Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

And I'm so tired that I might

Quit my job, start a new life

And they'd all be so disappointed

'Cause who am I if not exploited?

No one actually knew anything about Tom Simons. 

It's interesting , Wilbur thinks, as he checks his watch for the fifth time in the last thirty minutes and ducks in through the big glass doors. Security, probably waiting for him because he's late, just wave him through without doing any of the checks. It's interesting, because I didn't know it was possible to be a famous young artist and still have privacy. 

When Wilbur got off his ass and decided to take this audition - with a lot of coaxing from Shubble - he tried doing some research. He had obviously heard Tom Simons' voice before – on the radio, on the television, on the soundtracks of some of the new movies that dropped – but he's never actually looked into the pop star. Searching up his name gave Wilbur the information that he was expecting – seventeen years old, six feet tall, brown hair, blue eyes. He released his first single at fifteen, then his album at sixteen, and now, his tour was scheduled to start in three months and go on for four, ending in April. 

Pretty basic stuff that Wilbur would've found just by asking around. 

But when Wilbur tried digging deeper – finding Tommy's likes or dislikes, what his hobbies were, who any of his friends were – he got nothing. 

So Wilbur went into the first round of tour-key auditions with the chords memorized and nothing else. Thankfully, and weirdly, Tommy wasn't there. It was an older blond guy directing them all, telling them where to go, when to play and what to expect. 

"Hi," he said, "I'm Phil, and I'm the Sour tour manager. I'm gonna be overseeing all the backing instrument auditions and any rehearsals hereafter. There were a lot of submissions, and while we trimmed them down after seeing the tapes, after today we should be ready to make final cuts." Then he clapped, and with a cheery smile, said, "alright – who's up first?"

Wilbur barely remembers a single second of the audition, and he really wasn't expecting to get the call two days later saying that he should come in on Thursday for the second round, but he's here, so it must be real. 

He follows the signs through the winding studio to conference room B and winces when he sees that everyone is already there waiting. He only recognizes Phil, and he figures the rest are the other artists. He must be the only pianist that made it, because he didn’t see a girl with pink hair at his auditions.  Or – or a guy with pink hair. There is a lot of pink hair in this room. Was hair dye a requirement for today or – 

“Wilbur, right?” Phil says suddenly, getting Wilbur’s attention. Wilbur nods. “Good, good, come in, sit anywhere, we’re just going through a couple of things, you haven’t missed anything at all.” 

Wilbur ducks inside and sits next to the guy with the mustache and beanie and the other guy with the mustache and sideburns – fucking hell, was facial hair a requirement too?  

“Alright, so. Right now, we’re going over the schedule of rehearsals and the tour dates.” Phil slides a thin packet of papers across the table at him. When Wilbur flips to the second page like everyone else, he sees a blank calendar and a filled in one. “Most of our venues are scheduled, and unless something drastic happens, we’re looking to complete all fifty shows.” 

The man with the sideburns whistles lowly. “Fifty,” he says. “That’s a lot.” 

Phil’s expression wavers briefly, and it looks as if he wants to comment, but he doesn’t. “Yeah,” is all he says. “Yeah. There will be a high volume of shows, and something that’s important to all of us here is that each show feels fresh. Every single audience member every night will be seeing you for the first time, so it’s important that you give them your all each time. This tour will take a great deal of stamina, and a great deal of practice, so if – in these first two weeks – you feel that you’ll be unable to meet these challenges, then let us know and we’ll have you replaced.” 

There’s silence, and Phil casts his gaze over all of them before nodding. “Alright. Good. Now, since there’ll be so many shows, we want to determine a consistent rehearsal schedule in the three months of prep time before the tour begins.” Phil folds his hands together in front of him and seems to look Wilbur dead in the eyes. “Tell me what days and times you’ll be available, to show up to rehearsal on time.” 

There are four other people in the band, excluding himself and their lead singer Tom Simsons, who apparently none of them have met yet. 

“I thought he’d be here today,” Niki, one of their two guitarists, says as she bends down and touches her black combat boots. She stretches before rehearsals, which honestly, Wilbur thinks is the way to go. He gets back pain after gigs sometimes, and yeah, Shubble keeps ordering him icy-hots, but maybe stretching will stop the problem before it starts. “I mean – we’re his final band, yeah? Unless one of us quits in two weeks.” 

“Quits?” Schlatt barks, laughing. He sounds delightedly incredulous. “Quit being in the band of one of the biggest teeny-boppers in the world? No way any of us are doing that.” 

“You haven’t listened to any of Tommy’s music, have you?” Niki frowns. 

“Not anything except what I had to play at the audition,” Schlatt plays a line on his guitar. Wilbur keeps his head down. If their two guitarists start fighting over this, it might be best for Wilbur to not make it known that he also hasn’t listened to the album they’re supposed to be playing. 

Niki’s lips press together. “Well, I’d suggest you do. It’s surprisingly….real. In a way that feels deeper than most of the artist on the radio nowadays, anyway.” 

“I’m sure I’ll hear it enough,” Schlatt waves off. Then he turns to Techno, who’s sitting at the drum set silently since they were shown where rehearsal room three was. “What about you, big guy? Have you listened to the album?” 

Techno, who is an absolute unit of a guy dressed in a blue tee with brown hair coming down to his chin that seems to have been dipped in pink dye, just raises an eyebrow. 

"Yes," he says. And that's it. 

They all stare at him, and Schlatt chuckles nervously. "O- kay then." He says, eyes flickering away and over to Ash, their bassist, who's kneeling on the floor fiddling with the wires. "And you?"

Ash gives a thumbs up, too preoccupied with his task. 

"It wasn't a requirement to have listened to the whole album first, was it?" Wilbur asks, fidgeting slightly. "Because I learned the chords to one and –"

Schlatt comes over and throws his arm over Wilbur's shoulder, startling him. " This is what I'm saying – there's no reason to stress yourself out over it – we're gonna fucking learn it. That's why we're here."

"I thought we were here to be Tom Simons' band," Techno says dryly and Schlatt rolls his eyes. 

"Maybe if the kid showed his face." 

Wilbur ducks, letting Schlatt's arm fall and stepping back behind his keyboard. "Maybe he'll come during our rehearsal. I bet he's busy. I mean, how old is he? Seventeen and putting on a whole tour? Maybe he's stressed out."

Ash nods in agreement and Schlatt tilts his head. "Yeah, alright, fine, I'll give him that. If this was my tour, I'd at least want to check if I liked the people I'd be playing with, but that's just me." 

"Luckily it isn't your tour," Niki says, smiling sweetly. "Because otherwise he'd kick you out." 

Schlatt's mouth drops, and Ash snorts. When Wilbur looks over at Techno, he's got an amused smile on his face, and oh yeah. Wilbur is gonna love it here. 

This is how their first week of rehearsals goes. No lead singer, just the group of them, their instruments, and some fun four days a week. 

They don't use the music for the tour yet – they all decided to wait for Tom to lead them through – and instead just kinda…jam. It's really fucking fun. Wilbur gets to wake up four days a week at eight in the morning, head to the lot and just play around with music until they break for lunch. And then, Ash will walk them to a cool place in the city, one Wilbur's never heard of, and they'll all have sandwiches, or macaroni bowls, or baked apples, and then walk back to play some more. 

Phil normally watches them, bopping his head to their stopping and starting improvised tunes as he sends email after email or goes over document after document for the tour. At first, Schlatt and Ash were wary of his presence, but he doesn't ever tell them what to play or how they should be spending their time. He just sits and listens and then nods at them when he goes. 

It's basically free practice time, and Wilbur has never been one to be ungrateful for free stuff before. 

Plus, he really does like the band. 

Niki is sweet, even if she is stern and unwilling to back down from an argument. Especially when that argument is with Schlatt. And they can argue over pretty much anything. Ash got them all coffees once before rehearsal, and Wilbur only took one sip of his before Schlatt and Niki started arguing about the different types of creamer and which one was better. 

But even still, Niki is amazing. She invites them over to her apartment and shows off her extensive guitar collection and makes them terrible snacks. 

Schlatt is great too, even if he is annoying – constantly ribbing at Techno and throwing his arms over Wilbur and Ash like they're his personal arm rests. He's a bit of a chatterbox, but it's nice on days when Wilbur comes in shaking out of his skin. Schlatt will complain about a lot, but he doesn't seem to mind when Wilbur makes them restart from the top because his trembling fingers can't hit the right keys. 

Ash and Techno are both quiet, but make up for their volume when it comes to their music. Wilbur loves sitting with Ash while the man draws or skirts his fingers down his bass. He loves the way the man sees the world, taking them around to little nooks and crannies and pointing out things like lanterns strung across the street or graffiti dripping down brick. Techno is very similar: soft-spoken and observant, very sensitive to any changes in the tone of their sound or an atmosphere. Once Niki came in with red-rimmed eyes, and Techno, before a single word was said, caught Schlatt’s sleeve in his hand and shook his head. He’s gentle to Wilbur when Wilbur is having a day and doesn’t get caught in the rolling wave that is the general opinion. 

Don’t read the articles, Techno says easily when the topic of Tom Simons comes up again. Don’t listen to the blogs. Wait and see. Wait and see. 

So for now, that’s what they’re doing. They’re waiting to see as they meet at the lot four days a week and get together the other three nights. They’re waiting to see as they have lunch and dinner, and sometimes even breakfast together. They’re waiting to see and trying not to judge. 

