He responds, but it sounds more like a question than anything. 

Wilbur only nods, grabbing his phone from the table and slipping it into one of his coat pockets, his hand coming back with a slim wallet between his fingers. “Then I won’t keep you late.” He leans across the table, sliding his check towards him. He barely gives it a glance before grabbing a few bills from the fold, handing them over to Tommy with a smile. 

He snatches it, and a few strides later he’s back at the register to get the change. It’s slow, because why the hell wouldn’t the fucking cash register be slow. The TV is behind him now, the news station reporting live on a fight happening somewhere downtown, static and roaring flames crackle through the speakers. Tommy pays it no mind, and after another minute or two he’s heading back to Wilbur’s table, coins in hand. 

The table is empty though, save for a check sitting innocently in front of where Wilbur had been sitting. He picks up the paper and finds that there's more money hidden beneath it, folded neatly and discreetly, barely noticeable if you were just walking by. 

So Tommy takes it, unfolding it with steady fingers, almost gasping when he sees that Wilbur has left him more as a tip than his past three tables combined did. It's a crisp bill, one line creasing down the center, and Tommy can only look in disbelief, almost expecting Wil to pop out from behind a wall to tell him that it’s a joke. 

Wilbur doesn’t though, he’s left the diner completely. 

Carefully, Tommy puts the money into his pocket. He can’t accept it, he won’t, this was way too much, so he’ll just… give it back the next time he sees Wilbur! Yea, that will work. 

Too empty hands fold the paper over and over until his thumb finds a groove, running along it for a second before unfolding the paper and turning it on its other side. There’s something written on the back, loopy neat letters indenting the paper in handwriting that must be Wilbur’s

It’s a  note–short, but it gets the point across.

‘See you tomorrow, child.’

And a little part of Tommy can’t help but be a bit excited. 

The next day started better than the last. 

Tommy hadn’t slept past his alarm, instead waking up before it, a strange sort of energy willing him to get out of bed. 

So he did, smoothing out the still-warm sheets he left behind before drifting over to his window and pulling the blinds open. It was early, the sun was just barely peeking over the horizon, projecting orange beams all over the room. Tommy watched the light slowly crawl down the walls as the sun rose higher and higher, painting the city in bright pinks and oranges. 

The sunrise was rarely something he got to see, sleeping in was better fit for Tommy’s work schedule. It was different, sure, but he learned to love seeing the moon hanging in the night sky. 

There was a time, two years ago now, when Tommy had seen the sunrise regularly. He’d been on the streets, barely getting by. It would be another week or so before he got his job, another after that before he’d have the apartment, so he spent his time in alleyways and park benches, never staying in one place for too long out of fear of being caught. 

Sleeping was irregular then, just a few naps a day in whatever spaces he could squeeze himself into. He’d seen every sunrise and every sunset, but back then the sights had only been than a marker, something to show another day he’d survived.

Something about it now felt different though. Instead of a reminder that he’d have to begin a new day, a new battle, the sunrise was almost like a trophy. It was something that he had the freedom to enjoy now, and that alone was enough to make him want to get up early every day just to see it. 

He gets up when the sky turns blue and the light gets warm, pulling a fresh uniform out of the closet and throwing it on. Breakfast was easy, a bowl of cereal (it was only a little bit stale) and an apple would be enough to keep him full for hours. 

He was scheduled to work the same times as the day before, and before long it was time to go. So, with loosely tied shoes and a hastily made lunch, he was off to the diner. 

He had walked fast, weaving through and around groups who stood stagnant on the sidewalk, chatting their morning away, and arrived at the diner in no time. Grabbing a donut from the pastry case, Tommy punched in, the sweetness of chocolate frosting hitting his tongue seconds later.

The breakfast rush came and went, and Wilbur hadn’t shown yet, leaving Tommy to do odd chores during downtime. The break hadn’t lasted long, and after an hour or so the next wave of customers began to make their way through the door. 

The lunch rush had been busy–predictably so–but even then Tommy caught himself glancing to the door every time he heard a ding , hoping to see that brown coat or dorky glasses, but another few hours passed, and still no Wilbur. 

Another table, another hour.

They leave, new customers fill their place. 

Another hour passes, Tommy has one more before his shift is over. 

He seats another table, then ding .

Tommy looks, and there he is, wearing the same coat. He’s already making his way over to an open seat, raising a hand in a wave when he meets Tommy’s eye. A chair slides against the tile floor nearby, and Tommy’s at Wil’s side in an instant, setting the money from the night prior onto the table. “You accidentally left too much.”

“Wasn’t an accident.” The brunette snorts, pointing an amused stare at the boy, “What, you’re not used to people being nice or something?”

“This isn’t nice Wilbur, this is- it’s too much, I can’t accept it.” 

Wil shrugs, taking off his coat and hanging it on the chair opposite Tommy. “You can,” he says, like it’s just a fact. “I’m certainly not taking it back, not after your grubby fingers have been all over it.” 

“I’m not grubby!” Tommy bites back. Wilbur rolls his eyes. “I’m not!”

“I can literally see your fingerprints on the tabletop.” and Tommy tears his hand away, a wrinkled bill left behind as he takes a step back, narrowed eyes staring straight at Wilbur. 

If Tommy had had a different ability, the glare might’ve burned the older man. “Oh quit pouting. It wasn’t a mistake, I wanted to give it to you because I enjoyed talking to you. I won’t take it back, so either you take it or the next person who walks past the table does.” He says. “Between you and me,” He leans closer to Tommy, voice lowering into a loud whisper, “I think you probably deserve it more.”

Tommy doesn’t, but he hesitantly drags the money back to him anyway, ignoring the way Wilbur’s face goes all happy and stupid. It’s too much, but if Wilbur wants to give it to him he won’t complain, he could probably use it to buy more cereal anyway. 

They fall back into conversation easily, both poking fun at one another until Tommy’s called away to deal with another customer. Wilbur waits, sitting quietly in his seat, and when Tommy returns he orders a cookie, fully ignoring the way the younger boy rolls his eyes when he asks for the check along with it.

The minutes pass, and Tommy brings the requested items. They talk more, and it’s fun. 

They bounce off each other effortlessly, reminding Tommy of times spent in the company of a trio of friends who fell into each other just as well. 

Tommy was an outsider then. He had watched and wanted the same, but he knew better than to try to fit himself into a space he didn’t belong in, like a square peg in a circular hole. 

Wilbur talks to him, and throughout the conversation, he takes to calling Tommy names–gremlin, child, and raccoon (after Tommy mentions his occasional “borrowing”)--but he never says it in a way that’s meant to make Tommy upset, instead saying it in some sort of endearing way that just makes Tommy want to playfully insult him more.

It’s refreshing.

The hour passes, and Wilbur says goodbye as Tommy excuses himself to grab his bag and punch out. When he returns to the table he finds more money, the same amount as before, but he can’t find it in himself to be too upset with it. 

Wilbur keeps coming back. 

Some days, he only stops in, waving a quick hello and offering a ‘how are you’ before stepping out to head to work or to meet with his family. Other days, Wilbur stays for as long as Tommy does, either sitting at his usual table or up at the counter as he chats up a storm. He tells stories, everything from how his day had been to things he did when he was younger. 

Tommy learns a lot. 

He learns Wilbur has a brother, a man the same age with obscure interests who rarely goes out. Apparently, he’s stubborn and annoying (Tommy thinks that might just be the “brother” side talking though), but loyal to the people in his circle, Wilbur says one day while sipping on a coffee. 

He tells a story about gardening, something about how the hobby had started as a summer project for one but somehow making a garden every year had become a family tradition. 

He learns about music, and how Wilbur is completely and utterly obsessed with it. Tommy had never been too interested in the subject. Never having the time nor the money to find music he enjoyed listening to. He had no idea quite how much cool music was out there, but a conversation about the best genre prompts Wilbur to bring Tommy a list of songs and bands to listen to one day. Tommy spends the next few days binging the whole list, adding nearly all of them to a playlist and eventually finding new artists and songs.

The easiest thing to learn about Wilbur, however, is how much he cares for the people close to him. It’s easy to notice really, Wilbur never outwardly says it, he doesn’t voice his appreciation, but it's clear in the things he does. 

It’s coming in to visit later so that he could walk Niki home on nights she has the closing shift. It’s saving a little bit of whatever pastry he bought that day so Tommy could have a snack after a big rush. It’s coming in whenever he can just to check-in, even if it’s just for a moment. 

He keeps tipping Tommy well, despite the blonde’s protests, every conversation about it ending much like the first. After a week, Tommy stops bringing it up. It’s not much, but it's enough for him to buy small things to decorate the apartment. A poster here, a houseplant there. It helps. 

Tommy learns a lot about Wilbur, but Wilbur also learns things about Tommy, mostly from little one-off stories or jokes here and there; but sometimes that’s all Wil needs, always opening a new conversation by asking Tommy to tell him more. Sure there are some things Tommy just can’t talk about–his connection with heroes and, more importantly, Red Death is at the top of the list–but he’s also never been one to shy away from talking about himself. 

Tommy didn’t have friends, he had acquaintances and coworkers, but he didn’t have anyone he called a friend to create those stories with. Though something about being pulled into Wilbur’s orbit makes him rethink things because maybe it’s like the sunrise. Maybe it's just one of those things where you don’t think about it until you actually wake up early enough to look. 

It was dark out, clouds blocking any and all light from the stars. Street lights flicker dim light across the road, puddles reflecting any bit of yellow it could catch. It had started raining hours ago, making for quite the gloomy day. 

Tommy hated it. 

The rain made him tired, the patter of fat raindrops hitting the roof making for a rather relaxing evening as Tommy wandered around the diner, mopping floors and pulling up chairs for the night. He was on the closing shift again, Niki joining him after she’d taken up filling in for someone else, and it was nice. He looked forward to working with Niki, she was kind; and having Wilbur as a commonality made it much easier to talk to her. 

Wilbur sat at the counter, a half-empty milkshake sitting beside him as he scrolled through his phone, the occasional video playing lightly through his speakers. He’d gotten to the diner later than usual, announcing his arrival with outstretched arms as he walked to the counter to greet Niki. 

It’s mostly silent now, the TV and the music have all been shut off for the night. The only sounds now come from Wilbur as he drinks the last of his shake with an obnoxious slurp . 

“You do not need to be so loud.” Niki giggles, wringing up a dishcloth to flick at Wil, but he doesn’t flinch, ionstead catching the rag right before it hits his nose. 

“I think I do, what if you two forget I’m here?” 

Tommy laughs from across the room, returning a wet mop to a bucket of water nearby and making his way back to where the other two are. “Oh yea, because it's so easy to forget that a fuckin’ beanpole is sitting in the middle of the restaurant.” Wilbur just shrugs, pulling his straw from the glass to place it between his fingers like a dart. In an instant, the straw is flying over the counter, hitting Tommy’s sleeve and falling to leave a smudge of milkshake on his shirt. “What the fuck man?!”

Niki hands him a napkin. He wipes what he can off, but it leaves a stain. “You insulted me,” Wilbur says simply. “At least now we know if you actually wash your shirts.” 

“Jokes on you bitch, the rain will take care of it on my way back.” Wil’s shoulders slump and a glance is thrown Niki’s way. She only gives a sympathetic smile, picking up Wilbur’s glass and walking to the sink in the kitchen. “Stop being telekinetic and shit, if you’re going to talk you could do it out loud.”

“Telepathic, Tommy.” The brunette corrects. “Telekinesis is moving things with your mind.”

“Same thing.”

“No, it's really not.” He sighs. “Are you walking home?” Tommy nods, he always walks back to his apartment, the buses don’t run on this side of the city and he doesn’t have a car of his own. Wilbur knows this. “Could I give you a ride? It’s just- It’s shitty out and I don’t want you walking alone, it’s dark and raining, and the streetlights don’t do shit over here.” 

“Wil, I don’t need-” Tommy starts, but Wilbur quickly raises a hand, sincerity written clear on his face. 

“You’re a big man, and you’re not afraid of the dark. I know, I know, but you’ll get sick or something if you walk home in this and I do not want to hear about how tired and how gross you feel tomorrow.” Almost on cue, the rain picks up outside. Tommy can’t see across the street, even when the lights decide to work. 

Reluctantly, he groans, giving a small nod when Wilbur raises questioning eyebrows, only to be followed by one of the biggest smiles Tommy’s ever seen. 

The next few minutes pass by quickly and, without any issues, they close, stepping out into the pouring rain not even five minutes after the ‘Open’ sign goes dim. 

Niki says her goodbyes, wishing Tommy and Wilbur a good night, and then she’s off, disappearing into the dark when she goes the opposite way. 

Tommy follows Wilbur to the car. It’s an older thing, definitely a hand-me-down from someone if the random patches of rust say anything. He doesn’t complain, he’s more than happy to be getting back to the apartment building sooner, no doubt much drier too than if he decided to walk. 

The passenger door creaks as Tommy opens it, hopping onto a fabric seat to get out of the downpour, Wilbur does the same. The keys are put into the ignition, the car roars to life, and Tommy jumps at a familiar song blasting through the speakers. 

Wil quickly turns the stereo down to a comfortable level. “Buckle up.” He says as he switches into reverse, and Tommy does, pulling the seatbelt across his chest and clicking it into place. 

The car lurches back as Wilbur backs out of his parking space. He slows, switching gears, and then they’re moving towards the street, stopping when they get to the curb. “Left or right?” Wilbur says, the hint of a smile on his lips.

“Um… right.” the blonde answers, fidgeting with a strap on his bag. Wil only lets his turn signal click twice and they’re off again. A hand flicks up to the stereo, turning it back up until the sound of bass and drums fills the cabin. 

They sing as they drive, voices barely loud enough to be heard over the music. It’s like having a mini-concert in the car, the cabin full of yelling and dancing, and Tommy only interrupts to tell Wilbur where to turn. 

They’re listening to their third song–something Tommy had shown Wilbur earlier in the week–when they roll to a stop in front of the apartment complex. It’s mostly dark save for the lobby and the few night owls living a few floors up, and Wilbur turns the music down as he parks. He turns towards Tommy, smiling. 

“Phone,” he says cheerily, a hand held out to Tommy.

“Huh?” 

“Give me your phone gremlin, I want you to have my number in case you ever need a ride.” Tommy makes an ‘oh’ shape with his mouth as he pulls his phone from his pocket, turning it on and navigating to his contacts, placing it gently in Wilbur’s hand. 

He types his number into the phone, then the flash of a camera goes off, lighting up the car, and the phone is returned to Tommy. 

“Thanks for the ride, Wil.” 

The man smiles, waving. Tommy steps out of the car, feeling the rain fall on his cheeks as he turns back to Wilbur, the door just cracked open to get a good view. 

“Have a good night Tommy, text me if you need anything.” Tommy nods. “I’ll see you later!”

Tommy closes the door and makes a break for the front door. The red of the brake lights reflect off puddles on the street, shining into his eyes as he runs behind the car. It’s warm inside, humid too, and through the beams of light Tommy can make out what looks like steam rising from the asphalt. The car starts driving off the moment the door closes, and Tommy whispers another goodbye. 

It’s pointless, Wilbur can’t hear him, but it feels like something he should say. 

It feels like something friends say to each other at least.  

Tommy opens his door to a dark apartment, a flick of a light switch making everything bright again. It’s late, and Tommy knows he should definitely be making a b-line towards his bed, but he also has to wash this damn shirt if he wants to wear it again tomorrow. 

So he starts the wash and falls asleep to the rumble of the machine. He could worry about drying it tomorrow.

Chapter Text

It’s a Tuesday when Wilbur first asks to hang out outside the diner. 

Tommy had been bored, a day off of work had left him with little to do in terms of entertainment, so he figured a deep clean of the apartment would be the best use of his time. 

So he cleaned, starting in the kitchen and working his way around, emptying the fridge and cleaning the pile of dirty dishes that had accumulated in the sink. When he got to the living space he started with wiping down dusty surfaces, moving to vacuum an old stained rug he picked up off the side of the road shortly after. It wasn’t fun, but it was busywork. 

And then the main living area was done, leaving the bedroom and bathroom. Tommy won’t lie, his bedroom was messy, littered with wrinkled clothes and stacks of red and black fabric beside a thrifted sewing machine. The clothes would be easy, folding them and putting them away went by quickly, but the fabric was a different story. 

There wasn’t a ton of it, but more than Tommy would ever use. He supposed he could throw it all out, be done with it once and for all, but his first few paychecks had been spent to buy it all, and Tommy couldn’t bear to throw out such hard-earned money. 

The sewing machine sat abandoned on the ground. It was covered in a light layer of dust, and Tommy wondered if the thing even worked anymore. It was old when he’d gotten it. 

The machine was simple, some cheap beginners model that people bought when they were hyper fixated on sewing and needed a step up from hand stitching, it had worked well for the intended purpose, but Tommy seldom used it anymore. 

The items had become an eyesore, some sort of bitter reminder of what it had become–who he’d been against when he wore it–he certainly didn’t need either of them anymore. He supposed he didn’t need to just throw it all out, not when someone else could use the materials just as well, so the fabric was shoved haphazardly into a trash bag and the machine was moved next to the door, waiting for the next time Tommy would stop at some local second-hand store. 

He had just finished putting the bag of fabrics by the door when his phone began to buzz, so he dug it out of his pocket, taking a moment to look at the contact photo plastered across the screen. The picture itself–taken when Wilbur made Tommy give him his phone just a few weeks ago–was blurry and white, the flash making Wil’s face stand out against a startlingly black background.

He slides the answer button, and the picture is moved to the background as the sound of static plays through his phone speakers. Barely a second goes by before he could hear Wilbur’s voice, loud and close to the microphone. “You fucking prick, you didn’t tell me you weren’t working today!” 

“I had the day off. Why? Did you finally stop in to see little ol’ me?” He responds, walking around until he’s in front of the couch. He swings a leg up and his entire body twists, flopping onto the couch with no real control over where his limbs land. 

Wilbur hadn’t been into the diner much over the past few days, and what little appearances he did make were short, filled with a sort of tired energy that had managed to make Tommy feel bad for the man. When confronted, he’d just brush it off, saying that work had been busy and that he was sorry. He’d buy something small and sit at the counter, waiting for whenever Tommy would pass by during his rush with customers. Wilbur would poke or jab, anything that would attract attention while also being annoying. Then he’d pay and leave, off to his family or his job or his friends. 

“Oh, you say that like I’ve abandoned you. Did you miss me, Tommy?” His voice goes all high like he’s talking to a kid. “It’s okay, you can say if you missed me.” 

“I didn’t fuckin’ miss you.” It's only kind of a lie, Tommy had missed the way his shifts moved faster when he had someone to talk to. Nothing else. 

“Sure,” Wilbur hums, and Tommy can practically feel the sarcasm oozing through the speakers. “What are you up to?”

“Just,” Tommy starts, looking around, tracing the lines left by the vacuum with his eyes. “Cleaning.” 

“Ew.” 

He snorts, sitting himself up so his back is pressed up against the armrest. His head tilts until it finds the soft back of the couch. “What do you mean, ‘ew’? You're the one who’s always calling me grimy and shit, you should be happy.” 

There’s shifting on the other side, and Wilbur lets out a groan, then it pauses, Wilbur’s voice coming through clear once again, “Have you eaten today?”

“What?”

“Have you eaten today? Are you hungry?” Wilbur asks, and there's a tinge of excitement in his voice. 

Tommy eyes the empty sink. “I guess I could eat.” He’d cleaned the dishes before lunch and didn’t want to take a break from cleaning to dirty up a new plate.

“Would you want to come over for dinner? My dad is cooking.” The question is simple but his voice is laced with quiet anticipation. Like he’s trying to sound uncaring but doing a piss poor job at it. 

Tommy sits up again, twisting ever so slightly so that his feet are barely brushing the rug beneath him. “Come over? Like to your house?” 

“Yea, why not? You haven’t been over before, and Phil–my dad–is a good cook. He always makes extra.” 

The bag by the door catches Tommy’s eye. He was going to get rid of it. He was going to go as soon as he was done cleaning to sell it so he’d never have to see it again.

Something in the back of his mind tells him that it can wait. “Okay.” 

“Okay?” Wilbur questions, voice raising a bit at the end of the word.

“Yea, I said okay. Do you have rocks in your fucking ears?”

Wilbur laughs, Tommy finds he’s starting to get used to the sound. “I’ll be there in a bit, give me twenty minutes.” 

The line goes silent. 

He could take care of the items by the door another day.

As promised, Wilbur’s car pulls up in front of the apartment complex twenty minutes later, it’s a welcomed sight. The passenger side window is partially rolled halfway down to reveal a patient Wilbur sitting behind the wheel, nodding his head and tapping his hands against the steering wheel along with the beat of the song blasting through the speakers. 

Tommy recognizes it, the song, it’s one of the ones Wilbur recommended to him forever ago that Tommy had ended up enjoying. He’d asked for more like it the next day and Wilbur had been happy to jot down a list of songs on one of the napkins laying beside him. 

“Tommy!” Wilbur greets, reaching to turn down the music. Tommy offers a wave as he crosses the sidewalk, pulling open the passenger door and hopping inside. 

The seat is comfortable, and the bitter smell of cigarette smoke staining the fabric. By now, he’s used to the smell, some of his clothes have begun to pick up the scent. After the night Tommy was first given a ride, he hadn’t intended on getting in the car again, despite Wilbur’s insistence. 

He liked Wilbur, the man was nice, but Tommy would rather die than accept the pity rides. 

But then one morning he’d woken up feeling sick. Nothing horrible, just that drowsiness that makes your head feel like it's filled with cotton, but it was more than enough to have Tommy dead on his feet by the end of his four-hour shift. 

It had been another shitty day, with dark gray clouds just beginning to glide over the city, promising pouring rains and crackling thunder. He’d have to walk fast if he wanted to beat the rain, but his head had begun to pound–the fluorescent buzz of the lights only making it worse– and suddenly calling the new contact hadn’t seemed so bad. A few minutes passed, and Wilbur was there. 

Wilbur’s rides became far more frequent after that. 

The car door swings shut with a thump , a seatbelt clicks into place, and they’re off, the apartment complex growing smaller in the rear mirror. “Okay, so here’s the situation,” Wilbur yells, voice barely louder than the rush of air flowing into the car from open windows. “Phil just started working on dinner, so it won’t be ready for a bit.” The car passes by the diner, the parking lot is full. “So I figured we could just hang out until then. You’re not terribly hungry are you?” 

“Nope.” Tommy replies, popping the ‘p’. He ignores the rumbling sensation in his stomach, hoping it can’t be heard over the noise. “I could wait, big man. No worries.” Wilbur nods, focusing on the road in front of him as Tommy reaches for the stereo volume, steadily turning it up until a medley of guitar and drums can be heard above the wind. He hums along.

The city passes in no time, the towers replaced with residential homes and large trees that stretch up into the sky. Brilliant green canopies stamp shadows of rustling leaves onto the sidewalk below. Everything out here is more spacious, more open. Wind flows freely through the air, gentler than in the city. 

There, the wind gets trapped between buildings, limited space allowing it to create strong wind tunnels that have almost knocked Tommy on his ass more than once. 

The houses get bigger by the minute, more uniform in shape and color, and then the car is slowing, turning into the driveway of a house that looks like all the others. Flowers line the walkway to the front door, with tulips and black-eyed susans showing off nearly every color in the rainbow. The curtains are open. 

There’s nothing unique about this house, there are no signs on the lawn or cheesy signs hung on the door, nothing to show what kind of people live inside. It’s strange, and when the hum of the car goes silent and the music shuts off, Tommy can’t stop looking, searching for anything that makes this place different from the houses beside it.

“-ommy?” Wilbur’s voice cuts through his thoughts like butter, and Tommy looks up. The door is open, the side of Wilbur’s body draped over its edge. It sways a little under his weight. He studies Tommy for a moment, his eyebrows raised as the corners of his mouth turn upwards in a slight smile. 

“Huh?”

Wilbur snorts, pushing off the door and bending down, one hand resting on the driver-side window while the other grips the doorframe. “I’d appreciate it if you didn’t blow up my house with fuckin’ laser vision or something.”

Tommy unbuckles and lets himself out of the car with the flick of the door handle. “Damn, laser vision would’ve been cool, too bad I was only given my devilishly good looks and captivating charm.” 

“Yea?” He hits a button on his keys and the car locks with a beep.

Tommy nods, and the two begin walking up the walkway to the front door. “Your house is fucking boring man, absolutely no character. If you’d like I know a really good painter who could spruce this place up some. He’s real cheap too.” 

“Wow, not a fan of the beige? I think it’s eye-catching.” They look up at the plastic siding. 

Something brushes against Tommy’s ankle and he looks down, finding that he’s at the edge of the pavement. The flowers are less than an inch away. A bee zips between the petals, landing for a moment to poke at the flower’s center, tiny wings bring it back into the air a second later. “You would think that,” he mutters, taking a small step forward.

“The hell is that supposed to mean?”

“You’re like,” Tommy makes a waving gesture, “the living embodiment of beige.” 

“Oh, you fucking…” He huffs, grabbing Tommy’s arm and pulling him up to the door. He swings it open wildly and drags Tommy in until they’re standing in the middle of a living room area. A large sectional sits in the center of the room atop a fluffy looking rug.“Phil!” His voice rings through the home, but it doesn’t echo, there are far too many portraits hung on the walls for any sound to bounce around. 

The house is open. There aren’t any walls or doorways to separate the living room from the kitchen, so it’s nearly impossible to miss the man–Phil, standing at the stove. 

His hair is blond, almost the same as Tommy’s, but longer. It extends past his ears, and Tommy gets a good look at him when he turns away from a sizzling pan, eyes drifting over Wilbur, then Tommy. 

There’s stubble on his chin, so light Tommy wouldn’t have even noticed if not for the overhead lights casting an odd shadow onto his face. “Why are you pouting?” Phil asks, throwing a dishcloth over his shoulder with a dead-pan stare.

“He said I’m beige. Tell him he’s wrong.” 

“And he’s wrong because?” Phil asks, wiping his hands on an apron that reads ‘World's Best Grandpa!’

“Because I’m more exciting than beige!” 

“What happened to it being eye-catching?” Tommy jumps in, receiving a light shove from Wilbur in response. “What?” He draws out the word, his voice high and teasing. “It’s a compliment!” 

Wilbur’s shoulders slump forwards and he walks over to a dining table, dragging his feet the whole way. Tommy follows a few steps behind with crossed arms. A timer beeps, and Phil turns back to the stove, giving whatever’s in the pan a good stir. “Well,” He starts, facing the two a moment later, “I think it depends what shade of beige. If he’s saying you’re the color of sand, then he’s definitely on to something.” 

“I hate both of you.” 

“It’s impossible to hate me actually,” Tommy tells him. “I’m the coolest person you’ve ever met and I’m always right, even your dad agreed with me.”

Wilbur takes a deep breath, his shoulders slowly rising and falling with the action. “You know what?” There’s a fake sort of calmness to his voice, like he’s dialing it up on purpose. “It’s okay, you’re just an annoying child and your words do not affect me.” The man across the room raises an eyebrow and places his hands on his hips. “Phil, this is Tommy. Tommy, Phil.”

Tommy just waves, “‘ow do?” 

“Doing well, mate,” Phil says.. “It’s nice to finally meet you, Wilbur won’t shut up about you.” Tommy looks to Wil, raising a brow, “You work at Sal’s, yeah?”

“Mhm,” Tommy tips back on his heels, feeling the grooves of the hardwood through the worn soles of his shoes. 

“Gods, I used to go there all the time when I lived on that side of the city. I haven’t been back in years though, is everything going well?” 

Tommy nods, “Busy as ever, especially with this asshole coming in all the time to bother me.” He points a finger at Wilbur and the man feigns offense. 

Phil snickers, shaking his head before going back to the stove. After a second, Wilbur drifts away from the table and to Phil’s side, plucking something out of the pan. He only blows on it twice before throwing the whole piece into his mouth, chewing it in that awkward way when something is too hot. “Is Techno here?” He says, open-mouthed.

Phil shakes his head, “Staying late at work, he said something came up that he wants to look into before leaving the office.” 

“He’s so fucking paranoid.” 

“Maybe,” Phil hums, “But I’m not one to say anything about his work habits. I’m sure you and I would do the same anyway.” He takes the pan off the burner and covers it with a lid. “Dinner’s not going to be ready for a little while longer, why don’t you show Tommy around?”

Wil nods, throwing his hands out to either side of him in a grand gesture as he locks eyes with Tommy. “This,” He starts, and his voice is loud and commanding, like he’s expecting to be the center of attention. “This is the kitchen.” Behind him, Phil struggles to fight a smile as he whispers something under his breath. 

Wilbur pays him no mind, instead crossing the room in a few strides until he’s standing on the rug. “This is the living room.” There’s a TV behind him, one of those big fancy flatscreens that probably connects to the wi-fi or some rich shit like that. An album cover crowds the display, the tell-tale signs of a music channel. It’s playing something classical. Wilbur waves his hand, calling Tommy over, and in no time they’re both disappearing into a hall. 

Like the main room, the walls are covered with decorations, mostly pictures safe for a mirror or two. 

They tell the story of a family being made in a series of crooked toothed smiles and practiced poses, starting with a picture of Phil holding the hand of a woman in white, identical bands on their fingers that sparkle in the sun. 

A few photos later, a boy appears. He’s young–maybe eight or nine–and he’s skinny in a way that makes the t-shirt he’s wearing hang loosely off him. His hair is a mess of light brown frizz, long bangs falling in front of his face to cover one of his eyes. He’s smiling though, a grin so wide it practically stretches from ear to ear as he presses into the woman’s side. 

Phil must have taken the picture. 

At a glance, it’d be easy to pass the kid off as Wilbur, but there’s something off . 

Surprisingly, it’s easiest to see the difference in the way the kid smiles. Where Wilbur’s is thin and neat, the kid almost looks like he’s baring his teeth, like this was the first time he’d genuinely smiled. 

The kid’s nose was also different, shorter than Wilbur’s, and turned slightly upwards. There wasn’t a way in hell that this kid was Wilbur, it had to be his brother.

He must be Techno. 

The pictures continue. Family portraits of the three show the years passing. A missing tooth here, a new haircut there, and then a fourth person joins the fray. The first picture of him is a bit blurry, but it’s clear enough to make out Wilbur. He’s standing on a pier, a tear-dotted paper held proudly in front of him as Techno stands to his right. He has an arm around Wilbur, that same smile spread wide across his face. 

Wilbur’s not as young as Techno was in his first photo, around thirteen if Tommy had to guess, but he looks nearly the same. There are bags under his eyes and his hair is duller, but he looks close enough to the way he does now. The glasses he’s wearing are thicker, more rectangular than the ones he wears today. 

Tommy can’t help but snort when he sees the piece of tape wrapped around the bridge. 

“What?” Wil asks, walking back to the spot where the younger boy has paused. 

Tommy lifts a finger, pointing at the picture, “You have tape on your glasses.” 

Wilbur just sighs, “Techno asked me to play catch or something a few weeks before this was taken. I was too proud to tell him that I wasn’t quite sure how, so I was met with a ball to the face.” He laughs, recounting the memory, “You should’ve seen his face when I started crying.”

Tommy chuckles along with him. The pictures are nice, they show a happy family and a loving home, and Tommy can’t help but feel a tinge of jealousy at the sheer amount of photos on the wall. If they have this many on display already, he was willing to bet that there were probably hundreds more tucked away in photo albums and old shoe boxes. 

“These are cool,” He says once the laughter dissipates into an almost awkward silence. “All these pictures, I mean. It’s probably cool to be able to look back at all this, huh?” 

Wilbur hums. He’s still looking at the picture, a goofy smile plastered on his face as he studies it, reliving the memory. “I don’t look at them enough, I guess after you walk by them enough you start to forget they’re there.” A deep breath, then he looks down at Tommy, “Don’t you have any?” 

All he gets in response is a shrug.

There aren’t any pictures of Tommy–at least, none that he knows about. Sure, his identification photo probably still exists, printed on a file and locked far beyond Tommy will ever reach, but these types of photos? The ones that you look back on with so much fondness you can practically feel the sun on your cheeks and an aching in your chest? Tommy didn’t have those. He didn’t have a box of pictures under his bed or frames hung on his wall. 

It’s likely that someone with kind eyes and a round face filled albums upon albums with pictures of their baby boy long ago. They’d had matching blond hair, the same innocent smile, but those people were gone, their memory nearly washed away like drawings in the sand. 

“No one ever took any,” he tells the man. 

He misses the way Wilbur’s shoulders slump, too busy looking at the other pictures on the wall. There’s one of Techno and Wilbur dressed in matching graduation gowns, shoulder to shoulder as they hold their diplomas in front of them. 

“Right,” Wil sighs, placing a heavy hand on Tommy’s shoulder and turning him away. “On with the tour.” 

Wilbur guides him down the hall, pulling Tommy to his side. “This,” he starts, tapping his free hand on a plain white door, “Is Techno’s room. Don’t go in unless invited.” 

“What is he, a vampire?” 

A slight exhale is all he gets in response before being pulled further down the hallway. “This is the bathroom,” he says, opening the door so Tommy could look into the dark room, and then he’s pulled away again. Wilbur points to the door at the end of the hall, cracked open just enough to see a large bed with wrinkled sheets, “That’s Phil’s room, and this,” He taps on the door opposite Techno’s, “is the guest bedroom.” 

“Ah,” Tommy says as he raises a finger in the direction of a door between Phil’s and the guest bedroom, “and I assume that’s where yours is?” 

Wilbur pulls him forward a few more steps until they’re in front of it. He takes his arm away from Tommy’s shoulders to twist the handle, “You would be correct.” He swings the door open with a flourish of excitement. 

It’s dark, the curtains are drawn shut and the lights are off, but the flick of a switch floods the room with a dull yellow light. 

The first thing that Tommy notices is that it’s messy. Loose papers pushed into messy piles cover a desk in the corner of the room, while stray shoes lay beneath it. The bed is pushed against a wall, covers unevenly thrown over the mattress in a mock attempt of making the bed, there's a lump under the covers, but the noticeable lack of pillows above the comforter makes it easy to assume that’s what has been covered up. 

He wanders further into the room with a smiling Wilbur on his heels. A guitar leans against the bed frame, one of the nicer ones Tommy wouldn’t even think of buying, even if he’d known how to play. One of the strings is broken.

Wilbur steps around him, walking over to the desk. He rifles through the papers, picking them up and moving them around until he finds whatever he’s looking for. His back is to Tommy, the item perfectly covered by his body as he clicks it on. Tommy just stares, watching as Wilbur fiddles with it, holding it close to his chest whenever Tommy gets on his tiptoes to sneak a peek over the man’s shoulder. 

Wil turns, shoving the item behind his back as he reaches a hand out to Tommy, pulling the boy into his side. His arm moves, swinging out from behind his back to right in front of him, and Tommy is greeted with the lens of one of those instant cameras. 

“Smile.” Wilbur laughs, the only warning before he’s clicking the button. The flash is bright, blinding almost, and Tommy blinks, flinching out of Wilbur’s hold. 

It’s gone as quickly as it came, and a second later Wilbur is pulling a blank piece of film from the bottom. He gives it a shake and holds the picture out. “Now you have a picture.” Tommy takes it, lips turned up as he watches the photo develop. 

It's overexposed, the two of them look white as ghosts. Even then something about the way you can see the shadow of a smile and furrowed eyebrows makes Tommy want to tuck it away and keep it safe. 

“Thank you,” and it’s genuine. Tommy clears his throat, gingerly placing the picture into his pocket as he nods his head to the guitar, “You play?” 

Wilbur goes to the bed, sitting down with a huff as he lifts the instrument into his lap. “I do,” he answers, giving it a strum. It’s in tune, despite the missing string, “I broke the string this morning only to find out that I didn’t have any backups. Do you play anything?” 

Tommy shoves his hands into his pockets, fingers finding the corner of the picture. “No, when I was really little I remember loving the piano.”

“You had one?” 

“My dad did, he was really good at playing but I was never allowed to touch it.” He pauses, recounting the memory. “When he’d leave my mum would let me play, but I’d just bang on the keys.” 

Wilbur smiles and looks back at the guitar, giving it another strum before playing a simple melody. “That’s cute,” he says, brown eyes fixated on the strings. “But you live alone now?” 

“Please, alone? Wilbur, I have so many friends and girlfriends that are over all the time.” Tommy grabs the desk chair, pulls it out from under the desk, and sits down, “I’m hardly alone.” 

Wilbur laughs, “I’m sure you do.” 

“I do! And when they aren’t around I take care of myself.” 

“Uh-huh,” Wilbur looks up. Brown eyes meet blue, but the tune continues flawlessly, “Is that why your sleep schedule is shit?” 

“My sleep schedule is wonderful, bitch.” A pause. Then, “Just play your music.” Wilbur just rolls his eyes and begins plucking the strings louder. 

They sit for a while, Tommy’s eyes locking on the strings as he absentmindedly picks at his nails, only pausing when he realizes that the song is familiar. 

It had ended up being one of his favorites that Wilbur had shown him, but while the tune was the same, the acoustic guitar makes it sound almost sad.

And then Wilbur begins to sing. 

It starts with a clearing of his throat, then a hum, light and airy. It’s sweet, but then the humming morphs into a mumbling of the words, unsure even though Tommy had seen the man scream-sing the same words just a few nights ago when he’d added it to the diner’s playlist during close. 

When Wilbur begins to sing, really sing, it’s with a soft voice, sweet as honey. 

It’s imperfect, his voice cracks here and there and the missing string makes for missing notes, but the imperfection only makes the song better. So Tommy sits, nodding his head as his friend sings; and then Wilbur looks at him with raised eyebrows in a silent ‘ Go’ , and Tommy joins in, voice loud as he uses a hairbrush found on the desk as a makeshift microphone. 

The song ends in fits of giggles and wrong cords, but neither care enough to stop and correct it. The guitar goes silent, the last strums ringing off into the air like a feather floating on the wind, and there's a knock at the door. 

“Dinner!” Phil shouts from the other side, footsteps disappearing back down the hall. 

Wilbur returns the guitar to its spot beside the bed, standing up with a grunt. “Well then,” he bends down in a small bow, “After you.”

It’s been a long time since Tommy had a steak dinner. 

He mostly ate frozen dinners and instant noodles, but sometimes after a good week filled with busy tables and generous tips, he’d have enough to splurge on one of the cheaper cuts of meat from the grocery store. He’d season it (always a bit too salty), and cook it (always overdone), and it’d be good.

But this? Tommy was sure he’d never be able to afford this. Just looking at the arrangement of potatoes, roasted vegetables, and steaks across his table made his stomach scream. 

It had taken every bit of willpower not to take the largest steak from the pile, instead, digging through it and picking a smaller one and serving himself small portions of the sides when they were passed his way. 

He’d just passed the vegetables off to Wilbur when Phil cleared his throat, “Are you sure that’s all you want Tommy? We have plenty.”

“Oh, um…” Phil’s eyes are kind, the corners creased with crow's feet. His apron is gone, left to hang on a coat rack nearby, and in its absence, Tommy notices a chain around Phil's neck. It’s a simple silver, but at the end of it, laying just above his heart is a golden, glowing ring. It matches the one on his finger. “I’m fine, thank you.”

“Bullshit.” Wilbur says, using his fork to return the smaller steak to the pile, “Your stomach has been growling since I picked you up.” He pokes a pair of tongs at the biggest one, “You want this one?” He doesn’t wait for an answer, and a second later he takes Tommy’s plate, piling it high with the other sides along with the steak. 

As soon as the plate is set back in front of Tommy, the front door opens and heavy boots step onto the welcome mat. A click of a lock, then a man is walking into the main room.

It’s Techno, Tommy knows it’s Techno, but he looks so different from the pictures in the hall that Tommy has to do a double-take.

His hair is long, and pink, twisted into a neat braid that rests over his shoulder. He’s also so much bigger than the pictures let on, just barely shorter than Wilbur, but so much broader, so far from the scrawny kid in that first photo. 

Techno’s dressed in a simple t-shirt and jeans, the pinnacle of casual as he kicks off his boots at the door, crossing silently over to the kitchen. He sets a backpack onto a counter then takes his seat beside Phil. 

“Hey mate,” The older man greets as he slides a knife into his steak. It cuts like butter. 

“Hullo,” his voice is deep and monotonous. Techno makes his plate. He skips the vegetables, instead getting a double helping of the potatoes. 

Tommy takes a bite of his food and barely bites back a whine when the steak hits his tongue. It’s seasoned perfectly, cooked to perfection and he takes another bite, the first practically melting in his mouth. “This is Tommy,” Phil tells him and suddenly three pairs of eyes turn to the boy. 

He almost chokes at the attention, “Hi,” Tommy says, but there’s still food in his mouth, muffeling his words. 

Techno stares for a moment, looking him over with eyes so brown they’re almost red. A second passes, then another, and Techno’s still staring, studying Tommy’s face like he’s going to have to take a test on it later.

It makes Tommy wonder if maybe he’d seen Techno before, that maybe they’d met and now Tommy’s being a dick for not recognizing the man across the table. The rational side of Tommy knows that he’s never seen a man with pink hair before, so it’d be hard to forget meeting Techno. 

The man only takes his eyes away from Tommy when Phil clears his throat again, “So Techno, how was work?” 

Techno shrugs, “It was alright, I got some progress on that project we were working on though so I’ll need to talk with you and Wilbur later.” He cuts his steak into bite-sized pieces, taking extra time to make sure all the pieces are of equal size. “So, Tommy was it?” he asks, turning his attention over to the boy across from him with curious eyes. “What’s your deal?”

Wilbur puts his fork down, pointing warning eyes at his brother. “Techno.”

“What?” He asks, voice even, “It’s not every day we have guests, I’m curious!” 

Wilbur turns to Tommy, leaning down just a little so that he’s close enough to whisper. “You could ignore him, he’s just being annoying.” 

Tommy debates it, but some part of him is just as curious about Techno as Techno is about him. “It’s fine,” he faces back to Techno, plastering a fake grin across his face as he sets his utensils down. “Name’s Tommy and I work at a diner in the city.” 

“School?”

“Graduated early.” He lies, Tommy had never stepped foot into a public school, but adults seemed willing enough to believe it. “Wasn’t for me,” he adds. 

“Why are you friends with Wilbur?” Techno asks with a raised eyebrow.

Tommy just shrugs, “Pity, mostly. Until about a week ago I thought he might just be talking to me to gain access to my immense amounts of money and women, but it turns out he’s just lonely.” 

“Prick!” Wilbur yells from beside him, lightly smacking Tommy’s shoulder. “I’m not lonely.” Phil stifles a laugh. “I’m not!” 

“Not anymore,” Tommy tells him, “You’re welcome.” Techno, smiles, biting back a laugh and turns back to his food

The table dissolves into light banter as they finish their meals, Tommy completely cleaning his plate then going back for seconds. It’s nice, the food is good, the people are kind, and Tommy has fun. 

Time seems to move quicker here, like before he was trapped in slow motion, and only after meeting Wilbur did he start doing things in real-time. It’s the first night in a while he hasn’t spent at the diner or alone in his apartment, and he finds that he quite enjoys listening to soft humming and funny remarks while he eats, it’s leagues better than when he turns on the TV for background noise at his apartment. This house, this family, it feels normal. 

In the middle of it all, Tommy realizes that this is the longest he’s gone without thinking about Red Death. The realization is a happy one. 

The sun sets, the dishes are collected, and then it’s time for Tommy to go, a container full of whatever is leftover held close to his chest. He waves his goodbyes to Techno and thanks Phil for the meal, and the door shuts. 

The lights are on outside, consistent street lights illuminate every house in a warm glow, guiding Tommy to the car. A new vehicle is in the driveway, parked directly to the right of Wilbur’s, it’s nicer than his too. It’s clean and polished, pristine. It must be Techno’s. 

The ride is peaceful. The music is light and the leftovers are warm on his lap, and as they pull up in front of the apartment complex, Tommy silently hopes that he’ll be invited over again. 

And if he’s not invited again? Well, in that case, fuck it, he’s coming over anyway. 

Wilbur stays until Tommy disappears into the elevator. He’s turned the music down, listening, waiting. 

Without thinking, his hand drifts to the center console. He flips the lid up, and his fingers find the pack of cigarettes he has packed away.

 He doesn’t smoke in front of Tommy, but he knows how the smell clings to things, to the fabric of the seats. It’s impossible to miss. 

A flame, then the end of the cigarette glows bright orange as he takes a drag, feeling as the smoke fills his lungs. 

He swipes his thumb against the lighter again, watching as a spark becomes a flame. It casts a faint glow over the dash, just bright enough to see the ripples in the darkness. He looks up, meeting at least a dozen pairs of glowing eyes floating outside his window, they’re still. Waiting.

Phantoms are curious creatures. 

Wilbur looks into the rear view mirror, catching the way his eyes take on a green glow. 

“You guys know the drill, keep an eye on him, let me know if anything happens.” He tells them as he takes his thumb off the button. The flame disappears, and the cabin is plunged back into darkness. With that, his eyes go back to brown as the creatures vanish. Some soar back to the sky, while others return to the shadows, eager to do their jobs. 

The car peels away from the curb, and Wilbur begins his drive home, rolling down a window to tap ashes away from the cigarette. 

He’s back in no time, pulling into the driveway and locking the car, the remnants of a song replaying in the back of his head as he opens the front door. Phil and Techno are waiting for him on the couch, Techno’s backpack lies on the coffee table in front of him. “The drive was okay?” Phil half-shouts as Wilbur kicks off his shoes.

“Oh yeah, it was a breeze. I’m having the phantoms keep an eye out on things though.”

Phil shoots him an annoyed look, “Mate, he’s fine on his own, you’re being clingy.” 

“You say clingy, I say safe. So,” Wilbur sighs, falling back into his spot on the sectional, pulling a decorative pillow into his lap. “What’s the update?”

“The heroes have gone quiet,” Techno starts, leaning forward until his elbows are resting on his knees. “They haven’t pulled back from the lower areas of the city yet, but it looks like they may soon.”

“They’re probably preparing for something,” Phil chimes in, “Getting their ducks in a row, but none of our sources have any leads.”

“If they stop their patrols, do we take the opportunity to have more land?” Wilbur asks. The Syndicate had been able to garner quite a bit of territory in the few years it had been operational, but the constant pushback from heroes and vigilantes had made it difficult to make significant gains further into the city. With the withdrawal of heroes from the area, it’d leave the streets unprotected, vulnerable. “I’d rather it be under syndicate control than a random gang or vigilante.” He says, looking up to his father. 

Phil nods, “I agree, Techno?”

“Me too,” He responds. With his hands folded neatly in his lap, Techno looks to be the picture of relaxation. 

“Then it’s a plan.” Phil tells them, “Wil would you let the others know tonight? We’ve got another week until the next meeting, but I’d rather them be aware as soon as possible.” 

“Mhm” Wilbur says, picking at a loose thread on the pillow. Where Techno had always been more involved on the field and Phil on the financial side of things, Wilbur had always been the social one. It was his job to relay messages back and forth, giving assignments, making deals, and he was good at it. 

He’d always had a knack for talking to people, of persuading them. His job had come naturally. “We need more people, Phil. Even if they’re pulling back, more heroes are joining the committee every day, and if it keeps up at the rate it's been going, we won’t have enough manpower to hold our ground,” Wilbur says. “We’ve got to start looking.” 

“Mate, we’ve been over this and you know-”

“No.” Wilbur spits, “He was only an option then, but now it’s necessary. Having Red Death on our side would be monumental, it would completely flip the board.” He looks over to his brother in a silent plea for backup, but Techno just watches silently from across the sofa, “Oh c’mon Tech- you know I’m right.” 

“We don’t know anything about them.” He responds, almost hesitantly, “No name, no identity, no leads on whether or not he’s still in the country. The guy’s an enigma.” Wilbur huffs, throwing the pillow off to the side. “But,” He continues, “Having them in the syndicate would change the tides. No one knows the extent of their abilities, and if they could kill Dream it might be worth it to have someone like Red Death on our side.”

Phil is silent as he looks between the two, raising a hand up to gently rub his temples. “I suppose you two can take it up as another project, but if you find out anything important I need to know right away.” He turns to face Techno, “We all need to be careful-”

“I know.” Techno says, and the room descends into silence as the three ponder the discussion. 

The only sounds between them are that of their breathing, and then Techno’s foot begins to tap. The sound is muted against the rug, but the movement alone gets the other two’s attention. “That’s not all.” He says shortly, meeting Wilbur’s eyes as if he is waiting for permission to continue. “I know you said not to, but I looked into Tommy.” 

Phil snaps his head up, looking between his boys. “Fucking hell Techno,” Wilbur says, exasperated, “He’s a seventeen-year-old kid, you’re not going to find anything.”

“You’re right,” Techno says, and there’s a lilt to the last word. Like it’s more than a surrender. 

“What?” 

Techno sits up, back straight, “I asked Niki to get me copies of his files at work, just to do a basic search. According to his application, which was the only thing in the file, by the way, his full name is Tommy Innit. No bank information, nothing for tax purposes.” He pauses, looking between the two before continuing, “There’s virtually nothing to his name. No social media, no bank accounts. He gets paid in cash and he pays his rent in cash too. He’s untraceable.” 

Wilbur scoffs, crossing his arms, “That doesn’t mean anything, he’s seventeen and doesn’t have a guardian, he’s not old enough to own any bank accounts.” 

“Maybe,” Techno says, shifting in his seat,  “so I dug a little further. There’s no record of him in foster care. No ID. No school records. Tommy Innit never even went to school, he doesn’t have a diploma. So I thought: maybe Innit isn’t his real surname. So I switched it up, rearranged the letters, and paired that with other versions of his first name.” 

“How long did you spend on this?” Phil interrupts, pointing worried eyes at his son. 

“Not important,” he responds, shaking his head to get himself back on track. “Anyway, after a while, I found something.” He grabs his bag, unzipping it and pulling out a plain manila folder, handing it to Phil. He opens it, taking one look at the paper inside, eyes going wide before handing it over to Wilbur. “Thomas Nitin, born the same year as Tommy, has the same hair, same nose, even the same eyes. It looked like a great match.” 

Wilbur looks it over, flipping the page to find a photo of a boy. He’s young, barely old enough to be in preschool, but Techno’s right. This child has Tommy’s eyes, his nose. He’s even wearing that same smile Tommy does whenever he thinks about starting trouble, albeit missing a few teeth. 

Some people look completely different from when they were children, but this kid? This kid is the spitting image of the boy who they just shared a meal with. “What do you mean, looked like?”

Techno stands, stepping in front of Phil and stopping to lean over Wilbur. “Well,” He says, reaching for the paper, turning it back over, and pointing to a date. “According to this. Thomas Nitin died four days after his sixth birthday.”

Chapter Text

Tommy started having nightmares when he was ten years old. 

While the contents of the nightmare had left his memory years ago, he could still remember waking up with a pounding heart and tense muscles. His head had been bent at an odd angle, his pillow thrown onto the floor in his sleep. His sheets were wrapped tight around his middle, squeezing the air out of his lungs anytime he’d shift. The pressure reminded him of a snake. 

It coiled tight, constricting more and more with every breath. He had bit down on a thin blanket in a fruitless attempt at muffling his cries. He had to be quiet. If he wasn’t he’d wake the person sleeping at the other end of the hall. 

The minutes passed, and he sat, misty eyes locked on a blank wall as he forced air in and out of his lungs, practicing a pattern that had been drilled into his head.

Crying was for babies, and Tommy wasn’t a baby. 

The nightmares became more frequent as the weeks passed, going from once a week to every night in what seemed like no time.  He wasn’t used to sleeping in a room alone, it was lonely and quiet. 

At first, he was excited to have a place to himself, but with every passing night, he found that he missed the other kids from his dorm. They were kind, and they all shared some sort of comradery that grew from being in the same situation. Sure, some of the kids were assholes who thought they were big shit, but for the most part, they were nice. 

He hoped they had gotten good mentors. Tommy missed them. 

One night, Tommy had tried to stay up. The lights went out at their usual time, flooding the room in darkness, and the boy had sat silently, back leaning against his wall as he fought the tiredness that crept through his body. It made everything heavy, and after a while, it had gotten hard to fight the way his eyelids drooped. 

He had learned about endurance that week. About how everyone, even those who were unnaturally strong, had a limit. 

There would always be a point of no return , he’d been told. Everyone had a point. A certain threshold that needs to be exceeded for their mind or their body to break. Does that make sense?

It had, and as he fought the pull of sleep the lesson played over and over in his head. Fighting it was useless, he was young, and he was tired. 

Training had begun, vigorous routines leaving him exhausted and sore, and soon enough he couldn’t fight it anymore. Sleep dug its claws in, pulling him down into darkness, only for him to wake up thrashing and sobbing hours later. He hadn’t slept the rest of the night.

Breakfast had been slow and silent, with lessons being pretty much the same, and then came time for training. Tommy was escorted to the training room, fingertips still burning with the memory of his power, and was guided through warm-ups. The exhaustion made him sloppy, sluggish despite his attempts to hide it, and before long the instructor had gotten short with him. Demanding that Tommy sit down and wait. 

He’d left the room, waiting outside the frosted windows until a second figure appeared, walking in confident strides until they stopped, head bobbing as they exchanged hushed words with the instructor. 

A chill crept up Tommy’s spine, making the hair on his arms stand up. He was going to be in trouble. He tried his best, but it wasn’t good enough, and now he was going to have to deal with the consequences of his actions, all because he hadn’t placed his feet on the right marks. 

The thought made his side ache, hopefully, the punishment wouldn’t be too bad. Tommy pulled his knees up to his chest, hugging them tightly as he waited. 

The murmuring outside stopped, and a moment later the instructor walked away. The shadow moved, disappearing for a moment, and then the door opened to reveal a familiar face. 

He was wearing simple clothes, his armor and mask discarded, probably left on the stand in his room. Without it he looked smaller, more human. 

His face looked younger back then, free of the creases and the scars that would come later. “What’s up buddy?” Sapnap asked, crossing the room and taking a seat on the floor beside the younger boy.

“Am I in trouble?” 

The man shrugged, “Depends. Is there a reason you were fucking up your footwork?” 

Tommy looked at him, eyes wide. “You’re not supposed to use that language with a kid.” 

“Hm, why not?” There's a hint of a smile on Sapnap’s face, the same one he wears whenever he’s taking extra sweets from the cupboard. 

“‘Cause it sets a bad example, mum said so.” Tommy thought of a soft smile and blond hair, he always had his mother's hair. There’s a pang in his chest when he realizes he can’t remember what color her eyes were. 

Sapnap breathed a laugh, straightening out his legs in front of him in a stretch. “My dad always said that too, but I think it’s expressive. ” He looked down, fingers picking at wrinkled paint barely sticking to the mat beneath them, “So why the fuck were you fucking up your footwork?” 

Tommy let his shoulders drop, the tension melting out like ice in the summer sun. “I dunno, ‘m tired.” 

“Did you sleep?” And Sapnap had looked at Tommy, had looked at the dark circles under the boy’s eyes. 

“Yes.”

“Tommy.” 

“I did for a little!” He half-yelled in defense, and Sapnap just gave him a dead-pan stare. A beat passed, the silence stretching between them until Tommy had given a little wave, beckoning the older man down to his level. “I had another bad dream,” he admits in a whisper, afraid that someone will overhear even though they were the only two in the room. 

Sapnap gave a knowing nod, “Do you get them a lot?” 

“Mhmm, every night.” Tommy looked back to the floor, tracing the painted lines with his eyes, “They’re scary, I keep seein’ faces. They keep talkin’ at me even when I tell them to stop.” 

“Have you tried telling them to fuck off?” Sapnap asked, and he sounded so serious . Tommy shook his head, a soft laugh escaping from his lips. “You should try, that's what I do.” 

“You get them too?”

“Sure I do, adults get a little scared sometimes too,” He snickers, bumping into Tommy’s shoulder, “but I don’t think I’m supposed to tell you that.” He pushed himself to his feet, “I’ll talk to the other two, see if we could get you something that might help. ‘Till then though, we have to do some training or else they’ll have my head” 

Tommy had stood with a groan, and the two worked their way through the hour. Sapnap took it easy, only reviewing the things Tommy already knew, giving tips when needed, and occasional encouragement whenever the boy did something perfectly. When their time was up, Tommy returned to his room, collapsing on his bed and staring out the window, watching the sun crawl across the sky until there was a knock on the door to signal dinner. 

The meal went smoothly enough. The food was bland, but filling all the same, and soon enough Tommy was escorted back to his room. He’d changed into his pajamas–a plain white shirt and sweatpants, nothing like the colorful ones he used to have–and when he turned to pull his bedsheets back, he found that his pillows and blankets weren’t the only things laying on the mattress. 

There, against his pillow, laid a stuffed animal. 

It was a cow, and Tommy could tell just by looking at it that it was soft and fluffy. The white-spotted fur was pristine, and the eyes were shiny, free of any scratches or stains that were usually found on a children’s toy. When he picked it up, he found it had little horns too, protruding ever so slightly from behind floppy ears. 

He squeezed it, burying his face deep into the plush. It even smelled new. 

“I’m gonna call you… Henry,” Tommy whispered, careful not to be too loud as he tiptoed over to the door, lightly setting the plush against a dresser so that it was facing the door. “Ok Henry, your job is to make sure no bad dreams get in, can you do that?” The toy slumps a little to the side, its head too heavy for the under-stuffed neck. “Awesome, g’night!” 

He jumped into bed, tucking his blanket in just like his mother used to. The other kids before had made fun of him for it, but now that he had his own room he could tuck tuck tuck to his heart's content, creating a warm cocoon of stiff fabric.

That night, he didn’t have any nightmares.

The peak of summer brought short nights and hot days. 

The humidity had set in now, making the city stuffy as people went about their day-to-day lives. Tommy hated everything about the humidity, the stickiness, the way it made it harder to breathe. It was never an issue that he had to deal with until he was truly on his own. 

But now, here he was, the sounds of blaring horns and angry yelling rising from the street and bleeding in through his open window as he pulled a wrinkled shirt over his head, the fabric flattening the curls he’d just combed through. 

Tommy’s apartment didn’t have air conditioning, in truth, it barely had enough heat to keep the place warm in the dead of winter, and while Tommy’s certainly frustrated with the way his cereal seems to get stale quicker, he won’t complain that the shitty apartment he rents is shitty. The diner, at least, would be cool; and for that, Tommy was excited to go to work so he could get out of the heat. 

Even in the morning, the air was hot. 

Glass buildings reflected sunlight down onto the street, resulting in mesmerizing waves of heat gliding along the blacktop. 

There was a scar on Tommy’s heel, smooth and pale, from a time when he’d stepped onto the road, foot bare after someone had stolen his shoes from beside his sleeping form the night prior. 

He had finally saved up enough to buy one of the donuts from a bakery across the street, and figured he owed it to himself to get a treat. It only took one step onto the asphalt before he’d realized his mistake, and later that morning half of the money he’d collected had been spent on bandages and a small tube of burn cream. The remaining half had been spent on a new pair of shoes. 

The streets were crowded this morning. Pedestrians walked fast, weaving in and out of groups on their way to work or school or whatever it was they needed to be out for, all while cars sped by, honking and swerving when the person in front of them stopped at the yellow light instead of speeding through it. 

Tommy was used to the morning chaos, something was always making noise or moving fast, and a part of Tommy enjoyed the quick nature of it all. Sure, the large crowds had been a little overwhelming at first, but in the end, it was the staying still part that had freaked him out. Staying still meant predictability, it meant being noticed, and Tommy didn’t want to be either of those things. The fears of being recognized had faded fast though, this part of the city was rarely patrolled by any of the heroes that were looking for him, and at the end of the day, no one expected the random scrawny teenager walking next to them to be a villain. 

When the weather wasn’t miserable, the morning walks were nice. He’d set his pace to the beat of whatever song was playing through cheap headphones, the volume always at its max to drown out any sounds from the street, and he’d keep walking until he got to work. 

It went by fast today. The crosswalks had been in his favor and there weren’t as many people standing idly around to block the sidewalk, and before long the diner had come into view. 

The lights were off, Tommy had been scheduled for the opening shift, and as he approached the locked door, he noticed that there was an extra car in the parking lot. 

Tommy had worked here long enough to have an idea of what everyone’s car had looked like. They were all shitty, rust-covered vehicles with dents that will never be repaired, but this car wasn’t any of those. 

This car was nicer, newer. Tinted windows prevented anyone from seeing the finer details of the interior, but the silhouette of a person could be seen, unmoving. Whoever was inside certainly wasn’t here to help open, so Tommy approaches the door slowly, fingers barely touching the warm metal of the handle before he hears the soft thump of a car door closing, followed by the sound of heavy steps approaching. 

When he turns, blue eyes meet brown, and for a moment Tommy is taken aback by the sight of Techno. He’s dressed differently than he was the other night, the casual attire traded for sweats and a t-shirt. His hair is different too, pulled into a neat bun instead of the braid he’d worn when the two had first met over roasted vegetables and prodding jokes. 

His face is flat and uncaring as he walks, but a narrowed look in Tommy’s direction paired with the shadow of a judgmental frown is enough for the younger boy to pull his hand from the metal as he takes a cautious step back. 

Techno pauses, stopping just a few steps away as he raises his hands placatingly, “Easy kid,” and there’s a hint of amusement in his voice. “Just wanted to catch you before you went in. Come over to the car?” he asks, but it doesn’t sound like a question, his tone leaves no room for an answer. 

“No can do,” Tommy tells him, forcing the same playful attitude he gives Wilbur, “I have a shift, don’t want to be late.” He takes a step forward, reaching again for the handle, but Techno shifts his weight, his hands hidden in the pockets of his sweatpants as he rolls his shoulders back.

“Nah, Niki’s gonna take over for you today. C’mon, car.”

“You know Niki?”

Techno’s eyes roll up, “I have friends, Tommy.” He nods his head back, and the younger boy looks at the car again. It’s still running, a soft purr can barely be heard from this distance, “I asked her this morning if she’d take over, and she said yes, so you get to hang out with me today.” 

Brown eyes flicker to his hands twisting around each other, then down to a tapping foot. Tommy watches Techno too, narrowly looking him up and down. 

He’s a big guy, tall and broad, with the shadow of a scar running under his chin. 

Tommy had seen other kids with similar scars. They’d be fucking around on a table or running just a little too fast, and before you know it they’re on the ground crying, bubbles of snot and blood staining their shirts. Tommy wondered if Techno had gotten his scar doing the same. 

“Look, pinky,” and Techno shifts again, eyebrows raised, “I don’t care if you got me four people to work my shift, I need the money.” He tells the man. Wilbur’s tips had been nice, they’d allowed him to pour the foundations for a mountain of savings, but Tommy still had a way to go if he wanted to make rent or fill his apartment with more decorative shit. “Besides,” He adds, “I barely know you, why the ever-loving fuck would I get into your car?” 

“Because I’m Wilbur’s brother and not some random guy you met on the street?” 

“Yea,” Tommy scoffs, “You’re just some random guy I met at dinner a few days ago. We’ve talked like, once.” He sees a light turn in his peripheral vision. He twists, head whipping around to find Niki behind the counter, shooting the two warm smiles and a tiny wave. 

Techno makes a noise, some sort of weird mix between clearing his throat and a sigh as he pulls a worn brown wallet out of his pocket. With his eyes on Tommy, he flicks it open, “Okay,” He starts, hastily pulling a few bills out of the fold and extending them in the blond’s direction. 

Tommy hesitantly reaches out, taking it. His jaw goes slack when he unfolds it, finding nearly double of what he’d make from working two shifts. “Think of it like paid time off–that’s when they pay you to-”

“I know what PTO is, bitch, don’t fucking patronize me.” 

Techno raises his arms, placatingly. “I just want to get to know you, Tommy. My brother likes you for some reason-”

“Because I’m awesome and handsome and-”

“-And I wanna know why. Your shift is covered, you have your money, so you have free time. C’mon.”  Techno turns, his shoulders pointed to the car in open invitation. 

The money is tucked carefully into Tommy’s pocket, finding a home beside lint and a few stray coins. It would be easy to go inside. Hell, it’d be easy just to turn the other way and go back to his apartment. Sure, he didn’t have anything other than a TV and an almost-empty fridge to entertain himself, but he could figure it out. 

He thinks of empty walls and hidden polaroids. Somewhere, across the city, is a wall full of portraits and family photos. Summer smiles and squinted eyes make it impossible to see chipping paint and stray pencil marks on the walls, but that doesn’t matter. 

Tommy doesn’t know Techno, but he’d seen snippets, he’d seen a little kid grow into someone with accomplishments. He’d seen someone who–at the very least–seemed interesting, and a small, quiet voice in the back of his head was screaming to go and figure the pink-haired man out. “If you kidnap me or some shit I’ll kill you.” 

Techno scoffs, “I’d like to see you try.”

Tommy has to fight the urge to laugh. 

Techno’s car was as clean on the inside as it was out. 

The leather seats were shiny, the dash free of dust, and even the floor mats were clear of dirt and leaves. It was a dramatic contrast to the state of Wilbur’s car, crushed aluminum cans littering the floor and receipts shoved into the cup holders in a way that almost made them impossible to use. 

Techno–Tommy learned minutes into the drive–didn’t listen to music the same way as Wilbur. 

Wilbur always had the volume up so high it shook the windows. He’d dance and bang his head to the beat, calloused hands sometimes jerking the wheel off to the side if he got too excited about the chorus of the song. 

Techno, on the other hand, was quiet. The music itself was similar, there were some songs that Tommy recognized from his trips with Wilbur, but the volume was low enough that he could hear himself hum along with the melody. 

So the drive was silent, neither of them speaking as Techno navigated towards the water. L’Manberg had always been a coastal city state, nestled nicely between massive lakes and rushing rivers. 

Massive skyscrapers and trains were soon replaced with warehouses and boats tied to rickety-looking docks. Men moved all about, carrying boxes and bags to and from smaller fishing boats as they prepared for their next journey out on the waves, content to live a life surrounded by seagulls and the stench of fish. 

Tommy watched the water as they drove, pressing his head against cold windows as he memorized the flow of the waves, the bobbing of the boats. The water was calmer today, the waves barely folding over themselves before they reached the rocky shore. It was relaxing, and nice in a way that was different from his morning walks. 

The buildings passed, as did the fisherman, and then the car was slowing to a stop in front of a smaller building, the windows dark. Techno put the vehicle into park, turning it off with the twist of his key. He turns, facing Tommy before reaching into the backseat and pulling a duffle bag into his lap, lips pressed thin as he reaches a hand to his door. He’s out of the car a second later and Tommy follows, his gaze flickering between the man and the building. “Hate to break it to you Techno, but this place is sketchy as shit.”  

Techno just shrugs, shuffling through a keyring until he stops on a small, golden key. “You like your swears.” 

“It’s expressive .” He replies, ignoring the pang in his chest when the delivery of the line is a little too familiar. 

“And you’re like, twelve years old, you shouldn’t even know words like that.” He says, voice monotone. He doesn’t give Tommy a chance to respond, he just starts walking up to the door, forcing the younger boy to follow. 

“So,” Techno starts, unlocking the front door. It opens with a creak, and he just stands in the doorway, casting a shadow onto the floor behind him. “Have you been living alone for a while?” 

“Yeah,” Tommy tells him, standing up onto his tiptoes in a feeble attempt at looking over the other man’s shoulder, but it’s no use. Techno’s like a tree, solid and unmoving. 

“Have you ever been on the streets?” The room is empty, dark, safe for the light coming in through the windows and door. 

Tommy shoots the man a glare, “What’s it to you?”

“I just wanted to know if you knew self-defense.”

“Wow, for someone who promised they weren’t going to kidnap me you’re sounding an awful lot like a kidnapper right now,” Tommy tells him. The other man just shakes his head, turning to take a small step through the doorway. He reaches a hand inside, feeling against the wall and white fluorescents flicker on, illuminating the room before them. 

Tommy hadn’t known what to expect. The outside of the building looked like the others on the road, with concrete walls and metal roofs. Those buildings were probably used for storage, nothing more than storage space for leisure boats or old furniture, but this building wasn’t that. 

It was just a gym. 

It was much bigger on the inside than Tommy had initially thought, the tall ceilings and mute walls made for an eerily familiar training environment. 

Expensive-looking equipment lined one of the walls, stair steppers, a treadmill, all machines that Tommy had grown used to years ago, some even the same brands and models. Racks of weights were pushed against the other wall, varying in size and weight. 

In the center of the room, laid a massive mat intended for sparing. Cracks and stretch lines decorated the paint, signs of a well-used area. 

Techno saunters in, dropping his bag at a nearby table, unzipping it, and digging out a few water bottles and a pair of sweatpants. Tommy wanders forward a moment later, letting the door slam shut behind him, eyes glued on the mat. “Bruh, my door,” Techno says, his back partially turned away. He’s still shuffling through his bag. 

“Sorry,” Tommy murmurs, memories of drills and exhaustion running rampant throughout his head. “Is this all yours?” 

“Yup,” the other responds, “Well- it’s Phil and Wilbur’s too, but Wilbur doesn’t come around as often.” 

“Ahh, that’s why he’s such a spindly bitch.” 

Techno snorts, “You could say that. Come on.” Tommy forces himself to tear his eyes from the mat, instead looking over everything Techno’s spread across the table. He barely gets a moment to inspect a pile of snacks before a bundle of fabric is shoved into his arms. “There’s a bathroom over there,” Techno tells him, pointing a straight arm at the only other door in the room, “Go get changed then we’ll get started.” 

Tommy looks at the bathroom door as he digs fingers into the fabric. The clothes are soft but breathable. There’s a graphic of a school mascot on the back of the shirt, big, blocky letters on either side, but it’s folded in a way where he can’t see the full word. “Started with what?” 

“You were a street kid,” He says simply, “I could tell, so I want to see what you know.” 

It clicks then, that this isn’t just Techno wanting to get to know him, if that were the case he’d be asking more questions, pushing for more answers, but he doesn’t. Instead, he just lets the tenseness in the air grow, like a balloon dangerously close to popping. 

Techno is silent as Tommy walks towards the bathroom, watching the younger boy navigate around the equipment, never fully turning his back on Tommy. There is no trust between the two, and it's something Tommy is made abundantly clear of as he walks, locking the bathroom door shut behind him. All at once, the pieces fall together.

This is a test. 

Techno didn’t know Tommy, he didn’t know that the blond had been trained from a young age to recognize these sorts of things. Everything, from the hours he’d slept to how quickly he could run, was kept track of, evaluated. There was always a right and a wrong way to do things, and performing poorly would never bring good results. Tommy is good at tests, he wouldn’t be here if he wasn’t, and if Techno wanted to test whether or not Tommy was worthy of his trust? Well, then he’d pass this one with flying colors.

So he changes quickly, counting the seconds under his breath as he swaps out his uniform with the loose sweats. He has to pull the drawstring tight for the pants to fit properly around his waist, but even then they’re a little long, falling over his feet to brush the floor tiles. 

Collecting the discarded clothes from the floor, Tommy catches his reflection in a dusty mirror as he stands back up. He lifts a hand to correct stray curls, letting out a disgruntled huff when one of the strands refuses to fall right.  

When his count reaches sixty, he steps out of the bathroom, blue eyes immediately landing on Techno, who’s stretching on the mat. The soles of Tommy’s tennis shoes tap lightly against the concrete as he makes his way back to the table, exchanging his messy pile of clothes for one of the unopened water bottles before heading towards Techno. “Please tell me Wilbur’s taken you down at least once.” He says, unscrewing the cap on his bottle and taking a sip.

“Not legit,” Techno responds, fighting a smile as he crosses one arm over the other. Tommy does the same, falling back into his old stretches without any real thought. “The only times he wins is when he cheats.” 

“Sounds to me like you’re just bad.” Tommy teases, hiding a wince when touching his toes burned a lot more than he remembered. 

They continue, cycling through stretches until Techno stops, walking over to the edge of the mat to get a drink from his bottle, returning a moment later to a relaxed Tommy. “So, what’s the plan? Do I get to put you on your ass?”

“I just want to see what you know, then we build off of that.” Techno tells him, setting one foot slightly in front of the other, “Let’s say I’m just some guy on the street who runs up to you, what do you do?”

“Obviously I dodge him,” The blond replies quickly, a smile on his lips.

“And if you can’t?”

“I can. I’m fast.” 

Techno sighs, “Tommy- just, ok. Just show me.” He backs up a few paces, “Ready?” 

Tommy nods, sliding his left foot slightly back and raising his arms as Techno charges forward. He’s not moving very fast, barely more than a jog so as to not tire himself out prematurely. Tommy remains still, standing on his side of the mat as he watches Techno approach. When he's just outside of arms reach, Tommy ducks, pivoting to the side, just under Techno’s elbow. 

“Not bad,” he says, slowing to a stop. Tommy watches as he circles the mat, returning to the spot he’d started in. “Do you know how to disarm?” 

 “Yea, but that’s easy. Can we do something harder?” Tommy shrugs. He’d been trained to dodge punches and fire, someone running at him wasn’t going to be much of a challenge, no matter how out of practice he may be.

“Tommy, I don’t think-”

“If you want to test my skills here, you’re not going to get far if you have me do simple shit.” Tommy cuts in, his tone serious. “I can handle myself, you don’t need to baby me.” 

As fun as it’d be to just fake ignorance and go along with Techno’s lead, he doesn’t feel like wasting his time. It’s been years since he was last able to use this particular skill set, and while he doesn’t exactly miss the instructors or the constant notes, he did miss the feeling of being on equal ground with his opponent. There was something about leveling the playing field that Tommy had always enjoyed. 

He was scrawny, always had been, and that had given opponents the false impression that it’d be an easy fight. They’d underestimated him, and in the end, it had always worked to his advantage. 

Techno lifts his head, pointing curious eyes at the teenager. He’s looking for a joke, reading carefully between the lines for a lazy punchline or a late laugh, but there’s nothing to find. Tommy simply stands up straight, meeting Techno’s eyes. He could tell the older man is underestimating him, weighing whether or not he felt like it’d be fair. 

The moments pass and no words are spoken. The only sound in the room comes from the buzzing of the fluorescents overhead, swirling down to envelop the two as they share a silent conversation. Techno lets out a long sigh, taking a step back to put some distance from the younger. 

Earlier, Tommy had thought of Techno like a tree, but now he thinks he might be more like an iceberg, frozen and hidden. There's more to him, way more than Tommy will ever know, but maybe in that way, they’re similar. Maybe, all Tommy has to do is chip away at the ice. “Okay. A simple spar. We go until one of us taps out, good?”

“Sounds good, big man.” 

With that, Techno tucks his chin as he settles into his starting stance. Tommy does the same, pointing his toes forward with a playful grin. He takes a deep breath, tasting a tinge of salt on the back of his tongue as the air fills his lungs. It’s gone a second later, replaced by more steady breathing, and then Techno moves. 

He’s slow at first, stalking over to the right, hands raised at his chest, and Tommy parrots the movement, keeping a reasonable distance away. Their eyes are on one another the entire time, watching, waiting for the other to falter so that they could make their move. Techno’s stance gives nothing though, his shoulders are relaxed, breathing steady as he walks, concentration written clearly across his face. Then, so subtly Tommy nearly misses it, his head jerks up. 

Tommy pauses, planting his feet down, one foot slightly in front of the other as Techno charges forward once more, this time much quicker. Tommy ducks, his body dropping low towards the ground as he pivots, narrowly dodging the attack, but Techno recovers quickly, whirling around to face the other as he raises his arms in defense. They circle each other again, but now it’s Tommy’s turn to be on the offensive.

