Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Paris is cold in the winter. 

Not like the other places he’d been this time of year, not like the three years he’d searched through Switzerland, where white and ice tangled fingers in his hair, not like America, where harsh winds ripped through his curls and his coat. Paris, he thought to himself, was a grey kind of winter, iron skies pressing down on his shoulders, rain hovering on the edge of each day, somewhere between dawn and morning, night and midnight. 

His numb fingers fumbled in his coat pocket, withdrawing a cigarette and a lighter glowing with a soft flame. He knew Phil would kill him if he found out, but he didn’t really care. It was just so fucking cold . He wished that Techno’s piglin blood rushed through him; Techno was always warm, running hot even when the cold, damp mornings crawled under the door and Wilbur’s blankets. He pushed his hair back from his face, taking a drag from his cigarette. He knew the nicotine had to be fucking with some part of his fae instincts, but he brought the cigarette to his lips again, inhaling-

The cigarette was in his hand one second and gone the next. He blinked twice, wondering if he’d been hallucinating and if there had been no cigarette in his hand to begin. He turned around, seeing the cigarette on the ground, glowing faintly. 

“Dad will kill you if he sees you with one of those again.” Techno’s voice is flat, as always, and the side of Wilbur’s mouth quirks up as he sees his twin standing in front of him, in a poetic pirate’s shirt, arms crossed. 

“Yeah, well, dad doesn’t have to know,” Wilbur responded, falling into step with Techno, leaving the cigarette behind. He pulled his coat tighter around himself, cursing the wind that stirred in the bare trees. 

“You shouldn’t be out in this weather anyway; it’s -6* degrees.” Techno chided him, wrapping an arm around Wilbur’s shoulders. Wilbur relaxed into Techno’s arm, the soft songs of trickery that his mind sang going quiet at the feeling of his twin’s touch. He sighed, his eyes fluttering shut before remembering that he was walking, and even with fae senses, he was probably going to be run over by a car if he kept that up. 

“You’re outside.” Techno only rolled his eyes at Wilbur’s comment, not dignifying his quip with a response, moving faster, practically dragging Wilbur behind him, his fingers warm around Wilbur’s wrist despite the sleet that was now falling from the storm-colored sky. Wilbur huffed, nearly tripping over his untied boot laces. 

Techno pulls his damp coat off, the light catching on his gold-draped body. Techno pulls him through the door, and warmth washes over his body, tingling in his fingers, magic gathering there, pooling in his veins before he sends it back to his bloodstream, taking control of himself. Techno adjusts his rings, and Wilbur can feel the chilled metal of his own gold rings, kissing his knuckles; Techno’s love turned material on his hands. He remembered Techno draping him in gold when he was hurt or upset, his piglin instincts showing care when his words could not. 

“Boys! Take your shoes off!” Phil’s voice proceeds with the sounds of rustling feathers as he descends the stairs, a good-natured smile on his face. Techno shot him a you’re on thin fucking ice look but kept his mouth shut as Phil greeted them, asking about their days and studies. Wilbur made a silent vow never to let Techno catch him smoking again (it was only like one cigarette every four months, but even then, he knew that Techno would still hound him about it). 

Throwing his coat off, Wilbur joined Techno and Phil at the dinner table, laughter seeping into the walls and buttery light flooding his veins. Techno’s gold gleams in the glow, his brother’s long pink hair sometimes tangling in his food. His fingertips tingle and vines sometimes curl around his fingertips, but he’s allowed to do that here. No cold iron clamps around his neck and wrists, no more iron tablets swallowed with his food, no more using his truth against him. Just love and a plate full of fresh food in front of him drizzled in wildflower honey. 

Night falls, and his schoolwork is completed by copying song drafts and notes into his notebook. His room beckons him, and he answers, falling among the vines, leaves, and crystals scattered across every surface. The windows are thrown open, a bed swathed in pale linen, curtains fluttering in the cold breeze. In a trance, he grips the window, breathing nature in, opening his mouth, and magic is tumbling out; the wind stirs, and magic sparks in his blood. 

The release is cathartic, letting the pent-up magic out into the night. He’s one with the stars, flowers, dew, and moon; god , it feels good. He weaves songs with the breezes and melodies with flowers, sweetly singing to the night sky, hearing the world call back to him, and rejoicing in the meeting of man and nature. 

His fae blood was what called him to mortal music, longing to twist guitar strings and ivory keys into nature. Though he couldn’t sing with his full fae voice, the one that put humans in a compelling trance, turning them into objects at his mercy, he could sing well enough. He viewed it as a challenge, a taunt, a lure to try blending into the mortal world. 

