Chapter Text
It wasn't supposed to be like this.
He's their baby brother, he was supposed to stay sparkly with his big, bright, blue eyes and cheesy, toothy grins.
He was supposed to be the innocent one, the one they defend from local bullies and the one who buries his face in a pillow when there's a bloody scene in a horror movie, ranting about something to do with the fact he's a big man and he is not scared.
He's the baby, the one they used to sing to sleep – terribly out of tune – in hopes that he would finally “shut the fuck up and sleep goddamnit!" (as Wilbur so expertly put it).
The one they all cheered for when he took his first steps and yelled at when he almost ran straight into a lake while chasing what he said was a moth, but was probably a butterfly.
He was the one Wilbur ran to when he wanted a hug because “Dad’s too busy and Techno’s a bitch."
Or the one Techno would show his favourite stories because, “Dad’s too old to understand and Wilbur's a bitch."
He was the one Phil rolled his eyes at fondly when he wacked Wilbur with his pillow, shouting that “he's not a baby and he is not scared of the movie… Bitch!” then starting a pillow fight between the three brothers.
None of them could tell you how that movie ended.
But this boy: this man in front of Phil. This is not his Tommy. This man is more machine than human, with tired eyes and a weary smile.
Whether he means to or not, he stands like a robot: facing straight ahead with feet shoulder length apart, hands resting on his thighs.
His arms have slight muscle on them and his fingers are calloused – like Wilbur with his guitar, but also not.
His eyes, once a glistening blue, once sparkling like the ocean, look sunken in. Like a shipwreck with no gold, exhausted and useless.
His smile looks rehearsed, like clockwork, as if the cogs in his head are old and rusting, trying to remember how to quirk his lips up in the right way.
But it's not right, not at all.
It doesn't give off the same childish cheekiness that Tommy’s smile did. His smiles used to light up a room, like a ray of sunshine, but now it's like witnessing a robot trying to take a bath or a pirate attempting the tightrope.
It's not right.
The man tilts his head and speaks: “I'm home." he croaks, as if his voice hadn't been used in a while. Tommy would never sound like that, he could never shut up long enough to do so. It sounds monotone – like Techno with his full facade, but also not.
Phil tries not to flinch.
Wilbur moves first, quickly rushing forward to bring his brother – his Tommy – into a hug. Tommy does flinch. None of them mention it.
“The baby is home." Wilbur teases, smiling a smile that doesn't reach his eyes. Tommy would have laughed, would have pouted dramatically and shoved his brother off.
This man – this robot – does neither.
He smiles that none-smile and buries his face in Wilbur's neck. He's taller than he was, standing only a few inches shorter than his older brother, so he's easily able to reach.
When Tommy was younger, Wilbur would pick him up and Tommy would wrap his spindly legs around him, having to hug Wilbur that way.
Then when Wilbur sat down, Tommy still wouldn't let go. The two would sit there for hours, originally out of stubbornness, eventually out of comfort.
And it was comforting, it was comfort and warmth, of whispers that would never be repeated and affection that could only be found through a brother.
The man's hugs – sorry, Tommy's hugs – are cold.
Techno is next. It's rare for the eldest to hug anyone, to show affection, to drop the monotone, dull facade that's represented Techno for year's.
So Tommy hesitates, blinking his weary eyes at his older brother – his Techno – until eventually he has to sign and open his arms before the blonde steps into them.
They look around the same height now, maybe Tommy is slightly taller. It's what he had always wished for, what he would complain and whine about.
“I wish I was as tall as you." the eight year old stretches his arms toward the monkey bars.
“One day, you won't be able to do that." the thirteen year old pouts, watching the oldest hold the TV remote way out of his reach, "Dad says so.”
The hug isn't awkward, Techno had expected it to be awkward but it wasn't. They were brothers after all.
After one last silent squeeze Tommy steps away, turning to Phil with a nervous expression.
Out of the corner of his eye, Phil notices Wilbur and Techno share a look over the youngest’s head.
He doesn't pay attention though, he just continues watching his son – his Tommy – with a look in his eye none of the brothers could place.
“Oh Tommy." he sighs, and the blonde breaks. He collapses into his dad's arms with a sob, leaning all his weight against the older man.
Phil doesn't take a step back or stumble however, because he's used to it, he's used to the powerhouse that is Tommy.
He's used to the hugs that feel more like Tommy ramming into his chest than an embrace. He's used to the blonde inhaling strongly in his arms because – as he confessed on a delirious night when he was too tired to realise what he was saying – Phil always smells like home.
Tommy's sobs shake his entire body violently and Phil has to grip on tightly to stop him from crumbling in his arms.
Suddenly Tommy isn't a robot, or clockwork that can't be fixed, or a ship that will never come up to the surface.
He's Tommy. He's so undeniably Tommy that Phil wonders how he ever thought he was different.
He's not broken or wrong or unfixable, because Death would have to drag Phil to hell herself before he would let anyone break his boy.
Tommy is different, sure. He's skinnier and his eyes are wearier and he's missing the sparkle that would make his smile light up a room.
But he's still glowing. He still shines brighter than any star ever could.
“I'm scared." Tommy whispers, a confession that only Phil could hear. “I know." he whispers back, voice cracking. “But you're safe, I promise." and he can only pray that Tommy believes him.