Archive of Our Own

“Are you sure you don’t need a ride home?” Tubbo asked, hesitating with the door of his dad’s car open. Ranboo was already in the car, bunched up on the seat and shuffling uncomfortably. Tubbo’s dad wound down the window, his elbow hanging out. They stood outside the now-closed dance studio as the last students left. 

“I’m fine!” The evening was fresh and pricked at Tommy’s skin, making the translucent hairs on his forearms stand up.

“Don’t push ‘im. If he doesn’t want to-” the man shrugged. “-he doesn’t wanna.” He rested his arm on the open windowsill, “But don’t hesitate, kid. I’ve got space for ‘ya.” 

“But it’s late-” Tubbo argued.

“I’m a big man. I’m fine walking alone!” Tommy crossed his arms, “stop worrying about me, you’re worse than my dad.” 

“Your dad isn’t here!” 

“That’s the point!” Tommy pushed Tubbo into the car, digging his heels in and rocketing the smaller one into his seat. Tubbo turned his head and glared. 

“You’re the worst.” Tubbo huffed, refusing to put his seatbelt on, worry shining in his eyes. 

“Thank you, Tubbo’s dad!” Tommy deliberately titled his head to the driver’s seat. The man raised a hand back and Tommy slammed the door shut.

“You dickhead!” 

“Bye Tubbo!” Tommy pretended to send distant kisses, a laugh on his lips. With his best friend raging in his seat, Tommy took off running, fire in his worn shoes. His bag slammed against his hip before flying. His studio was on a hill, high up where the wealthy congregated. The oldest church in town was nearby, towering above like a religious beacon. 

His dad wasn’t one for church, neither was he. But fuck, the building looked cool.

Tommy kept running on concrete paths. Trees covered overarching street lamps and there wasn’t a soul in sight. Only the sounds of his footsteps, the buzzing electricity and his own steady breath accompanied him down. The birds were all asleep, cars only visited the studio this late and no one was crazy enough to run at this hour. Except him, but that was what made it fun.

Tommy stopped short at a crossing, his toes skidding into the road. He checked, just in case, and kept running. 

He had freedom to catch, to grasp in his hands and cradle like a newborn, time so fleeting and precious. Freedom was his old shoes moulding around every street pebble, it was his phone on silent and his dance bag on his shoulders. It was his pounding heart, red hot lungs and adrenaline screaming in his system, his pointe shoes worn and sweaty, his hairpins rattling in the bottom of his bag.

He couldn’t breathe, his legs already overworked and burning, his ankles raw and used, eventually forcing him to a stop. His heart was in his throat and he flopped forwards to catch his breath. 

He’d never taken the time to wander here, always caught up in the chase. 

The trees above him danced in orange and yellow hues, swishing in the wind to an invisible audience. Tommy would hate that, the crowd was the best part of dancing, the cheers and screams, the encores, the appraising nod of his teacher. It was the kindling to his fire that made him burn brighter than any star on stage.

Above his own heartbeat, off in the distance, was faint music. Guitar strings played through a shitty speaker, echoing off the unknown into the dark. 

Tommy hesitated. He shouldn’t go off his path. His dad trusted him to get home as soon as he finished class, Tubbo chastised him for his carelessness, but he trusted him to do the same. 

He took several steps back until he faced a new road, one less lit, with cobble instead of concrete. He was near the bottom of the hill, it wasn’t as safe, he shouldn’t follow random noises-

The music changed to something he recognised, colour me blue by Akane, a slow piano piece . It was the first time Tommy had ever heard it outside class, outside Niki playing it over and over, mimicking the steps with long gracious arms. She lifted onto pointe with ease, nailing triple turns with a gentle, pained expression on her face, lost in her own world in practice. Inviting and melodious, he could see why she was obsessed with it. There was a certain charm in listening to it at night under the woes of the wind and trees, beckoning him into the unknown. 

Tommy stepped into the dark, following his ears and his feet. 

The street lamps flickered in this part of town, the music was loud and the buildings became taller and taller. There weren’t quaint, empty houses and rolling gardens like what surrounded his studio, there were towering apartments, identical to his own. There was a stain running across a white wall, tens of floors up out of reach. The last tree was behind him and the music was louder than ever. 

Tommy saw him, in a locked park behind a tall metal fence. He moved like water in the middle of song, his arms and torso low to the ground. 

It wasn’t classical, it wasn’t clean with pristine well-thought movements. The stranger paused in the middle of the beat and shifted his bare feet into a wide stance before dropping to the ground and rolling back on his shoulder, his legs bowed high in the air. He donned loose red trousers marred by dirt and tiny plastic rocks. Tommy could point out every mistake in how he raised himself back up, how his legs were out of fourth position, his elbows jutted out in an ungraceful manner, his hands not elongated, fingernails caked in dirt. 

But there was something enchanting about how he moved. He followed the wind, his long hair in a plait down his back instead of knotted high on his head. His plait wasn’t even neat, pink strands hung around his face and stuck out at odd angles. There was so much wrong, if his teacher was there, she’d have slammed her cane into the ground and broken his old phone to stop the music. She’d bellow at the top of her lungs that he was supposed to be a ‘gazelle’, not an elephant, that his tenue was unkempt and uncouth. She’d order Tommy to show him how it was done, how to execute every move with precision and purpose. 

But… Tommy didn’t move, his feet rooted in place, his eyes following a free dancer. When the music ended and the next one began, he didn’t stop to replay the track. He didn’t stop, didn’t repeat his combination until it burned into his memory. He kept flowing, kept going.

When’s the last time Tommy did that? 

He waited until the next song rang out, sung in french. He didn’t recognise it but it had picked up in strength with violins joining the fray, before calming down. The singing voice was solemn and the wayward dancer was content to follow the music imperfectly, as if he didn’t know the music himself. 

In the end, instead of finishing his piece, raising his arms skyward or holding his position with well-trained finesse, he looked at Tommy. The boy took a shaking step back. The adrenaline was leaving his veins and exhaustion set in. Fuck, he shouldn’t have followed. He’d pissed off some random stranger and followed him to the middle of fuck knows where.

The next song picked up, with soft guitars and low violins.

“Wanna join?” The man asked, standing in the middle of the park. The fence was between them. Tommy couldn’t quite see what he looked like behind metal bars. 

“How?” He blurted out. He should’ve said no, should’ve taken off running now that he had the chance. The man was a dancer and stronger than him by his looks, Tommy should be careful- since when was the stranger a dancer? He couldn’t dance nearly as well as Tommy and he was probably years older. His teacher would call that a disgrace to the arts.

“Er… jump the fence?” The man shrugged. He then gave it a serious thought, crossing his arms lightly and scrutinising everything he saw. His eyes were deep-set and narrow, brows thick and furrowed. He didn’t look like a dancer either, with his armless shirt hung loose on his torso. “Hold on- I can probably open the door.” 

The door was also made of metal, with a cheap combination lock hanging around it. If that wasn’t a testament to the lack of security, nothing else would be. 