Sometime after midnight, he falls into bed, ignoring the fresh vines draping his room and the flowers tangled in his curls, only focused on the soft press of the sheets and his whole, sleepy heart. 

If there’s one thing Wilbur knows, it’s that something is wrong. It’s three in the fucking morning, and the lights are on, and Techno is banging on his door. He reluctantly throws the covers off his body, swinging the door open to reveal an equally bleary Techno, deprived of gold, in an old t-shirt of Phil’s. 

“The fuck’s going on?” Wilbur asks, words slightly slurred with sleep. Techno only looks at him with a blank face, eyes flitting over Wilbur. 

“Nice flowers,” Techno quips, plucking a loose petal from Wilbur’s hair. An indignant flush, pale green flush rises to Wilbur’s cheeks, but Techno cuts him off before he can retort. “Something’s up with dad. He got a phone call at two, and he’s been pacing and yelling in French, and you know how bad his french is. I only got ‘Pamplemousse,’ which I’m pretty sure means grapefruit, and ‘merde,’ which I know means fuck. So. Something’s up.” Techno rattles off the information very quickly, and in a monotone voice, but Wilbur’s used to it and nods along, picking stray petals out of his hair. 

“Maybe he’s fucking a grapefruit.” Wilbur yawns and Techno snorts, rubbing his eyes. Techno gestures for Wilbur to follow him, and Wilbur does, both creeping down the hallway, pressing their ears to Phil’s door like children.

“Je… ne comprends pas,” Phil said, his voice far too alert for someone who was woken at two in the morning, “pour…quoi tu me dis- dis ce conteneur?” 

“God, Dad’s french is awful,” Wilbur muttered to his twin, who nodded, ear still pressed to the door. 

“What’s he saying?” Techno demanded, and Wilbur shoved him, causing Techno to glare at him. 

“Maybe you should have learned French, bitch,” Wilbur taunted, giggling softly as he watched Techno’s face drop to a glare, his twin’s eyes flat, “fine. I think he meant to say ‘why are you just telling me this now’, but he actually said, ‘why are you just telling me this container.’” Techno buried his face in his hands, leaning his head against the door.

“You give ‘em hell, Phil,” Techno said as more garbled French drifted through the crack in the doors. Suddenly, Phil fell quiet, and rapid footsteps could be heard approaching the door. Wilbur and Techno bolted down the hall, but they were too late. Phil opened the door before they could make it three feet. 

“I should have known,” he muttered, primarily to himself, before beckoning Wilbur and Techno back towards him. The twins approached him sheepishly, bringing a faint smile to Phil’s face as he threw himself into one of the armchairs in his room. 

“So what keeps you up at this hour, Phil?” Techno asked innocently, and Phil shot him a good-natured glare before burying his head in his hands, his feathers rustling softly as h let out a soft groan. 

“Wilbur, you remember Clara, your social worker?” Phil asked, and Wilbur shuddered at the mention of the name; his mind reeled through memories he kept locked away from the rational part of his brain.  

“Do I ever,” he said quietly. Phil nodded, raking his hands through his blond hair, messing it up even more than sleep had. 

“Well, she just called me. Apparently, there’s an emergency case, and this kid needs a home, and since I had such success with you two, she wants to bring the kid to me. Just for a bit so she can get things sorted out.” At Phil’s words, Wilbur’s heart drops. He remembers the pain, the cold iron, the uncaring machine of the foster system. Already, he felt terrible for the poor kid. 

 But some twisted, selfish part of him didn’t want some kid to come and live with them. He was finally happy, and safe. He had a home, and he didn’t want some kid coming in and fucking everything up.

He swallowed hard. 

“What’s the kid’s name?” he heard Techno ask. He tuned out most of Phil’s response and subsequent apology, but he did catch one word.  Tommy . 

“Well,” he muttered, “welcome to the shitshow, Tommy.” 

*-6. degrees Celsius, or about 20 degrees for my friends who use Fahrenheit 

Chapter Text

Wilbur leaned his head against the train window, watching as the countryside blurred past him. The sun was shy of the horizon, only spilling a few handfuls of scattered gold over the ridges of the mountains he could see in the distance. Next to him, Techno slept quietly, hair messily braided, earrings just slightly askew.  

Phil’s fingers practically flew across his laptop’s keyboard, his emerald earring grabbing the precious few first rays of light and throwing them back to the walls of the train car, tinted green. Wilbur admired how calm his father was, simply working on Tommy’s case as the train rattled onward, leaving Paris behind in a whirl of gold and grey. Wilbur rubbed his eyes, taking another sip of his coffee. He winced at the bitter taste, twenty years living in the mortal world, and he still didn’t understand their obsession with coffee. Tea was so much better. 