Techno watches him carefully, looking for any tells, but Tommy is still as they walk, relaxing his shoulders and evening out his breaths. 

After the second lap, he moves, feigning left. Techno shifts, twisting a bit to block, but he leaves his right side open, and Tommy glides by, landing a jab into his side. He grunts, dipping under and around until he’s behind Tommy, one of his feet hooking around the teenager's ankle and pulling as a flat palm pushes between his shoulder blades.

Tommy falls forward, reaching his hands out in front of him to lessen the impact, but he’s too late, his breath leaving his chest when he hits the floor at an awkward angle. 

The grin disappears from his face, replaced with a pained sneer. “Keep your eye on your opponent at all times,” A voice says, but it’s far off, buried deep behind layers of nightmares and a twisted feeling in his stomach. 

He’s heard it hundreds of times before, Sapnap had repeated himself over and over and over during their training sessions until the routines stuck. “Get up. Try again.” And he does, springing up with a blank face and turning without hesitation, meeting a collected Techno. He takes a step to the right, and again Tommy matches. 

“When you watch the other,” Sapnap says, his voice closer. Clearer. “You won’t be surprised. Look for tells.” 

Tommy remembered this session, remembered running the same drill until he identified the motion. They’d had to have someone stand in as Tommy’s opponent after a particularly rough fight had left Sapnap’s arm in a sling and an ugly gash across his nose. 

Now, Tommy wants to look around for the voice, to search for the hero that had promised his capture just a few weeks ago, but he can’t. Instead, he keeps his eyes forward, locked on Techno, waiting for something. Then, Techno’s head jerks again, it’s barely a twitch but it’s there, and he ducks, rushing forward in an attempt at grabbing Tommy’s middle. 

Tommy plants himself firmly on the ground, crouched ever so slightly to keep his center down. His arms are up, protecting his face and chest, and when they collide he only moves back a half step, resisting the sudden force. It’s not strong, nothing like the blows he’d been dealt during his final few weeks of training, and that was with opponents his size. Techno is bigger and stronger, but his breathing is even and his grip loose. Tommy can tell that he’s not fighting as hard as he can, he’s holding back. 

“They’ll underestimate you.” Sapnap had said, pacing the training room as Tommy sat, staring at the way the hero's skin pulled at the stitches when he talked. “You’re small, and they’ll let their guard down if they know your ability isn’t a threat.”  Sapnap’s left eye is bloodshot, the skin around it bruised and swollen, but he doesn't show any pain. Heroes don't show weakness. The man paused, leveling a stern look at Tommy. “Use that to your advantage.” 

With pressed lips, Tommy grabs onto Techno’s shoulders holding him in place as he brings his knee up, digging deep into the other man’s stomach. Techno doesn’t move, he doesn’t even gasp for breath, so Tommy hits again, harder. 

The man lets go, stepping back a few paces until they’re about arm's length away from one another, but before he can compose himself Tommy surges forward, closing the gap as he brings his arm back, delivering another blow to Techno’s chest. 

It’s unexpected, and Tommy uses the surprise, swiping a steady foot at Techno’s leg, hoping to waver his balance or knock him down altogether. Techno doesn’t fall. Instead,  he crouches, moving the foot Tommy’s swiping at out of the way as he reaches out, grabbing onto the blond’s shirt and pulling him forward and around. Tommy stumbles, his legs dangerously straight as he tries to regain balance, but he’s not quick enough. He loses track of his limbs, of his technique for a moment, and Techno can tell. Tommy watches as a smug smile graces his lips, accompanied by the twitch of his head, and before he can brace himself, Techno drops; his leg gliding over the mat in a single sweep, throwing Tommy’s legs out from under him. 

He hits the ground with a thud , and before he can even think to breathe, Techno is over him, using both hands to pin Tommy’s wrists to the floor. “Tap.” He says. 

“Fuck you.” Tommy whisper-yells between strangled gasps. He squirms, trying to kick at Techno, but he can’t reach. Techno is too far and all Tommy can do is try to push himself away, but with his hands stuck on either side of him, it’s difficult to get any real distance. 

“You can’t give up,” Sapnap says, but his voice is further now, just a whisper. The words are clear enough though, and Tommy’s eyes lock onto his hand. He tries to push, tries to twist his wrist out of Techno’s grip, but Techno’s hands tighten, pushing further into the mat, and Tommy goes still, blinking up at brown eyes. 

He’s lost. 

“Tap,” and the hand wrapped around his loosens just enough for him to flip his hand around. 

Red, shaking fingers tap against the foam, and Techno lets out a sigh as he stands, allowing Tommy to sit up. “Not bad, kid.” He steps off the mat, walking over to their water bottles placed at the edge of the mat. He grabs both, tossing Tommy’s bottle over while he unscrews the cap with one hand. 

Tommy opens his bottle and takes a sip, nearly melting when the water hits his tongue, “Thanks.” His lungs burn, breaths coming in short. He brings a hand to his brow and wipes away a layer of sweat. It’s been a while since he’s had a workout like this. 

Finally, he takes a look around the gym searching every shadow for white armor and dark hair. He almost expects Sapnap to be on the sidelines, ready to list off all the things Tommy had done wrong,  but he finds nothing. He and Techno are the only ones in the room. 

Techno takes a seat, his elbows resting on drawn-up knees as he casts a curious glance at Tommy. “What?” The younger asks. “If you have something to say, spit it out.”

“You’re better than I thought.” He remarks. “Your eye contact, your footwork, your calmness. That's not stuff you just pick up on the street.” 

Tommy cards a hand through his hair. “What can I say? I watch a lot of fighting shows on TV.” 

“No,” Techno leered, leaning forward, “Maybe in theory, but not in practice.” 

“I don’t know what to tell you,” Tommy chuckles, and fuck, if that’s not the truth. He looks around, frantically trying to find anything to change the subject, but his mind comes up blank, too focused on cooling down. “Maybe,” He continues, “I’m just built different.” Techno doesn’t laugh, he just rolls his eyes and stands back up, leaving his bottle at his feet as he extends one arm over the other in a stretch. “Are we done?” 

“Yup.” He says, deadpan. Tommy stands, cracking his neck and knuckles as he does, and wanders back over to the table. He grabs his work clothes and turns, holding them close to his chest as he makes his way back over to the bathroom, but before he could open the door Techno clears his throat, “You could keep the stuff you’re wearin’ if you want. It doesn’t fit Wilbur or me anymore.” 

“Oh,” Tommy mumbles. “Thanks.” He returns the clothes to the table and grabs his phone. There are no missed calls, nothing from his manager to inform him that he’s fired for skipping his shift, so he’s happy. 

He navigates over to his texts, hovering over Wilbur’s contact for a moment before clicking on it and typing out a quick message to let him know that Tommy wouldn’t be at the diner today. He figured the man would probably already know, but it wouldn’t hurt just to make sure. 

After the text is delivered, he turns it off, sliding the phone into his pocket. Techno’s still in the center of the room, working through his stretches, so Tommy decides to go by the window. 

The water is just across the street, an ocean of blue visible just beyond a sea wall, and Tommy was reminded of how beautiful it could be. 

On cloudy days, the water usually looked gray and murky, but it looked different under the sun. It was a brilliant blue, glimmering like thousands of little diamonds under the sunlight. It seemed to stretch on forever, and for a second he wondered how long it would take to find land again once you’re out there. 

He’d never been on a boat. When he’d first gotten his freedom, he’d debated sneaking onto the docks and hiding between boxes until he was out of the country. He’d dreamed of a life on the water surrounded by fishermen and the salty water, and nobody except the ocean and the wind would tell him where to go or what to do. In the end, Tommy had never even made it close, not when there was still work to be done.

“Techno?” He calls, eyes still watching the water as a bigger wave splashed up the wall, leaving water droplets behind on brown and white pebbles. The pink-haired man hummed, “Why did you learn to fight?” 

He’s silent, and Tommy thinks that maybe he didn’t hear, so he takes a breath, preparing to repeat himself as his hands clung lightly to the windowsill. “To protect my family,” Techno says from behind him, voice soft, “They’re important to me, and I don’t trust anyone else but myself to do it.” Tommy nods, rubbing his index finger against a bubble in the painted trim. “Why did you?”

Tommy’s speaking before he could even think, “To protect myself.” He turns, finding that Techno is standing still, staring, waiting for more. “At first it was to keep me safe, but now I guess I have other people now too,” He confesses, and Techno’s face is blank, searching again for something more, but he’ll find nothing, Tommy’s hidden no lies in his words. The sound of crashing water outside is faint, but constant, and finally, Techno smiles, giving a small nod.

Tommy can only hope he’s passed his test.

Chapter Text

Wilbur hasn’t shown up in a few days. 

It’s not unusual, he’s gotten too busy to stop by the diner before. He always sends some hastily written bullshit excuse about how he’ll be there next time, but Tommy hasn’t even gotten that. It’s radio silence, and while Tommy would love to say that he doesn’t care, that Wilbur’s absence is barely noticeable, the days start to get quiet; long. 

It’s not hard to figure out why. 

There’s a certain sort of ache that comes with the silence. It’s small at first, nothing more than a sour mix of dread and anger that twists and turns in his chest, but then it begins to grow with every ring of the doorbell. It's like a caterpillar, just a little thing crawling around in his ribcage looking for the perfect place–the perfect time–to build its cocoon. 

But that’s not exactly right. Caterpillars grow, they change. They go into their silk cage and emerge with color and grace and beauty. Tommy’s ache grows. It changes, but not into something good or pretty or nice , but something sharp. Jagged edges and sharp hooks sink their teeth in deep, burrowing a hole in his stomach and then growing even more until he’s not even angry anymore, but worried. 

It's the type of worry that weighs him down, that consumes his brain until he can’t think about anything other than whether or not his friend is safe.

There’s a voice that tells him that Wilbur will never be returning, that Tommy was too loud or too clingy, and that this outcome was to be expected. It's the voice of a dead man, Tommy realizes one afternoon, his eyes locked on a polaroid laying on his desk, and he pushes it away until the thoughts themselves are ghosts.  

After five days, he thinks about marching right up to Wilbur’s front door and demanding an explanation, but he doesn’t. The walk to the family’s house would be long, and even then he’s not fully confident he could make it on his own without directions of some sort. So he stays within his four walls, curled up on the sofa with Henry, his phone always within arms reach. 

A full week passes without a word. Seven days without friendly banter or loud car rides, and at some point Tommy stops looking at the door when it rings. He’s been working the morning shifts, quietly serving food and pouring drinks until breakfast turns to lunch. He doesn’t talk with the customers any more than he needs to, there aren’t any jokes thrown around or friendly conversations to be had, so he listens instead. 

Today, the diner is practically buzzing as murmurings from every table fill the room, drowning out the soft stereo as the news rotates through blurry pictures. 

One of them, taken by some random pedestrian, shows the faint outlines of three figures perched atop a building. A veil of shadows hovers around them, their forms barely visible under a clouded sky as they block the world from seeing the trio. The public doesn’t need to see them to know who they are though, after all, everyone knows who the Syndicate is. The shadows are a display of power, a promise. 

A threat. 

They’ve expanded their territory, wrapping their claim around the lower regions in a tight grip secured by bloody axes and glowing eyes. Seraph’s promises of freedom and security ring through the streets, aiming to comfort the citizens of the city, but the sugar-coated words do little to ease the people’s worry when they’ve seen the horrors the man’s wings alone can bring. 

They move through their day with a new kind of fear as the Syndicate advances further into their neighborhoods, locking their doors and pulling the curtains shut when the sun goes down and the brunt of the patrols began. The villain’s names are spoken at the diner in hushed, cautious whispers as more and more of the city falls under the Syndicate’s control, the Hero Commission silent through it all. 

Tommy keeps working, the picture of calm as he takes his orders, silently making it through the day. He doesn’t want to care about the work of heroes or villains. He doesn’t want to have to worry about his safety or Wilbur or Red Death, but he does. There’s a bounty on his head, after all, he can’t afford to be careless. 

The hours pass in a blur, the breakfast rush morphing into the lunch rush, and soon enough the last table in Tommy’s section is walking out the door, a wad of bills left behind on their table. He cleans, wiping down furniture and sorting condiments until it’s as clean as when he clocked in. 

His shift ends and he punches out, the warmth of the sun hitting his face as he steps out the door. He takes a breath, letting the city air fill his lungs as he turns to start the walk to his apartment, earbuds already playing something upbeat and loud. 

He’s only three steps away when a hand lands on his shoulder and pulls, tugging back until he’s left frozen on the sidewalk. Tommy takes another breath, in and out, and then he twists, his shoulder dipping as his other arm comes up to swipe away at the person grabbing him. 

His hand makes contact with their forearm, and he glances at the figure before him, fingertips warm and tingling. He recognizes the coat first, the familiar corduroy is thrown over a thin shoulder, held in place by loosely curled fingers. 

Wilbur’s talking, his lips moving fast and precise but the words are drowned out by the sound of strumming guitars and vocals. He cradles the arm Tommy hit close to his chest as the younger boy reaches a steady hand up, pulling one of the earbuds out, “-the fuck?” 

There’s a bruise stretching up his temple, wrapping from his cheekbone to his eyebrow in splotches of purple fading into yellow. Wilbur smiles, the skin pulling awkwardly around the bruise, and Wilbur’s cheek twitches, his face falling flat barely a second later. 

Tommy’s quiet, letting the silence stretch between them as he points a narrowed glare at Wilbur, who doesn’t say anything else. He just stands there, waiting for Tommy to speak with the ghost of an anticipating grin on his face, the eye opposite of the bruise squinted in a silent hello. 

It’s been a week, seven days of missed phone calls and delivered texts, and here he was. The worry that had made Tommy its home evaporates, but something new had no problem taking up the space it left behind because Wilbur was okay, but he’d still left. Wilbur had all but disappeared, and he had no problem keeping the blond in the dark. 

Well, Tommy can play that game too.

He turns, beginning his walk again, ignoring Wilbur’s sputtering from behind him. “Tommy!” the man calls, his boots pounding against the pavement until he is at Tommy’s side, “Would you stop!” Tommy was stoic, his eyes trained on the street signs ahead of him as he walked. Another stride, and Wilbur is in front of him, blocking his view. 

He reaches up, hand hitting at Tommy’s shoulder, pushing him back. “Don’t touch me.” Tommy huffs, shrugging the touch away. 

“What?” Wilbur asks, his head jerking back as if the words had slapped him. Calloused fingers are raised between them in surrender like he’s trying to calm a wild animal. 

“I said don’t touch me. Get out of my way.” 

He didn’t move, instead planting his feet firmly on the ground, ready to move if the teenager tried to step around him. “Tommy, I’m not sure- did something happen?” His eyebrows pinch in confusion as he searches for an explanation for Tommy’s brashness, grimacing when the movement pulls on the bruise. 

“No.” Tommy spits, leveling wild eyes at Wilbur as he jabs a finger into his chest, “You don’t get to fucking play dumb with me. What? Did your ego get bruised so you decided to crawl the diner to give the poor kid some pity change? I’m not a charity case or a dumbass, Wil, don’t treat me like one.” 

“What?” Wilbur gasps, “No! I just- we’re friends.”

Tommy scoffs, “Funny way of showing it. You could at least answer a fucking text.” 

Wilbur’s face softens, “Tommy,” he says, his voice lighter as he takes a step back, putting a little bit of space between them. “Did you miss me?” 

Yes.

  “Fuck you,” Tommy mutters. He walks forward, shoving past a cooing Wilbur. 

“Wait,” he shouts, scrambling to get in front of the blond. “I’m sorry! I swear I meant to come by sooner but things got really busy and I had to keep pushing it back.” 

“I called you,” Tommy says, anger bubbling up into his throat.

Wilbur runs a hand through his hair with a sigh, “I lost my phone. I don’t know, somehow it got lodged between me and Techno’s desks and I only found it yesterday.” 

“I had to walk,” Tommy grumbles, earning a laugh from Wilbur, “in the rain.” 

“Poor child, at least you didn’t melt.” 

“Fuck you,” Tommy says again, dodging grabbing hands as he takes another step.

Wilbur’s smile falls and his shoulders drop in defeat, “No, no, no Tommy, stop. I’m sorry, really.” Pleading eyes meet Tommy’s. “I should’ve come by sooner and I should’ve let you know everything was alright. Let me make it up to you, yeah?”

The younger boy crosses his arms, “How?” 

“We’re having a picnic,” Wil tells him. “Phil, Tech, and I, you should come with. We could catch up, maybe even listen to music on the way there–I’ve been meaning to show you some new songs I found.” 

“Dunno,” Tommy shrugs, rocking back onto his heels. “Techno’s a bitch, and I’ve got better things to do.”

Wilbur nods in solemn agreement. “Phil’s cooking,” he throws out, but it sounds more like a question than fact. The memory of roasted vegetables and grilled steak floats over Tommy’s tongue, making his stomach do flips. “And,” Wilbur adds, “I’ll drive you to and from work for three days.”

“Make it a week,” Tommy tells him.

“Four days.”

“Six.”

Wilbur raises his good brow, “...five.”

“Deal,” Tommy says, extending a hand, “You let me pick the music though.” They shake on it, Wilbur’s hand hesitantly curling around Tommy’s in a tight grip before letting go again. He complains throughout their walk back to the car, ‘I can’t believe I agreed to this,’ and, ‘you’re so fucking annoying,’ but his voice is fond.

Wilbur doesn't tell him where they’re going. 

Tommy asks, but every question about their destination is met with a tight-lipped smile and a shaking head, which only makes him more curious. 

For a while, he thinks they may be going to the park. It’s the largest area with grass and trees in the entire city, free from cars and skyscrapers. It’s where people go to get a break from the noisy streets or the crowded city blocks. Tommy’s only been a handful of times, visiting mostly to watch the fat squirrels and tiny birds that make their homes among the canopies. They gorge themselves on overflowing trash bins scattered among the sidewalks, content to live their lives within the gates. 

It’s a nice enough spot for a picnic, but when they pass the chipping playset and broken benches, Wilbur doesn’t stop, he barely glances at it as he drives past. A few more turns and they’re on the highway, the car shuddering as it speeds down asphalt, narrowly dodging potholes scattered near the curb. The buildings become less dense, shorter; and Tommy can’t help but watch as the skyline seems to shrink in the rearview mirror. 

He talks the whole way, filling Wil in on what he’d missed during the week. Tommy tells him everything from the documentary he’d watched the night prior, to his growing hatred for the morning shift and how there’s one regular in particular who always complains that his coffee isn’t hot enough. Wilbur listens, lending an ear and an occasional remark as he drives.

The city is a shadow on the skyline when they pull off the highway, and it’s interesting, seeing it all so small. For as long as Tommy could remember, he’d always been in the city. He’d grown used to the crowded nature of it, to the smells and the shouting, and it’s hard to imagine a world outside of L’Manberg. Here, houses are sparse, each building tucked nicely between fields and manicured lawns, and Tommy wonders if the people living here look at the city and the endless dance between heroes and villains as if it's only a passing story on the news. 

His hand finds a button, and the window goes down, the rushing wind from outside drowning out the conversation. Warm air hits his face, pushing blond curls back as Tommy closes his eyes and breathes .

It smells sweet–like ripe berries or blooming flowers. The scent lingers in the back of his throat. It’s easy to forget that something so simple as air can be this fresh. Somewhere, beyond the wind and the road, he can hear a bird singing, and that sounds sweet too. This , he thinks, is what it’s supposed to be like.  

Wilbur turns off onto a back road, driving until buildings are few and far between, nothing but overgrown brush and tall trees to fill the space. The tires kick up dust and rocks from the gravel road beneath them, and soon enough the city isn’t even a shadow, but a memory. 

The road widens, ending in a hastily poured cul-de-sac. Techno’s car is here, parked neatly at the end of it, and Wilbur slows to a stop right behind it, his headlights dangerously close to the other car’s bumper. He takes a deep breath as he pulls the keys from the ignition, relief written across his face. “I’m so glad to be out of that city,” he says as he gets out of the car, slamming the door shut behind him. 

Tommy does the same, stepping out into mud and grass and letting his door fall shut. He looks over to Wilbur, barely ignoring the way the heat ripples off the car roof between them, “Where the fuck did you take us?” 

“You can’t tell?” Wilbur asks, walking around the front of the car until he’s standing in front of the blond, who shakes his head. “It’s not hard to figure out.” Tommy scoffs, rearing for a retort but Wilbur raises a finger to pursed lips. “Quiet,” he whispers, “listen.”

He does, snapping his lips shut.  He doesn’t hear anything interesting at first, only the rustle of the brush, and then there it is. A soft chirp.  

Tommy focuses on the sound of a bird, its crooning cutting through the space between them with ease. There’s salt in the air, joining the sweetness in a perfectly unique blend of fresh air. It sticks to him, the mixture of the salt and humidity holding his hair at odd angles, almost as if he’d stuck his head out the car window on the way here. 

And off in the distance, he hears the faint sounds of waves. 

Wilbur has taken him to the beach. 

The look on Tommy’s face must change, because a second later Wilbur is off, disappearing down a man-made path of trampled grass. Tommy follows, practically running to keep up despite the way the blades sting his ankles. The path is messy. It winds in unnatural places, bending around small rocks while also going right through big holes that Tommy nearly steps more than once. He can’t see the water, but the growing sound of waves crashing against rocks is enough to know they’re getting close, and eventually, the path straightens out, the tall grass fading as dirt is gradually replaced by sand. 

Wilbur slows to a stroll once the water comes into view, stopping at the top of a small hill as a gasping Tommy stops at his side, frozen by the sight before him. 

The first thing he sees is the sand; actual fine, white, almost snow-like sand, sitting in lumpy heaps along the shore. At the docks, the water would push up to the jagged rocks or the old cement wall, practically kissing the top whenever high tide rolled in. There is no wall here, just the sand and the water and the overgrown brush surrounding it all, rustling as a soft wind carried salty air inland. 

Somehow, the water looks clearer, even bluer too if that was possible. Massive rocks stood still as waves crashed against them, sending spray across the rough surface. In a way, they protected the shore from angry waters, splitting through the currents until all that remained would gently glide onto the sand, leaving behind shells and foam when it inevitably returned to the sea. 

A large blanket lies where the sand meets the grass, barely wrinkled. Techno’s on it, sitting cross-legged beside a picnic basket with a worn book in his hands. He doesn’t turn when Wilbur and Tommy approach, snapping twigs as they walk. He stays focused on the book, steady fingers occasionally flipping the page. His hair isn’t up in a bun like it was at the gym, instead, it hangs over his shoulder in a loose braid. 

Closer to the water, a squabble of seagulls waddle across the beach, their tiny talons making marks in the sand as they swarm around Phil. He’s dressed for the heat, with lighter clothes and a striped bucket hat sitting atop his head. He throws handfuls of birdseed to the avians at his feet, shoulder’s bouncing with laughter when the birds scramble. 

Wilbur steps onto the blanket, his hands propped on his hips as he looks over the water, smiling when he sees Phil and his growing entourage. “Him and his fucking birds,” he murmmurs. 

Techno’s shoulders bounce with a chuckle, “You know how he is.” He closes the book, laying it beside him as he raises squinted eyes to Tommy, the younger boy’s shadow not enough to block out the sun. There’s a simple pair of glasses balanced on the bridge of his nose, just a little crooked. They’re more rectangular than Wil’s, thicker too. “Tommy,” he greets. 

“Techno,” the blond chirps as he squats down, plopping onto the blanket across from Techno, Wilbur doing the same a moment later. 

“Bruh,” he says, voice lacking any real annoyance as he swipes near Tommy’s feet, “you guys are gettin’ sand on the blanket.” 

Wilbur laughs, grabbing a fistful of sand and tossing it into the air. It lands everywhere, in their hair, their clothes, the basket. Tiny white grains stick to their faces, held to their foreheads by the sheen of sweat forming under the sun. “We’re at the beach, Techno, there’s going to be sand.” He leans back, the heels of his hands digging into the ground as he flashes his brother a cheshire grin, “learn to love it.” 

Techno takes off his glasses, rubbing the lenses with his shirt in an attempt at getting rid of the sand, but they come back streaky, the salt sticking to his shirt making it impossible to get them fully clear. He slides them up to sit on his hair instead, the pink strands tangling around the wire rims when another breeze blows up from the water. He raises a brow, “Not everyone finds it as delicious as you.” 

“That was one fucking time!” Wilbur shouts, grabbing a second fistful of sand and flinging it at the man in front of him. He turns to Tommy, pointing an accusatory finger at a grinning Techno, “he replaced the sugar with sand and blames me for putting it into my coffee.”

“You literally asked me if it looked funny before you used it and I said no in the most suspicious way possible. You should not have fallen for that so easily.” 

“Oh,” Wilbur laughs, “sorry I trusted you, it won’t happen again.” 

Near the water, the swarm of birds disperses, flying off in groups once Phil turns to walk towards the blanket, the bag of seed he’d had earlier crumpled in his hand. “You’re so dramatic,” Techno says, and Wil gawks.

“Who’s dramatic?” Phil asks, his hat casting a shadow over his face as he takes a seat on the blanket.

“Apparently I am,” the brunet tells him, “I can’t for the life of me imagine why though.”

“Uh-huh,” Phil nods, reaching for the basket and pulling out some plates and napkin-wrapped cutlery. There are four of each, Tommy notices, eyeing the delicate-looking plates cradled in Phil’s hands. The energy between Wilbur and Techno seems to shift, going from bickering to a warm calmness in seconds as their father passes the dishes out, offering a smile to Tommy when he holds out a plate.  “I’m happy you could join us, mate, it’s been a while since I’ve seen you.” 

Tommy takes it, setting it down on his lap and tracing the indentations along the rim with his finger. “Thank you for letting me tag along, I really appreciate it.”

“Tommy? Being polite? Impossible.” Wilbur teases. He leans forward, his chin tipping down just a little to look into the basket, but Phil shoos him away. 

“I’m very polite!” Tommy grinned, “Just not to you…” He trails off, the smile flickering as he turns to Phil, “Are you alright with swearing?” Phil snorts, giving a jerky nod of his head. Tommy looks back to Wilbur, his eyes narrowed, “Bitch.” 

That warm, calm energy steps back, replaced by the bickering as Wil sighs. “You’re such a child.” 

“I’m not a fucking child, Wilbur. I am a strong man. Techno, tell him how strong I am.” 

“I don’t know that strong is the word to use. Maybe nimble, or slippery?”

Tommy whips his gaze at Techno. “What the fuck,” he deadpans, and the man just shrugs, “Fucking slippery? What does that even mean?”

“You’re hard to catch, you move around quick, I don’t know.”

“Slippery, Techno? Really?” 

“Hey man, you’re the one who asked for my input.” 

“I, for one,” Wilbur interjects, “Think sneaky is a good word for the child, have you noticed how quiet his footsteps are?” Techno nods solemnly, setting his plate in his lap. 

Tommy huffs, pinching his eyebrows in exaggerated annoyance as he sends a glare to each of them. They just laugh, Wilbur’s loud and obnoxious, and Techno’s soft and sort of wheezy. Wil gives him a light shove, and the fake bitterness he was giving breaks, setting loose a dam of laughter that fits in perfectly with the others. 

It’s nice–having somewhere to go, someone to go to–and as Phil unpacks the basket, setting up an assortment of sandwiches and salads and fruit, Tommy can’t help the way his chest feels warm. It’s as if the sun itself was shining straight through his skin. 

Under it, bubbling close to the warmth is jealousy. 

They’d accounted for him, planned for him, and a part of Tommy wanted to just jam himself into their family and not look back. He wanted the life where he gets to go to school, spending his days complaining about homework with his friends only to copy off their answers anyway. 

He wanted to be able to spend his days on the beach with the sand beneath his feet and a perfectly captured picture of it all hung on the wall. 

He wanted to bicker with someone who would call him a brother. Someone who would slap a heavy hand on his shoulder and tell him that they were proud, that they loved him. They would fight, and sometimes, it’d get bad. 

They’d end it in screaming matches and slammed doors, but despite that, they’d still sit down later that night for dinner and talk like nothing had happened. This family, these people, they had that. 

For so long, Tommy had only had himself, and the idea of having not just one, but maybe three new people he could rely on was intoxicating. 

Another part, the more logical part of him, knew he couldn’t. 

To them, Tommy is just a kid working at the diner, but it’s only half of the truth. There’s a part of him that they can never know, secrets he can’t tell. Tommy was dangerous, not only because of what he’d done but because of what he could do, and that knowledge alone was enough to recognize that he could never truly fit in here. He’d only be jamming a square-shaped peg into a circular hole.

Across from him, Phil cleared his throat, “So, Tommy,” he says, lifting the basket and setting it aside. “Did you have work this morning?” He grabs a sandwich, placing it on his plate and the other two follow suit, crowding their dishes with fruits and pastries. 

“Morning shift,” he responds, nose twitching upwards in contempt as he gets his own helping of the feast before him. 

“Not an early bird?” 

“No not that, I don’t have a problem getting up,” he tells him. “It’s just,” Tommy pauses, searching for the right words. A breath, then, “difficult.”

Phil tilts his head, confused. “How so?”

“My coworkers at that time are annoying as shit, and there’s always the morning rush,” Tommy confesses. He picks up a sandwich and takes a small bite, “The recent activity from the Syndicate hasn’t helped much either.” 

Wilbur freezes, his hand frozen near his mouth as he shoots a look at Techno, then at Phil. 

The three seem to have a silent conversation, Phil’s curious smile never leaving his cheeks. “I’d imagine people closer to the city would be nervous,” He starts, turning away for a second to grab bottles of water from the basket before passing them out, “What about you?” 

“I’m alright,” Tommy tells him. Across the blanket, Phil raises his eyebrows in a look that seems to say go on , but Tommy isn’t sure what else he could say. Does he lie? Does he tell them that he’s placed his trust in heroes that have abandoned them? To them, he’s a citizen, and he’s not quite sure how to play the role. “I’m not worried or anything if that’s what you’re asking. I could take care of myself.” Phil nods, inviting his boys into the conversation with the wave of his hand. 

“Do you have a favorite hero?” Techno asks, wryly, the question earning an exasperated groan from Wilbur, “What?” He asks, “Kids like heroes don’t they?” 

Wil stabs his fork into a strawberry, “Techno,” he grumbles to himself, “I don’t think-”

“No,” Tommy answers, his voice flat. Wilbur snaps his mouth shut, turning his attention to the teenager at his side. “I um, I don’t have a favorite. I’m not a huge fan of the commission.”

“And why’s that?” Techno asks.

“They’ve been quiet recently, ignoring the people they claim to protect,” Tommy shrugs. He’s spouting the same bullshit he’d heard from the diner that morning. “They’re secretive, and I think they do a shit job at keeping heroes in line.” He thinks of a lesson room, empty save for a chair bolted to the tiles. 

The memory of burning fingers and bloodshot eyes fills him with dread, the cow laying innocently on his bed doing little to ease the fear coursing through his veins. The commission had turned a blind eye, offering their support and their praise as long as Tommy showed promise. 

“And the villains?” Wilbur asks, his words careful, sincere, “What do you think of them?” 

“They’re dangerous,” Tommy says, and it’s the truth. He knows what he’s done, and he knows what other villains have done to fulfill their cause. “Not because they’re villains–they’re people just like the heroes are– but because they’re people willing to do anything to get what they want.” 

The lessons had eaten away at Tommy, taking and taking until he was a husk, mindlessly surviving as he waited for a time when he could just live again. There’s something dangerous about a person who doesn’t have anything to lose, the line that draws what they will and won’t do begins to shift until the person is just a twisted mess of old morals and new desires. He had been willing to do whatever it took for his freedom, and he would still do whatever it took to keep it.

“So you’re not into heroes then.” Techno takes a bite of his sandwich, the corners of his eyes crinkling with a smile. 

“Techno,” Phil says, drawing out the name like he’s preparing to scold a child. 

“He seems like the type to like Vos, they’re both sneaky.”

“Shut the fuck up,” Wilbur hisses, picking a grape off his plate and throwing it at the man across from him. 

Techno grins, the grape hitting his chest and falling into his lap as he reaches for the fruit bowl, “Boys.” Phil warns, and the two drop it immediately, Techno’s hand returning to his lap. 

The topic is changed, and the conversation resumes, providing entertainment to all of them as they finish their meal. Throughout the picnic, Tommy’s gaze drifts back to the water, mesmerized by the way the waves roll over each other. He wonders if the water’s cold; if touching it would send a chill up his spine. After all, it's still relatively early in the summer, would the few weeks of heat be enough to warm what had been ice just a few months ago?

The seagulls dance over the surface, gliding over the waves in neat lines until a flap of their wings would bring them up into the sky. It’s a pretty sight, the water, the sand, and the birds. It all works together so perfectly to paint a picture of paradise, even though it’s so small. Distantly, Tommy wonders if he’d still find it as pretty if he was here alone.

Something shifts beside him, and when he brings his focus back to the picnic he finds Wilbur standing. He mutters something indistinguishable, stretching his arms out wide before he steps away, disappearing back up the path. Tommy watches as he goes, pushing away the dread that comes with being left behind. All of the worry and the fears of the past week return in a whirlwind of hurried thoughts. 

Phil and Techno are still here, still talking about nothing in particular. They pull Tommy in with leading questions and teasing remarks, but they don’t notice the way his hands have begun to shake. It’s irrational, Wilbur wouldn’t just leave, but the thought sticks anyway, only easing up minutes later when a mess of brown curls peaks back over the hill. 

Wilbur walks back down the path, his footsteps halting when he gets to Tommy. He kneels down, leaning in over Tommy’s shoulder, so close he can smell the bitterness of cigarette smoke clinging to his breath. “Have you ever been in the ocean?” He whispers as he unties his shoes, wobbling a little as he shifts his weight. Tommy shakes his head, the rivers and the lakes within the city were dirty and polluted, he’d never gone in. “Come on, you’ll love it.” With that, he takes off down the beach as Tommy pulls off his shoes, leaving them beside the blanket as he makes his way to the water. 

The sand is soft and warm under the sun, sinking around his feet with every step. Wilbur’s not far ahead, only a few paces now, and Tommy’s caught up to him in no time, the two slowing to a stop when the sand gets damp and flat. A wave comes up, gently rolling over the sand and Wilbur jumps forward, splashing drops of water into the air. Some of it lands across Tommy’s shirt, leaving behind dark circles in the fabric, “Watch it, prick.” 

“Awe,” Wilbur teases, “Is the child afraid of getting wet?” He kicks his foot forward, sending more water Tommy’s way. 

“I’m not scared of shit.” Tommy takes a step forward, hands reaching out to grab Wil’s arm and-

A wave rushes up around his feet. 

The water is cold. 

It’s not icy or bone-chilling. It doesn’t make him want to jump back or shiver like the cold air of the city would. It’s a nice sort of cold, the kind that’s refreshing on a hot day, and Tommy takes another step forward, charging at Wil with his arms out in front of him. The collision knocks the man off his feet, his arms flailing out behind him as he barely catches himself from being fully submerged by an approaching wave. “You little shit.” 

Tommy flashes him a shit-eating grin as he takes a few steps back and turns, dashing along the shore as Wilbur struggles to get himself back up. 

He kicks up water with every step, his steps leaving perfect marks on the wet sand as he runs. Further up the beach, he can hear two voices cheering his name, yelling at him to go faster, so he does. 

He runs until the sand vanishes and all that remains is overgrown grass and trees, so he circles around closer to the water, Wilbur on his heels. 

The water is up to his ankles now, the ocean floor invisible with the way the current picks up sand, and Tommy is caught off guard when the ground dips unexpectedly. He trips, barely catching himself before jumping back up to the higher ground. He doesn’t get far before a hand wraps around his shoulder, another grabbing his arm, and Wilbur pushes. 

Tommy falls, outstretched hands finding Wilbur’s as he goes under, the sound of the birds and the yelling getting drowned out by the water. White bubbles explode to his side with another splash, and then everything is silent. The water is cool, feeling less and less cold by the second, and he realizes that maybe it just needs a little more time to warm up. 

When he goes up for a breath, he finds Wilbur beside him, his hair hanging flat, weighed down by soaked strands as he wipes the saltwater away from his eyes. 

The water will get warm, Tommy thinks, it just needs a little more time.

Chapter Text

The smell of trash isn’t one you get used to. It’s dirty, rotten, and ever-changing in a way that makes the stench burn into your nostrils. 

Tommy hates it.

He’s always hated it, truth be told, and nights spent hidden behind overflowing garbage cans were enough to cement that hate, even if it’d only been for a little while. The smell had clung to his clothes like the dirt on his face, never relenting even when he’d rinse his hair in public sinks, citrus soap lathered all over his hands. 

When he’d gotten enough money, he’d thrown his old clothes away, eager to be rid of the smell and the memories that came with the torn fabric. He had forgotten it, had thought maybe it wouldn’t be so bad, but here he is, wedged between the brick wall of the alleyway and a grimy dumpster, and he remembers how much he hated the smell. 

 There’s a crash out on the street, a yell, and Tommy feels something poke into his side as he presses closer to the metal. 

He shouldn’t have come out. He should have stayed locked in his apartment where he had some semblance of safety, but he’d wanted a snack, and the convenience store was only a short walk away. The city had put a curfew in place, but he could beat it, the trip would only take half an hour, tops. But then the sun set, and the fighting began a bit too close. 

So now he sat, crouched behind a dumpster with a plastic bag held in a white-knuckle grip, his apartment only a block or two away. 

Another crash; and something scurries into the alleyway, little legs carrying a rat across rocky concrete and under the bin. Above, a flickering street light casts shadows on the walls, the light catching on grooves and chips in the brick. Tommy forces himself to breathe–forces himself to calm down because he could feel the way his fingertips begin to feel warm, and he just wants it to go away. 

Slight chattering echoes out from beneath the bin, filling the air when the banging ceases. Shouts ring from the streets outside, demanding voices wrapping around one another in a dangerous dance of power. Tommy stays still through it all, not daring to move a muscle. He doesn’t know who it is, doesn’t know what the fight is about, but he’s not willing to go out and find out. He just waits, even when the chattering from below the dumpster turns into a panicked squeaking. 

Something shifts under the bin, the shadows contorting ever so slightly with the rat’s frantic movement. 

It bangs against the metal, tiny claws scratching against the ground until its squeaks are cut off all at once. Something dark leaks out from under the bin, introducing the smell of iron into the air. Tommy raises a hand to his nose, his breathing picking up as he watches the ground. 

The shadows– 

They never stop moving. 

He watches, frozen in place, as it begins to grow. 

The darkness spreads over the ground like a blanket being laid atop a mattress. It ripples with the flickering light and the edges peel off the ground as it rises into the air. The figure collects itself, reforming into a ghostly sort of shape, its body drifting towards the noise at the end of the alley. 

Tommy doesn’t move, he doesn’t breathe. 

Everything becomes eerily silent, and it peaks its head out onto the street, the beginnings of a waving tail trailing behind it as it searches for conflict. 

Tommy’s hands feel warm, too warm. He tries to will it away, to pack it away into a neat little box and send it deep within himself, but focusing on it only seems to make it worse. He pushes his hand into the metal, feeling the coolness under a sweaty palm as a bang echoes down the alleyway. The figure ripples again, its head snapping towards the sound and-

And Tommy’s hand slips, sliding down the edge of the dumpster and catching on something sharp. He sucks in a breath, his other hand letting go of the plastic bag and shooting forward to catch himself. He pulls his bad hand back, feeling as something warm drips down his palm and onto the ground below. Tommy looks up, just barely poking his head out from behind the dumpster, only to find his skin buzzing with nerves when he meets the white, glowing gaze of the figure.

Well, fuck, that’s not good. 

It looks at him for a moment, its head tilting ever so slightly before its entire body melts back towards the ground. It glides close to the wall and Tommy loses it, the figure blending in with the shadows cast by the buildings above. He turns, shuffling back until he feels the brick wall on his back. He scans the ground, desperately searching for the figure. 

A pair of white eyes appear in front of him, a small, dark, figure emerging from the shadows a second later, its shape weirdly similar to that of a crow. There’s something off about it though, the body lacking a few details that makes the whole thing feel wrong. Its wings are too big, folding weirdly against the figure's body in a way that looks more like an imitation of a bird than anything. The ends of the wings taper off into the air, the dark tips lightly brushing the ground. 

The eyes watch him as it drifts slowly towards him, its head tilting again. It almost looks… curious. 

Tommy scoots back further, the roughness of the brick almost scraping through his thin t-shirt and into his shoulder blades, he winces. The figure stops, tilting its head to the other side, its eyes drifting down to the hand cradled close to his chest, watching until another drop of blood hits the concrete. 

It frays, looking like angry static, warping and spinning around in an almost panic-struck motion. The figure slows, just a little, and tilts its head up, letting out an ear-piercing shriek. 

Tommy feels his heart in his throat. 

He doesn’t know how to deal with this. There’s a brick wall to his back, a dumpster to his right, and the entrance to the alley is too far, and this- shadow creature, is too close. He’d been trained for dozens of different situations, for hundreds of threats but this wasn’t something he’d known, wasn’t something he was prepared for. All he could do is try to remain calm. 

It shrieks again, and the walls begin to pulse, the once-still shadows peeling away as nearly half a dozen new pairs of eyes blink open. They make a clicking noise in response, the strange metallic sound bouncing between the walls. 

The first one’s eyes never leave Tommy and, after more clicking, one of the newer ones breaks away from the pack. It disappears down the alley, moving through the sky in a flash, and Tommy is left with six silhouettes, each focused on him. 

Well, Tommy does not feel like getting eaten by a swarm of shadows tonight. He stands, using the wall behind him to slowly push himself onto shaky feet, taking a small step forward. 

The figures flicker, the first one drifting forward just a little to give a warning click, but Tommy takes another step, his bag left abandoned beside the dumpster. The figures don’t move, the ones further back just cocking their heads to the side when Tommy takes another cautious step. They look kind of like birds too, each a slightly different size. 

The dumpster is out of his way now, the outside street to his right. Go, he tells himself, get the fuck out, but his feet remain in place, the muscles in his legs locking up, refusing to move. It doesn’t make sense. He’s supposed to be calm, collected–but the thought of heroes possibly just outside the walls is paralyzing. 

There’s a noise behind him, the crinkling of plastic. Tommy turns slowly, reluctantly taking wide eyes from the figures only to find more behind him, one of them poking its small head into the bag on the ground. It drags out a bag of chips, his bag of chips, holding it in its beak before letting it fall to the ground with a click, its tiny eyes rising to meet Tommy’s. 

His fingers burn when he realizes that he’s surrounded. 

He keeps his hands to the side, the injured one pulsing uncomfortably as blood trails down his fingertips. The figures fizzle with every drip, some growing and shifting into less recognizable forms while others chatter and whistle, the sounds growing louder and louder by the minute as new voices join the jarring choir. 

Tommy forces air into his lungs, holding it in and counting until it's time to let go, only to repeat the steps over and over. He stands there for a moment, running through every strategy stored in the dusty parts of his brain to calm down while he looks for a pathway out of the shadows. 

They huddle in small groups around him, hovering just above the ground, getting closer by the second. Tommy takes a small step back, shuffling his feet until he’s in line with the dumpster once more, and the shadows almost mirror his movements. He glances to his right and sees that the lid is down. 

The dumpster is closed. 

He swallows, and it feels like sandpaper. The first figure comes forward, its edges soft and still as it morphs into something taller, something more ghost-like. Its eyes never change, glowing and flickering with the light, almost like stars, and always on Tommy. 

That is, until something crashes, like splintering wood through glass. It’s close, much closer than the sounds from earlier, and the figure turns away, its attention captured by the noise. The others look too, and while the eyes are off him Tommy decides he doesn’t have any more time to wait. 

Something clicks in his head, and suddenly the panic and reserve are pushed aside, his body falling into autopilot. He twists, both hands reach up to grab the side edge of the dumpster, the injured one barely stinging as he pulls himself up onto the lid. Something behind him shrieks, and he slides over, his feet hitting the ground again with a soft thud and jumping into a sprint. 

The sidewalk is only a few meters away when something brushes his ankle. 

Tommy doesn’t stop, mistaking it for the wind at first, his eyes deadset on the street in front of him. It’s cold, icy almost, and his focus falters because the wind isn’t this cold in the summertime. Echoes fill the alley, the figure's dreadful shrieks bouncing off cement and brick as Tommy runs. 

His mind races with every step, but above everything else, the desire to be safe is loudest. He thinks of home, of something worth fighting for, and he finds he doesn’t envision his bedroom or his front door, but a smile. 

It’s lopsided, tilted down just a little, but open and inviting. Wilbur’s laugh echoes in his ears–Wil’s always laughing, whether it be at a joke or to break the silence–it’s loud and obnoxious and sometimes Tommy thinks it may be a little forced, but it's always somewhat genuine. He thinks of pink hair and eyes with crows feet, of mouthwatering dinners and picnics on the beach, and he runs. 

The sidewalk is close. One more jump and he’d be in the street. 

Something solid materializes in front of him, small and invisible in the dim light, but while his eyes miss it, his foot doesn’t. It catches, and Tommy is sent full force onto the ground below him, his arms barely breaking his fall. More of the cold air presses onto him, wrapping around his legs and back until he can’t move. They become solid, real; their bodies lacking warmth. They push him down further into the pavement, the rocks digging into his chin. 

The weight is almost crushing, reducing Tommy’s breaths to short gasps as he tries to shift his weight enough to get his arms out from under him. The heat from his fingertips envelops his hands, spreading all the way to his wrists and he gets an arm loose, placing his bad palm down on the cement and pushing. One of the figures notices, its shadow circling his hand until it too becomes solid. 

Tommy whines, the panic he’d pushed aside coming back like a lightning strike as he struggles, but he can’t move. Every pushback is met with more weight on his back, and soon enough it becomes hard to breathe. He’s reminded of Monument Day, of looking onto the stage and seeing the face of someone he’d known. He’d felt trapped then too, the bodies of the crowd far too packed onto the streets to be safe, but at least then he’d been able to get out. 

Now, the ones that aren’t holding him down whirl around him, looking like wisps of smoke as they fly. They blend together, their edges blurring until it's just one mass of white streaks and overlapping chittering. 

It blocks his view of the street, the swirling getting darker when more join the fold. They form a cyclone of sorts, sucking up dust and leaves into the mix. In the middle of it all, Tommy lies pinned like an insect on a board, gusts of wind blowing through his hair and leaving his skin cold. 

Then, all at once, the figures freeze. 

Their hold on him lessens, easing up enough so that Tommy can move again. He angles his head up, the gravel scraping against his temple as he does. There’s a man there, standing still in the middle of the street with his head cocked to the side. It’s an interesting similarity to that first figure, like two little birds. At his side, a single shadow floats. 

He takes a step forward, and the figures part, making a clear path. Some of them tear away from the hoard entirely. They melt back into the shadows or drift into the air; some of them join the man, circling his torso. 

Tommy’s seen him before–in news broadcasts and poorly taken pictures. Even then, he recognizes the coat first

It’s a dark thing, long too, with the ends of it flaring out at his knees. White trim outlines the fabric, running along his sleeves and up to the edge of the hood casting a shadow over his face. Glowing, green eyes cut through the darkness, peering down at the teenager. His shoulders rise and fall as he rushes forward, his breaths coming out loud even through the mask slotted over his nose and mouth. 

Tommy tries to move, but the figures are still holding him down. His eyes never leave the man before him, watching as he approaches. He kneels when he’s closer, one knee in the dirt while his elbow rests on the other. There’s hesitation hiding in his shoulders, a tenseness that’s difficult to pick up on, almost like he’s afraid to get too close. 

From where his head is positioned, Tommy can see the golden glint of a band under his sleeve, the tell-tale sign of a high-ranking Syndicate member. 

Wraith. 

“Off him,” the villain commands, his voice deep and almost robotic under the guise of a voice changer. The figures obey, melting back into the air. Some of them leave the alley altogether, their wings taking them into the streets and towards the sounds of the city. Tommy gulps, pushing himself up to wobbly knees. Across him, Wraith leans forward, gloved hands drawn to convey security. He looks down at the ground, his gaze finding red-stained pebbles where Tommy’s hand had been pinned. “Are you hurt?”

“Fuck off,” the blond says, rising to his feet. He takes a few steps back until there's a comfortable distance between the two, shoving his hands into his pockets as he does. 

Wraith offers a nod. “They’re not supposed to target civilians–the phantoms.” He stands, staying in the same place and throwing his hand in Tommy’s direction, his next words low and dangerous. “Did-” he huffs, “Did they hurt you?” The phantoms hovering click and shriek in protest, but the villain just waves them away, waiting for a response. 

Tommy pauses, “I said fuck. Off.” His temple stings when he pinches his eyebrows, the places where rocks had scraped against his skin likely pink and irritated. 

The villain turns, stepping back into the street, “We didn’t think anyone would be out this late, most businesses have started closing early due to the curfew.” 

“Yea, well,” Tommy starts, jerking his head back in the direction of the dumpster. Wraith looks, straining his eyes to see what remains of a plastic bag beside the bin. “I needed a snack and some asshole decided to attack on my walk back to my apartment.” 

An exhaled laugh comes out weirdly through the voice changer, but it's a laugh all the same. Wraith lowers his hands and drops his shoulders, settling into a more relaxed pose. “Apologies for ruining such an… exciting night.” The boy across from him turns his nose up, his lips twisting into something like disgust. “What?” 

“Aren’t villains supposed to like, I don’t know, kill people who catch them?”

“Please, if anything I caught you.”

Tommy huffs, “You didn’t catch shit, those things did all the work.” He takes a step out onto the street, maintaining the distance between him and the villain. 

“Phantoms,” Wraith corrects, “And they’re following my orders, so I caught you. Also even if you were the one to catch me, which you weren’t-”

“Whatever helps your ego,” Tommy interjects

“Then I still wouldn’t kill you cause you’re a kid. Kids have no place in the fight,” the villain continues. Tommy shifts, his defensive attitude turning sour and serious. He thinks of the dorms, of training and lessons, and he wonders how the Wraith could believe something so… hopeful. 

Children, no matter how much they want to accept it, will always have a place in this dance between heroes and villains. Maybe they shouldn’t, but they do. 

Tommy starts forward, pushing past the villain and pulling his hands out of his pockets. The one is still wet with blood which has surely stained his pockets, but he can’t care too much about that right now, not when he’s just turned his back on Wraith. “Woah, Woah,” He calls, “Where do you think you’re going?” 

“My apartment,” Tommy says, simply. 

A phantom flies in front of him, its form turning solid to block him. Tommy stops, spinning on his heels to find Wraith just a few strides behind, green eyes pointed at his hand. “You’re bleeding.”

Tommy looks down, watching as the blood trails down his fingers. “I’m fine.” 

“Bullshit, you’re bleeding.” 

“I can take care of it.” There’s a first aid kit under his bathroom sink. It’s unopened, purchased from some supermarket just days after he’d gotten his apartment. He hopes whatever’s in it is enough to ward off any infection he may have caught from the dumpster or the ground. “Tell your phantom to move.” 

Wraith scoffs, “No.” 

Tommy turns back around, stepping around the phantom and onto the sidewalk. It melts back into its shadow state, flying back over to the villain. He mutters something under his breath, and then there’s a wrap of cold air around Tommy’s wrist. It turns solid, pulling the blond back around and raising his hand for him. Wraith stalks forward, his head tilting as he tries to take a look at the cut, but Tommy curls stained fingers in. 

A hum, then a smaller phantom weaves its way through Tommy’s fingers, pulling them out. He grunts, trying to pull his hand away from prying eyes but the phantoms are strong. “Let. Go.”

“No,” Wraith repeats, and he’s so close now that Tommy can see the details of his mask. It’s brighter on the street. Here, the lights from buildings overhead give the ground a dull glow, and Tommy finds that the villain's coat and mask are a deep navy blue. “I’m going to help. Wait here,” He declares, walking around Tommy. He gets about halfway down the block before he stops near a storefront and whistles. The phantoms circling his waist shoot forward, crashing into the glass with a loud crash, and then Wraith disappears into the store. 

He returns a moment later, a box in hand. He practically skips back to a struggling Tommy, who’s still trying to pull his hand away. He clicks his tongue, waving an outstretched finger, “I said you had to wait here, that means no moving.” 

“Fuck you,” Tommy spits, but Wraith doesn’t pay him any attention, he just opens the box and pulls out a bottle and some bandages. 

“Do you want to sit?” He asks as he unscrews the cap to the bottle. The smell of rubbing alcohol rose into the air. 

“What?”

“I said,” He starts, his voice cheery, “Do you want to sit, I can have one of them get you a chair.” Tommy shakes his head and Wraith continues on. 

He hums as he works, only stopping to tell Tommy what he’s doing and when the alcohol is going to sting. He works quickly, his fingers still and precise as he wraps the bandage around Tommy’s palm. It only takes a minute or so, and then the cold air surrounding his wrist and fingers melts away. He brings his arm back down, flexing his hand a few times. 

“All patched up,” Wraith says, “Your head should be okay, it just looks like a scrape.” Tommy stares at him, his brows pinched and confused. The villain points to his own temple, “You’re head is-”

“I know,” Tommy tells him, a red heat making its home on his cheeks, “I’m just- thank you.” 

The villain shrugs, “It’s the least I could do after what the phantoms did.” The blond gives a slow nod, and Wraith claps his hands, “Well then, let's get you home, kid.” He steps past Tommy and continues forward. 

“What? Stop!” He shouts, and Wraith pauses, “I’m not showing you where I fucking live. Do you think I’m stupid?”

“No?” 

“Then go somewhere else, I don’t need a villain knowing where I live.” Wraith looks at him, and for a moment Tommy swears there’s hurt in his eye. It’s hidden away quickly though, and he raises his hands to adjust his hood. 

He seems to think about it, weighing the risk of denying Tommy’s disdain, but he settles quickly, taking a step away as he does so. “Okay. Be careful though, this area is dangerous at night.”  The sound of glass shattering echoes down the streets, and Wraith gives Tommy a slight nod before breaking off into a jog. The phantoms follow at his feet, flying across walls or gliding over the floor towards the noise. He turns a corner, his coat kicking up behind him with the wind, and then he’s gone. 

Tommy is left alone on the sidewalk, one bandaged hand held in the other. He doesn’t stay long, just long enough to wander down the alley to find a crushed bag of chips. He takes it, stuffing it under his arm before starting again, all too aware of the flickering lights and the silent streets. 

When he collapses onto his couch, he finds he doesn’t have the energy to eat the snack, the bag falling to the floor when sleep drags him under.

Chapter Text

“It’s… nice.” 

“Yea?”

“Mhm,” Wil hums, his fingers dragging along the couch pushed up against the wall. The blanket thrown over it is wrinkled, bunched up weirdly where Tommy had been sitting earlier. “I like the,” he pauses, waving his hand in the air, “atmosphere.”

“Ah, yes, the atmosphere,” Tommy parrots back. He watches silently as Wilbur takes in the apartment, the man’s eyes dissecting every piece of hand-me-down furniture and decor. 

There’s an odd sense of self-awareness that comes with bringing someone into the space that Tommy hadn’t expected. He’d never had guests before–hell, the only other person who’d walked through the door was the landlord, and those visits had all but stopped after the first few months. Now, he was all too aware of the dishes in the sink. 

Outside of this place, Tommy was a citizen. He did his job and spent time with people like he was supposed to, but the person he was out there would never be the same person he was in here. 

This apartment was his space. It may not be the nicest, or in the safest location, but it was his small bastion of freedom. A break from the storm outside his front door that often threatened to consume him whole. 

Here, he was an ex-villain, despised by the public. He didn’t have to pretend, he didn’t have to hide. Sure, half of himself would remain shut behind wooden doors and a curtain of thin clothes, but at least it was allowed to exist. He could never share all of that side out there. It was dirty and complicated in all the wrong ways, and Tommy couldn’t risk losing what he’d built over the past two years. 

But Wilbur had a way of wedging himself into Tommy’s life. 

The man wandered, pausing every few minutes to look at a poster or pick at peeling paint. 

Tommy wasn’t planning on having a guest today, or ever for that matter, but the topic of room decor had somehow come up in conversation and one thing had led to another. 

“Is that your room?” Wil asks, interrupting Tommy’s thoughts. He’s pointing at the door across the room, open just enough to see the bed inside. 

“Yup,” the blond says, making his way over and pushing the door open. Wil follows, peaking inside the room to find a made bed and closed drawers. 

“It’s clean in here,” he notes, a hint of disbelief hidden in his voice. “I thought it’d be messier.” Wil says, doing a slow spin as he walks into the room. 

“What can I say? I’m one clean guy,” Tommy replies. “Bathroom’s over there,” He adds, pointing over to the wall with the bathroom and closet doors, “and that’s my closet.” Wilbur nods, stopping near the dresser. The blinds are open, the light from the afternoon sun bathing over Wil as he looks at the items scattered across the wooden surface. 

He seems to pause then, one of the items catching his eye, and his hand raises to touch whatever he’s looking at. “Our picture,” He says, almost in a whisper. He holds up a familiar polaroid, the edges just a little creased, and Tommy nods. He sets it back down gently–like it’s a fragile piece of glass and not just a piece of paper–before moving on to the other things.  “I’m glad you kept it. What’s this?” He asks, holding up a small rock. 

Tommy moves forward, finding a place between Wilbur’s shoulder and the wall. “It’s a rock,” he says simply, his cheeks pulling with a grin.

“No shit. I mean, why do you have it?” 

Tommy reaches out, palm facing up, and Wilbur gives the item. He runs the tips of his fingers over the chips in the edges, finding the smooth part on the back, “I grabbed it from the beach a few weeks back, during the picnic. I like to collect shit.” He sets the rock down, trading it with a star-shaped sticker, “This is from one of my co-workers from when I first started at the diner. I guess I’ve always had a talent for pissing people off,” he flips the paper between his fingers, “so she’d given me this the first time I made it five tables in a row without a complaint.” Wilbur’s silent beside him, and when Tommy turns he finds the man’s lips pressed tight, “What the fuck is wrong with your face?”

“It’s just cute is all,” He says, full-on smiling now, and Tommy puts the sticker down with an accompanying roll of his eyes, “No, no, it’s sentimental! I didn’t know you were the type of person to just collect stuff like this.”

Tommy shrugs. He never could save little things when he was younger. He didn’t have anything to save. He’d gotten rid of his clothes, of anything that could link him back to the heroes years ago. 

This collection wasn’t it though. There were more. Newspaper clippings and shards of glass tucked away in a tightly sealed box. All the things that had come after he’d become a villain. Those were the items that brought bad memories, bad feelings. Looking at them had become too much, too quick, but even then he couldn’t bring himself to throw them away. “I like them.”

Wilbur hums, turning away from the dresser. A moment later he’s sitting on the end of the bed, his face twisting weirdly as he moves around, trying to find a spot where the mattress springs don’t poke through the sheets. “You sleep on this?”

“Every night.” 

Wilbur flops back, his arms reaching out as he stares up at the ceiling. His glasses slide up his nose, the metal frames practically touching his eyebrows when he talks next, “How the fuck is this comfortable?” He lifts his head and Tommy shrugs. It isn’t comfortable, but neither was the street, so he wasn’t about to complain. 

Unsatisfied, Wilbur lets his head fall back with a puff. He stays still for a second, and then he rolls over to his side, propping his head up on one of his hands as the other reaches towards the pillows. “Oh, and who’s this?” he coos, brown eyes locked on the cow lying on its side. Wilbur grabs its leg, pulling Henry closer so he can pet the fur. 

“Oh it’s nothing,” Tommy lies, his cheeks feeling warm, “just a gift I got forever ago.” He crosses the room in a few strides, stopping a few feet from the bed. 

Ever the people reader, Wilbur tilts his head, almost the mirror image of Henry, who sits innocently beside him. His stuffing has clumped over the years, his neck and arms floppy compared to what they used to be, but Tommy can’t find himself caring too much. The imperfections didn’t make the toy any harder to love. “Does it have a name?” 

Tommy laughs, taking a seat on the bed beside his friend. He takes Henry, turning him over in his hands until he meets round, black eyes. “Prime, next you’re going to ask me some shit about my mother's maiden name or the street I grew up on.” He squeezes one of the hooves, bringing it up to his nose to breathe in the familiar scent of laundry detergent. “I mean, I know my life is amazing, but you’re going to have to try harder than that.” 

“My bad,” Wilbur starts, pushing himself up into a sitting position, “I forgot you were such a smart kid.”

“Man,” Tommy corrects, “Smart man, strong too. Oh, and big.” 

“You’re such a fucking child,” Wil mutters, and there’s fondness there, layered under fake annoyance and a teasing shove. 

“I literally can not stress enough how incredibly incorrect you are.” The man rolls his eyes and pokes at Henry’s snout. 

“My mum gave me one,” He starts, his voice low, “when I was little, before foster care.” Tommy goes quiet, his full attention on his friend. Wilbur was a talker, that much was clear after the first night they’d spoken, but there were certain subjects they never covered. 

His time before Phil was one of them. 

It wasn’t something he’d been told not to ask about, but rather a silent, mutual sort of agreement between the two. They’d both had shit happen, and neither had any interest in sharing.

Wilbur turns away, his unfocused eyes trained on the ground as the ghost of a smile danced over his lips. “I took it everywhere–this little orange cat. It was the perfect size for me to hug and everything.” He pauses, and the smile turns sour, sad. “I lost it in the fourth home I was placed in, one of the older kids took it and I wasn’t big enough to get it back. It’d be another year or so until I was placed with Phil and Kristin.” 

“Kristin?” Tommy asks, but he can assume who she is. He remembered the woman in the family portraits. Dark hair and a soft face. He wonders if she’s as kind as she looks. 

“Phil’s wife. She’s um,” He sniffles, turning fully away so that all Tommy can see is the back of his head. “She’s not around anymore. They’d offered to get me a new one, but it wouldn’t have been the same you know?” 

Tommy nods. He couldn’t imagine losing Henry, especially after all they’d been through together. The plush had been a constant throughout his mentorship, an unmoving rock in a sea battered by constant storms and high waves, and it had been one of the few possessions he’d bothered to take with him when he ran. Some things were just special. 

“His name is Henry,” he says, setting the cow back onto his pillow. 

They leave the room after that, Wilbur stealing a peek into the bathroom before they do. He wants to take in the apartment entirely, looking at anything he can before they eventually leave and do whatever else the night has to offer. He’s cautious as well, always looking back at Tommy before going somewhere new. 

As they leave the bedroom, Wilbur seems to falter near the closet, his hand catching the knob. A sidelong glance back, an unspoken question of permission, and Tommy feels something in him drop. For a moment, he feels like a fish out of water, like there are hundreds of spotlights on the rickety doors, but Wilbur doesn’t move. He waits for a nod or a hum, any sort of confirmation really, and when Tommy finally chokes out some excuse about it being messy he gives a reassuring smile. 

It doesn’t do much to ease his stomach from turning.

They bounce between the kitchen stools and standing in the middle of the room as Tommy does his best to be a host. He offers water, a seat, everything he’d seen done on TV shows. It’s an odd attempt, he can see it in the way Wilbur swallows a laugh at the way he phrases the questions, but it’s an attempt nonetheless. 

They eventually find their home on the sofa, mugs of steaming tea held in their hands as they talk about nothing in particular. It’s nearly too hot outside for the tea to even be enjoyable. 

Summer has fully moved in now, bringing her blazing temperatures and blistering sun. The sounds from the street leak through the open windows, with swears and whistles from pedestrians clear over car horns. The box fan running near the windows does little to drown it out, and in the end, it all just combines into one big wall of noise. 

There’s a sheen of sweat over Wilbur’s forehead, collecting in little beads over his brow. He sips on the tea, drinking just enough to be polite, but the mug finds itself on a small table more and more as the minutes pass, and then his phone rings. Wilbur reaches into his pocket, quickly looking at the screen and muttering, “Shit, do you mind if I take this?” 

Tommy shakes his head and Wil answers, raising the phone to his ear, “Hello? No, I’m at Tommy’s,” He looks up, “Say hi.”

“Uh, hi?” Wilbur looks away, nodding his head as the voice on the other side goes on and on about prime knows what. 

It’s low–the voice–that much he can tell, and a stollen look at the screen pressed lightly against Wil’s cheek shows a blurry, but recognizable, pink head of hair. “No,” He says, his eyes once again looking up to the ceiling, “Yea, no that works. Sure- No, no Tech I’ve got it covered. Yea, okay, okay, chill the fuck out I’ll be back soon.” He stands, circling the rug as Techno’s voice continues to play through soft speakers, “I’ll see you in a bit. Mhm, bye.” The line goes silent, the phone returned to Wilbur’s pocket, and a beat passes. 

“The fuck is his problem?” Tommy asks, setting his mug down.

Wilbur scoffs, raising his hands to rub his eyes and down his cheeks, the movement makes his face drag down. “It’s a project we’ve been collaborating on at work, he needs my help so he was asking when I’d be home.” 

“Oh,” another beat, then, “Is it urgent? Are you leaving?”

“No- I mean yes, it’s kind of important, but we’ve been having fun.” Wilbur huffs, pacing around a little as he fidgets with his hands, “Would you want to come over? The work will be quick, and then we can watch a movie or something.” 

Tommy thinks about it, weighing the offer. He’d been back to Wilbur’s only a handful of times–usually just a quick stop in because Wilbur had left something he needed before going out again–and it was nice. He enjoyed the house more every time he visited and it was always easy to find something new to appreciate, whether it be the creative decorative choices or Phil’s dictionary-size cookbook. 

The day so far had been fun too, and Tommy would hate for work to ruin it, so he levels a smile at his friend, “Sure.” 

A movie would be fun. 

Tommy is greeted by the smell of something sweet. It’s soft, and he can’t help but take a long, deep breath as he kicks off his shoes. Wilbur does the same, letting the scent pull him further into the house. 

Phil’s sitting on the couch, the book in his hands lowered as soon as the door shuts. Other than him the main room is empty. “I’m home,” Wilbur shouts. “And I brought Tommy with me!” 

“Inside voice please,” Phil yells back.

“Sorry.” Wil leans over, looking down the hall. Two of the doors are closed, Techno’s and Phil’s. He groans, starting towards Techno’s before pausing and spinning back around, “Just hang here Tommy, I’ll be quick.” 

Then he’s gone, disappearing into Techno’s room without so much of a knock. There’s a shout on the other end, Techno saying something about privacy, and then their voices lower. 

Tommy’s left by the door, his arms crossed as his eyes find Phil’s. They’re both quiet, and then fter a moment, Phil chuckles to himself, blond hair hitting his face as he shakes his head. “Hi mate.”

“Phil, respectfully, your son’s a dickhead.” 

“That’s Wil for you,” he sighs, scooting back a little on the couch even though there’s plenty of room, “Here, sit down.” Tommy obeys, walking over to the middle of the room and taking a seat a moment later. “They’ll probably be a little bit, how are you?” 

“Good,” He answers, pulling at his fingers. 

Phil seems to notice, and he points a look at Tommy’s hand, “You alright there?” 

“Phil, you know me, I'm always alright.” 

The man nods, but icy blue eyes are still locked on Tommy’s fidgeting hand, “Of course, but your hand?” Tommy follows his look, ready to shoot back with some comment about being awesome when he realizes Phil isn’t looking at the movement itself, but rather the bandage covering his palm. “Did you get hurt?”

“Oh, uh,” Tommy stammers, “Yea, but it’s nothing, just a little cut.” He’d rebandaged it several times following his encounter with Wraith, watching as the wound scabbed over and thankful that an infection never set in. It was still sensitive, but at least he was able to use his hand again without the constant stinging. He looks around, searching for anything else to talk about, and his eyes land on the kitchen. “Something smells good.”

“Changing the subject,” Phil points out, “But I’ll accept it.” He rises to his feet, the book left on the coffee table. He walks around the sectional and heads towards the kitchen. Tommy follows, finding a place to stand near the counter. He’s silent as Phil crouches near the oven, looking through the glass before pulling a pair of oven mitts over his hands. He pulls a pie from the oven, the crust golden, and smiles. “I have a few berry bushes planted in my garden-”

“You have a garden?” Tommy interrupts, whipping his head back to look at the backyard. “What do you plant?” 

Phil snickers as he returns the oven mitts to a drawer, “Well- yes, and all sorts of things, but that’s hardly the exciting part.” Tommy turns back, mouth practically watering, and he gives his attention to the man before him. “This time of year is perfect for berries, so for the past few days I’ve been picking whatever’s ripe.” 

He pauses, thinking, then he laughs to himself, “I remember when I first started the garden, I bought these tiny blueberry bushes–probably three or four–and planted them all. My, did those fuckers grow. We were drowning in those damn things to the point where we had to freeze half of them.” He rubs at his eyes, the smile still wide on his face, “Used them in everything, blueberry pancakes, waffles, muffins, and then I tried a mixed berry pie.” 

He crosses the kitchen, only returning to the oven after he’s found a knife and a plate. “The boys loved it, thank the gods. If they hadn't I don’t know how we would’ve eaten all those berries.” He says as he cuts a slice, setting it onto the plate. Thin wisps of steam rise from it, curling in the air. 

The plate is set in front of Tommy, a fork beside it, and he doesn’t waste any time. The berries melt onto the ceramic in a gooey, sugary mess, and he only blows the steam away once before taking a bite. 

It’s hot, the berries feeling less like food and more like molten lava, and Tommy is left blowing out puffs of steam as Phil laughs. It’s good though, sweet and tart in all the right ways while the crust is light and buttery. He’s never had something like this before, and he takes another bite, his mouth burning by the end of it. 

They talk as he eats, about the diner and pants and the food Tommy likes. The conversation flows freely, and soon enough a door opens on the other side of the house, two pairs of footsteps tapping against the hardwood floors. By the time Tommy has finished his slice, both Wilbur and Techno have joined him at the counter and Phil is serving them their own slices.

(It’s smaller than Tommy’s slice, and Phil gives him a mischievous wink when the younger boy realizes.)

Wilbur and Techno are brought into the conversation, and after all the plates have been washed and the pie placed nicely in the fridge, Wilbur turns to Tommy, “So, a movie?” 

The question hangs in the air for a moment, and then Tommy breaks into a smile. The older man seems to see the gears turning, but before he can say anything Tommy moves, running towards the couch with Wilbur on his heels. “I get to pick, bitch!” He laughs, lunging for the remote. 

A hand wraps around his wrist, pulling him back and Wilbur flings himself forward, grabbing the remote from the coffee table and landing on his seat on the couch all in one move. “Checkmate, bitch,” He mocks, wearing a shit-eating grin. 

Tommy’s left behind the couch, still as the TV turns on and Wilbur navigates to the movie library. “Better luck next time,” Phil says from behind him, his hand landing on Tommy’s shoulder, “I’m going to turn in,” He announces, “It was nice seeing you, Tommy.” 

“Goodnight!” The two say back in unison, and with that, he leaves, the sound of a door closing echoing down the hall a second later. 

“Do you care what we watch?” Wilbur asks. 

Tommy shrugs, making his way around the sectional. He sits on the end, curled up at the arm of the couch as the older man flicks through movie titles. “Could we watch something animated?” 

A laugh, then, “Child.” 

“I’m not a fucking child Wilbur. Clearly, you fail to recognize the musical masterpieces in those types of films!”

“Sure,” He says, drawing out the word. He selects a random title Tommy hasn’t seen before and the screen goes dark, a light tune sounding as the studio screens begin to play. Wilbur gets up and makes his rounds around the room, collecting blankets and turning off lights. When he returns, he sits on the other side of Tommy, their shoulders practically touching. 

Outside, the sun has just dipped under the horizon, leaving the sky painted blue. 

Surprisingly enough, the movie is good. Tommy hadn’t had much faith in Wilbur’s movie-picking abilities, not after a conversation about Wilbur’s taste had left the blond red in the face, but somehow the man had managed to find something that wasn’t terrible. It's simple, a story about a baby bear who’s trying to find his way home. 

The whole thing is easy to digest, with colorful animation and squeaky voices, and Tommy finds himself chuckling at more than one of the jokes. 

Tommy gets comfortable in his spot. It’s not hard, the couch is fluffy, allowing him to sink further and further into the cushions as he relaxes. The blanket Wilbur had given him is thrown over his shoulders, wrapping him in warmth as the excess fabric piles into his lap. It’s a good one too, heavy and soft, much better than the ones at his apartment. Most of those are cheap, found on a shelf at the thrift store, or picked from a box in a yard sale, and while they get the job done there’s no denying that they could be better. 

It only gets darker as the movie goes on, with the moon making its first appearance just over the treeline as crickets chirp to life outside the window. There’s no noise from the street outside. No yelling or car horns or flashing, flickering lights. The house is nearly silent, the only noise coming from the TV and their steady breathing. 

Like metal drawn to a magnet, Wilbur begins to lean more and more onto the teenager, but Tommy doesn’t mind. The pressure is soothing somehow, with the point where their shoulders touch allowing even more warmth to bleed into Tommy’s space.

Eventually, Tommy’s eyelids grow heavy, his sight blurring, and he shuts his eyes. The sound from the movie dancing around him as he begins to drift off. The voices become distant, echoey almost, and then the pressure on his shoulder changes, and Tommy is dragged back. “Tommy?” Wilbur’s voice is a whisper, barely loud enough over the audio.

The blond hums in response, cracking an eye open to find that Wilbur’s not even looking at him, his eyes are still on the screen. “What?” 

His voice must be quiet or something because Wilbur looks at him, smiling when he sees Tommy half slumped over on himself. “Sorry, were you sleeping?”

“No, ‘m just restin’ my eyes.” He sits up a little, lifting his head, but it’s too much work, he’s back against the couch in seconds. He can still taste the sweetness of the pie on his lips. “What is it?”

“It’s nothing,” Wil tells him, and his voice sounds almost as sweet as the berries, “It can wait, go back to sleep.” 

“Tell me,” Tommy says groggily, but Wilbur is silent, his gaze back on the screen. Doesn’t he know he can’t just wake someone up and not tell them why? It’s rude. Tommy huffs, pointing a tired glare at his friend, “Tell me or you’re a bitch.” 

Wilbur laughs, but it wasn’t a joke, it wasn’t supposed to be funny. He turns back to the younger boy, his face a weird mix of soft and serious, “Do you ever miss your family?”

Tommy hums again, “I dunno,” and his eyes slide closed again, “‘s hard to miss something you can’t remember.” He pulls the blanket tighter around himself, bunching it up closer to his face as a makeshift pillow. It’s perfectly…comfy isn’t quite the right word for it, cozy maybe? 

Wilbur doesn’t speak again so Tommy, assuming he’s satisfied with his answer, drifts off as the bear wanders the forest with a group of new friends. 

It’s late when a door opens, light from a bedroom shining down the hall. 

The movie is still going, nearing its end, and Tommy lays at the end of the couch, his eyes closed. He’s wrapped up in the blanket, his knees curled up to his chest as he sleeps. The rise and fall of his shoulders is a steady rhythm under Wilbur’s shoulder as he looks up from his phone. 

A shadow steps into the light, moving in a slow and controlled manner before the light is closed off, confined to the room it had come from. Soon enough, Techno is creeping into the living room, keeping his body close to the wall as he makes his way to the door. He hasn’t noticed his brother looking at him, too preoccupied with pulling on his sneakers. 

He’s dressed in a simple t-shirt and sweats, his hair in a clean braid. There isn’t a single strand out of place, and Wilbur wonders if Phil had re-done it before he went to bed. 

Techno looks casual. To anyone else, it’d look like he’s just going out to run errands, but there’s something telling about where he’s headed. The golden band glows where it's wrapped around his wrist, easy to spot in the dim lighting. 

When he reaches for the door, Wil clears his throat, careful not to stir the teenage behind him. “Going somewhere?” 