“What are you doing here anyways?” Tommy asked, watching the man reach out to the lock through the bars, fingers fiddling with the combination randomly. He had scars around his wrists, a deep line running the entirety of his forearm. 

He was a wrong’un. His dad told him to stay away from people like that. 

“I’m dancin’,” he replied. But he didn’t have a mat rolled out, didn’t have a heavy bag full of equipment at his side. He didn’t have tiger balm at the ready for sore muscles, leg warmers or even just a leotard. He was some guy with corded muscles saying he was a dancer, without a studio in sight. 

“I’m a dancer too.” Tommy watched the man pry the lock open. The door creaked loudly as it swung open. 

“Cool.” 

Tommy held onto the door. He was an idiot; it wasn’t a park, it was a basketball cage, except the rings were ripped down on either side, leaving only scuffed marks where it should’ve been. 

He shouldn’t go in. 

“What songs do you like?” The man gave him distance, crouching on the floor, now holding an old beaten-up phone. The music was still going, buzzing against the palm of his hand. 

“This is good, I like instrumentals.” Tommy had never danced to anything else. Wait fuck, he had to give a specific song name. What if he didn’t recognise the tune, didn’t have a set choreography in mind before starting? “Hold on, can you play classical music- moonlight sonata? Tchaikovsky?” 

“Heh? I can try…” he began typing and Tommy breathed out in relief. Any of that he could follow, he’d played swan lake over and over until his eyes watered and his neck ached, until the muscles in his feet gave out from pointing, leaping and turning. Tubbo had told him off that day, wrapping his ankles for safe measure, dragging him over to the car to get driven home. After dinner, he’d spam called him and told him to ice the area. He was right but Tommy still found that he was being a bitch that day. 

“Does this work?” Waltz of the flowers played, staticy from the device. It wasn’t the same as the studio, where they had a pianist every lesson to play delicate renditions of every song. Tommy felt the choreography itch below the surface, clawing its way into his movements. He dropped his bag at the door and sprinted to the other end, where he could imagine his own stage, beyond the cage. It had to be the concrete paths, the apartment dwellers sleeping in their own homes, the occasional smoker with their window open, partially leaning out and tapping their cigarette against the windowsill. 

Any crowd would do, he couldn’t dance alone. 

“Do you know this one?” Tommy asked, seconds away from beginning. He lifted his arms into fourth, one high above his head, the other out to welcome the crowd, his legs were the same. It wasn’t perfect, without his tights on no one could see the lines of muscles on his legs, the perfection that he’d chased and chased until it was caged in his palms and chained to his feet. They couldn’t see the dedication through his sweater, his arms toned and slim from years and years of dedication. 

Free classes didn’t come easy and Tommy was the only one to earn them every year. 

The man sat back and watched him turn. His shoes prevented him from lifting high enough, the back digging into his Achilles heel. Exhaustion weighed heavy on him, the cold stiffened his muscles, forcing his arabesque lower, his back’s arch was smaller. 

It wasn’t perfect, not by a long shot. 

And when he opened into a turn, facing his audience, a single visible stranger sitting on concrete, back against the metal fence, Tommy didn’t know what to feel. His expression was unreadable. Tommy smiled, tensing his abdomen and pushing power into his legs. 

He was careful with his spotting, just above the man’s eyes, at his pink hair. 

A turn. Imperfect. He didn’t anticipate the way his shoes skidded, the way they squeaked and fought against the ground.

Another turn and Tommy fell. 

He hit the ground with a slam, shock reverberating up his back. He’d fallen out of a double turn on his stage. The man stood to reach out his hand but the music was still playing and it wasn’t over until it was over. Tommy scrambled to stand with grace, a smile never leaving his face, moving into piqué tourné after piqué tourné, his leg perfectly bend at his knee, open at the right angle to show an imperfectly bent foot and he fucking hated it. 

He hated what he’d done, how he’d butchered his dance. 

He ended with long arms and a graceful, happy expression, yet he couldn’t help but criticise every movement. He’d made a mockery of ballet, of its refined art. He’d presented imperfection to a stranger, one who’d judge him for the rest of time on his first impression. That was the first dance he’d ever seen Tommy do, and he’d never want to see one again. 

The music ended. The man began to clap. Save his solo applause, there was silence. Not even the leaves rattled to congratulate him on the failure that he’d produced. 

Tommy felt humiliated. He’d already known how shit he was, why was this stranger mocking him like this?! 

“I’m leaving!” Tommy huffed, drawing himself up and making his accent well posh, like the other kids in class who’d scrunch their noses at his clothes.

“It’s getting late,” the man agreed and Tommy felt like crying. “It was nice having you here.” 

“I-” no it wasn’t. Fucking liar. “Goodbye!” Tommy grabbed his bag, ready to start running despite the growing pain in his back. 

“I’m here every evening!” 

“Fuck off!” Tommy screamed, slamming his foot down and throwing himself into the darkness, towards the trees and far far away from his failures. 

Liar. Stranger. Liar. 

Tommy wiped back his tears, his face bright red. He knew the leaves were mocking him, the concrete shaking its head in dismay. He shouldn’t have done that. He was good in the studio and on stage, not where the ground was rough and his shoes were old and cheap. Not where his wealth could be counted on one hand and scrutinised by the masses. He was meant to hide it, not present it to the world. Fucking idiot, he was.

He was back where he started, chasing his precious freedom, begging for it to swallow him whole. 

Tommy opened the door with a slam, leaning against the door, his breath like fire leaving his lips. His dad’s head peaked out of the kitchen, where they didn’t have a door anymore. He had his same, stained cotton apron and his hair tied behind a green bandana. 

“I was about to call, you okay?” 

“Yeah-” Tommy all but dry heaved. “Class finished- late. Needed to practice and didn’t see the time- sorry.” His dad took a step forward and Tommy took one back, his new injury bumping against the door. 

“You sure…?” His dad wavered. 

“Mhm. I’ve got homework to do! Call me when dinner’s ready!” Tommy gave him a smile worthy of the stage. Phil relented, his expression softening.

“If you need help let me know-”

“I’m fine thanks!” He ducked under his dad’s arms, keeping a distance from his parent. “I need to take a shower and study for my maths test tomorrow, it’s about quadratic equations and I still need to practise-” with each word he widened the distance between them. Tommy could’ve sworn there was sadness on his face. 

“Alright, alright- good luck with that. You can still ask-”

“Mhm! Bye!” Tommy ripped open their communal closet, grabbing his pyjamas on the way to their bathroom. How could his dad help, Tommy had been in school longer than him! Phil hadn’t studied for decades, how was he supposed to help anything?! 

Tommy ignored the crackled paint on the ceiling, the uneven tiles around their shower. The shower head bracket was broken, with bits of ripped plastic remaining against the wall, with the showerhead itself left in the bath. Phil didn’t have the time to worry about him and his stupid maths exam, not on top of everything else. 