But, as the days go on without a single sighting of Tom Simons, it becomes harder and harder not to form opinions. 

As far as Wilbur knows for sure, he’d love to spend months, if not years on tour with these people. Even if Tom Simons is a horrible person, Wilbur will suffer through it for them. 

And then, he actually meets Tom Simons.

The rehearsal that Tommy finally shows up at is a lax one. 

They’ve been going for about an hour and stopped for just a bit to take a break. Phil dipped out to get them all some coffees – decaf for Wilbur – and so they’re all just waiting for him to get back as they talk. 

“I’m just saying,” Techno is going, twirling one drum stick around and around in his fingers. “We’re going to have to start the songs at some point. I think Phil is being nice about it, but we’re halfway through our first month and –” 

The door opens, and they all glance over, anticipating Phil with a cupholder full of their orders. But no, it’s a head of brown hair, and blue eyes: a slight, lanky teenage boy dressed in a black jeans and long-sleeve black band tee-shirt with red lettering that’s too small to read. 

Immediately Wilbur recognizes him from his photos on the internet and any interviews he’s taken. Tom Simons. 

“Hi,” Tom goes, standing a little bit in front of the door awkwardly as if he isn’t renting out the place for them to practice in. “I’m Tommy – er, Tom. Tom Simons.” 

There’s a moment of stunned quiet as they all process. Here he is, finally, after weeks of anticipation. This almost mythical figure simply standing in front of them – finally appearing when they thought it would take at least another week. Now here he was, their boss pretty much, peeking in on them as they lay around during a rehearsal. 

“Hi,” Niki says, blinking out of her shock. She stands, shifting Zuko to her hip. “I’m Niki. Your lead guitarist.” 

That prompts the rest of them to unfreeze and introduce themselves to him one by one, and with each introduction, Tom – or, Tommy – nods, muttering a hello and repeating their names to himself under his breath. 

“It’s nice to meet you all,” Tommy says, when they’re done. “Sorry it’s taken so long, I was…busy with things. There’s –” he runs a stressed hand through his hair, “ – a lot going on right now."

"Sounds like it," Techno tilts his head, his eyes narrowing slightly. "I know we just met, but – you okay, kid? This can't be easy." 

Tommy laughs, and something about the sound sets Wilbur's teeth on edge. "Ask me again when the tour starts – or better yet – when it's over." Then he takes a breath, as if resetting, and smiles, bright and false. "What are you guys working on?"

Wilbur exchanges a look with Ash, and that pretty much sums up the rest of their rehearsal. Tommy doesn't step over to one of the mics that they've pushed to the side, he just sinks down onto the floor, cross-legged, listening to their hesitant music. After a while they loosen, realizing that Tommy's presence is very similar to Phil's – if Wilbur doesn't think about it, he can imagine that Tommy is just a lover of music and not, basically, their boss. 

After a bit, Tommy stands, and shuffles backwards. "This was nice," he says. Then, as if he wasn't supposed to be with them, adds, "maybe we can do this again?"

Wilbur isn't sure what possesses him to speak up, but –

"Of course, Tom," he goes. "We'll always be here." 

An interesting expression crosses over Tommy's face, before it disappears. But then he smiles hesitantly. "Alright. Cool. See you guys soon, then." Then he pauses, and goes, almost desperately, "and please, call me Tommy."

And then he slips back through the doors as if he was never there. 

He does come to the next rehearsal. 

And the next, and the next, and the next. He doesn't sing – not yet, he says, when Schlatt probes him, I want to listen for now. If that's alright. I just …I don't want to perform yet – he simply sits there, cross-legged on the floor by Wilbur's keyboard and listens to them make music. 

At first, he'd leave before their rehearsals would wind down, but Ash catches his sleeve once and coaxes him out with them, into the city. 

Where are we going? Tommy asks nervously, ducking his head and turning his face away from the pedestrians walking opposite to them. 

Wherever Ash takes us, little man, Schlatt says, hopefully to food, right? 

Ash, of course, doesn't bother with a response. 

They end up at a taco place, and it's magnificent. The air is warm and full of spice, there's music playing, there are a million different options of things to eat and to top it off, there's a wall that's just pinned polaroids of customers. 

Every group that comes in gets one, the man behind the counter says, smiling heartily. Go on, I'll take it for you. 

The way that Tommy shuffles off to the side as if they'd want the photo without him is interesting to Wilbur. Of course, he doesn't get far before Niki is curling a hand around his elbow and hauling him back in to stand in the middle of them all, but still. 

That, plus:

Here, the man hands the Polaroid off to Tommy as the rest of them sit down to wait for their food, you can put this up on the wall. Anywhere you'd like. Tommy hesitates, and the man tilts his head. Or, he goes, you can keep it for yourself. If you really want to. 

Wilbur, out of courtesy, pretends not to notice the way that Tommy slips the photo into his pocket.

Olive is going to kill Tommy. 

"Please," he's saying over the line, while Olive, outside on the lawn in their music note print pajama pants at one in the morning, freezes half to death. "Oli, please. You know I never ask for anything. This is the one thing. Please."

"Tommy," Olive sighs. "Tommy, just because I'm on break doesn't mean that I'm bored." 

"I never said that," he argues. "I just –"

"You just implied it." Olive starts walking in a circle so their toes don't freeze and snap off. "I'll have you know that I'm writing so many songs. Like – so many. You wouldn't believe how productive I'm being right now." 

But Tommy doesn't take the bait. Instead, his voice dips low. "Please come on the tour, Olive. I can't do this on my own." 

"But you're not on your own, Tommy. You have a band. You have a crew. You –"

"I need you," he says abruptly. "I need you, Olive."

Olive sighs. Stops turning in circles. Looks up at the dark sky. "If I come on this tour, you have to promise that you'll make friends with your band members." 

There's a beat of silence, and in it, Olive processes what they've just said. 

"Shit," they go, wincing. "I mean – ah – sorry Tommy. I just – I wasn't –"

"I went to see them the other day." Tommy's voice is soft, as it always is when he's off stage. It, Olive has noted in their song-writing notebook, makes him sound like he's constantly begging. "They're – they seem…good." 

"Good?"

"Yeah." It's a wistful sound. "Too good. They're not – they're not gonna last the whole six months. I just – I need someone that I know won't leave me." 

And here, his voice gets impossibly softer. "Please." 

Olive peeks inside to their darkened windows. Inside, they know, their mother has just gone to bed, and if they say no to Tommy, then they'll follow right after her, laying in bed after a full exhausting day of pretending. They'll wake up in the morning and keep pretending: pretending that they're not swimming in tension, pretend that everything is fine and normal, pretend that the shared air isn't suffocating them. 

If Olive says no, they don't know when they'll get out next. 

"Yes," Olive says, and they do one last bit of pretending: pretending that they aren't echoing Tommy's sigh of relief. 

The band is amazing. 

Olive doesn't really know what they were expecting. A group of arrogant, stuffy, blase musicians maybe? A collection of people who came to collect a check, who came to hit a chip off of the most well known pop singer in the past two years? Whatever it was, it wasn't what they met, that's for sure. 

Tom: come to rehearsal room three 

Olive waves cheerily at the security and makes their way through the winding halls. It's confusing, but it gets a lot less confusing when they can hear the faint sounds of music floating from down the hall. When they peek in through the cracked door, they see a bunch of people playing instruments – one pink haired guy bopping his head as he hits the drums, a guy with side-burns and a backwards cap rocking back and forth while playing the guitar, a really cool looking girl with pink hair, another guy on bass in a front facing cap, and then a lanky harmless looking man at the keyboard. 

Olive spots Tommy, folded neatly at the man on the keyboard's feet, hands on his chin, eyes closed, the picture of pure contentment. They pause in the doorway, just watching, just listening, enjoying the rich sound. Just watching Tommy, who looks more at ease than Olive's ever seen him. If this is what the band turns Tommy into, then Olive hopes beyond all hope that they never leave him. 

The man with the backwards cap does a little spin, and spots them standing there and jumps. Him stopping harshly makes everyone else stop harshly, and then they're all staring at Olive. 

"Hi," they say, waving awkwardly. "I'm Olive. I'm, uh, Tommy's plus one for life." 

“Schlatt,” the guy says. He turns to look back at Tommy. “Tommy, your security is shit, are you sure she’s supposed to be here?” 

Olive flinches. 

“They,” Tommy corrects instantly, standing up and stepping over. "And yes. Olive, you're here." 

“Oh shit,” Schlatt curses. “I’m sorry, that’s my bad.” 

Olive forces a smile. “It’s okay.” Their smile melts into something more real when Tommy comes forward and greets them with a hug. He curls around Olive so neatly and holds so tightly that it really tells Olive all they need to know about how the past couple of months have been for him. 

“Hi,” they whisper. 

Tommy just takes a breath. 

“I’m here,” Olive offers, and this time Tommy makes a small sound of acknowledgement. Olive knows that Tommy’s band is thinking whatever they’re thinking, but Olive finds, as they always do with Tommy, that they don’t care. Tommy needs this. There’s been enough times that Tommy’s risked everything for them, so Olive’s image means nothing in exchange for the care of his heart. “I know. I know.” 

Tommy sighs, then slowly pulls back, cheeks pink. “Sorry,” he whispers, as if Olive would be upset at him for holding on. Before they can reassure him, he pulls away completely. “Let me introduce you to the band. You ready?” 