After Clara had so rudely woken them up at three am, Phil had ordered Wilbur and Techno to pack their things. Two hours later, they drove to the train station, their Paris house deserted, heading to Wilbur and Techno’s childhood home. Brighton. 

Vines crawled up Wilbur’s throat, his instincts going into overdrive as they always did when he was stressed or anxious. He didn’t want things to change; he didn’t want a little gremlin coming into his house. Foreign, his blood hummed. Stranger, unwanted, danger, his mind sang. He shifted in his chair, trying to get the rough static out of his head, but it was filling his body, traveling down to his fingers, and vines were curling around his fingers; he couldn’t breathe; his magic was choking him-

“Breathe.” The voice was Phil’s, and the warm hand on his was Phil’s. He looked up, eyes desperately searching the train car before landing on Phil. Phil’s fingers curl around his own, anchoring him back to reality. 

“Breathe, Wil. In, out.” Wilbur swallowed, forcing air into his lungs, dispelling it out. Phil breathed with him, as he had so many times before. Slowly, the vines crept back into Wilbur’s skin, unfurling from his blood, and shrinking into the tissue of his lungs. The static faded from his mind, and he scrubbed his hand through his curls, burying his head in his hands. 

“You alright, mate?” Phil asked him, ever so gently. Wilbur nodded, looking away from Phil’s gentle eyes, knowing they would make him crack like fine china. 

“Just nervous. About the kid, I mean. My instincts are acting up, and it’s messing with me.” Wilbur muttered, speaking more to his hands than Phil. He heard Phil softly, pressure wrapping around his fingers once more. He blinked, looking up at Phil from under his lashes. 

“That’s completely normal, Wil. Mine are going haywire, too,” Phil said, chuckling as Wilbur gazed at him in disbelief, “is there anything you’re worried about in particular or just nervous in general?” Wilbur shrugged, keeping his mouth shut. If he opened it, he wouldn’t be able to stop the truth from spilling out, so he kept it in its prison belong his lungs. Phil must have noticed his silence, but he didn’t press him, only rubbing his thumb over Wilbur’s knuckles, soothing him. 

“It’ll be alright,” Phil whispered, and Wilbur nodded, resting his head against the window, the rising sun dazzling his eyes. Gold washed over his face as his eyes fluttered shut, leaning against his twin. He heard a small coo from Phil but ignored it, letting sleep’s claws sink into him and drag him away to lavender shores. 

The last thing he saw was the day’s first puffy clouds drifting across the sun, blotting it out from view. 

“It’s my fucking bedroom, Wil; get out!” Techno whined, whacking Wilbur with a pillow. In response, Wil sent vines wrapping around Techno’s pillow, practically tying it to his hands. 

“Oh, you little vine bitch-” Wilbur found himself being tackled onto Techno’s (what should be his) bed, his brother pushing the vine-wrapped pillow down on his chest, pinning him there. 

“Techno, it’s myyyy room. I lived here for like ten fucking years!” Wilbur complained, thrashing around in Techno’s grasp, to no avail. Techno really was a monster. 

“Yeah, and now it’s my turn,” Techno said calmly as if he wasn’t actively restraining his brother to the bed that was rightful his. Wilbur huffed, lashing out a leg, throwing Techno off his balance. Cackling with glee, Wilbur shrugged Techno off him, leaping to his feet. He shoved his twin, about to shove him out of the door and reclaim his room when three knocks echoed on the door.

“Everything alright in there, boys?” Phil asked, the door muffling his voice. Techno shoved Wilbur back, sending him stumbling, just as Phil opened the door, sighing as his gaze fell on his bickering twins.

“Techno started it!” Wilbur said immediately, pushing his unruly hair out of his eyes for what felt like the millionth time that day. Fucking humidity. 

“Heh?! You came in here and started grabbing shit; I didn’t do anything!”

“It’s my fucking room, and you know it-”

“God, they never do change, do they?” Phil muttered, though his annoyance was blotted out by endearment for his boys. Twenty years old, and they still acted like six-year-olds sometimes. 

“Boys. Tommy will be here in a few minutes.” That shuts both Wilbur and Techno up. Vines twist again through Wilbur’s stomach, and he sucks in a deep breath, willing them back to whence they came. They obey, reluctantly. 