In the mirror, he could see part of his back was bright red and scratched, the blood now dry. It was a tiny injury, one done because of carelessness. Tommy was fine, he’d just slap some antiseptic on, wear a comfortable tee shirt and call it a day. Injuries happened all the time, they were part of the process. Tommy couldn’t call himself a dancer if he whined about a scratch he’d made. 

Tommy turned on the water and jumped in without waiting for it to heat up. 

The cold was supposed to help circulation but Tommy was freezing to the bone, incessantly shaking under uneven water pressure. He cut his shower short to throw himself in his pyjamas. He was harsh when drying his skin and gentle with his hair. Sending a quick text to Tubbo, he cleared the room of his stuff and switched the light off, leaving without an extra thought. 

He was fine, this was like every other evening and he definitely didn’t embarrass himself in front of a stranger. Nope, that wasn’t him. 

“Toms, food!” Phil called out to slice through his thoughts. 

“Coming!” Tommy called back. He opened his room just to throw his stuff in by the door and closed it. Their living room had a four-person dining table in the back, next to the convertible sofa his dad slept on. It was a one-bedroom apartment but they made it work. 

Tommy set down the cutlery and two plain tablemats, sitting at the chair closest to the window. Phil came in with two steaming plates and the boy brightened up. He was eager to all but rip it out of Phil's grasp, seeing peas and mash with two sausages simply calling his name.

“Easy, I’ll fall!” Phil laughed, setting down both plates. “Water?” 

“I’ll get it!” Tommy rushed past him into their narrow kitchen. They had half a dozen cups in total, two that truly had any use, forever stuck on a loop between the table and the sink. He grabbed them, filled them with tap water and sprinted over to the sink, sliding the rest of the way on smooth mopped floors. “For the grandad-”

“Oi-”

“And me, the best person ever-” Tommy set down his glass, sitting next to his dad. Phil rolled his eyes, digging into his food without waiting. They began in silence, without a TV or radio to start their conversation. Eventually, his dad opened up about work, about the customer that’d tried to throw hot coffee on him and needed to be removed. He laughed about the young couple that nervously pushed themselves to the counter, urging one another to order for the both of them. 

Tommy scrunched his nose at that, Phil said he’d get it when he was older. 

And Tommy spoke too, hiding his nervousness behind spoonfuls of food. He told him how much he loved the studio, about the new show coming up. When his dad asked about the date, Tommy lied and said it wasn’t set in stone. With how he fucked up today, why should he subjugate his dad to the same fate? Phil should see his perfection and nothing less. He pivoted to his school life, talking about the full marks he’d gotten on his essay. When Phil asked to see it, Tommy was glad to only show him that essay, not the ones he’d gotten the average for. Average wasn’t good enough, not when he was competing for his future.

His dad smiled with creases on his cheeks, soft water in his gaze. He read it without understanding why he rambled about overarching metaphors and analogies. Why a ‘minimalistic style’ and ‘unconventional dialogue’ were praised. Tommy tried to explain, he really did. At the end of their meal, he pulled up the original text to show him everything he was referencing, Little things by Raymond Carter. Tommy didn’t truly care all that much about it but he succeeded, that was enough of a reason to care. 

Tommy made his dad sit down, taking the stage where their TV used to be. He gestured wildly, complaining about his lack of PowerPoint and how they only had one copy of the text. Tommy was forced to read it on his phone whilst Phil held a sheet of paper. His dad listened along, raising his hand occasionally to ask questions, to push him further. Tommy knew how he was, how he used feigned curiosity to test him. How much did he really know, he implicitly asked. A metric fuckton, Tommy would answer. He’d already done the same arguments with Tubbo before dance, writing his essay after making sure its reasoning was solid enough to withstand the smartest person he knew. When he finished, his dad clapped. He told him he’d do great things, that he shouldn’t lose his passion. 

Nothing could make him happier. When he went to bed that night, setting his alarm for five, he was determined to make Phil the proudest parent to ever live. 

“Tommy, back straight.” His teacher, like the angel sent from heaven she was, stuck a cane into his lower back. He flinched. “You look constipated; relax your expression. Be happy to be here.” 

It was difficult to do that with sharp wood digging right into his injury but Tommy smiled, drawing himself taller. His leg was tucked to his knee and his other en pointe. The extra weight threatened to push him forwards but Tommy was strong. Tommy was fucking capable and he’d shove it in that fucking teacher’s face. 

She stared at him through the mirror with piercing green eyes, like little daggers scrutinising his every move, the slight crease in his brow, his inner foot threatening to sickle. He could see every critique before it left her mouth and corrected it before she exhaled. 

One moment later, she released him. Hitting the end of her cane on the ground, she stepped away. Tommy didn’t dare breathe a sigh of relief. 

The final hold continued. At the end when the music ended, she liked to observe everyone’s final pose, make them hold it as if they were on stage. Except, audience members didn’t get to hit the back of their knees if their legs were straight, didn’t get to push their back to check their balance. Everyone hated it- not Tubbo because he didn’t feel pain- but all the normal people hated it. 

He saw Niki in the back holding an easy fourth position rooted to the ground. He saw Madame slide her cane under her foot to pivot her leg. “You’re not dancing alone, your audience is that way.” She stuck her cane in the mirror's direction. Niki didn’t reply, didn’t move an inch out of her corrected position. 

She continued wandering around, before standing in front of Tommy again.

“You’ll be auditioning for a principal role, yet…” she scrunched her nose in disgust. “You have none of the grace Niki has, none of the height Ranboo has. Look at yourself.” She rolled her eyes. “Let go.” 

Everyone in unison dropped their position, some less gracefully than others. Tommy didn’t dare drop like a stone, opening like a dancer and bowing to their imaginary audience. Madame continued to mumble under her breath. Even when his friends stretched out their muscles, cracking their knees and backs, rolling their feet and easing circulation once more, he didn’t dare to follow. 

His teacher’s gaze was on him, looking for a slip-up, the grand moment she could boot him out of class. He was sure, if she was allowed to, she’d spit in his face and call him a peasant. He could see it in her fucking judgy gaze.

It didn’t matter. What could he do about it? 

Tommy continued his practised smile till the end of the lesson, past the initial closing time. They didn’t finish on time, there were too many flaws that couldn’t go unnoticed, they weren’t in sync, Tommy wasn’t clean enough in his lines, wasn’t sharp enough in his turns. 

He finished off beat after his set of fouettes and had to repeat the choreography thrice for good measure, all while being told it was his fault for making everyone late, for not letting them eat and sleep in peace. 

In the changing rooms, he didn’t bother getting undressed, wearing his sweatpants on top and throwing a hoodie over his head. 

“She’s just nitpicking you,” Tubbo said, changing shirts and letting his demi-pointes out to dry, hooking them to the outside of his bag. “You’re a great dancer.” 

But great wasn’t good enough, it didn’t get him on stage in front of others, didn’t get him a position in the company. Fuck, if that woman wanted it, he’d never be able to enter the industry to begin with. Her words had more power than his skill ever would. It was her integrity that held her hatred back. Her corrections were never incorrect, she never sabotaged him but she waited, waited for the moment he’d fuck up, for a legitimate reason to remove him. 