“Born ready,” Olive grins. And, they think silently, mentally prepared to fight any one of these guys if need be. 

Olive loves the band. 

For now. They reserve the right to change their mind at any point completely according to how this tour pans out and how they handle Tommy’s heart. But for now, they think this group of people are a great fit, both for each other and for Tommy. 

Olive will never admit to having favorites,  but – well, their favorite is Wilbur, hands down. He’s sweet and polite, and reminds Olive a lot of Tommy back when they first met. Maybe even a little bit of Tommy now. He’s a nervous-wreck and spends more time apologizing than speaking, but whenever he isn’t saying sorry for something he didn’t technically do wrong, he’s really level-headed and gentle. He plays with a quiet diligence of someone who really cares about music, and it’s no mystery to Olive why Phil chose him. 

Olive also can’t help but think that Phil knew Tommy and Wilbur would flock together the way they do. For as long as Olive’s known Phil – which honestly, hasn’t been long at all – they’ve never not known Phil to make decisions like that on purpose. When it came to Tommy, he was always deliberate. 

Good, given that no one else was. 

At least, not in a way that had any good impacts. 

But now, Tommy seems to have found his people. Including Olive, there shouldn’t be anyone on this tour that isn’t watching out for him, which is good. It’s what he deserves. This is what Olive’s been fighting for since they’ve met. They can’t help but be happy. 

And also so, so upset that no one will do it for them too. 

Chapter Text

Called you on the phone today

Just to ask you how you were

All I did was speak normally

Somehow I still struck a nerve

“This tour will be filmed,” Phil announces, and Niki watches in real time as Tommy’s expression seems to shutter over and close down. 

So far, Niki’s spent three weeks as Tommy’s lead guitarist, and in that time, she’s noticed a lot. Certain mannerisms that he has, such as ducking his head away from prying eyes, or stopping himself before speaking to think carefully about all his words, or even settling somewhere and curling in on himself, trying to take the least amount of space that he can. It's unnatural for a star, especially one at such a young age, to be so…quiet about their fame. 

She's worked with a lot of bands and a lot of artists, and they all seem to have a sort of arrogant, know-it-all air about them. They want to be the center of attention, they expect to be given everything and listened to, and they hardly do anything without final say in what said thing is. 

But that sentence and Tommy's expression is starting to paint a very clear picture in Niki's head. And she doesn't think she likes it. 

"These are forms for you guys to sign, stating that you were informed of the camera crew's presence." Phil continues, sliding papers to each of them. Everyone except for Tommy. Olive takes theirs with a loaded glance at Tommy’s shuttered expression, but bows their head to start reading it over carefully. “They won’t be invasive in terms of personal history – of course, they’ll ask you questions like what your name is, how long you’ve been playing, what your connection to the tour is, but if you ever want to refuse to answer something, you can. If they continue to pry after that, just let me know.” 

“What about Tommy?” Niki blurts, and Tommy’s shocked eyes find her. He can’t be surprised that someone is concerned for him, can he? Niki’s sure that people have looked out for him in the past. If she finds out that Phil’s been managing the tour of this kid and not having someone look over contracts, then – 

“They want it,” Tommy says softly, eyes on Phil. His expression is carefully blank. “Don’t they?” 

Phil nods. 

He’s quiet for a moment, head down, all eyes on him, and then slowly, he nods. “Okay. Then it’s fine.” 

Niki, for the rest of the day, can’t shake off that weird feeling in her gut that something here is deeply, deeply wrong. 

Wilbur and Schlatt decide to finally listen to the album later that week. They all have their first mock recording session on Friday, so Wilbur figures that now, the lull between jamming and while Tommy is off getting things ready for the camera crew, is as good a time as any. 

Of course, it didn’t slip Wilbur's attention that Tommy’s hands were shaking during that last meeting. Wilbur feels like he’s fine tuned into Tommy’s every move, and that one was practically screaming for his attention. Tommy is shaking, his jittery brain relayed to him, Tommy didn’t get a waiver. Phil looked at everyone but Tommy when he said they could wave personal questions if they were uncomfortable. 

Wilbur hopes that wherever he is right now, he’s resting. He can’t even begin to imagine the anxiety of being an artist leading a tour all forming around your face and music. Camera crew be damned. 

“Here,” Schlatt nudges Wilbur a bit, pushing him so he’s sitting down. “Sit down. You look like you’re about to fall over.” 

Wilbur sighs, but listens, folding his legs under himself. 

“Are you ready?” Schlatt asks, swiping over to spotify on his phone. “I can’t believe that we have to be monitored while we do this by the way.” 

Niki, who’s standing off to the side, half-listening and half-scrolling on her phone, looks over, giving a half-hearted glare. “Don’t fucking flatter yourself J- schlatt, I’m not here to watch you. I’m here to listen to the album. It’s actually good.” 

“I sure hope so,” Schlatt mutters, but backs down and presses play on the first song. 

It starts with a nice, neat, declining violin, and Wilbur has to frown, because this isn’t what he’s expecting from a top-charting album that a lot of teenagers relate to, and then his expectations are even more shattered when there’s a blasting guitar and Tommy is singing with a rasp, like he’s being or has been raked across hot coals his whole life. It continues until he’s almost yelling on the mic, they say these are the golden years, but I wish I could disappear. And then it slowly winds down, until Tommy is whispering again, voice cracking, got a broken ego, broken heart – God, I don’t even know where to start. 

And then the first song is over. 

“Oh,” Wilbur says into the silence, because that’s all he can really think to say. 

“Mhm,” Niki nods. “Keep going. There’s more.” 

And she’s right. Each track is painstaking, emotionally driven song-writing and singing that not only tugs at Wilbur’s heart, but displays Tommy in a way that feels deeper than any conversation they’ve had so far. It almost feels like cheating, getting this side of someone who isn’t around to give it personally. Wilbur wouldn’t have been able to guess that Tommy had such deep wells of pain inside of him if the kid came up to him and said it plainly. 

Wilbur’s heart twists to think that Tommy is so familiar with heartbreak at such a young age. To make art, especially music, you have to be able to climb over such heavy boulders in your soul, and something about the way Tommy’s voice sounds on these recordings…it makes Wilbur think he’s still climbing. 

“It’s a break-up album,” Schlatt says, in that quiet, contemplative way that tells Wilbur he’s speaking just to convince himself. “It sucks to go through something like that. Really. I feel for the guy.” 

“I don’t know,” Niki speaks up, shaking her head slowly. “It feels deeper. Can’t you feel it? You’re a musician, you have to understand.” 

“I get it, Niks, I do, but –” Schlatt’s lips twist. “He’s also fucking young. Everything feels like the end when you’re young.” 

Wilbur, quietly, would disagree. He’s had bad days and he’s written emotional songs, and then he’s had terrible years and didn’t write a single word. He’s grown up and, thinking back on it now, the ruin from back then never felt any smaller the further he got from it. There are some wounds that close on their own, and others – they just fester. 

Something about this album feels like a build-up. 

“Hopefully,” Wilbur says suddenly, voice quiet. They both look over at him. “Hopefully making this helped him heal some. A lot of people say that the best art is derived from some type of pain but I don’t think that’s true.” 

“It doesn't have to be,” Schlatt agrees. 

“Yeah,” Wilbur meets his eyes. “But do you think he knows that? Do you think anyone's told him that?"

They can't give Wilbur an answer. 

Tommy doesn’t have an opinion on the camera crew. 

Well – he does. It’s just that no one needs to really hear it. No one wants to hear it. It’s not going to be productive, it’s not going to move anything along, so Tommy will just keep it to himself. Besides, if they want it, then – 

“I know how the camera crew thing is making you feel, Tommy,” Phil says, shuffling back and forth restlessly as they wait on the curb of the lot for the crew to show up. They’re late, which isn’t promising. Tommy hopes that they can keep up with the speed of everything that’s coming. 

Tommy hopes that he can keep up with the speed of everything that’s coming. 

“I don’t mind,” Tommy says simply. Phil makes a disbelieving noise. 

“I’ve been your manager long enough to know you, Toms. I know this is…less than ideal.” 

Tommy looks over at him tiredly. “Do I have a choice? No, right?” 

Phil’s lips purse, and that’s all the answer that Tommy needs for his hardly rising spirits to sink further. “Yeah, I hear you, but – Tommy, listen. We still have to pick openers. We.” 

Hope blooms in Tommy’s chest, unfurling oh so tentatively. “I can pick? I – I have a say?” 

Phil doesn’t seem as moved or stunned as Tommy does. In fact, he seems further upset by Tommy’s careful joy. Tommy can’t imagine why – he can’t remember the last time he actually got to choose for himself. “Yes, Tommy. Yes, you can choose. Tell me exactly who you want to open for you, and I’m gonna make it happen. Whatever it takes.” 

“Olive.” He says instantly. 

“Already done.” 

“Aimsey?” 

“Okay.” 

“Black Concrete.” 

Phil makes a noise, a whoosh of a breath. “I’ll make some calls.” 

Tommy hesitates. Shame bubbles up inside of him, hot and enveloping, as it always does whenever he wants to make a request. “Maybe…Ranboo? Do you think he would come out for this?” 

“For you?” Phil goes. “For you, I’m sure of it. I’ll move some stuff around and see what I can do.” 

Tommy laughs lightly to himself, a bit breathless. "Okay. Oh. I'm excited. Maybe – maybe this won't be so bad?"