“So, some things about him. He’s had a rough history with foster homes and a tough life, so please be kind to him. He’s a raccoon hybrid, so he likes shiny things like Techno, and he might try to take things from you. It’s not personal. If you politely ask for them back, I’m sure he’ll give them to you. Please respect his privacy, and any boundaries he sets. And…I think that’s it.” Phil said, his eyes flitting between his twins. Techno nodded, and though vines were twisting around him, Wilbur nodded as well. Phil exhaled, wings ruffling before the sound of his phone ringing punctured the silence. 

“Fuck, it’s Clara,” Phil said, and with a groan, he exited the room, the sound of his voice fading as he walked down the hall. 

“You alright?” Techno asked Wilbur, and he wanted to answer, but if he did, the truth would break free from her cage, so he simply pressed his lips into a thin line, eyes focused on the trees outside the window. Techno says nothing, but he feels his twin’s hand on his shoulder when Techno joins him at the window. 

His eyes widened as a black car pulled into the driveway, time slowing down as it approached the front door. He vaguely hears Phil shouting for them as he reminds himself to breathe, breathe, breathe.

“Come on, Wilbur. You got this.” Techno said gruffly, patting his shoulder. He heard his twin’s footsteps as he walked down the hall, stomping unceremoniously down the stairs, despite Phil always telling him to be careful of the floors. 

He breathed in. He breathed out. It was fine. Fine. 

Tommy Danger Kraken Innit did not trust a single fucking person in this house. After Clara had dropped him off like a sack of wet mice on Phil’s doorstep, everything was just a bit… off . 

First off, Phil was too friendly. He took him on a tour of the house (it was huge), told him about the rules (far too few), and said to him that he’d take Tommy shopping tomorrow (what). He even chuckled when Tommy called him “bird man.” Not only was he too nice, but he was also downright odd. 

Then there were the twins Wilbur and Technoblade. He wasn’t afraid of them, he was a big man, the biggest of men, but he was… wary around them. Especially Technoblade, with his fucking red glowing eyes. Wilbur seemed more subdued and reserved when he met Tommy, which Tommy would take any day over yelling and screaming.  

Tommy sighed, looking up at the ceiling. He really had nothing to do, but there was no way in hell he was going back downstairs. He ignored the bubbling instincts in his gut, raccoon chirps and chitters, to explore, run, play . He cursed his instincts, curling up on his side to tune out the chirps. 

His stomach ached, a larger bruise on his stomach acting as a north star for the constellation of bruises painted in blue, purple, and yellow. He thought bitterly that his past family had been rather good at painting him with bruises where only he could see. He scrubbed his eyes; big men did not cry . 

He would fight back here. Whenever the vernier of kindness dropped, he’d punch, kick, and scream until no one hit him again. He wouldn’t be anyone’s punching bag. Never again. 

He closed his eyes and tried to nap.

Chapter Text

“Fuck, shit, and goddammit,” Wilbur muttered, rifling through the cabinets. His fingers closed around a single tea sachet, and he sighed in relief, snatching the whistling kettle from the stovetop and pouring the steaming water into the waiting mug. Dunking the teabag in, he scooped it up, swearing as hot porcelain burned his fingers. 

He knocked softly on Techno’s door, and hearing no response, he nudged the door open, finding Techno in the same place he’d left him, curled up in bed, a blanket thrown over his upper half, the light dimmed. Wilbur tiptoed across the floor, setting the cup of tea on his twin’s nightstand. 

“I made some tea,” he said softly, his fingers brushing Techno’s shoulder. Techno rolled over, groaning, grabbing the tea, and taking a long sip. Wilbur rubbed his back, hands catching on Techno’s long hair. 

“How are you feeling?” Wilbur asked softly, and Techno buried his head in his hands, rubbing his eyes. He looked up blearily at Wilbur, wincing. 

“The same. That fucking kid’s gonna be the death of me.” Techno said, taking another long sip of tea. Wilbur snorted, sitting next to Techno on the bed, among the mess of blankets and pillows. 

“It’s just- I saw him, and his hair is gold , Wil. It’s so gold, he’s so gold, and I need to protect him, he’s just a runt, Wil, I need to hold him, and just- he needs more gold-” Techno stopped himself, chest heaving, pupils blown. Wilbur rubbed his back again, watching Techno’s shoulders shake. Bitterness swamped his lungs, the kid had been there for less than five hours, and already, he was fucking everything up. 

“Do you want me to go get Phil?” Wilbur asked, and Techno nodded, his eyes fluttering shut. Wilbur nodded, took the empty cup of tea, and headed down the hallway to get his father. 

