Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“You think this’ll be your fourth in a row, mate?” Phil asks, tilting his head up, presumably to get a better look at Wilbur’s determined eyes, narrowed at the sign that reads Manburg Open in bold at the head of the building.

His own hands land on his hips, lungs filling with air as his nostrils take in the familiar, plasticy although still strangely comforting scent of the fields nearby accompanied by the distant noise of shoes squeaking buzzing in his ears. “I don’t see why not, Phil,” he says with surety, and yes, maybe it’s what he's been saying in response to that same question for the past three years, but it’s been working, so can you really blame him? 

“Maybe it would be true if you actually decided to put some effort into your backhand volley.” Niki teases from his other side, and Wilbur can hear the smirk in her voice. Phil chuckles good naturally, hands in his pockets.

“I do put work into my backhand, Niki, you just haven’t seen me do it.” Wilbur rebuttals, grinning. It’s only half of a lie, really.

“Mhm.” Niki hums, causing Wilbur to roll his eyes while still retaining the confident smile on his face. She’s teasing, they both know it. 

Four years ago, he still would have laughed. Played it off and put on a smile and then do what he does best. But he would have felt it.

Despite everything- Wilbur isn’t that confident of a guy. His biological parents did an astounding job of knocking that right out of him, and while Phil has done his best to rebuild it, there are still cracks- hairline fractures- in places where there shouldn’t be. 

He’s good- great, even, at masking this fact, but it still finds ways to gnaw at his brain and cause him to doubt himself. 

But once he got out there, it was nothing that he ever could have imagined.

Because Wilbur is great at pretending he isn’t nervous- but he’s a shit ton better at tennis.

Twelve years ago, little twelve-year-old Wilbur would have killed to see him right about now. Would he have believed it? No, not in a million years would he have thought he would be standing anywhere near here without his bio parents controllingly at his side and his ‘coach’ on the other.

This time, he feels nothing of the sort. Determined, obviously, but more than anything, excited.

A few stares from around the parking lot he receives remind him yet again that he isn’t just some guy from L’Manburg anymore, he’s Wilbur Soot.

It took Phil three failed attempts before his first win (of many), and look at him now. (Well- not playing anymore, but still. If only three-quarters of the people watching one of the top tennis competitions in the world know him, all of them know Phil.)

It took Wilbur one.

“Let’s check in, yeah?” Phil suggests, nudging his arm and knocking him out of his thoughts.

Wilbur’s lungs fill with one last breath as he adjusts the strap of his duffle over his shoulder, and then nods with a grin.

“Yeah.”

—

“You really think that’s necessary, Wil?” Phil asks, raising a brow with a smile.

Wilbur scoffs in mock offence. “Of course it’s necessary, Phil. How else will I obtain my power?” he jokes, already stepping towards the vending machine containing the Powerade across the room. “I’m also twenty-five years old Phil, I can buy as much Powerade as I want.”

Phil lets out an exasperated sigh, stuffing his hands in his pockets and sliding the key cards from their hotel rooms towards him as Niki thanks the receptionist. “Alright then, mate. You’re… 344 on floor five, I’m 346 and Niki is 345 if you need us,” he tells him, passing over Wilbur’s keycard.

The smooth plastic of it is only resting in his palm for a moment before he stuffs it in his pocket. “Alright, see you guys!” He waves as the two take off into the elevators, ignoring the stares that are likely for more reasons than one as he strolls over to the vending machine and prepares his wallet while in the line of a few people he recognizes as opponents.

It doesn’t faze him.

Maybe it would another guy, but ever since he escaped the clutches of everything before Phil, he’s always found it a lot easier to play the game on the court and keep it there. Outside of the swing of his racket and the squeaking of shoes, ‘enemies’ become just regular old guys.

That’s the way he sees it, at least. 

It isn’t long before the line has dissipated and he’s standing at the front, leaning down and pressing his hands against the side of the machine to steady himself in order to find the number of the orange Powerade.

B21, he reads, humming to himself as he presses his fingers into the buttons and-

“Who the fuck is buying orange Powerade in this day and age?” a voice blurts from behind him.

What?

He freezes in place with his thumb a centimetre above the 1, completely unmoving before his brain shuts off, restarts, and then reloads in order to comprehend.

He blinks a couple of times before realizing there has to be a source of whatever the fuck has just been said to him, so-

So he whips his head around.

So he whips his head around, brows furrowed in not quite anger and mouth hanging open in confusion to see-

A child.

There is- there is a literal child, no more than seventeen, standing behind him who has just insulted his beverage of choice with the least hesitation he’s seen from anyone ever.

“What did you just say?” leaves his lips before he can help it, the words already half-formed on his tongue before he even saw the boy's face, the harshness they’re soaked in unintended but still very much there.

It is only after he says them that he notices and evaluates the state of him.

Pristine, obviously freshly ironed white shirt with the Manburg Open logo plastered into the pocket of it and maroon tennis shorts, causing Wilbur to come to the quick conclusion that he is, in fact, a ball boy, but most importantly that he’s absolutely terrified.

Wilbur immediately feels a pang of guilt in his chest at the fact that that may be his fault, but-

Maybe it’s because he’s clearly a kid, but this isn’t the usual reaction he receives when someone has inconvenienced him and then they realize that it’s, y‘know, him. What he normally gets is a few flustered apologies the second after it happens and then both of them move on with their days, but this is just plain old strange.

Wilbur stares blankly, unsure of what to do as the kid’s posture goes completely, uncomfortably slack and his chest rises and falls irregularly.

Sure, what he said was rude as hell, but Wilbur would be lying if he said he doesn’t find it at least a little bit funny. He’s not about to go into the whole ‘I’m rich and famous and I miss it when people would treat me normally’ spiel, but god, when was the last time somebody talked to him like that? 

“I- I mean whaaat?” the boy says with an awkward chuckle after a moment of silence “Who said that?” The boy tugs at his collar, his tone light enough to appear calm to a bystander, but Wilbur can easily tell otherwise.

He’s the only one who could have said it, obviously, Wilbur is sure of this because there is not a single soul other than him in line behind him, and-

“Sorry.” the boy mutters when he doesn’t respond. His voice is lacking any of the colour it held previously and eyes that Wilbur’s pretty sure were blue before they snapped away from him are staring intently at his shoes, his fringe nearly covering them.

At his words, Wilbur comes to the realization that he still looks completely flabbergasted, and resolves to say the very first thing that comes to mind. “Well what were you planning on getting?” He questions, silently hoping it’s enough for the kid just to calm the fuck down.

His head immediately snaps back up, looking at Wilbur like he’s the weird one here for a second before he adopts an expression Wilbur can’t name. “Blue, obviously.” He answers, albeit a little hesitant.

“What’s the matter with orange, then?” Wilbur asks, finally putting on a small, amused smile and raising a brow, now fully turned to face the boy.

“What’s wrong with orange?” He repeats as if offended by the question, slipping back into what Wilbur assumes to be his natural tone of voice so quickly it nearly gives Wilbur whiplash. But- he still can’t help but notice the tenseness the blonde holds himself with, as if waiting for something at any moment. He gets rid of that train of thought fast, swiftly reminding himself that he doesn’t know this kid at all, and the chances he’ll see him again are slim to none. “What isn’t wrong with orange? It’s just shit, innit?” 

“Alright child, have fun with your blue, then,” Wilbur says, ignoring the indignant noise from behind him and turning to, y’know, get his drink and all. He leans down and grabs it smoothly, grinning to himself as he cracks open the top and takes a hefty sip, walking away without another thought.

—

Everyone is expecting Wilbur to win. 

He keeps away from the sports channels as much as he can, but it definitely doesn’t help when it’s all they play in every lobby in this place, and all they ask about in interviews he begrudgingly participates in.

He won’t lie- it’s the majority of what he’s thinking about as well.

And so far, it’s what he’s doing. He won’t go as far to say it’s easy for him as he wins the first match with flying colours, barely breaking a sweat, but there’s a certain confidence that washes over him as he stands on the other side of the court to an opponent in knowing that he’s better than them.

In the early matches, it’s easy to believe that with the fact that he’s a seeded player, meaning that he won’t be playing any of the other thirty-one top players for a bit. And while it's possible he’ll face the next him, or worse, Phil, it’s unlikely.

He doesn’t see that boy from the vending machine for the next few days while his first games are played, and in fact, he hardly even thinks about the interaction.

It’s easily pushed to the back of his mind in favour of other things with more weight than the slightly odd reaction to something he said. Phil suggests, as Wilbur is sipping on his Powerade with the memory fresh in his mind, that the kid is just one of those ‘super fans’ or something like that and got spooked by the sudden sight of him, but-

Wilbur only doubts it for a second, frowning before he shrugs it off and carries on with his day, not thinking twice about it.

That is, until his third game of the tournament.

He wipes his wrist along his forehead, the towel-like material of his wrist band soaking up the sweat beading into his brows above narrowed eyes. 

He fishes out a ball from his pocket, lifts it up, and like second nature-

Bounce.

Bounce.

Bounce.

Inhale.

Hold.

Up,

Down,

Exhale.

Swing.

Hit.

The motion is so familiar to his limbs that he could do it in his sleep.

Wilbur watches, squinting under the glare of the sun as the ball bounces once, and then as his opponent- Barton something or other- swings.

He lowers his arm before his opponent even moves to whack it, already knowing he’s going to go right past it and subtly pumping his arms when he does, and in turn, wins the set.

For the brief pause he has in between sets, he allows his ears to tune into sounds other than the repetitive ones of the court to the all-encompassing and rather overwhelming chorus of cheering mixed in with the speakers relaying his own performance back to him.

In other words, he snaps back into reality.

Since he picked up a racket, so pretty much his entire life, simply swinging has had the sensation of a whole other plane of existence. He’s completely aware that that sounds cliche as hell, but even when his ‘parents’ tried their very best to stamp out any amusement, the rush that came with the sport, it was the only place he felt really and truly real.

It was different back then, he supposes, but even today, all he has to do is swing and he’s home.

It’s not an unconscious state of mind by any means, just so focused that it looks like it.

Tucking his racket under his forearm, he unscrews his water bottle and downs nearly half of it, rehashing in the feeling of the cool liquid sliding down his throat before he screws the lid back on and catches Niki and Phil out of the corner of his eyes.

They’re still clapping from the front rows while the majority of the crowd has ceased in preparation for the second and most likely final set of the match.

He flashes them a small grin before he turns away, rolling his wrists and adjusting his grip on the racket as he tunes out the access noise and steadies his feet back on the court.

Air fills his lungs once more, and then he plays.

It’s all a blur in the moment before he has time to analyze it later until he’s twisting his racket in his hands, brown eyes latched relentlessly onto the ball in the other man’s hands.

He can’t see it clearly in his head just yet, but he’s acutely aware of the fault ‘Barton’ made just ten seconds previously and the reassuring 40-15 that sits clear on the scoreboard he can see from his side of the court- not that he really needs it. He is also acutely aware of the double fault that he’s about to make, the slight, almost unnoticeable tremor to his hands and how ungrounded his feet seem on the floor.

Wilbur doesn’t miss a beat.

Bounce.

Up,

Down,

Swing.

Hit.

Bounce.

Bounce.

Bounce.

The sound of the ball rolling away to the left, missing Wilbur’s service box by half a meter is immediately staunched by a racious applause that pours into his ears almost oppressively, his arms pumping in the air as a grin overtakes his face and he turns to his left.

As to be expected, both Niki and Phil are cheering just as loudly as the rest, shouting praises he can hardly make out over all the noise.

Phil stands up first as Wilbur’s feet move on their own accord, stepping over to them both and his coach throwing himself into the hug Wilbur was already about to give him, followed by Niki.

He lets go after a minute, setting Niki back down onto the ground, still smiling wildly.

“Good game, mate.” Phil congratulates, leaning over and patting his arm with a proud smile bright on his face. 

Niki nods in agreement with a hum as Wilbur automatically begins reliving the match in his head, of course not as vividly as it was in the moment, but still able to mark his faults where they lie.

“I think that volley still needs some work,” he admits, shifting his gaze down towards where his hands are twisting his racket after reliving the six points in total that had been scored against him.

Niki’s grin turns teasing, and Wilbur can sense the comment before it’s made. “Told you so.” 

Wilbur chuckles, the smile returning full force to his face. “Yeah yeah,” he says, rolling his eyes as the sound of people beginning to clear out of the stands washes over them. “Not like either of you have offered to play me.”

“I’m retired, Wil, you know that.” 

“True. Would be a shame if playing… y’know Niki, since he’s so old and all.” Wilbur pretends to mutter towards Niki.

Niki lets out a chuckle, shaking her head as Wilbur gulps down the last of his water and sets the bottle down on the ground next to his feet. “You could get one of the ball boys to, if you’re so desperate.” she jokes, to which he snickers, absentmindedly bouncing one of the leftover balls on the ground with his racket. 

He doesn’t notice that Phil hasn’t been reacting to their banter, eyes focused somewhere else entirely before he speaks.

“Hey, isn’t that that kid you were talking about?”  Phil says suddenly when Wilbur stands back up, nodding somewhere over his shoulder. “The one with the Powerade?” 

Wilbur immediately twists to follow his line of sight, and sure enough, there he is, putting a singular tennis ball into one of the buckets as the last few stragglers clear out of the court. 

“Oh, yeah. Guess it is.” he shrugs, letting the ball bounce up once more and land in his palm.

He’s lanky, incredibly so, something Wilbur didn’t notice in their first interaction because frankly, he was too concerned with his drink being insulted. But other than that… there are no noticeable features to him. Wilbur was clearly correct though, in him being a ball boy. The kid must have been on his side of the court for the game if Wilbur didn’t notice him, he figures.

All of them watch, completely silent, as he smoothly goes through the motions of packing up his things from the back of the court, his eyes never straying from either straight ahead of him, or his objective in the moment. The muscles of Wilbur’s face twitch into a small frown on their own accord, he’s not sure what at. The kid he doesn’t have a name for just looks… he doesn’t know. It’s none of his business, he has to remind himself, but-

He’s just blank.

There is no better way to describe the way his posture is too straight, how his strides and every movement of his limbs are as if they’ve been molded to perfection, how-

And then, emerging in his mind out of nowhere, an idea. 

He’s about to exit the court, bag slung over his shoulder and head held awkwardly high, so without consultation of his coach and trainer-

“Hey!” He calls, cupping his mouth with one hand and waving enthusiastically with the other. 

“I didn’t mean actually, Wil,” Niki explains with an unsure laugh, and while yeah, maybe it is a little impulsive of him, he just can’t help the curiosity bubbling up inside of him. 

He could say no for all Wilbur knows.

He watches as the blonde freezes in place where he stands, his stroll coming to an abrupt stop and maybe he’s seeing things, but if possible, he thinks that his posture goes even more upright.

“You!” he clarifies, still shouting and just now becoming irritated at the fact that he doesn’t have a name for him. 

Phil and Niki’s chuckles grow more and more unsure as they realize that he is not, in fact, joking.

After standing, frozen, for one odd moment, the boy twists his neck to reveal a starkly blank face.

No frown, no smile or any indicator of emotion that Wilbur can find except for a flash of something in his shaded eyes that’s too brief for him to gauge.

“Yeah, you! Powerade kid!” He clarifies, and the only indication of anything on the blonde’s face is the way his eyes shift to the side, almost as if conflicted, and then back to Wilbur and the others.

A singular blink is what follows before he turns on his heel to fully face the three, although still not making any move towards Wilbur. 

“What?” The boy says, his voice not leaning into being too loud or too quiet, it’s not even a shout, it’s more just there. It’s the same time he used when he apologized with his head hung low for the ‘Powerade incident’. Wilbur could only be able to name it ever so slightly distressed, but even that is based purely on a strange instinct that resides deep in his gut.

“Wanna play?” Wilbur asks. His arm lowers, finally becoming tired from the incessant and most likely unnecessary waving he’d been doing, but not before displaying his racket to further explain what he meant to the boy, who looks as though he’s trying very hard not to appear confused.

Or maybe that’s all in Wilbur’s head.

Nevertheless, and despite Phil and Niki’s subtle urges to talk him out of it that fall on unhearing ears, he continues when it looks like the boy is halfway to refusing and scurrying off. “Just a quick one.” He shrugs. “I won’t keep you for long. Maybe just one set.”

The court is entirely silent, not a single sound being ricocheted off equipment and blown along by the light breeze as the kid seems to push through the supposed confusion and to… consider.

Wilbur hopes, anyway. It almost makes unease pool in his gut, how empty he has looked up until this point.

It’s nearly unnoticeable, and it is completely silent as he shifts on the balls of his feet once, twice, three times, and then-

“Ok.” 

Wilbur grins again simply as the word, just the one, hangs in the air and then rolls off with the wind.

Maybe it’s the part of him that Phil calls ‘dramatic’ or whatever, but he swears that somewhere in that word was a microscopic twinge of fear.

He ignores that though, energy returned to his body as he begins to approach his side of the court. “Right then. Have you got a racket, Powerade kid?” He asks. “My trainer’s got another one if you don’t.”

He simply shakes his head, blonde hair shifting with the breeze as he shrugs his bag off his shoulder and unzips it in a practiced motion to reveal a racket model similar to one Wilbur has.

Brown eyes widen momentarily before returning to a normal state, brows furrowing. It’s not entirely odd that he has one of the most expensive rackets available, not at all. It’s an astonishing crimson red, a stark contrast to Wilbur’s electric teal one, he notices as he zips his bag up once again. Most ball boys play some kind of tennis- whether that be recreational or competitive- but this kid is what? Sixteen? Seventeen? If he’s some sort of big-shot climbing the junior rankings, Wilbur has yet to hear about him, but-

“Wilbur?” He hears called from his left, and swivels to face the voice just in time to see a ball being thrown at him. It lands in his palm with ease and he sends an appreciative glance to Niki before turning back to his now ‘opponent’, who looks a little bit like he’s marching into battle or something.

It’s the slightest bit odd, yeah, but he doesn’t look like he thinks he’s about to have a bad time either. Wilbur likes to imagine a glint of competitiveness shining in his eyes, and besides, everything about this kid has been just slightly off-kilter, so it can’t be anything to worry about, he reasons and wipes lingering sweat from his brow.

In all honesty, Wilbur is just plain old curious. He doesn’t have another explanation for himself other than that. He’s aware the game won’t last long, but still.

And besides, if Phil was right about him being a fan, maybe he’ll have fun.

The boy's eyes are set on him as he moves to the back of the court. 

“Do you want to serve?” Wilbur calls out, his voice travelling along the space. The boy’s expression doesn’t change or falter, the only indication that he heard Wilbur’s question being the shrug he gives.

Wilbur raises his arm back and throws him the ball anyway, watching as it bounces one before the blonde catches it cleanly without missing a beat.

“How’s one set sound?” Wilbur asks, raising a brow he doubts the boy can see from the distance as he takes his place behind the baseline. 

The kid shrugs again, although this time it’s with a small nod.

He gets himself into a serving position, holding the ball out before looking to Wilbur one last time, a silent question if he’s ready to go.

Wilbur nods, still grinning quietly. 

Without hesitation, he serves.

And- it’s a good serve. 

A really good serve.

Wilbur blinks, momentarily stunned as the ball moves seamlessly into his service box and bounces once before he swings at it with full force.

Wilbur doesn’t let the obvious skill get to him, it doesn’t phase him at all, really, but there’s a slight discomfort making its way into his muscles because there’s no way he had a serve that powerful at that age. 

The boy doesn’t blink, moving two steps forward to volley the ball back to him, racket held steadily in his hands-

He hits it with apparent ease, and Wilbur’s eyes track it as it goes up, peaking on the boy’s side of the court and a less experienced player might stay back, mistake it as a fault and stand still in ignorant bliss as the ball tips just over the net, but not Wilbur.

Brown eyes narrow, his mouth twitching into something that resembles a smile as he hits it back, trying to determine through an uneasy disbelief if that was simply a lucky mistake, or if he actually just hit one of the best drop shots Wilbur has ever seen.

The blonde looks completely indifferent to it, and maybe Wilbur might be able to make out any coherent emotion if he were a little closer up, but there’s a sinking feeling inside of him that he wouldn’t regardless of distance.

Wilbur shoots it back a meter to the left of him, still going a little easy on him because that would be tacky- an unprofessional and useless ego boost- besting a child without even giving them a shot.

It looks like he sees it before it’s coming for him, lanky limbs moving towards it the second Wilbur’s arm is in motion with a target rushing from his mind to his nerve endings.

During a match, Wilbur is good at gauging the next move of his opponent. He doesn’t play dirty, not anymore, but prediction is always something he’s been good at. Heightened with time and sharpened to a tea, he knows what the next move will be, what kind of player they are with a single glance and altering his own playing style to his advantage. That aspect had to be trained into him, sure, but his organic ability to know if they were aggressive or going to play the stealthy and preying on underestimating enemies game has always been the fuel.

So when the boy comes at it with a force Wilbur isn’t prepared for and definitely wasn’t expecting, something that’s usually is saving grace-

Swing.

Hit.

Up,

Run.

Swi-

Bounce.

Bounce.

Wilbur's mouth hangs open, an exasperated breath escaping his lungs as he stares at the ball bouncing off to hit the back of the court behind him, and then narrows his eyes as it rolls back to hit his feet innocently.

Did he just-

He twists frantically, turning to Phil and Niki and searching for an explanation as to how on earth a child, a literal child, managed to trick him into not being able to get to the back of the court in time to fight off the lob, and instead finding the exact same culmination of confusion and shock that must be on his own face.

Nearly in synch, all three sets of eyes turn to the boy he really should have a name for at this point.

And there he is, standing almost eerily still, innocent apathy stark on his face.

Wilbur opens his mouth and then shuts it multiple times, entirely at a loss because the last time someone did that to him was at finals last year. It had lost him the set at 6-6, and of course he pulled through to win the other two but-

He doesn’t know.

Maybe it was an accident, maybe he doesn’t know what he’s doing or maybe-

No.

Shutting his mouth for the last time, he leans down and bounces the ball back up with his racket before tossing it back to the blonde without another word, subconsciously tallying Love-15 in his head and rolling his shoulders back.

Regardless of whether the kid’s a prodigy or nothing, he refuses to be beaten by a child in the sport he’s been perfecting since he was four.

Without another look to his trainer and coach, he steadies himself behind the baseline, and lets his muscles take over.

He doesn’t really have time to think about it in the moment, or the irony of the statement, that is, the fact that he’s actually playing in an attempt not to have his reputation stamped on and obliterated by a child, all real thoughts being put on the back burner so he can focus.

It’s almost astonishing how much effort it takes for him to win the first game, and then the one after that, but-

He loses the next one.

The court is silent- has been since that move he pulled for the first point- as the boy wins the one after that as well.

His brows crease further with each one he doesn’t win until he’s losing, literally fucking losing to a child at 5-6, and suddenly, he’s regretting making this match happen in the first place. God, he regrets going to buy the Powerade at this point. 

He feels like he’s in a perpetual state of shock, struggling to process that, again, a child is beating a three-time Manburg Open winner and he’s trying.

Wilbur lets himself believe in the moment that that’s why it’s a tie, but it’s just-

There’s something in the way he plays that Wilbur can’t name.

30-love he notes in his head when the ball bounces behind his baseline behind him, and he’s winning but-

The ball hits the net, bouncing back towards him. 30-15.

It hits out of bounds, and the boy scurries over to retrieve it. 30-All.

He shakes out his hands after tossing it back from where it bounced twice on his own side of the court. 30-40.

He still seems unfazed when he faults after a wonky swing, but if Wilbur looks closely-

No.

None of your business.

Teeth calm down on his tongue, not hard enough to draw blood, but harsh enough to push his focus back into his grip on his racket. 

One more point and he will have lost to a child who hates orange Powerade. 

His lungs fill with fresh air as the boy positions himself to serve, and his eyes don’t dare to stray from the ball in his hands.

And then-

Up.

Swing.

Hit.

Bounce.

Hit.

Bounce.

Hit.

Bounce.

Swing-

His racket flies through empty, desolate air.

His racket flies through empty, desolate air.

His-

What the fuck.

Every bout of air he’s collected leaves his lungs in one, fell swoop, his arm still poised to swing.

Bounce.

The sounds comes from behind him, but his eyes remain staring breathlessly at the boy in front of him.

That’s game. 

He’s still standing completely still, and for a moment, Wilbur thinks that the blonde has counted the score wrong. There should be a reaction. He’s halfway to letting him know that he just fucking won, until he notices the absence of a stance. He is now upright, feet planted rigorously against the ground and legs unbent, and-

And that’s when he realizes that a child has just beaten him.

Chapter Text

Hit.

Bounce.

Hit.

Bounce.

Hit.

Bounce. 

Hit.

Bounce.

Bounce.

Bounce.

Tommy doesn’t know why he said yes.

Or- “Ok.”

Tommy blinks himself back to reality as the ball bounces into his sector at the left corner, masking his distraction with quick feet squeaking on the court towards it.

He doesn’t dare fumble the ball when it’s in his hands, retreating to his assigned place away from the crowd's line of sight cleanly, a job well done.

Back then, saying ‘Ok.’ in response to a question like that- that’s the type of thing that would get him slapped across the face with a racket that wasn’t his own, or maybe made to do drills until his arms felt like jelly and he could barely walk but at least he was learning-

No.

You’re not there anymore.

You’re not there anymore so it doesn't matter, stop thinking about it.

Inhale. Air fills deep in his lungs. Exhale. Breath let go and carried out into the open air.

Admittedly, he hasn’t really been paying much attention to the match going on under the glaring heat. Even so, after the first set is over and Tommy has been the only one on his side of the court to have a ball roll towards him, he can easily tell this is going to be a short match. 

That’s to be expected, he supposes. This is one of the first rounds for these players, just barely out of the qualifiers. With the random selection of newer players mixed in with the thirty-two ‘seeded’ players, ‘unfair’ pairings like Tommy is witnessing right now end up happening fairly early on.

‘It’s to get rid of the weak links first. The ones who don’t deserve to be there with a racket in their hands in the first place.’

Tommy blinks, inhales, and lets it carry out into the wind in a controlled exhale.

He doesn’t know why he said yes or why he followed through, stepping out silently onto the court against the three-time winner and defending champion of the Manburg Open so readily.

The familiar but not quite welcome daze had overtaken him like an old, bitter friend but somewhere distantly, he knows he won.

He didn’t fully come back to himself until he was back in his apartment and collapsing- fully clothed- onto his brick of a mattress, and it’s only that he knows he won because of the absence of panic thrumming through him. 

But still, Tommy doesn’t know why he said yes. Despite the fact that he keeps his racket on his person at all times simply because, he isn’t a tennis player anymore.

There was no audience, no observers, and no scrutinizing eyes, but he can’t help but take his extra time glancing around shaded corners and keeping his head hung low when he can.

And the truth is- he doesn’t know why. He wishes he did, god he wishes he did, but he’s drawing a blank.

And while we’re at it, why not go back a little further?

Tommy doesn’t know why he applied for this job.

Manburg is far enough from Logstedshire that he should be able to get by without being noticed or seen by anyone who cares, but-

He’s not a tennis player anymore.

He left that dream on blood-stained courts with shaking hands and in washrooms with the last remainder of it, golden blonde locks, flushed down the toilet.

Ball boys aren’t tennis players. They are only there for the sole purpose of assisting, but they’re closer to the players on the court than the fans in the stands behind them by a long shot.

He doesn’t know.

Even through the fog, there is a certain power, a rush of adrenaline fueling him when he plays, and doing so for the first time in a month feels dangerously good.

He wouldn’t- he wouldn’t call it fun. Tennis isn’t fun. It’s a sport. Sports aren’t meant to be fun and they’re definitely not meant to be enjoyed as a hobby.

But-

It’s the type of feeling that simply is, residing so deep inside of him that he doesn’t think he could shake it if he tried. It’s been lying dormant for the past few weeks, lurking in the shadows of his being for another incentive to become stronger.

So he has to ignore it. 

He has to.

Shove it to the sidelines and bury it further than only six feet under because even that isn’t enough to quell it.

And so, to achieve this goal, Tommy decides he’ll be avoiding Wilbur Soot for the duration of the tournament.

On that topic, Tommy doesn’t know why he commented on the man’s drink of choice. To be fair, orange is a shit flavour of powerade, truly a disgrace to humanity, but in all honesty, he has no idea why he said that.