Techno sighs. He turns slowly, his hands sliding into his pockets. “Just for a little bit, I need to check up on some things.” He cranes his neck, looking over Wilbur’s head at a sleeping Tommy. “Is he out?” 

“Yeah, didn’t even make it halfway in.” Tommy twitches, and Wilbur looks back over his shoulder. The younger boy’s eyebrows are pinched, his breathing a little faster, but he’s still asleep. “I don’t think he’s been sleeping well since the…” Wilbur raises his left hand, flexing his fingers, and Techno nods knowingly, “He’s been looking tired.” 

He’s always looked tired, Wilbur wants to say. 

The first thing he’d noticed about the boy were the bags under his eyes and his slumped shoulders. He looked older than he was, with his eyes a tired dull blue and his stance closed off. Tommy had lacked the naive trust so many people his age had, their time filled with friends and worshiping idols. This boy was different, that much was clear, even all those weeks ago. 

A part of Wilbur worries that he’s the one Tommy’s dreaming about, or rather, Wraith. Villains could be off-putting, scary, and while Wilbur didn’t doubt Tommy’s confidence or resilience, he had also seen the fear in his face. 

He’d hidden it well, locking it behind fake annoyance, but Wilbur wasn’t just some random person. He’d seen the way Tommy paused when he was offered a walk home, had seen the way Tommy’s eyes widened whenever the villain would approach him. He was afraid… of Wilbur.

That night was the first time he’d ever wished Tommy was more trusting. 

He’d never meant for Tommy to get hurt, and the guilt of doing so had eaten away at him for several nights following. 

Tommy twitches again, his bandaged hand closing into a weak fist around the blanket. 

Wilbur shifts a little, pressing his back against Tommy’s shoulder, and it seems to help. The younger boy eases, his face going back to calm. “He looks different when he’s not being a menace.” Techno notes, leaning over onto the back of the couch. “Doesn’t look all angry. It’s weirdly peaceful.” 

Techno’s right, relaxation looks good on Tommy. In a way, it seems to soften him, almost melting away the hard exterior until he looks younger. It’s so different than the irritable, mouthy, teenager Wilbur has come to know, but he almost enjoys this version of Tommy just as much. 

He looks carefree. 

It’s similar to how he is when they listen to music in the car. Tommy had a way of letting the music shake the worry and gripe from him as he sings the lyrics in the most endearing way possible. Wilbur’s the same way really, and he sits in the driver's seat with pride as they dance, the car shaking from the volume. 

“He’s not too bad,” Wilbur tells his brother. Techno scoffs, rolling his eyes. “Oh, stop it. He’s just a kid.”

“Yeah, a kid with a mysterious past and weirdly good fighting abilities.”

“He wouldn’t hurt a fly,” Wil coos. “and I do love a good mystery.” He meets his brother’s eye, lowering his voice to a whisper, “You should’ve seen his apartment today, the whole ride up was shady as fuck.” 

“Surprised the place has a working elevator.”

Wilbur giggles, nodding along. When it finally dies down, he catches the way Techno’s gaze lingers on Tommy, a faint smile on his lips. “Awe, you do like him. I told you, once you get to know him-”

“Aaand that's my cue!” He interrupts. His braid flies over his shoulder as he turns, making his way back to the door. “Very nice visiting with you Wilbur, have a good night, I will see you in the morning.” 

“You can’t deny how you feel!” Wil calls, albeit quietly. Techno opens the door and steps out. “Be safe!” It clicks shut, and the room is calm again. Wilbur goes back to his phone, resuming whatever mindless scrolling he was doing before Techno had graced him with his presence. 

After a while, the movie ends. The screen goes dark and names begin to scroll across the screen. He lets the credits run, content to listen to the happy score (Tommy might have had a point about the music) while the time passes. 

Tommy shifts once, readjusting his blanket with a sigh before going back to sleep. For the most part, he’s calm; peaceful. There are more times though, when his breath will catch in his lungs and he clutches the blanket in a white-knuckled grip. Wilbur can recognize the panic there, the desperate ache for comfort. 

When the music ends and the screen returns to the movie library, Wilbur rests a heavy hand on Tommy’s shoulder, giving it a shake until the teenager stirs. “Tommy, wake up.” He whispers, shaking again. He expectins the boy to slowly blink his eyes open, to sit up with a stretch and a groan, but he doesn’t. Instead, Tommy flinches. It’s a violent movement, so much more than a small scare or a surprise, and something in Wilbur burns because the nightmares make just a little bit more sense. 

Tommy’s eyes fly open in a flurry of frantic, confused looks. His arm swings out, swiping away Wilbur’s hand as he sits up. “Woah, woah, Tommy hey it’s alright!” He tries to grab Tommy again, but his hand is slapped away as the boy lurches back into the cushions, his legs thrashing at the blanket. “Tommy, fucking- just look at me!” 

Blue eyes snap to brown, and Tommy freezes, his breaths coming in as short, raspy things. “Wil,” he laughs, the tension leaving his body. He slumps a little, slouching as he takes in his surroundings, “Sorry, I didn’t- I fell asleep.” He rubs his eyes, dragging in a breath. “Forgot where I was for a second. Shit, what time is it?” 

“Late,” Wilbur supplies, “The movie’s over, you missed a good one.” 

Tommy yawns, big and loud, “Yeah, it was really exciting. Had me at the edge of my seat.” He cracks a smile, his eyes puffy, and Wilbur can’t help but focus on his hair. It’s flat and uneven where he’d been laying, with the rest a frizzy mess of curls. 

“You look fucking ridiculous,” Wilbur tells him. He brings his hand to Tommy’s hair, ruffling it until it’s at least frizzy all around. “There, now your hair looks like a helmet.” He grabs for his phone, switching over to the camera, and Tommy ducks. He jumps awkwardly off the couch, his socks sliding over the hardwood floors as he does a poor job at dodging the flash. Wilbur takes a few good ones, each a worthy candidate for Tommy’s contact photo. He laughs to himself as he scrolls through them, and when he looks back up Tommy’s at the door and tying his shoes. “What are you doing?” 

“Getting ready, you said it was getting late.” Wilbur blinks at him, his phone left on the coffee table as he stands. Tommy grabs Wilbur’s keys from the coat rack by the door and tosses them over. “We have to go if we’re going to make curfew.” 

Something flips at the idea of Tommy alone in his apartment. The place was hot and noisy, he couldn’t understand how anyone could be comfortable in there. “Actually, I was going to see if you wanted to stay here tonight.” 

Tommy, confused, takes a step back, “What?” 

“There’s the guest bedroom, and I’m sure I have some spare clothes you could use to sleep in,” Wilbur tells him. He stammers a little, backtracking, ‘If you really want me to take you home I will, but it’d probably be easier to take you back in the morning.”

Tommy’s eyes go wide, but not in the way they had before. “You want me to stay here? Like a sleepover?”

“Yea?”

Tommy’s shoulders rise and his hands find one another. He pulls at his fingers. “Wil, you guys have been really nice, but I don’t need-”

“It’s not a handout,” Wilbur cuts in. He takes a step forward, slowly closing the gap between them, “You have a place here whenever you want Tommy. I wouldn’t be saying it if I didn’t mean it.”

Tommy’s quiet. He just stares at the brunet, weighing his options. “Can I have more pie?” Wilbur nods, and that must be the right answer because Tommy’s eyes light up. “Okay bitch, let’s have a sleepover.”

Chapter Text

Good things don’t happen to Tommy.

They never did really. He’d always been dealt a lousy hand, never able to secure anything long enough to win. He hadn’t had the luxury of keeping his cards close to his chest. They’d been ripped from his grasp, left face up in the dirt as he scrambled on his hands and knees to collect them. 

The people around him always seemed to know more, always in control of the high ground–doting instructors and mentors with words that often felt like acid. 

Maybe poker isn’t the best analogy. 

Sure, there are bluffs and lies and things like that, but saying so is assuming Tommy was an equal player at the table, free to make choices and gamble the things that were his. 

He wasn’t. He isn’t. 

Maybe, it was more like a game of chess, and Tommy was just a pawn. He was limited, weak. He was trapped easily if something got in his way. But, that’s not entirely accurate either. 

Tommy may have been trapped, but he wasn’t stuck, he’d made an away for himself. 

Maybe he wasn’t the pawn, but the king. Still weak, still slow, but important–because something in Tommy must’ve been important. 

Any movement could be cut off, any attack thwarted. He had no real power, no real advantages. Maybe he was only there to determine when the game had ended.

And when the game had ended, when Tommy clawed his way out of his cage–because that’s what it was all along–what then? There was no home to crawl back to so he could safely lick his wounds. No family was waiting for him with open arms and a warm bed. There was nowhere else to go. Tommy had nothing, had no one for the first time in his life, and sure, maybe he’d won this game, but he definitely didn’t feel like it.

The universe had a way of keeping him down. 

So no, good things don’t happen to Tommy. 

Or at least, they didn’t, because then Wilbur showed up and Wilbur was good. Wilbur’s family was good, and Tommy likes being able to have one good thing. 

It gives the day a new sort of… something. He’s not sure what it is, but he’s not one to complain about his days actually having some variety instead of the old routine he’d trapped himself in. 

It’s a feeling he thinks, and it doesn’t wear off when the sun dips below the horizon, or when an easy silence falls over the diner. It stays constant. Like a hand on his shoulder, Tommy finds himself with more energy than usual. 

The diner is mostly cleared out by now. The curfew is seemingly a good motivator for most people to get home earlier, so whenever Tommy does get the chance to work the closing shift, the last few hours are spent in near solitary. It has its upsides, of course, and now he’s able to get a head start on the boring clean-up shit.

There’s still a man sitting in one of the far booths, sipping his coffee as the clock steadily gets closer to closing time. He’s been coming in regularly over the past few weeks. Usually arriving later in the day and staying until right before the diner closes for the night. 

Tommy doesn’t mind him. Typically, he hates the type of people that stay late, but the man is easy enough. He keeps to himself, content to sit alone and work on an expensive-looking laptop as hours pass by. All Tommy has to do is refill his mug every so often. It’s an easy tip. 

Most nights Wilbur stops by, a smile on his face as he finds his usual spot at the counter. Those nights–upon Wilbur’s insistence–Tommy gets a ride. They roll the windows down and let the air run freely through their hair, the music playing loud through old speakers. Tonight, though, the diner is quiet, the man noticeably absent as Tommy wipes down the counter. He hums quietly to himself as he works. It’s the chorus of a song, but it’s been stuck in his head for days now, no matter how much he tries to focus his attention elsewhere. 

Niki’s with him, silently sorting pastries with careful hands. Tommy’s happy to finally be working with her again after weeks of being stuck with the morning shift. She has a way of knowing what he needs before he even asks, always paying enough attention and making the tasks feel easy. They work well together, a well-oiled machine built for efficiency. 

When she finishes, she makes her rounds around the kitchen, making sure that all the equipment is cleaned and ready for tomorrow’s openers. As she does, the man in the booth begins to pack up. He doesn’t have much, only a backpack and his laptop, and he’s at the door seconds later, pulling it open with one hand and waving with the other. 

With his customer service smile plastered on his face, Tommy gives a half-hearted wave back, only lowering his hand when the doorbell rings. Niki makes her way back into the dining room then, her eyes finding Tommy at the abandoned booth. “Blondie left?” 

“Just a second ago, didn’t even leave a tip,” Tommy responds. He clears the table, wiping it down with the wet rag until all the crumbs and ring stains are gone. 

Niki hums from behind him, “Maybe he forgot,” a pause, then, “I’m sure he’ll be back tomorrow.” Tommy shrugs and collects the mug. It’s cold now, the coffee lost its heat nearly an hour ago. He turns, the beverage sloshing as he makes his way back to the kitchen. “No Wil tonight? Usually he’s here if you are.” 

“He’s working,” he tells her, “Thank prime, I don’t want him here anyway. Such a clingy, annoying, man.” Tommy scrubs the mug, raising his voice so he can be heard over the running water. “Honestly Niki, I don’t know why you’re friends with him.”

“Tommy,” She chides, popping her head through the window that connects the dining room to the kitchen. There’s a smile on her face, subtle on her lips but clear in the way she squints her eyes.

“I’m serious!” He puts on a mocking voice, and the mug is returned to its rightful place with the others. “Oh I’m Wilbur, I like to hang around shitty diners in my free time!” 

It earns a laugh from Niki, bright but quiet. “You’ve been more upbeat since he started coming around.” She goes back to the front, the unmistakable sound of jingling coins coming a moment later. 

“He leaves good tips,” Tommy says. He goes back to the counter and takes the closest seat across from Niki, who gives him a flat look in response. There are no words, but somehow Tommy can tell what she means. “What? He does!” 

She rolls her eyes and continues to count the cash drawer. “Does he give good rides home too?” 

“I’m using him for those.”

“Uh-huh, and how about the time you spend outside of here? Are you using him for quality time too?”

“Yup,” he says, popping the ‘p’. The memory of fluffy blankets and warm food fills his head, and he can’t suppress the smile tugging at his checks. “He’s very lonely. Really, I’m doing you all a favor by taking him off your hands for a while.”

“Your sacrifice is appreciated.” She closes the drawer, letting it slam shut with a jarring bang. 

“Thank you-“

“But,” Niki interrupts. She leans onto the counter, her chin resting in her palm. Brown eyes meet blue, “Tommy from a few months ago came here, did his work, then left. He didn’t talk, he didn’t smile, and he definitely didn’t laugh.” 

He snaps his mouth shut, his brain struggling to come up with something funny to say, but he can’t. She’s wrong. She has to be because Tommy hasn’t changed that much, certainly not enough to be noticeable, right? 

Wilbur was nice, yeah, but he hasn’t made that much of a difference. Sure, the diner seemed brighter, more alive even, but it was only because it was summertime and the sun was out longer. It wasn’t because he’d had something to look forward to for the first time in his life, it wasn’t. “I’m just the same old me, big man Tommy.” Same as always.

“Oh stop,” She lowers her voice, ignoring the fact that the diner is empty and there’s not even anyone around to overhear them. Like the next words are a secret only the two of them are meant to hear. “Tommy, you smile now, for real, not one of the fake ones you’d give to a customer.

And- he sighs, deflating a little in his seat. He wants to keep joking, to pass the time, but something else fills his head instead, and it makes him feel floaty. It’s that same something from before, the one that makes going through his days a little bit easier. 

It’s like a metaphorical hand on his shoulder, the pressure helping to ease some of the nervousness surrounding day-to-day life. They were still there, of course, but they weren’t nearly as suffocating as they used to be. 

Niki’s right too. The cheery voice he uses with the customers isn’t nearly as fake as it used to be, his smile genuine more often than not. The hours seem to pass a little quicker, like the time is slipping through his fingers in the best way. He does feel different than he did six months ago. Tommy feels lighter.

He feels happier. 

“It’s been cool,” he tells her, “Having a friend. Wilbur’s been pretty cool.”

Niki nods, lifting her chin from her palm. “It might not show at first, but he’s loyal. He looks out for the people around him, no matter what. It’s something I’ve always liked about him,” she says. “That said, Wil’s kind of like a big puppy, he doesn’t always know his own strength, you know?”

Confused, Tommy shakes his head. “I don’t know…”

“What I mean is,” She starts, standing back up, “He means well, but when he finds something–or someone–he likes, it’s his, and he’s not always the best at sharing. Loyal to a fault I suppose.” Niki sounds cautious, her words carefully thought out. “I know constant attention can sometimes be,” she waves her hands around, trying to find the words, “overwhelming, so I wanted to make sure you weren’t being smothered or something.” 

“Oh,” Tommy murmurs. She’s worried about him. “I’m good Niki, really good actually.” 

 “Good.” She smiles something sweet as she rounds the counter, settling in the seat next to Tommy. She throws an arm around his shoulders and pulls him into her side despite any complaints he may have. “Keep smiling, I’m happy to see the real Tommy.” her words are filled with honey. “Just, make sure you don’t give him all to one person.” 

The clock ticks, the minute hand pointed up. The diner is closed. 

“I will.” He notes her words, committing them to memory. The clock continues to tick, the sound loud through the otherwise quiet dining room. “Niki?”

“Yeah?” She hums.

Tommy pulls away, flashing an exaggerated grin to the shorter girl beside him. “Don’t tell Wilbur I said he was cool, I’d never hear the end of it.” 

If the streets were empty before, they were full-on abandoned now. It’s eerily desolate as Tommy takes his typical route, his steps quiet and quick. He moves with his head down, eyes glued on the pavement. The flashlight on his phone is dim, barely strong enough to light the path a few feet ahead, but it’s better than nothing. 

Tommy doesn’t dare look up. 

In this area, it’s best to keep to yourself, so he hunches his shoulders, curling in on himself until the outside world rolls off his back like a drop of water on glass. There are times when his eyes flick up to the surrounding buildings, finding nothing but drawn curtains and still shadows. 

Music plays loud in one ear while the other earbud hangs near his chest. It brings a sense of normality as he walks. Tommy times his steps with the beat, faster with an upbeat track then slower with the next. His fingers fidget with the cord connecting the earbuds to his phone, knotting it up then unraveling it again and again. 

There isn’t even a breeze–Tommy realizes soon after he leaves the diner–nothing to rustle small trees or paper on the street. The air is warm and damp, so humid every breath feels choked. His apartment will be just as hot, and it dawns on him that he’d left the windows in his bedroom open. Not that it matters much anyway, there’s no wind to blow through his room. 

It’s as if the wind is also afraid of The Syndicate’s presence in the city, like the group of villains have managed to tame more than a few city blocks. 

L’Manberg is silent, uncharacteristically so, and maybe that’s why Tommy notices it. 

A hum, so soft it could be mistaken as the buzzing of the lights. 

It’s far off at first, but as Tommy gets closer to his apartment it seems to get louder, closer. He keeps his gaze on the ground, watching as the light from his flashlight warps the shadows cast by cracks in the pavement. 

He tries his best to shove down any curiosity he has, but eventually, it starts to eat away at him. The questions running through his head drown out the music in his ears, and a chill runs down Tommy’s spine when the sound seems to get even closer. Slowly, he turns his head, careful not to make any sudden movements. 

There’s nothing out of the ordinary, only streets lined with cars of all kinds, and it helps to calm his nerves. Maybe it was the hum of an air conditioning unit, or the streetlight bulbs were getting too old. Tommy takes a breath, feels his shoulders rise and fall, and begins to turn forward. 

And that’s when he sees it. Out of the corner of his eye, barely within his line of sight, he catches one of the cars rolling forward. It's slow, so much so that it could be his head playing tricks, but it’s impossible to miss the way the reflection of the streetlights shifts over moving metal. 

It’s a simple car, glossy black and big. The headlights are off, windows tinted, and Tommy has to force his legs to keep moving at a steady pace. 

Someone is following him. 

Tommy’s being followed, and he’s only a block away from his apartment. 

The calmness from before breaks, and he picks up the pace. His heart is pounding as he runs through plans in his head, some old, some new. 

He can’t go back to his apartment, that much he knows. Whoever is following him could just follow him upstairs, and Tommy would rather not be trapped several stories in the air with a stranger at the door. So, when his building comes into view, he walks past it, never slowing his pace or tearing his eyes from the ground. 

Tommy knows where he is, he’d spent days exploring every nearby block after he first moved in. Those first few nights had been wasted away on street corners as squinted eyes committed the street names to memory. He needed ways to run if he was found, escape routes, and hiding places. If shit hit the fan, he would be prepared, he made sure of that. 

Now, over two years later, Tommy can still recall a mental map of this area. He knew where the streets intersected, knew which alleyways had dead ends and which ones didn’t, and he knew which ones were accessible by car. By the time he’s at his next intersection, he has a spot picked out. He turns off his flashlight and takes a right. The back of the apartment building is over his shoulder. 

He walks until he’s fully past it, and then he takes a left, continuing on further from the glorified pile of bricks he calls his. 

The car keeps with him, never too far behind. 

At some point, the driver must know their cover is blown because they stop slowing down whenever Tommy looks back. They stop trying to hide. They follow through every turn, ignoring red traffic lights and rolling straight through. 

There are a few times when Tommy thinks he’s lost them. He’ll take another right, careful to keep his body close to the wall. He breathes slowly, but it doesn’t seem to help the way his heartbeat seems to echo in his ears. The hum approaches, slowing a little as the driver takes a look around. The break only lasts a moment, and then the car is turning, speeding up until it's back at the usual distance.

Just a little longer, Tommy thinks, just let me get there. 

The lighting in this part of the city is even worse than it is near the diner. Nearly all of the streetlights are out, and the ones remaining are dim. Tommy’s fingers itch to text someone, to reach Wilbur, but he’s so close. He can tell that the person is having trouble keeping track of him in the dark, their pace has gotten inconsistent, and Tommy fears that the brightness of his phone screen may act as a beacon instead of a safety net. 

He wishes he could turn it on, he wishes he could ask Wilbur for a ride instead of participating in this dreadful game of cat and mouse, but he can’t. Instead, he moves, walking until his legs burn. Of course, that doesn’t take long, he’d been on his feet nearly all afternoon, and even a slow day usually left him feeling sore. 

In the distance, about a block away, Tommy could make out three cement pillars guarding a gap between buildings. 

He’s made it.

Relief floods his veins, pushing away the soreness of his muscles, and he breaks into a sprint. Behind him, the car speeds up, but Tommy doesn’t slow down. He goes faster as the pillars get closer. He reaches his hand out, grabbing on tight and using the object to swing himself around, wincing when the motion pulls on a scabbed-over wound. 

Tommy laughs, loud and victorious as he runs down the sidestreet. He’s won, he actually won! It’s a warm feeling, blooming in his chest beside a racing heart. Tommy’s skin buzzes, his muscles jittery with excitement. Every step he takes is another step closer to safety, and that knowledge makes Tommy feel ecstatic.

All he has to do now is loop around and go back to the apartment, and-

Tommy slows to a stop, his heart sinking into his stomach.

There’s a wall. 

There’s a fucking wall, or at least the beginnings of one, right where the exit is supposed to be. It’s tall, the top of it reaching well out of Tommy’s reach, and there’s no way around it. No door, no opening, no way out. 

It feels as though ice water has been dumped over his head, and all he can do is stare, mouth agape, as he wonders what the fuck to do next, because there’s not supposed to be a wall here. 

A door slams shut, and Tommy’s breath catches in his throat. He turns slowly, careful not to move too suddenly. 

A figure is stood at the end of the street, near the pillars. Their face is hidden in the darkness, but Tommy can tell they’re big. “Look asshole,” He calls out, voice echoing, “I don’t want any trouble, I’m just trying to go home.” Broad shoulders bounce with what Tommy assumes to be laughter, and then the person starts walking forward. “I-If you want money or something I don’t have any!” He takes a few steps back, feeling the lump of folded bills in his back pocket when his back hits the wall. 

The person keeps moving forward, steadily closing the gap between them.“You’re a tough one to pin down, kid,” a gruff voice calls out. It’s a man’s voice, deep and augmented. “You’ve got a lot of people looking for you.” 

Tommy’s eyes widen, and he lets go of the straps, lowering his hands to his sides. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, you must have the wrong guy.” 

The street is dim, the majority of the light comes from the moon above, but even that doesn’t help much when the surrounding buildings cast shadows onto the ground below. The man chuckles, one of his hands moving to rest on something near his hip. “No,” He starts, and one of his boots steps into a small patch of light, “I’m not usually wrong, Tommy.” 

He steps into the light, and Tommy feels nothing but dread when he recognizes the gold-lined armor and enchanted amulet. Somehow, the vigilante looks older compared to the last time Tommy saw him, all those months ago. 

Punz looks worn, tired. Tommy can only wonder what could have possibly happened in the past several weeks to have this kind of effect. He stops in the moonlight, hands raised like he’s trying to calm a wild animal. 

The scene is sickeningly familiar to the way Wraith had behaved. He had raised his hands, keeping a careful distance away from the jumpy teenager before him. But where the villain had tried to convey safety, Punz does anything but. 

Icy blue eyes glint with something dangerous as he reaches down to his belt, his hand hovering over his hip. “The Commission was very insistent on getting you back,” Tommy scowls, “Makes me wonder what’s so special about you.” 

“I don’t want any trouble,” Tommy tells him, voice cautious.

“Well then,” the vigilante pulls something from his belt and shifts his stance. He flicks his wrist, and a baton, metal and heavy, extends at his side. “Maybe you should have thought of that before you left the nest, little hero.” He speaks the words with stinging vitriol.

“Don’t call me that,” Tommy warns.

He wasn’t a hero, and he’d made that clear the night he’d returned to the tower. 

“It’s what you were trained to be, wasn’t it?” Punz swings his weapon, dangerously close, and Tommy suppresses a flinch. 

He slides to his right, putting a little bit of distance between him and Punz. “Training doesn’t fucking matter, I’m not one of them.” 

The vigilante huffs a laugh, “Maybe there’s hope for you yet.” The baton crackles to life and a flurry of sparks fly off the metal and onto the cracked street below.

Tommy’s hands burn at his side, his fingertips thrumming with power as his glance dances between Punz and the weapon, and then over the man’s shoulder. The street is long, much longer than he’d initially thought, and by now it has to be past curfew. There won’t be anyone else outside for hours, no one to help, and Tommy realizes that he is truly alone. 

Punz lunges, closing the gap between them, and Tommy’s ducking before he even has the chance to think. He hears something buzz above his head, feels sparks landing on his skin, but there’s no pain as the baton crashes into the wall above him. 

He dives, not willing to give the vigilante a moment to recover. Every part of him is steady when he rises back to his feet, any fear or nervousness gone as he falls effortlessly into old habits. 

“Tommy, Tommy, Tommy,” Punz chides, clicking his tongue. The mask over his face adds a metallic sound to the name, making the blond’s stomach turn. He pulls himself away from the wall, eyes scrunched in amusement as he stalks forward. “You can either come back willingly,” He gives his weapon another spin, its sparks landing near Tommy’s feet, “or we do this the hard way. Regardless, your friends up in the tower are expecting you tonight.” 

“Fuck you,” Tommy spits, his stance wavering. Punz takes his opening, charging forward again. There’s less distance between them, less time to think, and all Tommy can manage is a measly step back before Punz slams into him. He pushes Tommy back hard, the teenager’s body slamming into the brick wall behind him. 

The force knocks the air from his lungs, leaving him gasping for breath as Punz digs his forearm into the base of Tommy’s neck. “Hard way it is then,” he says, sounding happy, “Inferno said you had a mouth on you, looks like you haven’t changed too much.” He only has one arm on Tommy, the other holding his weapon at his side. It’s close, far closer to Tommy’s arm than he would like. 

He tries to push back, using his free arm to scratch at Punz’s arm, but he barely gets an inch before the pressure on his neck increases. 

Tommy goes still. 

The brick is rough against his head, scratching at his scalp as he angles his chin down, just enough to see the man in front of him. “Yea?” The blond croaks between breaths.  “What else did he say?” 

Punz scoffs, and it comes out sounding wrong, “Not much, but he offered a pretty penny to get you back.” 

The vigilante’s words send a shiver down Tommy’s spine. He wouldn’t go back, never again. He’d promised himself he was done after that night, repeating the words as he scrubbed his hands in the bathroom sink, the scent of iron burned into his nostrils. 

He brings his knee up, and the surprise alone is enough for Punz to loosen his grip. It’s not a lot–the man has probably taken more hits than Tommy could imagine–but it’s enough. With a racing heart, Tommy pushes, sending the man stumbling back a few steps.

And then he runs. 

He doesn’t wait–doesn’t hesitate before stepping past Punz and taking off towards where he came. The pain from aching lungs disappears as adrenaline courses through his veins, giving him the energy to run. Tommy’s eyes lock onto one of the pillars, all of his focus dedicated to the empty street beyond it. 

The only thing he feels as he runs is the way his hands absolutely burn. It’s not painful, but the sensation crawls past his fingers, extending far past his wrists until it’s halfway up his arm. He blinks, trying to bring the burning back down but it’s no use. 

Blood rushes in his ears, so loud that he doesn’t notice the boots hitting the pavement behind him. 

He does hear, however, the crack of the baton against his back. 

Tommy loses control, his muscles violently convulsing, and like a car without a driver: he crashes. 

The asphalt tears into his skin as he slides to a stop, but he can’t feel the sting of the cuts, not over the way his body feels like it’s on fire. 

It's a white-hot pain that webs its way down his back and to his hands and feet, sharp and mean. It feels as though hundreds of bees have made their home in his skin, stinging and buzzing and burrowing. 

Somehow, he rolls onto his back, barely biting back a cry when a rock presses into where he’d taken the blow. 

His head feels fuzzy, as though a fog is swallowing up his mind, the pain easing a little with it. “You know,” Punz says, amusement thick in the way his voice lilts. “I can’t help but wonder what makes you so special.” Something steps over Tommy, and his eyes flutter closed. 

A  warm liquid drips down his cheek, probably staining his shoulder. Was it raining? It hadn’t rained in a while, not since earlier in the summer. He forces his eyes open, looking past the figure in front of him and finding bright stars and the moon above. 

Huh, clear skies. 

A hand touches his chin, guiding his head from side to side. Then, it pushes his head up, far enough so that his throat is exposed. “What do you have that not just one hero wanted, but two?” Tommy whines, trying to pull away from the touch, but he’s so tired. Everything feels so heavy, so numb.

He wants Henry.

“We must have searched for you for months, Dream and I,” Tommy jerks, tearing his head away from Punz’s hand, “Combed the streets, kept an eye out. Honestly, I figured you hopped the first boat or train out of the city, but no. You’ve been here the whole time, hiding right under our noses. Sneaky little hero.” 

“‘m not a hero.” Tommy slurs, the words too big for his mouth. 

“No,” Punz tilts his head, the corners of his eyes crinkling with a smile, “you’re not, but I’m sure they’ll make good use of you anyway.”

Tommy’s pulled up by his collar, his hands grabbing onto Punz’s wrist as he’s dragged across the road. He struggles to get his feet under him, but the man is moving fast. Tommy kicks at rocks, a feeble attempt at slowing down. 

His head lolls back, and blurry eyes spot the car's silhouette. 

The fog in his head clears a bit, aches and pain coming back in its absence, and Tommy realizes with sickening clarity that the car is getting closer. 

“Stop,” he croaks, but Punz doesn’t slow, he doesn’t even acknowledge that Tommy said anything. “Punz, stop!” The grip on Tommy’s collar tightens as the rest of the fuzziness fades away, and Tommy’s hands feel warm again. 

Too warm. 

Tommy’s heart drops as he frantically searches the street for something, anything that would give him any other option, but here’s nothing. No people, no help, just him and Punz. 

He flails, trying to push the hand away, but Punz tightens his grip again. He pulls Tommy up further, the fabric of the shirt cutting into his neck while his heels dig into gravel and asphalt. 

The baton buzzes in the vigilante’s other hand, a deadly warning. “Stop fighting, Tommy.” 

He wishes he could. 

“Please,” and it’s a whisper, a plea because Tommy wants to stop fighting, but he doesn’t want to do what he’d done before. 

The thought sends a stake through his chest, ripping and tearing into his ribs. Those people–they had deserved it. They’d driven him to that, taken nearly everything. He had nothing else to live for. 

He should have run further, hidden better. Maybe then he could’ve lived out on the beach with the birds and the water; could’ve gone out to the hills where the air didn’t smell like rotting sewage. 

He didn’t, of course. Tommy had stayed. 

He built himself a new home, a new life. He met Niki and Wilbur and he found joy in living like that. He doesn’t want to go back to before.

Back then, he had nothing to live for, and now Tommy is a villain who doesn’t want to kill. 

He imagines Wilbur showing up at the diner, smiling and eager to say something, only for that smile to turn sour when he realizes Tommy isn’t there. He imagines unanswered text messages and an extra setting at the table. All his things, left alone to collect dust as Tommy withers away in a white room. 

“Did you know?” he asks.

They stop on the sidewalk beside the car, and Punz finally looks down. His eyes are blue, nearly identical to Phil’s. “Know what?”

“Monument day,” Tommy clarifies, “Did you know it was me?” 

“Yes.” 

Tommy gets his feet under him, standing up with shaky legs. There’s a pain in his ankle, sharp and throbbing when he puts weight on it. “Then why? Why let me go?” His voice cracks, “Why let me live?” 

The vigilante pauses, brows furrowing. Tommy lets himself think, only for a second, that maybe the man cares. Maybe he has a bit of remorse, maybe Tommy won’t have to kill him. “They hadn’t made an offer yet.” 

The blond nods, letting go of Punz’s wrist, feeling as his face goes blank. 

Satisfied, Punz eases his grip.

That is his first mistake. 

Tommy had been told he was weak from the moment he first stepped into the ring. He was small, skinny– he was a kid. He had been taught from day one that he would be underestimated. 

He was also taught to use it to his advantage. 

So he pivots, ducking low and twisting on his heel until he’s free from Punz’s grasp. 

Falling back into old forms is as easy as breathing, it’s effortless, perfect. He plants his feet, keeping his eyes on the man, when he takes a step right, Tommy goes left. 

They circle each other, the beginnings to a dance ingrained in Tommy’s head. “You and I both know how this ends,” Punz calls. He holds the baton out, pointing it at the teenager, “It’s time to stop running, kid.” 

“Fuck off,” Tommy hisses. “What, you think you’re better than me? Think you have some sort of moral high ground here? I might’ve run, but at least I’m not all buddy-buddy with them.” 

The weapon crackles, “It’s just business.” he looks uncaring as he says it, and Tommy sees red.

He lunges, ignoring the pain in his foot as he rushes forward. Punz swings, sparks flying out as Tommy dances around the baton. He doesn’t think when his hands wrap around Punz’s wrist, doesn’t think when the weapon is thrown out of the vigilante’s hands and sent clattering onto the ground, he just moves. 

Punz recovers quickly from the loss, his gloved hands curling into fists. He swings, and Tommy sees it coming. 

He ducks, popping back up as soon as the man pulls his hand back, and then Tommy takes his opening, landing a blow to his gut. It doesn’t do much, Punz’s armor is thick, but it seems to catch him off guard, and that’s enough. 

Something hooks around his ankle, pulling it out until all of Tommy’s weight is shifted to his bad ankle. He winces, the sudden pressure sends shooting pain up his leg, and then his leg gives out. 

He falls, hitting the ground with a grunt. A heavy boot lands on his chest, pressing him to the ground. “Now you’re wasting my time.”  Tommy raises his hand, reaching over the street. His eyes don’t leave Punz. 

He crouches down, his boot still pressing uncomfortably onto the teenager’s ribs. 

Tommy squirms, reaching out a shaky hand. Just a little more, he thinks, closing his eyes. He can’t breathe, just a little more.

“It’s time to go.”

His fingers graze cold metal. 

Tommy exhales, relief flooding through him as he wraps his hand around the baton’s handle. He’s tired, arms heavy with exhaustion, but he opens his eyes anyway, just enough to see the way Punz freezes when his own weapon meets his neck. 

The man convulses, his eyes going wide as the baton sizzles against his skin. 

Sparks land on Tommy’s chest, eating at his shirt, and the man falls away, his body hitting the ground wit a thud. 

Tommy brings his arm back down, baton left abandoned beside him. He sits up, gasping for breath and turning horror-filled eyes to Punz. Please don’t be dead. Please, please, please. 

The vigilante is still, safe for the occasional twitch, and then he sees it. 

Punz breathes.

It’s feint and shallow, but it’s there, and the only thing Tommy can do now is leave. 

He stands, legs trembling, and pulls his phone from his pocket. The screen is cracked, probably damaged when he fell the first time, and the device stays dark when he goes for the power button. 

So he walks–or, he tries to anyway. It’s slow, every step painful because of his ankle, but he keeps going. He can’t afford not to. 

He looks back often, eyes watching for a moving car or a man in white. He sees nothing, hears nothing. Tommy is alone. 

When the silhouette of his apartment building comes into view, he realizes that he can’t go back. Punz had known where to find him, known when he’d be alone. Going back wasn’t safe. 

He couldn’t go to his apartment, and he certainly couldn’t go back to the diner. 

Tommy only had one place left. 

So he limps past the building, setting his sights on the familiar roads as he navigates his way through the city. He imagines loud music as he walks. Thinks of wind blowing through an open window and stinging his face, Wilbur in the driver's seat. 

Tommy had one good thing, and he was going to hold tight. 

The walk feels like hours, it might be, Tommy’s not really sure. What he is sure of, however, is that he’s tired. His eyes droop more than once, heavy with exhaustion, and there are a few times when he needs to duck into an alleyway to catch his breath. 

He’s practically dragging himself along the pavement by the time he reaches Wilbur’s street, eyes locking onto a car parked in the driveway a few houses down. 

Tommy’s lungs burn, desperately crying for a break, but he doesn’t stop. He doesn’t have time to stop. 

The surrounding houses are dark, the people within them fast asleep behind locked doors. 

For the most part, Wilbur’s home blends in. The curtains are shut, porch lights off, but there’s one room that differs from the rest, a yellow glow shining from behind the curtains. 

Tommy limps up the driveway and onto the porch, sparing a look at the flowers planted along the walkway, only to stop at the door. A shaky breath in, and he knocks. 

The house is silent. There isn’t any talking or footsteps, no sign that anyone is coming, so Tommy knocks again, but louder this time. He’s about to knock a third time when the porch light flicks on, casting the porch in white light. The door clicks, opening a crack, just enough to see pink hair and square glasses. 

“Tommy?” Techno swings the door wide open, staring at the sight on his front step with narrowed eyes. “You’re bleeding.” 

Tommy raises his hand to his face. It stings, and he pulls away, his fingers coming back red. Huh. 

“I… um,” he stammers, looking anywhere but Techno. “Can I stay here?” 

He realizes then that he’s shivering, but it’s not cold outside. He tries to push it away, to relax, but he can’t seem to focus long enough to make it stop. 

And then his eyesight goes blurry with tears. 

Techno stares, a weird mixture of concern and confusion, and then he steps out onto the porch and past Tommy. He looks around, searching the street for a person or a car or something but finds nothing. The street is empty and quiet. 

He turns back to the blond, resting an awkward hand on the teenager’s shoulder and pulling him into his side. Techno’s warm, way warmer than Tommy would’ve thought, like a human furnace. He guides Tommy forward, holding him up a little when Tommy takes a step onto his bad ankle. “Yeah, kid. You’re safe here.”

For the first time in six years, Tommy believes it.

Chapter Text

Wilbur’s going to wear a hole through the floor. 

That’s Techno’s prediction anyway–because the man will not stop pacing. He’s been at it for nearly twenty minutes, and Techno’s starting to get tired of it. 

His palms are pressed together, fingertips tucked underneath his nose as he walks another line in front of the TV. 

“Tell me again.” 

Techno groans, rolling his head back until it hits the back of the couch. “Wil,” Phil says, exhausted. They’ve both had a long night. Patrols closer to the center of the city were trickier, always needing to be navigated with a certain amount of care, especially with the way the Commission is organizing their heroes these days. “I think Techno’s said enough.”

“I want to hear it again.” Wilbur looks over, meeting Techno’s rather uninterested eye, “Please.”

“I don’t know what else you want me to say, the only information I have is what he told me,” Techno says. He rubs his eyes. The coffee he’d had a few hours ago is finally wearing off and his eyes are starting to get heavy. “The kid just showed up–”

“Hurt,” Wilbur interrupts.

Techno nods, “Hurt, and asking for a place to stay. Was I supposed to turn him away?”

“No,” the other two shout in unison. 

“Okay, okay,” Techno raises his hands in surrender, “Don’t be loud, he’s sleeping.”

“I can’t believe this.” Wilbur’s step is surprisingly light for how heavy his boots are. 

The whole situation isn’t what Techno would call particularly surprising. Weird, sure, and while he wouldn’t have guessed the stray his brother picked up would show up on their doorstep, it’s not completely unexpected. Weird things happen to them all the time. “I shouldn’t have gone out tonight.”

Phil sighs, leaning forward in his seat, “You know we needed you. You can’t blame yourself, mate.”

“He got mugged, ” he whispers the word like its a curse, “If my phantoms were there–”

“It would have freaked him out more,” Techno reasons. The Tommy he saw tonight was disoriented and jumpy, a bundle of nerves that was quickly shutting down. Techno couldn’t even raise a cloth to wipe his face without the kid flinching back. It was… unnerving, to say the least. Something about it felt wrong. “Not to mention having them watch him puts your identity at risk.”

Tommy’s smart, much smarter than he lets on, and Wilbur’s phantoms weren’t always subtle. The last thing they needed was Tommy finding out something he shouldn’t. 

“I could have given him a ride for fucks sake!” Wil shakes his head, sweat sticking to his brow. 

Outside, crickets chirp near the window, their calls echoing throughout the neighborhood. It’s a nice sound, one Techno likes. It’s relaxing, good background noise for a night full of work. Or, it was, until the work was interrupted by a knock at the door.

The sound of boots against hardwood stops abruptly, and Techno looks to his brother with curious eyes. He’s stopped right in front of the TV, his gaze bouncing between the hall and the couch. “I’m going to check on him,” Wilbur says, taking a step towards the hall.

Phil jumps out of his seat, rushing forward with raised hands, “He’s had a hard night, let him rest.” 

Wilbur huffs, frustrated, “But–”

“Nope,” and their father’s voice is stern, the same one he’d used when they’d run off as kids, “Wil, get out of your head. You didn’t fail him, you didn’t let this happen, this isn’t your fault. What’s important is that he’s here now. He came here .” 

Realization seems to wash over Wilbur then, clear in the way his jaw slack. This had been his goal, hadn’t it? “Oh.” Phil herds him over to the couch. He takes his usual seat, his hand reflexively reaching for a decorative pillow beside him, pulling it into his lap. “So what do we do now?” 

Phil settles back in his seat beside Techno, his hands clasped lightly in his lap. “It’s up to him.” 

“What?” And it’s Techno who interjects this time. He’d spent his night helping Tommy. He’d wrapped the boy’s ankle and cleaned the blood dripping down his face, he isn’t in any position to choose what is best for him. The kid is smart, sure, but he’s also stubborn, and Techno’s willing to bet that he’s the type who doesn’t accept help very quickly. 

Wilbur holds the pillow in a white-knuckle grip, pointing narrowed eyes at his father. “How do you expect us to protect him if he’s not here?”

“He’s not helpless,” Phil starts. He turns to Techno, looking for backup, “You said he could fight, right?” Techno nods slowly, not quite if he likes where the conversation is going. “I’m not saying we throw him out on the streets, but you both know as well as I that if he wants to go, he will.” Phil casts a sideways glance at Wilbur, who shrinks a little in his seat. 

He’d been considered a flight risk when he was younger, always running the first chance he got. There was more than one occasion where Techno’s knocks on the door would go unanswered, the room on the other side empty, and the window left open. Wilbur was never trapped–honestly if he’d asked Phil probably would have let him go wherever he wanted within reason–but he had been in a place he didn’t want to be, and he made that clear.

Techno had tried to run too, only once. He was nine, still new to the foster system, and angry at prime knows what, so he slipped out the backdoor when he thought no one was looking. He hadn’t made it far, maybe only a few steps off the back porch when he’d gotten distracted by a patch of flowers in the garden. 

He didn’t find out until years later that Kristin had been watching him from the kitchen window, a warm smile on her face as her son played in the gardenias. 

“Sometimes you just have to trust that they’ll make the right choice,” Phil tells them. “He stays until he feels better, and after that, it’s up to him.” Wilbur presses himself into the couch, tucking the pillow close to his chest, but he doesn’t protest. He just lets his eyes slide shut, a soft sigh escaping his lips. 

It’s been a long day for all of them.

Tommy wakes up in a room he doesn’t recognize. 

He’s wrapped in a bundle of blankets that are way too soft to be his, one of them much heavier than the others. It sits on top of the pile, weighing comfortably on his chest and shoulders, but it seems to end at his knees. He tries to pull them up to his chest, to get the rest of his body under the weight, but the sudden movement brings unwelcome attention to the throbbing feeling in his foot. He stops, hissing through his teeth as he carefully sits up, arms screaming in protest from beneath him. 

A shirt that must be two sizes too big hangs off one of Tommy’s shoulders, and he can’t seem to remember how he got it. 

The hours after his encounter with Punz is a blur of exhaustion and pain, but he remembers walking. He’d gone until he was out of the city, until he was at a doorstep, and then–

Right, Techno had answered the door, so he must still be at Wilbur’s. 

A lamp on the nightstand illuminates the room in dim light, easy on tired eyes. Below it, a glass of water sits undisturbed beside a bottle of painkillers. Tommy doesn’t hesitate to grab both. The water feels heavenly on his dry throat. It’s cooling, refreshing, and before he knows it he’s gulped down half the cup. The bottle of pills lays among the blankets on his lap until he exchanges them for the cup, popping open the lid and pouring a few tablets into his hand. They go down easy, barely noticeable as he drinks the rest of the water, returning the glass to the nightstand when empty.

His entire body aches when he stretches, the muscles in his back the worst of it all. Tommy ignores the pain, pushing through it as he swings his legs over the side of the bed. 

His toes graze the floor, curling a little when he feels the chill from the floor. He moves slowly, careful not to place too much weight on his bad foot as he stands.

Outside of the blankets, the air is cold, making the hair on his arms stand up. Tommy takes a step, putting a little too much pressure on his ankle. His vision swims, going dark. Pressure builds behind his eyes, a sharp kind of pain that pulls his focus away from his body and faintly, he can feel himself tipping over. He reaches a hand out, hoping it lands somewhere solid. 

When the feeling fades, he’s left leaning on the wall, ears ringing as he blinks away stars. The room comes into focus, the light returning, and Tommy takes it in. The bed is on one side, while a desk and a bookcase are on the other. There’s nothing on the walls really, which is a stark contrast to Wilbur’s room. There, posters and little paintings carefully take up the space. 

Papers are sorted into neat stacks on the desk, most of them filled with graphs and hastily jotted notes. Nothing is telling about the documents, no names, but a there is a duffel bag hanging off the back of the chair. It’s the same one Techno used the day he brought Tommy out to the water.

Was he in Techno’s bedroom? 

A laugh catches his ear, pulling Tommy out of his thoughts as he snaps his head to the door. 

It’s opened a crack, a flickering blue glow shining through the sliver on the floor. He creeps forward as quietly as he can manage. Tommy’s hand hovers over the handle, his fingers shaking from a mix of soreness and exhaustion. His head dips forward, forehead pressing against the door as his eyes flutter shut.

Another laugh, faster and lighter than Wilbur’s, but far too high pitched to possibly be Techno. Forcing his eyes open, Tommy peers through the crack into the hall. Techno’s door is closest to the living room, so close that–at the right angle–he can make out the edge of the couch and a head of brown hair. 

Tommy feels his shoulders slump a little as unknown tension is released. He pulls the door open. A wave of even cooler air hits him, reminding him a little of the beach, of the way the waves bit at his heels. He’d felt weightless at that moment. Any worries were gone, replaced with sandy shores and friendly faces. 

A deep breath, and Tommy dives in, stepping into the hall and rounding the corner in slow strides. When the couch fully comes into view, he stops, feeling as his face softens a little.

The whole family is there, stretched over the cushions until there’s almost no more room. There’s a space between Wilbur and the end, the same spot Tommy would take whenever he visits. He wonders if the space was left there intentionally. 

They don’t see him at first. Techno and Phil are watching something on the TV while Wilbur scrolls through his phone, looking at prime knows what, and it looks so natural. So much like the family Tommy’s wanted since he was little. The sight makes his chest feel warm. 

He wraps his arms around his middle, and that’s when Phil notices him. The smile tugging at the man’s cheeks falters. He nudges Wilbur, nodding his head over to Tommy as he clicks a button on the remote. The TV goes quiet, and Wilbur looks up, his expression morphing from slight annoyance to concern as soon as he sees Tommy. 

“Hi,” the blond says, his voice cracking a little from disuse. 

Wilbur throws his phone to the side, jumping to his feet. “Tommy,” He breathes, and he’s across the room in a matter of seconds. “How are you feeling?” 

Like shit, Tommy wants to say, but he shrugs instead. 

Wil purses his lips. His hands drift over the teenager’s arms like he’s afraid to touch him. “Toms, your face.” 

Toms . Tommy smiles. “Is it bad?” he asks, “I was kinda hoping the ladies would be into the beat-up look.” 

Wilbur breathes a sigh of relief, his hands wrapping around Tommy’s shoulder and pulling him into a hug. Tommy melts into it. “I’m so glad you’re okay,” he says, words muffled by the blond’s shoulder, “I’m so sorry.”

Tommy points a confused face to Techno over Wil’s shoulder, but he just rolls his eyes. “‘S not your fault.” 

Wilbur pulls away, his hands still wrapped around Tommy’s shoulders, “I don’t care, you’re never walking anywhere ever again.” 

“Okay, now that’s excessive,” Techno says, “I think he’s capable of walking,”

“I forbid it.”

“Wil, all I did was land on my foot wrong, my legs aren’t broken. ” 

“Doesn’t matter, you’re hurt.”

Phil snorts, “His ankle will be good as new in a couple of days, he’ll be fine.” Wilbur glares at his father, but he doesn’t seem to care.

“See? I’ll be fine,” Tommy tells him. He’s been through worse before anyway, what’s a little electric shock and a few bruises? Wilbur scoffs, shifting over to Tommy’s side with a shake of his head. He guides the teenager over to his spot on the couch, and a blanket seems to materialize in his hands. “How long have I been out?” 

“Almost a day,” Phil tells him, “Techno said you were really out of it when you got here, so we wanted to let you rest. The sun just went down not too long ago.” a glance to the window, it’s dark out. “Are you hungry? Thirsty?”

Tommy shakes his head. They’ve already done so much, he didn’t want to be needy. His stomach betrays him though, growling loud enough for the room to hear. Wilbur takes it as an answer. He springs up, rounding the couch and heading to the kitchen in no time. “We saved you some dinner,” He calls, returning with a plate in one hand and a glass of water in the other. 

Tommy takes them both, setting the plate on his lap, “Thank you.” It isn’t anything extraordinary, just a simple sandwich, but it seems to melt in his mouth on the first bite. 

“You don’t need to thank us,” Wilbur says. He sits back down, leaning back a bit until he’s resting on Phil’s shoulder. “Thank you .”

Tommy nearly chokes on his food, “What?”

The older man smiles something gentle. “Thank you for coming here.”

He gulps down his bite, washing it down with a sip of water. He’s waiting for the ‘but’ to Wilbur’s statement, waiting for the Thank you, but you’re too loud. The:  Thank you, but you’re being annoying. Thank you, but it’s time for you to go home now. It’s irrational. Wilbur’s never done or said anything that would suggest a ‘but’ to his statement, but the thought eats at Tommy’s brain anyway. “Is it okay if I stay just until the morning? I don’t want to go back in the dark.”

“Toms,” Wilbur coos, the name sounding like honey, “You don’t need to go. You know you’re welcome to stay as long as you want, right?”

Oh.

Tommy gives a small nod and takes another bite. 

The pain he’d felt when he woke up eases a little, but he’s not quite sure if it’s because of the painkillers or the warm feeling spreading from his chest. He settles into the couch, the corners of his mouth upturned as he eats.

His eyes get heavy again by the time he finishes his food, drowsiness quickly overtaking any desire to stay awake. He slumps over, head resting on Wilbur’s arm as some survival show plays in the background. 

He finds himself in the guest bedroom the next morning and the morning after that.  None of them push him away, they don’t ask him to leave; and after a week Tommy notices himself settling into a new routine. 

If he thought he had free time before, he didn’t know what he had now. He spends his days between meals in bed or lounging around the house, always watching some shitty show on TV to keep him entertained, and eventually he gets bored. Restless. 

He should be happy. For as long as he’s been on his own, he’s needed to work. He had to take care of rent and groceries and everything else that needed to be done. To do that, he had to work. Now, those obligations are gone, he doesn’t need to be worried about them. He’s grateful for that, but there’s something else there too.

It must show in the way he acts or in the way he carries himself because Techno is the one to ask about it while Wilbur’s out one day. The blond caves, spouting out all his boredom in a flurry of swears and insults. When he’s finished, Techno smiles. 

He brings Tommy to his room, plants him in front of the bookcase, and tells him to pick something that looks cool. 

Tommy’s never been much of a reader. He knows how, of course, all the kids in his group were taught, but he’d never been provided books that were interesting enough to keep reading. There was a variety here. Covers with different fonts and different pictures, some with swords while others are blank. He’s never seen so many books in one place. 

Tommy, begrudgingly, looks them over. He inspects each one, searching for a story that looks interesting. He settles on one of the books about Greek myths. 

He spends the next few days reading. It’s a lot nicer than he thought it’d be. The hobby keeps him busy, easing some of that boredom and giving him something to talk to Techno about over dinner. 

On his tenth day with the family, Tommy wakes up early. 

Well, not too early, but early enough for the house to be silent. Nobody is awake yet. There aren’t any footsteps coming down the hall or pots banging together in the kitchen, so Tommy is allowed to wake up to total quiet. 

It’s one of those times where the air feels clean and every breath fills his lungs. The sheets are heavy on top of him, the mattress soft below, creating a pleasant, perfect, way to start the day. 

He hadn’t expected the guest bedroom to become his so quickly. It’s a nice room, spacious, just about as big as Wilbur’s. The bed is against the wall, bigger than the one Tommy has. It’s evenly spaced between the door and the window, dressed in fluffy down sheets. A small nightstand holds a lamp beside it. 

There’s a desk in the room too. It’s empty, waiting for someone to come along and fill it with papers and decorations, but for now, it holds some of Tommy’s things. 

The room is dark courtesy of the black-out curtains hung in front of the window. Golden light from the morning sun is beginning to shine onto the fabric, a bird's sweet song quiet on the other side of the glass. He almost wants to get up to open the curtains, to let the morning in, but he doesn’t, he’s far too relaxed to get out of bed. 

There are a lot of pillows. Tommy had only ever had one, and while the one he has at his apartment is good, there’s something he loves about the cocoon he’s made himself. 

He closes his eyes, bringing fistfuls of the sheets up to his face as he tries desperately to go back to sleep. It doesn’t come, and after a while, he gets bored of staring at the ceiling. His phone is broken, the device still refuses to turn on, and he left the book he was reading out in the main room. 

So he decides to start his day. 

The ground is cool under his feet, biting at his skin, leeching at his body heat until finally, he gets used to it. The sweats Wilbur had given him are big, with the excess fabric pooling around his feet. 

He’s greeted with the view of a bird's nest when he opens the curtains. It’s empty, nothing more than a carefully crafted pile of lint and twigs balanced on a gutter, but it’s a nice sight. 

It’s a sunny day out, not a cloud in the sky. Tommy’s window overlooks the backyard, and every morning he’s stuck staring out at it for what feels like forever.

They have a big yard, so much bigger than Tommy would have thought. 

It’s enclosed in a clean-looking fence, and just beyond a patio near the door is Phil’s garden. There’s a small stone path–probably made by hand–lined with sectioned vegetable patches. Most of them are still small, their tiny leaves reaching up towards the sun as they try their best to grow, but other bushes in the back seem to be speckled with blue and red berries. There are also flowers mixed into the lot, speckled throughout the garden to give it a pop of color against all the green. 

Reaching over a good quarter of the yard is a large oak tree, perfect for spending time under (he would know) and if Tommy looks closely he can see letters carved into the base of the trunk. It’ll be another hot day, judging by the heat rising off the grill on the patio.  

He makes his bed, trying his best to rearrange the pillows exactly as they were before he’d even laid in the thing. It was tough at first, but by now he’s practically memorized their designated spots. 

Eventually, just after he finishes folding his clothes for the third time, he hears pots clattering in the kitchen. It’s quiet, like whoever is in the kitchen is trying their hardest to be considerate to the people sleeping, but the noise ends up making its way to Tommy’s ears regardless. He gives it a minute, letting it settle before tip-toeing out into the hall. 

Soft music fills the main room, full of strings and piano, and Tommy follows the sweet sound into the main room. Phil is in the kitchen, his back turned away as he tends to the stove. The smell of pancakes in the air is easy to recognize, all vanilla and sweet smelling.

He approaches the counter, his feet stomping a little on purpose so as to give Phil some warning that he’s not alone, and when he takes his normal seat the man is ready with a glass of juice and a smile. “You’re up early.” Tommy shrugs, taking a sip of the juice, and- oh shit, that’s good . “You know how the other two are, little shits probably won't be up for a while. Honestly, you could probably put an air raid siren in the hall and they wouldn’t even notice.” 

Tommy laughs quietly, “I could never sleep in, I’ve got to be up and ready for all the dates I have.” 

“Got a lot of meetings today?” 

No. Tommy takes another sip of his juice, the sweetness of it sticking to the back of his throat, “So many, Phil. I’m a busy man.” 

Phil goes back to the stove. “I’m sure you are.” He flips a pancake, the top is a perfect golden brown. “These should be ready soon if you want to try to get Wil up.” 

“ Try ?” Tommy parrots, gulping down the rest of the juice and setting the glass down with a satisfying clink . “What, is this some sort of challenge?” Icy blue eyes meet his, and Phil offers a knowing smirk. Tommy nods, his lips pressed tight as he slides off his seat, marching back to the bedrooms. 

He stops at Wilbur’s door, hesitating to go in.

He was supposed to knock, right? Tommy had been yelled at when he was younger. When he was just a kid who’d woken up at the wrong time and was scared of being alone. He’d stood at the foot of a bed, his body shaking from the aftermath of a nightmare as he whispered his mentor's name. Tommy hadn’t knocked, and he spent the rest of the night on the hard sofa as punishment. Wilbur’s different though, he is. Tommy’s stomach growls, his hunger finally calling out, and he opens the door. 

The room is dark, the curtains closed. On the bed, a Wilbur-shaped lump snores, his back to the door. “Wilbur!” Tommy yells, stepping around piles of clothes until he gets to the bed. “Get up!”

His shoulders continue their steady rise and fall. The blond slaps Wil’s back, “Get up or you’re a bitch.” Again, he doesn’t stir, so Tommy jumps up on the bed, bouncing a few times “Wake up, prick.” 

“Shut the fuck up,” Wilbur mumbles, his voice groggy. Tommy doesn’t listen, of course, not when there are pancakes ready to eat. “Tommy I swear-” he gets his hand out from under the covers, swiping at the boy’s feet, but Tommy just dances around each grab. 

“Too slow old man! Tommy steps down, his foot landing dangerously close to Wilbur’s side. 

“I’ll punt you into the fucking sun if you step on me.” They continue back and forth for a minute, with Tommy doing his best to make the room as uncomfortable as possible while Wilbur tries desperately to push the boy off the bed. He gets close a few times, his hands wrapping around Tommy’s ankle, but a carefully aimed kick to Wilbur’s side is usually enough for him to let go. 

Finally, Tommy relents, flopping down onto the bed and crossing his legs. “Breakfast is ready,” he says, his cheeks pink from the exercise. 

“No shit.”

“And I’m hungry.” As if on cue, his stomach growls again.

Wilbur laughs a tired laugh, “Then go eat, don’t let me hold you up.” 

“Phil told me to get you up,” Tommy groans, pushing again at Wilbur’s shoulder, “And I’m not going to disappoint big man Phil.” 

A sigh, then Wilbur slowly sits up, blinking away the last bits of sleep. “You’re terrible.” 

He gets another kick, wincing when Tommy’s heel jabs into his leg. “Terribly awesome ,” Tommy corrects. Wilbur looks unimpressed, his eyes pointed in a deadly glare. “I’m probably the best man you’ll ever meet.” 

“I hate you.” 

“You hate how much you love me.” Wilbur doesn’t argue that one, seemingly content with letting the words hang in the air. He blinks again, rubbing at puffy eyes with the heels of his palm. It’s about then when Tommy realizes that he looks like a mess. His hair is all sorts of wrong, the strands standing every which way, almost as if all static electricity in the house decided to make its home on the man’s scalp. The sounds of shuffling silverware drift from the kitchen, a whistled tune following not long after. “Get up.” 

“Okay, okay, I’m up!” He rolls out of bed, Tommy following with a smile. “What’s on the menu?” 

The two leave the room, not bothering to shut the door behind them. “What’s your least favorite food?” The sweet smell has spread into the living room now, a hint of maple and cinnamon hidden under the vanilla. 

Wilbur doesn’t answer, instead just taking his seat at the table. It’s been set now, with plates, napkins, and bowls of fruit at every placemat. “Pancakes,” Phil supplies. He’s gotten quite the stack made up on his plate, so much so that they sway a little as he carries them over. “Make sure you save some for Techno.”

“If he wants some he could get his ass up like the rest of us,” Wilbur says through a mouthful of fruit. He makes up his plate, drowning the pancakes in butter and syrup all with a goofy grin on his face. Tommy hums, jabbing a pointed hand into the man’s side. “Ow!”

“ You wouldn’t even be up right now if it weren’t for me. Leave Big T alone.” 

“Big T? You have a nickname for him now?”

“He’s a big man, what can I say?” 

Wilbur, a little dejected, sets his fork down. “Why don’t I have a nickname?” 

“My friend, you have many.” He lights up at that, a curious sort of eagerness that results in him leaning near the edge of his seat. Tommy takes a breath, drawing out the moment, and then he begins listing off the names. “Bitch, prick, asshole… what else, oh! Old man,” he could go on, but he decides to cut the list short when Wilbur lets out a shocked gasp.

Phil cackles from his place by the stove. “Doesn’t feel so good when it’s directed at you, now does it?” He says, flipping the last pancake. He lets it cook until golden, and adds it to the stack as Wilbur grumbles. “So, Tommy, I was thinking that maybe we could go out today.” A chair scrapes against the ground as he takes his usual spot at the table.

“Out? Like, go somewhere?” It’s a stupid question, he knows it, but Tommy hasn’t been outside of their house in over a week. Weirdly he’s gotten used to it.

“Yeah,” Phil nods. “Wil’s clothes don’t fit you, if you want we could get you some new stuff, maybe some things to decorate your bedroom too if you’d like.” Tommy looks down, eyeing his rolled-up sleeves with a frown. 

He has clothes. Not a lot, and certainly not nice ones, but those are locked away in his apartment. He could manage with Wilbur’s old stuff for a bit longer, just until he was ready to go back. “You don’t need to,” he starts, snapping his mouth shut when Phil holds up a silencing hand. 

“I want to. We’ve all enjoyed having you around, and even if you decide to go back to your apartment, I’d like it if we had things for you for when you do come around.”

If he decides to go back . If.

Tommy hangs onto the word, holding it close to his chest. 

He likes it here, likes the garden and the people and his room. Tommy doesn’t have to leave. His apartment had always just been a place where he kept his stuff, it was never a home. This place though–he wasn’t sure what it was, but something felt right about it. It was almost like a fairytale, but real. 

“Can I come?” Wilbur asks, looking between the two. 

Phil shakes his head, “Just me and Tommy, you’ve got to go to the office.” He looks at the blond, a slight smile on his lips, “What do you say?” 

Well, if Phil insists. Tommy’s not one to turn down free clothes.

Wilbur is not going to the office. He decides as much while Phil pulls the car out of the driveway, Tommy sitting happily in the passenger seat. 

He looks… good. His cheeks are fuller, not nearly as hollow as they used to be, and his eyes look a little brighter too. It hasn’t even been two weeks, but already Tommy looks healthier, happier. It makes Wilbur wonder how well he’d been taking care of himself on his own. Had he been eating enough? Sleeping alright?

Whatever it was wasn’t enough. He was barely getting by. 

Wilbur finds himself outside of Techno’s room. The door is closed, the room on the other side quiet. “Techno.” He knocks once, turning the handle and barging into the room before he gets a proper response. 

His brother is in bed, tired eyes glaring at Wilbur from across the room. He has his phone in his hand, the screen paused on whatever video he was watching. “Bruh.” 

“I knocked.” Wil crosses the room, draping himself over the foot of the bed. “Techno,” he wines, drawing out the name.

“Wilbur,” Techno sits up, rearranging his pillows to form a backrest, “Don’t you have a child you can annoy instead of me?” 

 “Tommy went shopping with Phil.” Something squeezes at his lungs, and his cheeks burn, “He called you Big T at breakfast.” 

“Okay?”

Wilbur rolls over to his side, directing a sneer at Techno, “Stop stealing him.” 

“Awe,” his brother snorts, “Are you jealous?” No. Wilbur didn’t get jealous, especially not over some silly nickname. “I thought you wanted me to like him.” 

“In a chill way!” He yells, “He’s not supposed to like you more than me.” Wil reaches for one of the pillows close to him, grabbing onto the corner and flinging it at Techno, who raises his arm to block. 

“Are you even hearing yourself right now?” Techno asks, amused. He gets another pillow thrown at him. “I’m not tryin’ to steal him, you’re being weird, stop it.” It doesn’t do much, Wilbur’s cheeks still feel warm, but he takes a breath, standing. 

He spots a stuffed pig on the edge of the bed. It’s a permanent accessory to the room, something Techno’s had since he was a kid, and Wilbur has an idea. He smiles, shifting as a plan forms in his mind. “There are pancakes for you in the kitchen. Eat them or I will.” With that, he leaves, not bothering to shut the door behind him. 

He goes down the hall, walking past his room and onto the next door, Tommy’s door. 

Wilbur pushes it open, laughing to himself when he sees how neat the teenager’s been keeping it. If it wasn’t for the little things–like the pile of clothes on the floor or the ruffle sheets–he’d think nobody was staying here. This place was depressingly devoid of Tommy, and Wilbur will be happy to see some decorations here. 

He saunters over to the desk where the boy’s work clothes lay in a folded pile. They’re ripped and stained, but he’d insisted on keeping them. Those aren’t important though, what is, is a small keychain laying on the pile. There are only two keys, one for Tommy’s apartment, the other for the diner. Wilbur’s not sure which is which, but it won’t be too hard to figure out. 

He takes the ring, slipping it into his pocket. Tommy won’t mind , Wilbur tells himself, swinging the door closed behind him. If anything he’ll be happy . He retrieves his car keys from the front door and pulls on a pair of old sneakers.

Then he’s off, driving towards the city with the music blasting and a wide smile on his face. 

The car is parked hastily at the front of the building, locks clicking shut when Wilbur steps out of the car. He takes the elevator up, foot tapping as he watches the number above the door climb. It slows to a stop, a distorted ‘ ding’ alerting him that he’s reached his destination, and the doors slide open. 

He steps onto the floor, walking down the hall until he finds Tommy’s door. It’s unassuming, a simple brown with wooden numbers, just like the others on the floor. Wilbur retrieves the keys, holding them up to the keyhole to try to judge the best fit. It’d be nice if he could get it first try. 

He tries a bronze one first, twisting it in the lock until he hears a click. 

Bingo. 

The first thing that hits him is the temperature. It’s an unbearable kind of heat, the one where the air feels so thick you can’t breathe. Already Wilbur is a little more thankful that Tommy is with them. 

It’s also dim, with the majority of the light coming from a small window in the kitchen. It’s the only one where the blinds are open, the rest in the main area are closed to keep out the sun. Wilbur notices with a smile that there are small potted plants lining the windowsill. Tommy had told him about the plants right after he’d gotten them. He was so proud, happy just to ramble on and on about how he hadn’t killed any of them yet. 

Now it looks like some of the leaves have gone brown and the soil dry, so Wilbur walks over, finding a cup in the sink. He fills it with water to disperse among the plants. Even the water is warm. 

Wilbur sighs, leaning against the counter as he takes in the space. It’s a little messier than the first time he’d visited, the blanket hung over the couch is bunched up near the end, the rug just a little off center. There’re still dishes in the sink, shoes by the door, things Tommy hadn’t gotten the chance to put away yet. 

The bedroom isn’t much better. Drawers are open, clothes hanging out. The window is open, seemingly the source of the nasty humidity in the room. The smell of exhaust seeps in from the street below, making Wilbur’s nose turn up. The bed is unmade, the sheets pushed to the end. 

It’s so… eerie. The whole apartment looks like Tommy had been living here one second and was gone the next. 

Wilbur steps into the room, going straight for the bed. He finds what he’s looking for bundled up in the sheets, a small stuffed cow. 

Henry, Tommy had called it, voice endearingly fond. 

He tucks the cow under his arm, eyes flickering between a backpack on the ground and the open drawers on the other side of the room. Maybe having some familiar clothes would be nice too. 

So Wilbur grabs the bag, stuffing it with a small handful of everything from each drawer. By the time he’s gone through each, the bag is only half filled. 

He thinks of a red shirt Tommy always seems to be wearing whenever he’s not working and decides he should grab that as well. It’s not in any of the dressers though, or on the floor, so Wilbur turns to the closet, pulling the doors open to find a bunch of t-shirts pushed to one side of the closet. He snickers to himself, half of the shirts are identical tops he wears to work, with the rest just a mismatched jumble of colors.

Finding the one he needs is easy enough to find, and soon it’s joining the bag along with the rest of the clothes. He grabs a few others, things he thinks he’s seen Tommy wear before, then he takes a hoodie or two for good measure.

The closet is shockingly empty when he’s done. The only thing remaining on the hangers are generic polo shirts and sweatshirts that Tommy must have grown out years ago. He gives it another once over, looking for anything else that may be important, and his eyes settle on a few boxes sitting on the floor. They’re perfectly concealed, hidden by the shadow of the clothes above them. 

He remembers then how Tommy likes to collect things that are special to him. Like the pictures and the rocks on the dresser. He’d hate to leave something behind.

Wilbur kneels, sets the bag against the wall, and grabs the closest box. It’s covered in dust, the only sign that it’s been touched recently is a few fingerprints on the lid. 

For a moment, he thinks about putting it back. Maybe there was a reason he hadn’t seen this stuff before. 

But Wilbur’s always been curious. 

He opens the box, eyebrows furrowing in confusion as he shuffles through dozens of newspaper clippings. They’re old, some dating back years ago. He skims each headline, blood going cold when he realizes what they’re about. 

“Heroes Dead After Attack”

“Villain Kills Dream And Requiem”

“Red Death: Who Are They?” 

Every article–every headline is about Red Death and what they’d done that night. And Wilbur–Wilbur doesn’t understand. Tommy didn’t like villains, he’d never expressed any interest in any of it, so why has he kept these?

He sets the box aside, not bothering to put the lid back as he takes out the biggest one from the stack. 

Tommy’s handwriting is all over it. Big blocky letters that repeat the same words on every side of the box. 

“DO NOT OPEN” 

The writing gets more aggressive closer to the top, the letters messier. 

Wilbur’s breath catches in his throat as his hands ghost over the words. He should listen, he should put it all back and pretend he hadn’t seen anything, but he doesn’t. He can’t. If Tommy knows something, anything that could help the syndicate…

The only thing keeping the box closed is a line of packing tape running over the top. It comes off easily. 

He opens the flaps slowly, his heart sinking when the light finally hits the contents. 

Trembling fingers reach inside, curling around hard, black plastic. 

After the attack on the tower, when the dust cleared, one picture circulated on the news for weeks. It was grainy and out of focus, taken from old security cameras, but it was clear enough. Everyone had memorized the empty eyes, the curve of the tactical material around his face. 

Wilbur stares down with apprehension at those same eyes, and something breaks in him. He barely registers a shriek of a phantom behind him, its body crawling down his arm. More are all around him, in the corners of the closet and under the bed. They’re scary creatures. Things with sharp glares and piercing screams, creatures of the night, but none of them are as frightening as what’s before him.

Hidden in a box in a closet, is Red Death’s mask.

Chapter Text

The funny thing about shopping is that it’s more enjoyable when you actually have money. 

It had always been an activity Tommy dreaded, with most trips to the store spent looking at price tags and clearance racks. Things were sparse, he got what he could, but it was rarely enough. 

Phil though–has money, and he makes it abundantly clear at the first stop that he’s not worried in the slightest about spending it. He tells Tommy to pick out whatever he wants, laughing at how the younger boy’s eyes widen. 

The store is big, filled with clothes of different styles and colors, and at first, Tommy automatically drifts over to the cheaper section. All the shirts are the same poor quality, same with the pants. The fabric is scratchy, stiff; but by this point, he’s used to it. He picks out a few outfits, choosing items that could match anything. They’re added to the cart without a second thought. 

He tries to stop himself from wandering into other parts of the shop, tries to stop the way his gaze gravitates towards the nicer-looking stuff, but it’s difficult. He doesn’t want to get more than he needs. The entire family has been so generous, and Tommy doesn’t want Phil to spend more than what Tommy’s current wardrobe is worth. 

But then a hoodie catches his eye. It’s hard to miss, with its bright red color and embroidered design, it looks comfortable. Wilbur’s house is usually cold, having something thicker would be nice, but Tommy looks away. He could manage without it.

“Are you sure this is all you want?” Phil asks, flipping through the shirts, “You could get more.” 

Tommy shakes his head, offering a somewhat forced smile. “This should be good.” 

Phil purses his lips, looking disappointed almost. They start moving toward the checkout, and Tommy’s eyes flicker back to the hoodie. It’s barely a fraction of a second, but Phil notices it. He laughs softly, stopping the cart. “Do you want that?” 

“What?”

“That hoodie,” he clarifies, tipping his head over to the rack, “Do you want it?” He redirects the shopping cart, wandering closer to the other clothes aisle.

“No, it’s okay, I don’t need it,” Tommy stammers, his thoughts a jumbled mess.

“Hm,” Phil hums when they finally get there, rubbing the cloth between his fingers, “I didn’t ask if you needed it, I asked if you wanted it. Do you? It’s good quality.” He glances over at Tommy, smiling gently when the teenager gives a small nod. He grabs one off the rack, looking only at the size before throwing it in with the rest. He moves on to similar ones, a navy one and a one with a greenish-blue color, only looking at the sizes and quality of the fabric. 

Tommy just stands there, watching in shock as the man just picks stuff out . “Phil, you really don’t need–”

Phil pauses, meeting Tommy’s eye with a weird look, “I know I don’t need to, I want to.” He sighs, leaning his forearms onto the cart, “We want to help you, Tommy. Me, Wil, Tech, we just want to help. You’re a really good kid.” He smiles, and it has a bit of mischief in it. “We’ll get you every fuckin’ sweatshirt in the city if you wanted it, it’s no problem. You just have to let us.” Tommy, taken aback, just stares. How long had it been since someone had cared as much as them? How had Tommy gotten so lucky? He looks down at the ground, letting out a nervous laugh. “What else would you like, mate?” 

They leave the shop an hour later, and Tommy’s not sure how he’s going to fit everything into his closet. 

Phil brings him to more stores after that. He buys Tommy new sheets, picture frames; things to give the room a bit more “life” as Phil describes it. They go around, throwing things in the cart with no real thought of how it will all fit together, but they seem to come to a silent agreement that they’ll figure that part out later. 

Tommy has fun. 

Their interactions before this week had been mostly in passing, a smile here, wave there, but as they go around he begins to understand the fondness Wilbur carries whenever he talks about his father. The man is open and understanding, willing to repeat that yes, Tommy can get whatever he wants, as many times as needed. He doesn’t lose his patience, he doesn’t talk down, he’s just–nice.

There are similarities between Wil and Phil that Tommy starts to notice. They’re subtle, easy to miss if you’re not looking, but Tommy recognizes a lot. The way they both tilt their head to the side whenever they’re concentrating, or the way they talk. Certain parts are so similar to one another, cementing a relationship built on everything but blood. 

Then Phil, despite Tommy’s protests, buys him a new phone. For the first time, he doesn’t take Tommy’s input, instead opting to talk to the person at the desk about phone plans and device quality. He doesn’t budge when Tommy tells him to stop, he just hands over his card like it's nothing; like he isn’t spending more in one day than Tommy could make in a month. The device is pressed into Tommy’s hands, shiny and new, and Phil tells him that he will not be returning it. The blond huffs, accepting the gift with hesitation. 