There was nothing but anger in his guitar strings. Thorns crawled out of the roof, and dead rose petals scattered across his lap, but he couldn’t have cared less. The night sky was nothing but a canvas for his rage to splatter across, nothing but dark material for him to weave into nature’s weapons. With every chord, with every beat of his heart, his magic rose, spilling out of his mouth, bouncing off the night air. 

There might have been tears in his eyes, he might have been sobbing, tears splattering all over his guitar, but he didn’t care, he pressed his magic into his fingers, and the jarring, angry notes kept going. They fed the angry, bitter feeling in his chest; he no longer cared, letting it consume him, devour him, the night sky making a home between his lungs and the bottom of his stomach. 

The sound of the door to the roof slamming shut made him jump about a foot in the air. He nearly dropped his guitar, magic holding it in the air until he could catch it, long fingers wrapping around the head of the guitar as he turned to face the intruder, silhouetted in the light of the door. 

Of fucking course, it was the kid. His pupils were wide, wide as quarters; he looked to be in a dreamlike trance. He moved towards Wilbur, a single step, and Wilbur remembered, oh fuck , fae music will make anyone who isn’t fae dance themselves to death . The kid had probably heard him, and the magic had taken over, and fuck . 

He approached the kid, watching him warily. He’d never been this close to the kid before, and he just now saw that he had ears on the top of his head, growing out of the mess of blond curls that sprouted on his head. Around his dilated pupils, his eyes were startlingly blue, the blue of a cold winter’s morning. 

“Hey, kid?” he asked nervously. The kid didn’t respond, looking up at Wilbur with those wide, open eyes. Wilbur could see the moon reflected in them. Shit. 

“Kid,” he said again, snapping his fingers in front of the kid’s face. Yet again, the kid did nothing, only staring up at Wilbur with those huge, magic drunk eyes. Wilbur could feel his chest constricting, his head spinning, vines wrapping around his wrists, the night air was turning sharp, the vines growing thorns, stabbing his skin, tiny pinpricks of pain racing up and down his body, he couldn’t breathe-

“ Wake up.” The words are full of his magic, full of fae magic and nature’s charms, breathed desperately into the night air. He’s crying again; his hands are on the kid’s shoulders, shaking him. 

The kid blinked, looking around desperately. His eyes, Wilbur noticed, are back to normal, filled with even bluer, and damp. He looked up at Wilbur, down at his surroundings, and promptly collapsed into a pile of limbs and golden hair. 

“Shit,” Wilbur muttered, bending down and shaking the kid’s shoulder. The kid only flopped, eyes firmly closed. With a deep, resigned exhale, Wilbur bent down and picked the kid up, carrying him close to his chest. He winced when he realized he was leaving his precious guitar on the roof, but he reasoned that Phil would kill him if he killed the kid, and he couldn’t make more music if he was dead. So, with another long suffering sigh, he made his way off the roof, the wind ruffling his curls one last time before the door closed behind him. 

His instincts threw him into a hyperalert space, his ears catching Techno’s sleeping breaths from down the hall, the scratching of Phil’s pen from his office, and Tommy’s blood rushing through his veins. Fumbling with the doorknob, he shouldered the door open before unceremoniously dropping the kid down on his bed. 

He could have left. He could have let the kid sleep it off and wake up in the middle of the night, confused. He could have let him think it was a dream, nothing more and nothing less. He could have just walked away. 

But there was something in those eyes, those huge blue eyes, that made him hesitate at the door. Those eyes, full of anger and pain, those eyes that the world had broken and shattered into pieces, turning into fragments of a broken mirror, catching old, unsteady light. Those eyes were far too sad for the kid’s age. 

He wanted to leave. He wanted to go. But he couldn’t. Some old stirring of magic rushed through his veins, something that sang of soft moonlight and flowers blooming at midnight, mercy and kindness. 

The fae might be tricksters, they might be sly and cunning, they might weave half truths and half lies, but they were not monsters. 

So Wilbur threw himself into a chair next to the bed and waited. 

His eyes drifted around the room, noting the tattered bag at the bottom of the bed, the bare walls, and the old stuffed animal of a cow peeking out from under a pillow. His eyes fell across the kid again, watching him as he breathed slowly, eyelids fluttering. Techno was right , he thought to himself; his hair really is gold . 

“Mmmpppphhh,” Tommy muttered, and Wilbur rose, standing an awkward distance away from his bed as Tommy opened his eyes, clutching at the covers. He glanced around the room, trying to get his bearings back before his eyes snapped onto Wilbur. He recoiled into himself, pulling a scowl onto his face. 