He has been… experimenting, lately, now that Theseus is dead and gone and Tommy is alive and… he’s alive. It’s equally as surprising as it is irritating, and possibly even a little embarrassing, to assimilate himself back into a state of ‘normalcy’ that isn’t the norm for him. So he’s been testing the waters, as one does.

Swearing was the first thing he did, and-

Ok, so maybe that’s all he’s figured out yet. But-

It’s hard.

So maybe that was an out-of-left-field attempt at improving his conversational skills, but still. The failed go at it is better left in the dust than given a chance to try the same thing twice and risk everything.

How it would risk everything? He’s got no fucking clue. But he doesn’t want to test things, not when he’s finally free, even if it doesn’t feel like it.

So he avoids the man who is likely going to become a fourth-time winner of the Manburg Open in two weeks time like his life depends on it.

He stops going to the hotel vending machine after seeing the man spend an atrocious amount of time buying orange powerade , he stops lingering after any game he works for just in case, and he makes sure not to cross paths with him anywhere else.

And it works.

It’s three days after Tommy beats Wilbur Soot in a tennis match, and he hasn’t spoken to the man since.

Despite the fact that… he seems to be doing the opposite towards Tommy.

Whenever the blonde does catch a glimpse of him, he’s always… looking. His eyes dart around the space he’s in too quickly to be called idle, accompanied by casually furrowed brows.

But he never finds him.

Tommy is very good at becoming invisible faster than the average person despite his lanky frame and generally odd appearance- and yeah, maybe that’s a little concerning- but it’s useful as hell. Disappearing at a moment’s notice, the second things go awry, is a skill that’s been trained into his mind, set so deeply inside of him he finds himself becoming unnoticeable subconsciously, even when no threat is present. 

Most of the things he ‘learned’ from his life in Logstedshire haven’t exactly been coming in as handy as they used to, which he guesses is a part of being a ‘normal’ teenage boy now, but that’s one of the things that he considers an advantage.

Three days of relative peace and his racket sitting tauntingly in his bag before things go wrong.

To the sight of Wilbur Soot winning the second set, rolling his wrists as someone hands him a towel with a wide, deceivingly uncaring grin plastering his face. 

The other guy- Cladwell or something like that- attempts to school his expression into something that doesn’t look embarrassed. Or maybe it’s ashamed. Tommy would have no way of telling one from the other, all he knows is that that’s what someone looks like when they’re losing hard. 

A twinge of nausea bites at his insides at the sight of his head hanging just low enough and his shoulders slumped, and he turns his gaze away from the man near frantically. 

You should have expected this, you know. You spent months trying to get away and now look where you are, trapped.

His stomach twists as the first game of the third set begins, and he knows it will be the last one.

Soot will win the match, and then he can get the fuck out of here so the man doesn’t catch a glimpse of him. Luckily, like last time, he’s on Soot’s side of the court, meaning unless he turns around with focus, the man won’t be seeing him at all, and then he can breathe easily again. Well- as easily as he normally can.

Cladwell’s eyes are narrowed with something Tommy can’t make out as he bounces the ball one, two, and three times before he faults his serve.

And then he does it again.

Tommy expertly staves off a wince in remembrance of his coach’s- of his words. If Cladwell loses, it’s because he doesn’t deserve to win, and that’s that.

Soot wins the first game with a bout of racious cheering from the crowd, and then the next one, and all of a sudden, he’s won the match.

The applause he receives is unmatched, eating into Tommy’s ears and making his head pound with the noise as Soot pumps his arms in the air with an award-winning smile on his face as he wipes the sweat off his forehead.

Everything- the noise, the cheering and the clapping, the sound of a man talking too quickly over the speakers, the sweat dotting Tommy’s own forehead, his fingertips clasped carefully behind his back- goes silent for a moment. Just a moment, the brief second in which Soot steps over confidently to pull a shorter man he doesn’t get a chance to see properly into a steady hug, and then does the same with an even shorter woman with cleanly cropped pink hair. 

Tommy turns away.

He finally finds it in himself to move out of his designated position in order to toss the singular ball he collected into the bin before walking over to sling his bag over his shoulder, doing his best to conceal his haste as he picks up his pace the second he pushes open the ‘Authorized Personnel Only’ door with an inhale.

The concrete of the hallway leading outside to ‘safety’ is cool under his tennis shoes as he half-jogs towards the exit, trying not to attract the attention of the few people lingering outside of the locker room entrance.

Light is all of a sudden shining through the exit that is now no more than twenty meters away, and he allows his head to raise as hope shows itself in the form of a relieved exhale and-

Creeeak.

Slam.

Fuck.

There’s a chance it won’t be him who just opened the door- but he wouldn’t put it past whoever is up there controlling his life. His coach never believed in things like that- said it was a waste of time that could be spent practicing with the grip on his racket so tight his fingers would bleed crimson- but with how shitty his luck has been in his sixteen years of life, it’s too painful to believe that everything that’s happened to him is all his fault. Even if he thinks so himself because he told him that, more often than not, he was right about Tommy until Theseus’ dying breath.

Involuntarily, Tommy’s muscles twitch with the urge to freeze in place,- become small, become still, become nothing but a hand clutching a racket- and he only obeys it for a second before he swallows and continues walking as footsteps come rapidly behind him in something he recognizes as an all out sprint, and has to restrain his legs from moving to do the same when- “Powerade kid!” echoes behind him.

Shit. 

He exhales carefully through his nose, head hung and muscles tense as the squeaking of tennis shoes that aren’t his own grow closer and closer.

You shouldn’t have to worry.

That damn voice in his head goads.

If he asks again, you can just say no.

Why are you even worried?

God, he wishes he’d refused that offer.

“Powerade kid!” he hears again, this time so close he feels like throwing up. 

The only reason he’s able to act like nothing's wrong when footsteps match his is because of years and years of training.

“Hey kid.” it’s spoken this time, not shouted, and almost eerily casual. Tommy bristles immediately, all of a sudden having the itching feeling he imagines a bug would have under a microscope. 

Tommy doesn’t reply, only able to see the man's legs moving with the way his head is tilted.

It’s only silent for one, excruciating moment before Soot clears his throat, and Tommy has only been in the ‘real world’ for about two months, but it’s been long enough to have the social awareness to see that the situation has become awkward. It’s definitely not his fault, though, not at all.

Vaguely aware that Soot is about to say something, Tommy braces, biting down on the inside of his mouth. It can’t be good, what he’s about to say. People are never exactly… elated when Tommy beats them, and while some go with the silent, wallowing frustration with themselves, others tend to place the blame on him. Tommy doesn’t blame them. It was his fault, really, but when his opponents think like that, they’re also the ones who tend to take it out on him.l

Petty grudges have never actually become anything for him, because, ironic as it may be, his coach was there to protect him from angry fists. Not every word, though. Things shouted from across the court and whispers into his ears in passing were almost impossible to avoid. 

This isn’t some obnoxious sixteen-year-old who thinks they’ve got a shot at something bigger. This fucking Wilbur Soot. And nobody reacts well to being beaten by some scrawny blonde kid who can’t hold a conversation without blurting random bullshit. 

“So…” he sees the man stuff his hands in his pockets out of the corner of his eye. Tommy tenses further. “Wanna rematch?” oh. It’s not hostile or holding even an ounce of bitterness, but Tommy’s muscles don’t untense.

It’s asked simply, casually, as if the question doesn’t hold the weight of Tommy’s fucking sanity on it.

And-

He hates the way that something in him is egging him on to say yes.

He hates the way it’s desperate to have his racket secure in his hands, to hear his shoes squeaking along the court and-

No. 

He doesn’t want that. Not anymore.

“Um. No thanks.” he answers through gritted teeth, his heart skipping over beats in his chest.

“Oh.” The word fuels the spark of a sudden anger in his chest, and he has no idea what it’s at. “Really?” he asks. There’s a certain rawness in the man’s voice, previous excitement drained from it like he wasn’t expecting that answer at all.

Tommy bites hard on his gums, feeling tangy iron coat his tongue. 

He swallows.

And then he nods.

Light coats them both when they emerge from the hallway, and this bitch is still following him.

A beat.

“Why's that, think I'll beat you this time?” he teases, but it does the opposite of landing. Without thinking, he raises his head. He knows it’s a joke. He may be socially constipated whether he likes it or not, but he can hear the slight smile in Soot’s voice. However-

No. I’m not scared of losing. Why would you imply that? He wants to say in the form of a desperate defence, but he can’t.

There must be something on his face, because Soot’s expression immediately goes slack.

“Or- here, how about this.”  The excited lilt to his voice is back, his eyes alight and his hands gesturing, and Tommy wants to scream. A disgruntled scowl creeps into the lines of his face instead. Does he not get the memo? “We do a rematch on one of the practice courts- best of three sets- and win or lose, I'll buy you a blue powerade. How's that sound?” and-

“That's like- two dollars. It’s going to have to be more than that, bitch.” shit.

Shit shit shit shit- why would he say that? 

He’s halfway to apologizing, his brash expression rolling back and mouth opening before-

Soot laughs.

He laughs.

It’s melodic and light, and maybe a little startled, but it’s a laugh.

Tommy blinks, heart still stuttering as blue eyes scan Soot’s face for anything malicious, shellshocked. 

“Ok then, how about… oh!” he offers after composing himself, smiling brightly. They’ve stopped walking now, partly because Tommy isn’t interested in leading the man all the way to his apartment. “How about win or lose, I’ll buy you some ice cream.” Soot says, newfound purchase in his voice. And for a moment, Tommy stops moving. 

Tommy has never had ice cream before.

He knows what it is- he’s not an idiot. 

But it’s never been… necessary, for him.

There’s a parlour a few blocks down from his apartment that he walks by on the way here every morning, happy children with all sorts of colours staining their faces and doting parents line the patio of the bright pink building. He’s never thought to go. 

It’s just frozen sugar, right? Unhealthy and a waste of time, but-

“There’s this ice cream place near here that I went to last year, I promise it’s good.” Soot tells Tommy in response to his pondering silence. 

And-

He has been trying and failing to participate in ‘normal’ things, even though it’s the very reason he’s hiding in the first place. Despite the fact that he’s no longer there, that he no longer has to blindly follow a set of punishable restrictions, a freely flowing undercurrent of anxiety tells him he has to.

And while it makes him feel rather stupid, it settles something inside him that needs confirmation that he’s safe. 

He doesn’t want ice cream, and he doesn’t want to beat a three-time champion again.

He doesn’t want to be hurt.

“Why… why not?” asking was his first mistake. It wouldn’t be the last of the kind.

The grip of his coach's fingers on his shoulders tighten into a vice.

He is eight, and here, he knows too quickly what he’s done wrong. 

“Because, Theseus.” he is confused. So horribly confused that tears threaten to pour over and allow him to be wounded further, but with all the power his body can dredge up, he pushes them away. He doesn’t want to make another mistake. Players like him, things like him don’t get confused. They’re not supposed to, Theseus knows this. Maybe that’s why he deserves what’s coming. 

All he did was for ice cream, another player his age was holding some, chocolate dripping down his chin even after he lost. “What have you done to deserve it?”

There are a hundred things he can think of and use as evidence in the testimony of his worth. Trained for hours, ate only what’s healthy, ignored anyone that didn’t matter even when they seemed friendly- obeyed. 

He won today’s game.

Theseus is silent.

“That's what I thought.”

Stop.

Christ, why can’t he just accept he doesn’t have to deal with that anymore?

“So, what’d you say, Powerade kid?” it’s said with a flourish of his hands, gaze hopeful in a way Tommy doesn’t expect.

And for a moment- he thinks.

It’s not something he does often, consider his decisions before he makes them, that is.

And when he comes to a conclusion, somewhere, in the back of his mind, he knows it’s the wrong one.

Nevertheless-

“Ok.”

Soot’s face lights up so brightly at the response that he has the sudden urge to flinch, but he isn’t that much of a pussy, so he holds it back with practiced ease. Instead, nervous adrenaline flows like a torrent through his veins at his own response, but doesn’t let it show.

“But it better be chocolate, prick.” 

God, why does he keep saying shit like that? He’s-

“I’m sure they’ve got chocolate, child.” Soot chuckles easily, but Tommy doesn’t let go of the breath he’s been latching onto with desperate hands this entire conversation. 

Well- more of an interaction, really. He hasn’t really said enough words for this to be called that.

“So that’s a yes, right?” he asks for confirmation, grinning at Tommy with a wide, open expression.

And- this is his chance. He has been given every opportunity to back out here, and yet-

He really should back out. It’s the easy thing to do, mumble ‘nevermind’ and walk with his head hung back to his desolate apartment, saving himself of-

Of what?

Tommy is becoming incredibly sick of this voice in his head.

His coach is not here to reprimand this decision. There is nobody out here but them. No viewers, no spectators, no eyes on his every move.

And if you ask him, the only purpose of his next words is to stifle the voice into nothing.

“Yeah.”

—

Tommy won the game.

How exactly, he couldn’t tell you, but the absence of that familiar, expectant anxiety, tells him all he needs to know.

Well- that and Soot’s stunned expression.

He had come to as he was zipping up his bag, his racket back where it belongs and a thin layer of sweat clinging to his forehead. When he looked back up, he was expecting to see rage across Soot’s face like an ugly bruise, but-

His eyes were dead set on Tommy, yes, but… it wasn’t angry. He doesn’t know what Soot’s reaction had been the first time- he’d been too consumed by the sudden onslaught of adrenaline that he isn’t accustomed to like he used to be- but he could only assume it wasn’t anything good. But it was just… puzzled. 

His brows had been furrowed, seemingly subconsciously, his eyes glinting with a sort of suspicion that would make Tommy squirm if he ever had the opportunity to be allowed to.

It was gone in a flash as… something he can’t discern replaced it when Soot began to approach him.

Excitement, hope, pride, and just plain happiness are all the same in his head unidentifiable from one another. He hasn’t had a lot of opportunities to see them.

It irritates him, not knowing how someone might react to any given situation, but there isn’t much he can do about it other than guess. 

And hold his breath until Soot walked over and held a steady hand out, and then- and then he’d said-

“Good game.”

Good game.

He didn’t return the gesture, regret immediately striking him in the stomach when he remembers he agreed to go for ice cream afterwards.

Then, he’d wondered if the daze didn’t start with the first thing this time, and instead when the sound of those footsteps pounding behind him filtered into his ears because under no circumstances should he be shaking hands with Wilbur Soot after beating him for the second time.

Soot’s hand was firm around his own for the single shake he does, and it didn’t- shouldn’t have- felt containing, but it does. There’s no backing out now.

So he’d shook Soot’s hand and answered questions with a shaking of his head even when words begged to be released, but he never stopped feeling off about the situation.

Even during the walk there, something is humming just under his skin, and he doesn’t know what it means.

He could feel Soot’s eyes on the side of his (he hoped) expressionless face periodically, his teeth biting into his cheek every time he did.

But because fucking Theseus just can’t seem to leave him alone, he walked all the same, not a word leaving his lips.

And now, if he wasn’t regretting this decision before, he definitely is now.

His head is straight, hands tapping absentmindedly on his shorts in a rhythm that doesn’t exist before he realizes what he’s doing and clenches his fist instead as he stares blankly through the glass case, his mind practically empty.

There are just… so many flavours. 

Soot is humming next to him, which, above being extremely irritating, is by no means helping him concentrate. 

Vanilla and chocolate are the only ones here that he even knew existed before this, buckets of half-scooped pinks and blues and even one with every colour imaginable with names that have to be taken from cartoons because of how ridiculous they are. 

“What are you getting?” Soot asks casually next to him, startling him from his confusion and causing his gaze to shift from the overwhelming amount of colours and names that don’t make sense to his scowling reflection.

This is odd.

It doesn’t feel right, the fact that he’s standing here right now.

The strange, out-of-place jitter running through him is something he isn’t used to, nor does he know what it means. 

It’s not anxiety- although, if he’s honest, there’s that too- he knows that buzz too well to be aware of the fact that it isn’t. 

What is he even doing here again?

He blinks harshly at the thought, snapping himself out of the brief sense of normalcy. 

There are too many flavours.

Why did he even agree to this again?

What was he thinking?

He’s not- he shouldn’t be here. Not now, not ever.

What happened to laying low? There are no less than twenty people in here, every which one who could be looking at him and could know and then all of a sudden he’s back there-

“Kid?” The voice is ever so slightly tentative, stifling his thoughts in the same way he imagines slamming a door on blaring music would.

“What?” he answers, narrowing his eyes at the stupid containers as the man in front of them orders two scoops of ‘turtle cheesecake’. His eyes flick to the container behind that label, and he grows even more puzzled when the flavour is just white with swirls of brown in it.

“What flavour are you getting?” he repeats, amusement tainting his voice. “And why are you looking at them like they’ve all personally offended you?” he jokes at Tommy’s expression, which he immediately schools, swallowing.

The feeling of a snarky, disgruntled response right there at the tip of his tongue is almost like sandpaper. 

He doesn’t reply.

Instead, he ignores the out-of-place ache that’s sprung up in his chest and shrugs at the man's first question.

“Alright, well what do you usually get then?” It's a simple question.

It’s such a simple question and yet, Tommy doesn’t have an answer.

He shrugs again, hands balling up tighter at his sides as frustration curls in his gut.

There’s a pause in which Soot doesn’t speak and Tommy’s jaw clenches. 

The only flavour he's had anything else of is chocolate, because some of the protein bars he used to (still does) eat were dotted sparingly with chocolate chips.

He always liked those ones the most. They were sweet, a pleasant contrast to something bland that he wasn’t used to, so it can’t be much different than the ice cream, right?

Won’t it just be cold?

“Ok, well,” Soot begins like he’s on the brink of listing the pros and cons of every ice cream in existence, and if Tommy could, he would groan and put his face in his palms. “If you want my opinion,” he most certainly does not. “Everything other than vanilla and strawberry is deplorable.” surprised, Tommy’s eyebrows furrow without his consent. “Too sweet.” Soot explains to Tommy’s silent and unintentional question.

At the sound of voices ahead of them in the line, Tommy’s gaze snaps up to a worker handing a waffle-like cone with two massive scoops of that dumb flavour he ordered and then swallows thickly when he realizes their next.

Tommy tracks the man walking off before blue eyes are right back where he started, overwhelmed and now on a damn time crunch as the cashier awaits their orders.

“I’ll have a vanilla in a cup, single scoop, please.” Soot recites smoothly, as if he’s done this hundreds of times before.

The woman nods from his peripheral, and then he realizes that it’s his turn.

His head snaps to her and Soot’s anticipating gaze, eyes avoiding direct contact with either of them as he struggles to scramble something together.

“I- uh,” shit. 

Again, he bites on his cheek, his mouth drying up further with every millisecond that ticks by without his order.

“Y’know, if you like blue Powerade, you might like blue raspberry.” Soot supplies, but- 

“I’ll have a chocolate. Please.” a minuscule grimace is accompanied by nails digging into his palms. Not hard enough for them to draw blood, but rough enough for him to know they’ll leave marks. 

He holds his breath, eyes rapidly scanning the cashier’s frame for… for anything.

She only nods boredly before pressing her fingers into the thing in front of her that Tommy doesn’t have a name for. “Size,” she asks, voice lacking enthusiasm.

“Uh, single scoop?” there’s a rise in pitch at the end he doesn’t intend, his nerves buzzing. It’s a complete shot in the dark, but it’s what the man who brought him here got, so there can’t be anything wrong with it.

Again, no reaction. 

“Cone or cup?”

“Um-”

Before Tommy is forced away, before his eyes are only able to perceive him and nothing else, he notices his opponent.

The moment he steps off the court, where loss, by all accounts, should by weighing heavy on his limbs, he jumps up and down in excitement.

A woman- his mother, most likely- jogs over to greet him with something clutched in her hand.

Tommy squints, craning his neck to see better as she bends down and hands him the… triangle? There’s… oh! It’s ice cream.

Brown dripping down the edges of what he thinks is called a-

“Cone.”

This time she nods, tapping one button before he turns back up to Soot. “That’ll be 11.23, please.”

Christ.

Soot reaches down into his pocket and proceeds to fumble for his wallet, and Tommy decides that the best part of this is that it’s free.

Look- he isn’t cheap, it’s just that being a ball boy is literally his only source of income and all he’s got going for him aside from the couple grand he’d been saving up before he left.

“Can I have a name for your order?” she asks after Soot pays, raising a brow.

“Wilbur,” he answers without hesitation. And, To Tommy’s surprise, and then panic, she turns to him.

“And for yours?”

Oh.

He blinks once, and then-

“Tommy.”

Soot’s gaze twitches towards him with an odd expression, something maybe the average person wouldn’t notice, but Tommy sure did. 

He ignores that, breathless as the cashier presumably types it into her machine and then directs them towards another area of the shop to wait for their ice cream.

Tommy.

It hits him suddenly that Tommy is only something that has existed on paper until then.

He wrote it down on his resume for this job, on all his forged documents in order to land him his apartment here in Manburg and in a couple of other places that lacked weight and meaning.

He thinks that this is the first time he’s said it aloud, the first time he moved his tongue around the sounds and the first time he’s heard it.

He shouldn’t be, but he staunches a grin when the urge arises.

Tommy.

Soot’s humming resumes when they move to wait across the shop, and Tommy fist flights the urge to tell him to shut the fuck up or some shit until another worker walks over with both of their ice creams.

“Wilbur and Tommy?” he calls. Taking a deep breath he shouldn't and will never admit to needing, he works around the man's gloved hand and takes it carefully from the bottom as Soot confidently grabs his, thanking the man.

“They’ve got a patio out front, if you want to eat out there.” Soot suggests, and in all honesty, Tommy does not want to eat ice cream on some patio with this guy, but he unfortunately already agreed to doing so.

Tommy shrugs.

Chapter Text

Tommy.

It’s fitting, Wilbur thinks. 

Well, maybe the sliver of the kid’s personality that he seems to let slip without intention more than everything else about him, but nevertheless, it fits. 

For some reason, the boy- Tommy puts a hefty amount of effort into exterminating this, despite how often he looks as though he wants to make a snarky comment.

But somehow, all in all, that’s the least just slightly off thing about him. Like a guitar string out of tune enough so that it’s audible when you’re strumming, but you can’t figure out which one is sour when you pick at every string.

It’s the way he walks as if every step must be precise, how he only speaks when it’s absolutely necessary to do so, and, of course, the fact that he beat Wilbur.

He’d been in an almost catatonic state of shock for the rest of the night after the b- after Tommy walked off without a word or celebration of his win, flip-flopping between failing at gaslighting himself into believing that it didn’t happen and sitting on his hotel bed in silence, a look of sheer confusion in the lines of his face.

Not that he’s arrogant or anything of the sort, just that-

It’s bizarre. 

Phil and Niki had been in equal states of surprise, although they’d found it a great deal funnier than he had with the loss fresh in his mind. 

“And that first point, Phil, how did he even pull that off?” Wilbur exclaims, gesturing wildly with his plastic fork over hotel breakfast the next morning.

Phil chuckles, but Wilbur can see the faint tints of surprise in the wrinkles around his eyes. “He completely drop shot and lobbed you, mate.”

“I know what a drop shot and lob is Phil, it’s just- how’d he do it like that?” Wilbur grumbles, not unlike a petulant child, shoving his hands into his hair and putting his face on the table in front of them.

So well the conversation about the elusive boy drops with Phil and Niki, both of them favouring talking about his own gameplay, the lanky blonde refuses to leave his mind. He clings to the edges of it, popping up into Wilbur’s thoughts when he least expects the idea of him and leaving him frustrated.

Without meaning to, brown eyes search on their own accord for any glimpse of him he can catch because maybe that will answer any number of questions he has, but-

He’s nowhere to be found.

He tracks the lines of the breakfast buffets at the hotel, the ball boys he sees huddled in giggling groups around the tournament grounds, the ones on the court before he plays and the line to the vending machine in the hotel lobby- only to come up empty handed.

Curiosity had bubbled up under his skin before he beat Wilbur, but now, he’s nearly overflowing with it.

Assumptions about him he has literally zero evidence for reside in his subconscious- that he probably lives in Manburg and isn’t staying at the hotel, which is common for ball boys, he thinks, that he has to be part of some prestigious club- but even that doesn’t line up in a way that soothes the part of his brain that yearns for answers. If he has that level of skill, and chances are, the money  to be playing like that, he should be training for juniors at this time of year.

So it’s safe to say he doesn’t know a lot about this kid. He didn’t even have a name, for god's sake, well- until now.

In all honesty, he’d been afraid he simply imagined the boy- Tommy’s existence up until the point he saw the blonde with his head ducked as he set up before the game on Wilbur’s side of the court, and despite not exactly having a plan for if he saw him up until that point, a plan sparked in his mind.

It had been an easy game against a newbie who’d put up a good fight, but if he’s honest, the fact that he’s got a chance at figuring out what the hell is going on with that boy had likely been one of the main factors to how quickly the match went by.

It’s safe to say that he wasn’t expecting to have to genuinely chase him down that hallway in order to speak to him, but at that point, he’d been too far gone.

Why he chose to bribe him with ice cream, he isn’t sure, but it worked, so he can’t really be complaining about the eleven dollars it cost him.

And for whatever reason, Wilbur was expecting him to win again. Don’t get him wrong, he tried, he really, really tried, and yet he walked over to the ice cream parlour a losing man.

The other day, upon his first loss, he’d regretted asking in the first place, his ego wounded beyond repair. But now? He wouldn’t be able to feel like that if he tried. The only thing he can bear to experience now is intrigue, the fact that somehow with every move Tommy makes, he becomes more of an enigma than he was before.

For example, right now, as he’s leaning in to bite his ice cream.

Wilbur watches, hand stalled in the air with ice cream dropping from the spoon back into his cup as Tommy awkwardly gets his teeth around the scoop of chocolate before taking a bite out of it as if it were fucking cotton candy. 

Essentially, what Wilbur is trying to get at here is that it looks like the boy has never eaten ice cream in his entire life.

He barely stifles a laugh when, after he chews it, his brows scrunch up and he jerks back subtly, reaching to put a hand up to his head before he appears to realize what he’s doing and instead glares at his ice cream.

“Brain freeze?” Wilbur fills in the boy’s assumed blank with amusement colouring his tone, well disguising the concern that runs through him at the thought that he’s literally never had ice cream before.

Tommy's neck snaps up towards him, and Wilbur should really be startled by how confused he looks by that term than he is. “What?” the word comes out disgruntled, as if preparing for the possibility that Wilbur is mocking him.

“A brain freeze, child. It happens when you eat your ice cream like that,” he explains in the least judgmental way he can manage with still retaining the relatively light atmosphere, but-

There’s a panic happening in the back of his mind, just far enough away that he has to reach for it in order to fully comprehend the idea he definitely should not be contemplating. 

Because Wilbur knows this.

He knows not knowing how to do normal, childish things and how to act as though the weight of the world doesn’t exist on your shoulders, but-

But it’s too early to tell.

He’s catastrophizing- that’s what Phil would call this, and he knows the man is right, but… but he can’t let it get to him yet. Not when he’s only known this kid's name for ten minutes tops.

“... Oh. Yeah, I know.” Wilbur is careful to keep his face blank, because he knows that both of them know that’s not true. “... And I'm not a child. Prick.” he tacks on at the end under his breath, eyes averting from Wilbur and going back down to his ice cream cone like it’s a puzzle to be solved.

A grin twists his lips upwards. “I think you are.” he teases, holding onto a breath and subconsciously willing him to rise to the bait.

And for a beat, he thinks he will. His brows furrow- the only real indicator there’s anything behind his empty face he’s shown in all the time he’s known him- and his lips twitch like they’re about to grumble out a dispute- but nothing happens. He stays silent, and Wilbur bites his cheek.

Finally, he lifts the spoon of vanilla to his mouth, feeling the sweetness coat his tongue with his eyes still on Tommy, who winces to himself.

“I could go ask for a spoon, if you’d like,” Wilbur suggests in a desperate attempt to diffuse the atmosphere that’s gathered around the two. 

He doesn’t want to scare him off, and it seems like implying that he doesn’t know how to eat an ice cream cone will do just that. Strangely, Wilbur almost feels like he's walking on a tightrope, the drop beneath him acting as a silent threat, reminding him that one wrong move of his feet, and he's a goner.