He sets it up on his way home with a smile, faltering only when he realizes the contact picture he used for Wilbur is lost. 

When Tommy and Phil return to the house, it’s with a trunk full of clothes, decorations, and snacks. 

It doesn’t take long to set it all up, especially with both Phil and Techno’s help. They split up by task, with Phil sorting clothes while the other two decorate the walls with band posters Tommy was able to find. Most of them were artists Wilbur had shown him, some of them even had a twin in the other man’s room. 

It’s mid-afternoon by the time they're done remaking the bed. The sun casts golden rays into the room, giving everything a pretty yellow, cozy glow. Tommy lets out a long breath. The space feels better already. “This looks more like you,” He says, placing a hand on Tommy’s shoulder. “Do you like it?” 

Tommy nods, blinking away when his eyes get misty, “I do, thank you.” 

Phil squeezes his shoulder. The touch is warm. 

The other two shuffle out, leaving the door open behind them, and Tommy is left to enjoy his new room alone. He goes around again, rearranging a few things until he’s sure he’s happy with it, and after that, he’s not quite sure what to do. He pulls out his phone, switching between what few games he was able to install. The activity fills his time for a little while, providing a sliver of entertainment, but eventually, he runs out of games to play. 

So he sits on the bed, sinking into the mattress, and his eyes drift over to the window. 

There’s a bird out there, near the nest. It’s small, with black-tipped wings folded close to its body as it adds a twig to the nest. Tommy watches in silent awe, lips pulling up. It’s pretty, a brilliant yellow with black around its eyes, and Tommy thinks of his book. Birds always seemed to be something special, something foretelling. 

The book is still in the living room, sitting on one of the end tables. 

Tommy stands, making his way down the hall and to the living room. Techno’s there, sitting on the couch. He’s wearing his glasses tonight. The man looks up, silently watching as Tommy gets the book. 

“Is Phil still here?” 

“Store,” Techno says shortly, “needed something for dinner I think,” the corners of his eyes wrinkling with a smile. He tips his head to the book, “Read any good ones last night?” 

“Eh,” Tommy responds, flipping through the pages until he finds where he left off. “I liked the one with the cyclops. Oddity was a badass when he blinded that guy.”

“Odysseus,” Techno corrects.

“That’s literally what I said.”

He pushes his glasses up, rubbing at his eyes. “Tommy, no.”

“Tommy, yes. ” The blond shoots back. “Objective.”

“That one wasn’t even close.”

“Occupation.”

Techno mutters something to himself. He reaches over, grabbing a pillow and flinging it at Tommy, who shields himself with the book. “Can’t get me, bitch. Too fuckin’ strong for you.” 

“I’ve literally beat you in a fight.” Techno deadpans.

Tommy turns his chin up, the picture of pride, “I let you win.” Behind him, the door opens, followed by heavy footsteps. 

Techno looks over the couch, raising a hand in a lazy wave as Tommy twists. He barely registers a head of brown hair before spinning back to Techno, who’s already turned his attention away and is grabbing another pillow. “Hey Wil,” he says, hiding his face behind his book. 

There’s no response, just a dull thump as the man kicks off his shoes. The pillow is thrown, falling to the floor. “Work go well?” Techno asks. He pauses his attack on Tommy to look back over at his brother. 

“Didn’t go,” Wilbur says, simply. There’s something else there too. His back is turned towards the door, hiding his face. 

Techno scoffs, “You’ve been gone all day, and you didn’t even go into the office?”

“Nope, I decided to take a trip into the city.” Wilbur turns, his head bobbing a little as he does. Tommy watches him, pursing his lips together when brown eyes lock onto blue. 

He looks… tired. 

Strands of hair stick to his forehead, the otherwise neat curls disheveled. It seems as though he’d been pulling at it, running calloused fingers through his hair until all that was left was a mess. 

Wilbur was lively–energetic around Tommy, but that’s all gone now, replaced by a burning look, and something deep in his head tells Tommy to take a step back. He pushes the urge down to move, hiding it away, instead offering a shaky smile as he sets the book down. There’s something off about the man, about the way he’s looking at the teenager, but neither one of them speaks. They stand there at a silent standstill. 

Wilbur shifts, his face switching from neutral to contempt. His arm whips out from behind him, throwing something black and white. Then Tommy’s fingers meet familiar, matted, plush. 

Henry’s eyes are scratched, damage that was done years ago, just like the dirt stain on his belly and the poorly restitched tear on his side. Usually, it was a calming presence, even with all the bumps and scrapes; at first, it did ease some of the pressure within him. That is until Tommy realizes where Wilbur had gone to get this. 

His cheeks flush red, brows furrowing in anger as he looks up from the toy, the man in front of him scarily confident. “You went to my apartment?” 

“Tommy.” It's unnaturally calm. Like Tommy’s the one to blame here. “I was trying to help.”

“No- I didn’t say you could-” a breath, then, “you went to my apartment?” 

Wilbur shrugs. “I wanted to get you some things.” He shoves his hands into his pockets, so casual it makes Tommy’s stomach twist.

“I didn’t ask you for that Wil. I don’t want you to go there!” Wilbur watches him, searching for prime knows what as Tommy fumes. Wilbur was pushy sometimes, but going out of his way to go somewhere without the younger boy’s permission was new. Unexpected. 

“Why?” And it’s so simple, such an innocent question. Tommy can’t answer truthfully. 

“What do you mean why ?” He shouts, “It’s mine. I don’t- I don’t need to give you a fucking reason.” The apartment was his . It was the only place he was allowed to be every part of himself. 

Techno moves, all eyes snapping to him as he stands. He holds his hands up, palms out. “I’m sensing a lot of tension here, maybe we all just calm down?” He shoots a look at Wilbur, the kind that says to be quiet, but the man scoffs. 

Wilbur tilts his head, another step. “Are you hiding something? Are you afraid I’ll see something I shouldn’t?” 

“What? No!” 

“No?” Wil parrots. His eyebrows raise, wrinkling his forehead. “There’s nothing in that shithole of an apartment that you’re hiding? Nothing at all?” It’s said with a laugh, a dreadful, bubbling laugh, and Tommy’s heartbeat begins to pick up, his breath catching in his throat. Wilbur goes quiet all at once, “What the fuck was in that closet.” 

And Tommy’s blood runs cold, freezing him from the inside out. He can’t breathe, he can’t move, all he can do is stare mouth agape because–

Wilbur knows. 

Wilbur knows. 

The realization is damning, sending a chorus of thoughts through the blond’s head. 

He shouldn’t have kept the suit. He should have burned it–all of it–as soon as he’d washed the blood from his hands. 

They’re useless thoughts, nothing will ever change the fact that Tommy had kept it all hidden in the dark, and for what? For safety? For a false sense of security? He had that now, he had that here . What was the point in any of it?

Techno clears his throat. “Wilbur,” he warns, but he sounds quiet, almost like he’s far away. He’s not, Tommy turns to him just to make sure, maybe only a few feet away. He says something else but it sounds more like an echo in Tommy’s buzzing ears.

He shakes his head, a futile attempt at getting the ringing out. When he turns back, Wilbur’s talking again, mouth curling around what seems like ugly words. 

Stop, Tommy tries to say, voice dying in his throat. Stop. Closer, muffled talking is getting louder.

“Stop,” he finally whispers. Wilbur keeps talking, he just keeps talking , and it’s so fucking loud . Warmth presses against Tommy’s ears, shaking palms he faintly recognizes as his own. “Wilbur, stop!”

The room goes quiet, the only noise coming in the form of heavy breathing. Tommy lowers his hands. Slowly, too cautious. The attention on him is almost a new kind of suffocating, but he’ll gladly endure the tightness in his lungs if it means the other two aren’t saying anything. 

Henry’s on the floor near Tommy’s feet. He wants to pick it up, fingers craving the softness of the fur, but he doesn’t. Instead, he points a narrowed glare at Wilbur, resisting the overwhelming urge to flinch back at the glare he receives in response. “Can we talk about this somewhere else?” He nods his head at Techno, silently pleading. 

The brunet follows the gesture, huffing out another laugh. “I actually think this is a conversation Techno should hear, it’s important.”

“I don’t think that’s a good idea . Let’s just figure this out somewhere else.” Surely they could come to an agreement, anything to keep Wilbur quiet. The man loses that unnerving smile, going silent. “ Please. ” 

He looks Tommy over, the fire in his eyes roaring. “What else have you been keeping, huh? What didn’t I find?” Another step, putting him halfway between Tommy and the door. “It’s been months, Tommy, fucking months. ”

“Wil-” 

“All this time. You were right here.” He laughs again, voice going high, “I don’t know how I didn’t notice sooner. You avoided it all like the plague, redirecting to a new topic, turning off the news whenever it mentioned a fight.” 

Tommy sucks in a breath and runs a hand through his hair. “You have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“I don’t?” Wilbur straightens out, sliding his eyes to his brother. Techno bristles under his gaze, confused eyes flickering between Tommy and Wil. “Are you ashamed of it? Is that what it is?” 

“No!” Tommy pauses, his face melting into a more neutral expression as he realizes what he’s just said. 

He wasn’t proud of what he’d done, but he wasn’t ashamed of it either. Every lesson, every night spent alone in that awful room hungry and alone and hurting . He was put through hell, haunted by the faces of people he’d never see again. They would scream, a deafening choir of anguish and agony that Tommy endured for years. So no, Tommy wasn’t ashamed, they had deserved it. 

They had deserved all of it. 

All the pain, all the grief. Every single piece of it was deserved and that fact would always remain true to Tommy. It was one of those unchangeable things, tethering him to the ground like gravity, keeping him upright. 

“Techno,” Wilbur starts. His smile is gone, along with the taunting laughter.

“Don’t,” warns Tommy. 

“Shut up.” The words are deadly serious, coated in acid. Tommy snaps his mouth shut, shrinking back a little. The space between them goes still. Wilbur’s tone switches something in Tommy’s mind. Bringing him back to that place where everything feels a bit further away.

‘Say one more thing,’ a cruel voice says, and it’s not Tommy’s, or Wilbur’s, or even Techno’s. No, it’s his voice, close to Tommy’s ear. ‘And I’ll make sure you never speak again.’ He can feel A wide smile. It’s not kind, it will never be kind. It takes the air from Tommy’s lungs, squeezing at his heart until it’s just a bundle of muscle and nerves. 

He blinks. 

Techno comes forward, the movement blurry in Tommy’s eyes, and then he’s pulling Tommy back, the boy’s feet stumbling under him. “Wilbur,” Techno scolds. It sounds like how Phil would talk. It brings Tommy back, helping to chase away the voice in his head enough to where things come into focus again. 

Wilbur looks at Tommy, brown eyes bearing into blue. He seems to weigh his options, fighting an internal battle Tommy can’t see. After a moment, his face goes soft. “Tell me it wasn’t yours, Toms. Tell me that I’m wrong, and I’ll leave it.” 

Tommy opens his mouth, but nothing comes out. 

“ Please .” His final plea, the only thing he can manage. He doesn't hide the desperation in his voice. It’s thick, constricting around his throat until all that comes out is a whisper. 

“I have to,” Wilbur sighs, squeezing his eyes shut. “It’s for your own good.” Tommy goes still, his heart sinking. He’s lost–he knows it. This is checkmate, and he didn’t even know he was still playing. “He’s Red Death.” 

Three words,

That's all it takes for Tommy’s world to come crashing down. 

For that tether to snap.

For trust to shatter like glass. 

Three words and Tommy stops thinking, his emotions clouded by a haze of red. 

He lunges, hands curled into fists as he tries to close the space between them. “You fucking bitch!” Arms wrap around his chest, holding him back, and Tommy flails. His back is pressed into something warm, the pressure holding him there increasing every time he tries to jerk away. “I hate you! I hate you!” He screams. 

A gruff voice is talking, saying something in his ear, but it’s just noise. Tommy can’t hear anything over the blood rushing in his ears. 

Wilbur doesn't move, his feet glued to the floor as he tries to hold on to the malice he’d had before. He loses, anger broken into something sadder when Tommy’s yelling cuts deeper than he’d thought. “You don’t mean that.” 

Tommy brings his hands up, scratching at the arms around him. “I do, I mean every fucking word. You’re a fucking prick!” His vision goes blurry with tears. He can’t wipe them away. “I hate you.”

He chokes back a sob, trying again to move with little luck. “Kid,” Techo murmurs, his arms getting tighter around the blond’s. Tommy tips his head back, laying it on Techno’s shoulder. He can see the man’s face in his peripheral, can see the way he winces when Tommy thrashes again. 

“Let me go!” He kicks his legs, his heel finding Techno’s shin. The man doesn’t move. “Techno, let me go.” 

“Stop fighting and I will,” Techno says softly, spoken like a secret between the two. “I promise, just chill out” 

“Fuck you.” Techno had said he’d be safe. He promised . 

Maybe that was broken too. 

“Kid,” He warns again. Tommy’s not stupid, he knows the man is strong, and he’s seen it first hand. Techno was stronger than he let on. He could hurt Tommy if he wanted to. He could leave the boy in a heap on the floor without breaking a sweat. “I think you owe us some answers.” 

Tommy huffs, bringing his arms down with bitter acceptance. He won’t be able to free himself of Techno’s hold. 

He’s let go, the warmth from Techno’s body slowly disappearing from Tommy’s back as the man takes a step away. He crosses the room, eyes on the blond as he makes his way to his brother’s side. 

Wilbur’s silent, staring at Tommy with a broken expression as the teenager adjusts himself. He meets Wilbur’s eye, giving the man the most hate-filled glare he could muster, and Wilbur flinches. “Toms,” He mutters, reaching a hand out. It stays there, frozen in the air between them, waiting for another to meet it. 

“Don’t call me that.” Tommy spits, flexing his fingers at his side. He hates the way his heart leaps at the nickname, still fond even though it shouldn’t. “Not after that.” He takes a step back, the backs of his legs brushing the coffee table behind him.

The man pulls his hand back, barely hiding the shock on his face behind a mask of frustration. “What else have you been lying about?” He asks, and the question comes out genuine despite the look on his face. 

Tommy hadn’t lied to Wilbur. He’d hidden the truth, shown only the good parts of himself, but none of that was fake. None of it was a lie. 

Tommy wasn’t a liar. 

Wilbur sighs, taking another step forward. “Tommy, how old are you?” 

“What?” 

“How old are you,” He repeats, louder. 

“You already know-” Tommy starts, looking between them. “I didn’t fucking lie to you Wilbur. I’m seventeen.”

Techno lets out an uncomfortable laugh, Wilbur doing the same. “No, you’re not,” he says, searching the teenager’s face for a joke, an admission. He finds nothing, sucking in a breath when he realizes there is no other answer. His next words come as a whisper, “No you’re not.” 

Tommy nods slowly. His ears start to feel warm. 

His expression morphs into some sort of horror, a shaky hand rising to cover his mouth. “You were fifteen?” Wilbur curls in on himself, hunching his shoulders in and wrapping his free arm around his stomach. He looks like he’s going to be sick, his face going pale. 

It makes Tommy’s blood boil–because Wilbur doesn’t get to be upset. Tommy had spent months building a life he could be happy in. He’d opened himself up, and brought people into his life. All while ignoring the grating voice in his head telling him it was a bad idea. 

Tommy had made a place for himself. He had pictures now and little trinkets on his shelf that made him smile, the collection growing as the weeks tic by. Every day he thought less and less about how he’d come from a place of violence and fear, content to live in a dream, and Wilbur took it all away. 

He didn’t get to be upset about the consequences. 

Techno lays a hand on his brother’s shoulder, steadying him. He wears an equally disturbed look. 

Wilbur surges forward, closing the space between them so quickly that Tommy barely has any time to react. He brings his hands up, jerking back into the edge of the table. It digs into the back of his knees. “You were a child , Tommy. You were fifteen, ” Wilbur’s voice cracks, cheeks going pink. “You’re still just a kid.”  

He’s not. Tommy’s not sure if he was ever allowed to be one. Nine years of fighting took that away from him in a whirlwind of blood and sweat. He may still be a kid, but it was only a technicality. He certainly didn’t feel like one. 

“This whole time, Red Death has been a kid,” Techno says softly, the gravity of the situation dawning on him as well. He cranes his head, glasses falling down his nose as he strains to look over Wilbur’s shoulder at the younger boy. “Who trained you?” 

“I’m not answering shit.” 

“Okay, okay,” He holds a hand out like he’s trying to tame an animal. Then, so slowly Tommy almost misses it, he moves his other hand over to the phone in his pocket. Tommy watches with wide eyes as he does, realization creeping in with a near-paralyzing panic. 

Tommy is Red Death. 

And Red Death is the most wanted villain in the city. 

He’s like bait on a hook, dangling helplessly in front of the men before him, and Tommy wants to believe that they wouldn’t bite. He so desperately wants to believe that they wouldn’t turn him in, but suddenly he’s not so sure. 

When asked why he learned to fight, Techno’s response was that he did it to protect his family.

Tommy is a danger to them.

His very role in their lives puts a bounty on their heads, one that could land them in Pandora’s Vault should anyone find out they were harboring a villain. He doesn’t want that for them, he never would, but Tommy had said he fought to protect himself.

He thinks of white rooms and bound hands strapped to the desk. It steals the air from his lungs.

It’s not hard to send in a tip. All you need to do is send a message, and the heroes will be there a moment later to whisk the threat away, especially in this area. 

“Techno,” Tommy starts. His mouth is dry, his voice feeling like knives against his throat as he talks. “What are you doing.” 

He freezes, eyes darting to Wilbur, then back to Tommy. He settles on Tommy’s hands, still held out between him and his brother. “Wilbur,” he says cautiously, keeping his face devoid of concern, “Back up.” 

“Tech?” He turns, confusion clear in the way he pinches his eyebrows together.

“I said, back. Up.” Wilbur follows his gaze, lips parting in a silent ‘o’ when he sees trembling fingers. He takes a slow step back, away from Tommy, away from his hands, and something between them breaks. 

They’re afraid of the abilities they don’t understand. 

They’re afraid of Tommy. 

His anger with Wil melts away, replaced with an ache in his heart when the man takes another step back. When he looks back to Techno, the phone is in his hands, the screen reflecting a number pad in the lenses of his glasses. 

If the heroes come, it will be the end for Tommy. They’ll chip him away piece by piece until all that’s left is a husk of a person. 

He’d seen it happen with other kids, how they’d break with it all got too much. Some of them simply weren’t built for it. One day they were there, and the next they were gone, trapped in their own heads, grieving the lives they’d left behind. They’d be deemed defective–inadequate, and after that happened they were as good as dead. 

The powerful ones would stay. They’d keep children with abilities too special to throw out, training and training and training until they had the perfect, obedient, soldiers. 

Tommy can’t go back, he won’t. 

His mind screams at him to leave, a frazzled mess of danger, escape, run.

The door opens, tearing Tommy from his spiral. Phil’s there, standing cluelessly in the doorway while grocery bags hang off his arms. Techno and Wilbur both turn, taking their attention away from the blond.

Phil doesn’t close the door. 

Tommy doesn’t think, falling into his mind as he runs forward, a determined gaze locked on the world outside. He has to go, he has to escape. 

The room erupts. Both men yell for Tommy, but he doesn’t listen, he can’t. He keeps running–dodging and ducking close to the floor when hands brush his arm. One of them manages to grab onto his shoulder, trying to pull him back, but Tommy twists out of the grip, pushing past Phil and through the door a moment later. 

His lungs burn, screaming for air, but Tommy doesn’t slow. He won’t stop, not until he’s safe. 

In a few hours, he’ll remember that he left Henry behind, discarded on the floor.

Chapter Text

The sounds of heavy footsteps were loud behind him. A chorus of rubber soles hitting asphalt and gravel as Tommy ran–truly ran –for the first time in his life. It was the kind of sprint born from adrenaline, pushing him to run harder and faster with every step, and he let it take him. He practically flew down the streets, trusting his feet to carry him where he needed to be as he recounted the plan in his head. 

His breaths were even, controlled. In and out, in and out. There was no room to panic, he couldn’t let his mind wander. 

Someone shouted from behind him, warnings and commands that Tommy didn’t have time to listen to because right now he needed to run.

And then a gun went off, the bullet hitting a wall a few feet away in an explosion of dust and brick. 

The sound made Tommy jump. He resisted the urge to bring his arms up to guard his face, forcing balled fists to remain steady at his side. Tommy couldn’t show any weakness. Not here, not now. He couldn’t let them know he was afraid. 

He ducked, turning down a nearby street. A quickly thrown glance at the street sign above him is all he had to confirm he was in the right place. More guns fired behind him, the bullets shattering glass and drawing out a bystander’s screams, but Tommy wasn’t hit. 

At least, he didn’t think he was. Getting shot is probably something you would feel if it were to happen, but right now everything was numb. All he could feel was the buzzing sensation fading from his hands as he ran down another street.

Tommy knew where he was headed, knew where he needed to go. 

He had this route memorized. Every turn, every street sign, and even every bump in the sidewalk was committed to memory weeks ago. Tommy was prepared. 

He rounded a corner, then another, and the yelling began to get softer. It was still there, of course, just further away as more space was put between him and the enforcers. Tommy almost laughed, slowing down as he made his way to the side of a building. It was dark and abandoned, windows smashed, but the fire escape was still intact. It hung off the side of the building, just a rusted set of stairs and a ladder. Not too different from the one at his apartment building. He pulled himself up, ascending rung by rung until he arrived at the base of the stairs. 

It was colder up here, the remnants of winter air bit his arms through his hoodie as he climbed to the roof. He turned his gaze to the center of the city, eyes settling on the tower jutting up in the center of it all as he fidgeted with the straps on his gloves. A gleaming white spire scraped the clouds above, a beacon of security and hope to those in the city. 

The bottom, however, is bathed in flashing lights. Reds and blues danced over the glass and steel in an eerie display of urgency. At its base, the streets were lined with enforcers and medical cars, tiny people rushing around them like a swarm of confused bees. A siren blared over it all, echoing its high-pitched rings throughout the city. 

The adrenaline begins to wear off then, the rush of the night turning into something else entirely, and Tommy became all too aware of the thick scent of iron around him. He was covered in blood– heroes' blood–coating his fingers and soaking through his sleeves in a cold, sticky mess. 

A part of him, the one that has always hated the blood, wanted to shrink away at the sight, but Tommy didn’t. Instead, a smile tugged at his cheeks, wide and open, hidden behind the mask over his face

His plan had worked.

Tommy killed the city’s top heroes. 

He laughed. The kind of laugh that is uncontrollable, dangerously tip-toeing the line between loud and quiet. Tears gathered in his eyes, blurring his vision, and Tommy wasn’t sure why they were there. He was happy, right? He was free now, the people shackling him to the rest of the tower were gone, so there should be no reason for him to cry. 

He blinked, and the wetness fell down his cheeks. 

His hand came up quickly, swiping at his cheek, but instead of skin, he felt the hardness of the plastic covering his face. More tears crowded his vision, but Tommy didn’t dare remove the mask. He couldn’t. 

He turned away from the tower, spinning on his heel towards lower L’Manberg. 

The walk back to his apartment should be an easy one.

They run after him–Wilbur on foot while Techno and Phil clammer into the older man’s car–yelling his name in a useless attempt at getting Tommy to stop. 

He doesn’t. 

The teenager keeps running, pumping his arms harder every time he hears the roar of an engine or a voice off in the distance. The sounds send spikes through his heart, digging in with pointed barbs that catch and don’t let go. Tommy can’t stop. Stopping means getting caught and getting caught is as good as death. 

He lets his mind wander, only for a moment. Thoughts brewing on the phone near Techno’s ear, the anger and fear etched into Wilbur’s face. Faintly he notices he forgot shoes. It had rained the night prior, gentle summer showers that pattered lightly against the windows as Tommy slept. 

Now, the beads of water that stuck to the grass soak through his socks, making it feel like he’s running on a wet sponge rather than a lush lawn. It doesn’t slow him; and instead of dwelling, he pushes the thoughts away, only concerned with making sure his feet remain steady under him.

Ten days of balanced meals and restful sleep have been kind to Tommy, providing him with more than enough energy needed to run for days if he wanted. So he goes, making his way through the suburbs with a steady pace, even when his body begins to protest. Every breath brings a shooting pain to his side, while the ache in his ankle returns as a dull soreness that accompanies every step.

He’s far from Wilbur’s house by that time, the family’s shouts having faded to join the rest of the outside world in aimless chatter. It’s only then that Tommy ducks behind a house, balancing on the balls of his feet between a rotting fence and a dirty wall for a brief moment of respite. 

The sky is dim, the clouds painted in beautiful hues of pink and orange as the sun begins to dip below the horizon. Insects buzz nearby, welcoming the night to come with open arms while a gentle breeze rustles through the trees above. It’s pretty.

And Tommy resents it. 

It shouldn’t be this beautiful. Tommy’s day–Tommy’s life has just fallen apart. It’s been crumpled and torn. Ripped into hundreds of tiny pieces, and yet the universe has deemed the day a success, giving it a beautiful sunset as a reward for a job well done. It should be cloudy and dim. The sky should be crying and the winds should be roaring alongside him in a deadly harmony. It’s not right, don’t they know he’s just lost his home?

A strangled yell threatens to escape Tommy’s lips, teetering in the back of his throat. It’s not fair , he thinks, pressing his hand over his mouth. It’s not fucking fair.

It’s a childish thought, coming from a place of naive desperation. There is no such thing as fairness in this world. No karma, no balance. Tommy isn’t owed a single thing, but still, he sits there, biting back curses aimed at the sky for daring to be so beautiful. 

Spots cloud his vision, nearly swallowing it up whole before Tommy realizes he’s forgotten to breathe. He staggers, legs trembling as they adapt to the sudden loss of momentum. They can’t manage it quick enough, and he falls back, shoulders bumping into the wall behind him. The impact is dull and painless, but it leaves him gasping for short, ragged breaths all the same as the reality weighs down on him with crushing awareness.

He left. 

Wilbur’s face flashes in his head, simultaneously crestfallen and furious. The expression claws at Tommy’s stomach, tearing it apart until all that’s left is a gaping hole. ‘ Liar ’ echoes in his head, a mantra sung in Wilbur’s honey-sweet voice.

Maybe Wilbur was right, maybe Tommy is a liar. 

He’d been an actor on a stage, playing a role that was merely a shadow of himself. 

It hadn’t been that way for the whole time, just the beginning. As the months passed the role got easier to play, less fake maybe. Tommy was happy; genuinely happy, but no matter how well he could learn to play his part, it was still only that: an act. Fraud. Just a child hiding behind a mask. 

Tears sting at his eyes, and he bites back a sob. He can’t cry. Not here, not ever. 

A part of him wishes he’d gotten rid of the suit, while the other wishes he’d never put it away in the first place. He doesn’t know which one is right, and can’t tell which side has his best interests at heart. 

After all, what is an actor without their mask?  

Tommy pulls at his collar, stretching the sweat-stained fabric as far from his neck as possible. It does little to ease the constricting pain in his chest. 

The sun has fully submerged itself under the horizon, the remaining bits of light quickly following behind, stealing the color from the clouds. 

Something shuffles inside, muffled footsteps blaring through the thin walls, and again Tommy presses his lips shut. He tries to forcefully slow his breathing, but Wilbur’s voice is still playing through his head, taunting the teenager. 

The steps approach, getting louder by the second, and then the porch light flickers on, chasing away the dusk. A woman’s voice calls from inside the house, and Tommy barely registers the words ‘ noise’ and ‘outside’ before he hears a lock click. 

He’s gone before the door opens, pushing himself up onto unsteady feet and sneaking back the way he came. 

These streets are unfamiliar, a part of the city Tommy’s never been to, but he walks as though he’s been here a thousand times. Head up, shoulders slightly slouched, so he looks like he belongs. Like a feather floating through the air, he is aimless; moving through the streets with no real destination in mind. He has no place left to go. 

Tommy doesn’t have his keys, and without those, he can’t go back to his apartment or the diner, neither of which he’s too keen on visiting in the first place. Wilbur will be looking for him–Techno and Phil too–and those are the first places they’d check. 

He hadn’t always had a place to go through, there was a time before his job, before the apartment, and Tommy had made a place for himself there. 

The city may be dangerous, but it was also a maze of concrete towers and twisted roads. It’s massive, the lower parts a lawless place where the only currency was favors and deeds, and luckily for Tommy, it was also the perfect place to hide in plain sight. He’d had his hiding spots and hoped they were still there, waiting for his return. 

So, with a lump in his throat and a thrumming in his heart, Tommy turns in the direction of L’Manberg, a glimmering spire in the clouds guiding his way back. 

The houses and shops of lower L’Manberg were close together, practically wall to wall. With just enough room to squeeze through, it was almost like one big building rather than hundreds of individual ones. From the ground, it was confining. The streets were narrow, especially with the way cars lined the curb, and it was virtually impossible to walk ten feet without running into someone’s wall. 

Tommy couldn’t help but begin to get tired of it. 

It’s not that it made him feel cornered–well, it did to a degree, but Tommy knew what it’s like to really be trapped, and it was hard to feel that way again just because some buildings were close together–but rather he grew to find the flaws in the whole design. Overgrown trees covered whatever parts of the sky that may be visible, blocking out the sun and the stars alike, and maybe that was the part Tommy got frustrated with. 

He had spent so long in a room without a window to the outside world, that he’d managed to forget what the stars looked like. He hadn’t noticed until weeks ago. The sight had been silently slipping away from his memory through the years, but then he looked up. 

They weren’t bright (the light from the city had made sure of that) but they were there, and at that moment it dawned on the boy that he’d nearly had them stolen from him. 

From the roof, Tommy could see them without interruption; and if he stole a few glances up at the constellations as he made his way through the city, only he would know. 

The layout of this part of the city was terrible on the surface, but it did have one advantage, and that came in the form of easy-to-maneuver roof-tops. His steps were light and quick as he carefully navigated his way to his apartment complex, all while jumping over gaps as if they were just a shallow puddle. 

He couldn’t hear the sirens anymore, the only noises accompanying him now came from Tommy’s breathing and the soles of his sneakers meeting slanted tiles. The city was unusually quiet. The streets were empty, same as the sidewalks, and Tommy knew it wasn’t due to the time. There was always something happening here, whether it was someone yelling or horns blaring, but tonight there was nothing, just unnatural silence. 

Inside the houses, shadows paced across illuminated windows, waiting in front of their televisions with a particular sort of tension carried in their shoulders. The city had heard the news now–or at least some skewed form of it. They knew that their heroes were dead, killed by a stranger, and the amount of time Tommy had to get back without being recognized was quickly running out. 

He reached a point where the smaller homes grew into something bigger, and the roofs became much too tall for Tommy to reasonably travel on. So, he went down. 

Finding another fire escape was easy, and he was back on the ground in minutes. He avoided the busier roads, choosing to travel down secluded side streets to ensure he didn’t see a soul. Walking with his body as close to the walls as possible, Tommy ducked under every window, careful to avoid a wandering eye. 

The adrenaline rush from before was long gone, and his muscles began to ache in its absence. Tommy had taken several blows tonight, the tower throwing nearly everything they had at the villain, and he was sure his body would be littered with bruises and cuts when he finally got to take this damn suit off. He was completely exhausted, every step feeling heavier than the last, and at some point, Tommy began to sway. He stumbled over his feet, shoulder bumping into the window of a storefront to his right. 

Overexertion wasn’t a concept Tommy was unfamiliar with. There were multiple times in which he had to be carried out of the lesson room draped over someone's shoulder, but it felt different tonight. It was heavy and frigid. He felt almost like he was being crushed by ice with the way coldness clung to his bones, and no amount of movement helped to ease the chill. 

He was shaking, Tommy realized once he stopped, arm propped up on the window beside him. His hands had the worst of it, fingers trembling even when the teenager tried to curl them into fists. 

His tired gaze drifted to his arm. He blinked lazily at its reflection in the streaky glass and drew in a sharp breath when he saw the rest of himself as well.

The hoodie he’d spent hours modifying sat weirdly on his shoulders. The fabric was soddened with blood and sweat, and at that moment Tommy was grateful that he chose the crimson option when first buying the thing. The sleeve was ripped, torn just under his elbow to reveal a hand-shaped bruise blooming over his wrist that made Tommy’s stomach curl. He hated that he’d have to look at it until it heals over, that he’d have to see the fingers of a ghost splotched over his skin. Even more, he hated that they’d left their mark on him. 

There were other tears all over, along the seams or on the pockets he’d sewn on for more storage. It would be difficult to try to fix. 

His mask was mostly intact though. A strip of warped, melted material near his left eye was the only mark, left by one of Inferno’s whips of fire that had gotten a bit too close than Tommy would like to admit. It covered his features entirely, stretching from his chin to just above his eyebrows where his hood ends. The face that looked back at him in the reflection was emotionless, sending a chill down Tommy’s spine when blank eyes devoid of any life stared back at him. 

It didn’t look like him. 

The person he was watching didn’t look like Tommy , and maybe that was all it took for his body to shut down. His vision swam, knees hitting concrete a second later, and the pain from the impact drew out a whine as the blond fell against the wall. 

He sat there, slumped over and dazed while his brain screamed at him to move. Tommy couldn’t pass out here, he had to get back to his apartment where it was safe, but he couldn’t get his legs to cooperate.

Sleep called to him, beckoning him in open arms. Tommy tried to resist, head lulling with a failed attempt at getting up. He was so tired. 

Then, something hit the ground beside him. 

A blurry figure stepped into his line of sight, a person’s face hidden under the shadow of a hood. They approached slowly, head darting from side to side to make sure they were alone on the street. Tommy couldn’t get up, he couldn’t even speak. The last thing he saw before his eyes drifted shut was a masked face.

It wasn’t too different from his own. 

Though the sun has long past set, Tommy manages to get back to the city before curfew. 

He finds himself at a convenience store, just a small thing on a random street corner Tommy’s never seen, strolling through aisles packed with snacks and poorly made tourist apparel. 

There’s a girl behind the counter, probably no older than Tommy. She pays him no attention as he wanders, keeping her eyes on her phone as the minutes steadily tick on.

Tommy takes full advantage of it. He goes to the small clothing section first and digs through the collection of shoes available, eventually finding a pair of cheap tennis shoes that are only a size too big. He rips the tags off with his teeth and slips them on as quietly as he can. They aren’t great, the soles squeak a little when he walks, but they’ll get the job done until Tommy can find a more comfortable option. 

He goes to the snacks next, stomach growling when he spots some smaller snacks. He has a small pack of granola in his pocket and another in his hand when the girl clears her throat. The bag crinkles under Tommy’s fingers. 

“There’s a camera above the door,” she says, brow raised, “it can see you. You’re going to want to go the next aisle up if you want to be more discrete.” 

Tommy gulps, slowly setting the snack back on the shelf before rounding the endcap to get to the next section. “Thanks,” he murmurs. He grabs anything that looks good, shoving whatever he can into his pockets.

“No problem,” she says flatly, “As long as the cameras don’t see you, neither do I.” She goes back to her phone, typing something out. “You look like you could use it anyway.” 

Tommy shoves another pack of…something, into his pocket, mouth twisting into a sneer. “The fuck is that supposed to mean?” 

“Nothing,” she hums, gently setting her phone face down beside the register. “You just look a little rough is all.” She gives a toothy grin that reeks of fake kindness and lowers her chin into her palm. 

“Fuck off,” says Tommy. He takes a step away from the rack, his hands empty at his side. He has all he needs, shoes and enough food to get him through a few days if he stretches it right, so Tommy steps back around to the front of the store. The clerk watches him with childlike curiosity. Like he’s some sort of exhibit rather than a person. 

A bell above the door jingles when he leaves, and a cheery “have a great night” is yelled in his direction along with it. Tommy doesn’t say anything back. 

The shoes rub uncomfortably at his ankles as he walks, burning blisters into his skin that gets worse with every step, and Tommy wishes he had the pair Phil had bought him. They weren’t even that nice, just a pair of simple sneakers really, but at least they fit. 

The shopping trip had only been earlier that day, a morning filled with laughter and endearing words had turned sour so quickly. Tommy can’t make sense of it. 

It doesn’t feel real. 

The phone he’d gotten is still in his back pocket, a small weight he’d managed to forget about until now. He grabs it with a small sigh, the shape of the device still unfamiliar in his hand. It’s half dead, opening to whatever game Tommy had left off playing, and without thinking the blond exits, hovering over a separate icon instead. 

There are three contacts saved on the phone. 

Three people.

A family Tommy almost had, the family that Tommy lost tonight, just the press of a button away. Surprisingly enough, it’s Techno’s name that the teenager stares at, blue eyes picking apart pixels on a screen. 

He’s angry, filled with molten rage that burns his cheeks. He’d been betrayed, the part of himself that was never supposed to see the light of day exposed–and yet at the same time the name chips away at him, leaving an overwhelming emptiness in its place. 

Every ounce of anger he has disappears as quickly as it came, and in the end, all he can do is wish for things he knows he shouldn’t. Tommy wanted the stories and the hand ruffling through his hair, he wanted Techno’s dry humor and Phil’s cooking. 

And, despite it all, he wanted Wilbur too. 

The logical side of his brain tells him it’s pointless. If the man had truly cared, he wouldn’t have gone behind Tommy’s back in the first place. He had no regard for Tommy, didn’t care how his actions may affect the younger boy, and in the end, he’d let poisonous words fly freely as he ripped open everything Tommy had tried to hide. Wilbur didn’t care. None of them did. 

He’s nothing to them, just a pathetic kid with no one else to turn to. Maybe they’d been acting too. 

The screen goes dark, their names vanishing like a drop of rain in the ocean. He returns the phone to his pocket, the emptiness inside growing into something similar to a canyon. 

He finds a spot for the night, an abandoned floor above a shop with boarded windows. It’s secluded and discrete, good enough to hide in for however long he needs. 

Tommy is alone. 

It wouldn’t be the first time. 

Tommy woke up with a splitting headache. 

It wasn’t too surprising, the use of his abilities had always come with some sort of physical toll, but he was confused as to where he was. He’s not in his apartment, that much is clear from the emptiness of the room. Slivers of dim light peeked through curtains on the wall, showing particles of dust floating around the room. He was on a thin mattress, a dirty sheet carelessly tossed over him, none of which belonged to him. 

He shifted, reaching his arms out in a lazy stretch. It hurt, his muscles still ached, but there was an added pressure too. It wrapped around his torso and his arms, constricting Tommy’s movement ever so slightly and itching his skin. He brought his arms back, blindly scratching at his stomach until he pulled at an unmistakable wrap of bandages beneath his shirt. 

Tommy let out a confused huff, his hand falling limp over his torso as he tried to recall the night in his head. He had gone to the tower, killed the heroes, and escaped. 

Right?

He had escaped, he remembered running across the rooftops with striking clarity, but the image began to get fuzzy after he returned to the ground. 

Tommy pushed himself up, the sudden motion shooting spikes of pain behind his eyes. They clouded his vision with stars and howled a ringing sound into his ears. He wobbled, leaning his weight on the hands below him until it passed. 

It took a moment for the room to stop spinning, the last of it blinked away by heavy eyelids as Tommy readjusted to his surroundings. The ringing faded into an echo as well, and in the silence left behind the blond heard something shuffle across the dirty floor. 

He wasn’t alone. 

Tommy brought his hand to his face, relief flooding his veins when he felt his mask over his skin. 

“Don’t worry,” a voice said behind him, “I didn’t touch the mask.” 

Tommy turned, twisting as far back as his body allowed, and found the figure of a man sitting against the wall. He had his legs drawn up, elbows resting on his knees as he watched. There was a mask slotted over his nose and mouth, eyes hidden by a pair of goggles. He was someone if his suit was anything to go by, a simple tactical vest over purple athletic wear. He looked familiar, but Tommy couldn’t tell why.

He leaned forward, tilting his head, “You’ve got a lot of people talking about you, made quite the entrance onto the scene.” 

“Where am I?” Tommy croaked, throat dry and scratchy.

The man leans forward, rising to their feet with ease and heading to the corner of the room. There, stood what looked to be the remains of a dresser. Tommy watched with wary eyes as he opened a drawer, reaching in and grabbing something before he came to the side of the mattress. 

Tommy shrank back, shying away when the man reached out his hand, offering a bottle of water to the teenager. “Here,” he said, giving it a shake. Tommy stared at the bottle, gaping behind his mask. “It’ll help with your throat.” He let go, letting the bottle fall into Tommy’s lap, and turned around to face the wall. 

Tommy made a questioning sound. 

“It’s sealed, not poisoned or anything if that’s what you’re worried about,” the man assured. “Just tell me when I can turn back around.” He let the silence hang in the air a moment, just until he heard Tommy open the bottle. “To answer your question, we’re still in the city, the lower sector to be more exact. I have a few safe points all over, so when I found you I just took you to the closest one.” Tommy adjusted his mask, sliding it onto his cheek as he raised the bottle to chapped lips. The water felt like heaven on his tongue.  “You should consider yourself lucky I’m the one who found you, the enforcers have been crawling around here ever since the stunt you pulled.” 

Tommy emptied the bottle; and after the mask was returned to its place, he gave the okay for the man to turn back around. “Who are you?” 

The man sighed, going back to his spot on the wall, “Someone who’s helping you. That’s worth a lot around here ya know–help. It usually comes with a price.” He tilted his head, and flexed his fingers, “The name’s Purpled.”

Tommy nodded, recognizing the name. He was a vigilante, one of the more active ones in lower L’Manberg if Tommy’s memory served him right. 

“You’ve been out for most of the day,” Purpled told him, “It’s been pretty calm so far all things considered, but the people are getting more restless as the day goes on. I’ve been hearing rumors of possible riots tonight.” He tilted his chin up, looking smug.  “They’re angry with you, Red Death.”

Tommy bristled, “That’s not my name.” 

“No?” The vigilante asked, “Well, that’s the one they’ve given you. It’s who you are now.”

Tommy looked down at his hands, picking at the spots of dried blood under his nails. 

They’d given him a name, one linked with death and blood, and in a strange, twisted way, Tommy loved it. Behind his mask, his lips turned upwards in an almost gleeful smile. He was a villain, everything he was raised not to be. 

It was almost comical. 

“I’m a villain.” He said softly, a small confirmation for himself. He swung his legs over the side of the mattress, sneakers hitting the ground with a dull thump . “You’re not going to turn me in?” 

Purpled shook his head, “I’m a vigilante, Red, I protect the people who get forgotten by the system so that they don’t have to end up like you or me.” He shrugged and absentmindedly pulled at his glove. “The heroes don’t care about this place, so I don’t care about them. Simple.” 

Tommy–Red Death hummed, slowly rising to sore feet and letting them take him to the window. He pushes the curtain–it was really just a sheet nailed to the wall, tattered and stained–aside, just enough to look out at the sunset, beautiful over L’Manberg’s skyline. 

The city had lost something last night, two heroes to the hands of a teenager, and yet the universe gives the city a beautiful sunset to end the day. To the villain, it’s a fitting sight. 

Blue eyes gleamed under the mask, switching focus from the sky to his cracked reflection in the window. 

A face still as stone stared back at him.

Anyone else may have been afraid of it, the coldness of the eyes almost too much to bear, but where others would have turned and run, Tommy looked further. There was something else there, and it felt safe . 

“Thank you for your help,” he said, stepping away from the window. Purpled gave a short nod and sat up. “But I think I’ll be going now.” 

Tommy doesn’t get any sleep.

He tries, he really does, but restlessness plagues him and he can’t seem to silence his thoughts long enough to get a meaningful moment of rest. So he stays awake, unfocused eyes staring at the wall as he lets his mind wander. 

It’s probably a good thing–that he can’t sleep, that is. He can practically hear the nightmares brewing their harsh words and gruesome images in the back of his head, just waiting for his eyes to slide shut so they can play freely. Avoiding them makes Tommy feel like a kid again; like he was back in that bedroom and hugging his pillow for comfort, even though it didn’t help. 

Henry had helped, but even he was gone now. Tommy had left him behind too. 

He had nothing left, just the clothes on his back, and persistent aching in his heart. 

There are people after him, the heroes from his past and the family from the present, neither of which Tommy is very eager to see. Hiding from both will be harder now; they know what he looks like, his habits. Getting a new job or apartment would only last so long, and every day would be spent in a cloud of anxious caution. Tommy doesn't know if he could do it again. 

He stands, the light from the dawn printing his shadow on the wall as he paces. He pulls at his fingers, pops his knuckles. 

Tommy just wants to be happy; he wants to feel safe , why is that so hard to find? 

The blond huffs, shaking his arms out in frustration. In the distance, he hears a train’s horn echo through the city, the rumble of metal tracks coming with it. Tommy pauses, angling his ear in the direction of the sound, gears turning in his head.

A plan is born then, one that was unfathomable before, but now Tommy lets it dwell; lets it sink its teeth into him. 

Maybe L’Manberg wasn’t the place to find safety, maybe it never was. 

There’s nothing left for Tommy here. His friends, his home–all of it is gone, but that doesn’t mean he can’t make a new life somewhere else.

He’s free of anything that chains him to this city, and now there’s nothing holding him back. 

A house on the beach, salty winds blowing through his hair–it all waits for him. He just needs to leave. 

Tommy’s plan is set by the time the sun rises, its light gracing the city with a brilliant pink sky. He leaves his spot quietly, beginning his trek to the seafront. 

As he walks, he decides that by the time the day is over, he’ll be done running.

Chapter Text

Before and after. 

They’re simple words, used to mark the passage of time and the turning points in one’s life. 

Tommy can think of many. Before he became Red Death,

Before he had a mentor,

Before he developed his abilities. 

Each had come with its own ‘after’, something that always made things worse than they’d been before. Tommy had learned to dread what came next; to look at the next day with a silent sort of fear. It was a bone-deep thing that he didn’t think would ever go away. Just another fact of life, like how a wave will always break when it meets the shore, or how there will always be another to take its place when it decides to return to the ocean. 

When he was younger, he would stay awake at night, staring at the ceiling. The mattress had been hard, digging springs into his spine, but Tommy wasn’t going to be the one to complain about it. The other kids didn’t, so he wouldn’t either. He was a big man, a few springs couldn’t hurt him. They had made it hard to fall asleep though. So, as he traced the patterns in the textured finish, he let his mind wander, thinking about the life that had been planned for him. 

“ You’re going to do so good, Tommy, ” his mother had told him once, a sad, watery smile pulling at red cheeks. She’d cupped her hand around his, squeezing a familiar pattern into his palms. “ You’re going to be such a big boy, and you’re going to save people, okay? ” 

That sweet voice had truly marked the end of his first ‘before’, and maybe that’s the only reason he remembered it. Most things from back then had faded with time, the memories getting fuzzier and taking on a dull hue as the years passed, but those words are branded in Tommy’s memory. ‘ You’re going to save people. ’

She couldn’t have been more wrong. 

The route Tommy takes to get to the seaport is long. He avoids the busier roads, instead cutting through private property or taking the side streets. He can’t afford to risk being seen. It’s a hot day, hotter than it’s been in a while, and Tommy’s not nearly dressed for it. Beads of sweat drip down his forehead and face, soaking the neckline of his shirt. 

He hasn’t missed the way the humidity makes everything feel damp, hasn’t missed the way the city seemed to be the perfect breeding ground for the sweltering heat. Maybe he’ll travel north–catch a break from the sweat and the stickiness. He’s heard of a country up there, Snowchester, he thinks it’s called. It’s a pretty place, the villages consisting of cobblestone streets lined with log cabins, all dusted in an even layer of snow. It sounds peaceful there. No heroes, no villains, just people. 

Tommy hopes that, after he leaves L’Manberg, he’ll get the chance to see it for himself. 

This ‘after’ will be different. It will be good, the perfect fresh start. 

His skin thrums with the thought of seeing everything from the beach to snow-capped mountains. He’ll learn to drive, maybe camp . He’ll sleep under the stars, lulled into a peaceful rest by the nature around him as a small pile of embers burns beside him. He can do anything now, Tommy is free. 

There’s a blank spot at his side, the shape of a person waiting to be filled. Tommy ignores it. That is the part that hurts, it’s the part that’s worse than ‘before’. 

By the time he hears the waves crashing against the sea wall, it’s the afternoon. It’s taken hours to get here, and Tommy’s feet (much like everything else) are sore and tired from the journey. He keeps at a steady pace, following the sound through the sparse building that remains on this side of the city. He only allows himself to stop when the horizon clears, L’Manberg’s skyline replaced by the expansive ocean. 

The port isn’t nearly as busy as Tommy would’ve hoped, so sneaking onto one of the boats is going to be a lot more difficult than he’d initially thought. There are only a few bobbing in the water, medium-sized things with crates stacked on the deck, but they’ll do the job so long as they leave the docks. People mill around, waiting for departure as other men in neon vests direct containers to where they need to go. Tommy watches from afar, mentally mapping the best way to get to the closest boat. 

The port doesn’t clear out after their done loading. The people wait around in small groups, spread evenly along the pavement. It would be impossible to get by unnoticed with everyone out, and it doesn’t get any better after an hour of waiting. 

Luckily, only one of the boats departs, while the other two give no indication that they’re planning to go as well. Hopefully, they don’t need to leave until the morning, and Tommy will have all night to find a way to board one of them. 

So that’s what happens. Tommy goes down to the pavement and waits, crouched behind a container as the sun sets. He doesn’t care to watch. 

The snacks he’d gotten from the shop are nearly gone–just a few packs of granola left–and his stomach growls for something more filling.  He can’t eat what he has left yet, if Tommy learned anything from his time on the streets, it was that rationing what you have is important and necessary for survival. Tommy closes his eyes, breathing deeply through an awful pang of hunger.

He stays hidden behind the container until the stars come out. They are dim, just a few dull diamonds suspended in the sky, but they’re there, and Tommy smiles. 

It’s time for him to go; it’s time for a new beginning, a new ‘after’. 

It’s exhilarating. 

The docks have cleared out now. The groups of people have retired to their cabins for the night, leaving behind a cement yard filled with stacked crates and abandoned trash. Tommy tabs his foot against the ground, restless energy coursing through his veins as he pokes his head up one last time to make sure that the coast is clear. He goes to duck out from his hiding place, but then something cuts through the air above him. Tommy pauses. 

It’s a light swoosh, probably just a bird going back to its nest, but it makes the teenager falter all the same. He looks up, searching the night sky, but the only thing there is the moon. 

His path to the boat is clear, the gentle crash of the water against its hull steady and unbroken. The ocean calls out, its gentle voice singing songs of safety, and Tommy’s tired of ignoring it. 

He weaves around crates, letting his feet carry him to where he needs to go. The boat is big, much bigger up close, and Tommy can’t stop the smile that consumes him whole. He is going to be free. 

And then, out of the darkness, he hears someone call his name. 

Tommy stumbles, the toe of his shoe catching on the ground and sending him forward. He flails, and the world slows down as the ground gets closer and closer. Someone grabs his collar, stopping his descent, and then he’s pulled back up onto shaking legs. 

“It’s okay, you’re okay,” someone says from behind him, but Tommy barely hears it over the blood rush in his ears. Not alone, he thinks, short and panicked, not alone. Not alone, not alone. 

The tips of his fingers begin to burn as shaking shoulders go still. He can’t freak out, not when he’s so close. 

The boat is right there, just a few strides away–but the person is behind him, the ghost of their touch warm against the back of Tommy’s neck. It’s a searing reminder that he wasn’t fast enough, careful enough. He takes a step away and turns, his blood running cold when he meets matching blue eyes. 

Tommy’s heart lurches. “Phil?” 

It's only been a day, but it feels like it’s been so much longer since he’d last seen the man. His smile returns, just for a moment because it’s Phil, but then he remembers everything else. It’s only been a day, but that’s more than enough time for the other two to tell their father everything. 

With furrowed brows knitting into a frown, Tommy moves back. He lets the space grow between them like an invisible chasm, getting bigger and bigger with every step. 

Phil, sensing the tension, raises his arms placatingly. “Tommy,” He starts, the boy’s name sounding more like a warning. “I’m not going to hurt you, it’s okay.” 

Tommy levels a dangerous look at the man. “How did you find me?” It’s not said as a question, but rather a demand. 

“Mate, it’s okay, you don’t have to-”

“How,” the younger repeats, poisonous vitriol dripping from his mouth, “did you find me, Phil.”

The man’s face pinches like he’s been stung, settling into something serious barely a second later. It’s a fast switch, jarring too, but Tommy doesn’t have time to dwell on it. “We tracked your phone.” 

Tommy’s jaw goes slack. “What?” The phone in his pocket gets heavier, pressing uncomfortably against his leg. Of course they would track him, why wouldn’t they? No one in their right mind would let him go free. “Fuck,” he says, under his breath. The weight in his pocket is relieved as Tommy takes the device in his hand. “Fuck!” He runs his free hand through his hair and throws the phone at Phil’s feet. The screen cracks as soon as it hits the concrete. 

“Tommy, hey, listen to me-” 

“No.” he pulls at his hair; at his fingers, anything to distract himself from the nagging voice in his head that tells him he’s lost. “There’s nothing you can say, Phil, nothing. ”

The man is quiet, seemingly at a loss for words. Tommy made up his mind hours ago. Leaving is what’s best for everyone, even if it’s hard. This is what he needs to do.

He gives Phil one more second of thought, and when it passes in excruciating silence, Tommy turns away with his chin held high. This is what is best. 

The man makes a sound, then, “You’re safe.” Tommy pauses. He wishes he didn’t, but that one word holds so much power. “Please just wait, I promise you’re safe.” 

‘I promise.’

Promises are easy to break. Even with the best intentions, they can snap with the smallest amount of force. Techno had told him the same thing, they all had, and they were wrong. Tommy doesn’t want to believe him, but then again there’s something about the way Phil had said it. It’s serious and genuine, and a terrible curiosity wants to know what he has to say. 

“You know?” Tommy asks, his back still turned, “That I’m… they told you?” 

“Yes.” The younger shakes his head, wrapping shaking arms around himself. “And none of that should have happened the way it did, I’m sorry.” His voice is soft and sweet. Pretty, like the flowers in the garden, and Tommy turns. 

The worry written on Phil’s face is wiped away, replaced with a sad smile. “You’re sorry?” 

The man nods, “You were meant to feel safe in my home, and I’m sorry that you didn’t. Wilbur should’ve never done what he did, let alone get upset with you.” 

A simple “Oh,” is all Tommy can manage in response. His gaze drifts down to the ground, resting on the broken phone at the man’s feet. Wilbur was wrong, and Tommy knew that, but somehow, Phil confirming it meant it was real. He shifts his stance, feet shuffling just a little closer to the younger boy, who snaps a warning look back. “Why are you here, Phil.” 

Phil sighs, rolling his shoulders back in a practiced motion. “I want to bring you home, that’s all.” 

Home . 

It makes Tommy’s breath catch in his throat. 

He has to be lying, no one in their right mind would knowingly invite a villain into their home, but here Phil is, doing just that. Tommy’s not sure if it’s stupidity, or a dangerous lack of self-preservation. “I’m Red Death.” Finality. 

“You were; Red Death hasn’t been seen in a year and a half.” 

“I killed people,” Tommy shoots back, because it’s the truth. A terrible, awful truth he’s carried silently for years now. It’s always with him, as constant as his heartbeat, but it’s only now that Tommy says it out loud. His next words come as a whisper, “I’m- I’m a murderer.”

He doesn’t regret what he did, he never had, but the part of him that still yearns for home withers in shame for needing to tell the man before him. Phil doesn’t back away, or run. The realization that he’s with a killer never seems to dawn on him, so he just stands on the docks with a warm smile.

Phil looks at him with sympathetic eyes, a brilliant blue that makes Tommy’s skin feel like it’s going to crawl off his bones. “No,” He says, smiling, “You are not your actions.” He shuffles forward a bit.

“I’m dangerous,” Tommy tells him, raising his hands as if to say ‘ see what I have done, see the way the blood has never truly washed away, ’ but Phil still doesn’t understand. He just stares at Tommy, wearing the same expression he did when he served the boy a slice of pie all that time ago.  “I’m dangerous, Phil.” 

He takes another step; calculated and slow–like he’s climbing a mountain and Tommy’s at the top. The rope tying him to the earth is taut, rattling with the force of angry winds, but still, Phil climbs. Step by step until he reaches the top. 

“You’re Tommy. ” He says as he grabs the boy’s shoulders. The howling on the mountain ceases altogether as everything freezes, “and I don’t think you would ever, ever hurt someone unless you absolutely needed to.” 

A hard exterior, finely crafted over years, cracks with that. Splintering, webbing cracks spread over Tommy’s skin until the only thing holding him together was the fact that he’d never been broken before. “I was scared ,” he confesses, eyes brimming with tears, “I was just-” a hiccup, and Tommy squeezes his eyes shut. The first tear falls. “I didn’t know what else to do, and I-” 

He’s cut off by Phil pulling him in, wrapping his arms around the younger’s thin frame in a tight embrace. Tommy’s taller than him, just by a few inches but it’s enough to be noticeable. He can’t find it in himself to be bothered by the difference. 

The tears continue to fall. They’re the first drips of a leaking dam, and Phil manages to chip away bit by bit with every circle he rubs into the boy’s back. He hums a light tune, filling the emptiness in the air with a sad sort of melody, and Tommy knows he should pull away. He needed… he needs to go. Far away from this–all of it–because that’s where he’ll be safe. He has to get on that boat, but his feet won’t move. 

Phil’s arms keep him close, acting as an anchor against rolling waves, and Tommy realizes that he can’t move because he doesn’t want to. Here, leaning into a man that he’s only known for a short while, Tommy feels safe . 

It’s the final blow that makes him shatter into pieces.

Tommy sobs, gathering fistfuls of Phil’s shirt between his fingers as he tucks his chin into the man’s shoulder. 

They stand there, alone on the docks for what seems like forever. Phil whispers sweet assurances the whole time, unbothered by the tears soaking through his shirt. He offers his support when Tommy’s shaking legs threaten to give out from under him, holding the boy up and guiding him over to a bench beside the water. 

It’s been nearly two days since Tommy last slept, and whatever was keeping him going seems to have broken too. He slumps against Phil’s side, head resting on his shoulder as gentle fingers card through his hair. Tommy’s cries have used the last of his energy, and after a while, the sobs that had wrecked him are nothing more than quiet sniffling. He just wants to sleep. 

It’s cooled off well tonight, with the ocean breeze bringing salty air to the shore, and Tommy breathes in the scent. His focus drifts, riding over the waves with the same rhythm of Phil’s hands. He could stay like this forever, frozen in this moment of calmness, no one but the moon and the stars to watch over them. 

“Tired?” Phil asks softly, to which he receives a slow nod against his arm, “you probably didn’t get much sleep last night, huh? Neither did we, we were up late looking around the neighborhood for you.” 

“‘M sorry,” Tommy mumbles. His throat hurts, dry and raw from earlier. Some water would be nice. 

He blinks lazily, working against the gravity pulling his eyelids down. The older man clicks his tongue, “You don’t need to be.” He tilts his head in a short nod, looking at something on the port. Tommy doesn’t catch the motion, too absorbed by the sound of the water. His eyes fall closed. “You’ve done nothing wrong.” 

Phil lowers his hand, resting his arm around Tommy’s shoulder and pulling him a bit closer. He makes a sound of protest at the change, it pulls him away from sleep just enough for him to hear a light chuckle from Phil, and then something else. 

Footsteps. 

Tommy lifts his head, looking in the direction of the sound, but he sees nothing, just crates. “What was that?” 

“Hm?” Phil hums, trying to nudge Tommy back onto his shoulder. 

“I heard something, someone’s here.”

“I’m sure it’s nothing mate,” Phil tells him as he moves forward a bit, blocking Tommy’s view of the rest of the port. “Just rest.” 

The dismissal stings, giving way to rocky uncertainty. “Phil? What’s going on?” Out of the corner of his eye, just behind the older man, Tommy sees someone step out from behind one of the crates. Their figure is large and imposing, shrouded in the shadow of the boat. Tommy’s heart plummets. 

Phil lied; he made Tommy trust him, and then he lied . 

The hugs, the kindness–the safety, it was all just an illusion, a trick. “ Phil ?” he chokes out, hating the way his voice breaks. 

Phil looks back, lips pressing into a thin line when he sees a second person step out into the open. “No- Tommy, I-” 

Tommy stands, finding the energy to tear himself away from Phil’s hold. He can’t stay here, not when there are people that are going to take him away on the other end of the dock. Phil snaps his eyes back to Tommy, his face twisted in guilt, and that’s all Tommy needs. He doesn’t say anything, no warning, no final words, he just breaks into a sprint. 

He gets a good lead. The other men are still far behind him, and Phil has to scramble to get back to his feet. Their footsteps pound behind him, and familiar voices shout his name, pleading for him to stop, to come back. He won’t, Tommy is going to leave. 

With his eyes locked on the entrance ramp, Tommy crosses the docks, gasping for breath as he goes. The steps behind him slow, falling quiet, but he doesn’t care. Let them stop, let them go; he doesn’t care. 

He’s practically there, just a few feet away from the ramp when something wraps around his legs in a cold, familiar grasp. It shrieks as more join in, like this is just some kind of reunion. They rush up to his torso, covering his arms until Tommy is engulfed in a chittering mess of shadows. Phantoms, Wraith had called them, ruthless spirits commanded by the villain’s voice. 

“You promised!” Tommy screams, rage burning hot under his skin. “You fucking promised!” He thrashes, trying to rip his arm away from the phantoms, but they go solid, pushing him to his knees. 

Behind him, people argue, spouting out a mess that Tommy can only pick out parts of.

“Why would you do that-”

“He was running-”

“Let him go!” 

Tommy cranes his neck, tipping his chin back to get a glimpse of his captors. The phantoms whirl around him, making everything outside seem like a hazy mess. Through it, he spots a flash of pink hair. He thrashes again, but the phantoms hold him in their icy grip. “You’re a liar! You promised me,” Something warm slips down his cheek, “You promised me.” 

The veil freezes, the creatures stopping mid-air, and Tommy points a narrow glare at Phil. Techno stands at his side, whispering something into his father’s ear. He doesn’t look at the boy on the ground. “Tommy,” Phil starts, but before he can continue someone else steps forward. 

Wilbur.

His head is down, brown curls falling over his eyes, and Tommy sneers. Of course Wil won’t meet his eye, he’d never seemed like the type to admit when he was wrong. “Off.” He says shortly, and at first Tommy’s glaring look falters, morphing into something more like confusion…but then the phantoms melt away, gliding over to the men–over to Wilbur. 

They don’t attack, they don’t even make a noise as they circle him, waiting for their next command. “Wil?” Tommy’s voice is small– too small– and he hates it. Hates the weakness and betrayal that is so, so, present. 

 The phantoms should be attacking him. They should be shrieking, pinning him to the ground with their too-cold bodies, ripping him apart bit by bit. 

Tommy doesn’t know if he’d rather watch that, or endure the truth that he’s slowly beginning to understand. 

“Look at me,” Tommy demands. He pushes himself to his feet and takes a few staggering steps forward. “I said look at me!” 

“Tommy.”

“No!” He yells, heart pounding. Tommy knows what he’s asking for. Deep down, he knows what the answer will be, but still, he needs to see.“You fucking look at me, the least you can do is that.” 

Wilbur’s shoulders drop in resignation. There’s nothing more he can do. The phantoms click, swirling between the two like rolling storm clouds–a threatening reminder that danger is near. 

When Wilbur finally tips his chin up, blue eyes meet glowing green. 

It all clicks together, like some sort of terrible puzzle, and Tommy hates that he hadn’t seen it sooner.

The money, the work; the perfect cookie cutter life he thought they lived was never real, and Tommy had fallen for it. If he had felt betrayed before, then he’d felt like he’d been stabbed now. 

“Wraith.” The phantoms fly faster, the whites of their eyes leaving streaks in the air as they go. The villain has no response. “That night in the alley. You knew who I was and you didn’t say anything.” 

“I can explain everything, Tommy. I’ll explain it all.” Wraith tells him, glowing eyes flickering between green and brown. 

“You- this whole time, you were…” He trails off, gaze snapping to Phil and Techno, and Tommy remembers that the syndicate is led by three men. They were rumored to be close, no one on the scene trusts each other as devoutly as they do, but no one had ever thought they were more than close friends at best. No one could have guessed they’d be family. “You all were hiding it from me.” Techno–Blade gives a confirming nod. 

Seraph steps forward, placing a steadying hand on Blade’s shoulder. “We didn’t want to put you into more danger if we could help it,” he says, sounding light without the guise of his voice changer. “You of all people have to understand why we didn’t tell you.”

Tommy’s stomach curls, twisting itself into knots because he does . He understands why they wouldn’t tell him, and it’s so easy; fitting so perfectly like a lock and key. The phantoms fade, slipping back into the shadows where they belong. A handful stays, a variety of shapes shifting at Wraith’s feet, and Tommy recognizes the one that looks like a crow. The creature studies him, tilting its head when the two lock eyes, and then it melts away too, leaving him to stare at the villain's feet. “You called me a liar.” 

“Toms,” and he has the nerve to sound upset. The twisting erodes, turning into something raw and red. “I should’ve never-”

“Don’t call me that!” Poisonous vitriol drips from the words. “How can you call me a liar knowing full well you’ve done the same fucking thing.” Tommy jabs his finger into Wraith’s chest. He stumbles back, braving the force with the same strength as a house of cards in a hurricane. “How can you stand there and think you’re better than me when all you really are is a fucking hypocrite.” 

“You’re right.” He confesses. Tommy jerks back, surprised. “We’ve been looking for Red Death for months, combing any records for a name, a lead, anything . All those nights I didn’t visit, that week I was gone, I was looking for Red Death.” He narrows brown eyes down at Tommy, “and then I found out I was looking for you.

The brunet pauses, pinching at the bridge of his nose before continuing. “I told you that night we met that kids don’t belong in the fight, and I didn’t lie, Tommy, kids have no place doing what we’re doing. You shouldn’t be doing this.” 

Tommy huffs out a hollow laugh. “You weren’t even around yet, none of you were! I saw what needed to be done and I did it myself .” He went back to the tower. He’d killed the heroes. 

He killed his mentor.

Wraith shrinks, brows pinching and teeth grinding as Tommy continues. “Everything I did was for myself. I got an apartment and a job. I put it all away and settled down. I made that choice, and you took it all away the minute you decided you knew better.” A wave crashes into the seawall, the water reaching only to the lip of the dock. Tommy clenches his jaw, cold fingers clenching at his side. “You don’t .” 

His voice echoes through the night, leaving behind thick, heavy silence. It wraps its claws around each of them, snuffing out the fire that had given them the energy to yell in the first place. It reminds Tommy of a storm, just puffy dark clouds slowly covering the sky in a curtain of traitorous peace. He waits for the rain to fall, for the first strike of lightning to come and ruin it all, but it doesn't come. 

Then Wraith takes a long, deep breath, and this, Tommy thinks, is it. This is where the storm breaks. 

This is where the thunder will come and crack across the sky, igniting the land below in burning chaos. The wind gets brisk and the waves become wild and violent.  They’ll destroy walls, flood whatever hasn’t already been reduced to ash. Homes will wash away, lives will be ruined–families fracture and break. This will be more than a storm.

It will be a hurricane. 

“I’m sorry.” 

 Tommy’s head jerks back, and suddenly he’s aware of the sweat between his balled fingers. “You’re-what?” 

“I’m sorry,” Wilbur repeats, “truly, genuinely, sorry. There’s no excuse for the way I treated you, it was cruel and I shouldn’t have ever gotten mad at you for something you were trying to keep private. I’m so sorry, Tommy.” He looks at the blond with sincerity. The clouds dissipate, retreating back across the sky to reveal the stars behind them.

“Don’t lie to me Wil,” Tommy whispers. He doesn’t mean for it to come out so soft, but it does. Whatever energy he’d managed to scrape together is fading fast, and it takes all that’s left to stay on his feet. “ Please .” The, ‘I can’t take it,’ goes unsaid. 

Wilbur makes a wounded sound, the boy’s words cutting deep, and he shakes his head, “I’m not, I know it won’t mean much to you anymore, but I promise I’ll never lie to you again.” 

He’s right, the promise means nothing to him now, but a part of him still wants to believe in it. Tommy casts a glance over his shoulder, the ramp onto the boat is still open, he can still get on. “Just,” he starts, turning back to Wilbur, “let me go.” 

“If you need to– really need to–you can, but you can stay .” He gestures back to Phil and Techno, the two still quiet behind him, “We’ll keep you safe Tommy, all of us. You won’t have to fight ever again if you don’t want to.” 

Tommy shutters, searching Wil for a lie as he wraps uneasy arms around his waist. The promise is sweet as honey, but he can’t find it in himself to trust them. All he’s ever done is fight, every breath, every heartbeat was dedicated to his survival. His sight blurs as a knot forms in his throat. “I don’t know how.”

“Then let us show you,” Wilbur reaches his hand out, tempting Tommy to grab it. “Heroes, villains, none of it matters, not anymore. Just let us take you home.” Tommy stares at Wil’s hand, tracing the creases in his sin to the calluses on his fingers. He doesn’t see Techno ear twitch. It’s a small thing, just enough to disturb the braid falling over it, and the man snaps his head back to look at something just beyond the port.

He bumps Phil, subtly nodding back as Tommy makes his decision. Leaving L’Manberg isn’t the best thing, not when he has people here that care. He reaches out, hand outstretched, and Wilbur’s face collapses in joyus relief. 

They’re allowed a fraction of a second, that’s all, and then Techno surges forward, grabbing his brother’s arm. He pulls him away while Phil goes around the other side, one hand wrapped around the ring he wears around his neck as the other reaches out, out, out for Tommy. 

And then the thunder strikes in a deadly burst of flames between them, the shock throwing everyone off their feet. 

When Tommy hits the ground, it’s with so much force it throws his head back against the concrete. His vision swims, turning the swirling flames surrounding him into bright orange blobs as Tommy gasps for breath. 

He urges his body to move, to stand , but they won’t obey. His head lolls to the side, towards the water, and Tommy watches the reflection of the fire dance over the waves in relaxing swirls. The flames make the water look like it’s on fire. Tommy almost laughs at the irony. 

If he squints, he can make out bubbles in the deep, rising up, up, up while black feathers float innocently on the surface.  

A figure steps over him, blocking out the light of the fire, and distantly Tommy hears the sound of Phantom’s shrieks over a ringing in his ears. “Wil?” 

He gapes, turning his head back up to find that the person is much too broad to possibly be Wilbur. “Hello again,” a man says, and he’s shrouded in white armor. Tommy takes in a breath, perhaps a little too hard, and chokes on smoke. His lungs seize, sending into an exhausted coughing fit as stars dance across his vision. “Look at you, you’ve grown up.” He kneels. Scarred hands push a bit of Tommy’s hair out of his face, bracing the boy until the coughing passes. 

The fire roars around them, a curtain of flames separating them from the outside world. It’s so hot . The blistering heat nips at his skin, making it feel like it’s burning and bubbling it off his bones. A pained sound escapes his lips. 

“Don’t worry,” The man says, and his voice is so familiar, “you’ll be home soon.” Tommy blinks away the last of the stars, almost gasping when Inferno himself comes into view. He slips his arms under the blond’s, the other under his knees, and Tommy can’t resist, his limbs won’t allow him to. 

Inferno lifts with ease, hoisting the boy into the air like he’s nothing more than a children’s doll. “No,” Tommy mumbles, but Inferno just smiles, “I don’t want- no!” 

He squirms, a useless attempt at twisting out of the hero's arms, and Inferno laughs. He holds him tighter, pressing Tommy against his chest. “It’s time to go.” 

The docks are in shambles, the bench at the edge reduced to a burning pile of wood and metal. Tommy searches with frantic eyes, face paling when he spots two bodies laying amid the flames, phantoms flying around them. They’re at the end of the docks, getting further with every step. “Wil,” He calls, “Wilbur!” 

One of the bodies shifts, pushing himself onto hands and knees as a ragged braid falls over his shoulder. 

Wilbur doesn’t move.

“WILBUR!” He screams, his throat tearing, “WILBUR!” The fire burns at Tommy’s eyes, his face, and Inferno holds him tighter. 

He takes a breath, readying to scream however many times it takes, but all he gets is smoke. It coats his throat, creeping into his lungs, and it hurts. The coughs wreak through him, squeezing and choking his lungs. “Wil…” he gasps. 

It’s the last thing he says before his vision goes dark, and Tommy finally goes to sleep.

Chapter Text

Tommy’s abilities developed shortly after his sixth birthday. 

The day itself had been amazing. He’d had his cake–sweet vanilla coated in sugary blue icing. Six tall candles sticking out from the top–and opened his gifts, a crooked smile on display through it all. He wished for powers, something that would make him stronger or faster; something to make him special . 

It was a fleeting thought. One that had come and gone so quickly that Tommy had all but forgotten about the wish by the time he was tucked into bed, a brand new stuffed rabbit tucked under his arm. He smiled softly as he drifted off, and Tommy was happy. So happy, in fact, that when the day turned into the next, he refused to let his parents take down any of the decorations. The streamers had stayed tied up in the kitchen for days, rustling ever so slightly whenever they left the windows open to let in the springtime breeze. 

A few days passed like that, with their home stuck in a never-ending birthday party. Nobody complained, that type of thing only happened once a year, so why not make it last? The balloons fell to the ground and the last of the cake was eaten, and only then the boy allowed for things to be taken down.

Days spent in childish bliss came to a slow stop, and Tommy's life morphed back into what it was before: going to school, trips to the park, bright cartoons. 

And then his wish came true. 

Tommy discovered his abilities by accident. There was nothing special about it, no overwhelming feeling of power, no fanfare. It was just something he’d found, like a new section at the library. They were weak and sporadic, coming and going without reason, but that was to be expected with anything new. He’d shown his mother what he’d done, a wide smile displayed on his face as he did, and she’d forced a similar smile to match. 

His abilities, he’d later learn, were rare. Useful and promising in the right hands. 

In the end, that was the only thing that mattered. 

Tommy was taken the next day, that stuffed rabbit left behind in his room along with the rest of the things that he wouldn’t need anymore. He was too young to understand goodbyes back then; too young to realize that it would truly be the last time he saw the way his father's brows creased or how his mother pressed her lips together. 

He’d hopped down the steps like he had every morning, alternating between feet until he reached the glossy black car parked at the end of the walkway. 

Tommy was going to be a hero, and that was the only thing on his mind as the car pulled away, leaving two bereaved parents on the front step. 

He likes to think that if he’d known, he would have done things differently. Maybe he wouldn’t have pulled away from their kisses, maybe he would have hugged them tighter.  Like most things, however, the past can’t be changed, no matter how much he wishes it could. 

He’d been driven out of the city, body twisting in his seat so wide eyes could watch as the skyline disappeared into a haze. The minutes passed slowly, stretching into what felt like hours trapped by his seatbelt with nothing but fields and hills to look at, and after a while, a gate appeared in the distance. 

It was a big, metal thing, with metal bars twisting around to create some sort of design. Connected was a fence topped with barbed wire that went on for ages, so tall that Tommy’s fingertips wouldn’t graze the top even if he reached straight up. They seemed to grow as the car approached, the rusted wire scratching the unsuspecting sky. Tommy watched it go by with his face squished against the window, his breath fogging the glass, and then a building appeared at the end of the gravel road. 

When he was six years and four days old, Tommy arrived at the dorms. 

There hadn’t been a lot of time to properly build expectations, but the boy’s shoulders slumped once they were close enough to see the details of the building. It looked like a school–and not one of the fun ones with a fancy playground on the side or wide open windows–just a drab, dull, brick lump of a school. 