“What the fuck did you do to me, dickhead?” Tommy demanded, and Wilbur tried to smile, but it probably came out as a grimace. He swore internally, taking another step towards the kid’s bed. 

“Hey, Tommy. Sorry about that. I was just, uh, playing some music, and well, I’m fae, so it kind of has a bad effect on people who aren’t fae, but I swear I didn’t know you were there; I actually usually practice on the roof so that Techno and Phil don’t hear me, so-” Wilbur decided it was high time for him to shut his mouth. He was going to scare the kid, and then Phil would kill him, and as he’d previously established, he couldn’t play music if he was dead. 

“What the fuck, man? That’s not on.” Tommy spat at him, eyes hard as daylight glass. Wilbur’s heart sank. The kid looked pissed, and honestly, Wilbur couldn’t blame him. 

“I’m really sorry, Tommy, I swear to Prime I didn’t mean to do it,” Wilbur said, his words tumbling forth from his mouth, water tipping over a fall only to crash on rocks. Tommy’s eyes stayed brutal, unfeeling, and unforgiving, lashing into Wilbur and cutting his chest to pieces. 

And he was unable to take the feeling of cracking and failure and pain in his chest, so he turned and left, the hallway narrowing as he stumbled down it; he found his father’s office by memory, crashing through the double doors. 

“Dad?” he asked, his voice wobbling, and his father turned around, and time blurred, and he was sitting in his father’s arms, sobbing. Phil was rubbing his back, just like he used to do when he was little, and he felt just a little bit better. 

It was going to be okay. Tommy was going to leave soon, and no one would remember his fuckup. It was fine. The kid wasn’t going to stay. 

The old magic in his bones stirred, heartflowers opening as nature began to sing for the blue-eyed boy upstairs. 

Chapter Text

This , Wilbur thought to himself, must be the most awkward family dinner. He bit down on his lip, twirling his pasta around his fork. He could hear the breath slipping through Techno’s lungs to his right, the dull thud thud, thud thud, thud thud of the kid’s heartbeat to his left, and the soft result of his father’s feathers at the head of the table. The room was painfully silent, save for the soft clink of cutlery against Phil’s favorite blue ceramic plates. 

Wilbur was practically dripping in gold. After last night’s disaster, he’d fallen into the arms of his twin, eyes fluttering shut, opening them still in his brother’s room, practically drowning in gold. When he’d cast curious, sleep-filled eyes at Techno, his twin had only shrugged and pinned a pair of golden earrings on his ears. And so, Wilbur hadn’t touched any of the jewelry. 

It was a funny sight; he had to admit. Phil, in a dark shirt and jeans, the kid in a ripped-up red hoodie, and him and Techno pooling with gold. He could hear Techno chuffing under his breath every time he saw the kid, his twin’s glowing red eyes catching on the kid’s messy golden curls. 

“Tommy, is it okay if we go to get you some clothes and toiletries tomorrow?” Phil asked the kid. Wilbur practically heard Techno’s eyes snap up, but he kept his own head down, forcing a bit of pasta past his lips. 

“Yeah, s’fine,” Tommy mumbles, his eyes never leaving his plate. Goddamn, Wilbur just couldn’t get a read on him. Since last night, he’d been cool to everyone, only coming out of his room for meals. Either he was brash, pulling up a wall of arrogance, harsh words, and barbed wire, or he was quiet and withdrawn, eyes miles away. Tonight, he was the latter, having only spoken a few words directed at Phil, his eyes not even landing on the twins.

Techno was in a state of high distress, making Wilbur’s hands fidget anxiously, dull nails tapping at the pine-brushed table. Wilbur could feel his instincts crawling over him, butterfly legs running over his heart. Brother , his mind sang, protect, help, close. He dug his nails into the table as the chatter in his mind increased. 

Taking a deep breath, he tried to tune it out, blinking rapidly, only for his ears to catch the sounds of Techno’s heart racing, anxiety flooding through his twin’s system. Techno’s lids were fluttering, and what little Wilbur could see of his pupils were dilated, black eating away at red. 

Wilbur snapped. 

“Techno, let’s go upstairs,” he said, practically pulling Techno out of his seat and away from the table. Phil’s eyes looked up at him questingly, and Wilbur shot him an I’ll explain later look before stumbling up the stairs with Techno, wrenching Techno’s door open and slamming it shut behind him. 

His arms were around his brother instantly; he rubbed Techno’s back; his instincts sang when Techno buried his head in Wilbur’s shoulder. They stayed like that for Prime knows how long until Techno’s breathing steadied and his heart no longer beat against his chest with desperate ferocity. 