Tommy shrugs after a beat, and Wilbur immediately pushes himself to stand.

He’s back in a flash, handing Tommy his spoon and sitting back down.

“You ever been here before?” Wilbur asks lightly, poking around his ice cream with his own spoon. 

Tommy shakes his head, hesitantly sticking his bright pink spoon into the ice cream and holding it out, as if testing it.

“Why not?” Wilbur presses, forcing as much casualty into his tone as possible.

He pauses, frozen in time and space and Wilbur can almost see the cogs twisting and turning in his head before he responds. He’s silently praying he’ll receive more than a shrug this time around. “Haven’t had the time.”

Humming, he sticks his spoon into his mouth and watches as Tommy tentatively does the same. The kid is almost scarily good at retaining his blank, expressionless mask that perpetually rests on his face, but when the flavour of chocolate presumably hits his taste buds, Wilbur swears his eyes light up, if only for a moment.

After that, it’s almost like a man succumbing to dehydration has just been given a water bottle with the way he shovels it down.

Wilbur doesn’t say anything, only watching blankly as stray thoughts begin to form an idea that rapidly snowballs into a plan. 

Is it preemptive? Probably. Is it necessary? … Probably not. But Wilbur has always been rather stubborn. Good thing or not, this is one of those things that he just knows he has to act on despite any factors that might shoot holes into it. And so, it reaches his lips before he thinks to stop it.

“How’d you feel about coming back, then?”

Tommy’s head snaps upwards, and a chuckle threatens to arise from his throat at the chocolate smeared all over his face from eating so quickly before he forces it down.

“What?” he says for what must be the tenth time during this outing.

“Come back here. I’d like another rematch, if you’re not afraid I'll get you this time.” Please say yes.

And, just like every time Wilbur’s asked the same question, his gaze averts.

Wilbur stops moving aside from his fingers tapping a pattern on his legs as Tommy stares at his ice cream like it’s going to answer the question for him. With his eyes trained on every movement, Tommy’s Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows, sucks in a breath, and then lets it out like he’s steadying himself.

His hands stop as he near frantically scans the boy's face for anything giving away his answer as he turns up to face him, and then-

“Ok.”

—

Tommy wins again the very next day.

Tommy wins every single time after that, as well.

And every time, Wilbur is growing less exasperated to say he isn’t going easy on him.

It’s not a total knockout- Wilbur is still good- but it’s hardly ever neck and neck with the boy.

It takes him a minute to place what exactly it is about Tommy that makes him one of Wilbur’s toughest opponents, but when he does, it only serves to confuse him further.

The tournament he’s playing in is hardly occupying his thoughts for the next few days as he spends most of his time staring at the beige hotel room ceiling with his brows scrunched up and thinking.

And it’s strange. Really really strange, because Tommy doesn’t… he doesn’t have a playing style.

That sounds impossible, a paradox within itself- but he knows it’s what’s stumping him.

Most of the reason Wilbur is winning the tournament so far, and has for the past three years, is that he always knows his opponent. He listens to his premonitions without question, going into a game with hardly anything and being able to gauge nearly every one of his opponent's moves after the first game is his thing. Their weaknesses to exploit (in the nicest way possible), their strengths to avoid. 

But when he looks at Tommy from across the court, sun bathing the both of them, he keeps drawing blanks.

The only thing that he can figure out is something he’s hesitant to believe, but once the realization hits him, he can’t seem to blink it away and deny it.

Tommy plays dirty.

It’s the exact opposite of what anyone sparing a glance at him would expect, but it’s true.

Although his movements outside of a match are sickeningly robotic, his limbs are lanky and held with an awkwardness he can’t seem to conceal- decidedly not the usual build for an athlete. 

Wilbur was trained in the same way, back then, knew every trick in the book to throw his enemies off and decimate them with as few calculated moves as possible, but those tactics have long been locked away for him.

To add another layer of mystery, he can tell it’s on purpose, too.

There is no emotion in his swings or any movement he makes. It’s all far too precise to be an accident.

That’s another thing, too.

When Wilbur plays, he half blanks out, focus clouding his vision until all he knows is how things feel under his feet, in his palm, and the few thoughts that he comprehends.

But he still experiences everything. He can easily recall it when it’s done, go over his faults and strengths and work to improve them.

However, when Tommy plays, it’s as if he goes completely.

If Wilbur makes a comment over to him during a pause in the game there is no reaction at all, not even a glance to acknowledge that he heard him, only emptiness. It’s disconcerting, but the first few times it happens, he chalks it up to him not being able to hear Wilbur’s words with the distance. That is, until he comments on his gameplay afterwards when his eyes have life in them, and every time, without fail, blue eyes flash with confusion before he gives a jerky, forced nod at the compliment.

But- Wilbur finds that all that- the matches- don’t really matter to him anymore.

The entire duration of them he finds himself awaiting what’s coming after Tommy inevitably wins.

They go for ice cream again, to a nice bakery he got a chocolate croissant at, (he seems to really like the stuff) and then to one of those shops that sell candy unavailable here which are definitely just money-laundering fronts, but Tommy seems to like it.

When he says that, though, it’s entirely an assumption built on hope as a foundation.

There are no visual cues other than the fact that he keeps coming back, but Wilbur likes to believe he’s having a good time, even if he appears more on edge than ever when they’re out in public.

There’s just- something about him that keeps Wilbur looking forward to their outings over his own matches. 

And because he can’t help himself, because for some reason he just has to figure out what this kid’s deal is, he makes it a little game for himself to see how much he can get Tommy’s vacant expression to crack.

“Is that really all you’re getting, child?” Wilbur narrows his eyes at Tommy’s hands, which are looping the plastic of the bag with various candies in it into a knot.

When he’d first lead Tommy into the shop, he had half-thought the boy was going to have a fucking heart attack with how wide his eyes were at the sudden onslaught of colour.

And for some reason, the sight of that had given him a sudden urge to stretch out his hand and ruffle Tommy’s hair with a grin, but-

He’d flinched away so violently when he saw Wilbur’s hand from his peripheral that he thought the boy was going to fall over, and then his hand was back at his side and his eyes were narrowed with worry that he hoped Tommy didn’t catch.

He’s been tense ever since.

To Wilbur at least, it feels like everywhere he brings Tommy, it’s the first time he’s done it in his life. The thought and the way Tommy desperately tries to hide the fact that he’s stumbling around basic experiences like a newborn giraffe are both… worrying. 

Tommy’s hand freezes mid-motion, and if Wilbur were to listen close enough, he fears that he would hear his breathing halt as well. Shit. 

He knows whatever fire that’s in him that sparked their first interaction is still in there somewhere, it’s just how to bring it out that’s the question. 

Whether it’s intended or not- the kid is fucking hilarious. It’s half the reason Wilbur is so eager for their matches, because in all honesty, the shit he says in a moment of ‘risk’ or under his breath is some of the funniest he’s heard in years.

His personal favourite is when he’d muttered ‘Mustard-smelling bastard.’ in a low tone after a comment Wilbur can’t remember in the bakery a couple of days back.

Ignoring how concerning that is in the moment, his lighthearted teasing will sometimes get him an almost response and if he’s lucky, something snarky accompanied by an insult, and other times… this.

Ok, backtrack. “I mean- whatever floats your boat, man, but I just thought a gremlin like you would be getting more than a couple Swedish berries.” His tone is light, and hopefully it’s enough without sounding forced.

He likes to think he’s making progress, and while the thought is comfortable… it isn’t exactly true.

Tommy doesn’t reply after that, leaving Wilbur with defeat snaking around his throat for the rest of the night.

Sometimes he jokes along with Wilbur (even if he goes rigid afterwards), and then sometimes he won't at the drop of a hat.

Wilbur hasn’t even seen him smile, he realizes with a sickening jolt, and that’s when he notices he’s decided that something else is going on here.

And- there has to be, right? What sort of child has never eaten ice cream before?

His parents never let him have ice cream. They never let him have anything.

The suspicion feels like a secret he shouldn’t have been privy to in the first place.

For fucks sake, Tommy feels like a terrible secret he shouldn’t have been privy to in the first place.

He collapses onto the mattress of his hotel bed, sinking into the material face first with a groan. 

Every time there’s a slightly personal question implied in Wilbur’s words where all he wants to know if he plays professionally is met with him shutting down. Actually, nearly everything Wilbur does is met with him shutting down, eyes flying to the floor and his head ducking in a way that makes him wince.

Haphazardly, he throws the duvet over himself with a sigh and a hand moving into his hair.

Lying here with an unfamiliar (that’s a lie) sensation of helplessness prickling at his skin, he feels as if he’s standing on the top of an iceberg he never intended to find.

It takes a lot longer than normal for him to fall into sleep, but when he does, it’s with drifting thoughts wondering if Tommy has any luck doing the same.

—

“Maybe he’s just nervous,” Niki suggests with a shrug as Wilbur whacks another ball from the machine onto the other side of the court fluidly.

Wilbur scoffs at her obvious condescension of his brief rant about Tommy's aura of abnormality whilst working on his backhand. And, yeah, maybe (probably) he should at least take her words into consideration, but that ship has long since sailed. “No, you need to understand, Niki.” Bounce. “He literally tried to bite his ice cream when I took him to that place and then didn’t know what a brain freeze was, who does that?”

Swing.

Hit.

“I think you’re overreacting, Wil.” Phil inputs unhelpfully, earning an exasperated huff from Wilbur. 

“No, it’s not-

Swing-

Shit.

He doesn’t bother glancing in their direction, already knowing their faces are covered in disbelief.

Swing.

Whack.

The ball flies to the back of the court, bouncing back.

It rolls back towards him for a bit before he grimaces at the unintended force he’d hit it with, his shoulders slumping.

He still isn’t looking at them, but he can feel the trepidation in the air he breathes in as Phil gears up to speak.

“I know you’re just seeing yourself in him, Wilbur. Is that right, mate?” ok, well, shit, Phil’s gone ‘dad mode’, now.

Swing.

Hit.

That’s… that isn’t true. 

Yeah.

“You don’t get it, Phil,” he complains, eyes on the machine firing balls at him. “It’s like- I would do anything around him and he’ll shut down and stop talking to me,” he responds, tactfully avoiding Phil’s question, which was more of a statement than anything.

Swing.

Hit.

Phil sighs. “I don’t want you blowing this out of proportion, Wil.” he chastises, and Wilbur frowns. “He’s probably just some normal kid.”

Swing.

Hit.

“A normal kid who’s beaten me five times in a row?” Wilbur refutes, words rolling off his tongue harsher than he’s meant.

Swing.

Hit.

“Fine then, a normal kid who's looking to win junior’s this year.” Phil lets up, his voice stern, trying to amputate Wilbur’s concerns regarding Tommy from his mind, but not mean. 

Swing.

Hit.

Wilbur watches the ball he hit bounce on the spot he’d meant it to. There is no celebration of it. Instead, a half-defeated huff fills the air again. “Ok, sure,” he says when another ball hurdles towards his racket, resolving to play it their way if it means they’ll actually help him instead of patronizing him with an edge of concern to their voices. “How do I get him to stop being nervous, then?”

Swing.

Hit.

A beat.

And while all three of them know Wilbur hasn’t actually listened to them, Phil relents with an exhale too short to resemble a sigh. 

Swing.

Hit.

“Why don’t you just talk to him, then?” he suggests, to which incomprehension seeps into his face.

He’s already been talking to him, right? That’s sort of the problem that Wilbur just spent ten minutes explaining to them.

Swing.

Hit.

Phil must either notice that his words don’t make sense on his own or with the help of Wilbur’s reaction, because- “You’ve been taking him all around town, right?” 

Wilbur blinks. “Yeah,” he answers unsurely, blind to what’s going to come next.

“Alright, so why don’t you just talk to him?” 

Swing.

Hit.

His eyes flash with perplexion, brows twitching downward before the tendrils of understanding begin to grasp at the edges of his consciousness. 

“Ask him to show you how to do some of those moves or something like that.” Phil clarifies without judgment.

Swing.

Hit.

That might… that might work. Of course it’s Phil who’s right about this stuff, but he’s got a point.

Niki hums in agreement as he gnaws on his lip, considering. 

He’s the only one here in on the way he holds himself- muscles tense as if something is going to get him with every glance in their direction on sidewalks or in shops, how he curls in on himself so subtley that you would only notice if you were looking for it in any group of people over five.

Swing.

Hit.

Wilbur doesn’t know if it’ll help at all, really, he’s surely not an expert on how to get some random child with too much anxiety swirling around his irises to open up to him, but-

It’s worth a shot.

—

“Good game.” Wilbur smiles, holding out a hand for the boy to shake.

At this point, he doesn’t think he needs to mention that he lost.

Tommy blinks, looks up at Wilbur, and then back down to his hand before latching onto it. He shakes it once before promptly retracting his hand to his side without a word.

They’ve fallen unceremoniously into a bit of a routine with that, Wilbur’s noticed. He’ll walk over to meet the boy halfway, do what he just did, and then he’ll ask him if he’s good to go where Wilbur has planned.

“So I was thinking- do you mind showing me how you do that drop shot trick you do?” he offers, an unexpected bout of nerves causing him to roll on the balls of his feet, front teeth biting into his tongue.

Typically, he receives a simple ‘ok’ to his suggestion immediately, but this time, Tommy pauses before giving an answer. His visage flashes with confusion for a moment before recognition of what Wilbur is referring to glints in his eyes.

He holds his breath, but-

“Uh, ok.” comes after a moment, and Wilbur’s grin grows.

Tommy moves to unzip his bag, silently as usual as Wilbur hops over the net. It’s particularly hot today, meaning Wilbur finds himself wiping sweat from his brow and running a hand through his hair more often than normal, although, Tommy seems utterly unaffected by the rays of sun pounding down on them with the lack of shade.

Wilbur rotates his racket in his hand as Tommy reaches into his pocket for a ball.

In all honesty, he probably won’t end up using this at all. He’s a strong player without tricks like these. All he’s looking to do is allow Tommy to open a little, and maybe putting him in his element will be the key.

“Ok, so… well how well can you do it already?” a blank-faced Tommy asks hesitantly, to which Wilbur immediately throws his own ball up and whacks it over the net.

They both wince, although Tommy is a lot more secretive about it, when it hits the edge of the service box.

Fine, maybe he’s exaggerating a little in order to drag this out, but it’s working.

“Alright.” he starts, a little more confidence in his voice. “So… you sort of want to do it like… like this.” the blonde says before hitting his ball just over the net, and despite having seen it so many times, Wilbur feels his mouth drop open.

After his eyes are done tracking the ball, he turns back to Wilbur with an expression akin to when a math teacher shows you the equation after you tell them you’re confused, and then just expects you to understand.

Without anything else to do, Wilbur tries again.

And this time he does actually try, but-

It’s nowhere near as good as Tommy’s.

The boy in question’s brows pinch at the sight, and then he twists back to Wilbur, stepping over and holding his racket out, demonstrating what he assumes to be the ‘right’ way to do it.

And then it goes on like that. 

Tommy turns out to be a surprisingly good teacher.

He moves to the other side of the court to better demonstrate the way he does it, and Wilbur almost feels a twinge of jealousy at the way he looks like he has to figure it out himself before showing the brunette, crushingly implying that he just does it naturally. 

Wilbur finds himself constantly questioning if what he sees happening with Tommy is actually true, or if it’s just comforting. Curse Phil for always being right though, because he does look a little more relaxed. It’s a far cry from calm, but he looks better.

The boy seems- dare he say it- loose as he goes over explaining to Wilbur how he needs to make sure the ball peaks on his side of the net and that it must be hit in front of him like a volley for the perfect landing, and maybe he doesn’t smile, but as the sun sets over Wilbur finally making the shot, he appears… content.

“Yeah.” is all he receives from Tommy in response to this, but he’ll gladly take it. Then, he underhands the ball over the net and back to Wilbur, who is so startled by the sudden gesture that his hands don’t move up in time, resulting in a fumble.

It continues to bounce in front of him, slowly moving to the ground. For obvious reasons, he begins to bounce it back up with his racket, thinking nothing of it until-

Until he comes down on it with a little too much force, and then it proceeds to bounce upwards with too much force and then-

The ball hits him in the face.

Not hard, and it definitely doesn't spark pain to flare up across his face, but his hands fly up to touch where it hit his nose regardless.

It’s not a big deal at all. Comical in the way that Niki and Phil would probably have a chuckle over it because the chances he looked like an idiot are very high, but he isn’t expecting anything from Tommy.

So, prepared to ignore what just happened and bid a reluctant farewell to the boy, he looks up.

He looks up, and when he does, he doesn’t think he’d ever been so glad to be wrong about something in his life.

He nearly stops dragging air into his lungs.

Because when his eyes find Tommy’s face, he’s smiling.

Not with teeth- it’s more of a grin that’s masking a stifled laugh, but it’s a smile.

Even if it’s at his own expense, Wilbur thinks that right now, it’s one of the best things he’s ever seen.

Chapter Text

Tennis is a solo sport.

The kind that Tommy plays is, anyway.

He lies awake in a bed that doesn’t feel right to call his own at night alone.

He goes to work alone.

He eats every meal alone.

Tommy exists alone, and he’s done so his entire life.

Even when his coach was there, he was always alone.

Tommy left him alone.

And now he’s here alone.

It’s not hard to comprehend, never has been, never will be.

Before he threw everything away in hopes of being able to breathe, that had been one of three constants for him.

1- First and foremost, he is a tennis player, and that’s all he’ll ever be.

2- His coach is always there, and his coach is always right.

3- Solitude.

It was easy to understand, simplistic in thought and in action, and really, it was all Tommy needed to know to survive. All three were perpetual in motion, never ceasing for even a moment to grant him respite and allow air to enter his lungs. But at least he was used to it.

Now- it’s all boiled down to one principle, one fact he knows to be true regardless of anything that would threaten to disprove it.

Tommy is alone.

That was the one he hadn’t been even hoping to escape, but-

Now it’s hard to understand. No- everything is difficult to understand now.

But it’s this especially that’s guarding him from the gates of sleep at the moment.

Because today, Tommy had smiled.

On its own, the sentence is incredibly underwhelming. But when all the context he needs exists only inside his own head, it’s absolutely horrifying. 

He has spent the past hour with his threadbare duvet covering his frame trying to remember the last time he did that without it being strained for the camera’s daunting flashes when Theseus was in the spotlight, ‘Smile for the camera, Theseus.’ spoken in an imposing tone with the threat he didn’t need to imply ringing in his head until no other thoughts could arise, and coming up empty-handed.

When was the last time he had a reason to?

The thought that fucking Wilbur Soot being hit in the face with a tennis ball was the first thing that made him smile in what is most likely years leaves him with bile crawling up his throat and fear coiling around his windpipe.

He knows, deep in his chest, that he never should have said yes to that damn match. He knows that he should be refusing any offer of ice cream or candy because the thought of that is completely ridiculous. 

Coa- he never liked him. Soot, that is. Tommy… Tommy doesn’t know if he understands why. No- he does understand why, which is the reason he doesn’t like the guy either, ignoring a pang of something in his chest.

‘He’s snotty, that kid.’ his coach had said with an expression Tommy knew to fear too well. ‘Plays like he’s having fun.’ The words were an ugly sneer, filled with a disdain which roots ran so deeply it was out of the question to eradicate them.

Back then, Tommy believed him, because he believed anything his coach said. Did anything he wanted him to do because he gave Tommy- Theseus- everything. He gave him an oppressive roof over his head and put a racket in his grubby, four-year-old hands, and there was nothing else Tommy needed.

Tennis is not fun.

In passing, he’s heard people say that they’ve had fun at something just because they’re good at it, or absolutely hated another thing because they were shit.

Tommy has never understood that.

He’s good at tennis. Better than most. But it isn’t fun.

However-

Earlier today, teaching Soot how to do that drop shot trick that’d been his coach's favourite, Tommy had-

No.  

He didn’t have fun.

Tennis isn’t fun. There’s a fucking reason he quit, or- ran away from it.

But… there was that feeling again.

A buzzing underneath his skin as he taught the man the right way to swing for a precise shot, a certain lightness to his breath that’s completely alien to him.

It lingers now, lurking in wait.

He has no clue what it is, but he does know that it isn’t bad.

So things are confusing, because he knows he should already be making plans to seep back into the comfort of the shadows and never encounter, let alone face-off, the man again.

With a stuttering breath, he realizes he doesn’t want to do that. He feels childish- like he’s begging for something he knows he can’t have but he’s complaining regardless.

It feels illegal to want. He shouldn’t want to want and the coiling idea that he might be is enough to send instinctual fear into his bloodstream.

When Tommy does find sleep, it’s with a pit of trepidation pooling in his stomach and his thoughts searching for direction, flashing cameras and strangling lists filling his dreams.

—

It’s embarrassing that he has to take genuine effort to remind himself that he isn’t bound to a set of rules anymore, that he can, in fact, do as he pleases at any point in time, but every time he talks to Soot and every time he makes an out-of-line comment, there’s anticipation for a hit that never comes lining his consciousness. 

It’s in moments like these when he finds himself dreading things he left behind the most.

Tommy has just taught him how to correctly hit the second half of the trick- the lob- to complete it, and now…

He’s sitting, one leg crossed over the other, on one of the fold-out chairs that line the practice courts next to Soot, who takes a gulp from his water bottle. He has no idea how this happened.

He doesn’t know what to do. Ignoring the fact that this is his doing, all of this, it’s still as if he’d been dropped into a battlefield and given a gun without any knowledge of how to use it, and told to fight.

When Soot says something first, Tommy’s hands unclench from the fists they’d been in, relief softening the joints. “What’d you think of the tournament so far?” he asks, fingers tapping on his tennis shorts.

“S’alright.” Tommy shrugs, a part of him he resents praying it was the right answer.

You don’t have to do that anymore.

But- 

He can’t help it.

Soot barks out a laugh, one that Tommy now knows isn’t mocking. 

The guy does that a lot, he’s become aware of within the past few days. Just laughs at shit he says that would leave him with yet another bruise or scar or weak limbs for days when he was Theseus.

“Just alright?” he grins with a teasing lilt to his tone, screwing the cap of his water bottle back on with a squeaking of metal.

Tommy shrugs again, that buzzing feeling floating around in his chest suddenly.

“It’d be better if Philza Minecraft was in it.” he says, voice piercing straight through the hesitation he should be feeling to say that.

It’s not exactly a lie, either. 

Tommy’s opinion on arguably one of the best players of all time was one of the only things he bothered to possess that wasn’t a product of his coach. 

As with most players, he hated Philza’s guts for reasons Tommy never understood. His coach had grinned without teeth when the news of his retirement broke, but for him, that was basically a full-on cheer.

But something about the guy just left Tommy awestruck every time he happened to catch one of his matches when his coach had left the house.

Tommy doesn’t notice there had been a stunned silence before Soot breaks it. “You like Philza Minecraft?” the man questions eagerly. 

Blinking, he turns to the brunette to find a disbelieving yet almost terrifyingly ecstatic grin plastered on his face.

“Well, obviously. He’s like- the only man ever, other than me, of course.” 

Stop talking. Theseus warns. Why are you doing this? He’s pleading, now, but he just- he can’t.

The words slip out so simply, as if they mean nothing to him and as if they aren’t reckless and impulsive and immature- 

Instantaneously, Wilb- Soot throws his head back with laughter freer than Tommy has heard from anyone ever, coughing when he’s done and placing a light hand on his upper arm, seemingly without thought-

He places a hand on Tommy’s upper arm. 

Tommy freezes, a feeling he isn’t able to name icing over him because-

There is a hand on his upper arm.

There is a hand touching his bicep and he isn’t- can’t move, can’t breathe, can’t do anything.

It’s warm.

That’s all he’s able to comprehend, and before he even is able to register how it feels, before he is able to flinch away with a jolt, it’s gone as the last trickles of Soot’s laughter fades out in what would be a peaceful quiet if there hadn’t been a hand on his arm.

The nerve endings there- even though it hadn’t been a direct point of contact- fizzle before they move to get the sensation to his brain, and then Tommy can think.

Since the man attempted to presumably tussle his mop of hair a few days back and- unintentionally or not- Tommy had made it sharply clear that he didn’t want to be touched, he hasn’t made any move to do so since.

It’s what Tommy wants.

He doesn’t know how to want anything else.

The buzzing is different now, he notices sickly, and he doesn’t know what to make of it.

The moment was so brief that the average person wouldn’t have regarded or cared about such a thing, and Tommy is well aware that he shouldn’t, but shit.

When was the last time he was touched without a promise of pain?

His chest aches in a way he doesn’t want to face because he isn’t weak. Tommy went through his coach. He got away from tennis and left himself-who he used to be- in the dust. And he isn’t going to get caught up in the feeling of a singular, meaningless touch because-

“The only man?” Soot slices through his thoughts like a heated blade, pushing them to the corners of his mind, and thank god, because his face remains unphased, implying he didn’t notice Tommy’s… moment.

“You heard me, bitch.”

“I don’t think you can both be the only man, gremlin child.” Soot jokes, grinning in a manner that makes Tommy’s lips want to twitch upwards to match.

He tenses when he realizes that he is, and immediately flattens the soft smile that had snuck its way onto his face.

“Oi!” he says indignantly, finding the will to ignore the voice whispering in his head. “I’m not a gremlin or a child, I’m a man. Like Philza.” and instead of feeling heavier with each word he lets loose, he feels… lighter, somehow. 

“Oh yeah?” Soot taunts, raising a brow.

“Yeah. He’s more of a man than me and you though.”

“Me?”

“You’re hardly a man compared to the Philza Minecraft.” words just keep coming and he can’t stop them. “Actually- I don’t even think you count as a man. You’re just a bitch.”

“I- I’m a fucking what?”

“A bitch. Bitchbur.”

“Ok, first of all, you-”

—

Boisterous applause erupts from the stands as a ball rolls into his open palms, every noise that exists after that all blurring into one.

Wilbur- Soot actually lost a set this time around, and if Tommy recalls correctly, it’s the first set he’s lost the entire tournament so far.

Impressive- really fucking impressive, actually. Tommy isn’t going to give him the satisfaction of even thinking that, though.It’s nothing Tommy hasn’t done before.

Despite the cheering, the sad smile Soot’s opponent wears and the endless praises being called out from the speaker on “Yet another flawless match by the one and only Wilbur Soot-”, if this were Tommy when he answered to another name, he wouldn’t be pumping his arms in the air in celebration of his victory.

He lost a set.

He lost points to lose games to lose a set.

He won the match, but what if that had spiralled into him losing it all? ‘No match is good until it’s perfect.’ Tommy gulps down a breath, staring at Wilbur from his spot across the court. 

There would have thin bruise lines marring his skin tonight, if he was Soot.

He still has some of them.

Before, feeling was never something his coach encouraged. Anything- whether it be melancholy, annoyance, hatred, excitement- was all ignored in favour of playing. Although it’s at a snail's pace, he’s trying, every day, to figure out that he’s worth more than a trophy and his racket. Like everything, it’s difficult in a way he never saw coming, but this, right here, is one of those moments where he really and truly feels.

It’s not like he’ll ever admit it to anyone, but…

For the second time during this entire event, Tommy misses the man who he assumes to be Wilbur’s coach due to the fact that the man fucking towers over him, watches as they hug, and lets an arrow of jealousy pierce his chest.

It goes straight through, but the poison lingers and drips into his bloodstream, forcing his hands into fists.

It’s petty.

He knows it is, but with his bitten cheek spilling crimson onto his tongue and eyes narrowing at the man's smile, there isn’t a way he is able to stop it.

Until-

The lady with the blossom-pink hair lifts a hand to motion in his direction, and he goes rigid when Soot follows her arm to spot him.

Tommy swallows, but-

But then his grin widens impossibly, and he’s waving frantically with his racket, and- “Tommy!” he shouts with an open smile, even though he already has his attention.

The few viewers and fellow ball boys that are left shift their gaze to where the man is looking for one, petrifying moment before Tommy gives a subtle wave and then they move on with their mundane tasks.

Exhale.

“Did you see it?” he calls excitedly, and Tommy can only assume he’s referring to the win.

Tommy nods, forcing his hands to straighten out and swallowing a quip something along the lines of ‘No I didn’t, prick.’ before it fully forms.

At this point, he doesn’t think it’s possible, but Soot’s smile grows blinding. “We’re still on for four, yeah?” he shouts without regard for the few stragglers around the space.