Phil's smile is sad. "For you, son, I hope so. You deserve something good happening to you. You have for far too long." 

Tommy doesn't know how to reply to that, but thankfully, he doesn't have to. As soon as he opens his mouth, a dark car rolls up and someone with brown hair jumps out of the passenger seat, his green and white flannel twisted around his body comically. 

“We’re here!” He exclaims, then nearly trips and falls on his own face. He catches himself, then straightens out his shirt. "Oh my God– so sorry. We're – we're here." 

Phil steps forward, eyebrow raised, manager face of steel on. "You're late." 

"Sorry! Sorry, the tire was flat, and then the GPS was bugged and then of course, there were those darned cats –" the man takes a deep breath. He settles himself. "Hi. I'm Charlie. And we're with Bumper productions." He gives a glowing grin. "We're your camera crew. Ta-da." 

Phil gives the most unimpressed look Tommy's ever seen. Tommy peeks around behind Charlie to see a tall guy with quaffed black hair and a light blue sweatshirt jumping out of the driver's seat. 

"Is it just the two of you?" Phil sighs, lifting his clipboard and flipping a couple of pages to a printed out list. “It says here that –” 

“There are more of us,” Charlie rushes to say. “Our director, Connor, he’s – well, he’s on his way. I promise.” 

Phil squints at him for a moment. “Fine. I’ll give you a pass this one time. After this, you’re on a three strike system. Don’t be late again. This tour is too important for it.” 

And Tommy is confused for a moment, because Phil’s never been this aggressive towards people being late before. He’s usually much more grace-giving, offering second and third chances like it’s nothing, but then the man turns, and his pasted on stern expression melts into something soft and slightly guilty, and Tommy understands. 

Three strike system, he said. I know how this camera crew is making you feel, he said. Whatever it takes, he said. 

Oh. 

Tommy nearly tears up right there. He doesn’t, instead pulling on his people are watching and looking for Tom Simons smile. “Hi,” he sticks out a hand. “My name’s Tom.” 

“Charlie,” he says, then goes bright red. “But you already knew that. Uh – that over there is my buddy Ted, and unloading the back of the truck is Sapnap. We’re the cameramen. Our director Connor is on his way with our editor and social media manager.” 

“I can’t wait to meet them,” Tommy says, swallowing down anxiety at the thought of so many people watching his every move. This plus the actual audience on tour, plus all the staff, plus – 

“Don’t worry,” Charlie says suddenly, letting go of Tommy’s hand and giving him a reassuring smile. “We’ll stay well out of the way of all the music. You won’t even notice we’re here!” 

A loud bang comes from the back of their truck, and then a voice going, “Uh…Charlie – we might need a new camera.” 

Charlie does a full-body wince, then turns back to smile at Phil and Tommy sheepishly. 

This, Tommy thinks, should be interesting.

Schlatt isn't an eavesdropper, alright? 

He respects people's secrets and he gets that there are just some things that people don't talk about in mixed company. Maybe he likes gossip, but nothing serious. In fact, the only reason why he stops when he hears the whispered voice is because he recognizes it as Tommy's. 

He hasn't seen the kid all week, none of them have, so he's about to round the corner and push his way into Tommy's space and drag him to hang out with them, when he clocks the tone. 

" – no, I understand, and I'm trying, but –" Tommy goes, sounding hushed and frazzled. Schlatt stills. "You aren't– no!" His volume spikes before it drops quickly, and he sounds horrified. "Sorry, sorry, no. No, I'm sorry, I didn't mean to –"

He's cut off, and whatever the person on the other end of the line is saying, causes him to make a small ruined sound. 

"Of course. Of course. And I swear that I'm cooperating with them – please don't–"

A feeling of distinct dread fills Schlatt. Slowly he steps back once, then again, then a third time. He's not supposed to be here. He shouldn't be listening to this. Tommy's voice is desperate and begging in a way that Schlatt can only remember hearing in bad situations. 

Situations in which people are being ruined, in which they're being twisted and turned into someone that they've never wanted to be by a person that they think loves them. 

Schlatt's only ever heard that tone of voice there and – and on Tommy's record. In his music. 

He turns sharply, feeling cowardly. He should go and check on him and ask Tommy if he's alright, but –

But he doesn't. Instead he turns and walks away. 

Wilbur doesn't know what to expect for their first recording session. 

The day has been a buzz of nerves all day, and not just for him, but for everyone in the band. Ash got fed up and took them all out to breakfast, and throughout the whole meal Techno kept nervously tapping the jealousy jealousy drum-line with his knife and fork. 

"It's gonna be fine," Niki said, looking Wilbur in the eye rather pointedly. Which, valid, as the longer he sat there listening to Techno's drumming, the tighter his skin felt over his own bones. "We're talented musicians. Besides, Tommy's bound to need more than one take. A lot of these songs are crazy emotional. He's gonna have to warm up to reach that. It can't just be bubbling right there under the surface." 

"I wish he was here right now," Wilbur blurted, then winced, wishing he could take it back. 

But Techno nodded along in agreement. "Has anyone seen him today?"

"He's been busy all week," Schlatt huffed, shifting weirdly. The man has been kinda…off recently, and Wilbur knows it's not just him who's picking up on it. Niki kept shooting him looks all morning when he wasn't looking. "I kinda missed the kid sitting in on our jam sessions. Now there aren't any adoring eyes watching my every move." 

Ash raised an eyebrow at him. 

"Well," Schlatt said, grinning cheekily. "Other than yours." 

Ash threw a jelly packet at his face. 

Now, they're outside of the studio, going in one by one to record their parts so they can be carefully layered over each other in editing. 

"I've never recorded professionally before," Wilbur admits, jittering slightly. Niki looks over at him curiously. "I've played live gigs and on the streets and recorded my own music in my college dorm, but this is – wow. And wow. You know?"

She smiles. "It is wow, you're right. There's nothing to be nervous about. They're gonna let you warm up, tell you what they want, and then you'll play it. If they listen to it back and want you to try it a different way, then they'll ask you to do it again. All you have to do is listen and play, Wil. And you're good at that, so there's no way you can mess it up." 

And she's right. 

When he gets into the booth and sits at the keys, they tell him to play parts of the song, then play it as if he's frantic and let the notes sound discordant, and then play it as if he was angry, and then as if he was anxious. The more that he plays the same notes, the less nervous he feels – in fact, he finds that he likes the challenge of it all – trying to find ways to make the same sounds feel different just by playing them. 

It's cathartic, in a way, to wail on the keys over and over again and be praised for it. 

It's also extremely tiring. After they tell him he's good to stop, his fingers ache and he feels like he could sleep for a week. But even still, it's in a good way. In a nice, satisfying, did a good job sort of way. And when he exits the booth, it's to the cheers of his bandmates. Schlatt claps him on the back and Niki beams, rising up on her toes to kiss his cheek. 

"I'm not kissing your cheek, Wil," Techno snorts, "but good job." 

Wilbur beams, bright pink, and is about to respond when he sees familiar brown curls from over Techno's shoulder. 

"Tommy," he says, smile dimming slightly. He doesn't seem to hear Wilbur. He doesn't seem to see them at all actually, stepping past Ash's furrowed brow and Schlatt's hesitant reaching like they're not there. 

Under the lights of the booth Tommy seems even more pale and drawn, like a person stepping up to the gallows. His hands don’t shake, but it feels disingenuous of Wilbur to look at that as a ray of light in everything. He seems stiff as a board standing there, blinking at the microphone and nodding slightly at the instructions he's given. 

It hits Wilbur suddenly that this is the first time he's actually gonna hear Tommy sing in person since they've met. 

He has no idea why he's the nervous one. 

On the other side of the glass, Tommy's eyes fall closed and they don’t open back up. 

But what does open is his mouth, and it starts soft, almost ethereal, before roughening, before his eyes squeeze shut, before his lips twist, before everything inside of him seems to curl in pain. It's almost as if Tommy is tearing himself open in front of them, as if he is surgically slicing at himself and repackaging it in his song lyrics. 

I'm so sick of myself – I'd rather be, rather be – anyone, anyone else – 

And then it all rackets up higher, pitching to a wail of pain so strong that by the end, Wilbur’s sure that Tommy will drop to his knees and heave. 

He doesn’t.

All I see is what I should be: happier, prettier, jealousy, jealousy. All I see is what I should be, and I'm losing it, all I get's: jealousy, jealousy.

Almost by miracle, Tommy's still standing by the end, and with a creased, ruined expression he steps back from the mic. 

There's a moment of silence, stunned and shocked quiet, before Tommy leans in, terribly quiet, and says softly, "was that good enough?" 

Wilbur honestly doesn't know what the response to that was, because hours later, after Tommy goes drifting back out of the studio after his first take and all his band members head home, tired from a long day, the only thing ringing in his ears is Tommy's exhausted, wrecked voice, wondering if he was good enough. 

Chapter Text

God, I wish that you had thought this through

Before I went and fell in love with you

Their three months of preparation pass by in what feels like a blip. 

They spend all day in each other’s space, listening to each other’s sound, talking about music and going over choreography. Wilbur watches Tommy take to the mic every day, and after a while, they notice some things. 

“Here,” Olive cuts in, jumping up to the mic and cutting the height of it. Tommy’s eyes widen. “Sing it now.” There’s this cheeky little smile on their face, and after a moment Tommy clocks that he’s being messed with and shoves Olive away, eyes curving. The paleness that was caught in his cheeks eases slightly. 