A woman was waiting at the front door, dressed in a soft-looking sweater. Her hair was pulled back into a dark bun, with some of the strands falling out to frame her face. She looked kind, lips upturned in a light smile as she descended a set of concrete stairs and made her way to the car. The driver turned the vehicle off with a sigh, and in the absence of its hum, the blond could hear the woman’s heels tapping against the ground. 

Tommy pushed the door open, eager to stand for the first time in a while. As he did, the woman cleared her throat, looking over the boy and to the driver. “Name?” she asked. 

“Thomas Nitin,” he told her, sliding a folder over the top of the car. The lady grabbed it, her fingers flipping through the papers in the file as the driver continued. “Picked him up from the middle district, just reported yesterday.” 

“I see.” She bent down to her knees, her deep brown eyes bearing into Tommy’s, “And how old are you?” 

The boy beamed, happy to finally be asked a question he knew the answer to. “Six!” 

“My, you’re so tall for a six-year-old! You must eat all your vegetables.” She flipped another page, brows raising when she found the information she was looking for. “My name is Tina, it’s very nice to meet you, Thomas. How long have you had your abilities for?”

“I don’t know,” He muttered, kicking a rock on the pavement with the tip of his shoe, “They don’t work good yet.” 

Tina nodded, closing the file and tucking it under her arm, “Well then, it’s a good thing we can help you with that. Do you want to come inside and see your room?” She offered her hand. Tommy took it slowly, his stomach rolling with unease while she guided him up the steps. When he looked back, the car was gone, the tires kicking up dust as it drove away. 

Fluorescents bathed the inside of the compound, illuminating empty halls and the thick wooden doors slotted evenly within them. The reflection of the lights seemed to move with them, gliding over the cracks in the tile with ease while Tommy tried his best to race them. He’d run as far ahead as Tina would allow, jumping over white squares whenever he could, but eventually, he’d been forced to a stop when the woman paused in front of a set of double doors. She pushed one open, holding it just enough for the boy to creep into a stairwell after her. 

“We’re going to go down,” she told him, nudging him towards the steps. Tommy clutched the railing as he went down, eyes glued on his feet as Tina continued. “It’s much safer for you kids down here, much more reinforced than it is upstairs. Everything you’d need is down here, your room, the cafeteria, your classrooms, we try to make it as easy as we can for you kids.” 

They got to the bottom, and Tina opened another door. Tommy went through without protest. “Other kids?” The woman hummed. “Are they like me?”

“Kind of,” She said, tugging him towards a hall labeled ‘Dormitory’ . “They all have abilities, but they’ll be different from yours. Lucky for you though, I hear you’ll be rooming with some boys close to your age.” They stopped at a white door, the wood coated in a thick layer of chipping paint, and Tina let go of the boy’s hand. She pulled a card out of her pocket, quickly raising it up to a black box near the doorknob. The box beeped. 

Three beds. That’s the first thing Tommy ever noticed about the room. They were pressed against the far wall, the one in the middle just a little bit closer to the one on the right, like they’d been pushed together. The sheets were wrinkled too, coming untucked from the corners of the mattress.

“Yours is over there,” Tina told him, gesturing to the pristine bed set away from the other two. She had said more, about his schedule and meal times, but her voice became something of background noise until finally, the room went silent safe for humming in the walls. She checked a watch on her wrist, and the corners of her eyes crinkled, “I’ll leave you to get settled in, the other two should be back soon. Do you have any questions?” 

Tommy wandered further into the room, brushing his sheets with his fingertips. They were scratchy, nothing like the ones at home. He felt a pang in his chest. An ache that had only just spread its roots. 

Everything he had was left at home; parents, toys, birthday presents. This room had none of that, it wasn’t even the same warm color, just a dull gray. He cast a glance back, big eyes meeting hers, “When do I get to go home?” 

Tina tensed, the folder under her arm bending under the pressure, “Oh, Thomas, this is you’re home now, at least until you get your mentor. You won’t be going back.” 

“Oh,” He whispered as tiny fingers pulled at one another. Suddenly, the room felt a bit duller, grimmer; Tommy wasn’t sure how to feel about it anymore. Faintly, he felt tears prick his eyes. 

Tina excused herself after that–there was nothing else to say–leaving the six-year-old in the empty room. He had nothing to unpack, so Tommy sat at the end of his bed, kicking his feet as he took in the rest of the room. 

There were three desks lined up on the wall opposite the beds, their surfaces dusty and bare, much like everything else. Tina had told him there would be a lot of lessons to complete, maybe that was where Tommy was supposed to do his homework. He hadn’t been going to school long, but he’d been attending class long enough to where his teacher had begun to send worksheets home with him. They were always tricky, and Tommy had spent several nights up past his bedtime with his father at his side, the two working to get the sheets filled out. He hoped that whatever work he was given wouldn't be as difficult, he was not sure he’d be able to do it without his dad by his side. 

On the other side sat a set of dressers, their drawers closed tight to hide whatever is inside. Above them, nestled nicely in the corner on the ceiling, hung a small, circular lens. It shuttered every so often, a red light beside it blinking as it watched the silent room. 

It didn’t stay that way for long. 

Tommy heard them first, barrelling down the hall while speaking in hushed voices, and then the door to his room flung open. Two boys rushed in, the first walking in with his back to Tommy as the second struggled to click the door shut. They were talking, engaged in a fascinating conversation about…something as Tommy watched quietly from his spot on the bed, almost like a timid cat frozen under the threat of attention. 

The room was small though, nothing could stay a secret for long, and the boy who shut the door was the first to notice him. He was nearly a whole head taller than the other one, his hair a messy brown with streaks of white all over. Tommy stared at it, picking apart the different strands with interest. He’d never seen a kid with gray hair before, it was cool. The boy’s shoulders had hunched in then, and a set of different colored eyes found Tommy on the bed. 

The shorter one noticed his friend's apprehension almost immediately, pausing his rambling and following the mismatched gaze. He looked Tommy over with uncertainty, confusion blooming across his face for only a second before excitement took its place. “Are you our new roommate?” 

Tommy nodded, humming his confirmations. “Hi.”

The boy smiled, showing off missing teeth as he jumped onto the middle bed. He leaned forward, his tiny hands gripping the sheets so that he wouldn’t slide off the edge. “Hi! I’m Tubbo!” 

“That’s a funny name,” Tommy snorted. He’d never met anyone with a name like that. 

Tubbo shrugged, the mop of brown hair on his head bouncing along with his bobbing head. “It’s not my real name,” He said, “Just what my baby sister called me before I came here.”

“My name is like that!” Tommy exclaimed, “Tina called me Thomas but I like Tommy more.” He turned to the other boy, now sitting beside Tubbo. He had his knees drawn up to his chest, wiry arms holding them in place. “What’s your name?” 

“Ranboo,” he mumbled. Tubbo nudged him, tapping his shoulder into the taller boy’s arm. “I uh, like your shoes.”

“Thanks,” He looked down at the sneakers. They were a bright red, still fresh and stiff from being inside a box for so long. “they’re new, I got them for my birthday. They make me run fast.” 

“I used to have some like that,” Tubbo said, “But they took them.” He paused, screwing his face up into something like a scowl before talking again, “They’ll probably take yours too.”

“Why?” The blond brought his feet up, mirroring the way Ranboo was sitting.

“The teachers don’t like us to have anything that doesn’t fit into the uniform because it might distract us.” 

It made sense. Tommy wasn’t allowed anything from home, and naturally, the clothes he was wearing would be included. He had liked his shoes though, liked his jacket too, he didn’t want to lose them. They were gifts. 

Across from him, Ranboo cleared his throat, “The shoes they give us can make you run fast too, I beat Tubbo in every race whenever I wear them!” 

“Do not.”

“Do too.”

“Do not!” 

“You lost today, Tubbo.” 

The shorter boy pouted and crossed his arms, “Only because I was tired.”

“Then you’re always tired.” Tubbo huffed that, but Ranboo didn’t seem to mind. He turned his attention back to Tommy, “And when you get your new clothes, you can match us.” 

“Yeah,” Tubbo nodded, “You’ll fit right in, and we’ll go to classes together and learn to be the best heroes in the city!” He jumped up, teetering on the edge of the bed. Balled fists found their place on the boy’s hips. “We can even be a team.”

Tommy smiled, “A team?”

“Mhmm, we’re all gonna be best friends, and it’ll be awesome .”

Friends.

The three spent the rest of the night talking, their small space of solitude filled with chirpy voices and hushed laughs, even when flickering lights signaled it was time for bed. 

The older two had shown Tommy which section of the dresser was his and even led him to the bathrooms down the hall, their voices ringing down the corridor the entire way. They got on easily, each eager to learn everything there is to know about the other, from their favorite color to their abilities. 

Tommy would learn that the use of their powers was strictly forbidden outside the appropriate classes, but that hadn’t stopped the exciting explanation of how Tubbo could make things blow up with his mind; or how Ranboo could teleport from one side of the room to the other in seconds. 

“I’m not very good at it yet,” Ranboo admitted sheepishly, “But they told me that with enough practice, I could jump all across the city!”

It didn’t take long for the ‘friend’ part of Tubbo’s plan to come true. 

The weeks turned to months, and through it all, that is what Tommy found himself clinging to. When the homesickness finally set in, or when the compound felt a little too lonely, he was able to find comfort in the fact that there were two people alongside him. 

If there was nothing else, at least Tommy had his friends. 

They helped each other when homework got difficult, or when the older kids would pick on the younger ones. The trio was small–easy to pick on, and those kids had picked up on that the moment they stepped foot into the cafeteria. Even Ranboo, the tallest of them, often found himself berated by someone in the next age group. He never was a fighter–honestly, Tubbo probably had the most spirit between the three of them–but they were all together, and when the day ended that’s what mattered. 

Most of the older kids were nice, always willing to help the smaller children reach something they couldn’t all while wearing a smile on their face, but every day the older classes shrunk. 

Most of them disappeared before they could be chosen by a mentor. 

Tommy’s seventh birthday was no different than any other day. He’d woken up to Tubbo’s snoring and gotten ready for the day, all before the morning bell had rung. Classes went normally, same with meal times, and it was only after the three returned to their room following dinner that a knock sounded from the door. 

It was Tina, wearing her usual kind smile as she hovered at the entrance of the room. She called Tommy to the hall, letting the door fall shut behind them for a false sense of privacy. Tubbo and Ranboo would have their ears pressed to the other side, desperately trying to eavesdrop as Tina shared the news that the blond would be moving to the next age group in his classes. 

He was happy at first, excited to finally be joining his friends who’d moved up months ago, but then something else eventually settled at the bottom of his stomach. There was no party, no cake; not even a candle to wish on. 

That night, Tommy went to sleep with tears soaking his pillowcase. 

His eighth birthday had gone similarly. Wake up, eat, classes. Every day was filled with quiet anticipation as Tommy waited for the days to pass. Ranboo and Tubbo had moved onto the next set a while ago, so he’d expected Tina at their door at any time. Before, he’d known that the day would be approaching when the last snow would melt, but he couldn’t do that here. There weren’t any windows in the dorms or in any of the places Tommy frequented, so it was tough to go off of the weather. 

They spent that night talking, catching up on any parts of their day where they might have been apart. The knock came, interrupting Ranboo–who was practically gushing over a five-year-old that had just moved in a few doors down–and Tommy went out to the hall. 

The next few months passed quickly, their days blurring together in a mess of routines. 

Classes got harder and more grueling, and some of the other kids weren’t able to adjust to the change. Their teachers made it clear that there wasn’t any room for error, and come morning the ones who’d failed would be gone; their bedrooms cleaned and ready for the next child. 

They were together through it all, sticking by each other's side even when their age group began to dwindle. The most ‘promising’, the teachers would say. 

Ranboo turned nine first. 

There was only a year left until mentorship would begin, so the boy was given a new schedule; one that introduced physical training alongside his other classes. Any free time he’d had was gone, reduced to short water breaks or private meal time, and the younger two came to miss the body that used to fill the extra chair at their lunch table. He’d be gone most of the day, typically leaving the room at the first bell and not returning until after dinner had passed and his friends were supposed to be in bed. 

They rarely were, of course, instead they’d wait eagerly at the door, just waiting for the recognizable sound of soft footsteps coming down the hall. They’d wait quietly until he pushed the door shut, muffled giggling barely escaping the sheets they had pressed to their mouths, and then the onslaught of questions would begin. 

As any excited child would, they asked all about what Ranboo had learned that day. He told them about it all, from the footwork to the forms, and they’d go to sleep dreaming of fights to come. They were getting older, stronger now too, no one could pick on them anymore. 

And then, only a few weeks into Ranboo’s new classes, something changed. 

It was slow at first, unnoticeable like the first cool breeze following a hot summer. Ranboo came back late one day, his movements sluggish as he stumbled over to his bed. It was the first sign of a winter to come, an open invitation for the chill to corrupt their otherwise warm friendship. 

Tommy had stayed awake, accompanied only by Tubbo’s snores as he watched his taller friend collapse onto his bed in a mess of heaving breaths and gangly limbs. “What took you so long?” Tommy whispered, just loud enough for Ranboo to hear. His friend shifted, a shaking hand raising to press against his face. “Ranboo?”

“Go to bed Tommy.” His tone was short, leaving no room for rebuttal. The first leaf to fall from a tree. 

A new weight seemed to settle on their friend’s shoulders, dampening the lively boy they knew. Neither Tommy nor Tubbo had known what to do–how to fix whatever it was. The only time they saw him was after he’d come back to their room after a long day, only to wrap himself in his blanket or stay up doing homework. 

The training was taking a toll on Ranboo, and fast. At some point, he’d stopped laughing at Tommy’s pointed remarks; stopped smiling whenever Tubbo would say something unexpected. He just sat, pressed into the corner of the room as he waited for sleep to come for him. 

There were times when Tommy went to bed early–long before Ranboo would return to the room–only to be woken up by Tubbo whispering to a sniffling Ranboo, his arm wrapped around the taller boy’s torso. He’d plead for the boy to tell him something– anything that could help, but Ranboo stayed quiet. 

He just sat, curled up on his bed as he blinked away tears from his exhausted eyes. 

One day, only a week shy of Tubbo’s birthday, Ranboo left for his morning training late. 

He had stayed up at his desk with a pencil gripped between his fingers. He never meant to sleep in, it was an accident.

Ranboo didn’t return that night; or any of the ones after. 

The caretakers stayed silent on the matter, offering stone faces to Tommy whenever he’d ask about it. Kids went away all the time, whether it be through mentorship or something else, and to them, Ranboo was no different than all the other faces that disappeared. 

It was like he was a ghost, just a memory wiped from everyone but Tommy and Tubbo. Ranboo was supposed to have a year left– they were supposed to have a year left to be together. His bed, left unmade and messy for days, was the only thing left to confirm that yes, Ranboo was here. He was real.

They waited for him to come back, to fill the empty space he’d left behind with his loud laugh or gentle words, but he didn’t. It had been the three of them for the last three years, a team; friends, but training had turned Ranboo into some sort of broken thing, and broken things didn’t get to continue in the program. 

When Tubbo turned nine, he and Tommy sat on Ranboo’s bed with their fingers interlocked, exchanging hushed words to one another. “You have to promise.” Tommy had said, not bothering to take his hand away to swipe at tears running down his cheeks. Tubbo was all he had now, and some part of him was afraid that if he let go, Tubbo would disappear too. “Promise me that we’ll be able to go through it together. Promise me you’ll make it.”

“I promise,” Tubbo whispered, squeezing Tommy’s hand. He spoke like the whole world depended on those two words. “I promise.”

Tubbo had always had the most spirit between the three of them, the most fire. If anyone could make it, it would be him–it had to be him–and he did. When Tommy turned nine, he had Tubbo by his side. They’d take on the world together if they needed to. 

The training was hard, much harder than anything Tommy had needed to do before. Hours upon hours were spent practicing forms and training his abilities. When the days were done, he’d stumble back to his room, fatigued and shaking only to spend more time on homework. 

But he had Tubbo, and that’s all he needed. The two were practically inseparable, clinging to each other’s presence like a liferaft in raging waters. They were young still, but they knew enough to admit that letting go meant falling behind, and neither could afford that. So they held on tight. Through the sparring matches; through the difficult lessons; through the too-quiet nights where the silence should have been filled by a third voice. They were together, up until their time in the compound was up and it was time to say goodbye. 

They’d known it was coming, Tubbo had been selected for mentorship so it was only a matter of time before he’d be leaving the compound. The days leading up to it were almost somber, with the two just spending every moment of free time together even if it was in silence. 

One morning, light knuckles rapped against the door. Tommy froze, his head snapping to Tubbo, who was sitting straight up in his bed, eyes filling with tears. “Tubs,” Tommy breathed, icy despair creeping up his spine. 

He should be happy, this is what they’d been working towards for the last four years. Their dreams were finally going to come true, but something about it felt incomplete. Tommy had never lived at the compound without Tubbo or Ranboo by his side, and now he was going to be alone. It was bittersweet. 

Tubbo had kept his promise, he’d made it through so now he was moving on, just like Tommy would in a few months. 

Tommy had learned what goodbye meant now. He knew the permanence of it, the weight of it. He would stay here, and Tubbo would go, just like how he’d left his parents behind all those years ago. He didn’t understand then, but he does now. He knew there was a chance they wouldn’t be seeing each other again. So, with a stranger standing silently at their door, Tommy pulled his friend into his arms and told him all the things he didn’t want to be left unsaid. He made promises, and Tubbo did the same, the words spoken softly into Tommy’s ears. 

He promised that he’d never forget Tommy; that he’ll spend every minute missing him just as much as they’d missed Ranboo, and that someday– somehow –they’d be together again. “We’re a team.” Tubbo said, his breath hot on Tommy’s shoulder, “It doesn’t matter how far away we are. We’re a team.” 

When all was said and done, Tommy was left in a quiet room for the first time since he’d arrived at the compound, but this time the memories of late nights and jumping on the beds echoed between the walls. As much as this place would like to forget them, Tommy wouldn’t. He refused, even when new kids, similar in age, were brought in to fill the beds.

Tommy stuck to himself, running his routines to pass the time. There was no point in getting close with anyone now, not when he’d be leaving so soon. All that was left to do now was wait, and luckily he didn’t have to wait long. 

Barely a month had passed before he’d been told he’d been selected early. It rarely happened, most heroes waited until the children had turned 10 before they’d even start looking, but the top hero in the city had been insistent to stake his claim on the boy. It was exciting news. 

In a few short weeks, Tommy would go to the tower, train for a few years, and then Tommy would be a hero. It was going to be perfect. 

He’d hoped that maybe Tubbo would be there too. It wasn’t likely–the heroes were supposed to be scattered all over the city, with only the top few residing in the tower–but Tommy never had found out who Tubbo’s mentor was. If there was a chance he could find his friend, he had to hope. 

On his tenth birthday, Tommy left the dorms. 

It was a chilly day, with the first signs of spring beginning to show in the form of buds on trees. Baby birds chirped from a small nest made on the gutters, their mother hovering close by where Tommy had first stepped outside. Years had passed since he was last out here, since he’d seen anything but the lower floors. The sun had been warm, and if he had the time, he would have stood on the front steps just savoring the way it felt on his face. He’d missed the sun. 

The ride back to L’Manberg was a pleasant one, and Tommy faintly recognized the man driving the car as the same one who’d first taken him to the compound all those years ago. There were no hello ’s or nice to see you again ’s, nothing to show that the man beared any hint of recognition, but it was alright. Tommy figured he probably wouldn’t be seeing him again anyway. 

L’Manberg’s skyline was just as magnificent as it was the last time he’d seen it, crowded with glistening buildings that seemed to glow as they approached. He was still young, the last bits of naivety wrapped around him like a snake, its fangs sinking into his flesh and delivering a venom that made everything look grand. 

Tommy had been told he would be a hero, so when he was ten years old, he took his first steps into the Hero Tower, unaware of the dangers that lay within.

Chapter Text

There is a moment–just one brief, fleeting moment as he’s waking up–in which Tommy lets himself believe he is home. 

He’s in his room, curled safe and sound in his bed, and all of it was just one, horrible nightmare. The suit is still hidden, earth-shattering words were never exchanged, and Tommy is happy. 

Soon the morning sun will filter through the curtains, basking his room in golden light, and Tommy will get up. The sounds of pots and pans banging guide him to a kitchen table adorned with delicious-looking food. Wilbur greets him with a smile,

A playful jab,

A hand ruffling his hair, 

And Tommy is happy. 

After the food is gone, they shuffle to the couch, blissfully spending their free time in one another’s company. Phil watches the news; Techno reads a book; and Wilbur huddles close to Tommy, shoulders touching. None of them go to work–they never leave, and their presence is as constant as the stars. 

There is something within these walls that his apartment had always lacked. It was always too dark there, too lonely. He’d tried filling it with posters and trinkets, anything that had some semblance of meaning. Nothing had ever worked. For as long as he lived there, it was always just an apartment, never anything more–never a home; just a dull, gray lifeless space he resided in. 

The polaroid Wil gave him changed something though, flicked a switch that brought some color to the corner of his bedroom. It was almost like a veil had been lifted, just a cloak flying away in the wind only to leave a boy awestruck at the possibilities ahead. 

This , he thinks, feeling the warmth from a body by his side, is perfect. This is home. 

Tommy is happy. 

But the moment passes, and suddenly he’s all too aware of scratchy sheets and a dull buzz somewhere in the room. Tommy isn’t home. 

The night comes back to him, playing through his head with sickening clarity. Phantom flames blaze under his skin as he remembers the arms holding him in place. He’d been ripped away, forced to watch as the life he’d dreamed of going up in smoke. Inferno had found him, stalking his prey with razor-sharp claws, and this time Tommy wasn’t able to get away. After two long years, the heroes' search for Red Death has ended, and Inferno had promised the people justice. He stirs, stomach sinking with paralyzing fear when he realizes he doesn’t know what is going to happen next. 

White light burns through his eyelids, so bright it makes Tommy’s head scream. He winces, instinctively raising a hand to cover his face. Something pinches at his forearm with the movement, digging into his skin. Tommy breathes a curse before forcing his eyes open. 

It takes a second for the room to come into focus, and when it does Tommy is surprised to see he’s not in a cell, but instead in what looks to be a medical room. The walls are plain–no clock, no decorative art. It’s painfully white and sterile in all the ways he hates. The only thing that interrupts the white is a dark, heavy door to his left. There isn’t even a window. 

Tommy lifts his head, trying his best to ignore the way his temples throb. It feels as though his head is full of cement, thrumming and flaring with more pain every time he moves. He pushes himself up to his elbows anyway and resists another wince when a wave of nausea makes its home in his gut. 

There’s an IV in his arm, the end of it held in place by a single strip of blue tape as a small tube connects it to a bag hanging beside his bed. Tommy doesn’t know what’s in it. He reaches over with his other arm, fingers ripping the thing out of his skin and letting it fall to the ground; the end lands near a chair, the only other piece of furniture in the room aside from the bed he’s on. 

The undeniable sound of a camera shutter sounds from across him, and Tommy’s gaze snaps up. He’d never had a problem with the cameras until he left. They were common to him, a constant eye in the sky that picked apart his every move. From the dorms to the tower, Tommy performed as he was supposed to, just an ongoing circus act that was never free of its audience. It was only after he was able to live free of the lens that he realized he could relax and take a break, but now he’s back on the stage. It’s in the corner of the room, positioned discreetly on the ceiling. A little light at its base blinks red–Tommy is being watched. 

He gathers a fistful of the blanket between his fingers, digging his nails into the fabric as a lazy attempt at releasing the buzzing feeling that's creeping up his spine. “Stop,” he whispers to himself, knowing full well that nothing he says will ease the pressure building in his chest. The blanket starts to get heavier, reminding him of the one in Techno’s room, but that had been nice–comforting. It’s nothing like the crushing weight of the one now, every second adding another rock to the pile pressing down on him. “Stop.” He can’t be here, he has to get up.

He has to go.

Tommy kicks the blanket off, hesitating for a moment when he sees that the jeans and t-shirt he’d been wearing are gone and replaced with a thin hospital gown. The clothes hadn’t been anything special–the shoes were stolen from a convenience store for fucks sake–but he knows he’ll never see them again. His chest tightens more, and he fights the headache pounding behind his eyes to swing his legs over the edge of the bed. 

His toes brush the linoleum, curling at the chill that seeps into his bones. The simple act of standing brings about all sorts of aches and pains that have been plaguing Tommy’s limbs for days, but he does so anyway, gritting his teeth as he stumbles to the door. 

It's made of thick oak, heavy and secure–it doesn’t even move when Tommy leans his shoulder against it. The handle stares at him with faux hope, the simple metal practically gleaming as he reaches for it. 

It clicks, followed immediately by a small beep that must mean it’s open. Surely, it wouldn’t be this easy. They wouldn’t just let him go, but Tommy doesn’t give himself time to dwell on it. He sucks in a breath, holding it captive in his lungs as he twists the handle. 

It’s unlocked. 

He gives it a slight tug, the momentum opening the door just enough to peek outside. 

A man standing on the other side sends a jolt through Tommy’s body, sending thoughts of danger, danger, danger through his head. He’s not alone. Of course, he’s not alone. 

The handle burn s Tommy’s hand, searing his skin until there's nothing there but melted flesh and bone. He falls away from the door, letting his feet carry him back until his back hits the wall, the collision forcing a soft gasp from the blond. 

The door continues to swing open, and terrified eyes meet those of the number one hero. 

Sapnap’s typical gear is gone, as is his mask, and it reminds Tommy of quiet dinners and training days. He looks different this way, more human–less threatening. It’s a carefully crafted disguise, meant to lull Tommy into a false sense of security, because why else would a hero enter the room of a villain without so much as a weapon? 

He saunters into the room, the door closing with a click behind him. Tension fills the space between them, thick and constraining, but neither makes a move to speak. The man’s surprised stare travels around the room, hanging on the boy with unnerving thoroughness. When he does speak, his voice is soft, “How are you feeling?” His lips twitch up, curving in a genuine way that, strangely enough, makes Tommy’s heart pound even harder against his ribs. 

Tommy resists the urge to press himself further against the wall and instead points a narrowed glare at the hero. This is the man that dragged him back here; who laughed when Tommy was too weak to get away. The image of Wilbur laying on the ground, his phantoms surging when the fire nearly gets too close brands itself into Tommy’s eyelids. It won’t go away. Why is it so hard to breathe ?

“C’mon Tommy,” Inferno says, a playful lilt to his words. “We both know you’re not the silent type.” he crosses the room slowly, kicking at the items strewn on the floor as he rounds the bed. The chair, a rickety old thing, squeaks under his weight when he sits. 

Tommy bites the inside of his cheek, clenching tingling fingers at his side. “Fuck off.” 

A breathy chuckle, then, “There he is.” He leans forward, foot tapping relentlessly on the ground as he rests his elbows on his knees. The teasing attitude vanishes–wiped away with a small sigh. “I’m really happy to see you.” 

“You’re–what?” It’s a lie. It has to be. 

“I’m happy to see you,” he repeats. “It’s been a long time.” 

Five years. 

It’s been over five years since Tommy’s last spoken to Sapnap–since the hero had left.

He remembers waiting in the training room vividly, stretching and warming up to fill the time before the man would arrive. Their sessions had been going well, with Sapnap having taken it upon himself early on to oversee personally. Tommy worked well with him. He didn’t complain when Tommy grumbled over his lessons, he just nodded along, occasionally jutting in a funny remark here or there. 

Training had become the part of his day he looked forward to. The machines and obstacles were as familiar as breathing, and the praise Sapnap provided whenever Tommy did anything correctly was enough to cement a soft smile on his face. Lessons had only been getting harder, his mentor more demanding with every passing day, so the training room had, almost by default, become one of his favorite places. 

Footsteps outside the door caught his ear, and Tommy spun around. The sight of his mentor stepping into the training room wiped any joy he’d been wearing away, a practiced neutral expression replacing it. The hero pauses, nose turning up as he looks around the room, his gaze burning holes into the charts Sapnap and Tommy had made together to track the boy’s progress. “ Where’s Inferno? ” Tommy stammered, Sapnap’s hero name unfamiliar in his mouth. 

His mentor’s demeanor shifted, an exhaled laugh dissolving the disgust. “He decided he wanted to take on some solo work.”

Tommy pulled at his fingers, the nervous motion hidden behind his back. “When will he be coming back?” 

“He’s not.” 

Tommy’s expression faltered, lips parting to breathe out a simple, “What?” 

His mentor rolled his eyes as he drifted further into the room. “He won’t be coming back,” he repeated. “It’s a permanent transfer.” 

“Permanent?” It didn’t make sense, their sessions had been going well. Why would he leave?

“Yes, permanent,” His mentor huffed, “He’s been complaining for months.” He wandered over to the charts, his lips twisting in a subtle sneer.

Tommy made a confused sound, shrinking back a little when it received a glare from the hero. “He never said–I don’t understand-”

“Prime, Tommy, are you surprised?”   Green eyes narrowed at the boy. “I’m shocked he held out for as long as he did, you can be very difficult to work with.” 

Tommy had known that. He can be talkative, loud even, but Sapnap hadn’t minded. If anything, he encouraged it. Tommy had to have done something wrong if the man would leave without so much as goodbye. 

“I’ll take charge of your training from now on.” His mentor continued. He pulled the chart off the wall, the thin paper ripping in half and wrinkling in his fist. “I wouldn’t want to subject anyone else to what Inferno had to deal with.” 

He didn’t look forward to training after that. He hadn’t expected to see Sapnap again. If his life had taught him anything, it’s that the people who leave are gone , but the hero has defied that. 

It's been five years, passing in a blink and forever all at once. 

The camera shutters again, bringing Tommy’s focus back to the man before him. It’s a bleak reminder that there is no such thing as privacy here. They’re being watched, their words analyzed. 

Sapnap tilts his chin up, squinting at the lights overhead, and Tommy gets a good look at him. His face is adorned with scars, a cracked visage weathered by time and grief. There's more there than Tommy remembered, and when Sapnap turns his gaze on the boy he can properly see the way the hero’s skin stretches unevenly around the bridge of his nose. He looks tired too, his eyes darkened despite the glaring light. He doesn’t look like a hero. Here, he just looks like a man. 

“Where am I?”

“The tower,” Sapnap answers simply. “I told you I was taking you home.” 

Tommy bristles, anger curling his stomach inside out. “This isn’t my home.” He seethes, his tone dangerous. “Let me leave.” 

“Tommy,” Sapnap warns as he rolls his eyes. 

“Let me leave. ” The gown feels too tight around his neck, “Let me- I want to go.” His legs shake, muscles already exhausted despite just getting up minutes ago. 

Sapnap was always the kindest one, he’d always listened , why wasn’t he listening now? “You know I can’t just let you walk out.”

Tommy blinks, and the image of Wilbur on the ground flashes again, Techno beside him. “I…” He hadn’t seen Phil after the explosion. He’d been the closest to Tommy, but when the blond opened his eyes Phil was gone. “I need to go back,” He murmurs.

“No.” It’s a promise and a death sentence all in one.

Helplessness and rage make for a confusing concoction. “Fuck you,” Tommy says. “You took me. I-I didn’t want to go and you took me.”

“It’s for your own good-”

“How the hell would you know what’s good for me? You left .” Sapnap snaps his mouth shut, his jaw clenched tight; Tommy’s struck a nerve. 

Silence settles heavily between them, interrupted only by the teenager's heart pounding against his ribs. A part of him wants to keep pushing; to dig himself a hole he might not be able to climb out of; but he forces that part away with a resigned sigh, eyes slipping down to examine the pattern in the tile. He’s been running for so long, and now he’s just tired. The anger melts away, leaving dread in its place. There’s nowhere left to run, not when the monsters have already caught him. “If you’re going to throw me into Pandora just get it over with. I don’t want to play whatever fucked up game this is.” 

“Tommy,” Sapnap laughs, almost as if Tommy’s told a joke. Maybe it is funny–maybe Pandora is too much of a mercy, and they’ll just kill him instead. “Why the hell would I put you in Pandora?”

Because I’m Red Death, Tommy goes to say, but the words die in his throat as soon as he looks up to the genuine confusion written clear across the hero's face. His laugh dies, slowly fading into the hum of the room, and then he’s back on his feet before Tommy has the chance to say anything at all. Sapnap stretches, bones popping, but other than that he doesn’t leave that corner of the room. “I think locking you up in a cell would be a bit of an overreaction to you just running away.”

Tommy shifts, switching his weight from one foot to the other as he tries to make sense of the hero’s words. The sentence grates itself against Tommy’s brain, scratching and grinding and hurting ; because that’s not right. He hadn’t just run away–if anything, that was the least of his crimes.  He was a villain; a murderer. Sapnap had said so himself when he stood upon the stage at Monument Day. He’d promised the people justice, surely he’d stay true to his word unless– 

Oh. 

Oh. 

Almost all that fear and dread disappear, washed away by the relief flooding through his veins because it’s at that moment that Tommy realizes Sapnap doesn’t know. 

He doesn’t know. 

He doesn't know that Tommy is a killer. He doesn’t know that it– all of it had been the kid standing just a few feet away. Suddenly, Tommy can breathe again. 

“Then,” he starts, the words trailing off a little as he tries to collect his thoughts. If they didn’t know who he was, then why had Punz been sent after him? Why had Sapnap taken him? “Why?” The questions swirl around in his head, pounding at his temples for answers he doesn’t know. Tommy takes a step back, shoulders hitting the wall he hadn’t realized he was close to, and he flinches. Heat runs up his fingers, shooting up to his wrists, and the puzzle pieces fall into place. 

His abilities. Of course, it’d be his abilities. 

“You’re special Tommy,” Sapnap tells him, wandering closer to the boy. He pauses a few paces away, careful to keep a distance. “Until Punz came to me I thought you were dead. No one had seen you–heard from you in years .” A warmth creeps up Tommy’s spine. “Believe me, if I had found anyone else with the same abilities we wouldn’t be here, but I need you .”

“You’re going to use me,” Tommy mutters. He squeezes his hands into fists, knuckles digging into his legs. “You just brought me back so you can use me.” 

“I brought you back because this is where you belong. There are people out there– bad people–that want to use your abilities for the wrong reasons. At least here I know you’re safe.” 

“I was safe until you sent a fucking mercenary after me!” His nails dig into his palms, imprinting crescent moons into his skin, and he squeezes his eyes shut. Wilbur’s outstretched hand; Phil’s promises of a home; Techno’s stories–Tommy had everything he needed. “I won’t help you.”

Sapnap sighs, and it’s a defeated sort of sound. He turns away, going back to the bed. Tommy is left on the other side of the room, nearly smothered by the growing tension surrounding the hero as he straightens the sheets on the bed. After a long moment, he clears his throat, “You called out for Wilbur.” He starts, and it feels as though he’s at the top of a mountain, dangerously close to a boulder that’s teetering on the edge. Tommy’s at the bottom; stuck in its path, but Sapnap rests his hand on the rocky surface anyway. “Wilbur Soot, isn’t it?”

“What are you saying?”

“He was adopted years ago by Phil and Kristin Craft, brother to Techno Craft.” Sapnap leans against the boulder, and the force pushes it forward. “I looked into them that night,” he admits. “I know their names, their ages–their address; but what I found really interesting, is that they weren’t the only ones with you on the docks.”

Tommy swallows the lump in his throat, trepidation gathering to fill its place. “I don’t know what-”

“There were shadows there– Wraith’s phantoms, and it looked like they were trying to protect them.” He looks Tommy in the eye, face flat and so, so serious. “There’s been a place reserved for the Syndicate in Pandora ever since Red Death disappeared, and bringing them in would be monumental for the commission.” He scoffs, “Right now its leaders are weak and distracted by you. It’d be easy to go in and cut off the snake's head, but I’m willing to compromise with you, Tommy.”

Them or you. The words go unsaid, a silent sort of message communicated by Inferno’s stare. He leans against the bed frame, chin angled up. Tommy knows well enough that this isn’t a compromise, it's a threat. It's either his life, or his family’s, and there is no option in which Tommy can win. The boulder is rushing for him now, and it’s his choice of whether or not he wants the people he loves to be standing alongside him or not when the collision comes. 

“I’ll leave you to think about it, but for now you should rest,” says Inferno. “You’ll need all your strength for what's coming up.” Tommy can imagine the mask over his face, hiding his features and altering his voice. It’s easier to think of him like this, and not the man who’d gifted him a little stuffed cow. He sits up, going over to the door in just a few steps. He swipes a card across a box on the wall, a small beep sounding as soon as the card is clear. With his hand on the handle, he stops, pausing with his lips parted. “I’m sorry things have to be this way. I’ll send a healer in to make sure you’re okay physically.” With that, he pulls the door open, and the hero is gone. 

Another click; and Tommy rushes forward, grabbing the handle without a second thought. It doesn’t turn, so he tries harder. He pulls and pushes with every bit of strength he could muster, but it still doesn’t budge. “Let me out!” He screams, balling his fists and bringing them down on the wooden surface. It rattles, but it doesn’t open. “INFERNO!” He hits again, and this time the impact is met with a sickening crack of his knuckles. 

It doesn’t hurt. The pain is swallowed whole by the burning in his hands–the rage turning his vision blood red. It’s all too much, so he throws everything he has at the door. Punches; his shoulder. The minutes pass in a terrible haze, and when Tommy finally comes back his fists are bloody, knuckles split, and the door is still on its hinges. 

Tommy is alone.

“Fuck.” The heels of his palms press against his forehead, smearing blood and sweat across his skin. Tommy sways, stomach turning. “Fuck!” The choice is heavy on his shoulders, a force so strong it makes his legs wobble beneath him. 

He stumbles back until his back finds the wall across from the door. Slowly, he reaches behind him, using the concrete to guide himself to the ground. He pulls his knees to his chest, arms cradling his head and fingers tangled in strands of his hair. The ground is cold, the wall too, but he can’t be bothered to move back to the bed. The heat of Inferno’s ultimatum lingers on the blankets he’d touched, on the chair he’d sat in. It’s everywhere, filling the room, and Tommy hates it.

This is checkmate, and Tommy has lost. 

He never even had a chance. 

He’s still sitting there when the lock clicks again and the healer Inferno had mentioned steps cautiously into the room. Tommy doesn’t move, his body far too exhausted to even entertain the idea as the healer looks around the room. He’s wearing the standard medical uniform, complete with a white coat and a red medical mask covering his face.

Tommy can see the moment he notices the blood spotting the floor, marked with a noticeable rise in his shoulders. “Oh my,” he breathes. Tommy blinks, and the healer is at his side, gingerly pulling the boy’s hands away. He clicks his tongue, silently tracing the marks back to the door. “It’ll be okay,” he tells Tommy, voice soft and soothing. “I’ll fix it, don’t worry. Let's get you up.” He grabs Tommy’s arms, and the blond doesn’t resist even though he desperately wants to. There are lives on the line now, freedoms at stake at the cost of his own, so he lets himself be taken back to the bed. 

“Are there any other injuries I need to know about?” He asks. Tommy shrugs, the past few days are just a blur of running and anxious thoughts, all he knows is that there is a persistent ache in his head and soreness clinging to his limbs. “That’s alright,” the healer continues, taking Tommy’s bloody knuckles and clasping them between his hands. “I’m Ponk.” 

Tommy looks up at him then, a slight furrow in his brow. The edges of Ponk’s eyes crease in a soft smile, his mask scrunching a little. “It’s not my real one, of course,” he says, settling his focus onto the blond’s hand. “But my partner insisted on using a pseudonym for safety purposes, whatever that means.” Warmth explodes in Tommy’s hand, but it’s gentle, nowhere near the burning sensation that comes with using his own abilities. He can feel the blood clotting, the skin stitching itself back together. He lets his eyes slip closed as Ponk fills the silence with a one-sided conversation. “Working with heroes, how much safer could I get?”

Tommy huffs, shoulders bouncing. It’s ridiculous and naive, but he doesn’t have the strength or energy to say it out loud. He lets the words fade, Ponk’s droning nothing more than a murmur in his ear. He explains everything he’s doing–or at least Tommy thinks he does, he stopped paying attention after his headache disappeared. 

It’s nicer treatment than he thought he’d get. Having a healer to ease the pain had been rare with his mentor, saved only for the occasions when Tommy had been especially overworked in lessons or training. Most of the time he’d been left alone, treating bruises and cuts in the darkness of his bedroom. There’d be tears in his eyes, crowding his vision; and he’d have to rub them away on his pillowcase before leaving the room. Heroes don’t cry, they don’t show pain. 

The healers he had seen had been busy. Overworked by the demand of their abilities, they rarely had the patience for a young boy in the medical rooms. They’d rush through the routine, barely giving Tommy the time of day, but Ponk isn’t like them. He doesn’t make Tommy move, doesn’t push him to talk, he just lets him exist; moving around the room to fix whatever is needed.  

Eventually, he’s at the foot of the bed, hands working on a yellowed bruise over Tommy’s calf. The touch is so warm; like the gentle kiss of the sun on a summer morning, and if he lets his mind drift far enough, he could almost believe that he’s outside among a small crowd of people chatting about their day. There’s a pang in his chest when he realizes he may never see it again. It brings him back, just long enough for Tommy to hear a familiar name at the end of Ponk’s most recent statement. “Huh?”

The sudden response startles the healer, the warmth of his abilities gone for a moment as he collects himself. “Oh, I was just saying you did quite the number on Punz.” The healing returns.

Tommy digs the back of his head further into the flat pillow. “Is he-” he starts to ask, already anticipating the worst. “Is he alive?” Punz had been breathing when Tommy left him, but it had been shallow, and his face eerily still. 

“Mhm,” Ponk hums. “It took a few sessions until he was good as new, but he got there.”

Tommy gives a weak nod, sniffling through the tears gathering in the corners of his eyes. It’s a good thing; the vigilante is alive. Tommy didn’t kill him. It’s not a relief exactly, but it’s something. One less face to haunt him; one less voice to berate him in his nightmares. “Thank you.” If Ponk notices the tear slide down the blond’s cheek, cutting tracks through the dried blood and sweat, he doesn’t comment on it. 

The rest of the session passes in silence. Ponk moves from his shin to his ankle, carefully healing the damage that had been dealt by Punz. He has a cracked rib–likely from landing on the docks wrong when the explosion had come–that’s corrected in a matter of minutes. By the time Ponk is finished, the soreness and the pain are gone, melted away so that it’s just a memory. 

Then, the healer steps away to fiddle with the IV bag still hanging by the bed. When he returns to Tommy’s side, he has a new needle gripped between his fingers, his free hand reaching for the blond’s arm. 

Tommy grumbles, shrinking away as best he could to hide his exposed skin. Ponk pauses, shaking his head a little “This is important, it helps to hydrate you.”

“I don’t fuckin’ want it.” Tommy slurs, the pain may be gone but the exhaustion isn’t, especially after the energy Ponk just used to heal him. The healer approaches again, slower this time, and Tommy snarls “ No .” 

“Okay, okay,” Ponk surrenders. “There’s nothing else in it, I swear, but if you want I could get you some water instead.” Tommy doesn’t answer. The healer is nice, but nice people have lied before, and he would rather be thirsty than blindly let them pump whatever they want into his veins. “Tommy, we have to do something, Inferno said you have to get your strength up.”

Them or you. Tommy’s remaining freedom, or theirs. They came for him, welcomed him to their home–to their lives, even after the secrets he’d worked so hard to keep had been revealed. Tommy is as good as dead as it is, no use dragging the only people he cares about down with him. If they’re okay, he owes it to them to try , doesn’t he?

Tommy sighs and forces himself to relax. “I’ll have some water.”

“Then I’ll be right back.” Ponk leaves the room, returning a few minutes later with a plastic cup. Tommy drinks it all in a few gulps, finishing the glass off with a refreshed exhale. 

The healer leaves after that, promising to be back soon to check up on the blond. In the silence he leaves behind, a sinister feeling is born. 

Something is coming, something Tommy is essential for, and he has no idea what. 

He doesn’t sleep well that night, no matter how much he tries to pretend he’s home.

He doesn’t sleep well that night, no matter how much he tries to pretend he’s home. 

Chapter Text

Time passes slowly in the medical room. At least, Tommy thinks it does, the lack of a window or a clock makes it difficult to tell how long he’s been locked here, but the steady flow of meals has helped to provide some structure. 

There have been six, with two rather long breaks he assumes to be the nighttime sprinkled between. One the first day, three the day after that, and two so far today. Three days–maybe more depending on how long it had taken him to wake up that first time–and nothing has happened yet. 

He was offered a new set of clothes early on, and Tommy had taken them willingly. It was a simple long-sleeved shirt and sweatpants, a bitter imitation of what he’d worn practically every day when he was younger. The fabric laid over his body with aching familiarity—too scratchy and stiff—but it was better than the thin hospital gown. In the end, that’s all that mattered. 

Inferno doesn’t return. He stays away, likely preoccupied with whatever obligations come with being the top hero. Tommy doesn’t doubt that he’s keeping watch as well, whether it be from behind the safety of a camera lens or by timely reports delivered by some poor intern. 

There are points where he thinks that the hero has forgotten about him, and points where Tommy hopes that they were able to find someone else so the blond can go free, but the door stays locked, and the meals keep coming. They haven’t forgotten. Safe for the hum of the walls and the occasional camera shutter, the room is silent, leaving Tommy alone with only his thoughts. 

It’s a never-ending circle of what-ifs. What if he hadn’t run from the Crafts? What if he left the suit in a dumpster to rot? What if he never even met Wilbur in the first place? Would he still be here now? 

Would it have changed anything? 

It’s frustrating, infuriating even–the what-ifs and the choices and everything else he has no control over–because no matter what path he takes he still ends up here. This is the outcome, the end; the beginning. Tommy, curled up on a bed that will never be his and trapped by invisible strings he’ll never break free from. He wants to scream at it all, to throw every foul word and insult he knows into the universe, but his voice is caged in his throat, trapped behind a lock he can’t find the key to. 

So he smashes the chair instead. 

It’s made of old, brittle wood, probably older than him. The glue holding it together has worn over the years, rotting under time and use, and the whole thing practically shatters when it hits the concrete wall. Inferno had sat here, had leaned into the back of it and spoken poisonous words, and now it’s nothing but sharp splinters. A tarnished image of what it used to be. 

When Tommy’s finished, he goes back to the bed, laying with his back to the door and his knees near his chest. A cleaner comes to take care of the mess, an accompanying enforcer watching over them through the shield of his mask. It takes all of five minutes for Tommy's outburst to be swept into a bin and taken from the room. 

The enforcer never checks him–neither of them do, so the shard of wood he’d managed to tuck into his sleeve goes undetected. It scratches at his skin, the edges meeting at a sharp point that digs into where the IV had been. 

A new chair is brought in, one made of heavy metal that would be impossible to break, and again Tommy is back where he started. 

Ponk arrives after that. 

Unlike Inferno, the healer visits every few hours, his warm smile turning colder each time he enters the room. He looks Tommy over for any injuries that need healing and checks his vitals, declaring at the end that the blond seems to be doing well. 

It should be good news–it used to be good news. The Crafts had showered him with praise when he’d first started staying with them, happy to see the teenager eating full meals and healing well. But the pride he had felt before has turned sour, dread building in his chest every time Ponk says everything looks perfect; pristine. 

The anticipation is paralyzing, He doesn’t move, doesn’t make a sound. He just lays there and stares at the wall. Time moves so slowly, minutes crawling into hours, and it almost reminds Tommy of when he’d first escaped the tower. 

The first few weeks after had felt like an eternity. He’d spent the time huddled on park benches and tucked behind dumpsters, molten rage keeping him warm even when the days began to get cold. While he’d gotten away from the tower, the knowledge of what lurked inside kept him awake at night, his wary gaze glued to a beacon in the sky. 

Tommy had left, but then he was trapped in a new way that didn’t make sense to him. He tucked it beneath the surface, stuffing it as far back as he could until a plan emerged from the darkness. 

If Tommy had gotten out once before, surely he could get back in. 

By that time he’d gotten a discrete job in the lower district and a small apartment not too far away. The money he managed to save was put towards his gear: knives and clothes, even a sewing machine that he used to make needed alterations. 

The snow came, clumping in gray mounds along the streets, and one night Tommy had gotten jealous of the flakes falling outside his window. They were beautiful, perfectly unique, and free . 

A mask laid atop a pile of fabric, its face blank, calling desperately for a purpose. When the snow finally cleared, Tommy gave it what it yearned for. 

He freed himself. 

The months following passed in a blur of moonlit fights and lonesome days. He was feared, his name was known , and still, it felt wrong somehow. He was just a kid, not even sixteen yet, and yet he had become someone who parents used to scare their children into staying in bed. He’d done the right thing, but in the people’s eyes, he was a villain, nothing more. 

So the suit was folded into a box, hidden from the light, and Tommy began a new life. One free of heroes and villains; a life where he was just Tommy. 

Two years. It hadn’t been enough. 

Another meal is delivered, providing his mind a welcome escape, and then the night comes. It’s filled with restless sleep. 

The lights never dim, the fluorescents present even when he closes his eyes, and the nightmares he has don’t help much either. They wake him several times, a startling jolt sending lighting through his heart as the smell of copper fades from his memory. It gets harder to go back to sleep every time, so eventually, he stops trying, happy to stare at the wall until his breakfast arrives. 

He works through it slowly, taking his time to carefully pick through everything on his plate. When he’s finished, he waits for the soft sound of footsteps outside his door. They come quickly this time, no doubt the person who’s tasked with taking his dish. So Tommy waits, watching the opening to see who it’d be this time

The door opens, but instead of a stranger, it’s Inferno who enters the room, Ponk following closely behind. Tommy’s stomach drops as the implications as to why the hero would come begin to race through his head. “Good morning,” the healer chirps, stepping around the hero to come to the bedside. 

Tommy doesn’t respond, instead pointing a deadly glare at Inferno, who quietly goes to the other side of the room to give Ponk enough room to work. He’s wearing his armor today, but it’s dirty, the chest plate speckled with crimson. The sight of it makes bile rise in Tommy’s throat. 

The scrap of wood digs into his forearm, scratching and splintering, but not breaking. 

Ponk moves through the usual routine. He checks Tommy’s heart rate and his blood pressure. When that is over he turns to the hero, offering a nod. “Everything looks good.” 

Inferno takes a step forward, wearing a hint of a smile on his lips. “Is he strong enough? Healthy?” He sounds eager; almost excited. It puts a sour taste in Tommy’s mouth. 

“All things considered, yes,” the healer confirms. “But I do have some concerns regarding afterward-” and that catches Tommy’s attention, his glare for Inferno sliding over to Ponk. Nobody had ever cared about what happened afterward before, what makes now so special?

Inferno raises a silencing hand, his smile gone and brow raised. “No need to worry. I made some arrangements since you’re familiar with him, so you’ll be there too if anything happens.” Ponk doesn’t protest. He doesn’t say a thing, he just begins walking back over to the door. “Get up, Tommy,” Inferno says, meeting the blond’s eye for the first time since he arrived. “It’s time to go.” 

“No.” Tommy doesn’t let his voice waver, no matter how much it wants to. 

Nostrils flare, shoulders set. “I’m trying to make this as easy as I can for you, kid. Don’t make me get an enforcer to drag you there.”  

“Tell me what’s happening first.” 

“Tommy,” Ponk whispers, nearly pleading. He makes a wide-eyed gesture, trying to get the teenager to comply on his own. 

Inferno steps to the door, swiping his card. “Just come on,” he sighs. 

Reluctantly, Tommy obeys, sliding off the bed and letting bare feet hit the ground. He follows Inferno out of the room, hesitating for just a moment before he steps past the door. He hated the room, hated the camera and the lights, but leaving this way meant that whatever was coming next was close. Too close. He can feel the nerves squeezing his lungs, filling them up, up, up with something dark and foreboding. Tommy doesn’t want to go. 

Behind him, Ponk clears his throat, lightly nudging Tommy’s shoulder. He doesn’t want to go, but he steps out anyway, stomach turning as he falls into pace with Inferno.

The corridor is bland, with cream-colored walls and white tiled floors. Similar to his room, there are no windows. Tommy wonders if they’re underground. If they are, that means the only way to escape is to go up. 

The floor is cold under his feet, so he does his best to make his steps as light and quick as possible. He wishes he had socks–or shoes, anything that would put a buffer between his skin and the chill would be nice. 

Inferno leads them down the hall, and after the fourth or fifth turn, Tommy’s attempts at memorizing the directions fail. There’s nothing on the walls to identify where they’re going, nothing to indicate that they aren’t just walking in an endless circle. It’s a labyrinth, he decides, just like the one from the stories Techno had told him. The labyrinth had caged the minotaur, locking the beast behind walls so thick and confusing it couldn’t escape. It took a hero to rise for the monster to fall. 

Tommy isn’t sure if he’s the minotaur or Theseus. The monster or the hero; the caged or the free. 

Suddenly, Inferno stops at a door. He takes a deep breath, shaking one of his hands before grabbing the handle. “This is it?” Tommy asks, speaking for the first time since they’d left his room. The entrance doesn’t stand out, it’s the same dark oak that all the others were made of. From the outside, it doesn’t look like there's anything special about this room.

“This is it.” The hero enters, holding the door open for the other two to file in. 

A wave of heat hits him first, so warm it coaxes the sweat from his fingers and his palms. It’s a stark contrast to every other part of this level, enough to make his breath catch. The air is suffocatingly thick, painfully similar to L’Manberg’s summer breeze that carried the humidity straight through his apartment window. He had complained about it then, quietly wishing for an early autumn to get a break from it. Now, he just wants to feel the freshness of it again.

Inferno, despite the heavy armor, doesn’t seem to notice–or care. His boots tap against the tile as he drifts into the room, his arms held securely at his sides. It’s bigger than Tommy would have expected–the room–the ceilings are tall, leaving room for all sorts of medical equipment that has been pushed to the side. There are other people mulling about, nearly half a dozen healers wearing identical white coats and some enforcers standing idly by near the wall. In the center of the room, a group huddles around a table, blocking Tommy’s view. 

He doesn’t need to see, he knows what it is. It’s just another face that will join the chorus in his head. 

“How is everything looking?” Inferno asks, pulling one of the healer’s attention away. 

She looks between the table and the hero, eyes wide, and gives a shaky nod. “Ready, sir.” 

Tommy is nudged forward, an enforcer's gloved hand between his shoulders. “Don’t fucking touch me,” he snarls, spinning around and out of the man’s hold. A sound pushes its way out from the back of his throat and he resists the urge to grab the wood scratching at his arm. The man throws a look over Tommy’s shoulder, only taking a step back once he gets an approving shrug from the hero. 

“You guys can stand by,” Inferno tells the healers. “They’re going to need some space.” The hero had never been good at hiding his emotions–a skill the boy had been forced to learn when he was too young. He wore his emotions like a badge on his chest, and as he speaks Tommy can hear the grin on his face. He has to stop himself from marching over and ripping it off himself. 

The healers pad away, obeying Inferno and moving to another part of the room. As they do, Tommy points another sneer at the enforcer, turning a moment later to see the woman from before walking away and–

His mouth goes dry, a burning sensation flaring in his fingertips. The voice in his head screams to run, to hide –because he recognizes this face. 

It’s the one that haunts his dreams, smiling–always smiling too wide–as its lips curl around venomous lies. Its claws around his wrist, squeezing so hard they leave splotches of purple and blue across his arm as the blood trickles down his chin, dripping from the corner of his mouth; nose; his eyes. He doesn’t stop smiling, even when he’s choking on it, dying from it. 

Tommy squeezes his hands together, staggering back as his nails reopen healed wounds in his palms. The hate and the rage and the fear bubble in his chest, holding a mirror to the night a villain was born. His heart is in his ears, singing an ever-increasing rhythm so loud it’s the only thing he can hear. 

He had freed himself of this. This wasn’t supposed to happen. He wants to close his eyes, to wake up from whatever nightmare he’d gotten himself trapped in, but he can’t. He can’t tear his gaze from the lifeless body on the table. 

His mentor’s body. 

It looks different than the way he’d left it. At a glance, it almost looks alive . The blood is gone, wiped away from its pale skin, and the only thing covering it is a hospital gown. Even in death, disapproval clings to it, clear in the resting curve of his brow and a mouth slightly upturned. The steadiness of its chest and the slight bluish hue of its lips and nose are the only things that confirm that it isn’t just asleep. 

Tommy bumps into the door, absentmindedly pushing on the handle. It doesn’t budge. He’s trapped in a room with the body of a man he killed. “No. No, no, no.” His abilities burn, thrumming and flaring up to his elbows. 

He blinks, and Interno is at his side, wrapping a metal arm around Tommy’s shoulders and forcing him closer to the body. “Let’s make this quick and then you can go back to your room.”

“Fuck you,” the blond spits, words spewing out of his mouth before he gives it a proper thought. “I won’t.” Not this. Anything but this. 

If there is one thing he has learned through the years, it’s that the people who don’t fight, fall. They disappear or they die, reduced to another casualty, another number. Tommy hasn’t fallen yet, he can’t afford to. So he fights. 

He strikes, planting his elbow into the side of Inferno’s ribs. The hold on his shoulder weakens, just enough for Tommy to pull away. He ducks under the hero’s arm, pivoting until he’s looking at his back; and then he lets the stake fall into his hand, pointing the tip of it into the nape of Inferno’s neck. “I want to leave,” Tommy demands. 

The enforcers surge forward, already reaching for the holster on their hips, but Inferno raises a hand. They pause. His shoulders rise with a breath, falling a second later. “Tommy-”

“I’m not interested in what you have to say,” the blond interrupts, pushing the splinter of wood further into the man’s skin. “Now, let me go, and I won’t put this through your throat.”

“You won’t kill me,” Inferno tells him, tipping his head up. There’s a lilt to his words, reeking of misplaced confidence. 

It’s Tommy’s turn to smile, a knowing laugh breaking his chest. His grip on the wood tightens, its edges digging splinters into his fingers. “You don’t know what I would or wouldn’t do.” It was his hands that killed the monster on the table, his hands that nearly killed Punz. He could do it again. “Don’t fucking test me.”

“I’ve kept my end of our arrangement so far,” the hero hums. Tommy falters, the tip of the stake wavering. “None of the other heroes know what I know. Nobody has bothered them, but that changes if you don’t cooperate.” He shifts, moving his head away as he turns quickly, letting the weapon hang in the air between them. For a moment, their eyes meet, a wordless battle between blue and brown. 

There is no winning, not when Inferno had such important leverage. Tommy knew it days ago, but the part of him that doesn’t want to accept it begs him to fight harder. But doing so means condemning the only reason he has to escape, and what’s the point if the people he loves are gone? The stake falls to the ground, clattering against the tile near their feet. 

“Okay,” Inferno leers, grabbing Tommy's outstretched hand. He doesn’t pull the boy, doesn’t squeeze or twist his arm, just lightly guides him back to the body, where he’s supposed to be. His hands burn, itching to release the energy flowing under trembling fingertips. It’s a dam he’s spent a long time building. Walls that are strong enough to keep it all in, even when the rest of him is shattering. 

Theseus or the Minotaur. The hero or the free. Tommy isn’t sure who he is anymore.

The body’s skin is eerily cold beneath his touch, like ice meeting a furnace. Tommy winces, tears pricking at his eyes. He throws one last look to the hero, to Sapnap, silently pleading for something–anything else but this , but for the first time, the hero’s face is stone. There is no room for debate, he has no choice. 

Tommy forces himself to take in even and complete breaths. He has to be calm, he can’t be afraid. His heart rate slows, the blood rush in his ears trickling away to nothing. No matter how much he tries to concentrate, though, the voices screaming danger, danger, danger, never cease. It's a chorus in his head, all crying out for help that will never come. Tommy is alone. Tightening his grip around the body’s arm, he lets his abilities flow free. 

They course through him, a burning river that’s been neglected for too long, and the moment they meet the body, a dull pain plants itself at the base of Tommy’s skull. He twitches, and the river pushes back, engulfing his hands in heat. It creeps further up his arms, reaching his elbows and then his shoulders. The pain grows, pounding hammers against his bones. 

He can feel it all, can feel the energy moving between him and the body–the man. It grows and changes, bending with every breath Tommy takes. The heat spreads to his neck, and down his spine, getting warmer by the second. Too warm. 

It hurts.

A strangled cry rings through the room, stabbing through Tommy’s ears. It's too loud, too much, and it's only when his voice breaks that he realizes that the sound is coming from him. His lungs are impossibly tight, restricting the air from entering, and no matter how hard he tries, Tommy can’t stop it. 

His body is on fire, burning him up from the inside out. He rocks, and through the flames, he can feel something touching his arm, trying to pull him away. 

“Don’t,” he tries to say, failing to form the words properly.  The energy holds him captive, circulating through him and the body. It takes and gives, ebbs and flows in a dangerous rhythm. He can’t let go, the connection won’t allow it. Voices that aren’t his own call out, yelling for him to stop , but it's just a whisper in the boy’s ear. Don’t they know that it’s not finished yet? 

His vision goes blurry, focus coming in short bursts as darkness lines his vision. Even his eyes are on fire, burning and throbbing all at the same time. 

And then Sapnap is there, holding Tommy’s face in his palms as he says something the boy can’t hear. The darkness is consuming his sight, eating the hero's face, but a burst of clarity fights against it, bringing Tommy back . He whimpers, and the noise changes something in the hero’s face. He looks scared.

Tommy’s hand is ripped away, severing the connection, and almost immediately the burning eases. It leaves him breathless and dizzy. His heart pounds against his ribs, so fast it feels like a continuous thrum. This isn’t right , Tommy thinks, it shouldn’t feel like this; but then Sapnap’s face snaps to him, his mouth moving in response, and he thinks that maybe he’d said it aloud.

Where the heat eases, the pain does not, and Tommy’s head is left pounding and ringing. He sways, the world turning sideways as his legs give out from under him. Arms hook around his chest, helping to ease him down to the ground. His head lulls, rolling back into the person’s chest. Faintly, he recognizes Ponk’s mask above him, the healer's arms wrapped tight around the boy. He looks scared too. The darkness grows, and the pain fades a little, replaced with a numb feeling all over. Sleep calls to him, promising to get rid of the pain for as long as it has its hold on him, but Tommy resists. 

He looks forward, mustering up any strength he has left to stare at the table. The darkness grows. 

He looks at the body–his mentor. The other healers work around him, falling into place. Between the breaks, Tommy can make out the pinkness of his skin. 

His vision swims, sleep pulling him down, but before he succumbs he stares up at the table, waiting–and then it happens. 

Dream takes a breath. 

There are cracks in L’Manberg.

They’re everywhere. In the shadows under cars or in the break of a flickering streetlight. Wilbur is thankful for the cracks.

They let the darkness bloom–let the Phantoms hide in every groove and crevice of the neglected pavement. There, they watch through glowing eyes, listening to nothing and everything all at once, looking for any hint of the boy they’d grown so fond of. 

Phantoms are interesting creatures, powerful too, but even they fail. 

They have nothing to show for their days of searching, and the agitation begins to show on even the oldest among them. Their dulcet chattering turns to shrill shrieks,  figures morphing into something sharper. It’s almost unsettling, and with every passing hour more and more begin to look closer to a demon than a spirit. They fill the house, huddling in shadows and creeping behind furniture. Slitted eyes are painfully clear behind the veil of darkness, always watching. Every movement is met with clicks and hisses, easing only when Wilbur sends the creatures away. 

Their absence plunges the room into silence, and the man isn’t sure which is worse. 

Kristin had always hated having a quiet house, so she’d made it a point to fill her home  with soft music and conversations that ended in fits of laughter. Even after she was gone, Phil had kept it going, carefully preserving the home that had brought his wife so much happiness in an effort to pass on the same to his boys. 

Then Tommy had come to stay, and he fit so perfectly with it all. No matter how much he’d tried to hide it, he was boisterous, with his nicknames and his jokes and those rare smiles. It was like the stars had aligned, gracing them with a boy who wasn’t all that different from them. He liked the music, the talking, all of it.

Without him, the house is quiet. 

The silence is worse. 

Wilbur sighs, letting his head fall back against the couch. His thoughts are too loud, filling every corner of his head with a blaring mess of guilt and grief. 

This is his fault. 

He shouldn’t have gone to Tommy’s apartment, shouldn’t have opened that damn box, but he had, and now the boy is gone and the house is quiet. 

He digs his fingers into matted plush, squeezing the small cow close to his chest and hoping that it’ll help. It doesn’t. He’s about to call on the phantoms again in a desperate attempt to fill the room with noise, but he’s interrupted by his brother walking through the front door. There’s a bag strung over his shoulder, weighing him down on one side as he kicks his shoes off. 

Wilbur sits up, leaning forward as much as he can manage. “Anything?” 

“No,” Techno mutters. He shakes his head, dragging his feet over to his spot on the couch. 

A moment passes, Wilbur’s mind filling with worst-case scenarios. “It doesn’t make any sense,” he says, setting the cow on the coffee table, “Why haven’t they said anything?” They’d expected to see Tommy’s name plastered all over the headlines the morning after the docks–had expected to see the boy’s face on every channel, but there’s been nothing. The commission hasn’t uttered a word surrounding Red Death. 

“I don’t know, Wilbur.” Techno fiddles with the bag’s strap, twisting it around in his fingers over and over again. 

Techno had always been the independent one between them, happy to keep to himself and solve his problems without a doting father and brother hanging over his shoulder. But he’s made his presence sparse in the last few days, either going out on more patrols or locking himself away in his room, the light on through the night. Wilbur knows what he’s doing–why he’s doing it, Tommy’s capture has affected them both. “I could go out with you,” Wilbur tells him. “I want to help you look.” 

His brother shakes his head, braid falling over his shoulder. “The Phantoms are too obvious.” 

“Oh, and your giant fucking pig mask just blends right in doesn’t it.” Wilbur huffs. “I’ve got eyes too, and I’m more than capable of using them.” He should be helping. Every second Tommy isn’t home is a second wasted, and the thought of it makes his nerves buzz. 

“I’m not sayin’ you can’t ,” Techno defends, squeezing the fabric into a tight ball. “I’m just saying that I rather you were here, where I know it’s–you know.” 

Safe, he means to say. Wilbur knows his brother better than anyone, and he can tell that guilt is eating away at him too. He’s always prided himself in his strength, his subtle confidence in his abilities guiding his actions in and out of the suit. It was his job to protect his family–his job to keep everyone safe, and he failed. “You don’t need to be going to the pit.” 

“Is that where you went today?” Techno nods, painfully quiet. “Anything interesting?” 

“I spoke to Purpled.”

The name is familiar, belonging to a vigilante in the lower districts–not too far from Tommy’s apartment. He’d been a thorn in their side when the Syndicate first started gaining more territory, constantly looming over them with a watchful eye and a loaded gun. They’d been able to reason with him though, he was quick-witted and eager to protect the people around him, and they’d shared their disdain for the heroes. “Did he have any information?”

Techno twitches his head, curling his lips. “He’s close to another vigilante in the city, Punz.” Suddenly Wilbur understands the anger radiating off his brother. While they’d never interacted directly with the mercenary, they’d known of his affiliation with the heroes. “Apparently he mentioned a job he’d been hired for, but then, about two weeks ago, he dropped off the face of the earth for a bit and wouldn’t say why.”

“You’re not saying…” Wilbur starts, the words trailing off as a grim look falls over his brother’s face.

“He’d been hired to capture Tommy,” Techno confirms. “The timeline matches perfectly for when he’d shown up here, and now that I think about it his injuries match up too.” Wilbur’s mouth goes dry, his nervousness turning into full-on anxiety, because Tommy hadn’t just been looking for a place to stay. He was looking for a place to hide , and they had no idea. The brunet stands, hastily walking over to the coat rack by the door and ignoring the ache that rings through his ribs every time his feet hit the ground. “What are you doing?” 

“Getting a cigarette.” He pulls out the box from his coat pocket, letting the smell of paper and tobacco escape when he rips the lid open. His lighter–a cheap thing he’d picked up from a convenience store ages ago–is missing, gone from the box. He checks his pocket again, turning them inside out. Nothing. There’s a scoff from the other side of the room, and Wilbur shoots a narrowed look at his brother. “Give it back.”

Techno forces a smug smile, turning back around. “Those things will kill you.” 

“I’ll show you what’ll kill,” he grumbles, closing the box. Pent-up stress draws his shoulders up, back straight despite the pang his side gives as protest. His brother’s peaceful demeanor doesn’t help, if anything it only pisses Wilbur off more. The house is too quiet, and Techno doesn’t seem at all upset with it. He’s going to wipe that smile away, but a knock from outside stops him before he gets the chance to cross the room. 

They both freeze, the air between them going ice cold as two pairs of eyes snap to the entrance. A brief moment of hope passes between them, a burst so bright it tugs at Wilbur’s heart. What if it's Tommy? What if the teenager had found his way back to them again? 

The hope is fleeting, paired equally with a hint of trepidation. It could be enforcers, or worse, heroes.  Aside from the commission, the Syndicate holds the most power in the city. The lower districts are in the palm of their hand, same with the underground and nearly all of the pit. They’d considered it a miracle that nobody has come for them yet.

Another knock, and then a muffled “Hello?” can be heard through the door. Wilbur knows the voice. It simultaneously brings relief and disappointment; because it’s not the enforcers, but it isn’t Tommy either. He shoves the box back into his coat pocket, murmuring curses directed at Techno as he goes over to the door, only stopping when he comes face to face with Niki. 

“What are you doing here?” She doesn’t give him time to gawk, instead pushing past him with a small smile that says ‘hi’ and going over to the central part of the room. She’s got a folder tucked under her arm, papers of varying sizes sticking out.  

“I told her to come over,” Techno answers. He points his attention to Niki, reaching for the folder, “You said you found something?”

She hums an affirmation. “Dealer got a tip from an anonymous source,” Niki explains. “It doesn’t really tell us where Tommy is now, but–well, you’ll see.”

Techno flips through some of the papers, eyes gliding over the information before going wide. “Holy shit.” His voice is breathless, the monotonous guise slipping to show genuine disgust at whatever is on the page. 

“What is it?” Wilbur wanders over, leaning onto the back of the couch to peer over his brother’s shoulder. The stance gives some relief to the ache gnawing at his bones. 

“They’re using kids.” He angles the file up, letting Wilbur read the words scribbled on the paper. 

It’s an account from someone who’s never named, going over their experiences with the Hero Commission. It’s all written down–everything from the uniform they’d been issued to the training they’d been forced to complete. It sends a chill down Wilbur’s spine, the hair on his arms standing tall because there’s too much here. It’s written in such detail that it's difficult to deny, especially when new heroes have been popping up seemingly out of nowhere for years now. He continues reading, and the words about the ones who failed feeding a terrible feeling in his gut. The thing that makes the blood drain from Wilbur’s face, though, is their age. They were young , too young. 

Children.

There are other documents as well, profiles of kids who have either gone missing or were reported dead over the years. Every single one of them disappeared around the time their abilities would have developed, some as young as four-years-old. 

“They’re taking the children with useful powers, and they’re training them,” Niki supplies. She runs a hand through her hair, nostrils flaring. “Only a handful are taken every year, just enough to fly under the radar.”

Wilbur rubs his eyes, the image of kids stolen from their families burning itself into the back of his eyelids. “What the fuck.” This has been going on for years. Years. The only reason he wouldn’t have been recruited himself was that his abilities were never reported, they’d fallen through the cracks in the foster system. “They separated them from their families, from their home .” Wilbur thinks of the record that Techno had found all that time ago; the one that claimed Tommy died at six. 

He was one of them. 

Wilbur had told him that kids had no place in this fight, and Tommy had laughed. He’d never understood why until now, but these papers–they might not have come from him but they were his life. No wonder he’d been so adverse towards the commission. They had tried to mold him into a hero and Tommy had become the opposite, not because he wanted to, but because he had to. 

Wilbur swallows the lump in his throat. He feels like he’s going to be sick. “The government is supporting this.”

“Figures,” says Techno, “With all the money the president gets from the commission, I’m not surprised they’d cover up something like this.” 

“Filth, the lot of them,” someone adds. Techno’s grasp on the folder tightens, wrinkling the pages as Phil steps out from the hall. The ring he usually wears around his neck is gone, lost to the seas, and without it, his wings are exposed. 

Wilbur had always known them to be beautiful. The silky black feathers glimmered when they would see the sun, taking on a blue sheen that had captivated the boys from a young age. They were strong and dangerous, built to endure roaring winds and unforgiving skies, but now they just looked wrong.

Inferno’s explosions hadn’t just claimed Tommy. Where Wilbur had Techno to shield him from the flames, all their father had was his wings. The left had taken the brunt of it, leaving some of the feathers left mangled and singed while other spots were missing them all together. “It’ll heal,” Phil had told them that night through gritted teeth, attempting to comfort his boys as they wrapped bandages around burnt flesh. His wings had taken damage before–a stab wound or a stray bullet, but never to this extent. Phil had put on a brave face, but the question of whether or not he’d fly again hung heavy around him. Unspoken and unanswered. 

His other wing, while in desperate need of a preen after being coated with dust and dried salt, is mostly fine. It’s folded loosely against his back, the edge of it brushing the wall as Phil slowly makes his way into the main room. “You should be in bed, dad,” Wilbur scolds. He pushes himself off the couch, settling in at his father’s side to provide some stability.

Techno closes the folder, handing it back to Niki and standing. He comes to Wilbur’s side, attempting to pull his father back toward his bedroom, but Phil resists. “I’ve had enough rest.” His gaze settles on something past them, a pained expression falling over his face. Wilbur follows it over to the cow alone on the couch. He hadn’t meant to set it down on Tommy’s spot, but that’s where it ended up. It’s so small, so innocent–and the brunet doesn’t even know where Tommy had gotten it. “I’m done doing nothing.” Conviction bleeds through the words, leaving no room for debate. “I’m getting my fucking kid back.”

Chapter Text

Something is wrong. 

Tommy knows something is wrong; can feel it in the fatigue gnawing at his bones, crawling through his veins like a disease without a cure. It pulls every part of him down and keeps him still as the noise fades in and out around him. He can’t make out much through the ringing in his ear, just the muffled shouts and a mechanical beeping from something nearby.

Someone’s knees are digging into his back, propping his head up as they vigorously shake his shoulders. All it does is worsen the pain in his skull.

Everything hurts .

His head, his hands–even his lungs scream, begging his throat to open and pull some air in, but it doesn’t. Something warm is dripping over his lips and then down his chin, staining the back of his mouth with the bitter taste of iron. It hurts so bad, and the passing second is another where he has to fight his body from slipping down, down, down, into the dark pit he’s only seen in his nightmares. 

It’s been festering there for years now, its darkness endless and void. He doesn’t know what’s down there, but something instinctual sends alarms blaring through his head, urging him not to go. Danger , it says, stay away. 

But the pit reaches out to him with her rigid nails–black as the night itself. She cradles Tommy’s hands, wrapping them in a cold embrace that offers bleeding numbness. The pain that had been burning him to ashes dulls, like a flame being smothered by a blanket. It makes him feel weightless, almost like he’s floating in a calm sea. The noises from before have faded completely, reduced to static as the boy circles the pit. The currents guide him along, a steady presence behind him as he cuts through the water. 

For the first time in days, Tommy feels free. He’s no longer trapped in a gilded cage. The door is open, the lock broken, and Tommy steps out into her palm. She holds him, staring with star-like eyes that welcome him home.

It looks so kind, and Tommy is so, so tired. 