Again, Tommy nods.

Something in the very back of his mind tells him that he’d made another grave mistake, but… it’s almost easy to ignore it as Wilbur throws him a thumbs up before turning back to people he assumes are his coaches or something like that.

Another pang.

He knows… he knows that what his coach did to him wasn’t exactly… normal.

Normal. Without thinking, the muscles in his face pull themselves into a scowl at the word, the syllables of it bitter on his taste buds. A term thrown around so often, and yet it’s only relative to how the user thinks of it.

Not in like, an emo way or anything, he would never, it’s just that he’s not exactly sure how to adhere to a word's meaning when it doesn’t really have one.

To him- to Theseus, he means- bruises and words laced with venom, training until he only had enough energy reserved to file into bed was normal.

But that isn’t- wasn’t… normal, normal.

He’s always understood that, he thinks with a swallow, even if only at the very back of his consciousness. 

It takes effort, but in the end, he does manage to pry eyes he doesn’t want to admit are envious of Soot, and disappears to his next match of the day.

—

It’s on that day that Soot leads him to an unfamiliar practice court after Tommy’s win.

Tommy walks all the way there on unsure feet, which he’s slightly apprehensive to admit are becoming an abnormality over the past few days.

He has no idea what’s going on.

Wilbur’s grin is almost… mischievous, and Tommy isn’t sure how to feel about it.

Fear wants to take over his movements, he can hear it pounding at his thoughts and begging to be let in, but Tommy doesn’t listen.

And while he isn’t entirely sure he can trust Wilbur, (he does, though) he knows at the back of his mind that the man isn’t leading Tommy towards anything bad.

There’s a large bag slung over the man's shoulder as he walks, determination flashing over his face periodically. Lumps protrude from its side, but he doesn’t look interested in showing Tommy what’s inside until they reach their destination.

Speaking of, “Where are we going?”

“You’ll see,” he says, grin widening.

Before, that would have made his skin crawl and his hair stand on end, but this time, it just… doesn’t.

That’s all he gets before Soot halts at the doors to a different, empty practice court than the ones they usually face off on. Tommy follows as the man confidently strides toward the ball machine sitting on one side of the court, slinging the bag off of his shoulder excitedly.

Suddenly, Wilbur drops to the ground next to it, kneeling as Tommy’s eyes scan the area questioningly. “What are you doing?” he asks after a moment, brows furrowing.

“C’mere,” Soot waves as he pokes around at the back of the machine, his eyes narrowed.

With nothing else to do, and honestly rather curious in a way he’s barely ever been before, he carefully takes a seat next to the man.

Because he can’t help himself, his hands immediately move to unzip the bag, and when Soot doesn’t even try to stop him, he dumps out the contents onto the court floor.

“Bean bags?” he blurts, face twisting with confusion as about fifty multi-coloured lumps hit the ground before his, now wide, eyes.

What the fuck does he need bean bags for?

It’s a thought he doesn’t voice, instead only staring at Soot until he turns his head to Tommy again, revealing the face of an absolute madman.

“Yep.” he says as if it makes any sense, popping the ‘p’.

Tommy doesn’t say anything else, but he supposes his expression tells Soot that he’s got no clue what’s happening. 

“You, my friend, are helping me pull off the prank of the century.” Soot explains.

What the fuck.

But first-

‘My friend,’

‘My friend,’

Before he can actually understand what’s happening, he has to take that in first.

His friend?

Soot is already turned away and back to doing- whatever it is he’s doing to the machine, meaning that there are no observers to the pure, untainted and unfamiliar hope that shines in Tommy’s eyes.

He won’t admit to it.

Was Soot actually-

Did he really-

No.

That’s just a saying, right? A speech pattern.

Right?

He’ll pretend that the thought doesn’t asphyxiate the brief moment of want, crushing it into tiny little pieces so that he can ignore it with a sour taste in his mouth.

Then the second half of his words hit.

“A prank?”

Soot nods. “That’s what the beanbags are for, Tommy,” he says, either ignoring or not noticing Tommy’s near-flabbergasted expression. “Come over here.”

It’s not a command. The man’s words are light and have an air of leniency to them, nothing like what he’s used to, but with his heart absolutely pounding in his chest, he follows Wilbur’s direction to the back of the machine.

“Right then.” he’s still fucking smiling, looking at Tommy like he’s about to explain the ‘master plan' of a damn bank robbery. “Your job is to funnel the tennis balls out from the machine and into the bag, can you do that?”

No.

Tommy nods stiffly, and Soot just keeps smiling. “Excellent,” he says before going back to work in order to open up the back.

Tommy isn’t confused anymore.

He gets what the ‘prank’ is now, his mind helpfully filling in the blanks that whoever practices in here next is going to turn on the machine, and then it’s going to spew beanbags at them instead of tennis balls.

He gets it now, but-

This is one of those things so unfathomable to do, so outside the bounds of his old rules that he never even thought once that he would pull a ‘prank’ for the duration of his life.

It’s not that he’s a pussy, no way, just that…

He doesn’t even know.

For a second he pauses, biting his lip as he looks down at his empty, calloused hands, as a sense of power blooms in his chest.

He twists his head around in one more perimeter check for any observers, and-

Tommy can do this. 

He could just do this, break the rules, and his coach wouldn’t know because he isn’t here.

The thought has been repeated over and over in his head, and he has always known that since he’s been here, been safe, but with a swallow, he thinks he’s just realized it.

Call it an epiphany if you want, all he knows is that abruptly, his fingertips are itching to do it.

With hands that he refuses to admit have a tremor in them, he moves to take the tennis balls out from the hole that Soot has made and then puts them into the now empty bag without missing another beat.

They work until the machine is entirely filled with the beanbags, and then Soot is looking at him with an expression no better described as giddy.

He doesn’t understand how someone can appear so innately unbothered by everything. He’s acting like this is just another Tuesday, and not one of the most nerve-wrackingly exhilarating moments of Tommy’s entire life.

Then he’s walking to place the bag of tennis balls at the side of the court where whoever is victim to this can find them eventually, because, quote, ‘We aren’t actually being dickheads.’

“You ready?” Soot asks, anticipation riddling his tone as they tuck themselves into the doorway opposite of the one he says they’ll enter from. Tommy would make a remark about how much of a child he’s acting like if it wasn’t for how his mind is wiped clean of thoughts as the door opens to reveal a burly-looking man and as Wilbur’s hand lands on his shoulder from behind, shaking it excitedly and probably thinking nothing of the action.

He doesn’t flinch this time though. This time, he stays incredibly, impossibly still.

He stays that way, unmoving, Soot’s preemptive intake of breath in his ears as he flips his racket in his hands and saunters over to turn on the machine.

Tommy’s eyes are wide, his hands hanging limp at his side as that buzzing returns tenfold.

Both of them are silent, holding their breath until-

Until he turns it on, jogs around the net to the other side of the court, and there there are beanbags, literal fucking beanbags flying at him.

He swerves away from the first one, eyes widening in what Tommy recognizes to be fear, and then he’s fending off beanbags with his racket like he’s defending his family from certain death.

An amazed exhale is huffed out into the air, and he knows he probably looks like an idiot and that he definitely shouldn’t be doing this, but-

Poorly suppressed laughter rings out from next to him, hardly muffled by the hand he can tell is covering Soot’s mouth, and as the man desperately attempts to ricochet rainbow-coloured beanbags off of his professional tennis racket as his face contorts with terror, the stifle breaks and the flood gates open, and freed laughter is the only sound he can hear.

Soot’s joy bleeds into him, washing away the last tendrils of hesitation and fear of rules and the punishment that comes- came with breaking them.

Tommy is just as terrified as he is surprised at the noise that threatens to emerge from his throat.

Wilbur’s laugh has a certain melodious quality to it, unlike other laughter he’s heard in passing that’s jagged and rough, or rather… hiccupy. 

It’s nothing like his coach’s laugh.

All that sound offered was pain, but this offers nothing other than what it is.

He’s not thinking about it as the thought ‘This is fucking hilarious.’ passes through him, but later, he’ll be regretting what he’s about to do.

As the man continues to struggle, looking fucking terrified at the beanbags and Wilbur is nearly keeled over with hysterics shaking his frame, he isn’t able to stifle it this time around.

Without warning, a laugh escapes him.

It’s no more than an exhale that he has to use his vocal cords to slightly manipulate, but it’s a laugh, and it feels good. 

Like nothing has ever stopped him before, he does it again- stronger this time.

Theseus would hate this, right at his very core, but next thing he knows, he can’t stop giggling.

In fact, he doesn’t stop until the man has figured out how to get to the machine and shut it down without being pummeled by beanbags and tears are gathering at the corners of his eyes.

When he’s done, his chest feels as if someone has lifted twenty pounds off of it, and he knows he should feel the opposite- but he doesn’t.

And when he turns to Soot as to avoid the man's gaze, he's smiling at him brighter than he ever could have imagined. It’s almost hard to fully conceptualize until he brings up a flattened hand, eyes expectant.

Theseus instructs him to flinch away, but for whatever reason, he knows he doesn’t have to, somewhere inside of him. Although it takes him a second, he knows Soot is aiming for a high-five.

Because he can never really rid himself of Theseus, insecurity seeps into his pores at the fact that he’s never done that with anyone before. However, he’s also never thought he would do a prank before, and here he stands.

He goes in for the high-five, forgetting everything he is- used to be- as the clap rings out.

—

Absent-mindedly, Tommy’s nails pick at the clay of the court from where he sits crossed-legged on the surface.

If you asked him when Soot stopped taking him places to fill the spaces in between exchanged words, and when he just started… talking to him, he wouldn't have an answer for you. Yesterday, Tommy taught him how to strengthen his grip on his backhand volley as per his request, but today…

Tommy had won, and now he’s sitting on the court, nearly full blue Powerade the man had bought him grasped in his hands.

“What’s the matter?” Soot says towards Tommy’s glare after pressing his own Powerade to his lips.

“That,” he says, glowering.

Wilbur rolls his eyes, a soft grin with more meaning than Tommy can process betraying that he isn’t actually irritated. Inhale. “Oh come on, Toms, it’s not that bad.”

The air leaves Tommy’s lungs in one fell swoop.

It doesn’t show on his face, years of training his feature not to twist into something meaningful have made that easy on him, but-

Toms.

No one has ever…

No one has ever called him something like that.

His instincts built on nothing but a fear-driven need to win and to obey, scream at him to recoil, to back away because having something like this isn’t something that he’s meant to.

It’s a nice name.

A friendly one, and if he stretches it around a little in his mind, something familial, however-

‘Friendships are a distraction. Everything other than training is a distraction Theseus. Shouldn’t you know this by now?’

It had been so painfully casual, like there was no reason for the one, simple word to send Tommy reeling, but-

As much as he aches to ignore it, the buzzing flows through his bloodstream in a wave as he swallows thickly, leaving a trail of warmth in its wake.

Suddenly worried he’d let the pause drag on too long, he blurts out the next thing that makes it past the lump in his throat.

“Look, man, and I mean this in the nicest way possible, but you’re drinking the juice of Satan.”

Not his best work, but he smothers the twitching of his lips when it comes and puts all of his energy into ignoring its existence as Wilbur barks out an unexpected, breathless laugh.

“Satan?” he says, sounding exasperated, but… in a good way. Tommy doesn’t really get it, but hey, he’ll take it.

“Who else would be responsible for something so terrible?” Tommy responds, not entirely sure what he’s saying, and again, the words just don’t fucking stop.

“It’s literally just orange Powerade.”

“Yeah, orange Powerade from Satan.”

He wants to wince at the words. He should wince at the words, and the fact that he’s the one saying them. They fly out of his mouth so carelessly, lacking any meaning, but he just can’t stop them.

He wants to say he hates it. 

Theseus begs him to stop, and he doesn’t know why he can’t.

When Soot laughs again, throwing his head back without a care in the world, there is a snaking feeling that what he’s just thought is a lie.

He keeps doing it because it makes him feel free. he keeps doing it because he's a reckless, incompetent idiot and because he can't find it in himself to outweigh the possibility of him getting hurt with the way he feels when he allows himself just to speak after restraining everything his entire life.

“If Satan is actually around, I’m sure he’s got more important things to deal with than Powerade.” Soot quips back with another sip of the drink in question, and Tommy allows a smile. He can’t be bothered to feel bad about it.

“Yeah, say that to my face when you’re burning in hell with your orange Powerade, bitch.”

That’s when Wilbur literally spits out his Powerade at what Tommy said, liquid spraying all over the court in front of them.

When Tommy came here, it hadn’t been with the intention to go around chatting to people and it definitely hadn’t been to make them laugh.

He doesn’t really mind it, though.

Saying this, he’s completely aware he sounds like that broken record that you can’t seem to fix no matter what you do, but-

This thought shouldn’t have crossed his mind, despite the fact that it did.

He’s not sure if he likes Wilbur, he doesn’t know what would qualify as being someone's friend, but there’s a certain part of him that soaks up the man’s company like a man starving. 

Tommy likes the way Wilbur talks to him, as if he isn’t just the way he grips his racket. Like he’s more than a player and his skill.

Tommy likes the way he’s treated, like he’s a person.

—

It’s in one of these moments when it happens.

The situation he’s in is an odd one, and definitely not one he could have comprehended a week or two ago.

He’s not even sure if he does now, for fucks sake.

The practice courts were booked up for the duration of daylight, but as Tommy has come to notice, Wilbur Soot is nothing if not persistent, so they’d wound up getting the court half after seven, nearly two hours after Tommy was meant to be ‘home’.

Don’t get him wrong, he’ll take every opportunity to spend less time in the shithole, just that he’s got no clue what to say.

“Where would you want to go, if you could go anywhere?” Soot asks out of the blue, gaze trained on the setting sun.

Huh. 

No one has ever asked that before.

It feels inexplicably wrong to say this, but in some ways, being Theseus was easier than being Tommy. Despite the way his stomach flips in discomfort at the mere thought of the fact, it’s true, in a sense.

It was hard for obvious reasons, but he never had to… think.

Nobody ever genuinely asked him for his opinion, what ice cream flavour he wanted or ‘where he would go’, all he had to do was swing and pretend things were fine for the media.

When Tommy doesn’t respond, Wilbur takes things into his own hands without question.

“I’d go to Logstedshire if I had the chance,” he says softly yet assured, and-

Oh.

“Why?” he croaks out, meticulously controlling the rise and fall of his chest so it doesn’t spiral out of order.

“Have you seen the photos of the place?” Tommy bites into his cheek, eyes finding the ground in hope of refuge. Has he seen the place? He’s been there. Lived there his entire life. He won there. Took hits there. Bled there. He doesn’t want to think of its existence. Logstedshire is where Theseus was born and subsequently died. Wilbur continues, and it’s not like he can do anything to stop the man. “I think I’d like to live near the beach. Not one of those skimpy rock ones either, a sand beach like they’ve got,” he says, voice sounding caught in a dream.

Vaguely, Tommy wants to throw up. His jaw clenches instead.

“What about you?” he asks again, judgment absent from his tone.

“Uh,” Tommy says, trying to scrape together an answer.

The reason he came to Manburg was for the sole reason that he could land this job, not for the views of a concrete jungle far from the coast.

He’s never going back to Logstedshire. L’manburg doesn’t have much to offer for him- unless you count the fact that it’s bordered in. Las Nevadas is too close to Theseus’ grave and Kinoko has never appealed to him. So… if not any of those, then he guesses-

“Snowchester,” he says quietly, swallowing. Wilbur, who had been patiently awaiting his response, turns to him.

“Really? And why’s that?” Wilbur tilts his head curiously.

“What’s wrong with Snowchester?” Tommy bristles, because he can now.

The man blinks once, eyes flashing with something Tommy can’t name before he scrambles to backtrack. “Nothing wrong with the place, just didn’t peg you as a Snowchester kind of guy.” he shrugs.

“Oh,” Tommy says, defences lowering. “Just seems like a nice place, if I’m honest.”

Soot chuckles, and Tommy doesn’t really know why, but he likes the sound.

“They’ve got polar bears, n’ shit.” he’s got no idea if that’s true.

“Those could eat you, y’know.” Soot warns jokingly.

“Nah, not me. I’d beat one.”

“In what?” Wilbur grins, incredulous.

“A fight, obviously.” Tommy shrugs. “They’d never see it coming.”

“Oh yeah? With all of your muscles?” he teases, and Tommy knows there’s nothing serious about it.

“Nah.” he shakes his head, curls shaking with the wind. “I’d get ‘em with my skills.” before he even knows what he’s doing, he’s fishing a ball from his pocket and standing up to demonstrate.

He throws the ball up, and when he hits it, he hits it hard. It’s not how he would normally serve, don’t get him wrong. It’s entirely to emphasize the joke he’s trying to tell.

So well he hits far too hard and when it bounces far behind the baseline, he still has good form.

Tommy lingers, still standing for a moment before he sits back down.

He’d been expecting it to hit the back of the court.

However, he had no way to prepare for what was going to happen next.

“Christ, where'd you learn to play like that?” 

Oh. 

That was clearly a moment of weakness, because it doesn’t make sense for the raw amazement colouring the tone to be a new development after they’ve been actually playing each other for a week and a half.

Where did you learn to play like that?

A million pictures flash in his head, silencing any other thoughts as he freezes in place, catatonic.

Nobody is meant to know that.

Nobody was meant to question anything, Tommy was meant to hide in the shadows and lay low until it was safe to come out, and look what he’s done now.

He had to have known this would come, it’s not every day someone like him beats the to-be champion of the Manburg Open this year, and now he’s curious to know how Tommy is this good.

Of course he is. Anyone would be. You just had to let it show.

Air stops flowing into his lungs before he knows it, because what is he meant to say?

“Tommy?” he hears, but it’s distant.

He learned to play like that because he never stopped training until he couldn’t, and he plays well because if he doesn’t-

“I-” he starts, a useless excuse dying on his tongue as the sound gets caught in his throat.

Nobody can know.

If someone were to figure it out-

Tommy can’t go back there.

“Can you hear me, Tommy?” a voice asks somewhere, and he nods. Any semblance of sense and calm is thrown out the window. “Ok. You need to breathe, kid.” he’s fucking trying, but how can he when the ice could crack beneath him and plunge him into cold waters, freezing his limbs and revealing Theseus?

He's too far gone to come up with a lie as to why he can play the way he does and way too far gone to make it sound like the truth, and if Soot finds out, he's doomed. It's all over for Tommy and eating ice cream and smiling and-

Instructions filter in through his ears, hearing being the only sense he retains as it becomes easier and easier to get oxygen past his windpipe. “Alright, good.” the voice- Wilbur exhales, sounding relieved.

For a moment- it’s quiet.

It’s quiet and Tommy breathes methodically, focusing on nothing but that as he unknowingly allows himself to bask in the moment of comfort, the reason he’s receiving it forgotten. 

And then he blinks his eyes open, turning up to face Soot, whose face is bruised with a worry so visceral that everything comes back to him in an instant.

All of a sudden there’s a hand on his shoulder that wasn’t there before, and he can’t help it- he flinches away, trying to suck in a breath as it retracts quickly, and-

That’s when he scrambles up on hands that shake and takes off into the night, ignoring the worried calls of his name behind him.

Chapter Text

Wilbur is worried.

He has been since the very beginning of this whole… ordeal, but he finds that today, things are especially concerning.

It’s the type of worry that keeps him up at night, lingers where and when it shouldn’t be and tingles at the tip of his fingers when he plays like a taunt, seeping into his every move.

This development isn’t sudden at all- and it really shouldn’t be startling. 

The way Tommy plays had been the seed, Wilbur allowing him to experience things he should understand the workings of watering it until it had sprouted up from the soil, and yesterday, it had bloomed.

No one should be panicking over that question.

Wilbur never meant to ask it, let it be known. It had been purely a ‘spur of the moment’ sort of deal, ironically for the exact reason that guilt is clawing at his chest at the minute. Maybe it’s a good thing he hasn’t been brave enough to ask any other time. However, if you look at it from an angle concerned with the bigger picture- it could be considered a ‘happy accident’, but the pit in his stomach says otherwise.

What he doesn’t know about Tommy feels like knowing so much more than he ever intended, every question that’s left unanswered more telling than it should be, allowing Wilbur’s inference to become a raging, unstoppable wildfire, devouring everything in its path.

Wilbur knows people. 

He’s not trying to brag or anything, it’s just a fact. From the very start, his gut simply decided that Tommy wouldn’t take too kindly to being pummeled with invasive questions, so he’d held back despite traitorous, pestering urges that he needed to.

Wilbur also knows that he’s prone to… overreact. Well- that's what Phil tells him. He likes to say he’s just one for theatrics. A small detriment to his personality, but noticeable in the worst of times. Phil, and Niki as well, have always been good at calming irrationalities with logical reasoning, however-

Maybe before, when Wilbur had first confessed his tidal wave of anxious thoughts to the people who he considers to be his teammates in one way or another, it had been little more than that.

A suspicion. 

Now?

He is absolutely terrified.

Unease he’d been regrettably been staving away is now unstoppable, pushing at his consciousness with too much force to overlook.

So here he is, plate clinking as he stabs his fork straight through the pancakes he’s just doused in syrup, a shameful sense of guilt settling over his skin.

“And then he just scurried off?” Phil asks, poking at his own sausages. 

Wilbur nods, confirming as his face warps into something troubled.

Despite how things went last time he tried this, he can’t help from at least trying to ask for help from the guy who knows things like these better than anyone. 

Phil hums, considering.

Back then, when Phil was doing everything in his power to get Wilbur out of a situation he didn’t even know he needed saving from, Wilbur had panicked a lot.

He’d panicked when the man implied that training all hours of the day was wrong, panicked when the man explained that what was happening to him was abuse and not simply a different way of loving than most. 

It’s been over ten years since then, though, and moments like that are so rare these days that it makes better sense to call them memories. But-

No matter how hard he can try and make a picture with the few blurry puzzle pieces he’s been given, he doesn’t know Tommy’s situation. He is well aware he shouldn’t be making assumptions. But he doesn’t blame the boy for reacting the way he did, if he’s right about anything.

And while it isn’t exactly the same, the similarities are there in all the ways that Wilbur is afraid of and are too stark to even think to ignore anymore. 

God, the fucking finals are in two days and this is all he can think about.

How he’s going to ask Phil for help navigating unfamiliar territory, how he’s going to further crack open Tommy’s shell next, and why he could possibly need to do so. Worst of all, how Tommy could be hurting at any given moment. Wilbur usually doesn’t mind the unknown all that much, but this is something else.

He won’t deny the protectiveness that had awakened inside of him at one point or another, how he finds his hands curling into fists at the mere idea that something could be happening to Tommy without his knowledge and he’s powerless to prevent it.

“Well, we obviously can’t be jumping to any conclusions,” Wilbur holds his breath, praying for a but. “However, I do trust your judgment, Wil, so if you really think something is going on with him, I believe you,” Phil says with a nod, and Wilbur puffs out a breath of relief.

Thank god.

Wilbur lets out a breath of pure relief before he lifts a chunk of pancake to his mouth. “What should I do, then?” 

It’s not that he needs help puzzling together Tommy’s situation, he just doesn’t want to make anything worse than it already could be. 

And Phil knows better than anyone would. 

At his words, Phil’s face shifts in a way he wasn’t expecting, his lips quirking upwards into a quiet smile. “Just… be patient with him, mate.” Phil says, “He’ll open up to you when he’s ready, yeah?” he advises.

Phil is right. Phil is usually right, so it’s no surprise. But the problem lies right out in the open: they don’t have time for patience. The tournament ends in three days, and then Wilbur’s off to L’Manburg and Tommy is back to… doing whatever he did before they met, he supposes with a painful twisting of his gut. 

But yesterday had made it vividly clear that acting without patience is going to get him absolutely nowhere, if not set the boy back to his silent, not quite timid but not quite brash self, and that’s the opposite of what Wilbur wants. 

There isn’t exactly a middle ground between the two, so he guesses he'll just have to do his best with the piss-poor hand he’s been dealt.

“Yeah.” he agrees with a steadying roll of his shoulders, foot tapping impatiently on the floor. He bites his tongue in thought, skewered pancake forgotten and falling back onto the plate as the beginnings of a plan brew- and then something he uncovered a few days back hits him like a sack of bricks. “Hey Phil?” he says, anticipation suddenly sweet on his taste buds.

“Yeah?” Phil looks back up vacantly as the corners of Wilbur’s lips pull up into a grin.

“How would you feel about meeting him?”

—

Tommy shows up later that day at their usual meeting time.

Wilbur had half been expecting him not to show at all after the events of the previous night- unsure of whether his fleeing had been a fear-fueled spur of the moment or part of something bigger. Something final. Relief pours through his veins when he steps into view, quieting the nervous tapping of his foot.

He and Niki and Phil trail behind him, slowly coming into Tommy’s line of sight. And when they do-

All Wilbur was hoping for was a reaction, for the hairline fractures in Tommy’s visage to crumble away further even just a little bit.

This is much more than he ever could have asked for.

Two days ago, laughter was something Wilbur added to the roster of the boy’s plausible reactions, and now it’s safe to say that pure amazement is now one of them.

“Your coach is fucking Philza Minecraft?” he gapes, astonished and not even looking at Wilbur as he says it, blue eyes focused on Phil like he’s the only thing that’s ever existed. Wilbur nods gleefully even though he’s out of sight, swallowing a chuckle.

“Hey mate.” Phil greets casually, one hand in his pocket as the other reaches out for Tommy to shake.

“Oh my god, I can’t believe I'm meeting the only man ever right now.” Tommy rambles on as he grabs onto the man’s hand, appearing not to overthink his words before they’re out there. A tweak to his behaviour Wilbur welcomes wholly as he sends a look to Niki, who’s doing a shit job at holding back an endeared smile.

Amused confusion flickers over Phil’s face before he recalibrates and laughs, releasing Tommy’s hand. 

“Nice to meet you too, mate.” the older greets easily, an expression familiar to Wilbur slowly building over his features. “I’ve only seen you play, it’s nice to finally meet you after hearing so much.”

At that, Tommy halts, face contorting in a way Wilbur has never seen before he whips his head around.

“You seriously talk about me to Philza Minecraft?” he asks under furrowed brows, hope Wilbur can only assume was intended to be under wraps clear in the way his voice lilts.

Wilbur shrugs, an almost-smug grin playing over his face. “How could I not tell my coach about the child who’s beaten me at least seven times?”

“Right. Sorry ’bout that, Philza Minecraft.”

“Don’t worry about it, Tommy. He needs to be knocked down a peg anyways.” 

“Oi! I do not.” Wilbur defends as Tommy grins.

“He’s got a point, Wil.” Niki chimes in, causing Tommy to finally let his eyes drop from Phil and stare at her, blankly for a minute, and then-

“Holy shit, wait, you’re Nihachu!” he nearly shouts, pointing at her almost like a cartoon character that the animators were given the instruction to act excited. Niki’s lips part in shock as Tommy’s continues. “Oh my god, Wilbur, why didn’t you tell me everyone you work for is famous?”

Honestly, Tommy knowing Niki isn’t something that crossed Wilbur’s mind at any point. She is- or was- amazing, a two-time champion herself before she tore a few ligaments in the off season before a predicted third victory via one of the worst car accidents Wilbur has ever heard of. A personal trainer residing far from the spotlight now, and has been for three years and a tragedy in the realm of tennis, but sports news always moves on too fast. Maybe Tommy is more of a tennis fanatic than he thought.

For now, he can bear to ignore the way he referred to his team as ‘people he works for’.

“I don’t know if I’m famous, Tommy,” Niki says, to which Tommy looks as though she’s just threatened his entire bloodline.

“No way, you’re literally one of the most-”

—

Somehow, Wilbur winds up standing at the sidelines of the court, watching some not-so-random child beat a retired champion double his age.

If actually playing Tommy feels unreal, watching him from a distance is an entirely different experience.

Rust has formed around the edges of Phil’s technique-he’s still fucking amazing, yes, but Tommy is just… better. 

It’s stunning to see someone so impossibly skilled at something.

Maybe he should be proud, or forced into a stunned silence or anything, but that one, incessant strand of thought just won’t stop nagging.

That uncomfortable feeling builds and builds until he’s frowning-unable to get past the simple, logical fact that what he’s doing shouldn’t be possible.