Tubbo didn’t get it; he didn’t have to fight for his right to dance.

“Easy for you to say,” Tommy mumbled. “I’m going, have a nice night-” 

“Do you want a ride home-” 

“No!” 

“At least let me finish!” Tubbo struggled to put his shoes and socks on while Tommy threw the door open. 

“Have a nice night. Tell your dad I said hi.” Tommy slammed it behind him and took off running on studio floors. If his teacher saw him, she’d have the excuse she dreamed of, the delinquent poor kid that didn’t do what he was told, who disrespected the studio property and ran around like a lunatic. Everything hung on some old woman’s words and Tommy fucking hated it.

It wasn’t fair. He left the property, passing a black car Tommy recognised. Tubbo’s dad waved at him and Tommy waved back. 

It wasn’t fair. His dad could never pick him up. Phil didn’t have a fucking car, he didn’t have the time to go get him in this stupid fucking school where expectations hung like stars above Tommy’s head. 

It wasn’t fair. If he lost his scholarship, if his teacher started complaining about his behaviour or his work ethic, if he was anything less than perfect, he could lose everything. His dreams rested in the arms of someone who hated him. 

Tommy kept running down the hill, chasing his precious freedom.

Tommy paused at the same intersection he did yesterday. The faint music was playing, enticing him to follow. He knew what was there, that same man with shit technique behind metal bars. He wasn’t a real dancer, didn’t know what it was like to suffer like a dancer. He didn’t listen to a teacher tell him over and over how shit he was-

No, that guy just danced.

Tommy took a step towards the noise hesitating. 

He wanted that too. 

Tommy didn’t have his name, didn’t know anything about him save that he was free and he danced to whatever music he fucking wanted to on concrete. He had no planned audience, he didn’t care about his audience. He didn’t show wide expressions so everyone could see, didn’t tilt his head to the stage so the light ricocheted off his heavy features. He didn’t have Ranboo’s height or Niki’s grace. 

But he had something, something that was his and no one else’s. 

Tommy took another step.

He shouldn’t. His dad got worried last time and Tommy had lied to him and-

Another step. 

… would that guy allow him to dance once more? Without any choreography, without a plan, a rhyme or a reason? Could Tommy do what he did? 

Another step and Tommy was running. The trees were chattering all the way, telling him about how bad of an idea it was. The pebbles under his foot mocked him. He wasn’t a dancer without his choreographer, he was a moulded doll on stage, fragile and breakable like porcelain with the weight of a company’s reputation on his back. 

The basketball court was in sight and sure enough, he was there. The stranger did a single turn before breaking his position, all but falling to the ground. Instead of stopping himself, he transitioned into a roll, raising later and continuing his battle to the winds. His torso flowed with his arms, everything working together in one cohesive movement. There was no control, no isolation, only flow. The violin piece accompanying it was gentle and lifted, like spring blooms. 

Except Tommy was a wilting flower under an unrelenting sun, struggling to lift his head and bloom like everyone else. 

His dance ended. He gave Tommy a wave. “Hullo.” his voice echoed off the apartment buildings. Tommy flinched back. 

“I shouldn’t be here.” Tommy shook his head. “You shouldn’t be either. It’s late and dangerous here and don’t you have parents?” He fiddled with his nails. He wasn’t allowed to pick at them, he couldn’t make them ugly, couldn’t have his teacher find something else to nail him on. She already liked digging her cane into his side and his knees, he didn’t want his hands whacked too. 

“I’m an adult,” he replied as if that answered everything.

“So?”

“Why are you here?” the man asked back, raising a visible brow through the fence. 

Tommy hesitated, taking a step back. Why did he come here, to humiliate himself? To prove once and for all that he was actually a shit dancer, burning off the ends of his luck and counting down his days? Tubbo was only being nice and his teacher was right, he didn’t deserve everything he was given, didn’t deserve the stage or the praise or the encores with an orchestra beneath his feet-

“I’m kiddin’, relax.” the man shrugged. “You wanna dance?” 

“No!” Yes. Tommy held onto his bag.

“Want to… watch me dance?” The man held up his phone and the screen had a crack running through the middle, lines scattering to the ends of his screen like a spider’s nest. 

“Yes.” Yes. The door was already unlocked and pushed open; Tommy had the feeling he’d been expecting him. He sat near the door, just in case. He had to run if he was dangerous, if this was an elaborate scheme to kidnap him or steal all his shit. Tommy knew how this went, how easy it was for trust to be discarded for everyone’s favourite sin. 

“Let me know if you want to change tracks,” the stranger continued. He skipped a song, playing something completely out of his comfort zone. There were lyrics and drums hitting a steady beat, a filter thrown over the song to make it feel vintage and it wasn’t anything classical or stage-worthy but he set his phone down and walked to the centre of the stage, moving his arms in tandem above his head, forming a wave his whole body followed. He raised his right knee and extended his leg out, mimicking a push before bringing his body forwards and to the ground. 

Every movement, from the windmill roll to the toe rise with his entire body bowed back, was enchanting. There was a statement, in the way he stopped mid-way through, in how he lingered before continuing. He stopped, walked to the other side of the stage and continued as if nothing happened.

Tommy wasn’t sure what to feel about it because there was no grand conclusion tying everything together. He just… continued.

“Who are you?” he breathed out. The dancer paused, staring expressionlessly at him.

“Your friendly neighbourhood… neighbour.” Dickhead, he was making fun of him again. 

Tommy felt cool metal against his neck, hot and cold battled on his spine. “Don’t you have a name?” 

“Do you need one?” He asked back. “You haven’t given me yours.” 

… there was a point there, beneath the mountain range of Tommy’s pride. “Fine.” 

The man nodded, “you want to dance now?”

“No fucking way- I don’t dance here.” Tommy batted a hand at the unforgiving floor. Each fall could be a death sentence. How he’d forgotten it was beyond him. If he seriously fell, his career was over.

“You did yesterday, you were good at it.”

“Liar.” Fuck, Tommy didn’t mean to say that. The man crouched down near his phone, pulling it out of his shoe with another indescribable emotion. 

“Do you… not think you’re a good dancer?” His tone was mocking, as if there was something Tommy didn’t get. 

“That’s none of your business.”

“You said it out loud.” 

“I didn’t mean it!” 

“Sure.” 

“I didn’t! I’m a good dancer-” the words felt stale “-I have a scholarship and if these next few years go well I might integrate into the company and I just have to work harder-” Tommy struggled to catch his breath under his blank stare. “Stop looking at me, prick! I’m fine!” 

“You don’t sound fine.” the man sat down cross-legged, “You should probably take a break.” 

“And what? Lose my spot?! Do you think I can take a break because trust me, if I could I fucking-” what? What would Tommy do? 

Could Tommy truly stop what he loved, what was ingrained into the fibre of his being?

“I have to go.” Tommy felt the burning on his face. “I hope we never meet again.” 

“I’ll always be here.” he shrugged as if his presence made no difference. 

Tommy took off running. 