He doesn’t fight it. He should. He knows he should because that instinctual feeling is still tugging at his ear, but he can’t find it in himself to listen. The darkness welcomes him with open arms, promising to take the pain away–to let him sleep. Right now all he wants to do is rest. 

Somewhere, deep within the darkness, a phantom’s whine echoes. It sounds sad, the noise shrouded in bitter acceptance as the boy it’s been looking for is dragged down farther into the depths. 

But then something rips through him–like a spear through his heart. It jerks him up, tearing him out of her palm and back towards the cliff edge. 

The blanket slips and the pain comes flooding back. It washes over him, battering crashing waves into his chest. When Tommy tries to go back to where he was he finds that the pit is gone.

He’s shoved into a new cage, and the key is just beyond arm's reach.

Throughout the first month he’d spent at the Hero Tower, Tommy had used his abilities more than he had during his entire time at the dorms. There, the instructor's time was split across dozens of kids, each varying in their power and ability to wield it. He had only been allotted a few days a week to train the abilities that had gotten him there in the first place. Now. he attended lessons daily, spending hours in a blank room as the number one hero watched over his shoulder. 

He hadn’t known what to make of his mentor at first. He picked Tommy–welcomed him into his quarters, but he wasn’t exactly what the blond had expected. 

When he was younger, he saw videos of the hero on the news, wearing a porcelain-looking mask with a smile etched into it . It made him look kind–approachable, almost like anyone could have made the mask. Like anyone could be behind it.

He spoke with a voice that demanded attention. Those sugar-coated words made the people feel as though anyone could do what he did, even a five-year-old Tommy sitting behind a screen, worlds away from the hero. 

A lifetime later, and Tommy wonders if those words had been reserved for the camera. 

Being mentored by Dream wasn’t bad, just different. He didn’t seem particularly interested in anything outside the lesson room, simply nodding along whenever he let Tommy drone on about whatever obscure topic was stuck in his head that day. The blond had a lot to talk about in the beginning–his favorite color, favorite meal. Tubbo and Ranboo had known everything there was to know about him, so if Dream was going to be his guardian it was only right if he knew everything as well. 

Within the first few days, Tommy learned what was expected of him. If he was going to be a hero, he needed to follow the rules Dream set for him, even the unwritten ones. He could explore the hero’s quarters, but he couldn’t leave the level. He could play, but he had to be quiet. He could talk, but he couldn’t ask questions about anything from before his mentorship. 

The hero had been especially nice when Tommy followed the rules. He was more lenient, more willing to offer his attention to the young boy. 

“Are we friends now?” Tommy had asked once over dinner, flashing a crooked-toothed smile at his mentor. He’d been good that day, despite the weariness that weighed his eyelids down. 

Dream had nodded, grip tightening around his fork. “Of course we are.” 

Learning had been difficult. Tommy broke the rules often, typically earning quiet indifference from his mentor, but Tommy was made to adapt. He was able to deal with the lack of attention, even when the silence made him feel like he was invisible. He could do this.

Dream cared about lessons more than anything else. Tommy had a gift. The boy’s abilities were rare, and training was essential. If he was going to be a good hero, he needed to learn how to use them to bring people back. 

The lessons had helped. In a short time Tommy had gone from reviving small rodents to larger, more complex animals, each a bit more difficult than the last. He was able to feel himself getting stronger with every session. A strange sort of confidence bloomed alongside it, growing with every successful attempt and satisfied nod from his mentor even as weariness plagued his bones. The exhaustion was nothing if it meant Tommy was doing a good job. So as long as Dream provided subjects, he forced his way through the pain, running head-first into the fire without a second thought of the burns that might scar afterward. 

The body on the table had taken him by surprise though. 

Though he looked different without his signature suit, Tommy recognized the man as a hero. He had gone by Lazar, named after his power to control beams of light His ranking had been low enough to stick him in the middle districts. Tommy had been lucky to see the hero once or twice when he was young. He had been funny, his face full of warmth and self-assurance as he patrolled down city streets, his hand resting on the axe at his hip. 

Death’s claws had sunk in where life used to be. His eyes were clouded, lips blue and parted. It looked wrong. Unnatural. His was the first body Tommy ever saw, the first face to haunt the boy for years to follow. 

He took a step away, wringing his fingers together as he cast a lost look up to his mentor. Tommy had yet to bring back an actual person. All that confidence he’d gathered came crashing down like a house of cards before a hurricane. The human body was complicated, he wasn’t sure if he was capable of resurrecting one. 

“What are you waiting for?” Dream probed. He crossed his arms and raised his brows. Beside him, Requiem sat silently at his desk, tapping the tip of his pen against a clipboard. “Do it.” 

Tommy looked between his mentor and the body. Tension crept up his spine, drawing his shoulders up near his ears. He wasn’t ready for this. It had been a lamb yesterday, still small enough for Tommy to hold if he wanted to, a human was going to be too different. “I don’t think I can-” 

Dream held a hand up, and the boy snapped his mouth shut with an unsettling click. “You haven’t even tried yet.” Words of protest threatened to spill out of Tommy’s mouth, a jumbled mess of excuses and worries, but he bit his tongue. His mentor hadn’t permitted him to speak yet, so Tommy had to be quiet. Dream sighed, tilting his head. He narrowed a look at the blond. “What’s the problem this time?” 

His hand returned to his side. “What if it hurts?” 

“Then it hurts,” Dream said, shrugging. “I’m sure it’d be nothing compared to the pain he went through.” Blood was staining the hero’s chest, his suit clumping weirdly around a gash close to his heart. Tommy doesn’t dare ask what happened to leave him this way, but he can imagine that whatever it was didn’t feel good. “Enough with the excuses.” 

Tommy gave a shaky nod. He laid shaking hands over the hero’s chest as he desperately tried to snuff out the tinge of fear that had sprouted in the back of his mind. Maybe it wouldn’t be that different from the others. All he had to do was concentrate. 

He closed his eyes, feeling his abilities course through him and into the person beneath his fingertips. They move as slowly as a river of molten lava, the energy going through flesh. When he got to the wound, Tommy found a wall; heavy and unmoving. He pushed harder, pounding at the concrete until it cracked. 

A pinprick of pain blossomed in his chest, worsening with every hit. Every crack was a stab into his own skin. After a while, Tommy wasn’t sure if he was bleeding or not. 

It ripped his concentration to shreds, the pain far too overwhelming. It was hot–so, so, hot–and sharp, exposing twisted nerves and open veins. He hadn’t even gotten past the wall before he’d torn himself away. The loss of contact was an instant relief. 

“I can’t do it,” he cried as he clutched his chest. The pain eased, dissipating into a dull ache, but the memory was still there. His shoulders caved in, restricting his airflow enough to where short, staccato breaths were all he could manage. 

Dream let out a slow, agonizing sigh. He rubbed his temple, dragging his hand down his chin. “Tommy.”

“I swear I tried, I did-” Tommy hiccupped. Tears stung at the corners of his eyes, clouding his vision as he tried to blink them away. He wasn’t supposed to cry, heroes were supposed to be strong. ”I just can’t do it.” 

“You can,” Dream said. He turned to Requiem, snatching the pen before looking back at the boy. “You’re letting your fear get in the way, which is blocking your abilities from working correctly.” He held the object up, flipping it between his fingers. “You have to let the energy flow between the both of you. It can’t be a one-sided transaction.” He held the pen still and basked in the silence of the room.

Then, so subtly Tommy questioned if he’d seen it or not, it morphed into something taller, thinner. The barrel extended upwards, flattening out into a sharp edge as the cap rounded out into a handle of sorts. A second later, and instead of a pen, Dream held a small dagger between his fingers. “Let the energy flow, and you won’t hit a block, understood?” Tommy nodded, eliciting a smug grin from his mentor. “Now try again.” 

Obediently, the boy stepped forward. He placed his hands back over the hero, feeling the stickiness of the blood staining his suit. It’s still wet, meaning Lazar must have only died a few hours ago at most. Tommy wondered if the man had been afraid when he died. Had he spent those minutes believing that he’d never live again? Did he regret being a hero? 

Tommy shook his head, clearing his thoughts. He couldn’t think like that right now. He needed to concentrate. 

He took a deep breath, shut his eyes, and let his abilities go again. The tips of his fingers burned as warmth crawled up his skin, but Tommy didn’t pull away. He let the power flow freely, giving it as little direction as possible until he found the wall again. His mouth curved into a slight grimace, frustration boiling in his stomach while the ghostly pain returned in his chest. 

“Don’t force it,” Dream reminds him. The words pulled his focus for a second, it took a moment for Tommy to recollect himself.

When he did, he visualized the abilities again. The wall blocked the regeneration from progressing further, leaving the power huddled in a useless lump. Instead of breaking his way through, however, Tommy loosened the reins. 

The power grew, consuming the boy up to his elbows as it seeped over the wall. The energy coursed through the both of them, running wild as it replicated cells and repaired wounds. Tommy let it go, even as the returning energy delivered that stabbing pain to his own chest. He had to feel a heartbeat–had to feel anything that meant the man was alive before he could break the connection. 

And then, just as the pain threatened to swallow him whole, he felt Lazar’s chest rise. 

It was shallow; unsteady, but it was there. 

Tommy was barely able to keep himself upright once he let go. The effects of overexertion were already beginning to take hold, but he stayed awake long enough to see the triumphant gleam in his mentor’s eyes. 

The dagger disappeared from Tommy’s line of sight as Dream checked over the body. Requiem joined him, clipboard in hand as he made his rounds of the table. 

Gravity settled like a pair of sandbags over Tommy’s shoulders, their weight suffocating. Slowly, he lowered himself to the ground. Dream’s gaze found him then, a satisfied smile pulling at his cheeks. 

“It’s a start.” 

Something is wrong. 

The world around Tommy is falling to chaos, erupting in a deafening choir of panicked yelling and rushing steps. There are too many voices floating around him, too many people touching his skin, applying pressure to the area above his heart. 

“Tommy? Are you with us?” 

“I need another healer!”

“Hang on, just a bit longer now.” 

He doesn’t feel real. None of this feels real. It’s all too loud–too dark–and every inch of his body is in agony. Everything hurts. 

It hurts so much. 

Someone laces their fingers through his, rubbing tiny circles into his knuckles as something sharp pierces his skin. An injection, he recognizes faintly. He doesn’t know what it is, or what it’s meant to do, but he hopes it’ll take away the pain. Just for a moment. 

Whatever he’s laying on is thin and uncomfortable. It’s shaking as it moves down the corridor, its small wheels finding every groove in the floor below. Every jolt and turn sends another wave of discomfort down his spine. Tommy wishes nothing more than to be back in his bed. 

They turn, running his bed over what must be a rail. The sudden skip makes his head feel like it's imploding. It draws a whimper from the back of the boy’s throat. The hand squeezes. “It’s going to be okay,” the person tells him. The fear in their voice is masked by sweet assurances. Shapes swirl and colors pulse in the back of his eyelids. The light from above contours them, highlighting the patterns even though it's just a meaningless blob. “Just stay with us, Tommy. Can I get another healer over here!” 

“We don’t have any more here,” someone responds from the opposite side. There’s an urgency there, excitement too. “They’re all working on Dream. Inferno’s orders.”

The first person huffs. “Fuck that. Inferno also ordered me to keep him alive and–damnit, I need another healer now. ” An excruciating silence follows, broken only by the sound of a squeaking wheel. It’s so quiet, almost peaceful. Tommy is tired. His consciousness is teetering as painless sleep calls up to him. He’s walking a narrow line, balancing in the space between alive and dead. “Go!” Steps pad away in the direction they came from. 

Tommy opens his eyes a sliver and blinks at the bright lights above. It’s all so blurry. So bright, but then a dark shadow appears over his face. “It’s going to be alright, Tommy,” the person– Ponk he realizes–says softly.  Tommy nods feverishly, blue eyes rolling back, back, back until everything is dark again. “You’re going to be okay.”

Ponk doesn’t sound like he believes it. 

There weren’t many areas in the lower district that Tommy considered “peaceful”. 

The park was nice, sure, but it wasn’t where Tommy preferred to spend his time. It was small and crowded, so much so that a crying child was always within earshot. 

Once, on some random day he’d had off from work, he ventured down to the small patch of green with a worn towel and a sandwich, intent on spending the afternoon outside his dull apartment. He settled under a tree, curling under the shadow cast by the canopy above. The weather was nice and the breeze cool, so Tommy enjoyed his lunch as he leaned against the old oak trunk. 

He watched the kids play on the rusty swing set that squeaked incessantly. The ones on the ground would push the ones swinging higher, higher, higher until they could dash under the seat, collapsing into a pile of laughter once they got to the other side. Sometimes they’d get bored of that game, instead choosing to weave their way through their friends without getting hit by kicking feet. 

The parents hadn’t liked that game as much. Tommy had watched as mothers called for their kids, warning them that they’d get hurt. Their concerns had been met with childish dismissal, the children far too confident in their ability to dodge moving bodies. 

Their confidence had been misplaced, of course, and in the time Tommy sat he counted three who found their heads in the sand. He bit back a laugh as they picked themselves up, the tears already welling in their eyes. Their parents came like vultures, descending onto their kids to pull them away. 

Tommy was ready to see them yell or scold the children because they had been reckless, and they’d gotten hurt because of it. They had disobeyed. 

But they hadn’t. 

Mothers cupped their son’s faces and wiped away the tears. They told them that everything was okay–that their kids were okay–and the kids believed them. There was no reason not to. They got up, hands intertwined as they walked away to do something else. 

Something about it made Tommy’s stomach curl. He looked around, throat getting tight as he saw similar scenes all around the park. 

He didn’t go back very much after that. It didn’t feel like there was a place for him there. 

It became one of those places he only allowed himself to see from a distance, whether that be on his walk to work or from the roof of his apartment complex. 

“It’s a nice view,” a voice said, snapping Tommy’s attention from the play set. Wilbur leaned forward, elbows resting on the ledge as he looked down to the street below. “I see why you like it up here.” 

Tommy shrugged, doing the same. The people on the street looked so tiny from up here, like a colony of ants marching to their destinations. “Pretty cool, right?” 

Wilbur hummed, brown eyes closing in the relaxing warmth of the sun. “It’s quieter.” 

It was, that’s what made Tommy enjoy the space so much. Car horns and yelling pedestrians were nothing more than an echo, drowned out by the wind. It was a good place to just sit and think whenever the apartment got too loud or when the box hidden in the closet got too tempting. He’d sit with his back against the ledge and look up at the sky, maybe he’d even see a few stars if he was lucky. It wasn’t much, but it was one of the few places in the area that Tommy considered peaceful. 

He stepped away from the edge and wandered over to an old picnic table. He’s not sure how long it had been there, or how it was even brought up, but besides the ground, it was the only place to sit. The wood was soft and pliable, easy for him to pick at with his fingernails. 

Wilbur joined him a minute later, the table creaking under their combined weight. “I’ve been thinking,” he said.

“Oh shit, that’s no good.”

“Shut up,” Wilbur laughed. He pushed his glasses up and carded a hand through his hair. “You should come over and stay the night again. Maybe Niki and some of my other friends could come over and we could all have a game night.” 

Tommy paused, splinters sticking into his skin. “Your other friends?” Wilbur had other friends, of course he did, but he rarely mentioned them. “I don’t really think I’d fit in with a bunch fucking of old people.” 

“Silence, child,” Wil chided. “There’s a guy I know–goes by Quackity–who I think you’d get along with, he’s pretty funny.” He leaned back, balancing on the edge of the bench as he let out an exasperated sigh. ”I think he even took in a kid a few years back who’s around your age, I’m sure we could get him to come too if you wanted.” 

“I dunno,” the blond muttered, picking another piece off the table. Until Wilbur, friendships had been something Tommy didn’t do anymore. He knew how they went. People come, they get close, then they leave, and he had no interest in doing it again. Wilbur was the one exception. “I mean, I get why you’d want me to come–I have such an awesome personality and your friends would be blessed by Prime itself to meet me–but it sounds like a lot.”

Wilbur nodded solemnly, softening a little. “That’s alright, it could just be us and my family if you want. I just thought I’d throw the idea out there since a few of my friends have been asking when they’d get to meet you.” 

“Ah, so you’re talking about me then.” 

“Once or twice–”

“I hope you told them how good-looking I am,” Tommy interrupted. “Oh, and that I’m the biggest man you know.” 

Wilbur huffed, resting his head in his palms. “You’re insufferable,” he murmured, “You’re like my little brother, always trying to embarrass or annoy me.” Tommy went quiet at that, his barking laughter fading into the wind. 

“Brother?” He repeated. 

The older man nodded, reaching over to swat Tommy’s arm away from the spot he’d been chipping away at. “Little brother’s going to get a splinter if he keeps doing that.” Tommy pulled his arm away, resting it in his lap as he stared aimlessly at the ground. A silent moment passed between them; if he concentrated hard enough, he could hear the cars on the street. He pulled at his fingers and memorized the pattern in the wood as Wilbur too fell quiet. “Shit, sorry–is that not okay to call you? I won’t do it if you don’t want me to,” he stammered.

“No, no, it’s just…” Tommy had been called friend, and student, but never brother. Brother meant family, it meant home , and he had lost what little he had of that over a decade ago. He had no family anymore, no one to call him home at night or to help him when he fell. He had one friend, and that friend had a family, and Tommy wasn’t a part of that. 

What Wilbur said had been a joke though, and there was no harm in telling a good joke. 

So Tommy laughed and leveled a shit-eating grin at Wilbur. “We’re like brothers, you and I.”

“You’re going to make it annoying, aren’t you.” 

“Wil,” Tommy said breathlessly, “you’re like my big brother.”

“Stop, I'll cry, and then I’ll throw you off this roof.” 

Tommy gasped. He shot up to his feet and slammed his palms onto the table. “I can’t believe you’d say that to me , your little brother. Fuck you.” He turned dramatically and sauntered over to the door, reveling in the way he can hear Wilbur jump up behind him. Brother, he thought as he grabbed the handle. 

His back was turned away from Wilbur, hiding the soft smile on the boy’s lips. 

Something is wrong. 

Even before Tommy opens his eyes, he knows something is wrong. 

It’s that feeling that takes root before disaster, the smell of rain before the storm. That breath-stopping trepidation invades Tommy’s thoughts and makes everything unsettling. It’s like the whole world has been tipped on its side. The feeling worsens as he climbs out of a restless fog, senses coming back slowly. 

He hears the beeping first. The rising beat of a heart monitor blares through the room; it can’t be far from where he’s laying. Other than that, it’s quiet. No one is running, and no one’s yelling. No one is squeezing his hand and telling him it’s going to be okay. The machine is the only thing there, its beeping serving as the only reminder that Tommy is awake. The noise bites at his ears, splitting and screaming its annoying tune that Tommy is beginning to hate. 

Alive, it tells him, you’re alive. 

He’s back in his room–at least he assumes it’s his, the tower is a maze of identical rooms along endless corridors. It’s impossible to tell if the four white walls are the same ones he’s been trapped in for days. The bed is slightly raised, allowing Tommy to get a generous look at the door (closed. It’s always closed) as he shifts, sighing in relief when he finds that his head is the only thing that hurts. The other pain is gone, likely whisked away by a healer’s touch. 

Tommy grabs handfuls of the thin blankets and pulls them up to his chin. It’s cold in this room. It always is. The blankets don’t do much to fight off the chill nipping at his skin. A shiver wrecks through him, running down his legs from the base of his neck and all Tommy can do is curl in on himself. A wire brushes his arm as he tucks his shoulders in, the end of it is sticking onto his chest. 

He groans, desperately wanting to tear the thing off, but before he can the sound of a clearing throat cuts through the air. Tommy falters, immediately cursing himself for forgetting to look where the chair should be. It should have been the first place he looked as soon as he’d woken up. He should have made sure he was alone.

Slowly, he rolls onto his back, careful not to make any sudden movements. He cranes his neck back, peering around his shoulder to get a look at the person sitting in the corner of the room. 

Like a deer in headlights, his entire body goes deathly still. “Hello, Tommy.” 

It’s been years since he’d heard it– really heard it–but Dream’s voice alone is still enough to send a shudder down Tommy’s spine. He’d nearly gotten used to it being nothing more than a memory, a mere echo in the back of his mind that he excused as a ghost, but now it was real again. 

Dream is sitting back in the chair, arms folded across his chest. They move up and down with every breath the hero takes, bobbing in a slow, steady rhythm. It’s a mockery, a game, and judging by the grin on Dream’s face, he knows it. 

He’s alive. 

Tommy itches to get away–to turn back around and pretend that Dream is dead and nothing is wrong. It’s a child’s mindset, born from the innocence and wishful thinking that the hero pretty much destroyed long ago. He looks up and chases away the bits of panic that are beginning to show through his cracked exterior. “Dream,” he says, resisting the urge to return the proper greeting he was trained to do. 

His eyes travel across the ceiling, gliding over the smooth texture until it comes to the camera hanging right where it's supposed to. He waits for it to shutter or click, but it doesn’t. Tommy stares through the tinted covering, stomach dropping when he finds that the lens is pointed toward the ground. The little red light is constant, no longer blinking as it usually does.

“I told them to turn it off,” Dream informs him, “this is just between you and me.” The hero rises from his seat and stalks over to the foot of the bed, directly into Tommy’s line of sight. His shoulders are relaxed, his expression light as he holds himself with unnerving calmness. It’s so different from the way he looked that night. The blood is gone, the tension too, and it almost looks like it never even happened. It’s as if Tommy never killed him. Like Red Death never even existed. “I almost didn’t believe it when Sapnap told me it’s been over two years–almost three now, right?” He lays a hand on the rail, knuckles pink–and so, so alive– where they squeeze the plastic. “But look at you, you’ve gotten so big.” 

He sounds so genuinely proud; like a family member who's just been away for a long vacation. The tone reminds Tommy of a time when he thought the two of them were friends. A minuscule part of him–the foolish, stupid, and naive part–aches for it to be true. “Why are you here?” Tommy asks. The words scratch against his throat, coming out broken and raw. 

His mentor rolls his eyes up, letting annoyance drip through the calm facade. “You’re my student, Tommy. No one here is closer to you than I am, and I wanted to make sure you were okay.” Tommy can’t hold back the sneer quickly enough. It’s a bullshit claim built on a broken foundation. What happened that night won’t be forgotten. “You’ve grown up so much, haven’t you? I bet you even think that you don’t need me anymore.”

“I never needed you,” Tommy spits. “You-”

“I made you, Tommy,” Dream muses. Fire burns just behind his eyes, threatening to consume the hero in unbridled rage, but Dream keeps it at bay. He lets out a breathless sort of laugh. “ Every part of you. Red Death wouldn’t even exist if it wasn’t for what you did to me .” Tommy’s sneer disappears at the mention of his name. 

The events of that night become so dreadfully clear that Tommy can almost smell the scent of iron in the air. 

It’s so thick he nearly gags on it. He breathes it in through the filters on his mask as Requiem falls into a lifeless lump on the ground. The blood oozes from his neck, gathering in a puddle on the marble floors as Tommy–Red Death–watches with the knife in his hand. It had been a split-second move. George had charged and Tommy hadn’t been expecting it. He was dead before Tommy had even gotten a chance to think about it. 

And then Dream stepped out of his quarters, dressed in the gear Tommy had come to hate. The porcelain mask was secured over his face, hiding his eyes, but Tommy could still see the moment he registers his friend crumpled on the floor. His shoulders bobbed, wrecked by a small fit of laughter. 

He straightened his feet, sliding one slightly in front of the other. Tommy tightened his grip on the knife. 

Tommy swiped the blade out in a feeble attempt at carving a slash into the hero’s armor, but Dream leans back, throwing himself out of the way before the edge of the weapon can get close. In one quick motion, he brought his elbow down onto the villain’s outstretched arm. It sent an audible crack echoing through the room as the knife clattered to the ground, landing in the puddle of blood. Dream surged forward. He grabbed Tommy’s wrist, twisting it up and around in an ironclad grip. 

“Give up, and I’ll consider letting you live,” he said, digging his fingers into the villain’s skin. Tommy pulled, hopelessly trying to free himself to no avail. He was trapped, and Dream knew it. “Fine then.” 

He twisted Tommy’s arm again, sending shooting pain down the villain’s arm. Tommy cried out, barely holding back a whimper as Dream extended his other arm toward Tommy’s face. Towards his mask. 

He brushed the edge, slowly pushing it up to reveal Tommy’s chin. 

Years of training took control in seconds, numbing the panic flooding his veins as Tommy found the bare skin of the hero’s neck beneath his fingertips.  He was stronger now, he could feel it in the tingling sensation in his hands. His abilities were roaring with adrenaline. His abilities were begging to be used, so, without a second thought, Tommy obeyed. 

They found their mark on a living man, who froze as soon as the energy entered his body. He sputtered, letting go of Tommy’s wrist as a terrible choking noise reverberated through his mask. He shrunk in on himself as he let out a wet cough, and then another. 

Tommy pushed his abilities more, directing them up at the face that had become a symbol of aspirations long forgotten. 

And then the first drop of blood fell onto Tommy’s arm, dripping down from inside the hero’s mask. 

Dream reached up to rip the whole thing away, letting it shatter on the floor as he gasped for air, choking on the blood. The liquid trails down his face, streaming from his mouth, his nose–even his eyes , like crimson tears.

He was silent when he collapsed, doomed to die covered in his own blood. 

Tommy looks to the same hero now with a mixture of grief and despair swirling in his gut. His plan had failed the moment he left the tower. There must have been more he could have done, something– anything that would have prevented him from being back here. 

“You thought I wouldn’t know it was you?” Dream asks, amused. “I’d be an idiot to not recognize Inferno’s fighting style, and you were the only one he ever taught.”  Tommy clenches his jaw shut, grinding his teeth until it hurts. “You and I were friends , Tommy, and then you killed me.”  

The blond huffed out a laugh that teeters on the edge of hysteria. Maybe he had believed it long ago, but not now. “You were never my friend. All you did was use me for your sick fucking games.” 

Something about Dream shifts at that. “Games?” he chides. “I was helping you. All I’ve ever done was help you.” Tommy presses his head against his pillow and clenches the blanket between his fingers. Dream is lying. “No one else could have trained you so I did.” 

“Inferno-”

“Inferno left you ,” Dream interrupts, words cutting deep. He lets the wound fester in silence, dangerous eyes locked on Tommy’s before turning away from the bed completely. Wandering over to the far wall, Dream sighs, slipping a kind demeanor on like a worn glove. “I wanted to thank you.” 

“What?

“You’ve opened up a world of opportunities with your abilities that I never even thought of,” Dream says, making a small circle around the room. “Life and death are at your fingertips!” He comes back to the foot of the bed and slightly leans over the rail enough to be close, but out of arm's reach. It would be so easy to kill him. His arms and neck are exposed, covered only by a thin t-shirt. All Tommy would need to do is jump forward and extend his arm out. His fingers, still buried in the blanket, burn as restless anger sticks itself in his heart. It consumes him, crawling in from his palms to his chest the same way an ember eats paper.

His mentor smiles and shakes his head, laughing as he stands up straight again. It’s a taunt, Tommy realizes, Dream is dangling the bait right in front of his face and waiting for a reaction. “Perhaps we’ll make a hero of you yet.” He sounds so confident –like Tommy’s fate is sealed and this outcome is inevitable–and that’s the thing that adds a spark to the fire. 

The sheets are thrown to the ground as Tommy lunges with outstretched hands. He wants to wrap his fingers around Dream’s throat and squeeze until the hero goes limp. He wants to push his abilities through him again so he could watch him collapse. 

He wants to kill him. 

Dream stumbles back, fear flashing in his eyes for a millisecond before the door slams open. Two enforcers, covered head to toe in the standard uniform, rush into the room. They grab Tommy’s arms, pulling him back and pressing him flat onto the bed. “I’ll kill you!” he screams, thrashing in their grip. He’d scared Dream, he made the man’s mask slip. “I’ll fucking kill you!” 

The enforcers hold him as still as they can, pressing him further into the mattress each time he flails. “Stop fighting them, Tommy,” Dream scolds. He appears at the side of the bed and looks the blond over with a patronizing stare. It only makes Tommy fight harder. 

“I’ll kill you. I don’t give a fuck how many times I have to do it.” 

Dream clicks his tongue, “That temper is still a problem I see. Maybe you haven’t changed that much.” Someone Tommy doesn’t recognize enters the room then, carrying a small box over to the hero. He nods, thanking the person as they open the box to show him the contents. “Hold his hands up,” Dream demands. The enforcers obey, holding the boy’s balled fists up in a straight arm grip. He watches in horror as Dream wraps dark manacles around his wrists. He clicks them tight, the material biting into his skin with cold teeth that makes the hair on his arms stand up straight. The enforcers release him immediately after. 

Dream is still standing there by the bed– so close –so Tommy goes to lunge again, but his head spins. A strange sensation takes over. It steals the heat from his fingers, leaving Tommy sluggish. “What?” He drawls, casting a slow glare down to his wrists in his lap. 

The manacles glisten a dark purple under the fluorescents, almost black. They’re made of obsidian, he realizes, the same stone layered through Pandora’s walls to deprive prisoners of their abilities. “I didn’t want to have to use them, but you’ve given me no other choice.” 

“Fuck you,” Tommy says breathlessly. He pulls his arms apart, twisting the chain holding the cuffs together in odd angles, but it holds strong. “Take them off.” 

“I will, but only after you’ve shown that you can behave.” He waves and the others in the room shuffle out, leaving the door open behind them. “All you have to do is cooperate, Tommy.” He gestures over to the otherside of the room and Tommy follows it to the camera. The light is blinking; the camera is on. “Don’t try anything.” With that he turns, making his way out the door. 

Tommy falls back onto the bed, gasping for air that never fills his lungs. 

No one else visits for the rest of the night.

Chapter Text

There was a time in Techno’s life when the thought of being a villain was as distant as the stars in the night sky. He always liked them–the stars. They glistened like diamonds on velvet, bright enough to see, but too far away to touch. The idea of being a villain was a fleeting thought in a child's mind as he watched The Capitan fight on the evening news. 

He was nestled between his parents on the couch, head resting on Kristin’s arm as Phil reached for the remote to switch the channel away from the fight. Techno had seen enough. 

Every kid he knew wanted to be a hero. They wanted to be among the handful of children in their class that would develop abilities so they could fight to protect the city. Techno hadn’t cared one way or another. Sure, it’d be cool to save people, but staying home and reading the same books until the words were burned into his memory seemed equally as fun. 

The last image Techno saw before the screen switched to a cartoon with bright colors and loud music was a villain shrouded in blue. His hood was up, the end of the fabric melting perfectly into the edges of his golden goggles. They shimmered under the moonlight. The bottom half of his face was visible, revealing a demanding sneer as he pointed a silver revolver at L’Manberg’s top hero. 

Techno hadn’t understood it. The heroes were good guys, everyone says so, so what’s the point in trying to hurt them? 

“They think things should be different,” Kristin had told him. She nudged her arm out and Techno sat up, angling his head up to give her an owlish look. “They just decided to change things in a way the city doesn’t like.”  

The boy gathered some of his shirt between his fingers, twisting it around and around. The villains hurt people–some killed people. They did bad things. “Are they bad people?”

Kristin let out a long sigh. She slipped her arm around Techno’s shoulders and pulled him into her side. Stray strands of her hair brushed against his nose, tickling his face as his mother ran her hand over his arm. “Not all of them are, some are just trying to do what they think is best.” 

Techno snuggled closer, lightly kicking his feet into Phil’s leg as he buried his shoulder in his mother’s side. His attention returned to the screen, the cartoon voices pushing away any remaining questions he might’ve had. The lives of heroes and villains were complicated and too messy for an eight-year-old to worry about. He didn’t need to fight to protect anyone, not when the only people he cared about were right there within arm’s reach. 

But growing up brings a new kind of clarity to it all, and loss makes it easier to understand. The lies hidden in cleverly worded presidential speeches; the commission’s logo branding the city; the money promised to grieving families, containing figures meant to keep them quiet. It’s all a trick, a ploy. The people in charge didn’t care about peace or the people they swore to protect, they only cared about the money in their pockets.

Corruption runs deep in L’Manberg, spreading through the city’s roots like a disease, and suddenly Techno understands why the villains had fought.

Tommy was– is a kid who’d endured everything the city threw at him, and he’d thrown it all right back. It’s something that earns Techno’s respect. Truthfully, the kid had it before Techno had learned who he was; he saw himself in Tommy. When he’d shown up at their doorstep, bloodied and bruised, Techno saw an eight-year-old with broken glasses and a garbage bag full of clothes. The blond was his responsibility. His to protect. 

And he failed. 

It’s a loss he can’t let go of. 

That night, on the docks, he’d heard the boy’s screams as he rose to his hands and knees. The fire roared around them, getting closer, closer, closer until the flames were brushing against his leg. Wilbur was still beside him. The phantoms surrounded him in a loud rush of moving air and shrieks, shadowed bodies smothering the fire that got too close. Techno didn’t see Phil. 

He didn’t know where his dad was.

Tommy’s cries play on a dreadful loop in his ears as walks through the facility. His cloak–a brilliant red cascading from white fur covering his shoulders–hits the heel of his boots, a quiet thumping sound bouncing off the dark, concrete walls. The golden band around his wrist is warm where it meets his skin. He runs his thumb along the metal, feeling every scratch and groove. It’s a familiar weight, something that keeps him grounded even when the rest of the world is spiraling around him. It's a comforting reminder of who he is–of who he needs to be. 

Syndicate-The Blade-son-brother. 

A crash breaks through the quiet, painfully loud to Techno’s sensitive hearing. He twitches, fingers curling around the hilt of his axe as his head moves wildly in the direction of the sound; toward the lounge. Shuffled footsteps, another bang, and Techno is moving. 

Intruder, he concludes, lip curled in a bloodthirsty snarl. The Syndicate’s base is secure. It's difficult to get into, but despite Techno’s best efforts, it’s not impossible. 

Muddled swears join the chaos as something eerily close to Wilbur’s voice yells out. It’s a desperate, strangled sort of sound that sends a wave of fear through him. His brother shouldn’t be making that sound, not unless something was wrong. 

“Wilbur!” Techno calls, unable to hide the bits of panic that seep their way into the name. 

He doesn’t respond.

As Techno rushes down the corridor, the crashes and the yelling get louder; clearer. “Wilbur!” He holds his axe in a white-knuckled grip, the handle’s shallow engravings printing themselves into his palm. There’s a small buzz in the back of his head, aching for Techno to swing the blade down on the intruder’s skull so hard that the only thing remaining is a mangled mess of bone and bloody flesh.

Techno bursts into the room seething as he frantically searches for his mark, but it’s only Wilbur. 

The room is a mess, its floor littered with upturned furniture and broken glasses. His back is turned away, his body curled over a lounge chair where a single shadow hovers.  Techno watches quietly as his brother grabs a folder from the side table and flings it across the room. It hits the wall, falling to the ground in a flurry of loose papers. 

The smell of iron hangs in the air, stinging Techno’s nostrils as he creeps forward. Shards of glass crunch under the soles of his shoes. It catches the Phantom’s attention and it chirps quietly, sinking further into the shadows as Wilbur goes deathly still. “Wilbur? What happened?” 

“We’re too late,” he mutters. He turns, bright, green eyes meeting brown for a moment before Wilbur sinks to the ground. “We’re too fucking late.” 

Techno sets his axe down, leaning it against the wall. Trepidation courses through his veins. “What are you talking about?” He takes another step forward, and something snaps under his shoe. He keeps his eye on Wilbur, not bothering to see whatever replaceable thing he’s broken. 

His brother bobs his head and leans to where the Phantom had been. “It saw Tommy. It-we, um-” he says, cutting himself off with a hitched breath. Wil squeezes his eyes shut, and when he reopens them they’re a deep brown. “We don’t know where he is now, or if he’s even still…” 

“You think Tommy might be dead?” Techno asks, softly. 

It’s an impossible thing to imagine, to think, but Wilbur puts his head in his hands. “Yes–no, I don’t know.” Breathlessly, he laughs, and it sounds wrong. It’s layered thick with anguish and grief, the emotions spilling through no matter how much he tries to hide it. “They saw him Techno.”

With that, something deep in Techno’s being snaps, ripping and breaking like a rope pulled taught. Tommy is strong, he’s resilient. The phantom could’ve seen anyone. 

Techno is no stranger to failure. Fights have ended in draws, and he’s lost territory, but he picked himself up and kept moving. He didn’t know the kid as well as he wanted, but he’d seen enough. Tommy isn’t dead. He can’t be, because if he was then Techno truly failed, and he doesn’t know if he’d be able to pick himself up after that.

He shuffles to Wilbur’s side and sits close enough to feel the warmth from his brother’s arm.  He pulls his brother close, wincing when their heads bump together. 

They’d sat like this years ago, dressed in identical black suits as they said goodbye to another parent. Wilbur’s hair smelled of earth and shampoo, a scent that would stick to the strands through the day and long into the night. They were barely sixteen then, still kids, and already they had seen their mother’s face for the last time.

They held each other close, whispering promises to one another until their voices were raw and their cheeks wet with tears. “We’re going to make it through this,” Wilbur said. He gabbed Techno’s hand and held it in a tight grip, looking at his brother with a sad, watery smile. “We’re going to be okay.” 

“That doesn’t mean anything,” he says as he stretches his arm over Wilbur’s shoulders. 

“Tech–”

“Have you met the kid?” Techno cuts in, mustering a smile and a hollow laugh. “He doesn’t go down easy. Besides, I’m pretty sure if he was…gone, he’d spend every moment haunting your ass.” 

Wilbur sighs shakily, “That’s not funny.” 

“Yeah, 'cause it’s true.” I hope, he thinks, gods, let it be true. He pulls his brother close, wincing when their heads bump together. “He’s alive,” Techno says, mostly to himself. He grabs Wilbur’s hand, frowning when he feels warm, wet blood on his hand. “You’re hurt.” 

“I broke a glass,” Wilbur hums, “it was an accident.” 

Techno nods. “It’s alright.” It’s a shallow cut, easy to fix. He pulls their hands into his lap and looks around, spotting a small cady with a rag on it. “We’re going to be okay.” 

It’s a promise. 

All his life, all Sapnap ever wanted to be was a hero. He could still remember sitting in front of their old TV, its screen crackling with static as he watched The Captain on the news. His father had been hard at work in the kitchen. The sound of clanging pots and pans drowned out the audio from the TV speakers. Sapnap watched in awe as the number one hero answered questions from a doting reporter, her white curls wild and messy under the shadow of a brown trifold hat.

The footage cuts from the interview to images of a man being shoved into a patrol car, his hands bound by dark cuffs. He’d tried to rob a bank in the middle district and taken thirteen hostages, three children not much older than Sapnap. The Captain had saved them all. She wasn't even assigned that sector that day and she still saved them.

She was, in every meaning of the word, a hero; and on that day, she was also an inspiration.

It was his dream, the ultimate goal. He spent every waking moment working for it. When his abilities had developed--coming in the form of a tiny spark at his fingertips--he’d jumped around his room, buzzing from excitement. They were still weak and useless at that point, but they were there, and they were enough to get him into the academy.

Sapnap’s class was small, with only a dozen or so children. They’d get to know each other well through skill training. They became something like friends despite the mist of competition among them. Two boys in particular caught Sapnap’s eye, both a year or two older.

With his dark hair and slim face, George had made up for his smaller size with his voice. The other, Dream as he chose to go by, was more reserved. He had his fun where he could, but his talents had always been in skill training. Where Sapnap excelled in the physical nature of it all, Dream shone in mastering his abilities. They came easy to him, almost as if they’d been served to him on a silver platter.

They’d been rowdy with one another, quick to crack a joke when no one else was looking. Maybe that’s what had attracted him to them in the first place. It had taken Sapnap a week to muster the courage to go and talk to them during lunch break. When he finally had, the duo smiled wide and opened an extra seat for the boy, eager to learn all about their new friend.

From that moment on, they were inseparable.

When graduation came around, Dream sat soundly at the top of their class. Sapnap and George were right behind him, two and three, and they were happy with that. The ranks were only a formality, they didn’t matter, not to Sapnap anyway. Sure, the numbers could help him to get a commission job later on, but their friendship meant more than that. The three became best friends, brothers.

A team.

Together, they were going to be heroes. Everything Sapnap worked for was going to come true, and he had his favorite people by his side the entire way. That was the thing that got him through the day, the thing he thought about as he fell asleep at night.

But there’s a certain bitterness that comes with having your dreams come true.

It’s found in the absence of what used to be. In the promises made late at night, concealed by the dying moonlight and dulcet tones that play endlessly in your head as you drift to sleep. The chasm remaining after the dream disappeared threatened to swallow him whole, because sure–he may have gotten what he wanted, but it wasn’t at all how he imagined it.

Sapnap was a hero; the number one, but the blood staining the rank reminded him every day of the two people who weren't here with him. George had worked for this, Dream had the skill for this, so why was Sapnap the one to take the throne?

It's a bitterness Sapnap had never known until the night Red Death entered the tower. It festered in the days following the attack, clinging to the corners of his being as he was ushered through briefing after briefing.

It’s in that bitterness that a new dream is born, one that forces Sapnap to bury empty caskets. He went back to work and spent his limited free time rummaging through the Commission’s files. It was a fruitless endeavor, but that didn’t stop him from returning day after day to bury his head in manilla folders. The air was heavy with mildew as he combed through the files of everyone who’d interacted with the Commission. All he needed was someone with the right abilities, someone who could be the solution to his problems.

And then the answer found him.

Punz had shown up at the tower unexpectedly, only a few days after the Monument Day celebrations. The information he had sent sparks down Sapnap’s spine: Tommy, his friend’s student, the boy he’d spent three years training, was alive and well. He'd be seventeen now, almost as old as Sapnap was when he’d joined the commission. It was a miracle. All these years, he thought the boy was dead when, in reality, he'd been living not too far from the slums of the lower district.

A price was negotiated, a deal struck, and Punz left the tower with a mission that would almost kill him later on.

In the end, the plan worked itself out. Sapnap brought Tommy home, he paid Punz for his efforts, and soon everything will be perfect. It will be good.

It's a good thing. 

Sapnap had never enjoyed the medical wings. They were too sterile, too pristine. It wasn't the place for someone like him. But ever since Tommy had returned, the space had provided more solace than before. It's a small escape from the chaos upstairs. The never-ending stream of paperwork and statements are too exhausting to think about, so he finds himself roaming the lower levels instead.

The quarantine wing is quiet, making for the perfect place to wander about aimlessly and think.

His new dream has almost come true. Dream is back and soon, George will be too, reuniting their team. Sapnap wants to be happy, but that feeling is still there. It leaves a sour taste in the man’s mouth as he makes his way down the corridor. He’s almost gotten what he wanted, but something about it–about Tommy–seems off somehow, and he can’t tell why.

The patter of footsteps down the hall catches his attention, chasing away the lingering feeling of wrongness that has consumed him. He rounds the corner, turning in time to see a few enforcers exit Tommy’s room. They disappear down the hall, walking in the direction of the elevator. They whisper amongst themselves as they go, so soft that Sapnap can’t make out the words. He wanders forward, walking silently until Dream steps out a moment later. Sapnap falters.

It's been so long since his friend has walked these halls, that seeing him is almost like seeing a ghost. Dream's eyes are open and his cheeks are pink, untouched by both time and death. He looks the same as he did years ago. The man’s face is flat, his mouth pressed into a thin line as he rolls his shoulders back and wrings his hands together. It’s a habit he’s carried ever since they were kids, a way for him to ‘reset’ after a stressful situation. He pulls the door shut, breaking Sapnap’s reverie. “Should you be up?”

Dream's head snaps up. He points narrowed eyes in the hero’s direction, and then recognition takes hold. “Prime, you scared me,” he breathes, body melting to reflect the exhaustion he must be feeling. Sapnap hums, shrugging as he approaches his friend. “Callahan cleared me last night. I figured I’d check in and see how Tommy was doing.”

The room on the other side of the door is quiet. “And you needed enforcers? Is he awake?”

Dream nods, looking down the corridor. “You know how unreasonable he can be, enforcers were a precaution.” He slumps over on himself as he walks away from Tommy’s room, and Sapnap falls in pace alongside him. “It ended up being a good idea, he jumped at me so we had to restrain him.”

The phantom touch of a wooden shard appears on Sapnap’s neck. He tips his head back slightly, trying to get rid of the sensation, but it doesn't go away. The feeling worsens as they make their way to the elevator, scratching and poking at his skin. “He was never like that before,” Sapnap remarks. Raising his fingers to his neck and tracing over a small scab where the wood had broken skin. “I mean he was skittish as a kid but this is something else, right?”

Dream shrugs again, the questions rolling off his shoulders like drops of rain on a car window. “He’s a teenager. I remember you being more aggressive when we were around his age.” He presses the button for the elevator, limping into the car when the doors open with a mechanical ding. “Remember all those nights you held George in a headlock because he took something of yours?”

“He knew what he was doing.” Sapnap defends. “We were having fun, I never tried to hurt him.”

“That time you kicked down his door?”

“He was being an asshole and you know it.”

Dream chuckles and leans his side against the wall. “Yet you’re the one who put a hole in the wall.” Sapnap sputters, shooting a glare at his friend. The look only makes the man laugh harder, a familiar wheezing noise accompanying it.

It's a laugh he missed, something that had disappeared in the weeks leading up to his death. Green eyes seemed darker in the days following Tommy's disappearance. Stress seemed to plague the boy's mentor as constant worry took its toll. Pressure from the commission hadn't helped either. They'd lost their most promising students, and they demanded answers.

Once the laughter dies out, the smooth rumbling of the elevator fills the space. The numbers on the display screen above the door change, negatives turning positive as the two ride in comfortable silence. After a long moment, Dream exhales. “Tommy should be ready to revive George in a few days. After that, we could go to the commission and see about getting Requiem back into the official rankings.”

“Hold on-” Sapnap interrupts, “A few days? Are you sure he should be doing that so soon?”

“He’ll be fine. There will be healers available if we need them.”

“Dream, he almost died, his heart stopped,” Sapnap says, perplexed. Memories of the boy’s screams echo in his ears. He’d been in pain, he was hurting. There’s no telling what would have happened if Sapnap hadn’t ripped Tommy away when he had. “What if he doesn’t survive a second one?”

Dream clenches his jaw and pushes himself up. “I thought you wanted George back.”

There’s a pang in Sapnap’s chest. The words cut deep, serving as a sharp reminder of the grief tucked deep in the back of his heart. “Don’t pull that shit with me. You know I do.” He wanted his friends back more than anything. It’s what he’s been working towards since the night they died, but does bringing them back mean anything if he’d destroyed someone else's life to do it? “I just don’t know if it’s worth risking a kid’s life because we couldn’t wait.”

His friend holds his hands up placatingly, “It’ll be harder on him the longer we wait. I’m not stupid, Sapnap, I realize the risks, but I also know better than anyone what Tommy is capable of.” Sapnap traces the pattern of the floor with his eyes. Dream has a point. He had spent the most time training Tommy and teaching him how to use his abilities. The three years Sapnap spent with the blond before Dream reassigned him was nothing in comparison. He had relied on the files and research the man left behind to understand as much as he could, but he wasn't there, he’d never known the full story. "I’m trying to do what’s best for our friend. You trust me, don’t you?”

“Of course I do.” Sapnap lets his mind wander as he watches the numbers on the display climb. They’re getting close to their floor. “It’s strange,” he starts, reaching up to rub the bridge of his nose with an empty laugh, “when we entered that room I knew Tommy was angry, but he also looked scared.” He remembers the way wide, rage-filled eyes bore into his own, their fire barely concealing the fear that had taken hold of the boy. Guided by a trembling hand, the stake had shaken where it met Sapnap’s skin.

“Transferring energy like that can be taxing,” Dream reasons. “He was probably scared of the pain.”

No, that’s not it, Sapnap wants to say. There’s something more there, something that he can’t put his finger on. Tommy hadn’t looked afraid until they got to the room–until he saw Dream’s body on the table.

The elevator chimes and the doors slide open. Slowly, Dream starts to walk out but this time, Sapnap doesn’t follow. He stands still, forcing a gentle grin as Dream stops in the opening. The door tries to close, only to bounce back against the hero's hand. “I’ve been meaning to ask,” he turns, meeting Sapnap’s eye, “how did you get him to cooperate? He can be difficult to work with.”

Heat creeps up the back of Sapnap’s neck. Dream is his friend, Sapnap trusts him with his life, but he’d also made a promise. He’s not a liar. Seraph, Blade, and Wraith are safe and alive, and they’ll stay that way for as long as Sapnap has a say in things. “The world is dangerous for someone with his abilities,” he finally settles on. The lie feels odd in his mouth. “I made sure he knew this was the best place to be.”

Dream’s brow twitches with a slight frown, and for a moment he almost looks disappointed. Then, his lips turn up in a smile, his face going soft. He says nothing as he takes a step back, letting the elevator doors slide shut between them.

Sapnap’s reflection is blurry in the silver doors. It warps where the metal bends, broken up by hairline scratches adorning the surface. He squints, trying to make out his mouth; nose; eyes–anything that reflects that he’s more than a blob of skin and clothes. There’s nothing.

Absent-mindedly, he presses a button, and the car begins its descent.

The look on Dream’s face sticks out in his mind, the disappointment loud amongst his other thoughts. It was subtle; completely undetectable to anyone who hadn’t known the man for years, but Sapnap had seen it clear as day. Had he known Sapnap was lying? A sharp chill goes through him, spreading over his skin like a cold touch that leaves the hair on his arms standing up. Something about it had felt wrong, and he doesn’t know why.

When the chime rings out again, Sapnap slips through the doors, eager to leave the questions behind.

The surveillance office isn’t far, and Sapnap makes the journey robotically. He’d gone to the room regularly, with the visits becoming more frequent after he’d brought Tommy back. It's a large space, filled with wires and screens the hero has learned to navigate around. Several security officers and other attendants are scattered around the room, busy keeping a watchful eye over the tower. As he passes them by, they shout their hellos, some going so far as to wave as Sapnap weaves around their desks.

He goes to a door near the front of the room, swipes his badge, and enters when the little light on the reader flashes green. There’s only one person in this room and he turns as soon as the door clicks, spinning around in his chair with a smug smile. “Sapnap!”

“Officer Jacobs,” the hero greets.

“Oooh, so formal,” Karl teases. He leans back in his chair, the wheels squeaking under the added pressure as he spins back around to face the screen. “You’re here to check up on Tommy?” Sapnap doesn’t need to answer. He walks further into the room, settling behind Karl’s chair as the man switches the screen to display the feed from Tommy’s room.

As usual, he’s on the bed. The sheets have been thrown to the side, leaving the mattress bare as Tommy lays there, motionless. He’s on his side, knees pulled up to his chest to block the view of his hands. He looks so small; his body so gaunt that he looks more like a small child than a teenager.

Dark bruises curl around his upper arms, far too high to be from the IV. Sapnap squints, leaning closer to the screen and finding that some of them cluster in a way that looks like fingerprints. “Can you rewind?”

“Of course.” Karl presses a few buttons, then the footage jumps back to show more people in the room. It’s Dream, standing at the side of the bed as the enforcers from earlier hold a thrashing Tommy down. “Woah,” Karl breathes. He looks up at the hero, confused, “What’d he do?”

“Dream said Tommy jumped at him.” The sight makes Sapnap’s stomach flip, nausea creeping up his gut. “Go back again.” Karl types something else, slowly rewinding the footage to a few seconds before. When he presses play, the enforcers are gone, leaving Dream alone with a rather pissed-off-looking Tommy. Dream's voice crackles through the speakers ‘Perhaps we’ll make a hero of you yet.’

The words are the match that sets Tommy ablaze, and he lunges. Sapnap's breath catches in his throat the boy’s outstretched hands reach for his friend’s throat. The scene unfolds quickly: Dream falls back, the enforcers arrive, and they pin Tommy down. It’s what Dream had described. “Further.”

Karl nods, rewinding a minute or two, but when the video resumes Dream is gone and Tommy is asleep. “Hold on,” the man mutters, trying again. The video picks up from the same spot.

“What is it?”

“I don’t know.” Karl minimizes the screen, types something, and tries again only to get the same results. “It must’ve glitched or something, it’s just…poof, gone.”

Sapnap tries to swallow the lump forming in his throat as that wrong feeling returns. He watches as the footage skips from one moment to the next, missing the part between. He takes a step away from the monitor to pace the length of the room nervously. “How long have you been on shift?” he asks.

“Not long, twenty minutes maybe?”

Sapnap sighs, nausea worsening as his nerves run wild. “Do you know who was here before you?” Karl shrugs and shakes his head. “Fuck.” Sparks beg to dance at the end of his fingertips, hands aching for the familiar curl of flames.

“What is it?” Karl asks. He spins around in his chair, sitting up as Sapnap goes back to the door. His nostrils flare as he picks up the tinge of smoke in the air. “Is something wrong?”

Yes.

“I don’t know, but I’m going to find out.”

Chapter Text

Tommy can’t get up. 

He’s tried, over and over, but he can’t. It feels like something is pressing down on him, pinning his limbs to the sheets like a butterfly’s wings to a board. There’s no fighting it, even when his back aches and his legs scream. He lies there, still as a corpse, eyeing the floor where Dream had stood with a glare that could kill. If he strains his ears, he can almost remember the footsteps leaving and the light murmuring that followed.

The obsidian manacles are heavy on Tommy’s arms, their iron edges digging uncomfortably into his wrists. They’re cold–always cold–and the skin around them is decorated with bloody bruises after numerous attempts at getting them off himself. He’d tried slipping his hands out of them and twisting the chain until it snapped, but the material leeches the energy from his body. It’s a strange sensation, one Tommy can’t quite get used to. Everything feels so big, so heavy . Weakness consumes him, filling his head with dense fog whenever he moves too suddenly.

It hurts. Not in the excruciating, blood-curling, go-into-the-light kind of way–with that comes a conclusion. Finality. Something to mark the end of the pain and the beginning of freedom–but more so in a neverending achiness. He’s not sure which is worse. It’s a dull sort of thing that makes Tommy’s joints throb every time he shifts in his bed. Almost unbearable, but not quite.

There are moments when Tommy lets his mind wander. Brief moments balanced on the edge of sleep and consciousness where he’s away from his body altogether. He floats until the pain is nothing more than a numb tingle, barely even there. The hand that's been wrapped around his heart–crushing and squeezing so tight he thinks he might die–loosens its grip, instead bleeding comforting warmth into his chest. It’s nice, nothing hurts.

It’s not right. Deep down he knows he needs to fight to survive because he can’t let the heroes break him. He can’t let himself be another mindless drone that follows orders because there’s nothing left to do–because he’s forgotten what he’s truly capable of. 

Being a pawn in their game would be worse than death. 

But at that moment the voice screaming for him to fight is smothered by the desire for quiet. 

(Get up, it begs, choking on its breath, fight.)

It’s so peaceful.

(Fight.)

(It sounds like Red Death. Through the water, he stares down at Tommy, his gaze disapproving and sad. This isn’t right. This isn’t right. This isn’t right.)

And Tommy is tired. 

So, he welcomes the veil of nothingness with open arms. 

It’s only for a moment. 

Tommy wakes to something slamming. The noise is sharp, aggravating the headache that’s sprouted right behind his eyes. He winces, mindlessly raising to block the light from his eyes only to meet the bitter reminder of iron and obsidian wrapped around his wrists. They’re still heavy, dampening his abilities with weakness and fatigue, but less… severe somehow. 

He rolls onto his back, carefully checking every corner until he can be sure no one else is in the room. The camera, blinking steadily on the ceiling, shutters. 

All it does is watch him. 

Through clenched teeth, Tommy hisses, pointing a narrowed scowl at the lens. “Fuck you.” The words break in his mouth, buckling under his venomous tone. Fingernails imprint crescents into his palms, breaking through healed scars and coating the tips of his fingers in blood. He hates it, he hates it. He hates it.

There’s someone on the other side, probably watching in amusement as Tommy fidgets with the restraints. He pulls his arms apart, pulling the chain tight over and over in hopes of the thing snapping. It doesn’t. At least one of them can enjoy this. 

The camera continues blinking, shuttering two more times before Tommy finally tears his gaze away, focusing it instead on the tray at his bedside. A bowl filled to the brim with bland, gray mush sits on top, accompanied by a spoon and cup of juice. Tommy’s stomach growls, his mouth watering when a vaguely sweet smell hits his nose. He’s not sure when he ate last.

The bowl is warm, its plastic rim stinging his palm when he reaches lazily for it. The mush–oatmeal, he concludes, doesn’t move; sickeningly still as he balances it in one hand. It’s disgusting. Unappetizing in a way that makes his stomach do flips, and yet–Tommy has to eat it. This is all there is. It’s the only option. 

Silently, he wishes for pancakes instead. He blinks, forcing away the white, hot tears that gather in the corners of his eyes when he remembers he probably won’t be having them again. Tommy tries not to imagine Phil making them on a leisurely Saturday morning, their sweetness pervading through the house as the dining table bathes in the morning light. 

There’s one empty chair that will never know a kind look again. The eyes that land on it are plagued with grief too big to contain, saddened by empty space. When they look away, they land on the stack left untouched in the middle of the table. Phil always made enough for four, and the serving that goes uneaten will be packed away, waiting. 

Tommy’s fingers twitch, itching to scratch at the manacles again as an uncomfortable heat crawls down his spine. The hunger that had been yelling at him turns to nausea and before he knows it the warmth of the bowl is leaving his hands. It explodes in a mess against the opposite wall, covering the concrete bricks in a coating of oatmeal.

Satisfaction blooms in Tommy’s chest when he sees that a generous amount has hit the camera, completely covering the lens. They can’t see him. 

For the first time in what seems like weeks, Tommy is alone. 

He smiles, eyes sliding shut in relief as he drags air into his lungs. There’s no pressure, no resistance as he leans back, head hitting the pillow. He can breathe again. 

It’s almost intoxicating, the privacy as addictive as some of the items sold in the underground. Tommy never wants it to end.

A few minutes pass in pure bliss, and then it shatters with the opening of his door. 

It’s the same as when he broke the chair: an enforcer enters, followed by a cleaner who gets to work quickly. She moves about the room almost robotically as the enforcer stands stoically at the entrance. He wears the standard uniform and mask, but he lacks his visor, leaving his eyes uncovered and subject to Tommy’s harsh glare. 

Dull blue meets deep green a few times, but neither says a word–locked in a standstill as the cleaner continues, wiping the camera lens clean. She ignores the contempt burning into her back the entire time, eventually packing everything back up with a happy hum. She never looks at Tommy, not once, but the enforcer does. It’s impossible to miss the way his eyes linger as he leaves, watching the boy for a moment too long. 

The next few hours move as slowly as they usually do. Tommy gets up, fighting the fatigue long enough to stand. His legs are wobbly, feeling more like jelly than bone as he pushes himself up, hands clutching the railing of his bed for support. In the end, he fails to take a step, only lasting a minute until he needs to sit back down. 

Lunch comes later, officially marking the morning’s end with a small sandwich that Tommy doesn’t care to touch. He turns his back to the plate, refusing to look at it. He’s hungry, but logic speaks loudly in his ear every time he thinks about the meal. 

Right now, Tommy is confined to his bed, unable to walk. It’s a horrible situation to be stuck in. He’s vulnerable, subject to the whims of the people in charge–to the camera and anyone who’s beyond that–and there’s nothing he can do about it. The door is locked, and there are no windows; he’s probably underground, but he can’t be sure. There is no escape, Tommy is trapped with no way to get out. 

The first time had been hard, sure, but he was living in the hero’s quarters then. Just two rooms down from the most powerful hero in the city. All he’d had to do was memorize the enforcer’s rotation, learn where the camera’s blindspots were, and wait for a night when Dream didn’t lock Tommy’s bedroom door. It had taken forever, but he’d managed. He escaped.

Tommy can’t do that now. He was fucked the moment he decided to take a walk on monument day. 

His strength is depleted and any energy he might have had is consumed by the manacles. 

Tommy is weak. 

And he’d like to believe that they wouldn’t force him to use his abilities again unless he was strong enough to survive it.

So, he doesn’t touch his lunch. 

When dinner is delivered, he closes his eyes, hoping for sleep to come early. It doesn’t, it rarely does. Rest isn’t something to be controlled that easily. 

The meals that arrive the next day and the day following are left untouched despite the hunger digging its claws into his gut. It’s constant, a persistent hollowness that begs to be filled even as he takes his first steps in days to ignore the pain. He stumbles more than once, his weight unfamiliar on his feet as he moves between the bed and the chair. It’s not a very good distraction. 

He’s no stranger to hunger. Tommy had spent nights on the streets with his knees curled to his chest as an autumn breeze whistled through the trees. He hadn’t been sure where his next meal would be coming from–whether it be a handout from someone with pity written across their face or the trash. But, even before that, he’d known hunger. 

He’d known it in the snarl directed at him when he said the wrong thing– did the wrong thing. He was too loud; too rude; too desperate for attention that would never come, and Tommy was punished with extra training that extended far past his lunch hour. 

Sometimes he did everything perfectly. He lived and breathed the rules only for them to wither into something different, shifting from his behavior to his performance and back again with the flip of a coin. Tommy knew it when he couldn’t bend the energy correctly. When he’d been sent to his room to think about how he could’ve been better–because Tommy could always be better. 

Hunger became something of an acquaintance, something to be expected. As he paces around the room, brushing his fingers along the walls, he thinks it’s almost like being visited by an old friend. It’s better company than others who claim to be friends. At least it doesn’t lie.

Ponk is the one to deliver breakfast. He’s brought the last three meals, a last-ditch effort from the heroes to get Tommy to eat, though it doesn’t work. He appreciates the healer. He talks to fill the silence and is careful around Tommy in a way that doesn’t make him feel like he’s made of glass. Ponk is kind to him, reminiscent of the way Niki always treated him when they worked late shifts at the diner. 

Tommy falters, nearly tripping over his own foot at the thought. He hopes she’s doing alright. 

The healer enters the room with worry etched on his face, a look that seems to grow every visit. “Morning,” he says, forcing a cheery lilt. Tommy gives a half-hearted hum in response as he continues walking. “I brought you breakfast.” An enforcer follows him in and pauses by the door. 

“Thanks.” His voice sounds foreign, almost like someone’s implanted a modulator into his throat to make it permanently hoarse. 

Behind him, the plate is set on the table. “Come sit down please,” Ponk tells him. Tommy listens, crossing from one end of the room to the other in a few short strides. He takes his usual spot on the bed as Ponk comes around, hands outstretched to examine the cuts and bruises on Tommy’s arms. “Are they feeling any better?”

Tommy shrugs. The bruises have taken on a yellowish tint, blurring so much that he can’t make out fingerprints anymore. “‘S fine.” 

“Tommy.” It’s stern, demanding. Ponk raises his hand slowly and touches a spot on Tommy’s forearm. He winces when it explodes with dull aches.

The healer’s hands linger, tingling where they meet Tommy’s skin, but the injuries don’t fade as they should. It’s the manacles, Tommy concludes the first time Ponk fails to heal the gashes under the cuffs. They block him from healing anything too close to the obsidian. 

Tommy pulls at his fingers, stretching his joints until he hears a satisfying pop. “Sorry,” Ponk eventually says, giving up and moving back down to Tommy’s wrists. The disappointment is thick, fueled by unfamiliar failure. A healer’s abilities aren’t supposed to fail, not when they have the power to decide life and death. In a sea of chaos and destruction, healers are order. They’re strength. 

It’s a rare ability, something that promises great opportunity at the cost of a target on your back. Healers are valuable, in more ways than one. In that sense, Tommy supposes they’re similar.

Ponk sighs, long and slow as he goes to sit in the chair behind him. Eyes gliding shut, he savors the brief moment of silence. “It’s been so busy up there, I barely get a moment to breathe.”

Almost immediately, Tommy stops fidgeting. “Busier than normal?” He asks. Busy is good. Busy means that heroes are getting hurt, meaning they still have someone to fight. 

“Everything’s just been very…” he trails off, trying to find the right word, “complicated.” Ponk throws a look over at the enforcer to see if the man is paying any attention, so quickly that Tommy nearly misses it. Finally, after another moment, he continues with a hushed voice, “I think they’re trying to figure out if Dream and Requiem should reenter the scene or not. That’s the rumor anyway.” 

Tommy stares blankly at the healer, mind reeling at the thought of the both of them publically reappearing after three years of nothing. The city had seen their caskets being put into the ground, they’d seen the reports of their deaths. It happened. It was real. And for all of that to be undone? It’d be mayhem with Tommy in the middle of it all–the eye of the hurricane. 

Everything he’d worked for. Everything he killed for–it wouldn’t matter. 

Red Death wouldn’t matter. He’d be another villain who’d failed. Nothing. 

It’s nauseating.

Per usual, Ponk doesn’t let the silence go on for long. He sits up, elbows balanced on his knees. “Are you gonna eat?”

Tommy makes a sound that is almost a laugh. “‘M not hungry.”

“This isn’t healthy, Tommy. We’ve tried giving you the freedom to choose, but this has gone on for too long. Please -,” and he sounds desperate, “-don’t make me take that choice away from you.” It's a threat and a plea all in one.

But it’s also a lie. This place is made of ultimatums and deals struck under the table. There’s never been a choice here, not a real one anyway. Judging by the empty sort of look in the healer’s eyes, Tommy can assume that Ponk knows it too. “No.”

Ponk crumples in his seat, deflating like a balloon before pushing himself up to his feet. He doesn’t meet Tommy’s eye for a long while, instead circling the room once–twice–three times as he mutters quietly to himself. And then he slows, stopping at the foot of his bed. “What if,” Ponk starts with a hint of defiance, “we make a deal? You eat, and in exchange, we can take a walk around.”

“Around? You mean outside?” 

“I can’t break protocol too much, but we can get off this level if you want and go around the tower.”

Leaving his room–this prison cell. It’s an enticing offer. Tommy can’t help but smirk. “We take the food with us, and I eat it while we’re out.” 

Ponk smiles. “Deal.” 

They end up in a room that almost resembles a courtyard. It’s big, with high ceilings and plain walls. Usually, heroes or a squad of trainees use the space to spar or run drills, but today it’s empty. There’s no one to greet them as they wander through the entrance, the enforcer trailing closely behind, not that Tommy had expected anyone.

Artificial grass crunches under his socks, poking uncomfortably at his feet as he goes to the center of the room. Every sound, big or small, echoes through the room. It smells of plastic and sweat, reminding Tommy of the handful of times he’d gotten to use the room for artificial field training.

(‘Field trips’ , Sapnap used to say, resisting the smile tugging at his cheeks in response to his own joke. It’d taken Tommy too long to understand the joke the first time he said it–too young–but once he had he laughed. The change of scenery was exciting.)

He tilts his head up to look at a skylight above. It’s small, angled in a way that almost makes it difficult to see though, but it's a window. Tommy can look outside . Clouds overhead are thick and gray, blocking golden rays. It’s the kind of thing that Tommy would’ve been annoyed with a month ago, but all he can do is smile as he watches the clouds swirl with the wind. If he reaches his arm up high enough, he can almost touch it. Almost.

“This is a good spot,” Ponk starts. He sits on the grass, setting Tommy’s plate down in front of him. “It’ll be like a picnic.” 

Tommy, enamored by the sky, doesn’t make an effort to move. He wants to watch it for hours–wants to see the colors change when dusk finally comes, but he doesn’t have that much time. His stomach rumbles, shooting aches through his middle in protest and finally, Tommy listens. 

He sits across from the healer, right in front of his plate. It stares back at him; the small bits of melon taunting him. “We had a deal, Tommy.” Ponk's hands are in his lap, quietly fidgeting until Tommy finally relents. 

As the blond slowly works through the meal, Ponk stands by quietly. He watches, making sure that nothing is forgotten. It’s unnecessary; a deal is a deal, and Tommy has no intentions of lying. They’ve given him a small portion, probably to avoid him getting sick. Even with the hunger, though, none of it is good. The fruit isn’t quite ripe. It’s almost bitter when he takes a bite, but he chokes it down all the same, ignoring the weird mix of guilt and anger that comes every time he swallows. 

He’s allowed to stay in the court long after he finishes. Neither one of them is in a rush to get back, and if the enforcer has any concerns he doesn’t speak them, so Tommy spends his time laying on the grass. He goes back to staring at the ceiling for a lot of it, desperately trying to memorize everything that passes by the skylight. It’s all so beautiful. If he never gets the chance to see it again, he at least wants to remember this.

The minutes pass too quickly. Tommy’s gotten so used to the way time crawls, that he’d almost forgotten it can pass in the blink of an eye. If only he could wrap his fingers around the seconds so they can’t get away from him. He’d hold them close to his heart, tightening his grip every time they tried to jump away. 

He knows his time is up when he hears the door open. The enforcer murmurs something light as Ponk moves to his feet, his brows set in a stony expression. 

Tommy doesn’t look away from the window. He assumes it's a lone trainee or low-level hero seeking to use the room, and the only thing that matters is that he remembers the shape of the cloud above.  It’s only when the enforcer receives hushed whispers in response that Tommy starts to pay attention. 

The echo muddles their words into nothing, but Tommy can still pick out Inferno’s voice in the conversation. A chill goes through him, like ice in his veins as he does his best to push himself up with the manacles holding his hands together. 

Once Inferno notices the extra eyes on him, the whispering ends immediately. It’s the first time Tommy’s seen the hero since the revival, and he can’t help but notice something different in the way Inferno holds himself. “I guess I shouldn’t be surprised to find you here. You always liked the grass.” 

Ponk flicks his gaze between the two, his lips pressed in a thin line. 

“Do you remember that time we brought one of those exercise balls out here and kicked it around after your session? One of those big ones that would always collect dust in the corner of the room.” Inferno laughs, recalling the memory as he steps onto the green. “Prime, and when I kicked that thing too high and nailed you in the face with it? I think it was the first time I’ve ever seen you tear up.” He sighs, smile fading. Tommy does remember, it was one of the last sessions they’d had together. “I felt so bad about that. I kinda still do if I’m being–”

Tommy groans loudly, words falling out of his mouth before he even gets the chance to think. “Is there a point to you being here or are you just going to reminisce?” 

Inferno’s face falls at that as stony seriousness overtakes the few morsels of joy. “Ponk, officer Frost, you’re excused.” The enforcer visibly hesitates, drawing his shoulders up in momentary confusion. It’s a silent dilemma that only Tommy notices, but it passes with the blink of narrowed eyes. The enforcer nods, obeying the order as if the lapse never happened.

“What? Wait, wait wait–” Tommy gathers fistfuls of grass and tries not to think about being alone in the room with the hero; a few of the blades come loose.

Ponk stills. “Sir, this was all my idea. I told him we can have a few minutes out here.” 

“I understand. I’ll make sure he gets back to his room. I’m sure they need you upstairs anyway.” 

“Yes, thank you.” Ponk collects the plate and turns to Tommy, sparing a quick “See you later,” before following the enforcer. Despite their absence, the room feels fuller somehow. 

Clumsily, he moves to stand, but Inferno clears his throat. “You can sit, it’s fine. I like it here, it was always a good alternative to the other room.” It’s said as if they came here regularly to talk. So casual. Tommy doesn’t sit back down. 

“What the fuck do you want.” 

Inferno raises his hands, palms facing the blond. “I just wanna talk, that’s all.” 

He saunters further towards the center of the room; towards Tommy who, with uncertain rage, snarls. “I have nothing to say to you.”

“All I want is the truth.” Tommy snaps his mouth shut, resisting the urge to turn away completely. “Tommy? Can you be honest with me?”

The silence stretches between them in a familiar hum. It’s all too common in their recent conversations. A welcome third wheel. But it goes stale after a while, sour and heavy with the hero’s anticipation. “That’s all I’ve ever been.”

“Alright. Good, good.” Inferno says. “When I visited you that first time–after you woke up–you said that I left.” He sounds uncertain. It’s worlds away from the practiced speech months ago. “I guess, in a way I did, but it wasn’t my choice. You know that, don’t you?”

Tommy shakes his head. “No, you request to be reassigned. You didn’t want to work with me anymore.” 

“What?” The uncertainty gives way to something else Tommy can’t quite understand. “No, no, I loved training you. Fuck–I probably preferred it to work out in the field, but Dream thought it’d be better for him to do it because he’s your mentor. I was asked to leave.” 

“That’s not… no, you left.” Tommy retorts. “I was annoying and too attached and you didn’t want to deal with me. That’s what… that’s…” he trails off, losing his train of thought. Sapnap had left. He hadn’t even said goodbye. 

“Is that what he told you? That you were too clingy?” Tommy nods, only once. It’s a bitter confirmation that Inferno can’t seem to swallow. He huffs, dark hair falling across his face when he abruptly jerks back.  “There must’ve been a reason,” the hero muses, “He probably thought he was helping, giving it a clean break or something. He wouldn’t lie for no reason. Dream wouldn’t do that.” 

He would , Tommy thinks as everything makes sense all at once. He can still remember the first night after Sapnap had left. He’d crept into the room, emotions swirling just below the surface. Grief and anger and sorrow , all battling for control over the thirteen-year-old. He should’ve tried harder, should’ve been better, because maybe then things could have been different. Maybe then he wouldn’t have been left holding a stuffed cow, wishing for the warmth of a hug instead. 

“I thought I was alone,” he finally says. “He made me think it was my fault, but he was the one who made you go.” He realizes with stunning clarity that couldn’t have done better. 

The voice that’s haunted him for years–following through training to the streets to the Craft’s dinner table; the one that told him he didn’t deserve a single ounce of kindness; the one that he’d listened to for so long–had always been Dream’s. 

And Dream lied. 

He always did. Always has. 

Heat spreads over his skin, fueled by a pumping heart. Suddenly, his collar feels too tight around his neck. Tommy pulls at it, restraints clanging together as he desperately tries to relax. 

“Is that obsidian?” Inferno takes a few hesitant steps toward the blond and grabs his hands. He turns them over again and again, tracing his thumb over the dark material. “Why would he put dampeners on you? Your abilities aren’t dangerous.” 

Tommy tears away with a sneer. He’s still warm, too warm, but he tucks his arms close to his chest. “I don’t know,” he lies. 

“Tommy- I,” the hero stutters, “It’s just us, and you said you’d be honest with me. I don’t get it. I read the files, all of them, and none of the reports indicated that you’d need those.” He gestures wildly to the manacles. “There’s no reason to dampen abilities if they aren’t dangerous.”  

Shackled hands turn to fists, and Tommy can’t breathe. Inferno–Sapnap–stares at him, waiting for an answer that doesn’t come. His expression morphs into something different, empty. He’s lost .

A man out at sea during a storm.

A little boy buried in a crowd. 

Inferno is lost.

It dawns on him slowly at first, then all at once with a singular breath. “Unless they didn’t know.” Heat radiates off him like a blast of summer air. Burning plastic scrunches Tommy’s nose, and when he looks down he sees small wisps of smoke swirling around Inferno’s feet. “Holy shit. Holy fucking shit .” His voice nearly breaks.

Tommy can see the moment Inferno where Inferno knows. All the pressure and expectations that have been piling on his shoulders shift, pressing an ugly fracture into his very being. One of his legs almost gives out, and he stumbles forward a step. 

Closer to Tommy. 

He’s so close.

The boy tries to swallow the lump in his throat. It feels like glass. “Inferno–” 

“Don’t fucking call me that,” the hero spits. There’s a fire in his eyes, angry red hiding in the brown. “All everyone does is call me that. You know my name, my face–all of it. I’m a person, just like you. So stop. Please. Just… tell me you didn’t do what I think you did.” The last sentence is soft, begging for denial’s victory. 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“I’m not a fucking idiot!” He shouts. “It was you, wasn’t it? I didn’t see the resemblance before, but now? I remember that night so clearly. You moved so fast and I couldn’t believe how well you fought. I’ve been looking for so long and it was you the whole fucking time.” Sparks dance at his fingertips, a threatening mix of white and blue. “Why?” 