Although he’d been practically bouncing up and down when Wilbur suggested they play a set or two, he’s still gone. Gone in the sense that his mouth remains resolutely shut and his movements are almost unnatural in their vigilance and reaction time, his eyes dulled.

The look on Phil’s face when he loses is what Wilbur imagines he looked like as well, but he schools his expression quickly in order to congratulate Tommy and hold out his hand in a good-natured handshake.

Tommy takes it, the frost encasing him melting away slowly as they walk back to Wilbur on the side of the court.

A lighter sort of banter fills the air around them as Tommy grows bolder with his quips and jabs, and Phil is intelligent (or at least experienced) enough to know not to ask any intrusive questions, or even comment on Tommy’s playing at all.

It does a good job of maintaining a comfortable atmosphere, but… it’s not what they need. Tommy, most likely, isn’t in the best situation right now. Wilbur doesn’t think he needs to list every suspicion that factors into this concern again at this point. Don’t get him wrong, it’s all he wants to see Tommy not looking like someone is going to appear from around the corner every time he makes a ‘wrong’ move, but sand is pouring through to the other side of the hourglass fast. He needs answers. He needs to do something before he’s back home with no way to contact Tommy at all.

They’re sailing on a boat without a path, floating pointlessly in the middle of crashing waves.

How can he change courses without rocking it?

“What are your plans for after the tournament is over, Tommy?” He hopes the casualty he’s forced into his tone isn’t as obvious as it feels to him.

“I think they’ve got one of those pop-up carnival things in town open for a bit, if you’re looking for things to do.” Phil supplies calmly when Tommy’s silence rings out.

“... Pop-up carnival?” his eyes narrow.

“Yeah,” Phil continues, smiling brightly. “one of those ones where they just rent out a massive plot of land and put games and shit in it.”

“Oh,” Tommy says thickly, looking to the ground. Wilbur bites the inside of his cheek, suspense a vice over any air that tries to enter his lungs. “I dunno. I don’t really like games.”

“Have you ever been to one?” Wilbur interjects without meaning to, lifting his brows.

Tommy shakes his head.

“Right then, that’s settled.” Tommy finally looks up from the court floor, an odd, expectant concern twisted into his face. Wilbur grins. “Tomorrow, we're going to the carnival.”

—

Since he doesn’t exactly have Tommy’s address, Phil and Wilbur pick Tommy up at the parking lot of the tournament grounds at noon.

Well- he and Tommy agreed to meet at noon, but they actually arrived about thirty minutes early, bored out of their minds during the two-day gap that happens to build anticipation for the final match. Despite this, Tommy is sitting completely still on one of the benches when they arrive, save for his eyes, which glance around nervously. That’s not surprising. In fact, the only out-of-the-ordinary thing about him is that instead of his wrinkle-less ball boy uniform, he’s wearing… normal clothes.

Nothing special- skinny jeans and a red and white baseball tee, but the garments do make Wilbur second guess if it’s actually him or if he just has poor eyesight.

“Tommy!” he shouts with a hand cupped around his mouth, waving exaggeratedly, not unlike the first time he asked him to play. The boy startles before standing and making his way over to the still running car, face blank.

“You ready to go?” Wilbur asks with a grin, a ball of excitement bouncing around his rib cage. 

Tommy nods complacently as he files into the backseat through the door Wilbur left open before he hops into shotgun. “Oh, right. Do your parents want you home by a certain time?” Wilbur asks as he clicks his seatbelt into place. Tommy stares blankly for a moment, face shutting down before he shakes his head.

Wilbur forces himself to steady at the response, exhaling through his nose.

The sound of the door slamming shut rings out in the same moment Phil starts driving again, the not-quite-awkward silence of the car becoming known.

“What type of music do you listen to?” he asks, twisting his head around in time to see Tommy shift his gaze from out the window to him. He hates to say he is braced for that look to engulf Tommy whole. Panic and shame interwoven, apathy poorly acting as a barrier between those emotions and the world.

A shrug.

“Oh, come on, Tommy, what about rock music?” another shrug. “Indie?” another shrug. “Alternative?” he doesn’t think he has to say it this time. “Pop? R&B? Classical?”

“I know Vivaldi,” Tommy says blankly.

“You know Vivaldi or you like Vivaldi?” Wilbur pushes, and then regrets it as the faintest flicker of pain crosses Tommy’s features before he shrugs again.

He’ll have time to fully dwell on the guilt of that later, but for now-

“Let me introduce you to some real music.”

—

Tommy likes rock.

Indie rock to be specific, but he doesn’t seem to mind harsher tones.

To be fair, likes is a pretty generous term for the reaction he gave, but Wilbur catches onto the subtle bopping of his head before he notices and stops himself to nearly every Los Campesinos and Dayglow song that plays on the twenty-five-minute drive.

Tommy still looks a little uneasy when they arrive, and Wilbur can only resolve to change that when they’re in there as Phil waves them goodbye and drives off, presumably back to the hotel.

As they’re standing at the gates, Tommy looks like a kid in a goddamn candy store. More like if you dialled up the overwhelmed above the excitement, really, but Wilbur can’t blame him.

A memory of coming here with Phil during his final year of Juniors after he’d lost the final match prods at his mind as carnival music drowns everything out. It had been an attempt to remind him that he’s still worthy of things- happiness- despite a loss, he now realizes. Phil practically had to drag him by the collar of his tennis shirt. Since then, he’d completely forgotten about it. 

The event isn’t extraordinary- nothing more than a cash-grab while everyone is in town for the tournament, but he’s smiling as he guides Tommy through everything regardless. 

“Here- how about we stop over there first?” he offers after a few minutes of pointless wandering, knowing that Tommy isn’t actually going to request to stop somewhere if he wanted to. Tommy turns his face upwards from the ground to follow Wilbur’s line of sight where one of those cotton candy machines stands, vibrant red contrasting loudly with the concrete ground.

They’re already nearing it when Tommy shrugs in agreement, though it’s clear on his face he’s got no clue what it is. 

The sensation has been dulled with time, but that doesn’t prevent the ache in Wilbur's chest.

Even though the line is short- only a few people long, they still have enough time for Tommy to watch in awe as the pure sugar becomes a mound of pink clouds.

He’s still mesmerized as the man working the machine hands them their cones.

Staring at the treat as they walk off, he’s not even sure why he got himself one in the first place. He doesn’t even like sweet things, for fucks sake, they make his teeth hurt just looking at them. The stuff barley has a taste, too, might as well just spoon a mound of sugar into-

The sight of Tommy leaning in and taking a massive bite from the center of it startles Wilbur from his thoughts instantaneously, and then-

“Why’s it fucking melting?” he exclaims, scrubbing his face to rid it of the remaining bits of cotton candy.

Wilbur watches, hardly trying to shove down laughter as Tommy goes in for a bite again,  once again resurfacing with the stuff all over his face.

“You are a literal child.” Wilbur gets out between bouts of untamable chuckles, picking off a bite-sized chunk of his own cotton candy with his hands and stuffing it in his mouth, sugar spreading over his tongue. 

“Oi! Fuck you, bitch, I’m eighteen in like- ten months or some shit.”

“Still a child, as far as I’m concerned.”

“Maybe you’re just old, ever think of that?” Tommy rebukes, causing Wilbur to immediately erupt into protest.

He doesn’t think he wants to know how many times he’d reiterated that, ‘I’m literally twenty-five!’ to Tommy’s joking insistence that his years are coming to an end before they wind up at Whack-A-Mole.

They’re up against a few others- two determined-looking teens and a girl no older than eight who already has a ridiculously large bear at her side. Internally, Wilbur resolves that if he wins, he’ll give the prize to Tommy. It’s not like he has any use for a neon plushie half his size.

It shouldn’t be a surprise that he doesn’t have to, when the buzzer rings out, singling the end of the game.

Tommy wins Whack-A-Mole without breaking a sweat, startling when he’s handed a gigantic cow as his prize, but taking it regardless before they walk over to ring toss, and he wins that too.

Bust-a-Balloon.

Skee Ball.

Bean Bag Toss.

That weird duck one.

He wins all of them.

By the end he has to start refusing the prizes because there’s no way they can carry all of those nor do either of them want more than one or two of the massive things. Wilbur has been assigned to carrying around a pale-blue moth with glittery pom poms attached to the antenna, while Tommy has both a regular-looking spider and cow tucked under his arms. Odd choices, especially over the mythical creatures of all sizes and colours they offered the boy, but he seems happy with them, and that’s all that matters.

Just as the sun is beginning to set, they grab two, oversized and dripping with grease hot dogs as dinner. 

Tommy looks uneasy with the decision, hesitating before every bite, but eats it all the same.

“What are you going to name them?” Wilbur asks as he finishes his off, wiping the grease off his hands into a paper napkin.

Understanding doesn’t make it onto Tommy’s face, despite the way it’s scrunched up like he’s trying desperately to. “Name what?”

“Your prizes, of course,” he explains as irritating carnival noises fade into the background. 

“I have to name them?” Tommy raises a brow. “They’re just bags of stuffing.”

“Nonsense, Tommy! Of course you have to name them.”

Clementine, Henry, and Shroud.

Those are the names Tommy picks (extremely unsurely, as if there’s a wrong option, Wilbur might add) after twenty minutes of too-careful consideration. 

It’s obvious he’s trying not to seem like he cares about the things at all, referring to them only as ‘inanimate object’ but insists on carrying them all, and then proceeds to allow something disgruntled to twist into his face when the lady working at the spinny ride tells him he has to put them in this box to go on it.

He begrudgingly complies, staring at the motionless figures for far too long for someone who has, quote, ‘No need for dumb plushies’.

It’s incredibly endearing, but Wilbur smarty chooses not to mention it.

Like everything they’ve done this evening, it had been Wilbur’s idea to get on this ride.

They don’t have anything massive like they would at a regular amusement park, so this is as good as it’s going to get in terms of rides, disappointingly. 

From what he can tell, it’s like teacups- except you’re being attacked by strobe lights in a dark room at the same time.

Not exactly his cup of tea, (no pun intended) but who knows? Maybe Tommy will like it.

Although, that hope is draining rather quickly every second Tommy looks at the ride from the line as if it’s a torture device. His expression doesn’t shift away from terrified even as they slide into one of the ‘teacups’, and Wilbur is half-regretting thinking this would be a good idea as guilt gnaws at his skull. 

That is, until they start moving.

The suddenness of it causes them both to jerk sideways, Tommy nearly colliding into Wilbur’s shoulder, a hidden gasp punctuating the mechanical sound of the ride revving up.

And then Wilbur’s doubts are squashed like an ant under a boot.

Multi-coloured strobe lights obscure and assault his vision, so it’s hard to make out over that and the nausea building in his stomach, but Tommy seems to be… having fun.

A quiet sort of joy rests softly- easily- on his features, but it’s no less ecstatic than if someone were to smile so wide their cheeks hurt.

The only thing keeping him from smiling at the sight is the dizziness clouding his eyesight, vertigo making bile rise up in his throat and his stomach do flips, and for fleeting moments he thinks he may actually hurl, but-

“Oh my god, Wil, you should’ve seen the look on your face!” Tommy laughs, hand clutching at his chest, the sound echoing through his ears boisterous and unapologetically loud.

At that, Wilbur does his absolute best to stave away his queasiness as Tommy wipes away literal tears of laughter from his eyes, a smile making its long overdue way onto his face.

“I wish I had a photo of that, Wil, you seriously looked like you were about to throw up all over me,” he says between waves of breathy giggles, looking so burdenless it almost hurts.

Hurts that this is only temporary. Hurts that it took so long just to get here. Hurts that if Wilbur doesn’t figure something out he might never see Tommy again. Hurts that whatever had been the duct tape over his mouth preventing laughter could still be out there, Hurts that-

“Actually,” he distracts himself with a realization. “I think- hold on a second.” he gestures before turning in the other direction, Tommy trailing behind questioningly.

If he’s not mistaken…

There.

“Hello.” he greets the teenager behind the counter, hope becoming pure delight in seconds flat. A noise of confusion rings out behind him, but it isn’t anxious. “How much are the photos from the spinny ride?”

“Uh… seven ninety-five for one,” she drawls, eyes lidded with boredom. “but we sell packages for deals as well. Twelve for three, four for twenty, but if you wanted them printed smaller it’s-”

“We’ll just take one, I think.” he interrupts when it looks like she would have kept reciting her script for hours. She doesn’t seem to mind.

Tommy is silent next to him, watching with bated breath (Wilbur can only assume) as she nods and taps a few things on a screen in front of her before turning it around.

“I’m assuming this is you?” she deadpans, pointing to-

Well, that’s certainly a photo.

It’s a little blurry- motion and strobe lights will do that to a picture- but through it, Tommy’s delighted face shines through it, blonde hair wild with the movement, while Wilbur is-

Just like Tommy put it. ‘ about to throw up all over me.’

He nods in affirmation, holding back a wince at definitely not one of his finest moments as she moves to print it out with a drawn-out sigh.

“I didn’t know they did photos,” Tommy admits as they wait for their photo to print. “They’re not-“ he sucks in a breath. “They don’t get posted anywhere, right?” he asks.

“Nah, I'm pretty sure they’re all deleted an hour or so after the ride happens,” Wilbur explains casually.

Tommy nods from his peripheral, seemingly soothed by his answer, evident in the way his shoulders slump.

“Isn’t that illegal?” he begins again, previous fear drained from his voice. “I don’t think I remember consenting to my picture being taken in one of my most vulnerable states.”

“One of your most vulnerable states?” Wilbur laughs.

“Obviously, I thought I was going get fuckin’ epilepsy, Wilbur!”

“No- Tommy-” he says in the windows he can between chuckles. “You can’t fucking contract epilepsy, that’s not-”

The teen doesn’t look too impressed as they both keel over laughing- although, her expression hasn’t shifted this entire time, so who’s to tell?

It’s not long before eight dollars have been redacted from Wilbur’s bank account, and the photo rests in Tommy’s hands as they walk off.

Actually- rests isn’t that appropriate of a word for Tommy’s white-knuckled grip, as if it’ll drift off into the wind otherwise.

He isn’t laughing anymore.

He isn’t sullen, either, which is a good thing, but-

His stare is so intent on the picture that he almost appears disbelieving that it’s real, brows pinched as if it’s an unsolvable puzzle. Wilbur weighs his odds with words, configures and then breaks apart sentence structures in his head in deciding what to say next when-

“We kinda look like brothers.”

Brothers. 

Though it’s phrased as a simplistic statement, it nearly sounds like a confession.

And with it, his heart halts in his chest for a moment suspended in time, allowing for a smile to tug his lips upwards.

Something lighthearted along the lines of ‘Don’t say that, I will cry.’ is on the tip of his tongue, waiting, but… he doesn’t want to make a wrong move and come off as harsh or something when this clearly means more to Tommy then he’ll ever know.

“Yeah, I suppose we do.” he settles upon with a meaningless shrug before, rather impulsively reaching over to ruffle Tommy’s hair, not realizing what he’s done until the boy half-heartedly ducks away from his hand, swatting at it without any real malice.

Perhaps there was a minuscule amount of instinctual tension- but there had been no flinch, no going rigid and no shutting down.

Wilbur has always wanted a younger brother.

But just as he’s about to say something vaguely teasing, a tap on his shoulder shatters the moment to pieces. 

He startles before turning to find a middle-aged woman with her phone at the ready standing next to a boy who can’t be more than eight practically bouncing up and down.

Quickly, he understands the situation, and he pushes a brighter smile to the surface.

“Sorry to bother you, sir, but we’re in town for the tournament and my son here is a really huge fan, so…” it’s certainly not often he gets recognized out in public- he’s a tennis player, not an A-list celebrity- but it happens enough for him to know the drill.

It goes by fast, the interaction consists of the kid telling him that he ‘wants to be just like you someday’ and his mother snapping a picture of them together. Nothing he didn’t expect.

However, what he doesn’t predict is saying his goodbyes and turning to a terrified Tommy.

He blinks as concern takes over, carefully approaching the boy since, at some point, he’d stepped away. His face is raw with terror, and in all honesty, he looks like he’s on the brink of another goddamn panic attack at seemingly nothing at all.

“Hey, are you alright?” he asks redundantly, willing himself not to grimace. His hand flutters over Tommy’s shoulder, stopping midway with uncertainty. “What’s wrong? Do you want to-”

“It’s fine.” he cuts Wilbur off, turning away. Wilbur swallows thickly, teeth biting into his lip.

“Are you sure? I really don’t-”

“It’s fine,” he repeats, louder this time. “Just don’t like pictures.” He has to strain his ears to comprehend the mumble of words, and even then, they don’t really… make any sense.

He seemed relatively fine with the one of just the two of them, so-

He doesn’t know.

It’s hardly worth following that lead to just another suspicion in the long run. He can’t keep getting sidetracked.

Inhale.

Exhale.

Another shard of guilt pierces his skin, drawing crimson with impossible ease, and it takes all he has to remind himself that getting hung up on details is more counter-productive than ignoring them entirely. 

The sky is a masterpiece of cerulean blues and soft purples partly concealed by the occasional puff of a cloud, slowly being consumed by darkness.

Just for now, he has to pretend like he knows everything is and will be fine.

For Tommy, at least.

—

As the sun sets, they go on the Ferris wheel.

Wilbur fucking hates the things. Too tall, too potentially unstable and rickety for his taste, but after Tommy cranes his neck to see it and asks “What the fuck is that?”, Wilbur happily locks away his grievances and decides that they must go on it.

Maybe he enjoys it, maybe he doesn’t. Wilbur can’t really tell. He stays silent the entire time, gazing far off into the now set sun.

Eventually, the sound of rides and food stands shutting their doors becomes more common than restless chatter and blaring pop music, a clear signal that their time here is coming to an end.

Wilbur smiles to himself as memories, small, fractures of moments flash in his mind of the day, happy despite the fact that he has to take Tommy home- wherever that is. As for the man in question, well-

“Tommy?” he calls, voice caught between amusement and fondness, the corner of his lip turned upwards as Tommy blinks slowly, as if trying to recalibrate.

He doesn’t even look up at Wilbur when he gives an exhausted and clearly effortful hum in response. Wilbur’s smile grows softer at Tommy’s uncharacteristic tiredness. It’s odd- such a contradiction to his usual forced nature that Wilbur is almost startled by it, because Tommy (or at least the protective facade he puts on like a night’s suit of armour) doesn’t seem like the type of person to get tired at all. Watching the boy attempt to hide the slight daze in his eyes and his slowing intakes of breath feels almost invasive, and while he doesn’t want Tommy to be uncomfortable, he’s also pretty sure he would be able to hide the fatigue if he really wanted to.

Progress. 

“You ready to go, Toms?” he half-whispers, as if attempting to allow him to be half-asleep despite the fact that there’s a whole carnival going on around them. He’s already sending a text to Phil asking to pick them up when Tommy hums in the affirmative again, his reaction time quicker than before.

Wilbur lets out a soft chuckle at the way he sluggishly scrubs at his eyes as they cross the threshold into the parking lot, shoes meeting harsh gravel. 

Phil’s car pulls into the space only a couple of seconds later- coming to a slowed stop only a meter or two ahead of them, the window rolling down to reveal the man himself with a kind, classic Phil smile. “Hey mate, hey Tommy.”

Despite the fact that Tommy is clearly in desperate need of a good night's rest, he still has it in himself to look awestruck by the sight of Phil.

Wilbur drowns out a chuckle with a cough when the sound tickles his throat. “Hello Philza Minecraft.” the boy greets, Phil laughing lightly in response towards Tommy’s quiet, pleased smile. 

He finds he’s wearing a matching one when his peripheral catches his reflection in the car windows, and isn’t at all irritated by the fact.

Tommy’s vigilant facade-  the curl of his shoulders and the tenseness caging in his limbs that seems to follow him like an unwanted shadow- has been slowly melting away since the day Wilbur first saw him smile. It’s hard not to grin at it, actually. He’s sure Phil would agree.

His arm carefully nudges Tommy’s as he pulls the door to the backseat open- an attempt to maintain the precarious balance between alerting him and not startling him to wake fully. 

He follows in Tommy’s footsteps, sliding into the backseat next to him.

All three of his prizes are set reluctantly at his feet as Wilbur buckles his seat belt, to which he copies.

“Where are we headed?” Phil asks from the front, his blue eyes sharp in the rearview mirror. 

Tommy’s head jerks with confusion, staring vacantly at the back of Phil’s head.

“Where do you live, in the least creepy way possible.” Wilbur laughs soundlessly to himself as Tommy sluggishly arrives at an understanding. There’s an empty pause in which Tommy stares lifelessly at nothing that drags on for far too long, until-

“... sixty-eight Pres- no, no, that’s the…” he scrunches his face up, irritated at his own inarticulateness. “It’s uh… twenty-six President’s Lane, or some shit like that,” he mutters, blinking belatedly.  

Manburg is a foreign city to Wilbur; twenty-six President’s Lane carries no meaning with it, but Wilbur can only assume it’s in a nice area- he’s seen Tommy’s racket. Probably something along the lines of those terrible suburban ‘McMansions’ he has a special distaste for, if he had to guess. Nice or not though, Wilbur knows seeing the place will irk him. He doesn’t know the owners of it personally, but it’s not a stretch to assume the worst. 

He stops himself with a force reserved for only his darkest of moments before he can fall down the slippery slope that is assuming about Tommy’s situation, pushing his attention towards the atmosphere of the car.

Thankfully, Phil has been keeping quiet for the drive so far. It’s silent- but not in a way that offers discomfort. Tommy is edging closer to sleep every second that passes, yawning soundlessly from the corner of Wilbur’s eyes. 

He doesn’t bother with music- waking Tommy is the last thing he wants, especially when it seems he’s more in need of rest than ever. So he lets the buzz of nothing fill his ear like it’s the easiest thing he’s ever done.

Until-

Thud.

It’s not a loud noise, not by any means. In fact, the noise isn’t even really what matters, it’s more just that-

Tommy’s head is on his shoulder.

Tommy’s head is on his shoulder and his breathing is slow and steady, indicative of slumber. Or, if not, near slumber.

Instinctually he freezes, taking a breath before he allows his muscles to relax.

And then- slowly, ever so slowly, he brings a hand to Tommy’s hair.

Tommy shifts when his hand lands, that’s when Wilbur realizes that he isn’t actually asleep yet- but he doesn’t reject it. Doesn’t quite lean into it either, though, even when his fingers move to thread through the locks. No. He just sits, relaxed but far too still as Phil drives them through empty, darkened streets. This is one of those moments that Wilbur can sense the rapid flow of thoughts pouring through their head, and one of the rarer moments when he chooses not to mention it.

Just as Wilbur begins to wonder about how long the drive is to where Tommy lives, just as he subconsciously scratches lightly at his scalp, the boy finally drifts.

He can pinpoint the exact moment in which it happens- the second that he stops being a ball of subdued nerves leaning on him and the second he stops fighting it, going limp against him.

Christ, who knew he’d be leaving this place with a trophy and some child?

Arriving in 2 minutes. Phil’s direction app reads in an obnoxious green, and for the first time this entire drive, his attention shifts out the window. And- for two minutes away from Tommy’s place of residence, it’s… not what he’s expecting. There would have to be a massive and abrupt change in the neighbourhood and the crumbling apartment buildings that line what he can only assume to be President's lane, interrupted briefly by the flickering lights of a convenience store or shadowed bar.

His fingers pause in Tommy’s hair to narrow his eyes warily at the area, confusion lingering unpleasantly until Phil backs into a thin parking space in front of… another apartment, just the same as the rest.

Phil turns following the click of his seat belt unbuckling, mouth half open in something joking before understanding blooms of the situation at hand.

That’s when it hits him that he’ll need to wake Tommy if he wants to bring him up there since he so helpfully forgot to mention his apartment number. Or- ‘... sixty-eight- no, no, that’s the…’ there’s no way to be sure, but he’s willing to bet his win tomorrow that it’s the number. He explains as much to Phil in the most hushed voice he’s ever spoken in, and then turns back to Tommy, who remains passed out.

There is only a millisecond of consideration before he twists his neck back to Phil, a wordless, mutual agreement being exchanged.

Wilbur carries Tommy back to his apartment.

The fact is out of place, one of many pieces that don’t seem to fit into the picture, but Wilbur isn’t one to judge.

Not a single person wandering the halls seems to care about the fact that there’s some kid practically slung over his shoulder and a man carrying three wildly coloured plushies in cahoots with him.

Tommy doesn’t even begin to stir, and all of a sudden, they’re standing at his door.

Wilbur really hopes that whoever his parents are aren’t angry with him, or worse, with Tommy, but then again, from what he’s been able to gather they aren’t the caring type.

With only one breath to steady himself, his fist collides twice with the oak-coloured door, only a slight tang of apprehension on his tongue

He lets his hand drop, swallowing in anticipation of the response. 

When the only sound he can hear is Tommy’s levelled breathing next to his ear, he tries again, more confident this time.

And…

Nothing.

He tries again.

And then again.

Nothing.

He exchanges a quick look with Phil, whose expression tells him that he isn’t being delusional in his suspicions. 

It shouldn’t mean anything. Possibly, they’re asleep- it’s eleven p.m- or maybe they’re busy, or hard of hearing, or maybe they’re just out. 

Maybe-

Before Phil can stop him, Wilbur reaches for the handle.

With his available hand, his fingers land on chilled metal as he twists it without thinking. 

There is no plan involved with what he’s doing, but if there’s one thing he doesn’t expect, it’s for the door to just-

Fling open.

But now he’s staring at what he can see of Tommy’s apartment, lips parting in confusion without his permission.

Without turning to Phil for reassurance, he shoves the door open a little further, wincing when it creaks, but that’s hardly of Wilbur’s concern.

It’s dark- a black, lifeless void until he steps a foot in and fumbles for the light switch, but even then, shadows don’t release the place from their grasp.

A culmination of curiosity and dread twists around him like vines, leading him into the apartment, trepidation in his steps.

And then when he’s standing in the center of it, the only thing that he’s able to feel is confusion.

Because from here, he can see all of it.

A kitchenette the size of his washroom stands dusty over linoleum flooring, to the left of it a scratchy, crimson couch that has definitely seen better days if the gashes in it are anything to tell is sat across from a t.v in what he assumes to be a living room. But-

That’s not what matters.

What brown eyes latch onto with a desperation they never have before is how desolate the place is.

For a brief, confused moment, Wilbur thinks he may have just accidentally broken into a vacant apartment, because the more his eyes dart over the space, it’s becoming more difficult to believe that a human being actually lives here.

It’s spotless in the worst way possible.

Unless you count the dust, maybe.

It isn’t as if someone had spent too much time cleaning, no. It’s like there has never been a mess in the first place.

Unnerving is what it is, every untouched surface fueling the growing pit in his chest as he peers down the singular hallway to find two doors, both ajar.

He adjusts his hold on Tommy to wander down said hall, finding-

A bathroom, and a bedroom.

And as he ventures further-

One bedroom with one bed sitting inside of it.

The jigsaw he’d been building clatters to the floor, shattering, and with it proves the theory of entropy correct as his thoughts run wild.

He futilely attempts to drown them out by occupying himself with tucking a still miraculously sleeping Tommy in. Iron coats his tongue as he whispers “Goodnight, Toms.” and brushes the hair from his shut eyes before he, near frantically, leaves the room in the dust behind him without bothering or even thinking to acknowledge Phil, going straight for the cabinets in the spotless kitchen.

His hands move before he tells them to, flinging them open one by one, horror being held at bay only because somewhere he predicted this, knew this even if the realization happened just a minute prior as he finds one porcelain plate and one bowl and one glass and then one fork and one knife and one-

Tommy lives alone.

Tommy-

Tommy lives alone.

His breath leaves him in one, hopeless exhale resembling more of a gasp as he shuts them all and practically runs out of the apartment, again, leaving Phil behind him.

It doesn’t matter though, because he’s hopping into the driver's seat only a second after him, not saying a word as he starts the car and pulls out of their parking space.

The drive back to the hotel is silent, and this time, he is unable to tell if it’s a calm one.

Wilbur doesn’t waste any time digging his computer from the bottom of his suitcase the second he shuts his hotel room door, nothing but a hunch and intuition twisting inside of him, hungry and demanding of an answer. 