“The kid’s fucking with your instincts too, right?” Techno asked after a bit, disentangling himself from Wilbur. Wilbur laughed dryly, standing up from Techno’s (his) bed and throwing open a window, letting the night breeze rush through the room, weaving through his fingers, a wave from an old friend. 

“You could say that,” Wilbur said, sticking his head out of the window, the sweet night air filling his lungs better than any perfume, “I fucked it, though. He probably hates me.” Techno groaned into his hands, drawing a smile across Wilbur’s face as the wind toyed with his curls. 

A soft chittering sound came from the walls, high pitched, almost silent to the human ear, but both Techno and Wilbur picked it up quickly. Techno flipped onto his stomach, practically flopping down on the bed. 

“Dad’s gonna kill us if we have mice again.” he groaned, and Wilbur stuck his head back into the room as another chitter came from the wall.

“Alright fuckers, where are you?” Wilbur said, pressing his ear to Techno’s (his) wall, listening for the soft pitter-patter of mice paws between the walls. 

Instead, he hears a blood-curdling scream. 

His world blurred. He heard Techno leap to his feet, and both of them are running, sprinting down the hallway, and Tommy’s door is crashing open, his breath his coming short, barely filling his lungs, and-

Tommy is shaking, curled up on his bed, his arms around his head, hiding those precious golden curls. And his face…whiskers now sprout from cheeks, and a fluffy tail is draped across the bed. Tommy lifted his waterlogged blue eyes, and Wilbur almost broke; he was just a kit; he needed to soothe, console, and hold Tommy in his arms.

Wilbur shook his head, cursing his instincts, and took a step forward towards Tommy, Techno hovering at his shoulder. Tommy only looked at him with those wide, terrified blue eyes, his hands twisted in his blankets. 

“I’m sorry.” Tommy choked out around a sob, his eyes closing as more tears rolled down his cheeks. Techno sat next to Tommy, and Wilbur could see he was itching to reach out, to hold Tommy, but he resisted, fingers twitching with restraint. 

“Why are you sorry?” Techno asked, his eyes huge as he stared down at Tommy, taking in the soft ears protruding from Tommy’s perpetually messy hair. Wilbur sat next to Techno, his instincts a delicious symphony in his brain that begged him to scoop Tommy up and hold him until dawn brushed the sky with her rosy fingers. 

“Because,” Tommy hiccuped, letting out a small chitter along with it, “you don’t like it when I shift. You’re going- you’re going to send me back, again. And I don’t- I can’t go back there.” Wilbur’s heart broke; it fell to pieces in his chest and clattered past his lungs, landing in his stomach and starting to rot. This child, this poor, poor, kit, he was going to kill, he was going to viciously murder whoever had made him this unsure, this scared, whoever had put this pain in his heart. And then, he’d finish them off when he saw them in hell. 

“We’re not going to send you back, Tommy,” Wilbur’s voice surprises him, but he speaks on, his brother’s gaze comforting him, “I promise, I vow that we will not send you back. And you know that I cannot lie.” He exhales magic, the severity of his words not yet catching up with him; he was drowning in instincts and protect, love, care, cherish hold kit . 

“And Wilbur and I will never go back on our word,” Techno said, his voice low but soft, somehow still comforting. 

Wilbur looked down at Tommy, and he saw Tommy looking back up at him, those beautiful blue eyes filled with tears, and Tommy chittered , scared and unsure, and Wilbur just couldn’t. He couldn’t hold himself back anymore. 

He reached out slowly, carefully, not wanting to scare Tommy. Tommy watched him, and all three of them were drunk on instincts, even Techno; that had to be why he was out of his mind, and he knew that Phil had warned him not to do anything like this, but he just had too . 

One second, his arms are just inches away from Tommy, and the next, Tommy’s in his arms, head against his chest, arms around his neck, and oh . 

It feels so good , so right . Tommy is cradled in his arms, and now Techno’s there, scratching the backs of his ears, and Tommy is purring and cuddling closer to Wilbur. Wilbur looks up, making eye contact with Techno, and he’s sure his eyes mimic Techno’s own, practically all black, pupils devouring iris. 

But he doesn’t care, the kit is safe in his and Techno’s arms, and he’s sure he’ll be draped in gold in a couple of seconds. The thought makes his instincts happy, and he rubs Tommy’s back, soothing the last tears out of him. This was how it was supposed to be. 