Tommy looks at him, mouth agape. “What?”

“Why did you betray the people who raised you? You were supposed to be a hero–the best of us–so why would you kill them? What the fuck is wrong with you?”

“Why? You want to know why?” Every reason runs through his head at once. Ranboo, Tubbo, the Crafts, and his parents. The cameras and the hunger. The loneliness. “This place has taken everything from me. My family, my friends–my fucking freedom! Everything I’ve ever given a shit about, gone. Ripped away like it was nothing and you ask why ?” His voice cracks, bending and crumpling. “I was six years old when my name was buried, and I had no say. I never wanted this. Maybe I thought I did but not really.

“You killed them. George. Dream. You murdered them for what?”

“George was just there. I never meant for him to be a part of it but he was there and I had no other choice.” 

Copper and smoke. A blade in the hero’s neck and blood on the floor. He hadn’t planned to kill George, but the hero had been a shadow during every lesson and every punishment. He deserved it all the same. 

“Everything was fine though.” Inferno points an accusatory finger at him. It’s a lit match. “You had a roof over your head, food on the table–”

“I wasn’t a person!” Tommy screams. “I was my ability and nothing else. I couldn’t talk, I couldn’t breathe !” Blood pulses in his ears, swallowing up his hearing as something wet blurs his vision. The collar is so tight, but Tommy can’t uncurl his fists long enough to pull it away from his neck. He gasps for air, voice low. “Things changed after you left and you weren’t there. Sometimes I wished you were but you weren’t. I just- I wanted to be a person again.”

Late nights staring at slotted doors and years of running to hide the truth mean nothing. The truth spills from Tommy’s mouth, coated in blood and sweat and so painfully true. Tommy never wanted this. The world he grew up believing he could save was a lie, a city shrouded in a rose-colored tint. There was no saving it.

Being a hero would cost him his humanity, and all he ever wanted to be was a person. 

A strangled sob rips through him and Tommy curls in on himself, repeating the mantra if only to himself. “I just want to be a person. Please, please I just want–I don’t want to be used anymore. I don’t want to die here, in that room.” He’s choking–dying, he has to be dying. “I’m a person .”

Inferno, frozen on the grass, gapes in horror. “Tommy…”

“I’m a person.” He repeats, hitting– clawing at his neck, “I’m a–”

“You are,” the hero insists. He surges forward, taking Tommy’s arms and pulling them away. “Hey, hey hey, shh. You’re okay, breathe Tommy. Remember the exercises we used to do?” He gets a shaky nod in response. “Good, just do those. I’m sorry, I’m so sorry. I never meant for this.” 

“I want to go home,” he confesses. His whole body shakes, violently pleading for air. “I just- I want to–” Tommy’s cut off by another gasp when he feels himself tipping to the side. He can’t stop it, forced to watch as the world turns sideways, but Sapnap’s grip tightens, holding him up. “I want to go home. Please just- just bring me home. Please. Please.”

“Okay.” Tommy looks up and glassy eyes meet deep brown. Sapnap puts his arm around the blond’s shoulder, just like he did when Tommy was young. His hands are warm where they grip his arm, almost burning, and it helps. Not much, but it helps. “Okay. You’re going to get out, Tommy. I swear it to you. I swear. I need some time to deal with the commission and Dream–”

“You can’t tell them.” Tommy grabs Sapnap's shirt, pulling. If they knew, they’d never let Tommy go. He’d never get out. “Dream won’t let me leave. He won’t–he won’t–”

Even on that night they fought, when his best friends were bleeding out floors away, Sapnap has never looked so panicked. “Shh, okay, okay . He doesn’t need to know. I’ll deal with it. You just wait, okay?”

Tommy searches for the lie; for another ultimatum. There must be one, but he finds nothing but genuine concern. 

He shouldn’t trust Sapnap, but he desperately wants to. 

He has to get out. 

“Okay.”

Chapter Text

The heroes are growing restless. 

It’s a subtle sort of thing, hidden in the nervous tapping against the walls and set jaws. The few people that enter Tommy’s room–a rotation of familiar cleaners and their accompanying enforcers–look at him with a strange mix of wariness and frustration as they do their work, muttering words under their breath as they go. It’s like an infection, spreading through hushed secrets and silent agreements, practically invisible if he wasn’t looking. But all Tommy can do is watch. 

The hours blend into a muddled arrangement of meals and random checks, and eventually, Tommy loses track completely. They’re underground–a fact Tommy is certain of after his walk with Ponk–and there are no clocks, nothing to track the time with. Days must pass, every minute feeling more like its own year within the confines of the room, but Tommy can’t be sure. 

He tries to sleep in a feeble attempt at surrendering the hours to unconsciousness, but eventually, the thoughts in his head get too loud to ignore. Soon, he hears, and it’s Sapnap’s voice, quiet enough to avoid the camera’s microphone. Just sit tight, I’ll be back soon. 

There was a time, not too long ago, when Tommy would’ve hated hearing it, but now he just hopes that it’s not another lie. Soon,

I need some time, 

Just wait.

They’re nothing more than the words of a hero, the same person who’d torn him away from the Craft's, but they’re all Tommy has. He grabs them, holding them in an ironclad grip secured by the horror hidden in Sapnap’s grimace. It’s a sliver of hope, waning with every passing day, but Tommy listens and waits. All he can do is wait. 

When the restlessness makes his limbs shake with unrequited energy, Tommy paces around the room. After the courtyard, Sapnap escorted Tommy back to his room. He slid his card through the reader, unlocking the door with a sharp click, and as it swung open Tommy realized how small the room truly was. 

The walls seemed to close in on him, concrete pressing unbearably against his back–his side, his chest–as he took a hesitant step in. Tommy glanced back, concern heavy on the back of his tongue as the door closed again. 

Through the thunderous rhythm of his heartbeat, he could hear footsteps fading away, leaving Tommy to suffocate in his cell. It was achingly similar to the way he felt when Wilbur’s phantoms had overwhelmed him on the docks, or while in the crowd on Monument Day: trapped; paralyzed. It was like he was drowning on dry land and no one, not even the bodies pushing into him, could do anything but watch.

Tommy was a circus animal locked in a pretty, white cage, and all he’d had were vague assurances that Sapnap would return. 

It only takes thirty-two steps for Tommy to make a lap around the room. Thirty-two steps to end up back where he started, and Tommy walks it over and over. He moves to the beat of a song playing repeatedly in his head, quietly humming the melody as he steps on the proper tiles. 

Claustrophobia follows closely behind, nipping at his heels as he walks. Sometimes he notices that the next wall is too close, and the feeling nearly consumes him, looming over him like a shadow of unease and twisted nerves. Instead, Tommy walks faster and lets his eyes slip closed, picturing Wilbur across from him, an old guitar with a missing string on his lap. Their voices fill the room, joyously singing lyrics as the blond flips a small polaroid between his fingers and–it helps, some. The memory chases away his anxieties, serving as a gentle reminder that there is a life beyond this room, but like most things, it’s a temporary relief. 

The days before his first escape are a blur, but he can remember the anticipation clearly. He had a plan, something to work on and refine until the time came, but this time he doesn’t have that. There is nothing to think about other than when . It makes that anticipation worse, almost too much to bear. It pools in his stomach and buzzes along with the rest of him until he finally directs it to the restraints wrapped around his wrists. 

He can’t get used to the manacles. Everything about them feels wrong, from the draining numbness to the heaviness of the cuffs. His shoulders, tired and sore, sag, caving in on his torso to lessen the pressure digging into his wrists. The obsidian is strong, holding solid in the moments Tommy brings his arms down to slam them against the railing on his bed. They never give; never crack, and even though he knows they won’t he continues to try. New bruises take the place of old, fading ones in a painful display of yellow and blue, but Tommy doesn’t care. He wants them off. 

He fidgets at them as he walks, contorting his hand in a way that hurts without success. 

Twenty-nine,

Thirty,

Thirty-one; The base of his thumb is raw from where the restraints cut into his skin and his hand throbs, begging for Tommy to stop. 

Thirty-two. He reaches the door, marking the end of another lap. Tommy releases the cuff, switching to the other hand as he passes behind the bed, then the chair. As always, it doesn’t give.

Long ago, buried by the years, a blank face had told Tommy what insanity was. It’s doing the same thing, over and over again, and expecting a different outcome–a change. It seemed ridiculous then, who would do something if it doesn’t work? Why put the effort in only to fail? He wiggles his finger under the cuff, wincing when his knuckle presses too far into a clotted gash on his wrist. He pulls back immediately, huffing when his fingers come back smeared with red.

Tommy thinks he understands it now, but he doesn’t think he’s insane. It’ll give eventually, he just has to try harder. 

Right? 

His thoughts are interrupted by the too-familiar click of the lock, and Tommy stops his pacing to eye the door. Surely it hasn’t been that long since he received his last meal, maybe an hour or two at most. Absently, he wanders back toward the bed, a jolt going through him when his leg eventually bumps into the frame. The door creaks open, just enough for Ponk to slip in. 

Tommy waits, confusion knitting his brow as the healer crouches behind the wood, careful to keep his foot in the entrance. There’s no stopping from an enforcer behind him, no cleaners, no other guests at all. Ponk is alone. 

Fingertips over cold metal and stone and Tommy clears his throat. “What are you–”

“It’s time,” Ponk says quickly.

Tommy’s chest drops, dread weighing heavy as he realizes he doesn’t know which side Ponk is on. He could be here to escort Tommy to another body, to George . If Tommy revived the hero now, it’d take days for him to recover; and that’s assuming he survives the procedure. “I can’t,” He chokes out. “You had concerns last time–I’ll die.”

Ponk, realizing what Tommy means after a second, melts. Some of the tension drawing his shoulders to his ears disappears, and he makes a noise Tommy can’t quite identify. “No, Tommy, I’m not here for your abilities. I’m here for you.” 

For all the time Tommy has spent thinking about this moment, it doesn’t register right away. “I…” It’s not real, it has to be a lie or–a trick or something. Days have passed in deafening silence and suddenly he’s supposed to believe it’s time? He doesn’t have a plan. He doesn’t know where to go or what he needs to do. It can’t be real. 

Tommy looks up at the camera, head whirring in muted disbelief. The lens is pointed in his direction, still and silent, but the light is off. 

The camera is off.

The ghost of a smile graces Tommy’s lips and his eyes sting with tears. It’s real, it’s real. “Tommy,” Ponk says, demanding the boy’s attention. “We have to go, now. There isn’t a lot of time and we can’t afford to fuck this up, okay?” Tommy bobs his head, closing the gap between them without another thought. 

“Let's go then, boss man.” 

The corridor is empty, free of guards as they step out of the room. The door closes behind them, locking automatically, and Tommy prays it’s the last time he’ll ever hear it. This has to go right, he thinks to himself, freedom extending its palm out to him as he follows Ponk down the hall. He won’t let himself grab it yet, not until the tower is a dot on the horizon and the heroes are a bitter memory. This has to go right because I don’t know what I’ll do if it doesn’t. 

Ponk navigates the floor easily, directing them both to an elevator Tommy vaguely remembers from when they went to the courtyard. A pleasant chime announces the elevator’s arrival, and Ponk makes a gesture, waving Tommy on. He presses a button, taking a deep breath as soon as the car begins to move. 

There’s a camera mounted in the corner, lens pointed directly at Tommy. “Ponk,” he says as he tries his best to swipe at the healer’s sleeve, the sudden movement making the manacles scream. “The camera.”

“It’s off,” he replies, forcing a smile to try to calm the teenager’s nerves. “They won’t be a problem. Just stay close, alright?” Tommy nods. He gulps, swallowing the thick saliva gathering in his mouth to try and relieve the pressure building in his ears. The elevator chimes again, reflective doors sliding open to reveal another empty hall. At the end of it, Tommy can make out golden light spilling into the building from narrow windows. They’re above ground. “C’mon then.”

As Ponk leads them down the corridor, Tommy catches a glimpse of more cameras placed periodically across the ceiling. They’re all pointed down with their lights off, gliding back up only after the pair pass out of sight. They don’t have to travel far from the elevator, only turning twice before Ponk stops before a room labeled ‘Conference’. He knocks a rhythm into the wood and grabs the handle, twisting it open with ease as he waves Tommy forward. 

It’s small for a conference room, only able to comfortably hold a dozen people or so. Cheap, generic paintings decorate the walls with dull colors and boring scenes. A large, rectangular table takes up most of the space. It’s empty, save for the hero sitting closest to the door. 

Sapnap sits hunched over the table, shrouded in freshly polished armor. The suit makes him appear bigger, and broader even with the way the white material molds to his body. On the table, within arms reach, his mask sits, discarded and cold. Sapnap doesn’t bother putting it on. Instead, folded hands press against his mouth, knuckles red as he watches the two funnel into the room. “No trouble?” The hero’s leg is bouncing, consumed by nerves that are foreign to the otherwise calm man. 

“Nope,” Ponk says cheerfully, “We didn’t see a soul.”

“Okay, good. That’s good.” The hero's gaze skips over Tommy’s face completely to settle on the manacles, something akin to rage burns in his eyes. “I looked everywhere for a way to get those off you, but Dream had them specially made. He’s the only one with the key.” He moves over to Tommy and takes the cuffs in his hands, fingers running along the metal edges to the chain holding them together. “I can’t do anything about the obsidian, but I think I can…” The hero trails off, concentration stealing his words as he summons a flame. Instinctively, Tommy flinches, jerking away before he even feels its heat. It’s small, but it’s still the same fire that had scorched his mask all that time ago, leaving the material warped with a mark that Tommy was never able to get out. 

The flame flickers as Sapnap makes a shushing sound. He reaches his free hand out, gesturing for the manacles, and all at once Tommy understands what he’s trying to do. Reluctantly, Tommy extends his arms and pulls his arms apart until the chain is taut. He watches with bated breath as the fire turns from yellow to red to blue in a matter of seconds, burning hotter and hotter directly under the chain. The metal begins to glow, bright and hot before his eyes, and then it snaps. 

“Oh, thank fuck, ” Tommy gasps as he stretches his arms out. He bathes in the soreness in his shoulders, welcoming it with open arms. 

Sapnap goes back over to his chair, bending down to pick up a small gym bag resting near his feet. It hits the table with a heavy thump, and then it’s pushed in Tommy’s direction. He takes it warily, unzipping the top to reveal a pile of wrinkled fabric. “It’s a change of clothes,” Sapnap informs him, “I tried my best to guess your size so sorry if it doesn’t fit right.” 

Tommy hums, eagerly pulling off his shirt and grabbing the one at the top of the bag. The sleeves hang awkwardly off his shoulders, too big even though the t-shirt is the same size he usually wears, but Tommy doesn’t mind it. He’ll gladly swim in fabric if it means he gets to get out of the sterile-looking outfit he had been limited to. A pair of jeans come next, followed by socks, and the next thing Tommy retrieves is a thick hoodie. 

He looks at it and rubs the sleeve between his fingers. “Is it cold outside?” He asks, puzzled. The last time he was outside, the city had been sweltering, drowning in the thick heat. Did he miss the end of summer?

Sapnap is the one to answer him. “It’s not too bad. But the nights are starting to get pretty cold.” 

“Has it been that long?” Tommy wonders aloud, eyes locked on the clothing. His voice sounds different as he says it, breath short. It’s been a long time, he knew that, but there's something so undeniably real about a fact as simple as the weather.

Behind him, Ponk leans against the door, uncharacteristically quiet. A silent conversation passes between him and the hero, one Tommy doesn’t notice until he finally tips his head up. “Three weeks,” Sapnap says after a moment. “You’ve been here for a little over three weeks.” 

Oh.

He pulls it over his head, ignoring the dejection in his chest as his hands curl around the familiar shape of sneakers. Tommy smiles as he takes them out, that fresh-shoe scent hitting his nose almost immediately. The red canvas is stiff yet pliable, fitting his feet perfectly when he gets the laces knotted. They feel right. 

The old clothes are stuffed into the now-empty bag and pushed aside, just out of sight. Tommy will be happy if he never has to see them again. He rolls his shoulders back, trying hard to release some of the tension that’s built up, but it only helps a little bit. “So,” he asks, the trepidation on his tongue grabbing the others’ attention. “What’s the plan?” 

What’s left of Ponk’s smile falls as he looks at Sapnap. “Can you trust me?” 

Tommy resists a surprised huff, the question catching him off guard. “What?” 

“Before we go any further, I need to know that you can trust me.”  Sapnap wrings his hands together, knuckles popping. 

I don’t, Tommy almost says, barely catching the words in his throat. If he’d been asked if he trusted the hero years ago he would have said yes without a second thought. The man had trained him, had treated him with kindness during a time when he’d been told he hadn’t deserved it. That Sapnap–the one who’d left a stuffed cow on Tommy’s pillow when the boy was haunted by nightmares–was a good man. Trusting him was as easy as breathing. 

That’s gone now. Truthfully, it had shattered the moment he landed on the docks, setting the life Tommy achieved aflame. 

This is the man that hunted Tommy down, hurt his friends–dragged him back to a prison he worked hard to escape. Tommy didn’t trust Sapnap, he isn’t sure if he’ll ever be able to, even if he escapes. The hero has taken too much. 

Tommy shifts, balling his hands into loose fists. “I had everything I needed, and you ruined it.”

“I know,” Sapnap confesses earnestly.

“You forced me to bring back the one person that almost broke me.”

“I know.” 

“It almost killed me. You almost killed me.” 

“I know,” He says again, face scrunching in a visible mixture of guilt and disgust. “And I’m sorry. I’m so fucking sorry, Tommy. If I could go back and change things I would, but I can’t. Nothing I do will make this right, but I have to believe that this is a step in the right direction.” He takes a step forward, and Tommy takes one back. “All I’m asking is that you trust me, just for tonight. This won’t work if you don’t.” 

When Tommy first woke up in the medical room, weary and afraid, he wholeheartedly believed that he would die there. He’s thought about every possible strategy, and exhausted every opportunity, only to come to one, damning conclusion: escaping the first time was pure luck, and doing it a second time would be impossible unless he had help. 

Sapnap is his only chance. 

With a resigned sigh, Tommy stuffs his hands into his pockets. “ Only for tonight.” 

The plan is simple really, but that doesn’t stop it from coursing through Tommy’s head, muttering the steps under his breath as he ducks out of the conference room. His heart feels like a hammer in his chest. It bangs relentlessly against his rib cage, so loud he can barely hear the sound of his voice over it. Two rights, and then it’s the first door on the left. He repeats the directions, whispering the mantra even though it was committed to memory before he left. 

Tommy locks his gaze on the window at the end of the corridor. The sun has set, shrouding the side street outside in the darkness, but that’s a good thing. A darker street means that it will be harder for somebody to spot him. 

He speeds up, teetering his step on the edge of walking and jogging. It’s been a long time since Tommy has been able to go anywhere without the person escorting him setting their pace, but that person is gone now. Tommy is alone, so he revels in the freedom, albeit limited, to walk as quickly as he wants. 

There’s a person in the window’s reflection, growing as Tommy gets to the end of the first hall. He doesn’t pay attention to it at first, it’s just him after all, but as he gets closer he realizes that he doesn’t recognize the boy he’s staring at. His eyes are sunken and dull, cheeks gaunt. Tommy doesn’t look like himself at all but like a walking corpse. 

As he approaches the turn, Tommy slows, flexing his fingers at his side. He presses himself close to the wall and peeks around the corner. It’s empty. 

One more right. First door on the left.

The next corridor is longer than the first, with wide, window-filled walls and taller ceilings too. Tommy shuffles down, keeping close to the interior. According to Ponk, the floor is used for low-clearance offices, filled with citizens who do ordinary work for the Tower. “It should be empty at this time,” Sapnap had told him. He pointed to a hastily drawn map on the board at the front of the room. A small star marked where they were, with dashes leading to the exit. “But you still need to be careful, someone could be working late. Think back to those few weeks of stealth shit we did.”

“You’re not coming?” 

Sapnap shook his head, nose scrunching. “The commission doesn’t know, neither does Dream, and I don’t want to take any chances. If they know I helped you escape…” His voice tapered off, but the suggestion is clear. Tommy’s ability is too valuable–too rare. His disappearance isn’t something the Commission would be willing to swipe under the rug. If Sapnap got caught, he’d be reduced from the number one to a prisoner in Pandora, and nothing good happens to heroes within those obsidian walls. He’d lose everything. “It doesn’t matter,” he decided after a moment, “I’m going to go on patrol, and I’ll meet you out there.”

Tommy just has to get out. 

There are a few offices that are still occupied, a small window in the wall allowing for its light to shine into the corridor. He treats those with extra caution, carefully navigating around the entrance until he’s clear. None of them seem to notice him. Realistically, none of them are looking either, they don’t even know he exists. 

Another turn is up ahead, and Tommy can practically taste the fresh air on his tongue. It’s exhilarating and familiar in a way that makes him move just a little bit faster.

First door on the–

He rounds the corner, and on the other end of the hall, walking in Tommy’s direction is an enforcer.  Tommy falters, pausing for a moment as the enforcer continues to stroll over the tile. He lifts his head, brows furrowing when he sees the teenager in his path.  Faint whistling spills from behind his mask, the tune dancing through the hall as the man walks, but his gaze never leaves Tommy. It makes his throat feel like it’s being crushed. What if he knows who Tommy is? What if they’ve already noticed that he’s gone? The logical side of Tommy’s brain tells him that it’s fine. The enforcers guarding him had always been the same handful of men, and this isn’t one of them, he’s sure of it.

The blond readjusts his posture, hoping it reflects something more relaxed before starting forward again. They’re only a few feet away from each other when his song cuts off abruptly. “Are you lost?” The enforcer asks, bearing no hints of recognition as he stops between Tommy and the door he needs to go through. It’s a heavy metal thing, the label beside it reading ‘Service Exit.’ He needs to get through. “You’re not supposed to be back here.” 

“Oh,” Tommy gapes, mouth going dry. He shoves his hands back into his hoodie pocket and starts pulling at his fingers. “I, um, my dad works here. Sometimes I hang out here after school until he’s done.” The enforcer looks back and luckily there’s another light on further down. “I’m heading back to his office now,” Tommy adds. 

The man’s hands drift to his belt, suspiciously close to the holster on his hip as he inspects the teenager. He thinks about Tommy’s lie for an agonizing amount of time, leaving the silence to drift between them as he makes his judgments. The door is close, all Tommy would need to do is evade the enforcer and run. It’d be easy, but before he can move the enforcer hums. “I see. I won’t keep you.” 

Tommy forces a friendly smile and the grip around his throat loosens. “Thank you, sir.” He takes a few steps forward, just enough to appear like he’s heading back on his way as he waits for the man to leave. Once he disappears around the corner, Tommy backtracks, running straight for the service door without a second thought. 

The chill hits him first, sending a shiver down his spine as Tommy steps out onto concrete steps. He wraps his arms around himself, trying to keep the warmth in, but the hoodie isn’t thick enough. The wind traveling down the side of the building flows through it, bringing more cold air, but Tommy can’t find it in himself to care.

He takes a deep breath, and something like nostalgia barrels into him, bringing with it a sense of glee as the city smell sticks in his nostrils. Above, a blanket of darkness covers the sky. Faint dots are speckled across it, stars that have been dimmed by the light in the city, but that doesn’t matter. 

Tommy’s outside. 

A dumpster sits against the wall across from him, but other than that it’s empty. Cars speed through the crowded roads on both ends of the alley as people attempt to rush home before curfew begins. Tommy breathes a laugh, jumping over a rail in front of him to get onto the pavement. He’s outside. 

The end of the alleyway approaches in a blink, leaving Tommy on the sidewalk. He turns to follow the traffic, nearly running down the sidewalk until he gets to where he needs to cross. Pedestrians crowd the crosswalk, waiting for the light to signal them forward, but the moment there’s a break in the cars Tommy dashes across. He doesn’t have any time to wait. 

A voice in his head tells him to abandon the plan completely; to run and not look back, but Sapnap’s is the loudest, urgency coursing through his words. “Once you get out, you have to go to the rendezvous point. Do not–and I can’t stress this enough–do not try to go somewhere else.” He leaned over the table, an unblinking stare locked on the blond. “The minute they figure out you’re gone, the Commission will call every fucking enforcer in the city to hunt you down, and I won’t be able to protect you if I don’t know where you’re at.” 

This is where the trust comes in.

Tommy has evaded enforcers before. It’s easy enough to slip past them, but they hadn’t been looking then. Now, they’re cats and he’s a mouse, and soon the dinner bell is about to ring. Tommy can run and hope for the best, or he can go with the plan and get his best chance.

It’s not far. Usually, it’d only be a few minutes walk away, but weeks of laying in bed have taken its toll. Tommy’s barely halfway there when his legs begin to burn, protesting the sudden exercise with sharp pains in his joints. He slows, huffing out breaths and forcing himself to keep moving because he’s close . Freedom is right there, so close he can almost touch it.

Up ahead, about a block away, a sign labeled ‘Parking’ points down a side street. “It seems narrow, but it opens up into a lot. There’ll be a car there,” Sapnap explained. “I’ll have a car waiting, and when I get there we’ll go. Do you have any questions?” 

Tommy nodded, spitting out the one thing he’s been wanting to ask for weeks, “They’re going to be there, right?” 

“What?”

“The Crafts. They’re going to be there when I get home. All of them, are they safe?”

The hero’s hands, which had been gripping the table’s edge, relaxed as he nodded. “The Syndicate has been quiet since I brought you back, but we’ve gotten sighting reports of the Blade.” 

Techno. Tommy swallowed, recalling the way the man had pushed himself up as his brother lay still beside him. “And Seraph? Wraith?” Sapnap didn’t reply, but the answer was clear in the hum of the room. They didn’t know. 

Wilbur, Phil. They could be hurt, or worse, dead, and the fact that the city is still standing is the only evidence Tommy has to prove otherwise. Techno would level it in a heartbeat if it took his family away, the people he swore to protect. As he turns onto the street, Tommy holds onto the sliver of hope. It’s his reason to push past the pain in his lungs–his legs; a lifeline.

True to the hero’s word, there’s a car parked in the lot. There are a few scattered among the spaces, but the blond’s attention is drawn to one that sits alone close to the center. It’s big and glossy, exactly the kind of thing a high-ranking Commission employee would drive. Through tinted windows, a broad figure sitting in the driver’s seat–Sapnap, Tommy recognizes–shifts to look in Tommy’s direction. He lurches towards it, thoughts blurring into one another in a concoction of nervousness and anticipation. 

And then the car door opens, letting the driver out, and Tommy stops dead in his tracks–because Sapnap’s boots aren’t the ones to hit the ground, but Dream’s. “Tommy, Tommy, Tommy,” he chides, leaning against the side of the vehicle. “You never know when to give up.”

“What the fuck,” Tommy breathes. The manacles have never felt so heavy. 

He staggers back, unable to piece together a coherent thought. Run, his mind screams, panic, and bone-chilling fear rise up his spine to spread its icy tendrils down his arms. It was supposed to be Sapnap–Inferno–the hero had promised to help him. It wasn’t supposed to be him. This wasn’t the plan. It wasn’t the plan.

Fingernails cut into his palms as he raises his arms to use the only defense he has left, unable to look away from his former mentor. Dream doesn’t move, he just sits there, head tilting innocently to the side as Tommy slowly backs away. 

He’s so focused on Dream, that he never even notices the vigilante behind him until gloved hands wrap around his arms, pulling them behind his back before he has a chance to think. “Get your fucking hands off me!” Tommy yells, thrashing wildly in an attempt to get away. “Let me go!” He’s pushed forward and barely keeps his feet under him. 

“Don’t think so,” a gruff voice says, uncomfortably close to his ear. Tommy throws his head back, aiming to hit the person holding him but nearly falls back when they move out of the way. What Tommy doesn’t miss, however, is the recognizable curve of his mask and the enchanted jewels on his chest. “You’re not getting away this time,” Punz tells him. He switches his grasp on Tommy’s arms, using one hand to restrain the teenager, and the other to feel the cuffs on his wrist. “They’re still there!”

“Good,” Dream says. “We let him tire himself out, so the weakness effect should keep him fatigued long enough for us to load him up.”

Tommy thrashes again, “I’m not going back there!” His foot collides with Punz’s shin, slamming into his armor with little effect.

“This is him tired out?”

Dream snickers, closing the gap between them. “Once we get him in the car he’ll mellow out, I assure you.” Amid the sudden movement, he grabs Tommy’s chin with pinpoint accuracy and digs his fingers into the blond’s jaw, forcing him still. “I told you not to try anything.” The words are soft and leveled, but Tommy can pick out the contained rage. “You broke the rules.” 

“You’re a fucking idiot if you think I’m going back to that fucking room,” Tommy snarls back, pulling away from Dream’s hold. 

“Oh, Tommy, you won’t be going back to the tower.” There’s something in the way he says it that makes Tommy’s skin crawl. 

“What?” Dream doesn’t bother responding. Instead, he saunters to the back of the car and pulls a latch, popping the trunk open. “Where the fuck are you taking me?” 

He tries to twist his wrist out of Punz’s hand, but his grip is firm. “The tower has so many…distractions,” Dream answers, shortly. He raises a hand, signaling them closer. Punz obeys, practically dragging Tommy closer to the car. “So I think it’s time we take you somewhere where no one will bother us. After all, we’ve got a lot of work to do.” Tommy digs his heels into the pavement, resisting. It’s no use. “You escaped the tower, again, and while the Commission will try their fucking best to find you, they won’t. Eventually, they’ll assume you’ve either left the country or died trying. Either way, they’ll move on.” 

He’s right, the moment looking for Tommy costs more than the abilities the Commission is hunting for, they’ll abandon ship and focus their search on the next young prodigy. To them, Tommy is nothing, a commodity, a thing. Some people don’t think that though. Sapnap, Wilbur, Phil and Techno, they’d look for him, and they wouldn’t stop. 

They wouldn’t. 

“Punz,” Dream says, and Tommy gets pushed forward again.

He twists, pointing a narrowed glare at Punz. “I thought you didn’t agree with the heroes, that’s why you didn’t join them. You don’t take shit from them and you play by your own rules?” 

“That’s right.” 

Tommy shakes his head, prodding the subject further. “You’re just here to benefit yourself; to earn some money. I get that–I mean, it’s tough out there, but I have connections. I could get you whatever the fuck you want.” He tries to turn more, but with his arms pinned against his back all he can do is lean to the side. Punz looks at him, amusement showing in the slight squint of his eyes. He laughs. 

“Nothing your connections give me will be as valuable as you are.” Tommy shutters as a pit forms in his stomach. Dream told him. “Honestly I was a little insulted at first that they’d hire me to find some kid, but it makes sense.” He heaves, dragging Tommy up and across the final length to the trunk. It’s small, barely big enough to fit a load of groceries, let alone a seventeen-year-old. 

“Fuck no. I’m not– no.” He tosses himself back, head slamming so hard into Punz’s chest plate he sees stars, but he doesn’t care. All he hears is the constant Get away, get away, get away, blaring through his thoughts . Someone places their hand between his shoulder blades and pushes, directing Tommy down. “No–wait, wait, wait–”

His pleas are cut off by a widening of Dream's eyes and the loosening of Punz’s grasp. The vigilante ducks, pulling Tommy back to evade a string of fire. “Step away from him,” Sapnap calls out as he emerges from the end of the lot, forming another lick of fire. Its image dances in the reflection of his armor, blazing in beautiful swipes of red and orange. Again, he directs it at Punz, who lunges out of its path, completely letting go of the blond in the process. 

Nobody is holding him. 

Tommy takes the opportunity by the throat and pivots, hurling himself forward when he hears the crack of Punz’s baton a few feet away. He runs, heart lurching and lungs squeezing to meet Sapnap halfway. “Put it the fuck down!” The hero shouts, summoning his own sparks to his fingertips. Metal clangs against the concrete, right as Tommy reaches his side. “Are you okay?” He asks, genuine concern swimming in the part of his face Tommy can see. 

“You were late, ” Tommy swipes at the sweat sticking to his forehead. “We have to go. There’s still a chance, but–” he drags in a breath, struggling, “We have to go.” 

“Are you alright?” Sapnap repeats, “Are you hurt?” 

“No, but we have to get the fuck out of here!” 

Dream voice pierces the night, echoing through the lot. “You won’t get far! Enforcers are already on their way. You’ll be arrested before you leave the block.” He steps back out from behind the cover of the car, persistence drawing him towards the pair. 

“Stay there,” Sapnap growls. 

“Let’s make this easy, Sap. I just want what’s rightfully mine. That’s all.”

Sapnap’s shoulders, previously bobbing with steady breaths, goes still, tension pulling them up. “What’s yours? He’s a fucking kid!” He moves in front of Tommy, blocking the boy from his mentor’s view. 

“He’s valuable,” Punz cuts in. He picks up his baton and strafes right, keeping his eye on the hero with every step. With Sapnap’s attention firmly on the vigilante, Dream takes the opportunity to take a step. 

Tommy’s breath hitches and Sapnap turns, raising a flaming hand to each. “I said stay there!” They pause. The fire grows, popping on his fists as he turns back to Punz. “If you ever found him, you were supposed to bring him to me. That’s the deal, remember?”

“ Was the deal,” he clarifies. “Sorry Inferno, but the deal’s off. You should’ve paid me more.”

A nervous sort of laugh draws itself from Sapnap’s chest, laced with disbelief and resentment. “What is wrong with the both of you? He’s just a kid!” 

“Do you even understand how rare someone with his abilities is?” Dream questions. He moves in the other direction, splitting Sapnap’s focus with every shuffle. “It’s been decades since another was born, and the Commission found her too late. She was killed before we even understood the full scope of her powers. He is our second chance.” He gestures to Tommy, throwing himself forward with the motion. “This is what he was meant to do, we both knew it from the beginning.” 

“But we chose this. We were among the few people who had abilities and we decided to help this city as much as we could. He never had a fucking choice!” With that, he falls silent, waiting for Dream’s retort, but all he does is blink. His eyes slide past the hero to focus on something just past his head, and that’s when Tommy hears it. 

A stampede of boots slams against the pavement, nearly shaking the ground below Tommy’s feet. He doesn’t have to turn to know who they are, not when he can hear the orders being barked from the end of the street. Sapnap’s arms drop a few inches, guard lowering as he looks back at the squad of enforcers stopped a safe distance away. They retrieve their guns, a few of them going so far as to train them forward. “Sapnap–”

“It’ll be alright. Just trust me.” The end of a pistol stares at Tommy, pointed directly at his stomach. He clenches his jaw, teeth grinding. “Put your guns down,” Sapnap orders sternly. He looks at one in particular, and when Tommy follows it he finds he recognizes one of the men. “Frost, I said put them down. You answer to me.” 

The officer glares back, unmoving as he raises his gun, pointing it directly at the hero. “I believe they’ve realized that it’s in their best interest to work with me,” Dream informs his friend, “and not someone incapable of doing what needs to be done.” Sapnap’s fire rages, barely contained to his fists as Dream surges forward, stopping only when he’s within arms reach. His voice drops low, “This doesn’t need to end badly for you, Sapnap. You’re my brother, I don’t want to see you rot away in a cell for the rest of your life. Just back away, and we can make this work.” 

Give up.

The message is clear–too clear to Tommy. He’s lived it too many times before. In training, in his lessons, and the medical room. Dream is taunting Sapnap, dangling the promise of freedom and safety before the hero’s face, hoping that he’ll bite. “There are only two constants in this world: life and death, and with him, we can control both of them. We’d be gods , Sapnap, don’t you want that? We could bring back George, and the three of us could be a team again, just like we were meant to be.”

Sapnap softens, fire flickering, and if Tommy looks closely enough he swears he can see the hero’s hands shaking. Wordlessly, he shakes his head in unwavering conviction and Dream–

Dream cracks. 

His composure breaks into something desperate, but it’s wrong. He rests a hand on Sapnap’s shoulder. “Are you willing to throw away everything you’ve worked for just for some kid you barely know? He’s a liar, a killer. What kind of hero would you be if you let the most dangerous villain in the city roam free?” 

The question hangs in the air, and for a moment Tommy isn’t sure what the hero will say next. Tommy is dangerous, he’s a killer, but he’s also a kid who just wants to go home. In a way, maybe Sapnap is the same. A metallic sound crackles through the hero’s mask, soft despite the voice changer. “What kind of hero would I be if I let him suffer?”

Dream shakes his head, despair melting into disappointment. The change is instantaneous, like watching him take off a mask. “You’re a good man, much better than I ever was.” His expression is cold; emotionless as he squeezes the hero’s shoulder in a white-knuckle grip. Beneath his fingertips, the gleam of Sapnap’s armor loses its shine, fading to matte. “I’m sorry it had to come to this.” He shifts, other arm jabbing up into Sapnap’s gut so suddenly he doesn’t have time to react. 

Sapnap makes a questioning noise, his whole body going stiff as Dream lets go. A sickening, wet sound accompanies the motion, and when he steps away, Tommy sees his hand curled around the handle of a blood-soaked knife. “Sapnap?” he squeaks, reaching out, but Sapnap doesn’t reply. He clutches at his abdomen, blood leaking through his fingers and dripping onto the concrete below.

And then he collapses.

It happens so slowly. His body goes down, down, down , only to stop when he collides with the concrete. A dreadful thud echoes through the lot, loud over the deafening silence of the lot. Nobody moves. Nobody breathes. They just watch as Sapnap’s head lolls into the dirt, his eyes wide and glassy. 

Get up. Tommy thinks–hopes– prays . Get up, get up. 

Blood oozes from Sapnap’s abdomen, crawling toward Tommy’s shoes. The familiar scent of copper hits his nose, and for a moment Tommy is fifteen again, standing over the body of the first hero he ever killed. 

He balls his fists at his side, muscles thrumming with untapped adrenaline. “It’s time to go,” Dream tells him. He steps over Sapnap’s body without a sliver of guilt, nodding the enforcers over. 

They descend upon Tommy in a fury of shouts and half-heeded warnings, one after another. White-hot anger washes over him, slipping a veil of red over his eyes. He sucks in steady breaths, feet falling into form as he throws practiced hits and jabs to any enforcer that gets too close. He takes one down, and another fills his place. 

One of them kicks his leg, sending shooting pain up to his stomach as another breaks through the pack to land a punch across Tommy’s cheek. Eventually, a hand grabs his upper arm and pulls back hard, throwing Tommy off-balance enough for the rest to swarm him.  

Tommy flails, desperately trying to get an arm–a leg, a hand– anything free, but there are too many of them. Somewhere nearby, Dream’s voice rings over the chaos.“What are you still fighting for?” The enforcers part, a handful of them backing up to allow him a clear view. “Nobody else is coming to save you. You’re alone.”

An iron taste makes its home on Tommy’s tongue. It drips down his throat, mixing with saliva. “You’re wrong. ‘M going to-” 

“Prime, Tommy, you’re naive but you aren’t an idiot.” Dream groans, looking down on Tommy in a way that makes him feel small. “You think you have people out here? Do you think you have friends that want you? For fucks sake Tommy, your own parents gave you up the moment they noticed you were different.” 

“You’re lying,” Tommy spits. His memory of his parents is nothing more than vague images–pictures with the faces crossed out, lacking descriptions or dates–but they had loved him. All they ever wanted was the best for him. “All you do is lie.”  

Dream chuckles at the accusation. “I read the files–their reports. You were a burden to them; a mistake they didn’t know how to fix. All the commission had to do was throw some money at them and they were fine, happy even. If your parents couldn’t deal with you, what makes you think anyone else can?” Tommy’s eyes sting, brimming with tears he can’t control. The words cut deep. They tear him open, spilling the most vulnerable parts of himself onto the ground for everyone to see. Dream leans in, lowering his voice to a whisper. “ Nobody wants you.”

It’s as if a bucket of water has been thrown over him, extinguishing the fire that had kept him fighting all at once. There’s nothing left to do. He’s lost. Tommy slumps, unfeeling as paralyzing numbness takes over. 

He never even had a chance in the first place. 

Perhaps he was insane after all. 

Dream coos and cards through his hair, fingers tearing through the tangled knots. Tommy can’t help himself from leaning into it. “I’m sorry to be the one to tell you the truth, but you’ll understand it soon enough.” He straightens and takes his hand away, drawing a small whine from the boy. “Luckily we have all the time in the–”

A quick swoosh passing by Dream’s head makes him falter, stealing the words from his throat. He raises his arm, ghosting over the edge of his ear and inhaling sharply when his fingers come back red. 

Behind Tommy, an enforcer sputters. It’s an awful sound, one that grates Tommy’s soul and pulls him back from the numb feeling in his bones. 

“What the fuck,” Dream mutters, rubbing the blood between his fingers. He looks wildly around the lot and shouts something indistinguishable to Punz, who does the same, baton in hand. 

The enforcer sputters again, his hands falling away from Tommy’s arm. The blond cranes his neck, eyes widening as he watches the man collapse in a heap. 

Embedded in his skull, splattered in crimson, is a sharpened axe.

Chapter Text

Like a puppet whose strings have been cut, the enforcer crumples, falling across the pavement in a mess of limbs. For a moment, everyone is silent. 

The impact pushes a dreadful, wet-sounding wheeze from his lungs and Tommy winces. It’s reminiscent of the sound his mentor had made all those years ago–his blood staining Tommy’s hands; his clothes; his memories. Unwilling tension infects every muscle as Tommy watches the man’s unmoving chest. He doesn’t try to take another breath. He can’t.

His eyes, empty in a way Tommy is painfully familiar with, stare blankly at the sky, devoid of life. The axe sticks out from between them, its dark blade implanted so far into the enforcer’s skull that it never shifts with the force of his fall. The blood–crimson streaks mixed with flesh and bone–runs down his face in a constant stream, pooling on the pavement. 

The axe’s handle stretches up at the teenager, decorated with gold-filled carvings and a pointed hilt. His fingers twitch, wanting so badly to wrap themselves around the worn throat despite knowing he wouldn’t be able to lift it if he tried. 

Everyone in the city knows what it looks like. They’ve seen the axe’s head pointed at them in the evening news, the sharpened tip whispering promises to cut through them as effortlessly as it does the air. There are rumors that it holds the spirit of every life it claims, ghosts trapped by the blade’s engravings. Their invisible hands guide the weapon to its mark without fail, only to cheer when their bloodthirsty pleas are finally fulfilled. 

The axe is a totem of death; a prophecy; a promise and a threat all in one. The city–the heroes–enforcers– Tommy– all know that where the weapon is, the owner isn’t far behind. 

Electricity crackles down Punz’s baton, consuming the thing in a flurry of bright sparks. He holds the handle in a white-knuckle grip and shifts his stance. A concentrated glare traces the axe’s path to a line of buildings on the other end of the lot, searching for a villain hidden in the narrow openings between the towers. Dream does the same. The blood trailing down his neck shines as he flicks his attention between Tommy and the horizon. 

Watching, waiting.

Darkness consumes the space untouched by light, feasting on every inch gained as the moon rises higher and higher, casting shadows of buildings onto the ground. The enforcers all watch with bated breath, hands resting on their holsters as they do their best to ignore their fallen comrade in front of them. A gust of wind blows through the lot, carrying an ashen, sickly sweet smell that makes Tommy’s nose wrinkle. 

He’s been here before–in this moment where the silence and anticipation are almost overwhelming. He had felt it the second Wilbur walked through the door with Henry in his hands; recognized it when he’d stood outside the hero tower with a plan, face covered by a mask; met it when he walked through the halls of the training compound for the first time. It’s the calm before the storm, and the axe buried in the enforcer’s skull has promised a hurricane.

A figure moves in the darkness, maneuvering through the velvet sea with practiced grace. Tommy’s heart lurches, thrumming with overwhelming hopefulness. He spares one last glance at the axe to confirm that yes, this is real; it’s not too late, before turning back.

Then, out of the shadow’s embrace, steps Blade. 

Techno, a part of Tommy’s mind supplies, but the larger, more logical part knows that it’s only partly true. The villain marches steadily across the lot, eyes covered by the boar’s skull slotted over the top half of his face, and Tommy can sense something distinctly different between him and the Techno he knows. It’s in the way he carries himself, deceptively calm despite the anger writhing beneath his skin. 

A cape, red as the blood staining the pavement, trails behind him, falling from the fur over his shoulders. It makes him look bigger than he is; like he’s nothing more than a wall of muscle and brute force, intent on killing anything–or anyone–who gets in his way. It’s an imposing sight, one that strikes fear into the hearts of thousands, and it’s getting closer with every passing second. 

The calm snaps like the graphite tip of a pencil, crumbling under new pressure. Hurried orders are shouted from enforcers, urging them into formation. They train the barrels of their guns on Blade, fingers hugging the trigger as he marches steadily through the lot toward the enforcers; toward the axe. Toward Tommy. 

Dream spins back frantically, face knitted in simmering rage as he waves wildly at the nearest enforcer. “Fucking–Get the kid!” He yells, words bellowing and stinging each person it touches. Several of the enforcers move at once, returning their weapons to their holsters and lunging forward, arms outstretched 

Tommy stumbles away without thinking. He twists, sucking air in through clenched teeth when a hand brushes his upper arm. “Don’t fucking touch me, bitch!” He spits, shrinking away as if the touch could burn. They can’t get him now, not when Techno is so close. Tommy shuffles away, weakness pulling on him every time he flinches from a gloved hand. It makes him slow, sluggish almost, allowing for one of the enforcers to sneak behind him. They grab his arms and Tommy flails as he’s lifted, feet leaving the ground. “Blade! Blade!” 

The boy’s cries strike Techno with nauseating urgency, drawing a snarl from deep within his chest. It’s the same sound Tommy had made at the docks, the same fear that’s haunted him in the weeks since. He jerks his head to the side in a gesture barely visible to everyone else, but the creatures lurking in the shadows see it clear as day. A shrill cry echoes through the lot, and the darkness that Techno had emerged from shatters.

Phantoms rush through the air in a deadly sea of glowing streaks, parting only for Blade as he continues his pursuit. They move as one, gliding over the ground in a singular mass, united by a common goal. It’s a wall of shadows barreling straight for Tommy and swallowing everything in its path. 

The enforcer’s grips tighten, fingers digging into Tommy’s arm in a way he knows will bruise. This time, he doesn’t fight it. A feeling in the back of his head tells him he won’t have to deal with it for long. 

The wall approaches, and Tommy welcomes the chill brushing over him. It prickles his skin, drawing bumps across his arms. 

Someone close—too close—yells when the first of the shadows attack. 

It’s an ear-piercing sound, one that plays in Tommy’s ear seconds after it’s abruptly cut off. The hand grabbing Tommy’s left arm disappears suddenly and he drops to the ground, balance wavering as he struggles to pry himself free of the other man holding him tight. A phantom shrieks, and while Tommy doesn’t understand what it’s saying, he can hear the anger behind it. It moves in a blur, jumping from one man to the next in the blink of an eye, and with a strangled gasp, the other enforcer falls. 

He hits the ground hard , head bouncing off the pavement as a swarm of phantoms envelops him in a howling wrap of cold air. The noise they make as they tear into him is almost guttural. It drowns out his pleas–his screams as they rip him apart, like a school of starving piranhas on their prey.

Chaos consumes the lot, holding them all in an ironclad grip. The smell of blood and burnt flesh dance through the air as the remaining enforcers scramble, shouting orders to one another in a desperate attempt to maintain control. A brave few fill the places of the fallen enforcers, reaching for Tommy, but they never get close, the phantoms make sure of it. They circle the blond, forming a hissing, protective barrier between him and the crowd. 

The screen reminds him of that night in the alley, when he’d met Wraith for the first time. It was so long ago, with the passing months helping to ease the fear he’d felt until it was nothing more than a memory stained with bitter realization. 

A chill coils around his wrist, pulsing as the shadow fights to materialize against the effects of the manacles. It chitters, using whatever force it can muster to pull at Tommy’s arm, urging him away. His first steps are reluctant, halted by an instinctual sort of fear that tells him not to get any closer to the creatures, especially after what they’d done to the enforcers left motionless on the ground, their bodies barely recognizable as human. The phantom, seemingly sensing his hesitancy, pulls again, figure phasing through the manacle. 

Between the confusing mess of phantom shrieks, a gunshot rings, sending a new wave of adrenaline through Tommy’s veins. It sets his skin ablaze as he forces himself forward, straight through the mental wall that had told him to stay away. 

Blindly, he runs, vision blocked by the whirling creatures. They travel with him while he runs, gliding over the earth in a cyclone. Occasionally, the screen stalls, refusing to let Tommy travel further in a particular direction. Phantoms glide down, gently pushing Tommy toward someplace new and only disappearing after he obeys. After a minute, a chirr reverberates through the hoard, and the phantoms’ attention is turned elsewhere.

Tommy slows, steps faltering as they leave him, returning to the fight in a concentrated, deadly mass. A few stragglers stay behind to glide between Tommy’s feet, one of them being a familiar crow-like figure. 

Another gunshot. 

Tommy looks back, eyes finding the curved tusks of Blade’s mask as the villain retrieves his axe from the remains of the enforcer's skull. He takes it effortlessly, turning it over in his hands once before swinging it at an approaching enforcer. The edge of the blade slices through his temple and stops at the bridge of his nose. The man goes limp as the axe is pulled out, specks of blood splattering Blade’s cape when he falls. 

The enforcers gather in practiced formation, weapons drawn. Blood drips from the axe, staining the ground, and then the villain’s head twitches slightly, chin moving down. He barrels forward, mouth twisted in a murderous grin. 

One of the phantoms at Tommy’s feet pushes against him, trying to get him to move; stopping only after someone grabs Tommy’s hand. 

A noise claws itself out from the back of Tommy’s throat, animalistic and wild. He ducks, ripping away from the person’s grasp, mind a tangled mess of panic and the bone-deep urge to fight. They can’t get him now, not when they’re so close. He twists around, momentum adding force as he throws his elbow behind him. 

Darkness flares, and Tommy curls his other hand into a tight fist, swinging before he has a chance to think. His hand hits a wall, sending aches down his knuckles, but Tommy ignores it. His senses fade away into the corners of his brain, hard-wired to disappear until the threat is gone. With blurred vision he throws another punch, hoping to hit something– anything that would allow him to escape. 

The veil of darkness rises again, stretching up into the air and consuming the sky itself. It wraps around him, startlingly warm, and for a moment Tommy’s heart lurches at the thought of it swallowing him whole. 

Hands grapple his, fighting for control of the boy’s limbs with terrifying strength. Vaguely, he hears an echo, distant and muffled through the pounding in his ears. “Tommy, hey, stop!” Tommy wavers. The voice, deep and mechanical under the guise of a voice changer, have an achingly familiar lilt to them. He whips his head up, searching the edges of the darkness until finally, he meets a pair of icy blue eyes. The rest of his face is hidden, covered by the dark mask slotted over his mouth and nose—not too different from Wraith’s. 

“Phil?” Tommy asks, voice breaking the name into something foreign. The man must hear it, because crow's feet appear at the corners of his eyes, wrinkles deepening with a pained noise. 

The veil separating them from the rest of the world ruffles, pulling back, and all at once Tommy realizes that it’s not a veil at all, but a wing . It’s huge, with one of them spanning well beyond the length of Tommy’s entire body, appearing so much bigger in person than it does on a screen. 

Slowly, Phil lowers the wing, bringing it as close as he can while still blocking Tommy’s view of the fight. Its twin is folded flat against his back, unmoving save for a few bristling feathers. “Hey, mate. I’ve got you.” He squeezes Tommy’s arms, nodding towards a car parked nearby. The free wing stretches around the boy’s back, extending up past his head and lowering only once they’re settled safely behind the vehicle. He flicks a switch at the base of his ear, and the static masking his voice disappears. “Did they hurt you?” he asks, and it’s Phil. Tommy’s hands are shaking, rattling the manacles beneath his sleeves. “Tommy, are you hurt?”

“No,” he answers. There’s an ache in his side and a sharp throbbing in his leg, but by now it’s so familiar he almost wonders if it’s been there his whole life. “I thought–” Tommy starts, cutting himself off with a sharp inhale. His mind is a messy jumble of ideas, all morphing into an overwhelming amalgamation of doubt and confusion. “Nobody’s seen you since- I thought you were-” 

Dead, he means to finish, but the word is stuck in the back of his throat, refusing to come any further. 

“I tried to come home; I wanted to go home but I couldn’t, Phil. They wouldn’t let me leave.” 

Phil interrupts his stuttering, “Shh, it’s alright. Just breathe, okay?” He reaches up, grabbing Tommy’s shoulder in an attempt to steady the boy. “Everyone’s fine,” he reassures, “We’re alright. It’s going to take a lot more than a little bit of fire to get rid of us.” The remark drags an anxious chuckle from Tommy’s chest. He slumps against the side of the car, pressing his forehead into the cool metal. 

Relief washes over him, chasing away the chill and seeping its warmth into his bones.

The uncertainty had been crippling, crushing him with worst-case scenarios, but they were okay. Techno; Phil, Wilbur–all three of them are alive. They’ve come for him. 

More gunshots ring through the air, sound bouncing off the nearby buildings. The echo makes it sound closer than it is, and Tommy can’t help but flinch. He’d never liked the suddenness of it. 

Almost immediately, Phil’s hand finds the boy's wrist in a vain attempt at comfort, not expecting to feel a cuff under Tommy’s sleeve. His brows pinch in visible confusion and he gingerly rolls the fabric up, exposing the manacle before Tommy has a chance to tug his arm back. “A suppressor?” He asks, staring at the cuts and bruises littered over Tommy’s skin as if his gaze could heal. 

It doesn’t look good, and the nod Tommy provides in confirmation doesn’t help if the bristle of Phil’s feathers is anything to go off. “How are you here?” He asks after a long moment. 

“Wil’s had phantoms watching for weeks,” Phil explains. The crow from before perks up at that, gliding around until it finally perches on Tommy’s shoulder. He reaches up, running the back of his fingers down the creature’s head, surprised to find that it’s not too cold. “One of them saw you on the streets, and minutes later we got reports that Inferno was out as well. We came as quickly as we could.” 

A sick feeling turns Tommy’s stomach at the mention of the hero. “Inferno… he-” 

Phil looks at the manacles again, fire blazing in the cool blue of his eyes. “He’s not getting close to you again. We won’t give him the fucking chance.” 

Tommy shakes his head, but it doesn’t get rid of the vivid flashes of Sapnap’s face, twisted in betrayal. He’s still lying on the pavement, unmoving in the center of it all. “No, no, that’s not what I’m…” Tommy trails off, horror creeping up his spine as he realizes that Dream is still out there, hidden in the crowd as Techno fights. Even if they all manage to get away—even if Tommy escapes , Dream will find him. He pulls himself up, legs wobbling as he looks over the hood of the car.

Wings flare, and Phil grabs Tommy’s shirt, pulling him back down. “What do you think you’re doing?” He snaps, holding tight when Tommy tries to twist away. “You are staying here, where it’s safe.” 

Nowhere is safe. “Phil-”

“No. This isn’t a discussion. You’re in no condition to go out there. You don’t even have your abilities. They can handle it.” 

As long as Dream is alive, there is no peace, no freedom. Tommy may as well be back in that room, cowering under the gaze of a camera lens. “I need to kill him,” he says, tugging himself away.

“The fuck are you on about?”

Tommy grapples with Phil’s hand, digging his fingers into the man’s fist. “ Dream, he’s- I need to kill him, Phil. If I don’t he’ll come after me, and he won’t stop.”

“Tommy,” Phil starts, words laced with worry, “You already killed him, he’s dead.” 

“No, he’s not, he’s here .” Tommy forces Phil’s hand off and uses the body of the vehicle to pull himself up, eyes scanning the fight for his mentor despite Phil’s protests. 

Chaos feasts on the lot with every swing of Blade’s axe, eliminating any sense of order the enforcers may have had. Numbers are their only defense against Techno's strength. They swarm the villain, weapons raised as if it’ll change their fate. It won’t. 

Above, a phantom swoops down from the mass and digs its claws into a man that gets too close to Blade. It drags him into the air, running halfway up the towers before letting go suddenly. The enforcer falls, his muted scream stopping abruptly once he hits the ground. Satisfied, the creature lets out a shriek, flying back to the sky and melting into the mass. 

As one, they soar to the buildings where a man with piercing green eyes emerges. They settle around him, crawling up his arms or hiding away in the shadow of his coat, rippling. Tommy watches, breath caught in his lungs as Wraith marches further into the battle. There’s a revolver on his hip, polished and hidden by his coat. It taps against his leg with every step, familiar as the phantoms at his heels. They churr, slipping under his boots as he walks to propel him faster.

Eagerly, they wait for new orders, craving more of the chaos; the destruction—the blood . Wilbur is happy to oblige. 

He sends a few of them ahead, corners of his mouth upturned as they tear into a few straggling enforcers. 

Their screams are music to his ears; a symphony he hopes will never end. He shares the satisfaction with the creatures, sending it in waves through the tether of his ability. More, he tells them, picking out an enforcer standing at the edge of Techno’s fight. 

More, the shadows respond, their voice layered on top of one another’s, bordering on the edge of unintelligible. More-protect-attack. 

A man steps into his field of vision, nothing more than a blur in the corner of his eye, and for a moment Wilbur mistakes him for another enforcer. He waves, redirecting a few of the phantoms to their new target. The man crouches, diving across the ground to narrowly dodge the attack. Light explodes out of his hand, cracking like a whip in a way Wilbur recognizes. Wait, he sends out, and every phantom scattered across the lot freezes at once. 

Beyond the field of bloodied corpses, Punz stands, his unyielding glare locked on the villain. It’s the man who attacked Tommy; that left him bruised and bloodied, staining him with fear . 

The battle fades as a haze of red devours Wilbur's vision. Rage bubbles in his chest, so hot it burns through the bond. His phantoms ripple violently, screeching attack-blood-kill into his ear. 

They coil around his chest—his arms, teeming at the edge of his fingertips. Tommy is theirs as much as he is Wilbur’s, a treasure to be protected, and they refuse to fail again. 

Tear him apart.

They surge forward, howling as they cross the distance in seconds. This time, Punz doesn’t bother jumping out of the way. He braces, grip tightening around his baton as he gives it a lazy swing. Sparks fall through the air, fizzling out before they meet the ground. Wilbur hums, his mask hiding the grimace twisting his lips as the vigilante takes a step forward, then another. 

He doesn’t flinch when the first of the shadows reach him with bared teeth—doesn’t scream in agonizing pain or cry out for a god who stopped listening eons ago. He keeps walking, unbothered by the phantoms passing through him, snapping at him with intangible teeth. 

Curiously, Wilbur tilts his head, narrowed eyes settling on the amulet around the vigilante’s neck, pulsing with every phantom that tries to grab him. He’s never bothered to learn much about enchantments. The magic itself has been nearly hunted to extinction, lost to time and shallow graves, but charms are powerful things. Punz is smart for keeping one so close. 

It’s a shame it won’t be able to protect him from Wilbur’s fists. 

A heavy chill envelops the villain’s arms and suddenly the ground under his feet shifts, propelling him into the air. His phantoms guide him as he directs them to the vigilante, their bodies cushioning his landing. With haste, Punz closes the gap between them. He swings the baton out, and Wilbur ducks. Sparks land on his shoulder as it passes over him, singing the fibers of his coat. 

Under the shadow of his hood, Wilbur shakes his head. He straightens out, rolling his shoulders with a hollow sigh. 

“What,” Punz mocks, tilting his chin up, “not used to fighting your own battles?” His thumb presses a button on his handle, and the electricity hisses. He twists, pivoting to Wilbur’s side before swinging again. Nearby, a phantom cries out in warning. Wilbur leans back, narrowly missing the tip of the baton. 

He rushes forward, hooking an arm over Punz’s shoulder and pinning the vigilante’s arm against Wilbur’s side. He swings his other elbow up, barely wincing when his forearm collides with the hard metal of Punz’s mask. “No,” Wilbur tells him. He swings up again, swiping over the man’s chest and finding the soft tissue under his chin. “Just pissed that you burned my coat.” 

Punz’s shoulders fight against Wilbur’s grasp, bobbing with a short laugh before leaning into the hold completely. He twists, flicking the baton down and inward until it hits the back of Wilbur’s calf, searing his skin with white-hot sparks. It feels as though he’s been bit by fire itself, its teeth sickeningly sharp. 

The electricity surges through his leg, squeezing the muscle in a way that makes his head feel light. For a second, Wilbur’s grip loosens. It’s hardly a significant change, but Punz takes full advantage. He drops down, pulling his arm away from Wilbur’s hold as he jumps backward to regain lost distance. 

There’s a smile in his eyes, dark and calculating, and a part of Wilbur–hidden deep in the corners of his mind–finds solidarity in it. He shakes the thought away, banishing it deeper and deeper. 

Punz lunges, moving so quickly that he’s nothing more than a smear of white in the darkness in the lot. Something hard cracks against Wilbur’s jaw, digging the edge of his mask into his skin and throwing his head to the side. He coughs, practically choking on the thick scent of iron filling his mask. A nagging pain blooms along the side of his face as a warning of a headache to come, but he doesn’t have any time to dwell on it before another blow is planted in his chest. He stumbles, struggling to get a tingling leg to support his weight. 

Blood trickles down Wilbur’s face, dripping onto his hands where they clutch his middle. Faintly, he realizes that his hood has fallen. “Tell me, Wraith, what is it they call you again? The bridge to hell itself?” Punz laughs. His boot hooks around the villain’s leg and pulls. The ground is cold. “Pandora will be happy to have you.”

“I hear they have a room ready.” Wilbur rolls over, pushing himself onto his hands and knees. A chill runs over his knuckles. “‘S too bad I won’t be seeing it.”

The baton waves inches away from Wilbur’s eyes. It’s so close he can see the electricity dancing over the metal. “You’re too cocky for your own good, villain .” He says the title as if it’s venomous. Gravel crunches under Punz’s feet as he takes a step forward, his figure towering over Wilbur. The next words come slowly, spoken in a low whisper. “It kinda reminds me of our friend, Tommy. Though if I recall correctly, he did a lot more begging the last time we spoke.” 

The tips of Wilbur’s fingers dig into the ground, printing the grooves of the asphalt into his skin. “Don’t say his fucking name,” he hisses. The image of Tommy laying slumped in an alleyway pushes itself into his mind. He can almost hear the desperation in the boy's voice, betrayal and terror creating a nauseating concoction. It’s too much.

“Ah, so this is personal for you then, isn’t it,” Punz says. Wilbur can practically hear the smile on his lips, the curious lilt in his voice. He gives another swing of his weapon, careful to keep it a few inches away from Wilbur’s shoulder. “Sorry to say, but he’s ours .”

The ground ripples as if a stone has been cast into a lake, and in unison, the phantoms let out an angry cry. Ours, they say. Hundreds of glowing eyes narrow, looking more like pinpricks of light with every word. Ours-ours-ours. 

Under his mask, Wilbur snarls. He can feel every breath pushing his shoulders up—every pebble digging into his palms and his knees. Tommy doesn’t belong to the heroes, not after everything they’ve done to him. The heroes have taken enough, and Wilbur won’t let them take Tommy too. 

Go.

Phantoms explode from the ground. They rush up, quickly swarming the vigilante–winding their way up his arms. Punz thrashes and, with a wave of his baton, staggers away. A confused sort of sound escapes the vigilante’s throat, twisted and augmented by his voice modifier. The creatures pull him down to his knees. “How are you–,” he breathes, panic bleeding into his eyes. He jerks again, trying to shake them off, but they hold steady against the white armor. 

Slowly, Wilbur rises. He looks down at the vigilante, practically drinking in the sight of the man as he struggles. “You’re too cocky for your own fuckin’ good, hero .” He raises his arm, shoulder aching with the motion as he lets the amulet unfurl from between his fingers. 

“I’m not a fucking hero,” Punz spits. The baton at his side wavers with another attempt at a swing. The villain sends a command through the bond, and more phantoms crowd around his hands. They twist through his fingers, willing them apart until the weapon clatters to the ground. 

“No, you’re just another dog on the commission’s leash, and for what? Money? It’s pathetic.” The shadows sharpen. A few of them beg for blood, yearning to be a river of chaos, but Wilbur is their dam. His hood rests uncomfortably over his shoulders, subjecting the top half of his face to the flickers of light from a nearby lamppost as he saunters over. He grabs a fistful of Punz’s hair and tugs his head back. With his other hand, he reaches for his hip. “You don’t deserve shit after what you tried to take from me.”

“It’s nothing personal, Wraith. It was just a job.”

“You hurt him.”

“I didn’t even know the Syndicate knew him. If I did–” A phantom extends up his neck, fangs bared, but the hand in his hair keeps him still. “If you think the commission’ll just let you walk away with Tommy, you’re wrong. It doesn’t matter how far you take him–or how deep underground you hide him. He belongs to them.” With a snarl, Wilbur releases his grip, jerking Punz’s head back in the process. “Shit-” the man gasps. 

He takes a breath and rolls his head, only to falter when the cold barrel of Wilbur’s revolver meets his gaze. “Woah, there's no need to be rash.” The vigilante’s voice wavers with unfamiliar helplessness. “I can help you, you know? I’ve made my fair share of people disappear.” 

“Awe, look at you, begging.” Wilbur coos, knuckles white. It’s as if the gun’s handle is molded to Wilbur’s palm–perfect. He tilts his head–smile pulling at his cheeks as he flicks his thumb. The sound of the safety disengaging is sweet, almost better than the screams from before. 

Icy contempt swims in the shadows of Punz’s expression, a bitter contrast to the sheen of sweat across his forehead. There’s no retort–no protest. The shouts from far-off enforcers are the only thing filling the silence between them. After a long moment, he levels a glare at the gun, eyes trained down the barrel. “The commission won’t stop looking this time. They found him once. They’ll do it again.”

Wilbur hums, long and low. The phantoms crawl up the vigilante’s face, creeping into his hair and around his ears. “They can try,” he says, simply, “But at least there’ll be one less dog on the hunt.” 

The trigger is pulled with a resounding boom , and Wilbur watches–eyes gleaming with the smile hidden behind the metal of his mask–as the bullet rips through Punz’s head.

His body falls with the force of it, crumpling like a ragdoll without the phantom's support.  Blood oozes from his forehead. It falls down the side of his face, trickling past lifeless eyes before pooling on the pavement.  His baton lies abandoned within arms reach, dull and silent without a hand to wield it. A laugh frees itself from Wilbur’s lungs at that, bordering on hysterics. 

It's been so long since he’s fought in the field; so long since he’s watched the life drain from a person’s eyes–so long since he was the one responsible. It’s euphoric. 

In the distance, Techno is still fighting the crowd of enforcers, leaving a trail of bodies with each swing of his axe. The crowd has thinned, but the chaos in them has subsided, giving way to strict formations and organized attacks. Wilbur pushes more bloodlust through the bond, riling up the creatures drifting in the space between him and Punz. Fight-attack-kill, they shriek in response. He raises his arm, and the phantoms surge forward with a howl, leaving him to follow the command. Pride swirls in his gut as the first of them reaches an unsuspecting enforcer. They pick them out of the formation, dragging them by their boot away so the rest can pile high. 

Wilbur sighs and returns his gun to its holster. The adrenaline is already beginning to wane and, in its absence, a headache taps against his skull. His eyes ache from days of endless use, but Wilbur can’t find it in himself to care. One name crowds his thoughts, drowning out the bursts of excitement with each phantom kill. It pulls his attention away from the fight, aching worse than his eyes ever could. 

The well of fear in his throat threatens to overflow as he scans the lot, searching for the thing that’s been missing for too long. What if they were wrong, a part of him wonders, what if he died weeks ago, and he was never really here? 

And then, like a lighthouse in a storm, he sees the ruffle of his father’s feathers. Phil shifts, wing flaring out as he grapples with a second person. Wilbur takes a hesitant step, unable to see clearly with the light flickering above. The other person turns, head moving so, so fast, and Wilbur’s heart squeezes . 

The too-quiet nights; the empty spot on the couch; the bedroom door that hasn’t been opened and the stuffed cow sitting in the living room–everything that had been eating Wilbur alive for the past weeks is nothing because it’s Tommy. 

Across the blood and the corpses, the blond pauses, expression softening as he finally sees Wilbur looking back at him. 

Without a thought, Wilbur’s feet carry him forward. His friend–his brother– gone all this time and now he’s right there; standing and yelling and so alive it makes the breath catch in Wilbur’s lungs. 

The phantoms shout with another kill, sending a new wave of energy through the bond. It sends the blood rushing up to Wilbur’s ears. Everything feels light. 

Tommy’s face falls, wordless shock draining the color from his face as his mouth moves in what must be a shout. He’s so far though, and the words get lost, eaten by the wind and the commotion. It doesn’t matter. Wilbur jumps over bodies–moves around cars. The distance is closing, and soon Tommy can say whatever it is he needs to say to Wilbur’s face. 

But then Phil’s face falls too. He stands, wing flapping as he voice rings out, calling his name and–

And he falters, slowing just enough to turn, vision blurred,

He tugs on the bond, willing a few nearby phantoms to his fingers.

They aren’t fast enough to reach him–aren’t fast enough to turn their bloodlust on the man jumping out from behind another nearby car–

They aren’t fast enough to stop the knife from entering his chest–the blade feeling like nothing at first and then,

And then it drags down, down, down– the pain white and hot and screaming as loud as the thumping in Wilbur’s ears.

Blood soaks through his shirt, warm and sticky, and at first, Wilbur has no idea where it’s coming from. He reaches a hand up–it’s shaking, why is it shaking– to dip into the liquid. 

Searing pain explodes with the touch, and vaguely, he realizes that the blood is his own. 

It pours out of a long, deep gash in his chest, so fast it makes his head swim. 

Everything feels light, but in a way that is wrong.

He tries to take a step and instead wavers, legs too weak to support his weight. 

He falls. 

Wilbur’s vision blurs again, edges fading to darkness. “Dad?” He hears himself ask, wanting so badly to bury his hands into Phil’s feathers, but the darkness stays just out of touch. 

It grows,

And grows,

And grows–and soon enough, Wilbur can’t feel anything at all.

Chapter Text

Tommy is no stranger to death. 

He’s grown up with it, 

Met it, 

Defied it. 

He learns what it looks like from corpses with blank eyes, their faces pale under white lights. Iron and rot are heavy in his nose, mixing into something sickening as their bodies break, feasting on their own flesh. The scent stains the back of his mouth, poking at his stomach and making it flip. Burning, shaking fingers feel the chill of their skin and the stillness of their chests. Tommy does as he’s instructed. 

He rips their souls from death’s hands, exchanging bits of himself for people that will never know his name; and in the end, all that energy spent is erased with the silver tip of a dagger. Fresh blood pours from the wound in their neck, taking their life with it, and all Tommy can do is watch as terrified faces brand themselves into his mind.

They haunt him. Gastly skin with bloodshot eyes follows into the depths of his dreams, festering until it’s just another nightmare begging for mercy that never comes. The ones he brings back are never allowed to live, not how they used to, so they disappear with a wave of his mentor’s hand, becoming just another face. 

Faces kissed by death itself. 

He’s seen its touch in the decaying bodies laying on the street and in the faces of the men he’s killed. 

He’s heard its voice echoing from the pit that calls for him, its warm embrace reaching out and waiting to guide him home. 

Tommy is no stranger to death, but that doesn’t lessen the bone-deep horror he feels when Wilbur falls. The man doesn’t even try to catch himself, doesn’t flail or stumble, he just collapses, head slamming against the pavement with the force of it all. 

Dream stands over him, holding the hilt of a knife dripping with blood– Wilbur’s blood. There’s so much of it flooding the pavement, trickling into the cracks like it’s nothing– as his eyes flick from Wilbur to Tommy. “Wil?” he whispers, not trusting his voice to break past the lump in his throat. 

The crow-shaped phantom glides onto the hood of the car, its chill seeping into Tommy’s skin. Its form morphs into something jagged, edges fizzling into the frisk air as the other shadows scattered across the lot turn their attention to the hero. They abandon the bodies littering the ground, some still twitching, and take to the skies. A sharp cry sounds from the forming mass, hundreds of voices all screaming out together as they barrel back to the ground. 

Wilbur’s shoulders shudder with a broken breath and he tips his chin up, choking on the little air he manages to drag into his lungs. His eyes are wide, brows scrunching with every jolt slamming through his body. Weakly, he lifts his arm, fingers reaching for something as the phantoms close in. 

Their cries deepen, sounding panicked, and then–

And then Tommy watches Wilbur’s hand fall, knuckles landing in a puddle of his own blood. 

The phantoms flicker with the lights overhead, blinking in and out of existence. They fray more and more every time they reappear, edges blurring with the night sky until eventually, the painful chorus of shrieks vanishes. The chill biting Tommy’s hands disappears along with it, and his phantom’s final chirps are reduced to nothing more than an echo. 

A strangled sort of noise escapes Phil’s lips, cracking and crumbling as his feathers bristle on his back. His grip on Tommy wavers, tightening at first and then letting go.

“WRAITH!” Techno roars, apprehension and fear laced through the syllables. His gaze hangs on his brother’s unmoving body, and Tommy knows–just knows that he’s waiting for him to get up, and Wilbur doesn’t . Rage and carnage and failure eat the villain where he stands, festering under his skin like a parasite. He turns without hesitation, mouth twisted in a snarl as he guides his axe through an enforcer’s neck. More stand in his way with their weapons drawn. 

They block his path, using the times Techno looks at Wilbur to prod him back further. Their numbers are stronger without the phantoms pulling them apart, more cohesive almost. They coordinate new formations, follow orders barked by superiors, and at some point, a trigger clicks. Techno drags his axe up, shielding his chest with the blade when the enforcer fires their gun. 

“It’s too bad,” Dream calls out, calm despite the annoyed look on his face. “The commission would’ve liked this one. Useful abilities and all.” Dream lets the words hang in the air for a moment, their echo eaten by the sounds coming from the other end of the lot. He kicks at Wilbur’s foot, snickering when the villain does nothing to stop him “I suppose it doesn’t have to be a complete waste, we could always take him with us. He might make a good lab rat, don’t you think?” 

Tommy’s hands curl into fists, nails digging into his palms.

Wilbur–stuck in a room with suppressors on his wrists; forced to repeat the same agonizing routines day after day; begging for mercy that will never be answered, just as all the men before him did. It ignites something deep in Tommy’s chest, burning him from the inside out, shrouding his vision in a haze of red. 

He’s over the car before he has a chance to think. 

His feet slam against the ground, numb as they carry him across the pavement. Vaguely, he hears a second set of steps behind him–a flap of wings, but Tommy doesn’t slow. He barrels forward, eyes locked on his mentor . Dream slides one foot slightly in front of the other, bracing himself. 

In a blur, he moves his arms up, one hand outstretched for Tommy’s shoulders, but before his fingers brush the fabric of Tommy’s hoodie, the blond ducks. He barrels into Dream’s waist, resisting the weakness in his veins and using his momentum to drive his mentor back. Dream stumbles, struggling against the sudden strength to get his feet under him until eventually, he can’t. He falls back, and Tommy goes with him in a mess of tangled limbs. 

Tommy moves quickly. He finds Dream’s collar and, as the man gasps for short breaths,  gathers fistfuls of the fabric, using them to pull himself up and over his mentor’s body. A beating heart is loud in Tommy’s ears as he digs one knee into Dream’s chest. The other pins his mentor’s shoulder. 