His fingers guide him with a mind of their own, tapping over the keyboard almost feverishly. He doesn’t know if it takes seconds or minutes or hours, but-

Suddenly his tongue feels like a dead weight in his mouth.

Junior tennis star Theseus Innit disappears day before presumed finals win-

Coach Innit remains silent as fan search continues-

Breaking in sports news! ‘Best player in Juniors history’ MISSING-

Foul play or Fed up- where did star tennis player-

Some are suspecting foul play, possibly from opponent Ranboo Beloved and coach-

The headlines don’t stop, growing progressively more accusatory than helpful as he scrolls further down the google page.

Whatever feeling that’s been festering inside of him drags him further down as his fingertips pause over the keyboard, drawing his breath deeper into his lungs where he can barely reach it. 

Waiting here, wishing he didn’t know exactly what to type into the search bar next, Wilbur is horrified to say that somewhere in him is feeding off his fear for Tommy, sharp blades of dread acting as burning coal for anticipation that force his fingers into action before he can prepare himself for what he’s about to uncover. He clicks on the search bar above, and then-

Theseus Innit

He is a bystander as he hits the enter key and as his eyes flick over the first couple of links, the blood on his tasting vile.

He doesn’t breathe, doesn’t do anything.

Just hits play.

Familiar tennis static- squeaking shoes and crowd buzz- uncharacteristically, does not serve as a comfort as the video begins to play. 

He wishes that all this, the waiting, speculating, hoping, really was meaningless. He would take embarrassment- humiliation- a hundred times over the truth being served to him on a silver platter.

He also wishes he could say and believe that Theseus Innit is the boy with pulled-back hair and too good of a posture on the right side of the court. Wilbur is many things, but he isn’t a liar. 

He plays just like he always does- flawless. 

It’s the fucking semi-finals and he wipes out the other kid like he was mud on his boots.

Wilbur has never hated anything more.

But- Wilbur's eyes are never on the loser of the match- they're dead set on the corner of the frame. The corner of the frame in which Theseus’- Tommy’s arm is grasped far too roughly for his liking and before he's dragged off the court, a whisper in his ear forced his jaw set and his shoulders uncomfortably straight. He feels sick.

It’s a free for all from there, interviews in which Tommy sits silent and unmoving like a fucking wax figure next to that coach, social media accounts spitting lies and spinning words around the narrative that ‘Theseus’ is following his dream and that he ‘can’t wait’ to achieve so much more- that he’s ‘willing’ to do anything to get it and is ‘ more grateful than ever to his coach’, his guardian-

It’s not until the first drop falls onto the key he’s about to press that he realizes he’s fucking crying.

He doesn’t stop there, though. He doesn’t stop until he’s pulled back the curtains and unveiled a tale that he wishes were a myth, one of a boy adopted at four who has no real family, no nothing but a racket in his hands and pressure weighing him down at every angle, not a single base left uncovered so he could breathe.  

One of that same boy who’d run from everything alone when he’d finally had enough, and one who is now trying to erase it all while simultaniously desperately clinging to everything.

He doesn’t remember unlocking his phone and calling Phil, only the confused, groggy “Hello?” that follows, and what he says next.

“Do you ever keep up with Juniors, Phil?”

“... Um, a little, I suppose. Why? What’s going on?”

“What do you know about Theseus Innit?”

Chapter Text

Tommy is conflicted.

Or—he doesn’t know.

When Tommy wakes, eyes flinging open in a way that’s natural for him and springing upwards, body completely ridding itself of any exhaustion other than what has more or less become a part of him, he is alone.

And that’s normal. 

It… should be normal.

No.

It’s not normal. It shouldn’t be normal. 

He wishes it were. (No he doesn’t.)

It would be easier if he thought it was, now that—

The first thing he notices, before his eyes even steady into focus, is the fact that he’s wearing his fucking day clothes . New denim is uncomfortable where it folds awkwardly, sweat sticking the fabric of his t-shirt to the back of his neck.

That’s the only tell something is… off other than a sensation he can’t name clogging up his chest that isn’t exactly unpleasant.

The analog clock on his nightstand tells him that he hasn’t overslept. In fact, he has quite a bit of time before he has to head over to the tournament grounds. Something in him is inexplicably soothed by that: that he is still waking up on schedule, that he isn’t slacking off and that—

A part of him is disgusted, at how simply waking up at five like usual has become something to be praised and not a mundane, normal occurrence.

Another part knows that it doesn’t have to be.

He soldiers on, tracing the scent of the off-ness in his chest as he struggles to find memories to slot into the correct places. The door handle is cool on his fingertips as he moves into the main space of his apartment, flicking on the lights through the dark with practiced ease and-

Oh.

Three obtrusively large plushies lay on the couch.

Judging, beaded eyes glare into his own, staring him down as he recalls yesterday’s events.

Cotton candy and hot dogs, Whack-A-Mole and Skee-Ball, not expecting the torture device-looking thing to be the most fun he’s had in his life and—

“We kinda look like brothers.”

Getting picked up by fucking Philza Minecraft and then…

Things go fuzzy in the worst way possible, the exhaustion blurring the memory is awfully accented by his current confusion, feelings on his skin and under his feet the only things pushing through the fog. Gravel crunching beneath his feet, leather under his hands and a hand in his hair, his neck free of carrying the weight of his head as it collides with a shoulder and then nothing. That’s when it clicks.

He fell asleep on Wilbur’s shoulder.

He—

Oh god.

But just the fact isn’t the most terrifying thing to come out of the situation. It’s that a significant fragment of him finds that nothing was wrong with it.

However, all of this, the conflict and confusion, is the work of his unreliable subconscious. So—

What does Tommy think of all this?

But that’s confusing as well.

Because how is he supposed to know what part of him is Theseus and what is Tommy?

All of a sudden, he blinks and he’s on the floor, leaning against the kitchen island with his hands shielding his face. 

Every time his mind begs that question his head hurts, a deeply set pain flooding him and forcing the possible answers out, but—he can’t keep doing that. He just can’t.

So it hurts as he forces himself to really and truly think, but it’s not like he isn’t used to pain.

Inhale.

Exhale.

They both happen shakily.

Theseus is edges rough and refined, chiselled with harsh hands until he is smooth. Theseus is calloused fingertips that ache, dull eyes and slackened posture. Theseus is—

Tired. 

But here’s the thing that gets Tommy. Makes him shake and crumble and hide away, finding comfort in the shadows.

Tommy is all of those things as well.

As much as he aches to believe he’s a blank slate, he’s just—

Not.

Tommy has dents littering his bruised skin where the chisel had slipped, cutting into him. And he is not as good at hiding them as Theseus was.

When did he get so weak?

Weak in the way of letting those dents show, letting them breathe air that they don’t fucking deserve.

That’s Theseus talking, he notes as his hands curl up into themselves, a headache building at his temple.

And Tommy doesn’t like that. Those words. Discomfort creeps into his being at them, almost like…

They’re wrong.

But it doesn’t make sense, because if Theseus and Tommy have so much in common that it’d be simpler to call them the same, why do things like that happen? Constantly? Ever since he can remember it’s been that way, fighting himself in his head like he’s gone mad.

Wait.

Ever since he can remember.

He almost feels embarrassed, with how this easy logical reasoning has only just struck him now, months after he ‘became’ Tommy.

And now he’s feeling like a child, because being Tommy all along sounds wrong as well, even if it… sort of makes sense?

It’s difficult to fully conceptualize, but if… if that voice is Theseus, and Theseus is only that, then…

He blinks harshly, bringing his forehead down to collide with his knees harsher than he should have.

That’s enough of that.

His mind thanks him graciously for the release, his muscles untensing slightly under less pressure.

But there’s still that question.

What does Tommy—what does he— truly think of this all?

It’s the hand in his hair his mind drifts to first, the agreement of we kind of look like brothers second—and then there’s so much that he can’t pay attention to each moment individually. 

He can almost feel the warmth coat him in a protective layer that, ironically, unravels him.

And—

He holds his breath tight as he thinks it, but fuck, he just can’t deny it anymore.

He likes it.

All of it. Every conversation since the day at the vending machine, every match he doesn’t remember, every antic. Freedom is something he could hardly imagine, let alone something he could have, but the last two weeks have been the most purely free that he’s ever felt.

The air leaves his lungs as if it was never meant to be there in the first place—but he doesn’t feel like he can’t breathe.

In fact, the ‘confession’ makes his breath come easier than it ever has.

It does little to fully mend all of his little cracks and splinters, but it’s more self-liberation than he’s ever been allowed and that’s enough.

He breathes as showers, as he slips on his freshly ironed uniform, as he closes and locks the door of the apartment. As he treks to the station, as he gets on and off the bus—even when bodies press up against his lungs in the crowded space, he breathes.

As he makes his way to the grounds an hour ahead of what’s necessary and as he checks himself in, he breathes, and it isn’t entirely without weight. 

That would be odd. That would be unnatural. But he breathes nonetheless, and lets air fully fill his lungs.

A pebble flies away further down the path than he’d intended when he’d kicked it absentmindedly, falling into the grass, hidden.

Usually, he’d come here early because he was always taught to—force of habit—and use the time with the practically empty spaces of the tournament grounds to cruelly betray the reason he came here in the first place and practice with no one.

And it’s not that today he wouldn’t, just that every court but the one Wilbur and his opponent will play on later today is resolutely closed and locked for a final cleaning.

He isn’t desperate enough to attempt to pick a lock or something, despite the way his fingers itch and childishly beg to be put to use.

So it’s annoying, yes, but he has to admit it does make sense, seeing as today is the final day of the tournament.

The… final day of the tournament.

He stops in his tracks without meaning to, blinking once.

Today is the finals, and Tommy’s last day of being a ball boy.

That’s—

After this, Tommy is unemployed. 

But—that’s not—

After today, Tommy won’t see Wilbur ever again.

Oh.

All of a sudden his throat feels clogged up—with what, he doesn’t know, but it’s foreign— and yet before vulnerability can rear its head, he stamps it down and pours water over embers.

It’s not out of habit. He’ll bring that to his grave. It’s just that—

This has been nice. It feels silly to deny that anymore.

Too nice, maybe, but he’s starting to have doubts surrounding any thought that pops up on instinct, so who the fuck knows anymore. It’s been more than nice, really, it’s been everything he’s ever wanted. But he can handle it ending.

He can.

(He has to.)

At least he’s prepared to see it go.

He resolutely shoves away any thought that implies otherwise, settling on aimlessly wandering the paths of the grounds, feet directionless as the sun pulls itself up above the horizon and has no trouble with glaring on his face with the lack of any shade.

This will be fine, he tells himself, and he can pretend that he believes it.

—

When Phil opened his hotel door following a series of frantic knocking, Wilbur can only assume he hadn’t been expecting his current state.

First and foremost, concern reads clearly on his face, but even his ‘fatherly instincts’, as he likes to say, aren’t enough to conceal the confusion lining his expression. 

Or—maybe Wilbur has no clue what he’s talking about as Phil shuts the door behind him after a moment in which he took in the state of the younger. Really, he would have no way of knowing. Maybe he doesn’t care at all, or maybe he knew since Wilbur first spoke his name or maybe this entire time, really, he can’t be sure of anything anymore! It’s nearly hysterical how hard his head is trying to wrap around things to no avail.

He swallows, throat dry.

Maybe that’s why he’s here, running his palms over his face and pacing rapidly in Phil’s hotel room, because as soon as he uttered the name ‘Theseus Innit’, he couldn’t get another word out over the phone. Although, as it seems, he can’t get another word out now, because—

“Wilbur, mate, how about we take a deep breath, yeah?” Phil urges, because of course he does, then he’s fifteen again, confused and unbearably angry when he was finally allowed to be for the first time.

And a piece of this does make him angry, firey and frustrated in a way he hasn’t been for years because he isn’t fifteen. He’s a grown man—he shouldn’t need this at all. 

Despite himself though, he unknowingly follows Phil’s guidance to sit next to him at the foot of the bed, hunching over and face perpetually twisted into something pained.

The exhale he lets out in their moment of silence (during which Phil—irritatingly patiently—waits for him to speak on his own accord) is shaky, and although the tears staining his face have dried up, the sticky residue they left does not go unnoticed.

Where does he even begin?

He has time to explain himself. However long he needs, emotionally and physically, because Phil is just like this. Always understanding. Always patient. But it doesn’t feel like he has any time at all. 

And yet, he can’t seem to force out a single sentence.

“You said something about— Theseus Innit’, right?” Phil says, the lack of surety in his words cloying. He only means to jog his memory, but Wilbur is no stranger to the way his coach sounds when he’s pretending he isn’t worrying too much.

Yeah, he sure did. 

He echoes the thought with a nod, dragging his head up from his hands.

With a breath, 

“This is—" he pauses. Phil waits. “this is going to sound a little—just bear with me Phil. Please.”

He’ll ignore the way the man’s face drops fully into concern for the time being. But now, he speaks, and Phil listens.

—

If anyone were able to see into Wilbur’s head this morning, not a single one of them would guess that he’s playing in the final match of one of the most prestigious tennis tournaments in the world later today.

Not as he showers, not as the freshly cleaned fabric of his own uniform slides over his frame, not as he shuts the hotel door behind him with unsteady fingers or when he meets Phil and Niki by the elevator. 

The only tell that he’s taking home a trophy today is his racket bag slung over his shoulder.

Both of them are silent as Niki presses her fingertip into the ground floor button, and he doesn’t have to look at her to know that Phil has followed through with Wilbur’s request and explained everything to her for him. 

Throughout it all his breath is held, and he doesn’t dare let a single one escape him. He couldn’t if he tried. 

By the time they reach the foyer his hands are cramping with how solid his grip on the strap of his bag had been, but it’s not even a real thought that crosses his mind, only an uncomfortable sensation. 

He’s going to run.

Calloused fingers twitch; god, he would love nothing more than to shoot that voice in his head on the spot. 

It’s true. It whispers in response, Wilbur clenching his jaw to conceal a wince. 

It’s embarrassing how much of him wants to back out, despite Phil’s words that ring in his head, loud and clear when the doubt arises. It’s now or never, mate.

Now or never. 

Well—not now now, Tommy is nowhere in sight. But today. It has to be today. And if it isn’t—

It will be.

He’s not ten, he will not be ‘chickening out’. 

If Tommy runs, which it seems he has much affinity for, it will be his fault. 

For the umpteenth time today, he weighs the pros and cons, risk and reward of a confrontation. 

And here’s the difficulty of doing so—it’s not only his risk and reward that he has to place on the scale.

Maybe not down to the specifics, but Wilbur knows what it’s like to be Tommy. Having someone know something about you is scary. Fight or flight. The boy ran before, he’d do it again. Even if the decision he makes is impulsive, he won’t know how to go back on it.

Later today, after his win, when Wilbur asks Tommy if he’s Theseus and Theseus is him, it will be a gamble. A risky one, at that, but equally necessary. He’s confident despite it all.

(The blood on his tongue from biting on his cheek out of worry too severely would imply otherwise.)

Anyone within his vicinity who recognizes him and catches the way his chest rises and falls periodically with deep breaths would quickly come to the simple conclusion that he’s preparing for his match today.

They would also be, terribly and completely, in all aspects of the word, wrong

—

The grounds are filling.

They aren’t swarming with people, by any means—it’s tennis, not baseball—but it’s full enough for Tommy to feel self-conscious of his existence. 

It doesn’t help that it’s still too early for him to check in.

He holds his breath as he blends into the ‘crowd’, because he isn’t stupid, and keeps his head dutifully hung. It’s not a hassle; he’s used to it. And he especially isn’t complaining about it today. 

There’s no way of knowing how many big-wigs in the tennis world are within meters of him, or how many of them have spoken to Theseus. Spoken at him, more like, or maybe straight through him to where his coach stood with hands bruising his shoulder blades in a show of what Tommy now knows had been ownership. (The thought does not come without a twisting of his gut, let it be known.)

So he keeps his lead low, hiding any part of Theseus that might show close to his chest until he can’t anymore. 

Until his eyes stop their endless sweep of his surroundings on the back of a too-familiar head.

Not— not him, thank god, but it doesn’t feel right to fully count his blessings with who he’s looking at.

It’s almost eerie how little he slouches with his height, towering over every adult in the vicinity. 

Tommy doesn’t intend to freeze up, but it seems he didn’t get a choice, limbs twitching to sprint away from last year’s Junior’s champion by ‘unfortunate circumstances'.

Those are the very words Tommy remembers Ranboo Beloved using as he trembled helplessly, eyes stuck unmoving to the screen the day after he became(?) Tommy. ‘I am, of course, grateful beyond belief to accept this award, but I would be lying if I were to say the unfortunate circumstances don’t make it bittersweet.’

His head hasn’t turned, and Tommy is still safe. 

Vaguely, he feels the urge to throw up, despite the fact that not a word has been exchanged between them, only a look that had disappeared behind elevator doors too quickly for Tommy to decipher as he left—condemning his ’opponent’ to a life of others' suspicions of him. 

And looking at him now, ages after it’s happened, the Tommy that had worried and panicked every day for a month after the fact that he’d tell the world Theseus ran is suddenly alive within his bloodstream. He’s still turned—back to Tommy and politely conversing with some other unnamed rich guy—but that doesn’t mean he’s going to stay that way. 

Here he is insignificant, just a ball boy, and he’s increasingly grateful for his unimportance as his legs shock back into action and he turns on his heel.

Overreaction or not, his feet move as fast as possible so as to not garner suspicion from passerbys who might spare him more than a judging glance.

He has no idea where he’s going, all he does know is that he needs to get away from him and from here as fast as possible, the crowd threatening to squeeze the air out of his lungs if he fails to move fast enough. 

And finally, he winds up in one of those locker rooms that no one uses during these tournaments, the concrete flooring offering nothing but sanctuary for his shallowly heaving chest.

Eyes trained on the ground, he sighs out an exhale before pressing his back to the wall closest to the door, hand on his chest.

God.

God, he’s—

“Tommy?”

What?

It takes longer than it should have for his brain to recognize that it’s fine, no one has found you, than it should have, but as he comes to the relief that anybody he didn’t want to find him here wouldn’t have called him Tommy, his eyes dart up to find the source.

When he finds it, there is enough confusion on his face to rival the voice that had called his name.

“…Wilbur?”

He’s sitting on one of the benches, brows furrowed with confusion and the beginnings of concern, phone in hand.

He pockets it so quickly that Tommy almost questions if it’d been there in the first place, and then he’s… smiling. 

Tommy thinks.

He’s waving him over too, gesturing to the empty bench adjacent to him.

Tommy is sure of that, because it’s obvious, but he’s… not sure he can say the same about the expression his face is twisted into.

Twisted. That’s the right way to put it. Now that he’s admitting everything, Wilbur’s smile has been, since the beginning of this whole ordeal, something that drew him in, if only subconsciously. He couldn’t say why. Just something about the way his cheeks were pushed up and his eyes all warm with a generosity that’s hard to come by (for Tommy, at least) has always been… welcoming. Up until now, Tommy is confident in saying that he was consistently happy to be welcomed.

His only skill lies in a tennis court, not in the precarious and tortuous art of people-reading. If he’s honest, though, Wilbur vaguely looks like he’s grimacing at Tommy rather than smiling at him.

But he’s waving him over, at least trying to put up a facade, and who is Tommy to refuse?

The bench is cold where metal brushes against his calves, however, the sensation is quelled with a warmth that Tommy can’t bear to see through anymore in the form of Wilbur’s face staring back at him.

And with that comes the crushing reminder that—

That this is it. 

That Wilbur is here now— right in front of him and so close he could reach out and touch him if he wanted—but he won’t be. 

Just keep it together. 

Inhale,

“What on earth are you doing here?” he speaks before Tommy has to overthink things, and it isn’t accusatory.

His mouth opens—being careless with that has become a bit of a habit and—

It shuts just as quickly. Fuck. Getting more… comfortable with speaking like a ‘normal person’ is maybe a good thing, but that doesn’t mean going around saying shit like ‘Oh yeah, just freaked out because I saw my old opponent, who also happens to be the last person who ever saw me as Theseus, and ran here!’ isn’t going to get him caught. Whether he likes it or not, he’s hiding from Wilbur just as much as he’s letting himself free. So instead—

“I could say the same to you, dickhead.”

Exhale.

The retort is sour on his tongue, leaving an acidic taste as it slides off. This can’t be it. This can’t— this can’t be the end of those remarks and the melodic sound from the man’s throat that follows, this can’t be the end of it.

But it is.

Denial is no fucking use; it’s only prolonging the inevitable. Nails dig into the flesh of his palms.

Wilbur’s lips twitch, Tommy catches, but he doesn’t falter. Instead, his shoulders actually seem to relax before he speaks.

“Was getting chased by reporters, you know how it is.” he shrugs, putting on a displeased expression that Tommy can’t tell if it’s for show. It’s a figure of speech, he’s ashamed to remind himself of, because yes, he does know. “Phil was running around like a chicken with his head cut off trying to get them to back off.” Wilbur chuckles lightly to himself, yet that… thing in his eyes doesn’t leave.

Despite himself, Tommy snickers as well, but it doesn’t feel…

It’s not right.

And then the small bout of laughter is over, and, an occurrence with a growing rarity—Tommy doesn’t know what to say. He gnaws at his lip, trying not to feel uneasy as a pause takes hold within the soundless space. The last time things have been this… awkward was the first few days of their meeting, and that isn’t something he likes at all.

Whether Wilbur senses this or not, he’s the one to speak up first, drawing Tommy’s attention from the floor to brown eyes. “Did you like the carnival?” he asks trivially.

Tommy blinks. Why the fuck does he seem so… uncomfortable?

“Yeah, it was alright,” he responds, equally dry. It hurts.

Wilbur’s lips twist at his words into that same mockery of a grin he so freely offers Tommy and then quirks a joking brow. “Just alright?”

“I liked the part where you were shit at Whack-a-Mole.” Ironically, he finds himself matching the air Wilbur holds himself with, praying he won’t notice the poor forging of his usual quips. He hasn’t even got a clue why the man seems so… off-put, because, surely, it can’t be the same reason Tommy’s throat is closing up more with each second. 

And—when Tommy implied that they could be something akin to brothers, yes, he’d agreed. He’d humoured him and he’d cared, but in his eyes, Tommy isn’t what Wilbur is to him. Wilbur to Tommy is an impossible. A fairytale, a myth, and desperately need respite in the same breath. Tommy to Wilbur? A… kid. Just some ball boy who he’s decided to keep around. It isn’t the same. He is undoubtedly sure that his laugh doesn't carry the same importance to Wilbur as Wilbur’s does to Tommy.

Again, Wilbur chuckles lightly, and again, it isn’t—it isn’t real. 

His eyes sting.

Fuck his eyes are stinging and—he just has to keep it together. Just until today is over and Wilbur is gone. Then he can curl up in a ball on his kitchen floor, forget to lock the door behind him, and cry.

Again they fall into the terrible, ringing silence.

And again, Wilbur is the one to shatter it.

“…You excited to watch the finale?”

Oh. 

That snaps his eyes from somewhere into the empty space left of Wilbur, to staring straight into his eyes.

And fuck, it’s like looking into a damned mirror.

It doesn’t make any sense, because Wilbur’s eyes are so pained that Tommy might think the same thoughts are rampaging through his mind. His eyelids swipe over chocolate eyes, and that—that look doesn’t go away. It stays stagnant and devastating, and he can’t turn away.

There’s just something so enticing surrounding the idea that maybe—that just maybe, Wilbur wants him to stay. It satiates something selfish and brooding lurking in the bottom of his stomach, and, as it seems, Wilbur can’t turn away either. Maybe it’s just a trick of the light, but he thinks that—that maybe the man’s eyes are glossy.

How long has it been since Tommy was asked the question? Too long, his mind off-handedly supplies as he attempts to swallow, gulping instead.

He doesn’t want it to end.

A ceaseless, fantasy mantra, but—

It seems that in spending too much time going over Wilbur’s visage, searching for something there, that he’s forgotten to regulate his own.

The consequence of his ignorance comes in the form of a tear soaking into the fabric of his shorts.

It only ever takes one shifted boulder to trigger a landslide.

In all honesty, Tommy cannot remember the last time that he well and truly cried.

Before meeting the fairytale that is Wilbur, he could say the exact same time about smiling. Genuinely. About laughing. Unapologetically. About breathing.

Tears are just—they’re just falling, emerging from his tear ducts like an unstoppable torrent, and he’s entirely helpless to stop them.

Involuntarily, his eyes scrunch up—to end the waterfall of emotions or to shield himself from Wilbur’s judgmental gaze, he isn’t sure, but he shuts them tight. A choked sound tears itself from the back of his throat, he can feel it ripping itself free, and he can’t stop crying.

He can’t stop it, and fuck, Wilbur shouldn’t have to see this. What is he going to think of him after this? About the fact that Tommy is, honest to god, sobbing, because what? Because somebody who never promised to stay is leaving?

The tears don’t stop, and it’s pathetic.

Another sob and he imagines the word being spat from the lips of him, and he’s supposed to be past that, but that doesn’t fucking matter. 

He isn’t a child, has never been. So why is he—

There’s a hand on his shoulder.

There’s—

“Oh, Tommy,”

The gap between the benches is close enough that Wilbur isn’t even leaning forward.

The word is a silent urge, and Tommy complies, eyelids blinking open despite everything screaming at him not to.

And Wilbur’s face is—

It’s terrifying. 

Terrifying because his lips are pulled into an almost wounded frown, but that’s nothing compared to the way his eyes shine and his eyebrows crease his face. If he weren’t already—Tommy would say that he could cry at the sight.

He—he just can’t.

He can’t look at his face anymore, regardless of whatever his grief-stricken expression might mean. He can’t.

He doesn’t respond—because how is he meant to— and squeezes his eyes shut for a second time, finding a bittersweet solace in the darkness, shaking his head as his shoulders bunch up.

The hand doesn’t leave.

Instead, the subtle weight is matched on his other shoulder—and he thinks they might be the only things keeping him from falling helplessly forwards.

“Tommy, can I—”

He sobs again.

It’s ending, and this is what you’re spending your last moments of it doing?

There is no way of knowing if the question was ever finished, because suddenly—

Oh. 

There are arms wrapped around him.

Instinct causes him to freeze, stay still and wait until it’s over because touch like this never means anything good, not ever.

Tears still streaming, although the sobbing has come to an abrupt pause, he follows his impulses, going rigid in the same moment his eyes careen open in shock.

When they do he’s staring just over a shoulder, but the sight of the empty locker room is something he’s struggling to comprehend. Because one, there are arms wrapped around him, one holding onto his shoulder and the other his upper back and they’re warm— and two because they don’t hurt.

The hands never turn bruising, they just stay there, pressing his face to a chest and holding him. This unreal belief is ever-so-brutally solidified when one of the hands moves up to the back of his neck, and then into the hair at the base of his skull, and he is being held and he doesn’t notice that he’s begun heaving out sobs again until there's a voice telling him that it’s okay.

By all means, Tommy should be alone, but—

He’s not.

How that’s happened, he’s got no fucking clue, but he isn’t.

It’s too good to be true, and yet, when he doubts it for even a moment,

“It’s okay, it’s okay, it’s—” but it’s not, is it? Because it’s all over. His eyelids have shut again, arms still hanging limp at his sides, allowing himself to be held up. He knows it isn’t because Wilbur nearly sounds like he’s crying too—no matter how ridiculous that sounds. “It’s okay, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.” This stream of soothing murmurs is even more choked than the last. Tommy has no idea what he could possibly be apologizing for, because if anything, he should be.

For taking up his practice time. For distracting him from his career, for fucking—insulting his drink of choice. For staining his shirt with tears.

Believe him, he tries, desperately. All that gets out is another cry, an ugly one, and he lets another, replenished batch of calming words envelop him.

He doesn’t know what it takes for him to finally return the gesture and coil shaky arms of his own around him, but he does know that afterwards, it becomes an unfathomable thought to let go.

He’s clinging to something vanishing before his eyes, but he just can’t help himself.

Especially not when, all of a sudden, his weight is shifting from side to side, and then he can’t focus on anything but that.

It’s a long time before Tommy, still heaving breaths, pulls together the coherency to speak. The sentence isn’t formed until it’s out there, being muffled into a chest. “I—I don’t want it to—” he confesses brokenly and dutifully ignores the way Wilbur shushes him. There’s no fucking way he heard him, or if he did, was able to make sense of his ramblings.