Or even – 

“Can we sing MUNA as a warm up?” Olive asks, raising their hand like they’re in a classroom. Schlatt looks over, nose wrinkled, expression like ‘what the fuck is a MUNA’, but Tommy, checking the sound, ducks his head to hide his knowing smile. Wilbur gets to watch Olive coax him into bouncing around the rehearsal stage, and they yell the lyrics to Number One Fan at each other excitedly. Wilbur catches Ash snapping a photo of Tommy and Olive’s matching gleaming smiles as they claspe hands and bounce around like twin springs. 

And especially – 

“Let’s take a day,” Tommy announces suddenly, and it makes a clear sharp sort of anxiety jolt through Wilbur’s heart, because in all the time Wilbur’s known Tommy, he’s never been the type to just…take a day, but then he sees the way that Olive is holding themself in the corner, as if they’re made of a bunch of sharp, jagged edges that are barely laying still, and it suddenly makes much, much more sense. 

“Okay,” Niki says immediately, dropping Zuko back in his stand like she’s been waiting for this. “What do you want to do?” 

They end up, surprisingly, at a skate park in the low evening, and Wilbur didn’t know Tommy could skate, but he’s graceful as he pulls Olive onto his board and he’s careful as he guides them, rolling them along until Olive’s cloudy expression lightens. 

Basically: 

“These kids are fucking sad,” Schlatt says, and almost immediatly, Niki slaps his arm. 

“Don’t put it like that!” She scolds. “You make it sound like you’re calling them pathetic or something.” 

“Wh– you all know I’m not,” he throws out his hands defensively, almost knocking over Wilbur’s drink. Thankfully, Ash is quicker and silently reaches out to move it over for him. “Why do I have to – ugh, whatever, okay. What I mean is: they’re like – sad in a kicked puppy sort of way. Like, I want to bundle them up to my chest, you know?” 

“Oh I’m sure Olive would love that,” Techno drawls. “Just pick them right on up. Go on actually, I dare you.” 

Schlatt glares half-heartedly but doesn’t take the bait. Instead his expression gets weirdly solemn in a way that it hardly ever does. “I’m trying to make it light, but – I don’t know, I’ve been…hearing some things.” 

Niki’s brows furrow. “Hearing some things? What do you mean?” 

“I don’t know. Just – things.” Schlatt says, rather helpfully, Wilbur might add. “Not good things.” 

“Don’t gossip,” Techno chides. 

“It’s not gossip!” Schlatt exclaims. They all blink at the intensity in his voice. “It’s not gossip. It’s –” his tone hushes slightly, and he leans in. “It’s the kid, okay? I overheard a phone call a little bit ago, and it sounded…not good.” 

“What kind of not good?” Niki frowns. “The kind of not good that requires a lawyer?” 

Schlatt’s expression twists slightly. “Maybe. But not because of business. I don’t know. I’m trying not to pry, but – it seems like he’s not in a good relationship.” 

Wilbur’s eyebrows jump up. “What? What, like he’s dating someone that’s –” 

“I don’t know,” Schlatt says quickly, shaking his head. “I don’t know, I don’t know. Again, I’m trying not to pry.” 

“Well, you’re doing a shit job,” Niki says, but she looks concerned. “But, well, maybe this is a bit much, but we can watch over him, yeah? Maybe not bundle him to our chest like a little dog, but – I don’t know. Keep an eye on him.”

“As if he needs anymore eyes on him,” Techno mutters, but sighs like he’s giving in. “Yeah, alright. We’ll make sure they’re okay."

"Isn’t that our job, anyway? As his band?” Schlatt asks. 

“It wasn’t on the contracts,” Techno mutters, but Wilbur thinks he knows the man well enough by now to know that he’s only complaining for show.

Wilbur, personally, doesn’t care that it isn’t on the contract and doesn’t think that he has since he watched Tommy slip that polaroid into his pocket like it was a piece of gold. He promises to himself, if Tommy needs someone to look out for him, then Wilbur will.

Whatever it takes. 

The first bit of traveling passes like this:

Wilbur has a panic attack ten minutes before they're supposed to take off. Traveling never agreed with him before, and it still doesn't, but Ash takes time away from decorating his bunk in the bus in rock stickers to squat with him and squeeze his hands. Wilbur stops panicking and Ash gives him a sticker to slap on his shoddy headboard. 

Tommy spends all of the loading day in meetings, and comes out looking like he hasn't seen the sun in years. But when he sees them all organizing the tiny bus kitchenette, he smiles. Wilbur tries to pretend that he doesn't see the muted awe in the kid's blue eyes. Awe at the simple fact of them being there. 

When the bus starts rolling, Olive tosses back their hand-made hung beaded curtains and whips a kazoo out of nowhere and says: let's play a game with the intonation of some sort of musical themed Jigsaw. They have them all sit in a circle on the carpet and play match the melody, in which they have to, with nothing but their hands and available skin to slap, match Olive's kazoo song. Olive, Wilbur notes, is very gifted on the kazoo. 

All in all, it's very nice. Wilbur, once over the gut-shifting fear of having to pack up everything and go somewhere new, finds that being on a bus with his friends is actually quite fun. And he thinks they think so too. At least, with how much more Tommy is smiling as they get further and further away from California. 

Maybe this will be good, Wilbur thinks, watching Tommy throw his head back and laugh. Not just for me, but for him too. Tommy deserves to finally have a little fun and peace.

Tommy is going to throw up. 

"Olive," he says, hunching slightly, brown hair falling in his eyes. "My insides are gonna come out." 

"Happy pride," they say, eyes still on the guitar in their lap and the phone laying on their knee with the tuning app open on it. 

"I mean it," Tommy insists. "I'm – I think I'm going to die." 

Olive looks up, squints at him. Whatever they see on Tommy's face has their expression dropping and makes them stand, move the guitar off to the side, then step over. 

"Tommy, take a breath, alright?" They say. "You've played gigs before. This is just another one."

"It's opening night," Tommy says. 

Olive frowns. 

"They're gonna be watching ." Tommy presses, voice tight. Clarity immediately passes over Olive's expression. "I can't mess up, they already don't like the album, it's –"

"Okay, okay," Olive gently pushes at Tommy's shoulders. He sits back. "Okay. Take a breath. Follow me and just breathe."

Tommy fumbles for Olive's hands and clasps at them desperately.

"Listen to me," Olive says carefully. Tommy ducks his head, shoulders trembling. "I'm right here with you, Tommy. They'll be watching, your fans will be watching, but they don't matter."

"Olive –"

"They don't. I do. Just –" they pause, weighing their words carefully. "Just imagine it's me and you writing songs like we always do. You know, the floor of my bedroom." 

Tommy inhales shakily, then goes, "a box of sandies and a guitar."

"Just a box of sandies and a guitar," Olive repeats, smiling. "Just me and you."

There's a knock at the door, and Tommy curls in a little, not ready for the tiny bubble of privacy he's gotten to burst. But Olive turns, letting go of his hands and taking his safety with him.

Wilbur pokes his head in the doorway. "Uh hey, Phil told me to come get you, Olive. Ten minutes until your check."

Olive brightens – of course, they've always felt more at home on stage than Tommy. They chose this life. Tommy can't pull Olive into the black hole that is his … everything. It pangs, but Tommy's going to have to let go.

Tommy always has to let go.

"Thanks, Wil!" Olive chirps, moving to stand.

"Yeah," he says, but lingers. "Is everything… okay?"

Olive's eyes flicker to Tommy, and the look says do you want the opening he's offering you? And Tommy knows that Olive isn't pressuring him, he knows that, but he can't help but remember the firmness in their voice after that first phone call. I promise to come on the tour if you promise to make friends with your band mates.

Ultimatums. Everything is always an ultimatum.

Tommy nods slightly.

Olive's grin brightens, and they reach out to pat Wilbur's shoulder twice. "I'll see you later guys."

"Yeah," Wilbur echos, eyes still on Tommy, "yeah, good luck." Olive disappears down the hall, and Wilbur hesitates, leaning on the doorway. " Is everything okay?"

Tommy bites at the inside of his cheek. "Um. Yeah. Just nervous, you know? First show."

"I'm nervous too," Wilbur admits. "Can I sit?"

Tommy nods, scooting over, and Wilbur fills the space easily. 

"What are you nervous about?" Wilbur asks softly. When Tommy looks at him, Wilbur explains. "My sister Shubble always makes me talk about it when I'm anxious. It helps a lot to get it out there."

"I'm not anxious," Tommy says instantly, shame prickling across the back of his neck. "I'm just – nervous. My chest…hurts."

"And your palms are sweaty," Wilbur adds. "And it's hard to breathe. And your throat closes and you feel like you'll never be able to speak or sing another word again." 

Tommy blinks, stunned. 

"Yeah," Wilbur's lips twist a little. "You're anxious. But that's okay. You're allowed to be, you know? You're about to play a show for six thousand people. What do you normally do when you feel like this?"

Tommy's brow pinches. "Write a song." 

Wilbur pauses, and he seems to not know how to respond to that. "Oh. Well…try this. Try taking a nice breath, yeah? You can let yourself take a breath, right? Go on, try it."

Tommy, hesitantly, does. He inhales shakily, letting air fill his lungs, before exhaling slowly. Wilbur smiles as if he's proud. 

"Did that help?" 

"Yeah," Tommy whispers. "It did." 