When Phil came upstairs much later to see Tommy, Techno, and Wilbur asleep in a pile, with Tommy draped in gold and flowers, protected by the bodies of his sleeping twins, Phil could only smile.

Chapter Text

Sunlight inches across Wilbur’s face, crawling over and illuminating his skin, glancing off his cheekbones and pooling in the crevices of his face. It turns his eyelids light lavender, veins, blood and sun mixing, honey sweet in the tenacious morning air. Light wove into his curls, herald’s call, calling him to wake. He rolled over, cotton kissing imprints into his skin before peeling away from it as his sun-warmed arms reached out for his kit, aching to pull him closer to the hollow of his chest. 

He met only the smooth slide of sheets, warmth hovering just above the blankets, the finest imprint of being still lingering there, as if Tommy’s presence still clung to the bed. But the boy himself was gone. 

What the fuck. 

Wilbur pushed himself up, vines curling around his wrists, a familiar, sickening anxiety bubbling in his chest, pushing aside his ribs, spilling into his lungs. Besides him, Techno slept, soft grunts escaping his mouth as his lashes fluttered, so blissfully unaware. Wilbur’s ears twitched forwards, the air crawling along his skin as he strained for even the slightest sound of Tommy. But his father’s soft, steady heartbeat, and birdsong were the only things to grace his ears, the chilling absence itching down his spine, slipping over his vertebrae. 

“Techno, Techno, wake up. Techno, Tech-” he was shaking his twins shoulder, vines twirling up his arms, wrapping sickly around the soft linen of his sleep shirt, curling around his throat. He gasped, body strung tight, a violin string on which his anxiety played their fervent melodies. 

“The fuck’s going on, Wil?” Techno mumbled, pulling a pillow over his head. Wilbur pulled it away, watching his brother’s eyes widen as they landed on Wilbur’s face, taking in the creases pushing themselves into his face. 

“Tommy’s gone.” The words push themselves out of Wilbur’s throat, a phantom ache on his throat, teeth, and tongue. Techno swore slowly under his breath, pushing the blankets aside. Wilbur could only watch as they pooled at the edge of the bed, the heavy footsteps of his twin echoing in his ears as he tried to force air into his lungs, heart a butterfly’s delicate beat. 

Tommy . 

The sweet kit who cried as he shifted, holding onto Wilbur as he slept, gazing up at him with those delicate, sweet blue eyes, so broken yet innocent. His absence pushed down on Wilbur’s shoulders, craving out a hollowness in his chest, throwing the sound of his heartbeat back at him dully. 

His eyelashes tangled as he rubbed his eyes, breath finally coming easily through his lips. He could hear soft conversations coming from Phil’s room, heartbeats high. He let out a shaky breath as the vines retracted, wincing at several red marks that littered the pale skin of his arms. He forced another breath down his throat. 

He forced a loose shirt over his head, barely registering the crisp taste of toothpaste rubbing his teeth, haphazardly pushing his curls out of his eyes. The world seemed to be slower, time pressing against his skin, warping his movements. His ears rung oddly, and he twitched, forcing his feet in front of each other, fighting rising vines as he made his way down the steps. 

“Wil. Sit.” His father’s voice is soft but firm, a command wrapped in silk. Wilbur drops himself into a chair, bracing his elbows on the table. Techno and his father sit across from him, both wearing matching concert expressions. 

Shit, this was starting to feel like an intervention of some sorts. 

“Wilbur,” his father started, never good, “Techno and I have been talking. Obviously we’re all taking this horribly, but Techno and I were thinking, well wondering,” his father took his hand and Wilbur’s skin crawled, the warmth and brush of skin against his own almost nauseating, “is there any way you could have imprinted on Tommy?” 

What?

“No!” he sputters, shock loosening his lips, “he’s a racoon, I’m a Fae, dad. Also, I’m not old like you, I’m 24-”

“The perfect age when your instincts can shift to a more parental lens.” Phil interjected. Wilbur spluttered again, shooting his twin a glar when he chuckled. 

“No, I did not imprint on Tommy, dad. He’s just- he’s so little , I have to protect him-” his instincts sung darkly, a monster cooing in his chest, searching for his kit, begging him to love, nourish, protect, kit-

He shut his mouth, ignoring the look that Phil and Techno shared, eyes gleaming with humor. Phil murmured something about calling Clara, retreating to his office and shutting the door behind him. 

“Heh, dadbur -”

“FUCK OFF TECHNO-”

“IT’S TRUE-”

“BOYS STOP YELLING I’M TRYING TO SOLVE THE FUCKIN CRISIS HERE.”

“Sorry dad.”

“Sorry, oldza .”