The sobbing subsides at one point or another. With it goes the mutters into his hair, along with the fervor the arms around him had been holding him with. He only misses it for a moment, because then Wilbur is pulling away and—

He only separates them enough to see his face. It’s the same position they’d been in moments before that, and Tommy feels raw, all of a sudden. A type of vulnerability that kills surrounds him as he takes in Wilbur’s still glossy eyes and twisted lips, forcing himself to look.

His breathing is still uneven. He doesn’t—

“Okay.” Wilbur breathes, Tommy can see where he’s biting at the inside of his cheek. Still, the way his face is warped doesn’t make sense. “Okay, here, look.” There's a serious taint to his voice that Tommy is skeptical of, but it doesn’t stop him from continuing—half his mind is still on the hands on his shoulders and a certain maybe. It’s in the way he doesn’t take his eyes off Tommy until he glances over his shoulder for a meaningful moment, almost as if checking to make sure they’re alone.

“Phil and Niki are probably going to kill me if they don’t find me in the next five minutes,” his lips twitch awkwardly, as if trying to form a smile without any substantial effort. “And I’m on in— two hours or so, I think,” he states, and Tommy bites at his lip. This is it, and then he wants to sob again. “So—here.” Tommy holds his breath tight.

And waits.

“And Tommy—” please, prays the piece of him that’s insolent. Childish. Please. “I’m not going to leave you here, yeah?”

I’m not going to leave you here.

I’m not leaving.

Wilbur isn’t—

It only occurs to him now that Wilbur had never asked him what was wrong, despite the obvious display that he cares. Almost like he… knew. Knows.

It can’t be real, and yet it’s right here in front of him. He’d have to be blind not to see it.

Wilbur continues, and Tommy is absolutely enraptured by the sound of his voice.

“I’m not.” he shakes his head as he says it, and Tommy feels more like a child than he’s ever deserved. “Just—meet me somewhere ‘round the south entrance of the grounds after the match, okay?”

The tears, it seems, have drowned out his logical reasoning, and it takes him longer than it should have to realize that… Wilbur is promising something. Or he’s implying that—

 “And we’ll— we’ll sort something out. I promise.” he… promises. 

He promises.

“Do you hear me, Tommy?”

He doesn’t notice that was a question he was meant to respond to until Wilbur says this and blinks rapidly, leaning a little closer. His hands are still a comforting weight on his shoulders. One of his thumbs brushes back and forth, and Tommy wants to cry.

Instead it finally catches up to him, and he nods. Once and shaky, despite his desperation.

The man lets out a breath, pulling back, and it’s unreal how relieved it sounds.

“Okay, okay. Just—” for a second he appears conflicted, eyes darting all over and hands twitching in his lap, before—

He’s being hugged again.

This time there are no fingers running through his hair or subtle rocking back and forth. There is only the knowledge that there is a chance that he was wrong engulfing him.

A slow, not-quite-steady breath muses his hair, almost as if Wilbur is trying to console himself. He feels delusional. This feels delusional—he feels insane.  

It’s much quicker too—far more than he would have hoped, but he’s bringing that confession to his grave—because before he can even fully calibrate himself, Wilbur has turned the corner with one last squeeze.

Leaving him alone.

Not— alone alone, not in the way that’s familiar, he has to remind himself. Just physically. He… thinks at least. He hopes.

And because being cared for doesn’t make him any less pathetic, he’s only a little shocked when what he prays is the last tear hits the floor. 

Absent-mindedly he swipes at his eyes, a reedy breath coming through his nose as a pleading, desperate maybe evolves into… we’ll figure something out.

He hasn’t a clue what that means.

But he does know it means he gets to see Wilbur again. Extend this paradise as far as he can. 

As he exits the locker room, a feeling he’s sure is called hope is pounding in his veins.

—

Wilbur wins.

Wilbur wins, and none of it matters.

From his side of the court—Wilbur’s—it’s better than front-row seats.

Of course, he’s doing his job, running around and all that, but he can’t not focus on every minute detail about the way he plays. From how his feet move as he serves to the way his hand is curled confidently around his racket, Tommy sees it all better than anyone.

He’s been doing that the entire tournament. No matter what player he was on duty for, he was watching. It’s more difficult to shut that part of his brain off when it’s been trained with such precision than it is to just let his eyes track every movement, and note the strengths and debilitating weaknesses of a man he’ll likely never play against.

So—he’s trying to do that.

But it isn’t working as well as it usually is to distract him from everything.

His scurrying around is subconscious, as well as the knowledge of the current scoring. He knows, because he has to, but he doesn’t really care. He can’t seem to care no matter how hard he tries, because every time Wilbur uses one of his tricks that he taught him, he turns. Only for a moment, but it’s enough to make eye contact and flash him a quick, excited smile, and it’s enough to remind him again. 

That maybe he could keep something like this.

After his tears have dried up, he takes this thought for what it truly is—exhilarating. 

And now he’s jittery. And for once in his life, he has to try to keep still in his place.

The sun glares and the crowd is noisy, but none of it matters until it does.

Tommy doesn’t know his eyes have drifted until shouts ring out— not the cheering kind. He’s seen enough tapes of failed plays to know what that sounds like.

Blinking himself out of his dazed moment, his eyes go to Wilbur first, finding him shifting on his feet, but overall steady. His opponent looks cuttingly smug, chin raised all high and mighty as he looks up at the umpire.

Automatically, Tommy’s shoulders slump in understanding. Bad call. But—his stomach twists with something odd. A bad call, on either side, doesn’t warrant an uproar of this length and calibre. Or at least it shouldn’t.

Naturally, the logical order of things, his eyes drift to the umpire, searching for what all the commotion is about.

He finds something very, very different. 

The umpire’s mouth is opening with words he can’t hear, and then words that he can’t care to hear when—

His gaze drops down.

His gaze drops down, and he stops breathing.

The death that excited, hopeful thing in his gut dies is not slow, but it is painful.

He knows that jacket.

The visor, the shoes.

The way he stands.

He knows it all.

And he is terrified. 

He’s—

No, no no.

No.

This wasn’t supposed to happen. He got out and he’s free and he’s Tommy and he’s—

He’s—he’s—

Fuck.

He can’t breathe.

It doesn’t matter if he came out of his seat to argue with the umpire, it doesn’t matter who the point goes to, Tommy can’t breathe, because—

His coach is here.

Only meters away. He’s here, and Tommy is here and he—

He can’t move either, every limb locked and frozen in place like a possum playing dead.

Maybe if he doesn’t move, he won’t be noticed. Maybe if he doesn’t move, he will be left alone, and he won’t find him. Maybe if he doesn’t move Theseus won’t find him and force him into a skin that doesn’t belong to him anymore.

Please. 

It’s the only thought he can think as all noise quiets, and as—

Oh no.

He’s swallowing, eyes widening uncontrollably because—

Because then he’s turning, presumably going back to his seat where he should have been this whole time.

He’s turning, and then those eyes that Tommy hates more than anything—

Are on him.

No.

He didn’t think it possible to be any more still than he had been, but—

But it doesn’t matter anymore, all of this.

None of his matters as his gaze lingers on Tommy’s frame, and he feels sick because there’s no reaction. He knew Tommy had been there before this, his eyes give it away, and Tommy wants to throw up.

He must turn away at some point, he must, but his eyes never do, he can feel it and it’s invasive in a way that’s too familiar. 

It’s—it’s all crumbling.

Oh god.

He can’t pay attention to the rest of the match, and he thinks Wilbur wins because the cheering is the loudest he’s ever heard and he's the crowd favourite—but it doesn’t matter.

It won’t ever matter again, because he’s been caught.

He doesn’t even think, a rodent running on instincts with a cat on its tail.

Limbs moving on their own accord, he’s out. As quickly as his job will allow, he’s gone.

He still cannot breathe as he walks as normally as possible through the staff tunnel, and it’s futile and he can’t keep doing this, but he’s a child clinging to their favourite toy. A stupid, selfish child who won’t let go.  

It’s all coming back—all the—everything. Every rule and training drill, pelleting his mind and he can’t stop it, he just needs to fucking get away.

One step and then another, and he’s so close, and then—

The door creaks open behind him.

He squeezes his eyes shut, because maybe if he can’t see it, it’s not real, and yet—

“Tommy?”

And oh. He wants to follow that voice to the ends of the earth, let it cradle him until he can’t even remember the difference between a game and a match. The difference between Tommy and Theseus.

The care is staggering, and it succeeds in making him falter, but not for long. He just can’t.

There is no reality in which Wilbur saves him in the face of his coach, not when he could be trailing behind him at this very moment.

He keeps walking.

And then he starts running.

Maybe Wilbur is chasing after him, maybe he’s already given up.

It’s insignificant because he arrives at the bus stop anyway, alone. The way it has to be.

The pros and cons have been weighed a long time ago: it’s him, Tommy, alone over any chance of being Theseus.

The bus driver gives him a weird look. He thinks he’s crying.

The ride is a blur, as is the walk. The elevator trip to his apartment is the same.

Packing is a simple affair; he doesn’t have much of value.

Might as well only bring his racket, but he isn’t that out of it.

Gathering the cash from his sock drawer is the last thing he does.

Bag slung over his shoulder, he shuts his apartment door for the last time, and doesn’t look back.

Chapter Text

Fuck.

You knew he was going to run, a wretched part of him hisses as he walks blindly through interview after interview, mouth working on autopilot. 

Yeah, he bites back with rivalling vitriol, but it wasn’t because of me. And for fucks sake, how was he meant to know that the reason he might never see Tommy again is because his coach decided to show his disgustingly arrogant face?

If provoked in any way, he’s sure he would vomit all over the microphones being shoved into his face.

Even if he did, he’s not sure he would notice. The only thing that feels real right now is the fact that he needs to—somehow—find Tommy. Save him? He doesn’t know.

He’s been ‘saving Tommy’ this entire time, he knows. However, when he catches a glimpse of that man slipping away from the grounds after an interview or two of his own—Theseus-less or not, he’s still a hot topic—Wilbur has half a mind to believe that this time, he really needs it. Desperately. 

And—

He’s terrified. 

The smile he puts on doesn’t show it, and he’s grateful now more than ever for his press-acting skills, but he is practically shaking with fear.

Staving off reporters is a lot easier when you haven’t won a tournament for the fourth time in a row an hour ago. Despite knowing this, a wary acceptance is not enough to quell his worry.

Phil can’t do anything about it, because he’s got mics on him too, and he can only assume the same for Niki—he hasn’t seen her in thirty minutes.

Don’t get him wrong, he’s opportunistic at every window to escape he sees, but it just doesn’t work. There’s always a camera, or a fan, or a sponsor, and he’s right back where he started. 

Stuck and unbearably helpless.        

Time moves strangely when you’re terrified that the kid you’ve nearly taken in might lose everything they’ve managed to build together all because you’re stuck, Wilbur finds, because the eternity he felt pass was only an hour and a half.

He’s the most relieved he’s ever been when he goes five minutes without some journalist cornering him, and despite the fact that the relief is immediately drowned in that same fear, he pushes on. 

Just as time moves oddly, reality does the same. 

The opportunity to get out and find Tommy is there, and then he’s taking it, and it’s all that matters, so his mind doesn’t spend its energy on anything else. 

There’s the beep of Phil’s car unlocking and then the slam he shuts it with, the somehow automatic drive to that apartment and the honking as he runs more than one red light, hands iron-clad on the steering wheel, the sound of his own exhale as he is faced yet again with Tommy’s apartment door. They are all trivial under a near-suffocating mantra of find Tommy, find Tommy, find Tommy.

Somewhere amongst the panic, beneath all its layers, there is a crushing knowledge that Tommy isn’t behind this door. It's been far too long; enough time for him to... get away. Something tells him that Phil would tell him that with a sour thing twisted into his features, and he can’t help but accept that as reality.

And yet—he just has to see. Has to check, has to know, and then he can—can figure something out. And yet there is still a part of him that prays they’re only a door apart; yet his hand lands on the doorknob with hope that’s cruel  because when he twists it, he’s met with an unbearable emptiness. 

It’s impossibly worse than before—which was only last night—and he wants to cry. The dust coating the space is smothers every surface, filling his lungs until it takes effort to breathe. 

Nothing looks out of place or torn apart, and that’s the worst of it. There was nothing of his to take is a knife that twists in his abdomen; he is not granted a suture. The lights are off and the space is clean, and it’s as if he’s simply gone left for an outing, but Wilbur knows he hasn’t. It appears as though the only way he wanted to take up space was on the court, and in Wilbur’s heart.

There’s no sense in checking every room, he can simply feel the lack of his presence, the way he forgot to lock the door and—

It is impossible to gloss over the two— two— plushies that lie, seemingly forgotten, on the floor by the couch. When Wilbur’s eyes find them, they don’t let go.

His Adam’s Apple bobs as he swallows, teeth sinking into his cheek.

The cow—Henry—is gone. Gone.

God.

That’s all the incentive it takes to move, find himself sitting in the car again, mapping out the route to the train station with his phone and pretending he doesn’t see four missed calls from Niki accompanying ten from Phil.

Because there’s a remark, a response to a meaningless question that’s floating around his head like a scent to follow, as well as a plea. 

“Snowchester.”

That's where he said he'd go if given the chance.

The question had been nothing more than an attempt to get him to open up—which had been successful, disregarding what happened afterwards—but now—

Now it’s all Wilbur has.

Tommy is leaving. He ran before and he’d do it again. And if there’s anywhere he’s possibly going, it’s Snowchester: the place he’d confessed to favouring over everywhere else.

It’s his only evidence that’s more than a suspicion. It’s hope. It’s the boy that he can’t bear to let go of, and it’s terrifying. It’s a sudden, polarizing thought that maybe, he isn’t the only one with this knowledge. That maybe he isn’t the only one speeding twenty over the limit with his grip on the wheel so tight that he might just lose feeling in his fingers. That maybe this isn’t a race against the train schedules to Snowchester, this is a race against that man.

Now he’s going thirty over because the train station is fourteen minutes away but maybe Tommy’s—Tommy’s coach is ten, and he wouldn’t know.

Maybe he’s already there, makes him want to vomit, but he won't. Can’t. He can’t do anything other than drive.

He’s been saving Tommy this whole time, and yet it’s all null and void if he can’t now.

“Fuck,” he curses when running the red light in front of him would surely kill at least five people crossing the busy intersection, only barely able to steady himself when the thirty seconds it takes for the streets to clear feels like years as every terrible yet possible situation runs through his head.

He doesn’t let out a breath when he parks in the train station parking lot though, because it’s not over yet. And until Tommy is in his sight and he’s safe, it won’t be.

There’s no doubt that he garners more than a few looks in his pursuit of the track Tommy is on—probably—which he finds leaves in twenty-five minutes after a pleading glance at the train schedules—the first train to Snowchester in four hours.

Please, please be there.

Next to the schedule is a bold font that tells him Track 9 is where he’s praying that Tommy is.

His eyes dart around the space, scavenging the room for a door that will lead him there, and when he finds it, a maroon sign that points to Tracks 5-10, he’s moving without another thought.

Please be there, please be okay.

And his hand in on the door, force shooting up his nerves until it’s in his fingertips and he’s shoving it open, and—

And there’s an authoritative hand on his shoulder.

There is no time allowed for him to come up with everyone who it could be, or for him to make a prediction and twist his demeanour into something that would match whoever it is stopping him before he twists.

Or—the hand twists him. Possibly.

What matters is that now, he’s face to face with a stern-looking station guard, his gaze harsh and judging, the hand unrelenting.

Believe him, he’s not a dickhead, he swears, but—

“The fuck you think you’re doing?” he spits without thinking of anything but the fact that he’s become yet another barrier between him and Tommy, and another one that he has to overcome, or else. There’s a threat looming over his head, settling over his skin and seeping into his pores, his bones, and twenty-five minutes turns into twenty-three.

The guard tilts his head, seeming unimpressed. The expression that promises law and order is persistent. He does look put off though, even more so as Wilbur vainly attempts to shrug his hand off, and that’s when he lets air fill his lungs and realizes that that may not have been the best move. It still doesn't explain why on earth he’s being stopped, though.

“I—”

“You need a ticket to enter the platform, Sir.”

Oh. 

“Uh—Oh.” the man looks ultimately unamused, but twenty-three minutes is now twenty-two, so— “Yeah, right, sorry. Makes sense.” the hand finally leaves, an indescribable weight lifted. “Uh, where can I get one? Sorry. I’m in a bit of a rush.”

A bit.

The understatement of a century, but how is he meant to make this poor security guard that he’s just snapped at understand?

Agonizingly slowly, the man drags his arm up and points tiredly to what is so obviously a ticket booth that it’s embarrassing Wilbur required guidance. 

Trying not to panic when twenty-two minutes becomes twenty-one, he settles on an awkward, tight-lipped nod that he hopes doesn’t belie his desperation and scurries off, tennis shoes squeaking across the flooring.

Purchasing the ticket is a complete blur, his mind only on the ticking down of the clock.

It’s eighteen minutes before either Tommy is fine, or—

He will be.

Please. 

And so, Wilbur shoves the doors open, ticket in hand, pleading.

—

Tommy is going to be sick.

His foot, inches away from the tracks, won’t stop tapping on the concrete, hands twitching at his side in a fashion that isn’t too far off from the way that they do when he’s itching for a racket. Every second his head twists up to check the gap between him and safety, and right now, it’s a taunting twenty-four minutes. And—it’s awful because he swears that ten minutes ago it said twenty-five.

Time moves strangely when one is less than an hour away from not-quite-freedom again, and still under the crushing grasp of the fact that he could be finding him any second.

Any minute, he could materialize right in front of Tommy's face and he’d be Theseus again, and Tommy would be dead, and—

Inhale,

He won’t. He won’t. His coach is not an idiot, he’ll give him that. He’s terrifying for a fucking reason. Hypothetically, he could piece together that Tommy knows he’s here for him, and figure that this is where he ended up. But—he won’t.

Exhale.

Tommy didn’t sacrifice Wilbur for him to get caught, he didn’t.  

So it’s going to be fine.

He tells himself that every time ugly regret attempts to rear its head in his gut, because it’s worth it.

Running away like the coward he has always been to Snowchester vastly outweighs the few pros of staying and living under the weight of knowing his coach knows where he is. Marburg isn’t safe anymore, and that’s that.

Snowchester is a blank slate, just like Manburg was. He doesn’t even have to be Tommy there; he might have to stop existing as him there. Snowchester is safe, and that’s all he needs to be. Manburg, like Logstedshire, will become a burial ground. One of those military graveyards on forgotten battlegrounds where there is nothing etched into the stone, and nobody cares about the unnamed soldiers who lie there. 

And—the only real pro of Manburg, now that the tournament is over for another year, is Wilbur.

Then that begs the question, how much importance does Wilbur carry? 

So much.

More than anything, a selfish part of him preaches. Tommy isn’t so sure, despite the way betrayal crawls up his throat to think that. But his decision is already made, so why is he still hung up on it?

He glances at the schedules again. Twenty-three. 

Yes, Wilbur bought him ice cream and held him as he cried, but—

There are no buts.

Except for the one where the decision is made, and it’s final.

He stares at the tracks, an uncomfortable buzz over his skin, and does his best to just forget about it.

It’s for the best.

It is.

—

Phil is, decidedly, not happy.

Firstly, with the fact that his car is gone, and secondly—

“Hey there, It’s Wil. I’m probably busy. You’ve got, like, a sixty percent increased chance of me replying to you if you text me. Bye.”

Beeeeeeeep.

“Your call has been forwarded to an automatic voice messaging system, if you would like to leave a—”

He sighs thinly, fingers moving to pinch the bridge of his nose as the robot voice drones on with the same speech he’s heard ten times at this point. Niki stares at him with equal disappointment, lips pressed tight.

Shutting his eyes, he steadies himself to make yet another voicemail before pressing his finger to the one.

“Hey, mate, I know you’ve gone after Tommy, but it’d be nice to you that you aren’t dead. And also where you’ve taken my car.” he maintains the composure in his voice, regardless of his sinking sensation that he won’t be receiving a reply regardless.

He can tell Niki is biting the inside of her cheek across from him where they sit on the corner of the parking lot, brows furrowing in a worry that Phil knows is mirroring his own expression. 

He ends the message there with another weighted exhale, tilting his head back up to Niki.

“You want to give it another go?” he suggests half-heartedly because honestly, this is becoming exhausting. 

She doesn’t reply, eyes shifting downwards and remaining trained on the pavement. Phil waits, trying to relax his muscles. When she meets Phil’s eyes again, they’re swimming with something that sparks a teasing hope inside of him.

Her lips part, almost hesitant. “Do you… does Wil share his location with you?” she asks, brows still creased, and—

Oh.

Yes, yes he does.

Only in case of emergencies, because he’d insisted, and this is, well, an emergency.

Without answering outright, although he’s sure his face displays the answer, he pulls his phone out again, entering the password at record speed and finding the app in milliseconds, and sure enough, it’s there.

And—

His brow furrows further, forehead wrinkling before he understands.

Wilbur’s phone is only a five-minute distance from the Manburg train station.

Oh.

“Where is he?” Niki questions, a sense of urgency edging her voice.

Phil tells her, and then they’re boarding the next bus.

—

Twenty-two.

That’s how many minutes are between him and refuge.

He is so close he can almost taste the sweet tang of what one might call freedom, but he names safety. It’s like dark chocolate, in a way, because he cannot deny the bitter aftertaste. Every passing thought of Wilbur sticks to his tongue and the dents in his molars in the same, bitter fashion, but it’s over.

And he’s close, so it can’t matter.

His heart is going a mile a minute, and he’s breathing now, at least.

Twenty-one. 

He’s so close.

His eyes narrow on the tracks as he cranes his neck impatiently, trying to see the train from a distance. It isn’t there, and he forces an inhale. It comes in shakey, trembling, but he’s alive.

Please, please, please.

Teeth sink into his cheek when he paranoidly recalls everything in his backpack, going over every item to confirm he hasn’t missed one of them. Because, while maybe he doesn’t have a lot, everything he does have is important. 

His wallet. A pair of pyjamas, one of regular clothes. His racket, and—

And Henry.

He draws blood, feels iron tangy on his tongue because it feels like he’s stolen something.

Henry is meant to stay with Tommy. Henry is because of Tommy, because of Wilbur, and—he can’t exactly be Tommy anymore. Henry isn’t—it isn’t his. Still, he took it in the heat of the moment, and now it’s squished into his backpack.

So that’s that.

Twenty. 

He’s going to make it.

He’s close and it hurts more than anything, but he’s going to make it.

Again, he obsessively strains his neck to check for the train, again finding it absent, before shifting back and just trying to stay still.

You’re going to be okay, a soothing voice in his head assures, and he resolutely ignores the way it sounds just like Wilbur.

It’s still twenty.

He curls his hands into fists and stares at the tracks again, eyes latching onto a discarded piece of plastic.

It’s still twenty.

God, can this train arrive any slower?

With waiting comes time, and with time comes thinking, and with thinking comes the thought that he’s going to get caught, he isn’t safe—

He clamps down on it, locking his jaw.

Inhale.

He convinces himself, and then follows through with the action.

And then it is silent. The platform ten train screeches to a halt, and he focuses on the sound of that. Is satiated by the fact that in twenty minutes, that will be him. The absence of sound is almost soothing, the empty station only somewhat eerie.

Good. Snowchester isn’t a popular destination, then.

Again, he inhales, on instinct this time. 

It’s still fucking twenty, and—

And something is wrong.

And—

And the doors Tommy came through are opening, he can hear them, and—

Oh.

Oh—oh god.

No no no, please no.

“Theseus.” rings out from his left, and it’s freezing.

Tommy’s blood runs cold.

—

The ticket is crushed between his fingertips, and then it’s on the concrete below.

Gone is the urgency flooding his senses with pulsing adrenaline, gone is hope, gone is—well, everything really.

Everything but fear.

Because—

Fuck.

Fuckfuckfuckfuckfuck—

He failed.

He—

Fear and anger are one and the same, one cannot exist without the other. This is made excruciatingly clear as his fists ball up and fire torrents his bloodstream in the same moment ice floods his veins, because oh fuck.

Tommy is trembling.

Shaking, trembling, whatever you want to call it. The odd thing about it, though, is that he’s still. An oxymoron—Wilbur is well aware, but he can just tell. He feels the way he’d be shivering if he could, and he has every fucking right to be terrified. Wilbur is too, because Tommy’s coach is there.

Inches away from Tommy and his eerily stilled frame, unresponsive to the way—

Sound filters in over the furious ringing, and he’s still meters away from the nightmare scene, but—

Tommy’s coach is yelling, spittle flying onto the boy’s slackened face, and Wilbur is going to throw up.

It doesn’t help when he can suddenly hear what he’s saying.

“—think you have any right to disobey me?”

Tommy is so, so still, it hurts. It physically rips open Wilbur’s long-healed scars, tearing and shredding the skin until they’re raw and bleeding as his coach continues, and he can’t move.

“I put a roof over your head, Theseus,” he’s pretty sure he imagines Tommy flinching at the name, a placebo with how much he’s expecting it, but he’s just so unmoving he doesn't think it was real.  “I make you the best in the entire fucking world and I put food on your plate, and how do you repay me?”

A devastating pause, and it takes Wilbur a moment to realize that the question is not rhetorical. He’s asking, and Tommy is still silent.

“How did you repay me, Theseus? I’m not asking again.”

Silence.

Silence, and—

Oh.

His coach leans in closer, Wilbur can only assume from his obstructed view, and Tommy isn’t speaking, but—

Blue eyes flick over to him.

And oh, that’s right, because he’s not here to stand and watch, be a bystander to a massacre, he’s here to—to help Tommy.

Who is looking at him with such unbridled and raw desperation that it only takes a second, a glance for his body to move before he thinks.

His shoes don’t squeak on the concrete, and he’s forever grateful because at least it gives him the element of surprise when he reaches out and feels as though he’s crossing an ocean's distance with his hand before it lands on the man's shoulder. Hard.

And, despite the fact that he’s a grown man, he still holds his breath, and he still feels time stop as the man halts in his pursuit to force Tommy to answer his impossible question and turns slowly. Menacingly.

It takes everything in him to keep his eyes off Tommy and on this man, and even more than he has to keep his visage confident and unafraid—two things he very much is not right now.

He turns fully. It’s the first time he’s seen him this close, and there’s an indescribable discomfort in the crystalline shade of his eyes. Ones that match Tommy’s, despite the only claim he has over him being adoption. Wilbur maintains his composure, swallowing with no clue what to say as recognition flashes in those same eyes, and then a Cheshire grin spreads his lips apart.

Wilbur is actually going to be sick, this time.

Lips part— “Soot.” a lilt of his head, considering. The only power Wilbur has here, he notices, is the hand still resting on his shoulder. He remains silent, unable to think of anything other than the distance between him and Tommy. “Congratulations on the win.” it takes everything in him not to squirm, firstly at the idea that Tommy was facing this for years with no one to drag him up to the surface, and secondly because he understands. “I liked that trick you played at the end, what was that?”

Wilbur remembers. He remembers well, and for the umpteenth time, wants to vomit.

“Drop shot and lob, that right?”

Just like Tommy, he is silent.

“Thought so.” god. Why can’t he move? “Where’d you learn it like that, huh?”

He doesn’t say it. He doesn’t have to.

Abruptly, his grin widens as he takes a minute step back, leaving Wilbur’s hand to succumb to gravity and drop to his side, limp.

His autonomy and his drive are only replenished when the man steps back to place a similar hand on Tommy’s shoulder. And Tommy—

Tommy is still frozen, but he can’t take his eyes off his chest and the way it contracts unevenly, pleading eyes never ceasing their gaze.

“It wasn’t that Phil, now was it?”

He can’t only see the hand tightened over Tommy’s shoulder, he can feel it, and—

It snaps.

Any sense of dignity, or rationality, or anything, cracks in two pieces, then four, and then shatters. Gone.

He’s used to solving quarrels with dignified words, but it’s clear that he isn’t thinking as his hand reaches out impulsively, blindly aiming to do anything to just get his hand as far away from Tommy as he can, preparing for the skin of an arm or hand, and instead—

Instead, pain erupts on his own face and he’s stumbling back, reeling because that doesn’t make sense, that’s not what was meant to happen, and yet when he looks down at his hand cupping his nose, they’ve stained an awful crimson.