"Pre-show ritual, all throughout highschool," Wilbur laughs lightly. "Just taking a moment to fill my lungs. Reminding myself that I deserve that." 

"Thank you," Tommy says. "I'll – I'll see what I can do for you." 

Wilbur blinks, confused. "Sorry?"

But Tommy's brain is spinning along, unable to be stopped. "Maybe a new dressing room? Or – I can buy you lunch. Bring in your favorite dessert for the post-show party?"

Wilbur shakes his head. "Tommy, you don't have to –"

There's a sharp knock at the door, and Fundy, part of the sound crew, pokes his head in. "Hey, they're ready for you both to get your ear pieces fitted." 

Tommy stands quickly, but Wilbur moves as if he's still trying to catch up. "We'll be right there, thanks."

Fundy dips his head then backs out, and Tommy turns to Wilbur, who is still, for some reason, looking at him in distress.

Tommy allows himself another little breath. He tries not to think of who will be watching. 

"It'll be good." He says. "Right?"

Wilbur's distress fades into something more gentle. "Yeah, Tommy. Yeah. It'll be good. You'll be good." He pauses, then goes, "and I'll be up there with you." 

Tommy's eyes widen, then he nods jerkily, overwhelmed. "Right. Yes. Thank you. Okay, let's – let's go."

He turns to leave, but then Wilbur goes, "wait!"

Tommy pauses, turning back, concerned. Quick as a flash, Wilbur is hugging him, wrapping his arms around Tommy and squeezing him once, nice and tight. Tommy gasps, breathing weird, but slowly, he hugs back, light and careful, afraid to take too much.

But Wilbur holds tighter, as if imploring him to.

"You've got this," Wilbur whispers.

And then all too quickly, it's over, Wilbur is pulling away, leaving Tommy to sway there, his center of gravity shifted and leaving him to follow his own pianist out the door. 

The show, thank God, goes well. 

"You," Schlatt says as they file into the backstage band designated green room, "need a drink." He nudges Wilbur in the shoulder slightly, and Wilbur laughs tiredly, too done to even be self-conscious about the way he flops down on the long sofa. 

Playing a tour – no, scratch that – just playing one single show is exhausting. Wilbur has never exerted more energy playing music in his life. His hands ache, his neck aches, his head is swimming with snippets of music and flashing lights. 

But, also, Wilbur has never felt more proud of his own playing like he does right now. 

"A drink?" Niki says, clipping her sweat-soaked hair up and collapsing down at Techno's side easily. Wordlessly she reaches over to help the man tie up his own hair. "You guys wanna drink after the first show?"

Schlatt has way too much energy for someone who was stomping around on stage around Tommy. The way he's pacing back and forth makes Wilbur's eyes droop. "Just a tiny one Nihachu, come on. Celebration is good for team morale!"

Niki lays her head back, too tired to argue. Techno doesn't seem impressed. 

"Maybe one," Wilbur speaks up. They all look at him, surprised. He flushes, then shrugs sheepishly. "We did nicely. Better than I expected. Celebration is good for team morale." 

Schlatt's grin turns up at least ten watts. 

Ash has never been an alcohol drinker. 

He likes New Years and Christmas for things like grape sparkling sodas and cinnamon sprinkled eggnog, not wine or champagne. He goes out to bars to hang out with friends, and never minds being the designated driver for the group, so long as none of them do anything illegal. His best mates from back home, Joe and Mark, love football and that whole scene, and Ash, for documentation reasons, and out of a sheer interest in humanity, tags along. 

Needless to say, he knows his way around drunk people. He knows how to handle them angry, how to handle them emotional, how to handle them when it's four in the morning after a gig and they won't stop hanging onto your car door handle as you're trying to drive away. 

Luckily, the band aren't too … wild when they're intoxicated. 

There hasn't been too many drinks mixed because Ash has been monitoring, so really, they're just tipsy at best. 

Wilbur is clearly a lightweight, all loose and pink-cheeked after just two of Schlatt's signature Malibu sunsets. He's sipping a water now, leaning against Techno's shoulder like he's two seconds away from declaring his undying affection for the man right then and there. Techno is better, with him simply tolerating them all, a small smile on his face as he carefully works his way through his first glass, swirling it around and round until the little ice cubes have melted in them. He's clear-eyed and steady, but has laughed openly much more than Ash has heard since they've met. He wonders though, how much of that is Techno finally warming to them and not the half a drink left warming in his glass. 

Niki and Schlatt, of course, have to be the exception. The both of them are sitting together at the tiny tour-bus kitchen island, shot glasses lined up in front of them, staring each other in the face. They, like Wilbur and Techno, have both had a Malibu, but it hardly touched them except to prompt them to boast (loudly, in Schlatt’s case) about the amount of alcohol they can consume before it takes effect on them. Which landed them here, shots poured and facing off. 

“I’m ready whenever you are, J,” Niki says, grinning like a shark. In her dark makeup and hair lit by the kitchen lights, she looks like a force to be reckoned with. Personally, Ash wouldn’t challenge her ever. “Take the first shot.”

Schlatt repeats her words mockingly, then picks up the first glass. 

And just as he’s about to throw it back, the door opens and Tommy appears. 

Ash, in part to being so well-versed with those who do drink and find it fun, can also, alternatively, easily spot when a person doesn’t drink and doesn’t find it fun. In Tommy’s case, he seems to be both. And going by the way that Tommy’s eyes lock on the glass tipping in Schlatt’s hand and the way his expression, flushed and pleased, quite suddenly drains, he’s actively uncomfortable around alcohol. 

It’s only a split-second, but it tells Ash everything that he needs to know. They’ve fucked up majorly. 

Tommy stumbles back slightly, somehow not making any noise as the tour bus door closes again. 

Shit, Ash thinks. Fucking shit. 

Tommy thinks the show was okay. 

Which is much better than he was expecting. There were a few times that he tripped up on stage – peeking out from the wings to see Olive singing to a huge crowd that was still filling in made his knees knock together, and he knows his voice was shaking when he sang his first track – but…well, he doesn't know. It wasn't as horrible as he was expecting. And he wasn't as bad as he was told he would be. 

Honestly, he thinks it has to do in large part to his band. 

It was a relief to be able to back up a few steps on stage and have Niki there on one side and Schlatt on the other. It was nice to be able to turn in between songs and see purple light reflecting off of Wilbur's curls, and Techno steadily spinning his drum sticks, just waiting for Tommy's signal to count them in. 

It was comforting to have Ash drifting around on stage with him, walking back and forth, circling around him like a shark. A shark for Tommy. On Tommy's side.

Finally , he thought, at one point between one heart-breaking song and the next, finally people that would be firmly on his side. As long as he can keep them, of course. 

After the lights dim, Tommy's body aches and his throat hurts and he kind of wants to cry, but suddenly there's Charlie with his camera and Phil bustling him over to the VIP pass section behind the stage, far away from the green rooms. The most the man can do is pass Tommy a room temperature water before he's nudged into a crowded room with his bubbly fans and a bright headache inducing overhead light. 

He's on autopilot for most of it, trying his best not to think about Wilbur's voice in the back of his head as his chest tightens and his plastered on grin wavers. You're anxious. But that's okay. You're allowed to be. And, pre-show ritual all throughout highschool. Just taking a moment to fill my lungs. Reminding myself that I deserve it. 

But Tommy doesn't have the time to. Not really. 

And besides, his fans are all so nice – well, most of them – the ones that aren't still paid a lot to see him sing. To see him full stop. He owes this to them. He owes them every piece of himself; every stray brushing hand trying to grab him, every shout for his attention, every detail of his carved out heart. This is the contact that he signed his life over on, so he just needs to grin and bear it until they leave. 

Until they don't care about him anymore. 

He has no real concept of time there, because he doesn't have his phone and he doesn't even know what time he got off stage, but eventually Tommy signs the last notebook and Phil is waving, pulling Tommy back to the door. 

"Whew," Phil goes, once Tommy is blinking spots out of his blurry eyes in the blissfully dark hall. "That was amazing. Amazing show, amazing aftermath – how are you feeling, Tom? Feeling alright?"

Tommy's a bit dazed, but when he opens his mouth to respond, one of the security guards comes in through the door, eyebrows furrowed. "We have a problem, Phil. One of the girls – she's saying that she's not feeling well. We need your approval to call a paramedic." 

Phil's eyebrows rise and he just briefly touches Tommy's shoulder. "Go rest, Tommy," he says softly. "You've earned it." 

Then he leaves Tommy in the hall alone. Tommy feels a little ill himself, what with his shaking legs and light head, but he turns and makes his way down the hall past where the lighting crew are taking things down to get back on the road tomorrow afternoon. 

Tommy has no doubt that with tomorrow will also come another phone call full of complaints and reviews of his performance online and more talk and more cameras, but for now, he takes his allotted breath. Wilbur told him that he deserves it, and he wants to believe that for now, he does. 

He was good. He was good enough. And that's new.

Tommy smiles to himself. Maybe it wasn't the most fun he's ever had up there on that stage, reliving everything, but he wasn't alone, and he's looking forward to seeing his band now. Asking what they think about everything. He's gotten used to sitting cross-legged on rehearsal room floors and talking about music with musicians. The last time he got to be properly creative – and not just in the stolen snatches that he gets when he and Olive curl up under a blanket together but truly free and creative and express himself – was way back in the writing of Sour. Back when he got to curl up on a couch in Kristin’s studio and just pour himself onto pages and into microphones, not thinking about how it would, months and months later, play out of speakers and be sung back to him by people who didn’t know where it came from. 