“I need to study-” Tommy had gotten home in a rush, slamming the front door behind him and running to his room. From the other side of the door, his dad was trying to open it. Burning filled his cheeks and he was so fucking stupid for being so fucking emotional- that guy didn’t even give a shit! 

“Food first.” Phil was firm, gently prying at the doorknob. “Open the door.” 

“No.” Tommy pushed his chair in front of it.

His dad sighed, “what’s wrong?” 

“Nothing!” 

“Did you get into a fight?” There was a light bang and he knew his dad had rested his head on the other side of the door, wasting his precious time to comfort him.  

“N-No.” Tommy wiped his eyes. He stared at himself in the mirror and scrambled to clean his face, using his water bottle as face wash and wiping himself dry with a tissue. He was running and flushed, that was his excuse. 

Phil hummed. Tommy started at his door, with the chair shoddily hooked under it. His dad didn’t try to open it. “You can take a sick day.” 

“I’m not sick!” 

“You can take a day off.” 

“I said I’m not sick, I’m fine!” Tommy’s room felt too small. He opened the window in a rush but ten floors felt all too fucking high right now-

“Tommy?! What are you doing-” The door began rattling and the chair bowed so hard he feared it’d break.

“I wasn’t going to jump!” Tommy yelled back and what did his dad fucking think of him as?! Did he look depressed or some shit? Because he was not, Tommy was fine. He was good. Everything was fine and he had a career ahead of him and-

“Open the door.” There wasn’t playful lightness in his tone, no room for bargaining. 

“One sec,” Tommy whispered. He removed the chair with shaking limbs. The moment the door opened his dad swept him in his arms. 

“You scared the shit out of me.” 

“You get scared of everything.” Tommy tried to break free, “I’m fine. You’re ridiculous.” 

“Don’t make me panic like that-” 

“I wouldn’t do it mid-argument-” 

“You’re making your case worse-”

“Look, I’m just saying-” Tommy wasn’t crying, his face wasn’t burning and everything was fine. “I’d do it alone or on fucking stage. No middle.” He wasn’t sure how much of a joke that was, he hadn’t thought of it until the words left his lips. 

Phil looked like he’d lost ten years off his life. 

“I’m kidding.” 

“Don’t. That’s nothing to joke about.” Phil made him leave his room, towards the impossibly warm living room. His plate was already there, already waiting for him. His dad’s arms shook when Tommy was set down. 

“Sorry.” Tommy lowered his head, “thanks for the food.” 

“Don’t.” Phil held his hand up, “I’m just-” Disappointed. Annoyed. He thought Tommy was a failure, just like his teacher. “-worried.” Liar. Liar, liar, liar.

“I’m okay, nothing to worry about-” Tommy tried to laugh but the lie had wrapped a metal cord around his neck. “I’ve got my final exam and the show coming up so I’ve been distracted lately-” 

“It wouldn’t hurt to take a break then, I can call in sick for your school-” 

“That’s not how it works! I’ll miss my lessons and-” he didn’t have any friends who’d give him their notes, Tubbo and Ranboo went to a different school, “-I have another essay due for Friday-” fuck, that was two days from now, “-it’s almost the end of the year anyways, I’m almost there.” 

Almost there to what? Did he want to make it- where was making it? What would he do with his time in the summer, he couldn’t join ballet intensives like the other kids, couldn’t get a job at the company because there was no fucking way his teacher would allow that- 

What was he excited about to begin with? Why was he chasing the timer?

“It’s school, not life or death.” Phil put a hand on his shoulder. “It feels big but in a few years, a single test won’t matter-” 

“And what do you know?! You didn’t even finish school!” 

Something stilled in the air. He went too far. His dad’s eyes widened but Tommy couldn’t take his words and shove them back into his mouth.

“What?” Phil breathed out, as if stuck in shock, “What did you say to me?”

“I-I-” Tommy shuffled back and stood tall, taking steps away from his shocked dad. “You don’t get it and you never fucking will because you have a dead-end job in a shitty one-bedroom apartment with leaky fucking taps-” Tommy was at the door, prying it open. He didn’t have his keys or his jacket, “What would you know about my future?” 

He’d never… seen his dad so shocked. The way he slowly blinked as if Tommy had spat on his face and stamped on his shoes. 

Fuck, he had done that. 

Tommy slammed the door shut behind him, taking off running down the stairs. 

He left the lobby to be pissed on by rain. An incessant drizzle just to make fun of him for fucking up this bad. Tommy took off running before his dad could call out to him from the balcony. 

Before he could face the consequences of his own fucking actions. 

Tommy was a coward. A failure, a coward and a piece of shit. He had no fucking right to say that and the moment he did he felt horrible. The moment he saw the betrayal on his father’s face, knowing everything he’d sacrificed to get them where they were, he felt horrible. 

It was his fault they were in the shit to begin with. If Tommy hadn’t been born maybe his dad might’ve had a career. If his dad didn’t have to rearrange his entire fucking life to care for a newborn, he wouldn’t have a dead-end job and a shitty apartment. 

If Tommy hadn’t asked to start dancing, one of the most expensive fucking sports, in the most expensive school there was, maybe they could replace their fucking taps. 

… It was all Tommy’s fault. 

He ran without a plan, the rain and the haze both burning and freezing him, a push and pull between the fire in his breath and his numb feet, drenched in water from holed trainers.

 His phone began buzzing in his pocket. Tommy didn’t answer it, he didn’t want to know who it was. He could pretend it was someone else, someone other than his dad who deserved an answer from him. 

He was an ungrateful brat, his teacher had always said it best. 

He kept running and running and- 

He knew where he was. He had stopped at the same fucking intersection he promised to never return to. But it was pissing down and so fucking cold, there was no way he’d be there anymore. 

But, Tommy didn’t want to see him again, why would he try to meet him? 

Was Tommy trying to dig his grave in every direction imaginable? 

Rain chilled him to the bone. Adrenaline wasn’t enough anymore, at this rate he’d come home with frostbite and his dad would have to deal with his blue, snapped-off arms. He couldn’t be a dancer if he was armless; Tommy hated the image already. 

Despite the screaming in his veins that it was a bad idea, Tommy walked down the path he came to know too well. The trees provided comfort and he could barely hear the buzzing above his own thoughts and the pounding rain. 

As he thought, the basketball court was empty. 

He’d left. 

He wasn’t here. 

Why would he be?

Tommy was alone and it was all his fault. 

He stumbled towards the court. The metal door was locked and there was no fucking way he’d be able to unlock it…

Tommy reached out and tried anyway, holding onto freezing metal in chilled hands and struggling with the mechanism. Combination after combination led to failure and his fingers were getting less and less responsive. He kept going despite not having a reason to. 

He had no one waiting for him, no crowd to expect his presence. Someone was still calling him and the sky rumbled, drenching him in a burst of water.

It clicked. 

Tommy exhaled, his breath shaking. His hands trembled as he undid the lock. He let the door creak open. He stood in the middle of wet concrete, reaching out for his phone. 