He looks up as it drips and fuck that hurts—but he—

The hand has left Tommy’s shoulder. It had to have because that’s the reason it’s taking unbelievable strength not to cry out in pain, because—

Holy shit.

He’s just—Tommy’s coach has just fucking punched him.

That’s—holy shit.

His own expression—dismantled with shock—meets that man’s face—infuriatingly smug— and despite his fuzzy head, there’s a faint spark of hope rising with building confidence in his gut, because—

“That’s—” he begins incredulously, eyes flicking frantically between the two, “that’s assault. That’s literally—I can report you for that.” he unconsciously wipes his face again, unaware of how heavy he’s been breathing until now.

But—

This time, when the man crushes Wilbur’s hope under his boot, it’s with a raised brow.

“Really?” he nearly implores, and Wilbur is— “Because I think that you just tried to hurt Theseus.”

What?

There is evidence all around them, blood on the concrete, on his hands. So he can't possibly twist this.

“I—” he breathes, “So fucking what? You—you hit me, Tommy saw it happen—” There is a certain self-satisfaction, perhaps the childish rush of standing up to your bully for the first time in calling him Tommy instead. 

It’s gone in a moment, in a curling of lips and a condescending hum.

“I think Theseus saw you attack me first.” that—that hand settles on the blonde's shoulders again, and Wilbur can hardly take it.

And— what?

That doesn’t—

“Isn’t that right, Theseus?”

He doesn’t turn to Tommy’s barely breathing, paralyzed form, but the question is clear.

Oh.

Wilbur understands.

Tommy does not answer, looking at Wilbur still and he narrows his eyes into blue ones that are freezing cold instead of pleading, hoping he doesn’t betray how much disbelief resides inside of him.

“You can’t—” he pushes out, but—

“Isn’t that right, Theseus?” This time, Tommy’s coach turns to him, squeezing his shoulder tight under the weight of Tommy’s horrible, terrible silence, and the gap between them is a chasm.

They are no more than a meter apart, if that, and yet Tommy is miles away. He’s miles away in his head, that much is clear as he does nothing but stand there, unresponsive, and a light years distance with the force separating them.

It’s slipping, fuck it’s slipping, it’s getting away from him. Tommy's safety is getting away from him.

“Tommy—” he says, trying—

“Isn’t that right, Theseus?” the words spill so harshly that Wilbur himself feels the hairs on the back of his neck rise. His stomach sinks as Tommy, unable to do anything, it seems, begins to really shake. Physically.

The atmosphere changes—predictably, if Wilbur could think— until everything is so sharp that Wilbur is tempted to try and get his hands off of Tommy again. He cannot, heart pounding as Tommy’s coach leans down to level with him, inches from his face, forcing the boy to look at him. 

“Theseus.” Fuck, shit, why is he just watching? “Isn’t that right?” oh god.

Finally, finally, Tommy, still periodically glancing up at a slackened Wilbur, parts his lips. “I—yes.”

It’s robotic. Lifeless. He’s not even sure how he makes the sound, with how little air it seems is being taken into his lungs.

He sounds like the day they first met. It’s not surprising, it makes an unbearable amount of sense, but knowledge does not equal acceptance; it doesn’t make it okay.

His coach pulls back, satisfied with the response, and—is it too predictable to say it makes him feel sick?

“No, Tommy—” he tries, his own voice coming out choked, but it’s futile.

“This has been a pleasure, Soot,” No, no, no, he— “but I think it’s best me and Theseus” he’s experiencing too much dread to curl his hands into fists, but he could if he would at the enforcement of that name. “head back home. And if you’re lucky, I won’t file a charge against you.”

And then, he pushes Tommy to walk away.

But— no, because that’s not right and Wilbur has to do something, but he’s got no idea what.

And they’re beginning to move. As Wilbur stands still doing nothing as Tommy is taken—moving limply like a marionette, they’re beginning to leave.

“Congratulations again, Soot.” his coach says in a twisted, cruel farewell, and—

And the doors open.

The sliding of them or maybe just instinct alerts him to the fact, and he turns to the door he’d emerged from just minutes ago, and sees—

Oh.

Oh, thank fuck, is the only thought running through his head as Phil steps through the door, Niki on his tail, and fuck, there might just be a fucking halo over his head.

He watches, unbelievable relief rushing through him as they both observe the scene in front of them—the blood on his face, the way Tommy shakes. Take it in—their stunted path to the door, his coach's hand on his shoulder, and then understand— that Wilbur needs help because Tommy needs help—in the same way he must have.

Tommy has stopped moving because that man has stopped moving, both of their eyes on the duo guarding them against the door, gazes hardened.

“Is there a problem here?” Phil says like he doesn’t know the answer, and, if possible, Tommy is looking at him with more hope than he’d scrutinized Wilbur with.

Thank fuck.

Tommy’s coach, at first glance, looks unbothered by it, but then Wilbur catches the tension suddenly lining his shoulders. And maybe, just maybe, it’s going to work out.

“Why would there be?” he levels Phil with, and they both know the exchange is only for show. The blood staining Wilbur's face is so obvious it hurts more than the stinging.

The pause is tense beyond belief.

“Would you mind letting go of him, mate?” Phil asks, feigning casualness as his eyes flick down to Tommy and the grip on his shoulder.

“And why,” he steps closer, and Wilbur itches with the urge to step over to him and get this over with before Tommy fucking—passes out or something. “should I do that?” his eyes narrow, almost in warning, and Wilbur can only watch. “Theseus is my ward. You have no right to refute that.”

Phil stares, arms over his chest, and the tension is killing him, but then—

“Niki?” He says abruptly, not taking his eyes off Tommy’s coach, and it makes sense when Niki nods without question and darts back inside the doors and emerges with two security guards moments later.

Oh.

He almost grins when the coach's shoulders raise a fraction and his eyes widen, before strengthening his guard tenfold, lifting his chin, but it isn’t enough and Wilbur could cry with relief as Niki points them to him, and then to the blood all over his own face.

And then they’re walking over to the coach, hardened looks on their faces, demanding that “Please take your hands off the boy, Sir,” and he’s trying desperately to rid himself of the blame he so clearly deserves, spitting “You have no right to—” and, as they flank him on either side, shoving him off, it doesn’t work.

After that, after he’s pulled away, Wilbur doesn’t pay attention to the rest of it, eyes only on the reason he’s here in the first place as that very person sinks to the ground as if his coach's hand was the only thing keeping him up, lungs heaving and shoulders hiking up to his ears.

Wilbur is on him in less than a second.

He thinks Niki and Phil are speaking with both guards and a half-shouting man, but it doesn’t matter, because that’s it.

“Hey, Tommy,” he attempts to get Tommy’s attention, though his eyes are shut and his ears are half covered. He speaks anyway, kneeling to his level. “It’s just me, Wilbur, yeah? He’s gone now, it’s over, you're okay," he repeats the bit where he tells him it's over until the boy’s breathing evens enough for him to come back to the present, and only then does Wilbur move to wrap his arms around him. He is still shaking.

“You’re safe now, Tommy, you’re safe. I promise you, kid,” he mutters as he hears the sound of Tommy’s coach being arrested above them, and Tommy—

Tommy believes him.

Chapter Text

Tommy doesn’t really know when he stopped hiding.

When concealing himself became something that he would forget from time to time, until having the sickening realization that it was no longer a constant—or when he became… tolerant of that. Or when he became content with it, or when he hardly thought about it anymore. Or when he only hid in the worst of moments, wrapped up in his own head too tightly to breathe.

A swap between hiding and being had taken place one night in his sleep, it seems, hiding becoming the minority. Scarce.

(Ironically,) it’s the paradox of Theseus' Ship: if all the old pieces of the ship are replaced, one by one over years to the point where none of the original parts remain, at what point does it stop being Theseus' Ship— and does it at all?

The change had been gradual.

So gradual, in fact, that it’s hardly noticeable.

He replays every event in his head—everything since the last day of the tournament, when he never made it to Snowchester, to figure out just when the change happened. When the last piece necessary was swapped.

He never finds it—or at least he hasn’t yet— but he’ll be damned if he doesn’t try.

It’s hard to tell when the first part was switched out. This is something that slips from proper classification like it's a soccer ball he's attempting to chase down a hill.

But maybe, if he was betting on it, he’d say it was sometime during the tournament. And if it’s hard to determine whether this was that first replacement or not, it’s impossible to know which specific event caused it. It could have been the ice cream, or maybe the nickname. Maybe it was his laughter, maybe it was his tears that set flame to part of the ‘ship’, inciting a part replacement. 

There had to be a change on the last day, with his first unsuccessful escape attempt.

He hardly remembers that at all. It's more just the feeling of fear holding the place for the actual memory when he thinks back on it. Wilbur tells him it’s normal; it takes time to believe him.

But he does recall the relief when he slumped to the ground, and he thinks he recalls Wilbur’s arms around him for the second time that day. 

The journey away from the train station has just as much fog surrounding it.

He does not remember falling asleep there, but he does remember waking up shrouded, hidden in a fluffy hotel duvet and curled up on a decidedly (though he didn’t exactly care at the time) less comfortable hotel armchair, a pillow beneath his head and dressed in the same clothing as yesterday: his ball boy uniform.

Understandably, (he thinks) he’d panicked, because how the fuck was he supposed to know where he was? And then he saw Wilbur—passed out on the hotel bed, using the sheets as a cover, and remembered as much as he could.

They’d taken off to L’Manburg that day. It was strange, though, because the second they arrived at Philza Minecraft’s house, he was given a room. Of his own. Even stranger is the fact that it was Wilbur’s old room, and impossibly weirder because the man in question moved back just days after, and resolved to take the guest bed. 

He thinks he remained stagnant for the first few months of… being sort of, unofficially, vaguely, taken in by literally Philza Minecraft. And Wilbur. Sort of.

He almost regrets how much tension he’d been taken by in that time period. It was just fucking—hard.

Difficult in every way imaginable with everything out in the open, his hiding spot found, his face exposed. Vulnerable. It was difficult with only Wilbur, Niki, and Phil knowing—fearful of who knows what—and then, because of course they did, the media got involved. 

His sort of, kind of, maybe pseudo-family made sure there was never a microphone on him, but they couldn’t shield him from pictures that had been taken years ago, videos of him next to his—that man, the use of his old name, and worst of all, statements of the court rulings.

Actually, the media can go die, but he has decided that he hopes the court burns in hell.

Six counts of child abuse, two of child endangerment.  

Those numbers, those words, are all that come out of two months of going to court, having to look at him, feel him look at him and trying not to panic—and when that inevitably failed—trying to pretend he wasn’t panicking. 

And when that failed, well, they had to bring him out of the room three times total. 

Three times total in which Quakity—his lawyer, apparently—called for a ‘time out’ and led him out of the suffocating room, Wilbur on his tail. Three times both of them guided him to a quiet corner and three times that Wilbur reminded him that it was okay until it felt like it was. Two times they went back in and resumed, once when they’d called the rest of the day off because they needed his account of an event to continue and every time he’d open his mouth to say it he couldn’t.

As much as he despised having to give his recounting of whatever traumatic event that they needed to build his case to a room full of fucking people, Quakity—Big Q, as he’d dubbed him—was pretty cool. Cool enough that he made the dreadful experience just bearable enough with his humour outside of the courtroom.

He wins, and it doesn’t feel like victory.

Didn’t. Doesn’t. Won’t.

It’s just a weight being removed. He doesn’t even feel relieved, for fucks sake.

No. He only feels relieved in the coming months, when he thinks one of those changes happens. He only feels relief when he goes through what happened in the dead of night—not to an apathetic audience, but to Wilbur. 

He isn’t so sure at first. About talking about it, that is. He’s spent, drained dry from his ‘win’, but Wilbur says that it’s good to talk things through. To let it out. Tommy doesn’t believe him at first, because why would he? The doubt arose due to the way the courtroom made him feel, because—it's the same thing, right? He’s just saying what happened. And that only made him feel exposed. And yet, Wilbur, who for whatever reason refuses to give into his reasoning, talks to him.

And he hadn’t—known. About any of what he said. His story was public when Tommy was too young to understand it even if he saw some of the coverage. He hadn’t known about how he used to live with Phil, nor how he’d been adopted by the man years back. 

Tommy still isn’t sure how he feels about that. Better, maybe, he can’t tell. There’s something unnamable coiling in his stomach, although he sits and listens anyway. Then… it takes some coaxing, but soon, Tommy finds himself talking as well. In small increments at first, cautious, but the man makes it utmost clear that he only wants to help, and that he doesn’t have to say anything if he can’t. That makes it feel… easier. Knowing that he doesn’t have to in order to make sure his former coach ends up with the public—and the judge—at his throat. 

So he is sure a change happens there, the moment he shares something that makes him freak out for a moment, and then something that keeps him awake at night, and then why he thinks he might act the way he does sometimes. He is also sure the change is able to happen because Wilbur listens. Properly listens.

That period of time in which Tommy stands still with all the same parts fades out of existence with this.

At this point, though, he is sure he is still the same. Theseus' Ship is still Theseus' Ship.

He finds other ways to hide—old habits die hard, or whatever. He hides from his old life, unsure whether to call the Manburg Open part of his ‘old life’ or not, and doesn’t play for six and a half months after the fact. 

He has things now—regular clothes, posters and knick-knacks. Whatever he might want. But his racket is the only thing that remains packed away in his backpack in the corner of his— his— room. And… he’s pretty sure either Phil or Wilbur keep his old medals and trophies somewhere in the house, away from his eyes. 

(He did not take up the chance to go back to Logstedshire in order to visit the house he used to live in, let that be clear.)

It doesn’t help that he has every chance to play. They have a tennis court in the backyard, for fucks sake. 

Niki comes over and sometimes, if he’s feeling up for it, he’ll watch them train—on good days, from his window, and on better days, on the sidelines. It’s one of these days when it happens.

“Did you see that, Tommy?” Wilbur asks excitedly, turning to him where he sits, cross-legged on the edge of the court.

If he’s honest, he didn’t see it at all, distracted by something he doesn’t remember anymore. He nods regardless, and Wilbur’s grin widens. 

He doesn’t—he doesn’t really know what comes over him. There are thousands of factors that could have contributed to his sudden burst of confidence. Maybe it’s the forgiving bite of November in L’Manburg, the cold weather immediately signalling to him that he wouldn’t have to play as much during the winter months. It could be the careless, freed glint in Wilbur’s eyes, he’ll never know. But suddenly—

“Can I give it a go?”

Not that he was expecting to, but he doesn’t… regret the words, once they’re free. He doesn’t miss the way Wilbur falters, though, but he can’t blame him. Especially not when the flash of confusion is swapped for something that looks a little like pride as he wordlessly offers his racket.

Or maybe a lot like pride. Whatever.

Tommy’s fingers brush over the taped handle and is shocked he feels… okay. Normal. Fine. 

It’s Wilburs, not his own, so that probably helps a little.

He isn’t sure what Wilbur was showing him a second ago—what he asked to ‘give a go’—so he takes a tennis ball from the man’s offering hand and just—serves. 

Nothing flashy, and honestly a little rusty. But it’s... fine.

It actually feels… good, and when Wilbur claps enthusiastically behind him, he finds himself wanting to do it again.

He does. 

And then he does it again, and again, and again.

Like magic, a racket stops feeling like it weighs a thousand tonnes in his palm, and he blinks and he’s practicing with Wilbur nearly every day. It’s so, so, nice because it’s not like before. It’s not anything like before. Before being when the word ‘practice’ would elicit his chin to lift and his back to slacken, the exhaustion already finding a home in his gut. It isn’t even really practice, because he isn’t competing in anything at all.

They haven’t even asked if he wanted to, despite the fact that it’s been months.

He blinks and it’s April, and he’s meant to be qualifying for Juniors, but he isn’t.

“Hey Wil?” he asks, finding opportunity in a pause of the conversation, trepidation bleeding into his tone, which he winces at. His hands tap on his thighs impatiently from under the dinner table where both Wilbur and Phil cannot see. Hidden.

Immediately, Wilbur's head snaps up, wordless in allowing Tommy to continue.

Inhale,

“Do you think I should sign up for Juniors?” if he were paying attention to anything but his breathing, he’d notice how the words came out in a rush.

Phil’s head turns at the question and Wilbur’s fork stalls on the way to his mouth. They exchange a glance and there is an undeniable second in which he thinks he’s done something wrong and oh fuck he’s done something wrong, but—

“Do you… want to?”

It’s genuine. 

Not like when his old coach was just looking for him to give in, despite the fact that he was going to make Tommy do whatever it was anyway. He knows that, and so he cannot stop himself from stamping out the instinctual ‘yes’ that threatens to spill over, and thinking.

… Does he?

No.

No, he doesn’t.

The media wouldn’t give him a second to breathe, neither would the sponsors or, shit, his coaches friends, people he used to know, but didn’t know him—not really. 

He shakes his head, slow in a way that it’s almost as if he’s hoping neither of them will see it. Just in case. 

“Alright then. I suppose not.”

Exhale.

Just like that, there is no Theseus to sweep Juniors that year.

There’s another replacement, and another when, the very next day, actually, Wilbur asks him this:

“Tommy?”

“Yeah? What?”

“When’s your birthday?”

And he’d… forgotten. About that. His birthday.

He’d choked for a second, remembering, and Wilbur waited ever-so-patiently despite the obvious pain staining his face. He’d swallowed before responding that it was next Wednesday,  because Wilbur doesn’t seem… happy about that.

He thinks he knows why.

However, out of all things, he does not expect a surprise party.

It’s in the name, he supposes.

Well— party is a generous term for it because it’s really only him, Phil, Niki, and Wilbur sitting around eating cake for a couple of hours.

It’s a blur, really, the memory consumed by the sheer amazement he’d been overridden with throughout until Wilbur left to ‘go get something' and comes back with a racket-shaped bundle of wrapping paper.

Tommy can’t remember if he’d cried or not. He does remember Wilbur hugging him, though, and then Niki handing him a box of new shoes, and then hugging him herself.

Just when he thought it couldn’t get any better, when it was too good to be true and felt as if he’d pinched himself, he’d wake up as Theseus a year back. But that doesn’t happen, and instead, Phil hands him a tennis ball signed with his name on it.

They all laugh, and he laughs because they are, but doesn’t understand until Phil says ‘I’m just joking, mate,’ despite the clear fact that the gift was more than enough, and left to get what he’d named 'his real present.'

He didn’t have the heart to tell them that this was too much already.

It’s painfully clear with his hindsight, but he’d honestly become a little worried with the way Wilbur was tapping on his own legs, teeth in his cheek. His own apparent nerves had bled further into Tommy to the point where he was going over every horrible possibility until Phil returned with a stack of papers, and kept them pressed to his chest while he flipped Tommy’s world upside down.

Adoption.

Fucking Philza Minecraft wanted to adopt him.

Adopt him.

Regardless of how it wouldn’t really do anything—Phil was already technically fostering him, his license still upheld from Wilbur and how he was seventeen, only one year to go until it really wouldn’t matter, Phil wanted to adopt him.

And—and he’d almost said yes.

There’d been tears pricking his eyes and a tremble to his hands, and he’d almost said yes, right then and there because Phil was asking, not telling.

But then—he’d been adopted before.

Too small to agree, to care either way. A child named Theseus who didn’t think of his name as a burden. Who didn’t even know what a burden was.

He knows, he knows that Phil isn’t going to be like that. He is Tommy now, legally, and Phil isn’t going to be like his old coach. But—

He doesn’t know what it is about the thought of being adopted that sets off alarm bells in his head, but it does, and he doesn’t—

“You don’t have to say yes, Tommy.”

That’s what Phil said, verbatim. 

So he released his tongue from where it had been held painfully between his teeth and sucked in a breath before telling Phil that he’d think on it.

He didn’t.

The answer was no, and he thinks Phil knew that.

(He doesn't ask again.)

They don’t speak about it again, but they do go back to chatting and finishing the rest of the cake—ice cream cake, which he immediately decided was the best kind despite never having another.

So there’s another change.

And after that things get… blurry.

There are many theoretical solutions to the paradox—or rather thought experiment—of Theseus' Ship, and most of them involve a healthy amount of philosophical jargon that doesn’t make a lot of sense if you don’t have a degree in the matter.

It’s fitting, he thinks. 

Because then he’s floating in a space in which he is not Theseus but he doesn’t think he’s Tommy quite yet.

God, when did he get so pretentiously wise?

Too much time with Wilbur and his big annoying words that don’t make sense, he reasons. The prick.

Perhaps naming himself that was a little preemptive on his part, but could you blame him? All he wanted to do was leave when he chopped off all his air and picked himself the first name he could think of. Boy is he glad that that didn’t work out.

In this limbo, he decides—without any reason—to contact someone who deserves it.

He spends about an hour in Ranboo’s Instagram DMs trying to convince his former-would-be opponent that it’s actually Tommy messaging him, and not some fake account.

He owes it to him though, so he does it despite that. 

Surprisingly, he’s actually… pretty funny. Different that he presents himself on camera, but that’s sort of a given—the only person he knows who acts the same in an interview is Phil, because of course he does.

And it’s… nice. To make a friend. 

Wilbur wins that year’s Open and not a single person is surprised.

Tommy is ever so slightly hesitant to attend alongside Niki and Phil, and they all make it very clear that they’d like him to be there despite the fact that they aren’t forcing him to come. All the way up until they’re packing the car to go Wilbur incessantly reminds him that he ‘doesn’t have to come, if it’s too much.’ until Tommy, fed up enough to say something about it, shoots back ‘Christ, Wil, it’s starting to sound like you don’t want me there.’

It’s said with a wry smile and he’s joking— he knows Wilbur does—but it shuts the man right up regardless. Tommy laughs at him as he stutters through apologies detailing that he ‘didn’t mean it that way’ and ‘really, really wants him there but doesn’t want to make it seem like he had to, because that would be fine too, as long as he’s—’

He gives up when Tommy shuts the backdoor on his face, ignoring his rambles to fasten his seatbelt, to which Phil chuckles and Niki snorts.

He’d never, ever admit it to any of them, because he’s like, ninety percent sure Wilbur would send him right back to L’Manburg, the paranoid fuck, but the twisted nostalgia of the grounds does make his stomach tighten into knots.

Everywhere they go—the courts, the ice cream shop, the carnival—are bloodied battlegrounds of the war between Theseus and Tommy, and he’s the only one who can smell the iron of crimson that surrounds them. It isn’t quite suffocating, although it borders on it when he gets recognized a few times and once even a microphone shoved into his face. Helpless, his mouth opens and shuts once, twice, three times before Niki swoops in and gives a stern telling off to the reporter, but it’s enough to make him hole away in his hotel room for the duration of the day.

When he collapses onto his bed the second they get home—not tired enough to sleep, too tired to keep awake fully—he finds he doesn’t regret going. 

Next year comes around and suddenly he’s eighteen, and he attends the Open just like the year before—as an audience member, not a participant. 

Eighteen. 

Before, all that number meant was the possibility of a real Open. Not being able to drink or having more freedom than ever before like it might mean for other kids. Just a bigger trophy. And since that prospect has mostly vanished, he’s left with the riveting sensation of nothing when the day comes and goes.

Just the fact that he’s been here for eighteen years, though it feels like so many more, and that he has a few more responsibilities. That is all.

He comes to the conclusion that he still wants to live in Phil’s house, and, of course, he lets Tommy stay.

At that point, the lines are blurred beyond comprehension, and he sort of… forgets about hiding, except for when he is.

The few original pieces of Theseus' Ship are reduced to too-quiet nights in which he wakes gasping for breath, days in which something is off—the air too cold or too hot, allowing something without physical form to crawl under his skin—and he cannot find it in himself to get out of bed. When there is too much… sentimental value in something someone says, or the way something moves, and for a moment he reverts to his original form.

The proverbial maintenance happens slowly yet surely, the pieces attached with the screws tight and unrelenting, but they do come undone in the form of Wilbur rushing into his room in the dead of night (the walls between them are thin) and, sometimes, if he’s able, managing to convince Tommy to get up and at least watch him practice, or do something.

Here lies, though, the crux.

Because, while those nights and exhausting days and panicked moments are reduced, they never… stop.

Twice a week becomes twice a month, and Puffy, (his therapist, because apparently, he does that now,) explains that it might stay like that. She talks about S curves on graphs—a poor metaphor, despite its good intent. Tommy has always hated math with every bone in his body—and how he might just… always be like this.

Out of everything—the leftovers from his childhood, the crying and the panicking and everything— accepting this is the most difficult. 

“Y’know,” Wilbur says as if he’s considering, a thumb running over the back of Tommy’s knuckles as he clenches his jaw. His chest is tight with the aftereffects of a nightmare he can't remember and a rare burst of voiced emotion—finally building the courage to ask him if what Puffy said was true. “This happens to me too, sometimes.”

And that—

He’d known about Wilbur for months. Maybe even a year at this point—a reminder of how long he’s been free. About what happened to him and why, exactly, he’s Phil’s adopted son. Tommy knows, but he’d never, ever, considered that—

“Seriously?” He’s looking into his eyes for the first time since he’d burdened the man with calming him down, (the man in question would kill him for thinking that, but what he doesn’t know won’t hurt him.) searching for a lie with red-rimmed eyes, face sticky with wiped years.

Wilbur nods with a hum. “Not often, but yeah.”

“Oh.” 

This is his diversion from his paradox.

He’s a person, not a paradox, so he guesses it had to turn out this way.

He thinks that… that going into this—whatever this is—he intended to emerge from the water he was drowning in another person. 

And he’s here, pretty well fucking emerged, and he isn’t. He just isn’t. 

He’d wanted to replace every bit of him, piece by piece, because god knows he’d needed repairing, and then answer the question— is it still Theseus’ Ship? With a resounding, full-chested, no. 

Now... he doesn't know.

Anti-climactic, sure.

He's got time to figure it out, though.

“You ready to go, Tommy?” Wilbur shouts from the car, poking his head out.

“Just a second!” he calls, trying to stuff his shoes on and not bothering to lace them up as he slings his duffle bag over his shoulder before shutting and locking the door behind him with a hand that fumbles.

And he’s not—he isn’t nervous.

He’s not.

When he slides into the backseat—he’s still too anxious to get his driver’s license—Wilbur shoots out a hand from the passenger’s seat to ruffle his hair, which he immediately swats away with a grumble.

Phil starts the engine only a second later, and Tommy doesn’t bother spewing profanities at Wil like he usually would, simply turning to look out the window.

This had been his idea, yes, but he never expected it to actually go anywhere. Yet here he is, driving over to have his first lesson as a tennis instructor. 

It feels a little… off, because he’s eighteen, not thirty, and he’s not exactly sure he’s even qualified to teach a bunch of ten-year-olds how to hold a racket for the very first time. Does he even know how to hold a racket properly? What if he’s—

“Tommy.” Wilbur’s chiding voice rings out as their eyes meet in the rearview mirror, and he finds himself listening. “I can practically hear you overthinking from here, you’re going to do fine.” he insists with a grin. It’s instinctive at this point to inhale, long and deep, because okay, maybe Wilbur does have a point.

He nods, and lets air fill his lungs.

It feels natural. 

“Well— better than fine, actually.” the man needlessly clarifies, “You taught me that drop shot trick in like, twenty minutes, there’s no fucking way you can’t—” his brother rambles on, and he only listens with one ear.

He got a taste of that feeling—of truly breathing—back on the last day of a tournament that feels like eons ago, and he’s been chasing it ever since.

Because—

Tommy has been living this whole time.

It feels silly to say that he’s been living all his life, but it’s the only way he can explain it that makes sense.

So—he’s been living, always. Theseus or Tommy, whatever, it doesn’t matter. 

But here's the thing.

Never has he understood how breathing and living are said not to exist without each other. How one without the other is nothing. Never. Until here and now, that was always just one of those things that he didn’t understand because he wasn’t really normal in the way everyone else was. Because he was living without breathing, so that couldn't be true.

Always living, never breathing. 

That was the way he existed.

However,

There is real air in his lungs and he is breathing and Wilbur is talking about nothing in front of him and Phil is trying to stifle laughter to keep his eyes on the road. He interjects with his own nonsensical comment at an undetermined point, and they both laugh and then Wilbur retorts, and that's how it goes.

Again, 

Inhale.

And now, Tommy thinks, he finally understands.