Even tonight, almost a full year after everything that happened, singing was like digging a hole into his own chest. He’s got a theory that the only reason he was able to keep it together was the threat of what would happen if he didn’t. 

But for the night, he’s done reminiscing. He can hide in the comfort and company of his band. If they’ll have him, of course. 

He makes his way to the green room, finds it empty, then through the winding halls and out to the brisk air. He keeps his head down, then hops up the steps to the bus. His stomach is just settling from all the excitement of everything else, so it’s not a surprise when the sight and distinct smell of alcohol makes it tumble again. 

His band are there, all lounging, looking comfortable and glowing, happy and proud of themselves. (As they should be, a distant voice says in Tommy’s mind, they are an important piece of everything here.) But, there in Techno’s hand, in Schlatt’s hand, lined up in a queue in front of Niki, is the one thing that will ruin it all.

Tommy tries not to breathe, head spinning. If he inhales too loudly, or moves too much, he’ll be seen. He’ll be noticed. (Distantly, he notes how much that hurts, because he was just getting used to the idea that his band were the only people he didn’t have to hide from.) He steps back, knees back to shaking, head still light, fingers numb. His chest hurts, he realizes suddenly, and his throat is gripped with something steel.

Anxious, Wilbur's voice echoes – almost taunting – in his head. You're anxious.

Tommy, in between his struggle for just one breath, wonders if Wilbur would care to know that he's part of the reason that Tommy is panicking right now. Another part, a much louder part, is berating: get up Simons, get over yourself, they're just celebrating the first show of the tour that you are dragging them all on. Can't you stop being selfish for one moment and let them have this?

But he can’t. He can’t. Because one allowance leads to another and another and soon it’ll end with him wrecked on a stage he never wanted, begging and pleading for any slight scrap of affection. 

He can’t do this again. 

“Tommy,” a voice goes. There’s the feeling of a hand on his shoulder, firm and steadying, pushing him back against the wall and following when his knees buckle under him. “Tommy, breathe. Breathe. I need you to breathe.” 

 Tommy’s eyes focus briefly, catching the swing of Ash’s black hair, the silver chain that the bassist never takes off, his wide concerned eyes. 

“Tommy,” he says again, squeezing slightly. The pressure makes something in Tommy’s brain reset, and he inhales like he’s just been underwater for days. “There you go. There you go. Keep breathing – slow, slow. You’re okay.” 

And then, he just – stays. Tommy is a mess under him, making these pathetic little gasping sounds, so out of it that he can’t even regulate his own breathing, and Ash is crouched in a way that has to be awkward for him, but still, he doesn’t move. He doesn’t pull away and leave Tommy there, even though he could. He could. Really, Tommy’s served his purpose for the night, there’s no reason for anyone to check up on him or try to put his shattered pieces back together. 

Ash stays and murmurs reassurances at him, and doesn’t press or make him panic more, but it doesn’t cap the mortification that Tommy feels once his breathing is under control and his vision is done swimming. 

“Sorry,” he gasps, cheeks warm. He tries to rise, but Ash keeps his hand there, keeping him down. Good thing too, because Tommy feels the way he does when he exists the recording booth, hollow and empty, without the energy required to hold himself up. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to – to do that. I don’t know what that was.” 

“You had a panic attack,” Ash notes quietly. Tommy goes to decline as quickly as he can, but the man continues. “You don’t like alcohol.” 

And that…is an understatement, but it’s an understatement that Tommy will take to the early grave that’s certainly waiting for him at the end of all this. 

“No,” Tommy shakes his head, avoiding Ash’s searching eyes. “No, I’m – it’s fine. It’s okay.” 

Ash’s frown deepens. “No, Tommy, it isn’t okay. Something you saw made you have a panic attack. That’s very not okay, actually. If you trust me and tell me what it was, I can make sure that it doesn’t happen again.” 

There’s a pause, and Tommy tries to believe the quiet promise in Ash’s words. 

When Tommy speaks next, it’s soft. “The alcohol. It was the alcohol.” Ash’s silence is expectant in a gentle way, turning Tommy’s period into a comma, making him continue. “It makes me uncomfortable. Usually I’m better about it but I didn’t know it would be – I don’t know. Sorry, this is dumb.” 

“It’s not dumb,” Ash says. “You prefer having a warning if people are going to drink. You deserve as much. And this is your space too. You have a say in what does or doesn’t go in it.” 

Tommy swallows around the words that want to come out. The bitter ones that he locks down deep and only lets out in song or over the mic. He’ll let Ash think that he ever gets a say. That anything here is his. That’s how all of this works. Secrets and ruses. 

And ultimatums. 

“Okay,” he says.

“What do you want me to do?” Ash asks then. He seems earnest about the question too. “How can I make this better?” 

“Olive,” Tommy blurts without thinking about it. Olive always makes everything better. “I – can I stay with Olive tonight?” 

“Yeah,” Ash nods, almost like of course, you can, you don’t even have to ask. “Yeah. Do you want me to talk to the band or –” 

“Can you?” Tommy blurts, and it’s unprofessional, and it’s his responsibility to bring up his own issues with the people that he works with, but – “Please?” 

“Yes,” Ash nods. He stands, then offers Tommy a hand to help him up. “Whatever you need, Tommy.” 

Tommy hesitates, then takes the hand. 

In the morning, after Wilbur and Niki’s matching gigantic sad eyes and Schlatt’s rambling, honestly quite confusing apology, Tommy sits down tentatively, wrapping his arms around himself. 

“Sorry,” he says. “I know this can be…stressful. And you guys were just celebrating.” 

“We can celebrate without drinking,” Niki insists. “Like – like, giving each other compliments about the show.” Then she not so subtly kicks Techno, who jolts. 

“Uh – yes.” He says awkwardly, clearing his throat. “Right. Um. Wilbur, you did amazing out there last night. You were nervous, but you pulled through and delivered, and it was great.” 

Wilbur beams, eyes still slightly watery. He sniffles. “And – and you, Schlatt, you –” 

“Were simply awesome?” He asks, smug. 

“ – did okay.” 

Niki bursts into laughter and Schlatt pouts. Tommy’s shoulders ease, but then – 

“And you, kid,” Schlatt says suddenly, reaching out and tapping his knee. “You commanded the crowd last night. There’s no doubt in my mind; the stage is where you were meant to be.” 

“Oh.” Tommy inhales. His smile is shaky when he gives it. “Thank you.”

Schlatt smiles back, just as gentle, but when his gaze reroutes, Tommy’s expression falls slightly. He’s trying his best, but it’s hard not to count the favors that he’s sure will need to be repaid in the future. 

Chapter Text

Red lights, stop signs, I still see your face in the white cars, front yards, can’t drive past the places we used to go to, ‘cause I still fucking love you

The camera crew is an added struggle. 

Tommy has never been filmed continuously like this before, so he doesn’t know what is considered to be overbearing and what is just normal. Phil constantly checks in from show to show – tell me if it’s too much, I’m watching them closely, tell me if you feel overwhelmed, if they encroach on your privacy, I will take immediate action – and Tommy’s responses to him remain the same: no, they’re fine, don’t worry about it, they’re okay. Of course, Tommy doesn’t really know. He talked to maybe three of the crew members and each time it was brief. 

Charlie is the one who follows him around the most, filming Tommy doing even the most innocuous things, like sound checks and vocal warm ups. We're gonna need a lot of b-roll footage to send to our editor, Quackity, he explained when Tommy’s gaze lingered too long on the camera lens following him into the new venue's lobby. Don't mind me – pretend like I'm not even here. 

But it's hard to do that when Tommy can feel the camera's eye on him like a laser pointer on a gun. 

This footage will go right to them, he thinks when he spots Charlie's green staff shirt out of the corner of his eye. They'll be able to see where he's going wrong. How much of a disappointment he is. And then, when they know that, then they're gonna – 

"Tommy?"

Tommy blinks and makes himself look away from the watchful camera to Technoblade and the rest of the band, who are all standing there in a semi-circle looking at him. They seem expectant, as if waiting for something, and for a moment Tommy can't place what that would be until he takes a step closer and closes the circle, putting the camera at his back. 

"Sorry," he says. "I'm ready."

Niki grins. "Day five, and we're going strong." 

"Day five and I need a break," Schlatt complains, making Tommy's heart pang slightly. But Niki rolls her eyes and Schlatt just smiles as if he's been joking the whole time. 

Tommy's not so sure. 

"We've got this," Wilbur says. When Tommy looks over, the man is looking back, his smile warm and gentle and calm. He's much more at ease than he was when they started, just like Olive, who comes back from opening with pleased flushed cheeks and a looseness that Tommy can only dream about. They're both happier here, he's noticed. And somewhere deep inside, Tommy knows that he would do a lot to keep them feeling like that. 

"We've got this," Tommy repeats, taking a deep, calming breath and willing himself to trust. 

After the show, the camera is again following him, and Tommy, knees shaking from exhaustion, finds that he just doesn't want to do it right now. 

Niki is pulling Schlatt into a headlock and Techno is laughing so hard his head is thrown back, which is good, because they're happy, but also good, because soon the camera shifts to them, and their excitement. 

Okay . Tommy thinks he understands now. If he's boring enough, if he fades into the background just enough, then no one will pay him any attention. 