How did the dancer do it? How did he let go? 

How did he let himself fail?

He played the first song on his recommended. The speaker buzzed in his palm and a piano rang out. Mr/Mme by Loïc Nottet, what a shit name. But who was he to judge? 

Look where he fucking was. 

He set down his phone in the rain, shaking his limbs out and walking around in his new space. He had to let go. 

If he couldn’t now, in the rain alone, where else could he do it? 

“Bonsoir-” There were lyrics and it was in fucking french.

How did he do it? 

Tommy threw off his shoes and socks, then stuffed his phone in one of them to cover his phone. His feet sent jolts of cold up his spine and he couldn’t feel himself anymore. He was spinning and falling and the person kept singing and singing and-

Tommy started turning, just as lost as he felt. He didn’t spot, he stumbled and struggled and it probably looked shit. Instead of picking himself up and trying again, he let himself fall. He scraped his shins against the floor, spinning on the floor and holding his chest. It hurt, everything hurt. 

But art was supposed to hurt. Part of ballet was suffering. 

Niki had told him that true suffering was a full recital en pointe, that pain started when Madame screamed at them on stage, days before they began performing to a crowd. Pain was the inflamed feet after, drenched in an ice bucket because they had practice tomorrow and the stage waited for no one. 

Pain was falling on stage and breaking a leg, losing a career in an instant. 

Tommy turned until a trail of blood followed him. The music kept going, violins and backing voices entering the fray. There was human pain in their voice. 

“J'accélère mais personne ne m'attend à la fin.” I’m running but no one’s at the finishing line - yeah, that sounded about right. 

But who’s fault was that? 

When the music swelled and Tommy allowed himself to stop midway, to break the momentum and simply walk to the other end, he felt free. He wasn’t a puppet to the music, a porcelain doll to be chosen by a choreographer. He could make his own dance. He could dance like shit and that was okay. 

The music kept rising and he fell into a tombé, pas de bourrée, glissade, jeté, falling into graceful steps, sliding against the floor and jumping. 

He jumped higher, a grand jeté without the fear of fucking up because there was no one there to tell him that his splits weren’t high enough, that his fall wasn’t graceful, that his feet weren’t pointed or his legs weren’t straight enough. 

His head wasn’t looking at an imaginary audience, it was searching for his freedom. His gaze was unstable and he didn’t give a shit about his expression. He didn’t care that his tears looked like raindrops splattered on his face. 

Because he was alone. 

He was free. 

The music calmed, nearing its end but not quite, Tommy didn’t let himself end. He kept going, off beat, off centre, this way and that. Everything about it was so wrong but it felt right and that was all that mattered. 

The sky rumbled. 

Lightning struck the metal bars, crackling loudly in the air. Tommy screamed, stopping short just before the end. There was no conclusion to his dance, he was stopped before he could end on his own terms. Nature just had to take the spotlight. 

Could he… could he leave? 

Tommy was on the floor under thundering rain. He didn’t dare approach the edge, stuck in his new prison that he’d thought was his freedom. He was happier chasing it; he didn’t feel all that free in an electrified cage. He curled up on the floor, bringing his knees under his chin and wrapping his arms around his shins. Everything hurt, everything ached and he was so fucking cold. 

He sobbed loudly in the rain, glad to be alone. He didn’t have to pretend to be strong, he was shit at it anyways. He could be himself, weak and a failure. He closed his eyes, lowering his head.

There was something so joyous in that, despite hot tears mingling in freezing rain. 

Tommy felt numb all over and he realised he might die here. His dad didn’t know where he was, no one would be worried for him. The dancer wouldn’t come back, he’d been smart and gone home when the rain started. 

Not like Tommy, because that would’ve been too fucking easy.

He felt something warm fall over his head. 

He looked up.

The stranger was back with indiscernible eyes, brows slightly furrowed. Tommy realised, on his back was a dry sweater. 

“How…?” His voice was small and hoarse. He held onto the fabric with weak, shaking wrists. 

“I heard the music.” He picked up his shoes and put his phone on pause. There was no music to hide behind, only rain and a stranger. “Do you need somewhere to stay?” 

“I have a home.” Tommy was quick to defend. He held back a sob.

“I’m sure, but I live-” the man pointed to one of the windows on a low floor, “-there. You can warm up then go home.” 

That sounded… enticing. It would be shit to die here. Hold on-

“You saw me?” Tommy’s voice cracked. 

“It was too dark to see. I followed the music.” There were street lights directly outside the basketball court. 

“Oh.” 

“And the lighting-” 

“-fucking terrifying.” Tommy hated that the warmth was rapidly fading. 

“God must really hate you.” The man nodded.

“Thanks, dickhead.” 

“Glad to be here. Need help?” He held his hand out.

Tommy hesitated. 

He reached out, holding warm, comforting hands with scars all around. 

The stranger’s apartment was comfortable. Just as small as his, with a single bedroom and living room partly converted into a bedroom. The sofa was laid flat to make a bed with a black duvet and black mattress cover. The stranger had a telly with a medieval documentary playing, some posh voice explaining ancient sword techniques with crazy actors swinging weapons at each other. The empty bowl of soup on the table and splayed-out books told more about this guy’s life than Tommy had ever known.

And he still hadn’t gotten his name. 

The man pushed his shoulders down, forcing him to sit on the bed. “Wait here.” 

Tommy nodded. He still felt dizzy and numb and his feet were still bare and everything was so cold yet everything he touched sizzled. He couldn’t stand it. Hot and cold; Hot, cold. 

Hot. Cold. 

Cold, very fucking cold. The sweater the man had given him was now drenched in the rain. It had to be taken off and thrown on the radiator. The dancer was rushing around, leaving to his kitchen quickly and emerging a few moments later, carrying a bundle of fabric in his hands. He tossed it over Tommy- oh, warm. 

Very warm, sleepy warm. Tommy smiled, closing his eyes and dropping his head on the tumble-dried fabric. The man crouched down in front of him. 

“You awake…?” 

“Mhm…” 

“You’ve got- a caller. On your phone.” 

“Mhm…” Tommy’s eyes fluttered back open, to see the stranger press his phone against his ear. 

“Hi, er… I think-” the stranger was cut off to a voice Tommy couldn’t hear but fuck he knew exactly who that was, “- yeah, he’s safe. You can talk to him-” another cut-off. “I’ll message my address-” 

That was his dad.

Fuck.

Suddenly, for no reason at all, Tommy was awake. 

“I-” He flapped his hands in front of his face, shaking his head and shuffling back, “-I can’t-” 

The man stared at him. Tommy tried to use big pleading eyes that always worked on his dad-

He pressed the phone against Tommy’s ear and a staticy voice came through, “Tommy? Tommy?! Where are you- are you safe?! Where are you? Am I on speaker?-”

“I’m okay.” Guilt flooded his mind, his words spitting back in his face. “Sorry for worrying you-” 

“Sorry?! You’re fuckin- where are you?” 