“Shut the fuck up!” He screams. The anger claws at his vocal cords, tearing them raw. He releases Dream’s shirt and raises balled fists in the air, arms shaking with the effort. “I’m going to fucking kill you!” He brings them down, wincing at the sharp pain that blooms in his knuckles before doing it again, then a third time, and a fourth. 

A sharp crack sounds at the sixth, and it’s accompanied by a warm sensation. Blood paints his knuckles red, spilling with every blow. Tommy isn’t sure if it’s his, or Dream’s. 

It’s the same color as the liquid staining Wilbur’s coat–the same color falling from between Sapnap’s hands–the same as the men on the table and the bloodied scabs littering the skin under the manacles.

Numbness consumes Tommy’s bones, helping to dull the ache from another strike. He loses track of the number, getting lost in the rhythm and the pain of it. The blood coats his hands, smelling of metal and sweat–and it’s so warm, almost comforting in a way that makes Tommy feel sick. He hears bone crack, splintering into shards under the skin, and with it, Tommy falters, fists hovering inches above his mentor’s face. 

Narrowed eyes stare back at him, blinking lazily as his mouth–lips split and swollen–curls into a loose grin. His blood sticks to the corners of it, coating his teeth. His nose is crooked, bent at an angle that looks wrong. “Yeah? You’re just like Inferno and the fucker bleeding out over there,” he leers, “ Weak.” He spits the word like a curse, silent anger threaded through it as he goes to say something else. 

It’s cut short by Tommy’s hands wrapping around his neck. His fingers flex, and he feels his mentor’s windpipe beneath his palms, bobbing when the man swallows the blood pooling in his mouth. He feels the life there, warm and moving, and so, so vulnerable. 

And then Tommy feels himself press down, squeezing with every last bit of strength he has.

Dream’s eyes widen, and for the first time since the manacles were put on, Tommy can see the fear swimming to the surface. His mentor jerks, kicking his feet under him and pushing at the ground in an attempt to gain leverage, but Tommy tightens his grip. He presses further, digging his fingers into the muscle and veins. Dream sputters, gasping for air, and the desperation of it is a clear reflection of the night Tommy became a villain, all those years ago. 

His own throat hurts, voice breaking with a scream Tommy faintly recognizes as his own. Wetness drips down his cheeks, stinging his eyes as Dream thrashes.
“Tommy!” Someone–Phil–shouts, but he’s distant, too far removed from the world for Tommy to care. The only thing that matters is his hands around Dream’s neck; coaxing the life out of the man. Dream gasps for air that never meets his lungs, eyes fluttering. He strains, reaching a free arm out and then swinging it up. “Tom-”

Pain explodes along the side of Tommy’s head, sharp and angry where something collides with his skull. The force of the impact throws Tommy aside, sending him back to the cold concrete below. 

Blood trails down his scalp, soaking his hair, and slowly, Tommy moves an arm under him. He goes to push himself up, his body shaking with exhaustion. He has to get up–has to stand, because his mentor is still there, alive and breathing, but his vision swims when he moves his head. Tommy blinks bleary eyes, trying to clear the fuzziness as an unrelenting ringing sings in his ears. 

Beside him, Dream rises to his feet. His shoulders heave as he takes in gulps of air. “You’re weak, Tommy,” he rasps. He leaves the knife behind, its pommel wearing red. “You always have been.” He stalks toward Tommy, swaying with each step. Again, Tommy tries to get up. 

Rough pebbles cut into his palms, stinging his hands as he pulls his knees in and looks up. The world spins, slowing only after he lays his head against the ground. 

His mentor’s shadow glides over him, a veil of darkness in the otherwise bright lamp posts nearby. Bitterly, Tommy realizes that no creatures will be crawling out of it to help him. “I took you in, I trained you, I made you who you are. And this is the thanks I receive?” Dream bends down and grabs Tommy’s collar, dragging him up. 

“I don’t owe you shit,” Tommy tells him. “You lied to me, used me. You drove everyone away and made me believe I was alone. ” His vision clears enough to see Dream’s face, red and swollen. Tommy huffs, feeling fragments of victory because he did that–he made Dream bleed. “I survived all on my fucking own.” 

The mask feigning easy confidence slips away, giving way to contempt. It’s clear in the curve of his scowl and the fury bright in the cool green of his eyes: Dream’s pissed. “They’ve poisoned you–made you believe that you’re something you’re not–something worthy of whatever the fuck it is they give you.” A blur crosses Tommy’s peripheral, and he realizes that it’s Dream’s fist too late. It slams into his jaw, whipping his head to the side. “They’re villains, Tommy. Criminals. They’ll only want you for your ability and nothing else.”

An iron taste hits Tommy’s tongue, mixing with saliva to form a sickeningly thick concoction. It runs down the back of his throat, choking him. Tommy coughs. “They don’t-” His words are cut off by another strike, this time across the cheek. Tommy’s head lolls. It’s so heavy, feeling almost as if his brain was replaced with concrete. He can’t find the strength to lift it again. 

Stars dance along his vision, blocking specks of his mentor’s face from view. “How long? Huh? ” Dream yells. He jerks Tommy upward, bringing the teenager so close that he can feel the heat of his mentor’s breath against his face. It’s too close, and Tommy is powerless to do anything. His chest tightens as Dream continues, dropping his voice low so that Tommy–and only Tommy can hear him. “How long until they realize that you’re broken–that you’re nothing? How long until they cast you aside like the trash you are?” 

More tears push their way past his eyelids, cutting tracks down his cheeks when they fall. They wouldn’t , he wants to say, but the words refuse, and a small part of Tommy realizes that he doesn’t fully believe it himself. 

The Tommy that they knew was merely the parts of himself he was willing to share; the jagged pieces of a tattered portrait too far beyond repair. It was never the full picture, because that was ugly and broken and full of so much guilt it’s suffocating, and Tommy doesn’t know if it’s a picture they’ll accept. He doesn’t know if it’s something they’d still want. 

What if, when they finally see who he is–every part, out in the open, waiting to judge and to be judged–they hate him? What if they look at him with the same disgust he sees staring back whenever he looks in the mirror?

What if Dream was right all along, and Tommy–the real Tommy, the one that killed and lost, lived and died–was alone?

Dream releases suddenly. His arms can’t move under him quickly enough to break the fall, and he hits the ground in a way that knocks the wind out of him, leaving him gasping for air as Dream watches silently. Tommy kicks his feet against the ground in hopes of getting away. “I’ve gotta hand it to you, you may be weak but you’ve surprised me with how much fight you have to give.” Dream’s boot lands on Tommy’s ankle, pressing his heel into the same joint one of the enforcers had stepped on. The pain flares, and Tommy cries out. “After everything, you’re still trying to escape.”

Dream shifts, subtly reaching a hand up to snap something off his belt. Whatever it is is small–insignificant, but under Dream’s touch, it grows, gradually morphing into something bigger, more solid. He looks down, eyes gleaming where they land on Tommy’s leg. 

The pressure on Tommy’s ankle increases, so much so that he thinks it may snap, but it doesn’t. “It’s time to stop running, Tommy,” Dream tells him, as if it’s a simple truth. The object fills out into a brick, its edges gripped by his mentor’s fingers. 

“What the fuck are you doing?” His stare narrows at Tommy’s knee, sending waves of horror over the blond when he realizes what is happening. “Wait, wait wait-” He’s spent his entire life running. Running from the heroes or villains, or even from the truth. He is alive because he ran. 

He’s alive because he never stopped. 

“No, no, don’t!” Tommy claws at the ground and uses his other foot to kick at Dream’s leg, anything to free himself, but it’s useless. His mentor has dug his claws into Tommy, and he refuses to let go. 

Dream raises the brick up, up, up, and Tommy can’t breathe–he can’t think . He shuts his eyes and awaits an explosion of pain. The trepidation is paralyzing. It makes his heart race, the muscle moving so fast the beats blur into one another. Heat licks his face, burning his cheeks, but it’s the least of his concern. 

He hears the soft woosh of the brick cutting through the air; winces when he hears it land–

But the pain never comes. The pressure wavers, easing the aches shooting up Tommy’s ankle. Hesitantly, he opens his eyes. 

The brick lies inches from his leg, its corner chipped where it hit the ground. Tommy breathes a sigh of relief. 

It’s such a normal object–something he’s seen in buildings or lying around in construction zones around the city–but lying there, it feels different; ominous. If it had fallen any differently, it would’ve crushed bone, leaving Tommy withering in agony. The knowledge of what could have been is stamped in stone, marked by a jagged edge where the corner was. For a moment–just one brief, fleeting moment, Tommy is so focused on the detail of it all that he forgets Dream is there altogether. A strained wheeze from above pulls Tommy away, snapping the relief like a guitar string wound too tight.

Dream’s face is pale as a ghost. Shock is written across it, clear in his slack jaw and wide eyes. He’s frozen where he stands. His arm, hanging in the air as if the brick was still in his hand, drops. It’s a movement that makes Tommy flinch away on instinct, afraid that those fists will strike again, but they don’t. Instead, Dream tries to drag in a second breath and produces another dreadful wheeze. 

A burnt smell wrinkles Tommy’s nostrils and curiously, he flicks his eyes down to find a singed, gaping hole in his mentor’s neck. The flesh around it is cracked and red, smoldering like the ashes of a dying fire. Blood gushes from it, the liquid spraying the pavement with a red mist.

He twists his mouth to form silent words, his voice uncooperative. Tommy doesn’t try to hold the small laugh that bubbles up from his stomach. Whatever lie or threat he has is rendered to nothing more than a quiet whistle. It’s the first time Dream has had nothing to say. 

Dream’s body seems to realize the damage then. 

Violent spasms overcome his limbs, shaking him to his core. One of his knees gives out, then the other, and Tommy watches gleefully as Dream collapses into a lifeless heap. Behind him, Sapnap slowly rises to his feet, one glowing hand pressed against his stomach as the other points to where Dream had stood. Smoke rises from his fingers. It curls in the air, swirling into nice patterns. 

Dream is dead. 

Dream–his mentor, the man who took Tommy in and trained him; who enforced rule after rule, and gave punishment after punishment; who had introduced a boy too young to death–Dream, his captor, is dead. 

“Fuck you,” he tells the body with a grin. Another laugh hides in the back of his throat, riddled with nervousness and relief alike. “You fucking lost, dickhead.” The laugh that comes after that is louder, and soon Tommy’s in hysterics. His lungs scream, aching for air Tommy can’t focus long enough to breathe, not when Dream is dead, and Tommy is free. 

A cough rips through him, stealing the air from his lungs. He shudders, curling in on himself as he chokes on saliva, and then Sapnap is beside him. The hero grabs Tommy’s shoulder and guides him up.  “Hey, hey, you’re alright. Breathe, okay? Just focus on that,” he says as he rubs comforting circles into Tommy’s back. His voice is wet, and when Tommy looks up he catches Sapnap staring at Dream, tears gathering in his eyes. “Breathe. You know what to do.” Tommy isn’t sure if he’s saying it for Tommy, or himself. He listens anyway. 

He breathes along with the pattern on his back, inhaling when Sapnap’s hand reaches the top of the circle and exhaling when it hits the bottom. Soon, the ache in his chest fades. “Thanks,” he whispers. Sapnap sighs. 

Finally, the hero looks away from Dream and slides his focus to something else. His face goes pale and pulls away. “Shit, Tommy, I- I’m sorry.” Tommy follows his stare, sending a burst of ice through his veins when they land on Phil. His wings are draped around him, partially hiding his son away in a blanket of dark feathers. 

On the other side of the lot, Techno buries his axe into the last enforcer’s skull. It plunges the lot into deafening silence for a second, lasting only until he rips the weapon out with a sickening squelch . The man joins the other corpses littering the ground, reduced to a nameless body. “WIL!” Techno calls out again, already turning to run to his brother’s side. 

Tommy pushes himself up on wobbly legs and swallows the bile that rises in his throat. His head spins as he stumbles over, moving about as gracefully as a newborn fawn. 

Techno’s voice rises through the lot. “I can carry him. If we move fast we can get him to a healer,” he tells Phil, hiding the tremor in the words with a stern tone.

Tommy’s ankle throbs with every step, threatening to give out completely. They’re so close now. He’s almost there. 

“Mate, I don’t think we have time. If we move him now, he’ll bleed out.” 

“If we stay here he’ll bleed out!”

Tommy pushes past Techno, eyes stuck on the puddle they’re standing in. “Wilbur,” He says frantically. Phil moves his wings back, feathers parting like a curtain to better expose the brunet. He’s lying in the same spot, motionless save for a shudder in his shoulders as Phil hovers over him, hands pressed firmly over the gash running down his chest. His eyes squint with a prolonged wince. “Wil?” Tommy sinks to his knees, grabbing Wilbur’s shaking hand. It’s unnaturally cold. 

Wilbur turns his head and blue meets dull brown. “Tommy?” He asks, voice warped by a broken-sounding modulator. He lifts his free hand, reaching it halfway toward his mask before it gives out. Phil seems to understand the gesture though. 

He gulps, a pained expression darkening his eyes as he lets go of Wilbur’s chest despite the noise of protest Techno makes. Phil shifts, lowering himself to the ground so that he can pull Wilbur’s head into his lap. His fingers find a latch at the base of the mask, and the thing falls away in one piece. 

The skin stretching up his jaw and over his cheekbone is inflamed and swollen. It’s the beginnings of a bruise not too different from one he’d worn months ago. 

“Hey,” Tommy tells him.

“I found you,” Wilbur smiles. “We were looking–” his voice breaks, sending him into a fit of coughs that leaves his lips painted red. Blood trails down his cheek, dripping from the edge of his mouth.

Tommy holds his hand tighter, silently hoping that maybe the pressure will be enough to ease the pain Wilbur must be feeling. “I’m here, I’m right here, Wil. Just breathe, okay?” He receives a silent nod in response. 

Wilbur blinks slowly, taking a moment to look at Tommy, and then something close to worry pinches his brows. “Your face,” he drawls, staring daggers at the welts forming along Tommy’s jaw. “Are you okay?”

The words twist something in Tommy’s stomach, making him feel ill because–because Tommy should be the one asking that to Wilbur. Wilbur, who’s lying on the ground covered in his own blood, suffering from a wound he would’ve never gotten if he hadn’t been distracted by Tommy. Maybe, if Tommy didn’t accept that tip all that time ago, none of this would have happened. 

It’s a dreadful thought. One that he pushes to the depths of his mind. Taking that tip was one of the best decisions he ever made. After all, it led him to his family. Tommy forces a weak smile, feigning normalcy. “I’ll be fine. The beat-up look might attract the ladies, remember?”

Wilbur hums, eyes fluttering. His hand has stopped shaking. “I missed you, the house was too quiet.” 

Something lands on Tommy’s shoulder–Techno’s he figures–and he leans into the touch, missing the gentle company that’s been gone for so long. Tears sting at Tommy’s eyes. “We can go home now,” he tells Wilbur. His breath hitches, and a strangled sob rips its way from Tommy’s throat. “You, me, Phil, and Techno. You’re gonna be fine, Wil.” 

“Tommy…”

“You’re gonna be– It’s going to be okay,” Tommy lets go and throws himself forward. He presses his hands against the wound, calling for his abilities. “I can help,” Tommy says, repeating it over and over. 

Wilbur coughs again, but it’s weak, too weak. “Toms, listen to me.”

“I can–I’ll-” A thrum ghosts over his fingers, feeling like sparks under his skin, but it doesn’t last long. The suppressors steal the ability, feeding it to a bottomless void. Tommy pushes again. “Fuck, fuck, fuck-”

Techno kneels. “Kid,” he says. He grabs Tommy’s arm, pulling him back–away from Wilbur. Tommy thrashes. He cries out, desperately trying to summon anything, but the manacles consume his abilities before they reach his fingertips . “Tommy!” Techno’s voice rings through his ears. Tommy snaps his mouth shut. 

“I told you I wouldn’t lie to you again. I promised,” Wilbur says with a small hum. His eyes–half-lidded and glassy–are locked on Tommy’s. They bear no hint of pain, no discomfort. Phil cards through his son’s hair, combing out the knots. “You’re safe. Phil and Tech won’t let anythin’ happen to you again, alright?”

“But you -”

“You’re my brother, Toms,” Wilbur continues, oblivious to the way the word makes Tommy’s heart jump. Brother . It’s such a simple thing, so small, and yet, it’s all Tommy’s ever wanted. The bickering, playful shoves, and screaming matches ending in slammed doors; Tommy wanted that. He’d dreamed of the good and the bad–all of it. He dreamed of a home . Wilbur’s hand twitches, index finger reaching toward the blond–his brother, who takes it without hesitation. He slides tired eyes to Phil, then Techno, then back to Tommy. “We’re a family, ‘n families take care of each other.” 

Tommy squeezes Wilbur’s hand, holding it like a lifeline. “I’m sorry, I’m so fucking sorry,” he cries. A wire of guilt tangles around his stomach, serving as a bitter reminder of what he can’t do. It’s not fair. He finally has what he wants, and now he’s forced to watch it disappear as the man who’d given him the world fights to stay awake. His abilities–the only part of him that has ever been worth anything–should be able to help. Without them, Tommy is useless. 

Wilbur’s breaths are shallow, each one slower than the last. “I left Henry on the couch for you,” he says after a while. He’s so cold, so pale . The corners of his mouth turn up in a slight smile. Through the blurriness of Tommy’s tears, it almost looks like the ones Wilbur would give whenever he dropped Tommy off at his apartment. “He’s waitin’ for you. We were all waitin’ for you.” 

A soft exhale, and the fingers intertwined with Tommy’s loosen. “Wilbur,” Phil says softly. He shakes Wilbur’s head, cupping his face in his hands and tipping it up to see his son’s too-empty eyes. “Wil?”

And Tommy is no stranger to death. 

To the stillness of it all, 

The chill,

The eerie silence that settles in place of a beating heart and steady breathing. 

But he’s never seen it in someone he cares about. It takes what it wants and leaves, uncaring of the hole left behind so big the only thing left to fill it is grief. 

Tommy can’t breathe; can’t stop the guttural sobs wrecking him, because it feels as though he’s been broken in two with no way to put himself back together. 

And something, whispering to him through corpses on the ground and portraits of a woman he’s never met, tells him they aren’t strangers to death either. They’ve killed people, just like Tommy did. They’ve seen it as much, if not more. They’ve seen how its touch affects a person, but that will never prepare them to hold the body of the man they called brother–son. 

Techno moves back, and the warmth disappears from Tommy’s shoulder. His lips are pressed into a thin line, unwavering as his jaw clenches. The boar mask casts an empty, unfeeling shadow over his eyes, perfectly concealing them in a way that’s inhuman. 

What it doesn’t hide, however, are the tears running down Techno’s face. He interrupts the silence with the sharp scratch of his axe against the concrete. 

“Techno?” Phil asks, and his voice is so small, so unsteady as he struggles to tear his gaze away from Wilbur. “We need to go. It’s not safe here for Tommy.” 

Techno shakes his head, his father’s words rolling off his back like raindrops on a windshield. “I’m going to kill them,'' he says, hushed at first. It’s deathly serious. “The government, the commission, the heroes– everyone who’s played a hand in this fucked up system. I’m going to kill them all, starting with him.” He lifts his axe and turns, pointing the tip of his blade at the only hero left breathing. Sapnap, still kneeling at Dream’s side, brings his arms up, hands lighting up with small sparks. The villain snarls, fingers flexing around the throat of the axe. “History will forget this city had heroes.” 

He takes a step. One, damning, singular step and flames are dancing over Sapnap’s palms. Their light casts an orange glow on his face, mixing with the reckless defiance swimming in his eyes. 

It’s strikingly familiar, and at that moment Tommy doesn’t see Inferno—he doesn’t see the hero who laughed as he dragged Tommy back to the tower; the hero who forced him to bring back a monster, nearly costing his life in the process; who had threatened Tommy’s family. All he sees is the man who, when Tommy was small and afraid of falling asleep, gave him a stuffed cow with the hopes of chasing away some of his nightmares. 

Despite it all, Tommy doesn’t want him to die too.

Wilbur’s hand falls silently without Tommy there to hold it. He jumps up, legs throbbing and hurting with every step across the pavement.“No,” Tommy cries. He stumbles forward and collides with Techno’s back with a small gasp. “Wait! Techno, no!” 

The villain stops. He twists slightly, craning his neck to look over at the blond clinging to his cape. He doesn’t let his eyes stray further. “Let go.” Tommy refuses, choosing instead to gather fistfuls of the velvet fabric between his fingers. 

It feels as though there’s a gaping hole in his heart and any sense he had is rushing to fill it. Forming a coherent thought is impossible among the jumbled mess of failure and he’s dead, dead, dead, so loud Tommy has to resist the urge to press his palms against his ears. “No, this is my fault- you don’t understand-” He stutters, words falling out of his mouth in a whirlwind of emotion that leaves him breathless. 

His mask’s stare is emotionless as it settles on Tommy. “I understand that he held you, prisoner, in the hero tower for weeks; that his people are the ones responsible for you and hundreds of kids being thrown into a system you had no choice in.” Techno spits. “I understand that those same people have taken enough from me. Wilbur. My mom.” He steals another step, moving so quickly the cape is ripped from Tommy’s hands. 

“I can bring him back!” Tommy screams. He throws himself after Techno, fists battering against the villain’s back. “I can help. I can- I can save him.” The words throw Techno off, and he falters, spinning around. He doesn’t say anything as he grabs for his mask, pushing it up to reveal red-ringed eyes.  

There’s something foreign in the way he looks at Tommy. Confusion, recognition, and grief fight for their place on his face, all holding him hostage as he stands silently before the boy. 

“I can save him,” Tommy repeats. He pushes his sleeves up and shoves shaking arms into Techno’s face, forcing him to look at the obsidian manacles locked around his wrists. “Break them, please , just get them off,” he pleads. He’s never hated the manacles more. He’s useless with them, unable to do the one thing he was trained for. Techno doesn’t say anything. “Fucking help me!” 

A few agonizing seconds pass—moments where Wilbur isn’t breathing, where he is dead and Tommy can’t do anything to help—and when it’s clear the man doesn’t plan on moving again, Tommy grabs for the axe instead. Techno jerks it away, holding it just out of reach. “No,” he says, sternly, “We’ll find another way. I’m not putting this anywhere near you, I won’t risk it.” 

Tommy huffs, frustration moving in beside desperation. Techno isn’t listening. Tommy can help. He can bring him back, but he can’t do anything until his abilities are free. “I don’t care about the risk. You have to break them, Tech. Please, this is my fault, just let me fix it.” Techno could miss, he could slice into Tommy’s arm but he wouldn’t care if it meant getting the cuffs off. None of that would matter if it meant he got Wilbur back. 

“Do it,” says Phil from behind them, an ice blue gaze locked on the blond. “That man was Dream, wasn't he? You brought him back.” Tommy nods, and it’s all Phil needs. The creases in his forehead soften, melting into something warm. Where Techno had looked at him like a stranger, Phil looks at him with something different. It’s as if he’s seeing an old friend for the first time after years away, eyes so full of love and joy that they may burst. He turns back to his son. “The longer we wait the harder it’ll be on Tommy, especially if his abilities have been suppressed for this long. Break the fucking cuffs.”

“Phil-”

“I’ve been living in a house without one of my kids for weeks. I won’t go home missing another one.” He shuffles his legs out from under Wilbur and gingerly lays the man’s head on the ground. Dark wings extend outward as Phil pushes himself to his feet, keeping him balanced and concealed. He approaches Techno slowly, almost as if he’s afraid of spooking the man, and grabs his arms to guide the axe up. “You won’t hurt him. I know you won’t.” 

Techno stares at it, and Tommy can see the debate playing out in his head. Confliction wavers his grip on the handle, threatening to let it fall completely until finally, Techno nods. It’s shaky and unsure, but it's enough for him to follow when Phil leads them to a nearby car. 

Tommy lays his hands over the hood. They’re trembling, fingers twitching along with the violent beating in his chest as Techno lifts his axe over his shoulder. He closes them into fists, wrapping knuckles into a tight ball as if it’ll change the outcome should Techno’s aim fail.

The villain spares Tommy one last glance before his eyes slide to the manacles, mouth twisting into a sneer when he’s faced with Tommy’s failed attempts at getting them off himself. He takes a breath, shoulders bobbing up before his chin tips down in a subtle tell. The axe comes down. 

It slices through the air, and all Tommy can think about are the men lying dead on the ground, bodies split by the very same blade. Its edge is still splattered with their blood. He turns away and closes his eyes, like a child hiding from nightmares and monsters. Tommy doesn’t see the blade connect with the manacles through the darkness or hear the obsidian shattering over the blood rush in his ears. 

All he feels are burning pinpricks at the tips of his fingers. 

It doesn’t come as an explosion of heat, but rather a small spark nipping at his skin. It’s weak and slow, nothing like the burning sensation he grew familiar with. The heat catches, spreading over his knuckles and to his palms, and soon Tommy’s abilities are pressing a stinging kiss into his hands, a warm welcome after weeks of suppression. It’s the first time Tommy welcomes them back with the same warmth. 

He opens his eyes and is unable to stop the smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.  Shattered pieces of the first manacle litter the ground, sprinkling the pavement in fine black specks. 

Hairs away from Tommy’s wrist is Techno’s axe, buried in the hood of the car. “One down,” Tommy tells him with a nervous laugh. Techno pulls the weapon out with a piercing screech of twisted metal. “One to go, big T.” He throws it back over his shoulder and aims at the other cuff. This time, Tommy watches as the man brings it down, heart leaping when the axe’s edge cuts through iron with ease. 

Obsidian shatters under the force of it, falling away in large chunks, and it’s as if a heavy blanket is lifted from Tommy’s shoulders. The weakness digging its fangs into his bones finally releases and suddenly, it isn’t as difficult to breathe. He nearly collapses with the relief of it all, too overcome by the reminder of how painless it can be to simply exist. The blooming warmth in his hand is the only thing that keeps him upright. 

The sensation pulls Tommy to Wilbur’s body like a current pulls the ocean. There’s no question about it. No hesitation, just the visceral need to feel Wilbur’s heart beating beneath his palms. He closes the space between them, calling on his abilities as he does. 

Aching shockwaves travel up his legs when his knees hit the ground hard, but it’s nothing to dwell on because Wilbur is here. He’s within arms reach, so close, and in an instant, Tommy’s hands are pressed against his chest. It’s still warm, like a nice summer afternoon. 

It’s such a small detail and yet, it makes Tommy pause. The bodies Tommy was trained on were always cold. He hadn’t realized they could be so warm, so lifelike despite their vacant stare and pale skin. How many times had that chill made him want to pull his hands away? How many times had Tommy forced himself to endure it because it was demanded of him? 

“Tommy?” Phil asks, and oh, he’s here too, kneeling beside the blond. 

Tommy shakes his head and presses further. “I can do it.” The abilities sit calmly under his skin, not nearly as hot as they usually are. He pushes them forward anyway, forcing them past his fingertips and into Wilbur’s chest, but they don’t get far. Invisible wisps of energy stretch out, bridging the gap between them, but they only get so far. They seem to wither, receding back to Tommy before they even reach the gash in Wilbur’s torso. Tommy, all too aware of the audience behind him, pushes a second time. 

He gets further, abilities grazing the edge of the wound. “I can do it ,” Tommy repeats, if only to himself. He can feel the connection weakening, fizzling out, and no amount of concentration helps retain it. “C’mon, fucking work.” 

Phil clears his throat. “Hey, it’s alright-”

“I can do it!” The burning cools into something warm, dispersing so quickly that Tommy struggles to keep hold of it. He can feel Wilbur’s ribs against his fingers as he tries a third time. It doesn’t work. 

Tommy can’t make it work. The one time he’s ever chosen to use his abilities in a way that helps someone he loves, they don’t fucking work. 

“You just need to,” Phil starts, but his words are cut off by an agitated sigh. 

“Shut the fuck up. I need to fucking concentrate.” Tommy screws his eyes shut, “I need to focus, I need to- I need-” He needs things to be normal again. He needs to feel the wind through his hair as the car stereo plants a ringing in his ears. He needs family dinners and brotherly banter. 

He needs Wilbur. Annoying, funny, alive, Wilbur because before him, Tommy thought he didn’t deserve a single thing he had, let alone the things he could have.

Phil throws a rope out to Tommy with a squeeze of the boy’s shoulder. “Hey, look at me.” Tommy shakes his head, breath hitching. The buzz of his abilities fades, slipping through his fingers. “Tommy, listen. You’re panicking” 

“You don’t know–” 

“My wife was like you,” The man says suddenly. “She had the same- I might not know exactly, but I know enough. You need to breathe.” He takes an exaggerated breath in and reluctantly, Tommy mimics it. In and out, in and out. “Good, there you go.” 

Tommy isn’t doing good, he knows that. His breaths stutter and fail, but after a minute, he’s able to hold one, then another. “Your wife?” He asks after a slow exhale. He thinks of the woman whose face decorates their walls with dark hair and soft-looking smiles. Wilbur had only talked about her once, long ago, it was the only time he heard her name until now. 

“She kept it a secret for a long time, I told her to, but she was always so willing to help people, you know? All it took was one accident, one time , and the commission was at our door.” Sorrowful tears gather at the corners of his eyes. He doesn’t need to continue. After all, the commission had no problem taking children from their families. What’s one woman? Phil shakes his head. He shoots an angry glare at Sapnap, “They didn’t understand the limits of her abilities, and it cost us her life.”

“I asked her once how it felt to have someone’s life in her hands, and she told me that it was exhausting,” he says with a light chuckle. “But beyond that initial connection; beyond the energy traveling between the two of you is something so deep it almost feels like love, and that’s what made it easy. She loved the connection that was left after she took her hands away, that something that lasted long after they parted ways.” His voice is so fond it makes Tommy’s heart ache. 

“Focus is important, but you can’t forget why you’re doing it. You aren’t bringing back someone because you’re forced to or because your life is on the line. You’re doing it because you want to, and because the person fucking means something to you. Do you understand?”

Tommy shouldn’t. He was trained to focus on his abilities; only his abilities. He never searched for anything deeper because the people he brought back were killed before Tommy learned their names, there was no point. But still, Phil’s words resonate with him. He might not understand fully, but he wants to. There was always a barrier and maybe if he can break past it, he’ll find that feeling. 

Without calling for it, warmth gathers in his palms. It burns hotter the more he waits, begging to be released, but it doesn’t hurt. It doesn’t even sting. Instead of buzzing under his skin, it’s as if it's all over his hands, evenly spread. “Oh,” Tommy whispers. 

He lets it flow freely, visualizing the energy as it travels down the edges of Wilbur’s wound. Slight pressure squeezes Tommy’s chest, mirroring the wound, but it’s nothing overwhelming. Tommy can still breathe and his thoughts come clearly, worlds different than the pain he’d felt bringing back Dream. It’s almost normal. 

He watches as Wilbur's flesh knits itself back together, skin bridging the rift within him. There’s no pain, but the constant thrumming of it all makes Tommy’s head feel light and numb. The tether holding him firmly to the ground seems to snap and with it, it’s like he’s floating. Wilbur’s energy feels just as light. It grows, getting brighter and stronger until eventually, Tommy senses a pulsing in his chest. Blood flows, running up to his cheeks and making them pink. 

And there, in Wilbur’s steady heartbeat, Tommy finds that feeling. It’s safe; secure. 

It’s home. 

A comfortable wave drifts over him, carrying more of that light feeling. It’s nice. He coaxes his abilities back, swaying gently with the gentle rhythm of it. 

Sleep calls to him, beckoning him to rest, but Tommy resists it. He slumps against Phil’s arm and waits, needing the visual reassurance that yes, it worked. 

The minutes pass, trepidatious and silent as the three of them wait. Secretly, Tommy hopes it is the last time this silence will ever be so loud. He’ll be happy if he never has to hear its deafening hum again. 

It shatters with a weak groan from Wilbur’s lips. Tommy springs up, a watery smile hidden just behind the nervous look on his face. “Wil?” Wilbur coughs, slowly opening his eyes before screwing them shut again. 

“Take it slow,” Phil tells him, “It’s still gonna hurt.” Wilbur moves his head up towards the sky and mutters something unintelligible. “What was that?” 

The man huffs. He looks back at Tommy and opens his eyes again. It’s only a squint, but it’s enough to see the deep brown in his irises. “I said you look like shit.”

Tommy laughs, letting the smile he’d been holding back free. “Not as bad as you, big man.”

“I thought my nickname was old man,” Wilbur drawls.

“Oh it is, but that’s just one of many, remember?” The fuzziness in Tommy’s head grows, making it hard to stay awake. He fights it of course, because who is Tommy if not someone that fights?

Wilbur pushes himself up to his elbows, slowly at first, then quicker once he gets his bearings. “I remember.” He looks at the three of them, confusion dawning on him as he remembers everything else. “I died.” Phil nods. 

“It was pretty lame of you,” Techno tells him. 

“But I’m back now. How–” He looks at the three of them, shifting his gaze to each member of his family until it settles back on Tommy. “ You. You brought me back?” Tommy hums and Wilbur’s face collapses in happy relief. He grabs Tommy’s shoulders, pulling the blond close into a tight embrace. 

Two more weights settle on Tommy’s back, Techno and Phil probably, but Tommy can’t find it in himself to look back. He knows they’re there, and that’s enough. 

Tommy’s head swims. Everything feels so warm, so relaxing. “Can we go home now?” His voice sounds weird too, like he’s hearing it from miles away. Darkness appears at the edges of his peripherals, and Tommy isn’t quite sure if it’s Phil’s wings or not. Whatever it is, Tommy knows deep down that it’s nothing to fear. He’s safe. His family is safe, and Tommy is tired. It closes in, wrapping him in a gentle blanket of comfort. 

A chin bobs above his head. When Wilbur speaks next, his voice is a low rumble. So soft it makes Tommy lay down his sword, abandoning his fight against sleep. “Yeah, let's go home.”

Chapter Text

Some days are better than others.

It’s the simple truth of it really, as real and constant as the stars in the sky. Joy cannot exist without pain, love cannot exist without loss, and good days cannot exist without bad ones. Such is the reality of life. 

The tricky thing about it, though, is that Tommy never knows which one he’ll be getting. The good or the bad, the pain or the joy. 

The love, or the loss. 

So, here’s how it goes: 

He wakes up, and the day begins. 

Some mornings, it’s slow; natural, like the gentle push and pull of the sea over the beach. It’s still dark, with the first rays of light just beginning to shine through his curtains, bathing his room in a golden hue as the sun kisses the horizon. 

Sometimes, Tommy will get up to watch the sunrise from his window. He basks in the colors; the stunning blues and yellows fading into one another to create something beautiful. Other times, he stays wrapped up in his sheets and watches the light slowly creep further into his room. The warmth is nice, and it’s even better when Tommy can take comfort in the fact that there will be another sunrise to watch tomorrow. 

These are the mornings Tommy likes. 

At that hour, when the sun is just making its way into the sky and the rest of the house is asleep, the house is quiet. It’s the only time it ever is, and even then, Techno’s snores from across the hall cut through the silence. There is no music playing through warm speakers, no people in the kitchen to fill the room with easy conversation. That comes later, once the sun has fully risen and the day is in full swing. Until then, Tommy enjoys the peacefulness of it all. 

And then there are the bad days in which Tommy wakes with a jolt. 

The terror runs down his spine like electricity, shocking every nerve in his body into overdrive because—there’s danger. Something dangerous is close and if Tommy doesn’t do something, he will be locked away for the rest of his life. 

He thrashes—always moving, always fighting , because who is Tommy if not someone that fights— against something heavy on his legs, pushing it away until finally, he can get himself free. 

His hands burn, feeling as if he stuck them in a pot of boiling oil. Manacles close around them so tight his bones might snap, and when Tommy tries to move again he finds that he can’t. His arms are stuck, held straight out by the cuffs as something warm wraps around his shoulders. A cry rips through Tommy’s throat. 

The thing pulls him closer . 

Warmth bleeds into his side and–that’s not right, it should be cold. Why isn’t it cold? 

Far off, a hushed voice says words Tommy can’t make out. There isn’t any venom laced in the sweetness of the words, just genuine-sounding concern, and all at once Tommy realizes that it’s Techno. 

He blinks and he’s in his room, body pressed uncomfortably into Techno’s side as he teeters on the edge of the bed. The man holds him upright, his hands wrapped tightly around Tommy’s wrists. He holds their arms out, keeping them a safe distance away as Tommy stares, confused. The cuffs were there, weren’t they? Were they Techno’s hands the whole time? 

It takes a few minutes for Tommy to catch his breath. When he does, he finds that he can’t remember the nightmare that woke him in the first place. The images and sounds haunting him are gone, fading into nothing as Tommy is left to deal with the fallout. 

Techno helps him collect the pillows and blankets that were thrown about the room during Tommy’s episode. When that is cleaned, he offers to stay awake. Tommy shakes his head, not wanting to be the reason his brother is too tired to go to work in the morning, but Techno insists. He hands Henry over, grabs a book from the bookshelf, and flips it open to Tommy’s favorite story. 

On the bad days, Tommy stays in bed for the rest of the day, sheets pulled up to his chin as he tries to focus on anything other than the thoughts running through his head. They warp, twisting into something cruel despite his best efforts. They almost sound like Dream, his voice a carefully crafted needle aimed directly at Tommy’s head. 

When it gets too overwhelming, Tommy shuts his eyes. He tries to go back to sleep to ignore it for a little bit, but he rarely can.

Time doesn’t wait for him to get up. It marches on, days stretching into weeks, and then months. Every morning is a flip of a coin, a story he doesn’t know the ending to, and Tommy lives through every one. The mornings between nightmares grow, promising more good days than Tommy is used to. He figures that the universe owes him a few pleasant mornings. 

But, despite whatever the universe may owe him, the good can not exist without the bad. It’s that simple.

Today is a rare day in which, despite the nightmares waking Tommy up long before the sun rises, he manages to tear himself out of bed. It’s difficult, with every step further into the hall reminding him of how much he’d rather be wrapped in his sheets, but he does it anyway. 

The day keeps moving, the seconds passing by with the mechanical tick of the clock. 

Tommy watches it from across the room, mentally counting down the minutes until he’s free to return to bed. Moving so slowly is almost painful. Nearby, a throat clears, drawing Tommy’s eyes away from the clock and back to the woman sitting across from him.

Her hair–a wild mess of white curls, is pulled back today, freeing her face from the strands. She offers a kind smile, looking nearly as soft as the sweaters she’s always wearing. “You seem distracted today,” Puffy notes as he shifts in her seat. She pulls her legs up and rests a small notepad on her knee. “What’s on your mind?” The pencil dances between her fingers as she watches him, waiting for an answer. So much for waiting for the session to pass in silence. 

“Nightmare,” Tommy answers after a moment, already regretting how agitated he sounds. Puffy is friendly, kind of like Niki, and all she’s trying to do is help, but that voice in the back of Tommy’s head is loud.

She doesn’t know you, it says, she wouldn’t understand.  

She would, if anyone would, it'd be the ex-hero turned therapist who experienced her fair share of traumatic events. She had seen death, destruction, grieving families; and then she saw the way the commission she worked for brushed it all under the rug when the day was over. It’s the reason she left and decided to try and help others like her afterward. 

“It fucking sucked, but now I’m more pissed about losing my streak.” 

Puffy nods, scribbling something down on the notepad. “Almost three weeks, right?” Tommy hums in confirmation, and when he doesn’t respond further, she continues. “It’s not necessarily your fault, those episodes can be brought on by a ton of different things both in and out of your control. Have you been experiencing more stress than usual lately?” 

Yes, is what his brain supplies, but the word doesn’t make it to his mouth. Instead, he pulls at his fingers until he feels the satisfying pop of his knuckles. 

Puffy frowns. She reaches into a bag resting against her chair, retrieving a small fidget toy. With a small ‘ here,’   she extends it toward Tommy, who takes it without question. 

“It’s okay if you are. Stress—for anyone—is normal, and given the trauma you experienced I’d expect you to have more than the typical person would.” She lets the comment hang in the air a moment, just long enough for Tommy to give a response if he wanted. He keeps his mouth shut. Sure, he’s stressed. Tommy’s stressed all the time, but there isn’t always a good reason for it. He’s got a roof over his head and food on his plate, and he even has people he calls family. It’s all he needs, so what’s the use in dwelling on “stress” if he can do something else? 

“Tommy,” Puffy sighs. He twists the toy between his fingers, lips pursed as Puffy balances the notepad on the arm of her chair. “The third anniversary is coming up in a few weeks,” she says carefully, dancing around the subject with practiced grace, “and this has been a difficult time for you in the past. Do you think that may have something to do with it?”

Three years. It doesn’t feel right. 

He’s been through so much in that time—lived so many different lives. Red Death; living alone; meeting Wilbur; losing his home only to find his way back again. It’s nearly impossible for Tommy to wrap his head around it all. “I don’t know, maybe,” he says, sounding like he’s asking a question. “All that is done now, though. Monument Day is canceled—so I don’t have to deal with that bullshit—and Inferno suspended the official search for Red Death.”

“The most obvious reminders might be gone, but that doesn’t mean the memories can’t still bother you.”

“I know that,” Tommy retorts. Blood boils in his cheeks, burning them red, and he’s not exactly sure why. “They bother me sometimes, I guess, but I’ve been dealing with that shit for a while and it never triggered fucking nightmares before. I’m not worried about that.” 

“Well then,” She calmly starts, her tone purposefully light in an effort of curbing Tommy’s frustration, “what are you worried about?” 

“I—” Tommy cuts himself short, suddenly at a loss for words. It’s a question bigger than the sea and Puffy knows it, but she doesn’t jump in to help. She lets Tommy turn the question over in his mind; lets him float through the waves in search of a response. If it goes too long, or Tommy clearly can’t come up with anything, she’ll step in. For now, she waits.  

The seconds tick by as Tommy thinks, silent safe for the fidget toy clicking against itself whenever he twists it too quickly. There are so many ways to answer, and deep down Tommy knows what it is he needs to talk about—knows who it is that’s been making Tommy feel sideways lately. 

The toy goes still, “Something is going on with Wilbur,” he says finally. “I don’t know how to explain it. It’s like, he’s acting normal and treating me the same way he always does, but I can tell that something is going on.” It’s evident in the thrumming that sticks in Tommy’s chest whenever he talks to Wilbur. He doesn’t have to ask to know that it’s the brunet he’s feeling. When they’re close, his emotions bleed through their connection, always calm until sometime last week, when it was replaced with something different. 

“Have you tried asking him about it?”

Tommy nods, recalling the way the thrumming picked up as soon as he asked why the fuck Wilbur was feeling so weird. His brother gave a steady excuse about “Things changing at work,” before settling down on the couch and pulling a pillow into his lap, the picture of normal between the two of them. Even then, the thrumming didn’t go away. It stuck around, setting his nerves off just enough to make relaxing difficult. The feeling only dulled after Wilbur excused himself from the room—away from Tommy. “I don’t think he wants to talk about it.” 

Puffy hums, “I think that, while it’s good to respect that, you should also consider how Wilbur keeping secrets is affecting you . If he’s doing something that is hurting you, it’s important to communicate and find a solution. If you don’t, and this continues, it could get worse without him ever knowing.” 

What if he talks to Wilbur, and makes it worse anyway? 

He slides his eyes back to the clock, disappointment heavy in his chest when he sees that the session is only halfway done. “All things considered, you did well today Tommy. How about we call it here? On account of it being a special day and all.” She closes her notepad and sticks the pencil behind her ear. “Do you have any plans?” 

“Oh, you know me, Dr. P, my schedule is booked,” Tommy tells her. He stands, extending the fidget toy back to her. 

“Yeah?” She asks, a smile on her lips. 

“Oh yeah. Three dates. Three different women. Let’s just hope they don’t find out about each other.” He stretches his arms out and swallows the tired yawn pulling at his throat. “I bet you’re jealous.”

“Very.” 

“I think it’s about time we find you a wife. Maybe next week, I’ll give you a few Tommy-tested tips to help you out.”

“I look forward to it,” Puffy laughs. 

Sometimes, even the bad days have their silver linings.

An upbeat and happy-sounding song plays through old speakers, filling the car as they drive. Phil hums along to it, nodding his head to the beat while Tommy sits, forehead pressed against the window. The early morning is catching up to him, reminding Tommy of how tired he is. He fights the sleep weighing his eyelids down, making the world slow until it’s nothing more than a blur of greens, yellows, and blues, all mixing into one another with every blink. 

It’s peaceful. Calming in a way that makes Tommy want to freeze this moment, just so he can live in it that much longer. Just him, Phil, and the world around them, a perfect picture. 

It’s interrupted by Phil’s voice. “I was thinking,” he starts, his cheery tone chasing away some of the urge to fall asleep right there. “Since you got out early, maybe we could go do something. Just the two of us. We could get coffee—actually, scratch that, you and I both know how you get on caffeine. We could go to the store, oh, or maybe the garden center! I’ve been meaning to get some new plants for the yard. I want to start a new flower patch outside your window and was hoping to get your help picking something out. What do you think?” 

Tommy shrugs, “I don’t know.” 

“About the flowers? You don’t have to help if you don’t want to. I just thought that, because you’d be looking at them the most, it might be nice to give you some input.”

“Not that,” Tommy says, pressing his head further into the coolness of the glass. He does his best to disguise the drowsiness in his voice with something brighter. It seems to work. Phil doesn’t say anything about it. “It sounds fun, but you know me. I’m a busy guy. I’ve got a lot of shit to do.” That ‘shit’ is sleeping. All Tommy wants right now is to wrap himself back into a cocoon of pillows and blankets.

“That’s alright mate, we could do something quick. Are you hungry? Do you want to stop at that place around the corner?” 

The mention of food makes Tommy’s stomach ache, still full after the breakfast Phil made this morning. It was a feast of everything he’s come to like over the months of living with them. Pancakes, bacon, eggs—all of it was laid out on the table by the time he crept out of his bedroom. “Prime, if you’re trying to fatten me up just say so. I’ll fuckin’ explode if I eat another thing.” 

Phil chuckles, hands tightening around the wheel, “C’mon Toms, there’s got to be something we can do. Just name it.” There’s something else hidden in Phil’s voice, something that isn’t usually there. It’s like Wilbur’s thrumming, unfamiliar, and wrong

“I’m alright…” Tommy trails off, brows furrowing when he realizes that Phil is pushing him. He never pushes, not unless it’s important, and Tommy is pretty sure that this isn’t. If Phil wanted to spend time with him that badly, couldn’t they do it at home?

Apprehension slams into Tommy, and he shifts, sitting upright in his seat. 

Wilbur acting strange only to return to normal once he leaves; Phil proposing every activity under the sun so long as it’s away from the house—

They don’t want him to go home. 

And, it doesn’t make sense, not really, because Tommy doesn’t think he’s done anything to warrant a change, but maybe he doesn’t need to. 

Dream’s words repeat, loud in his head—always loud, no matter how much Tommy wishes he’d go away— How long until they realize that you’re broken? It calls, How long until they cast you aside?

He expected this to come sooner, in the first few weeks after he returned home. Maybe he’d break something, or lie, or take something he shouldn’t, and then they’d throw him out, but they didn’t. Tommy walked on eggshells for days until their soft reassurances sunk in, a direct attack on Dream’s predictions. They never got mad or grew frustrated with the way Tommy struggled. They accepted it—accepted him , and Tommy—who knew that Dream, with all of his bitter words, was lying—finally let himself believe that it wasn’t true. 

Did he do something wrong? Should he have waited longer?

The seatbelt stretching over Tommy’s chest suddenly feels a little bit too tight. He grabs it, pulling at the rough material. “Can we just go home?” he chokes out, careful to keep his voice steady. It lost all of that brightness he was clinging to. In its absence, he sounds like a child. “Please?”

Silence hangs between the two of them like a taut wire, shaking with every beat of Tommy’s heart. The music playing seems to warp around it, conforming to the irregularity, but not breaking it. Then, Phil sighs, casting a sympathetic glance over to his youngest. “Alright. Yeah, yeah we can do that.” 

The acceptance is reserved in a way that doesn’t help to ease the discomfort in Tommy’s stomach, especially when he notices Phil taking the long way home. It makes it worse. 

Tentatively, Tommy looks back out the window. Small flowers sprinkle the roadside, coming up in patches of green and yellow. He watches them pass by, his thoughts drifting to somewhere far off.

He doesn’t let himself hope for much anymore, not when it can all be taken away in the blink of an eye, but Tommy hopes he’s wrong. That much he allows himself. He hangs onto it like a lifeline, keeping it close as the car enters their subdivision. 

They pull into the driveway and roll past Techno and Wilbur’s cars to get into Phil’s spot. The vehicle goes quiet with the turn of a key—Tommy’s stomach flips alongside it. He’s pulling at the door handle before it can go again, eager to escape the closed space.

“Hey, Tommy! Wait!” Phil calls out. Tommy pauses halfway up the walkway, turning to watch as Phil clips his seatbelt off. He all but jumps out of the driver's seat, running up to meet his youngest. In his haste, he forgets to shut the door. “Would you come out back with me? I need some help moving stuff.”

The fresh air doesn’t help the tight feeling in his chest. It coils around his lungs like a snake, squeezing more every second Phil waits for a response. He just wants to go to his room and lay in bed. If he’s lucky, maybe he’ll be able to sleep. “Can we do it later?” He proposes. Ignoring the itching in his head that tells him there may not be a ‘later’. He spins around, already making his way up the porch before Phil can stop him. “I’m really tired and I just want to lie down.” 

“Hold on-“ Muffled arguing from the other side of the door cuts Phil off. He sighs and, under his breath, Tommy can hear him whisper, “Those little shits.” 

One of the voices is undeniably Wilbur, yelling about something Tommy can’t quite make out. He’s nervous, with a fluttering sort of feeling filling his chest that Tommy himself can feel. The other voice—much calmer than Wilbur—is Techno, who seems to be much more level-headed about whatever it is that set his brother off. 

Curiosity gets the best of him and Tommy opens the door. He wanders in, only to be met with a few pairs of glowing eyes.

Groups of phantoms glide aimlessly around the room, with the ones closest to the entrance pausing when they see the blond step into the house. They chirp excitedly and swarm Tommy in gentle affection. 

The chill they bring helps to chase away some of the heat on Tommy’s face. He whispers his hellos to the creatures, who chitter more in response until eventually, they go back to gliding around the room. Or—most of them anyway. One sticks around, settling on Tommy’s shoulder. Without looking, he knows it’s his crow. It's taken a liking to Tommy, always sticking close whenever Wilbur summons the creatures from the shadows

A loud groan attracts Tommy’s eyes to the living room ahead. “You fucking pricks can come together to attack enforcers and heroes but you can’t do this?” Wilbur’s in the middle of the room, balancing on a precarious-looking step stool as he attempts to direct the phantoms in hanging a banner. It’s a bright blue—one of Tommy’s favorite shades—and hangs oddly on the wall, clearly lopsided. ‘Party Time!’ is written across it in big, bold letters and-

Oh . 

Wilbur was never nervous, he was excited for a party . 

“Maybe they know that taking down government goons is more important than makin’ your life easy,” Techno drones. He’s sitting on the couch, head tilted back as he fiddles with a package of balloons. He grabs one and blows it up. “Or maybe they just like annoying you as much as I do.” He ties the balloon off and hits it in Wilbur’s direction. It bounces off his head.

Wilbur shoots him a green-eyed glare as Techno goes to grab another, completely oblivious to the two standing at the door until Phil snickers. Two pairs of eyes snap to them, shock filling their faces as they register Tommy standing there. 

“You weren’t supposed to be here yet,” Wilbur says. He narrows his eyes at Phil as the man gently closes the front door behind him. “What happened to distracting him?”

“Mate, I did my fuckin’ best, but he wanted to come home. I texted Techno.” 

With that, Techno becomes the new target. He grabs his phone, flicks it on, and reads a short message across the screen. “Huh, would you look at that.” 

The phantoms bristle, edges going sharp. Wilbur twists with a sneer. “I’m going to fucking-” 

“Wil.” Phil scolds.

Wilbur’s face softens as he plasters a smile on his lips. “Give you such a big hug,” He finishes. He hops off the stool, grabs Techno, and, much to his brother’s objections, wraps his arms around him in an awkward embrace.

“What is all this?” Tommy asks, so quiet that even the phantoms go still. It’s only then—when everything is frozen, that Tommy wanders further into the room. Streamers are hanging in the doorways, swinging with the air flowing through open windows. Balloons move along with them, but not as much. They cover the room, lying across the floor and floating in the corners of the room in a mismatched array of sizes and shapes. It’s all so colorful, so reminiscent of a life he had so long ago; lost in the years he spent hiding from monsters. 

“Surprise?” Techno half-grumbles, his cheek squished against Wilbur’s chin. He wriggles an arm up and pushes Wilbur’s head, breaking free from his brother’s hold.

“It’s your birthday,” Wilbur tells him, speaking slowly.  “We thought it’d be fun if we threw you a party.”

This is for him. The streamers, the balloons, the lopsided sign; all of it is for Tommy. 

The tangled ball of anxiety that gathered during the drive home unravels, giving way to near-instant relief. His shoulders fall with it, and Phil must mistake it for something else because his face twists with concern. “If you’re still tired, don’t worry about it, okay? You can go and rest-”

“No,” Tommy interrupts. 

“No?” 

“Fuck sleep,” The blond says. He reaches past the mess of emotions at his core, retrieving the version of himself that is normal. “I’m not letting you guys celebrate my awesomeness without me.” It’s been over a decade since he last had a birthday party. He barely remembers what they’re like, but he can recall the child-like joy that came with it all. “Did you get me presents?” 

“Don’t tell him the answer, Phil,” Techno whispers loudly, “He’ll tear the house apart looking for them and destroy our decorations.” 

Tommy gasps, scandalized. “You’re hiding my presents from me?” 

“I wouldn’t say we’re hiding them,” Wilbur teases. He comes forward and leans against the couch, chin resting in his palm. The phantoms still milling about the room retreat to the shadows as Wilbur’s eyes return to brown. “More like, they just aren’t here yet.” 

“You’re bullying me. This is bullying. Is there at least cake? Or are you going to gatekeep that from me too?” 

Something clicks down the hall, followed by light footsteps. “What kind of birthday party would it be if you didn’t have a cake?” Niki calls out. She emerges from a curtain of streamers, clearly happy as she goes to Tommy’s side. An arm is thrown around his shoulders, pulling him into her side. “I spent all night decorating, I can’t wait for you to see it.” Her side is warm as always, delightfully similar to the way she pulled him in on the first night he met Wilbur. “Happy birthday, Tommy.” 

Warmth blooms in his chest, but not at all like the bad, burning way it did earlier. It’s gentle, easy. Tommy enjoys it, he enjoys this. 

“Thank you, Niki,” He says, looking down at her, then to the living room. Wilbur peels away from the couch and grabs the step stool, moving it under the banner in an attempt to rehang it. As he does, Techno stands. 

There’s a hint of mischief in the furrow of his brow as he wanders over to the TV. He fiddles with a gaming console, connecting wires and pressing buttons until the screen lights up with a logo that's become synonymous with late nights and friendly bickering.

“Fuck yes! I call player one!” Tommy practically screams, the game unlocking something primal. He throws himself forward, barreling for the controller as Techno plucks it off the charging port first. “Hey!” 

“You know, I was looking into it and I learned that, statistically, the second player is most likely to win more rounds. I think it’s a psychological thing.” 

“You’re so full of shit. That’s my lucky controller, give it back.” 

“If you insist, ” Techno says, dangling it in front of Tommy’s face. He pulls it away before Tommy can grab it. “I’m just trying to look out for you like any good big brother would.”

More curses form on the tip of Tommy’s tongue, but Niki clears her throat, “C’mon Techno, it’s his lucky controller. You wouldn’t want to make him sad on his birthday.” She winks at Tommy, finding a spot on the couch. “I think you should hand it over and let him pick who he wants to play with. It’s fair, right Wil?” Wilbur nods absentmindedly, far too preoccupied with the banner to care about the conversation. 

“Bruh,” Techno tells Niki, “You were my friend first. Whatever happened to loyalty.”

“Birthday rules, Techno, I take them very seriously.” Reluctantly, the controller is handed over to Tommy. “Very good. Now, Tommy, who would you like to play with?” 

“Well, after very careful consideration, I’ve decided that I’d like to play with you Niki, since you’re clearly the nicest here.” He takes his usual spot on the couch and pulls his legs up, leaning his elbows on his knees. “Your kindness won’t save you though. You’ll have to practice–wait, Techno how did that go again? That thing you said?” 

Techno sighs, rubbing at his eyes as he recites, “If you wish to defeat me, you’ll have to train for another hundred years.” 

“Yea, that.” 

Niki nods, determined. “You’re on.”

They play competitively, racing down a track Tommy memorized weeks ago. He knows where the shortcuts are, and knows where he has to go for certain power-ups, and in the end, the knowledge helps him gain a considerable lead on the woman sitting beside him. She’s good too, it’s not her first time playing, but she hasn’t had nearly as much practice as the blond has. Predictably, he wins. 

They go again, then a third time, laughing and bickering about who’s the best the whole time. It must be entertaining because at some point the others sit too, each of them cheering one of the carts on as they drift around a curve or knocks the other off the track. 

The excitement of it almost makes Tommy forget his morning altogether; with Dream’s voice barely an echo in the deepest parts of his mind. Weariness is replaced with light adrenaline, fueled by the thrill of every lap. Here, in this moment, the only thing that matters is winning, not the lies of ghosts.

It’ll come back, it always does, but for now, the game is a welcome distraction.

At least, it is until a light rasp sounds against the door. 

It’s nothing at first. Tommy’s winning this round, and the only thing he cares about is staying ahead of Niki’s car. He doesn’t hear the knock—doesn’t see the looks thrown between Phil and his sons. 

His eyes are locked on the screen as Phil gets up, hurried steps carrying the older man to the door. 

A banana peel sends Tommy’s kart spinning across the track. “Shit!” He shouts. 

Whispers are exchanged between Wilbur and Techno, too quiet for Tommy to make out a single word. He does, however, feel the way Wilbur’s stomach turns, heartbeat thrumming with unease. It’s a stark contrast to the happy warmth from moments ago. 

The door opens a crack. Phil steps out.

“Go ahead and slip on a few more,” Niki says. She shifts in her seat, teetering on the edge of the couch as her kart approaches Tommy’s. “I could use a win.”

A spike of excitement pushes Wilbur’s worry aside, competition taking its place. “Don’t think so, I’m going four for four.” Tommy regains control and begins speeding up. Niki isn’t far behind him. She flies through a power-up, giggling as she throws a newly-acquired turtle shell ahead. It hits its mark, throwing Tommy’s player off the edge of the map. “Fuck off!” He shakes the controller in hopes of speeding up the rescue wait. “C’mon, c’mon! This is bullshit–!” 

“Hey, Tommy?” Phil calls. “Would you come over here please?” 

Help arrives, and Tommy is pulled back to the map. “Give me a minute, she’s about to pass me!”

“Mate, pause it. It’s important. You can pick it back up in a little bit.” There’s an odd lilt to the words, one that makes Tommy click the ‘pause’ button immediately. It’s not happy or nervous, but a weird mix of the two. 

He stands, leaving the controller behind on the couch as he twists around the side of the couch. Hurriedly, he pulls on a pair of red sneakers, not bothering to tie them. “I don't know what could be so important that it gets to interrupt me winning,” He murmurs, stepping out onto the porch. “I’m so close, Phil. If I lose because of this—” 

Phil moves to the side, and the complaint dies in Tommy’s throat when he sees the strangers on the walkway 

There are three of them altogether, with one—a shorter man wearing an old beanie and casual streetwear—exchanging hushed words with Phil. He looks comfortable; like he’s talking with an old friend or a co-worker, and Tommy figures that either could be true. He falls silent as Tommy emerges from the house.

The others stare with matching wide eyes. One of them, the taller of the two, just smiles wide. There’s friendliness there, sincerity and longing, and something about it radiates familiarity. The shorter one, on the other hand, looks almost surprised. His mouth hangs open, corners twitching upward in a small smile as he grasps the other man’s arm, shaking both of them in his excitement. The expression; the way he moves, it’s all so familiar, and Tommy can’t place why. Time fogs his memory, concealing a memory almost forgotten. 

Finally, the shorter one clears his throat. He lets go of his friend’s sleeve, stepping closer. 

“Hey.” It’s such a simple greeting, one Tommy hears every morning, and yet—

And yet the words pull away the curtain of fog. The unruly mop of brown hair; the lopsided smile; the endearing awkwardness he insisted he’d grow out of once he became a hero. It’s so clear now, and in addition to a man, Tommy can make out the remnants of a ten-year-old boy in his features. 

It’s a realization that makes the breath stop in Tommy’s throat. “Tubs?” He says it so quietly—as if the nickname is a secret between the two. Tubbo’s face crumples, collapsing with a watery laugh. He surges forward, jumping up the front steps and pulling Tommy into a tight hug.

“Hey, Tommy. Long time no see, yea?” 

“How are you here? How’d you get out?” 

“My mentor, Sam” he answers, “He gave me the option to go. I tried, really, really hard to be a hero like we talked about, but I just couldn’t. I was just tired of fighting alone, y’know?” Tommy knows. He knows it all too well. “I’ve been staying with Quackity for a while.” Quackity, the man with the beanie, Tommy figures. “I told you we’d find each other again,” Tubbo says quietly, chin digging into Tommy’s collarbone. “It took a while, but the team’s back together, just like the good ol’ days.” 

A shaky breath wrecks Tommy’s lungs and he opens his eyes, unsure of when he closed them in the first place. He squints through the tears blurring his vision, blue eyes landing on the taller one and finding the similarities. Strands of white litter the otherwise dark hair. It falls in a fluffy mess over his forehead, stopping right above mismatched eyes. “Ranboo? We thought you were–you disappeared,” Tommy stammers, confused. 

Hesitantly, Ranboo wanders closer. “I’m here,” he says, and his voice is different, so much deeper than Tommy recalled, “I don’t really remember how–it’s all kinda fuzzy, but– Yea, um,” he pauses, eyes darting everywhere before settling on the ground, “Uh, I like your shoes.” A hollow sort of laugh escapes Tommy’s chest. 

“Thanks, big man. They’re all mine.” With one arm firmly around Tubbo’s back, he reaches out with the other. Ranboo takes it and yelps as he’s pulled in. “I missed you guys.” 

“We missed you too,” Tubbo replies, voice muffled. “I looked for you everywhere after the news about Red Death broke, but there was nothing. I thought I was the only one left ‘til I found Boo with a squad of enforcers.” 

A scoff behind them makes Tommy perk up. He cranes his neck, looking over to Quackity. “Fuck the commission,” he mutters, “Kudos to Inferno for finally trying to turn that shit show around. Took him long enough.” Phil shushes him, jabbing the man with his elbow as he stares fondly at the three boys.  

“You guys did this?” Tommy asks, already knowing the answer. He’s come to learn that, despite seeming like a small group of three, the Syndicate has connections all over the city.

Phil shrugs, “It was nothing really. We just had to pull a couple of strings is all.” His heart swells, so full of happiness and relief and love that he can’t even think. He pulls away from his friends and twists, barreling into Phil’s chest without a second thought. ‘ It was nothing,’ repeats in his head. Somehow, it only makes him cry more. Doesn’t Phil know that this—his friends, this family—is all he’s ever wanted? 

“Happy birthday, Tommy,” His dad whispers, squeezing his arms around his son. If Tommy concentrates, he can almost see the rippling effect of magic concealing wings as they close around them. 

They stand there for a moment, a display of raw, unbridled love for anyone to see, and then Phil shifts. His next words are louder, meant for everyone, “What do you say we take the party inside? Tommy can introduce you boys to his brothers and then you could catch up over some cake.” Phil opens the door, waving the group in. 

Quackity goes first, his arrival greeted by Wilbur, who simply says his name over and over in a pitch so high it makes even Tommy’s ears hurt. Tubbo goes next, followed closely by Ranboo, and then Phil goes in, leaving Tommy on the porch. 

He watches muffled introductions through the open door. There was a time when he thought the house looked boring, bland. Now, he’s come to love the beige on the siding, the plainness of the front door.

“Are you alright?” Phil asks, looking back. 

Tommy smiles. “Yeah, I’m great.” He steps inside, happy to know that his family is waiting for him inside. “Let’s have some cake.” 

It’s late when Tommy wakes. 

There’s no reason as to why. The house is quiet, his room is dark, and Tommy is calm. A quick check of his phone and he sees that it’s only been an hour or two since he went to bed. 

The day’s festivities combined with the early morning left him too tired to watch the movie his family selected, so he elected for an early night instead. He’s still tired, the sleepiness so heavy it makes it difficult to keep his eyes open. It weighs them down, and Tommy is content to just drift off for a few more hours. 

He’s nearly fallen back into it when he feels a tug inside his chest, shaking him awake from the inside. It keeps pulling for a moment, beckoning Tommy out in the hall. He stays put, gathering fistfuls of blankets to his cheek as the thrum fades into something lighter, but still very much present. He shuts his eyes again, hoping that if he tries hard enough, sleep will be easy, but, like a fly buzzing around a silent room, the feeling is difficult to ignore. 

So, he gets up, if only to put an end to the annoying feeling keeping him awake.

Tommy wanders out of his open door with a blanket wrapped around his shoulders, unsure of where he’s going. He just follows the pull. 

His steps are wobbly as he makes his way down the hall and into the living room, eventually making his way to the back door. Wilbur paces the patio on the other side. It’s a slow sort of walk, quiet and calm as he makes his way from one end of the patio to the other as if he’s just drifting along the hardwood. Mindlessly, Tommy twists the doorknob. The early April air bites at his nose and, almost immediately, Tommy wishes he brought a heavier blanket. 

If Wilbur hears him, he doesn’t show it. He keeps walking, whispering lightly to himself as he goes. 

Tommy could leave him be. He could turn around and sneak back inside where it’s warm and comfortable and pretend that Wilbur’s not standing out here like a madman. It’d be easier…but where’s the fun in that? 

“Hey,” he rasps, voice still scratchy in that ‘I’m tired’ way.

Wilbur startles, jumping. “Fuck–” He gasps, spinning on his heel. He registers Tommy standing on the top step and breathes a sigh of relief, raising his hand to his heart. “I didn’t know you were up. You scared the shit out of me.”

“I wasn’t,” Tommy yawns. “A certain dickhead was thinking so loud it woke me from my slumber.” 

The man’s brows pinch. He tilts his head, confused for a second before he remembers their bond. “Oh right, that. Sorry.”

Tommy sits, lowering onto the step with a soft grunt. He pulls the blanket tighter around his shoulders. It doesn’t help. “No big deal. Why are you up?”

A tinge of heat bleeds through the connection, embarrassment clear in the way Wilbur wraps his arms around his middle. “Just… thinking.”

“‘Bout villain shit?” 

Wilbur stops his pacing to fill the spot at Tommy’s side. He sits, so close his shoulder is touching Tommy’s. Somehow, Wilbur is warm, comfortably so. Tommy leans into it, gaze falling to the ground as Wilbur drawls, “More like everything else.” 

“Ah, so life shit.”

“Yeah, life shit.” A beat, then, “You know, a year ago you would’ve caught me out here with a cigarette in my hands. They were nice on nights like these.” 

Tommy hums, “Not tonight?” 

“Nah, I quit.” Tommy looks up, snapping a puzzled expression up to Wilbur. 

For as long as he’s known him, Wilbur smoked. Sure, maybe he’d never done it in front of Tommy, but the scent had a way of following him. Some nights, Tommy would hear the man’s door creek open and would watch as his brother crept through the hall and out the back. He figured it was just him hiding the habit. He hadn’t known. 

Wilbur must sense his confusion, because he clears his throat, speaking a little more clearly, “A while ago actually. After everything you did for me, I figured I’d be an asshole if I didn’t stop, you know?” 

“It would be pretty shitty.” The comment is meant to be a joke, an acknowledgment seeking a laugh in response. Instead, it comes off more solemn. Wilbur had quit not only for himself but Tommy too. It’s such a small thing, so simple, and somehow, it fills him with something akin to hope. 

For what, he doesn’t know. 

“Hey, I um, forgot to give you something earlier. Things got so busy and I lost track of time, so I was going to wait until tomorrow to give it to you. If you’re up for it, I can bring it out now.” Slowly, Tommy nods. He hadn’t been expecting anything else, not when the day had already been so perfect. “Alright, wait here.” Wilbur springs to his feet and hurries inside, taking his warmth with him. Without it, a passing breeze sends a shiver down Tommy’s spine.

The night is nice, safe for the cold. The sky is clear and the moon is full, painting the world in a luminous glow. The large oak rustles with the wind, its blossoming branches tapping against one another to fill the silence. 

Winter had been so dull, so quiet, and now that the first signs of spring are beginning to show, Tommy can’t wait to see it all grow—can’t wait to see the garden blooming with color life. 

Approaching footsteps and the opening of a door mark Wilbur’s return. He sits back down, quicker this time, and hands over a thin, square-shaped box covered in poorly folded wrapping paper. Tommy looks over quizzingly, unsure of whether or not he should open it. Wilbur replies with a nod. “It’s not much, but I thought it’d be something you’d like.”

The blond tears the paper away without a care of the mess he makes. After, he is left with a sleek, black cover. He opens it slowly, relying completely on the moonlight above to illuminate the objects inside. The light catches on glossy grooves, and upon a closer look, Tommy can make out two, black discs sitting inside. “Are these…records?”

Wilbur offers a hand and Tommy gives the cover over immediately. He turns it over, letting one of the discs fall out of its sleeve. “I had them custom-made. At first, I was only going to do one, but there ended up being way too many songs I wanted to include. It’s kind of a mix of everything you like, plus a few more I’ve been meaning to show you.” He hands the disc back. 

“Woah.” 

“Yeah? You like it?” 

“Like it? Wilbur, this is so fucking cool!” He looks over the tracklist printed on the inside, pointing to each with a child-like wonder that doesn’t get old. 

With a grin, Wilbur watches. He explains every song, going into detail about why he picked it and when Tommy had first listened to it. There’s a story for everything—an explanation, an experience. It’s almost like walking through their friendship, one tune at a time. 

They explore the second disc with the same excitement as the first until finally, both records are returned to their sleeves. “What’d you think of today?” Wilbur asks him, “Did we throw you the best birthday ever?” It draws the corners of Tommy’s mouth up. 

Even after he’d escaped the tower the first time, his birthday wasn’t something he celebrated. It was just another day. He was happy with that, especially when it used to mean challenge and uncertainty. “Not a lot of competition, big man, but it was definitely one of the better ones. Thank you.” 

“You don’t need to thank us, we just wanted to make you happy.” Wilbur looks up at the stars. “Tubbo and Ranboo seem like good kids.” 

“They are.” Tommy breathes a soft laugh, “I used to throw so much stuff at Ranboo. Carrot sticks, pencils, whatever I could get my hands on really, just because I knew it annoyed him. He’d take it for a while, but I knew I got to him whenever he’d take my stuff and put it up on the dresser since he was the only one that could reach that high.”  He runs his thumb over the seam of his blanket, recounting the way he and Tubbo would push their beds together to retrieve the stolen items. Once Ranboo disappeared, the space above the dresser stayed empty, collecting only dust. 

“I wouldn’t be here if it weren’t for them,” Tommy confesses. That program was—” he pauses, feeling a lump form in his throat. “It ruined a lot of good kids. Most of them had never spent a night away from home, and suddenly they’re surrounded by strangers that don’t care. No one held your hand; no one helped you through the hard nights. I don’t think I would’ve made it through if I didn’t have them with me.” A pang of sadness hits his heart. He isn’t sure if it’s his or Wilbur’s.

“I think you could’ve. You’re strong. It’s one of the first things I realized about you.” He lets the words hang in the air, waiting for a response from Tommy that never comes. “You know,” he says, “We found Tubbo and Ranboo. If you wanted, we could try to find your parents too.” He huffs, amused by his next thought before voicing it. “Who knows, maybe you have a whole family out there that you don’t even know about.” 

A whole family. A mother, father, maybe even siblings. 

Tommy had tried to find them once. His free time in those first few days was spent digging through phone books and old records, looking for any sign of the family he’d been stolen from so many years prior. He’d wonder about the middle district as discreetly as he could until eventually, he came across a familiar mailbox at the end of a familiar walkway. 

The house was the same as the day he left it. Sure, there were newer-looking cars in the driveway, but it’d been nearly a decade, and some things were bound to change. 

He walked up to the door, questions raging in his head. Would they recognize him? Is his room the same? Had they missed him? It played on loop as Tommy waited with a closed fist hovering over the door. 

And then he knocked. 

Someone—a woman who must’ve been his mother—shouted from the other side, ensuring him that he’d be right there. Tommy waited, unable to contain his excitement as the footsteps got closer. The knob twisted, door opening a crack and—

And, he hadn’t recognized the brown-haired woman before him. She was a stranger, the owner of the home his parents no longer lived in. 

Maybe they’re out there. Maybe they moved away and are living on the beach or in a cottage, living a life that’s almost perfect, but Tommy isn’t a part of that. 

He’s not the same boy they said goodbye to twelve years prior. He’s not the hero they wanted him to be. He may be theirs in blood, but Tommy is a stranger to them as much as he was to the woman that opened the door. 

“I already have a family,” Tommy says. “You, Tech, and Phil, you’re my family, even if-” He chokes on the words, the next part feeling like knives against his throat as he forces it out. He struggles to hear his voice. “Even if someday you decide otherwise.” 

“What?” Wilbur freezes, tension rising in his shoulders. Tommy can feel the brunet’s eyes on him; a burning gaze he knows he can’t bear to look at. 

“You were being weird this week and, I don’t know, I thought that maybe, somehow, you’d gotten tired of me.” 

“Tommy, you know-” 

“It was stupid? Irrational? Paranoid?” There are more ways he could describe it, more words he can use to articulate exactly how ridiculous he was being. “Yeah, I know. But I also grew up in a way where, no matter how hard I tried, I was never good enough. I’m too loud, too needy, too selfish.” The words are falling out of his mouth so fast his lungs squeeze, begging for air. He takes a slow breath. “He told me that no one loves a person like that, and a part of me was afraid that if I show too much, you guys won’t want me to stay anymore.”

Tommy’s eyes burn with tears he refuses to let fall. He will not cry. Not over the insults he now knows are nothing but lies. 

Wilbur wraps his arm around Tommy’s shoulder and pulls him in, tucking the boy into his side as if he’s always belonged there. “But, Tommy, those are things we love about you.” He says it so gently, and a part of Tommy shrivels. He purses his lips, shaking his head. “We would never throw you out for being who you are.”

Tommy grips the edge of the blanket. He drops his voice to a whisper, letting it fall lower and lower as if it’ll lessen the weight of it all. “I don’t believe you.” 

And there it is, the truth. 

It’s ugly, and scary, and feels so much like betrayal because—

Because they’ve given him everything he could ever ask for and no matter how hard he tries, he can’t understand why.

“That’s alright,” Wilbur tells him. He brushes a hand over Tommy’s face, wiping away some of the tears that have managed to fall down his cheeks. “We’ll show you. We’ll show you however many times we need to until you do.” 

Tommy slumps, relief flooding through him, washing away the tension built up from years of constant rejection. He nods into his brother’s shoulder, soaking up the warmth from his skin.

Wilbur, who could be called many things, was not who lied to Tommy; not anymore. He had promised to be honest that night on the docks, and he had stayed true to that every night since. 

Where there is horror in something as simple as the truth, there is also comfort. There is beauty, and freedom, safety.

There is security.  

This, he thinks, knowing that it’s true, is right. 

This is home.