“I’m…” Tommy didn’t know the address. “You know the dance studio, right?” he began to explain his path, skipping over why he knew it, the times when he stood at that junction, regretting his every step to the dancer. 

A dancer he still didn’t know the name of. 

“I’m at a friend’s house.” 

“What fucking friend?! He’s an adult and you’re at his apartment-” 

“He’s a dance friend. It’s okay, I promise.” Tommy smiled, nestling in the covers and pressing the phone tighter against his ear. Everything was fucking up, he’d get thrown under the bus by this guy- he wasn’t stupid, but somehow, this felt normal. “I’m really sorry for worrying you.” 

His dad didn’t respond for a beat. “Just… I’m coming to pick you up. Don’t ignore me again.”

“I’m sorry.” 

“Tommy, not now.”

“... Okay.” 

“Stay on the phone. Where are you? Talk to me.” The winds blew harder on Phil’s speakers. He was outside, probably fucking walking there because they didn’t have a car and fuck- his dad was under the pouring rain for fuck knows how long looking for him and guilt flooded Tommy all over again, sending a barrage of water behind his eyes.

“I’m sorry.” He couldn’t stop the tightness in his chest, the choked sound in his words.

The stranger was staring at him emotionlessly. The telly was still playing the documentary, the balcony was small and square with a clear view of the city. Tommy described all of it to the smallest details, he described the park outside and the broken basketball court, the rickety padlock and a metal door which creaked when swung open. The flickering lights and concrete floors, the towering buildings and smokers spraying ash on the floor. 

His dad kept encouraging him to continue. How much did he really know? Phil asked. A metric fuckton, Tommy answered.

It was normal. 

“Do… you need me to pick him up?” 

“Huh?” Tommy blinked out of his conversation, seeing the man awkwardly stand next to the kitchen. He was leaning against the wall 

“I’ve got a car, I can meet him halfway-” 

“What’s he saying?!”

“He’s asking if you want to be picked up.”

“No, no! Don’t get in his car, you hear me Tommy?!”

“I wasn’t going to! It was for you-” 

“No.”  

… Tommy had pissed him off enough today. “Okay.”

“Just wait there, don’t get off the phone- up the hill?”

“Mhm, there’s a house that looks like a castle with a tower-” Tommy thought of the junction, gesturing with his free hand though his dad couldn’t see it. “Up is the school so take a left there-” 

“Why were you deviating to begin with?!” 

“Haha… why don’t we discuss this later?” 

“I-” Phil audibly sighed. “Yeah, we’ll talk about this later.”

While he spoke to his dad, the stranger came back with another bundle of fabric. “Give the…” he gestured to what hung on Tommy’s shoulders. He shrugged it off and tried to give it to him, finding himself too weak to properly pass the cover. As quick as it left, it was replaced with another warm cover, resting on his shoulders and sucking up all the cold and the rain. It was the second thing he’d ruined in this guy’s house- third, if he counted the bed- he had the patience of a saint to deal with him. 

Tommy tried to keep up his conversation with Phil while thanking the stranger. 

“Hungry?” the stranger mouthed.

Tommy nodded, “thank you.” he mouthed back. 

The other shrugged, vanishing to the kitchen. Tommy should get his name one day, before his dad had another heart attack, knowing that the dancer wasn’t a friend but some man he’d followed home.

… It didn’t sound as good put that way. 

“Tommy? I’ll be there in-” Wind rushed through the speaker, “- minutes.” 

“Huh? How-” It didn’t matter, Tommy retracted his words. “Sounds good, I’ll wait for you.” Tommy looked outside to the balcony, where it still pissed down with rain, drenching everything in sight. Drenching his dad somewhere, stuck on the phone walking to him.

The call cut. 

“Dad?” Tommy knew it was already off, beeping with ‘Call failed’ splattered on the screen. It was fine, he knew it was fine but- “Stranger? Can we go get my dad?” 

“Stranger?” The man echoed back, raising a brow. “Okay.” 

“Thanks.” Tommy steeled his nerves. His legs felt like heavy lumps of lead but this was stupid, he couldn’t stay here while it was warm when there was a perfectly normal car he could take to go get his dad. “He’ll be somewhere before the junction, that’s where the call cut.” His dad would’ve triple-checked when he got there, he was that sort of person.

The man nodded. He opened the front door and reached for his coat in the corridor closet. Tommy felt like a kid, now standing unstable in the hallway, still stealing his stuff. His shoes were drying on the radiator and Tommy knew if he wore them now, they’d squelch at every step and cling to his feet in the worst way. 

The man took out two coats, handing the heavier one to Tommy, “I don’t feel like doing a hospital trip today.” 

“Thanks,” Tommy held the fabric in his hands. The insides were lined with wool and cotton, comfortable and exceedingly warm. In hindsight, he should’ve taken a fucking jacket. 

In real hindsight, he shouldn’t have left at all. 

“I really fucked up,” Tommy mumbled. 

“I can tell.” The guy opened the door.

“You could be a bit more supportive!” 

“Why? You fucked up- that’s part of life.” He pressed the lift button, leaning out of the flat without taking a step out. It made a small metal bang, the entire chamber rattling behind the metal doors. It reminded him of the one at home. “What matters is how you deal with it.” 

“And how should I do that?” While the lift was being summoned, the man trudged back through the house. Tommy only had his phone and shoes to take, not even a bag to think about. 

“Dunno.” 

“That’s fucking helpful.” 

“I know, you can thank me. You’re in awe, I can see it.” He had an almost smile on his face, before dumping an extra set of shoes at the door. “Use those, I’ll take your shoes in the car.” 

Another gift, another thing Tommy was going to ruin. “Thank you.” 

“Don’t mention it.” 

“No but- seriously.” The lift had arrived and Tommy opened the door, seeing no one inside. “-Thank you, for everything.” 

The man stared at him, before shrugging. “I didn’t do much.” 

“You-” Tommy sighed, “-fine, I’m too tired to argue with you.” 

“Tired because I’m right,” 

“I’m the kid here!” 

“I don’t care.” 

“Dickhead. I’ve changed my mind, you suck.” 

“Yeah, yeah, get in the lift.” He held Tommy’s drenched shoes in one hand, slipping on his own shoes with the other. A towel was propped under his arm. Tommy waited next to the rattling lift, leaning his back against its side. 

They left, Tommy’s phone not ringing once.

Rain hammered on the windows. The stranger seemed alright driving, the windshield wipers furiously clearing their vision. The side windows were unusable, Tommy contented himself with fiddling with his hands and staring out the front window. It’d been a while since he’d been in a car, this was nice. 

What would be nicer was finding his fucking dad.

They passed the junction. “Down from here?” the man asked. 

Tommy hummed. He tried looking at the streets but fog covered his vision. “He’ll be there. He’s like, blond, average height, looks like me.” 

“I think being out in the rain at midnight narrows it down enough.” 

“Oi!” 

The man chuckled, for the first time since they first met. Tommy shouldn’t be surprised, of course he’d laugh when making fun of him. His cheeks heated; he looked away. Their drive slowed. 

“Fuck- is that him?” A figure was walking through the rain, fiddling with their phone in their hands. “Stop the car! It has to be him!” 

The car slowed suddenly, Tommy could see his drenched blond hair clearly, wide blue eyes and hunched over back. He had a coat with the hood pulled up yet clearly shivered. Tommy scrambled to the door.

“Go in the backseat together, I don’t have a child lock on my car.” 

Tommy nodded, beginning to exit the car. 

“-and my name’s Techno.” the man smiled at him through the front mirror.

“Tommy,” he replied, opening the car door. 

He ran down the street, launching into his dad’s arms. Phil stilled before wrapping his arms around his shoulders and holding him tight. 

“You scared the shit out of me.” 

“I’m so sorry.” 

“Sorry isn’t…” his dad sounded choked up, “-don’t do that again.” 

“Never, I’m sorry.” Tommy buried his head into his chest. 

“Your family meet-up is great but-” the door to Techno’s car was ajar, “I can take you back to your apartment to not hug under the rain.” Techno had a propensity for ruining moments.

Techno. The name fit. 

“Dickhead.”

Phil lightly hit the back of his head. “He helped you. Thank him.” 

“Thank you.” Tommy bit out. 

“You’re nicer with your dad around,” Techno mocked him. He leant over and closed the front door. 

“We’re not getting in the car.” Phil shook his head, holding onto him with a weak grip.

“You’re joking-” 

“And I told you not to enter anyone’s car!”

“The call cut!” 

“Then wait for me to call you back!” Phil glared at him and Tommy knew he was in the shit. “When we get home, I don’t know what I’m going to do with you but-” he shook his head.

“He’s a friend of mine,” Tommy reached over for the back door, “He let me borrow his coat and shoes and-” Phil visibly weakened. “I promise. I’m okay, I’m really sorry for today.” 

“You should be.” Phil rubbed his eyes, his hand never leaving Tommy’s wrist. 

“I know. I fucked up.” 

That… was enough to calm him. They got in the car and drove off. 

“Thank you so much for helping him-” Phil lowered his head, ushering Tommy inside

“It’s fine.” Techno shrugged, leaning against the car door. 

“Come in! I can make dinner for you.”

“Doesn’t the kid have to be yelled at first?” Techno covered his mouth behind his hand. Phil chuckled. 

“I don’t need to. He’s learnt his lesson.” Phil opened the door wider, “come in.” 

“You’re too soft on him,” Techno took his shoes off while entering.

Phil laughed. “You don’t need to tell me. Thank you again,” 

“It’s fine.” Techno entered the house. Tommy watched them from afar, shifting his feet, still wearing Techno’s coat. 

“Tommy. Water?” 

“Haven’t we drunk enough?” Tommy laughed. “I’m joking, I’m joking!” He skidded across kitchen floors and pulled out an extra glass from the cabinets. “Food?” 

“Leftovers, second shelf.” he let his hands move before his mind, settling into their usual routine. Guests were never part of that, but Techno was a friend. The first friend he’d ever had in his house- there was no way he was letting Tubbo or Ranboo come here. They were used to three story houses with slanted roofs and a dining room separate to the living room, separate to the bedroom.

Techno was different in a good way. 

He sat at the table, already making friends with his dad. Smiling more with him than with Tommy. When Tommy set down a plate of miscellaneous vegetables and ground meat, Techno’s eyes lit up and his thanks seemed sincere. 

There wasn’t an awkward pause before conversation launched, because Phil and Techno were already knee deep in their discussion. Techno spoke of his job as a martial arts instructor, how he danced at the basketball court to try a new sport. Phil spoke about how he used to be a blackbelt, but it’d been years and he was out of practice. 

And Tommy was glad to not be in the line of fire, happy to see the both of them happy. They were in a warm house, eating warm food and everything was going to be alright. 

“Don’t think you’re off the hook,” Phil said offhandedly, shooting a glance in Tommy’s direction. 

“I said I’m sorry!” 

“Sorry doesn’t cut it!” 

“Stubborn old man,” 

“If I could throw you out a window and revive you, I might.” Tommy laughed, stuffing his face, “You’ve got sauce all over your face my god-” 

“I’m eating-” 

“I did not raise you like this-” 

“I raised myself because I’m so poggers-”

“Kids lingo these days is awful.” 

“No, it’s poggers!” 

“Stop disagreeing with yer dad,” Techno covered his mouth while he spoke, “and he’s right.” 

“Oi! I thought you were my friend.”

“I never said that.” 

“Sadge.” 

“...”

“...” Both Techno and Phil stared at him.

“Judging me this hard  isn’t necessary.” 

“Eat your food.” Phil shook his head. Tommy grumbled under his breath but complied. This was nice, nicer than he expected. 

Rain still hammered on their balcony, the winds making it slam against their window. Tommy fell into the background of the conversation. Phil and Techno had more in common than they thought, bouncing off each other easily. Tommy cleaned up the table as the two pulled up a martial arts documentary, and Tommy was happy to lean on his dad’s shoulder while watching crazy actors hit each other with staffs and katanas.

The lights were dimmed. The adults chatted about their days of old learning the art. Techno spoke about his dojo with high praise, how he trained overseas for half a decade before opening a place with a friend. 

“Can I fight?” Tommy asked, his eyes fluttering open and shut. He had his dad’s blanket draped over his shoulders and sliding across his lap. 

“With Techno?” It had taken Tommy days to get his name, while his dad got it immediately. 

“Mhm.” Oh fuck, Tommy forgot about funds. “Actually it’s fine-” 

“If you clean up the dojo after with me you can learn for free.” Techno shrugged. “Extending the offer to the both of you,”

“Really?!”

“You don’t have to-” 

“It’s on me. Most of my class are kids, having an extra adult will be fun,” Techno smiled. “Plus- I think you’d do great Tommy.” 

Tommy leant forwards, catching his gaze and softened eyes. He thought to his grouchy teacher, with her cane and her stern words. He thought to school, where his teachers were apathetic at best and worst came in fifty variants. 

Techno was different in a nice way. 

“Okay,” 

“Cool. We practise on Saturday mornings.” Perhaps one of the only times he was free. Tommy gave him a thumbs up and Techno got distracted with the screen. A man in fancy robes was knelt on the ground, an array of weapons at his legs.

“For school,” Phil continued, “Do you need help?”

Tommy thought back to his words, how he spat in his dad’s face. “Yeah… I’m not good at maths.” 

Something softened in Phil. he wrapped his arm around Tommy, “See? It wasn’t that hard.” 

“Easy for you to say, everything feels like too much.” 

“Then let me help.” 

If it was that simple, Tommy would’ve done it already. “Okay.” Maybe he’d show him the essays he didn’t get right. “My show is in two weeks.” 

“You lied.” 

“... I’m sorry.” 

Phil sighed, hugging him close. Tommy hugged him back, resting his head against his dad, listening to a steady heartbeat. “I just need you to talk to me.” 

“I’ll try.” 

“I love you,” Phil said, brushing a hand through his hair. 

“I love you too.”