So he takes a half a step backwards, measuring very carefully in his head. Not too fast, because then it will look like running away. Not too slow, because then you won't ever leave. But of course it doesn't work. 

Wilbur, with a towel hanging around his neck and a pleased flush crawling up his cheeks, pokes his head around Niki and Schlatt's… mess to reach out to Tommy. "Tommy! You were so good out there!" 

Of course, Tommy can't help but to lean towards the kind palm. Especially if said kind palm is Wilbur's. He steps back into the camera's line of sight and pretends that it doesn't burn. 

It's fine, he thinks, unable to stop himself from tucking closer to Wilbur than usual, just do your job. Be what they expect, and nothing should go wrong. 

Right?

"This is fun," Olive decides, sprawled out on the green room couch, half tugging Tommy's head down into their lap. Tommy bends easily, because Olive's center of gravity has always been strong to him, and he's rewarded with a hand trailing through his locks. 

"Mh," he hums, closing his eyes. "Fun." 

Two more shows have been knocked off the to do list, and they're all starting to get into a groove. At least, Tommy is; now understanding that even after a long grueling show, there is still more that he's expected to do. He saves up his stamina, doesn't let his guard down until he says one final word to the cameras before being allowed to retire away like this. Laying with his head in his best friend's lap while his band members laze about around them. 

"Are you not having fun?" Olive asks, frowning. Tommy makes a nondescript noise. Everything is fun, right? This is his dream. "Tommy." 

They stop though, and sigh sadly. The hand pauses in his hair to thumb at his temple. "Beau and Tubbo will be here soon," they say softly. "That'll be fun, right?" 

Tommy opens his eyes. Olive looks worried, dark hair spilling over their shoulders as they watch his expression carefully. 

"Yeah," he makes himself say, if only to soothe their expression. "That'll be great. I can't wait." 

They go to Vancouver, and Schlatt loses his mind. 

Bit of an overstatement in Niki's opinion, because she's of the thought that Schlatt is constantly losing it, and has never chilled once in his life, but something about Vancouver definitely heightens it. 

The show is great, with Tommy smiling in a way that Niki's starting to be able to tell is real, and with herself feeling like she's glowing from the inside out. She loves this job. The day that she can't do it anymore is a day that she doesn't want to live to see. They're still early into the tour – the first half – but already she's hoping that Tommy's next studio album calls for them to come back. As much as she complains about Schlatt, she – and she won't ever say this to him – adores him. Adores all of them. 

But whatever Vancouver does to Schlatt, she could do without. 

"How much time until we have to get on the road?" He asks, all stepped into Wilbur and Techno's space as they lean together and talk about the show. "Do you know? How about you, Nihachu?" 

"I do not want to talk to you when you're like this," Niki states blandly. "Did you drink coffee this morning? What the hell is wrong with you?" 

Schlatt ignores her and spins on his heel, disappointed with their lack of knowledge. "Kabuso! What about you? Do you know?" 

Ash, slumped in the armchair with a bottle of water, wordlessly shakes his head. Schlatt actually pouts for a moment before the door to the green room cracks open and Tommy's mused blond curls peek through. 

Niki's gotten better at a lot of things over the course of these four weeks. One: waking up extra early so she can sit quietly with Wilbur before Schlatt clumsily tumbles out of bed and breaks the peace. Two: accepting the recognition that Tommy tells her she deserves. He always, always, shouts out his band members for every show, and has even taken to showing her praise that she's received online with a quiet, it's important to take it wherever it comes. And three: reading people's facial expressions before a mask is thrown up. 

All of them do it. It's concerning. 

Wilbur, in the middle of an anxiety attack, will simply smile with tight lips and this pinched expression. Niki's learned to see it, and see the way his chest stutters and stops, so she knows to nudge Ash or Techno his way. 

Techno is pretty stoic, but when he's particularly affected by something, his nose will scrunch. She can tell whether it's good or bad based on what he's looking at. Listening to Schlatt and Wilbur talk? Fond-scrunch. Watching himself play music from a recording? Embarrassed-scrunch. Listening to yet another rumor being spread about Tommy? Angry-scrunch. 

Even Ash and Schlatt have masks, and Niki can tell based on the way they react when they're not taken seriously. Schlatt will just get more aggravating, as if purposefully trying to piss someone off, and Ash will shrug, like he doesn't mind and isn't bothered. But Niki knows. She's trained herself to know. So when Tommy peeks in, with furrowed brows and this tension of discomfort in his jaw, she is immediately put on alert. 

"Tommy!" Schlatt says, all excitement. Olive peeks in from behind Tommy and Schlatt's grin widens further. "Olive! One of you guys have to know: how much time until we get on the road again?"

Tommy seems to misunderstand Schlatt's excitement for anger, because he stills, tensing. "The – " he's breathless, "the tour dates are posted online, I'm sorry –"

Schlatt spins and points a finger at Techno. "Techno blade. Look that shit up, immediately. It's for the good of the universe."

Techno's nose scrunches. Niki hides a smile. "The good of the universe, huh? You saving the world on this tour, Schlatt?"

"In between this tour." He corrects. Olive shuffles around Tommy, who's still …well, still in the hall, and bounces up to Schlatt. 

"What do you mean?" They ask, eyes wide. Schlatt holds up a hand, looks back at Techno, who has dutifully – if not tiredly – looked it up. 

"We've got a grace period of two days before we have to travel again," Techno reports. "If you can save the world in two days –"

"I can!" Schlatt then turns again, brushing by Olive to grab Tommy's arms. Tommy startles. "Tommy, have you ever been to a hockey game before?"

Tommy's lips wobble a bit, and Niki braces to stand and get between the two, because Schlatt sometimes has trouble interpreting social cues like I am a little overwhelmed, but then the corners of Tommy's lips quirk upwards like he's almost relieved. 

"Um. No," he says. "Sorry. I haven't."

"This is perfect." Schlatt grins. "Then we can go together." 

This stumps Tommy completely, as well as all the rest of them. 

"You want to take our rest days on this tour," Niki speaks up, "and use them to watch grown men slide around on ice chasing a little plastic circle?" 

Schlatt nods excitedly, and Niki exchanges a glance with Ash. Ash smiles slightly, like, I'm in if you're in. 

"Tommy's never been," Schlatt tries, letting him go only to curl an arm around his shoulders and tug him closer. Tommy goes easily, suppressing a pleased smile. Niki is happy to note that the earlier stress that was on his face is gone now. "And I think, as his band, it's our job to make sure he goes." 

"That makes no sense," Techno says. But next to him, Wilbur looks interested.

"I think," he starts, pausing when all the eyes in the room rotate to him. He pushes on. "I think it could be fun. Breaks are important, yeah?" Techno sighs like he's giving in. Of course all it took was Wilbur's approval to make Techno cave. Niki laughs to herself at the predictability of her bandmates. 

"Are we allowed?" Tommy pipes up. They all pause, confused at the question. 

"Tommy," Niki frowns, "you do realize you're our boss, right?"

Tommy blinks. 

Huh, Niki thinks. Just – huh. Interesting. 

"Well, I just –" Tommy wrings his hands slightly, "I just don't want to – I don't know, mess up the tour schedule and –"

"We'll be back in time," Techno speaks up. He seems all for it now that Tommy is backing out. "Ash and I will make sure of it."

Tommy looks over to Ash, who taps at his watch and flashes a quick thumbs up. Tommy eases. 

"Well…I should ask Phil." He says. His voice is soft when he speaks next. Soft and steeped in wonder. "But yeah. I think that would be fun." 

There's a comfortable silence, in which they're all watching Tommy in his quiet joy, and then Olive speaks. 

"Can I come?" 

A pause, as they all blink at Olive, standing there, a little behind Schlatt, forgotten almost, in his excitement to get to Tommy. Their arms are wrapped around themself; the picture of discomfort, as if aware they're out of place. As if aware they're encroaching on something not meant for them. 

Oh, Niki thinks. 

Thankfully, Schlatt slides forward, letting go of Tommy to reach out and ruffle Olive's hair. "Of course, kid. You’re part of the band, aren’t you?” 

To Niki, Olive’s face screams am I really? But Olive merely plasters a smile over that and nods, pushing up into Schlatt's touch lightly. 

Masks, Niki thinks ruefully, where would we be without them? 

Tommy checks with Phil, and is stunned by how enthusiastic the man is about it. 

Yeah, there's more than enough time for you to go explore a bit, he said, flipping through pages on a clipboard, then opening his phone calendar. Honestly, if you needed, we could even add an extra day. Just say the word, Tommy, I'll make it happen for you. 

Tommy, overwhelmed, just shook his head, accepting the time that was already given. When he tells Schlatt, the man nearly jumps out of his seat with joy, and starts talking about all sorts of things Tommy's never heard of before. Face-offs and hat-tricks and power plays, and then: this'll be great for you kid, they're saying it's gonna be one hell of a barnburner. 

Tommy nods politely, but Schlatt, noticing his confusion, asks, "do your parents like sports?"

Tommy looks away. "I don't know." 

But Schlatt searches for his gaze, squinting. He seems to be intent now, finally seeing what Tommy deems as a crack in his own personality. "Really? Well…what do you do for fun, then?" 

"Music," Tommy breathes, trying to believe it. "I sing for fun." 

Schlatt goes quiet, and Tommy finds himself internally begging. Please, please, please. Whether he's begging for Schlatt to question further or just drop it, Tommy doesn't even know. 

"Do you really find all of this fun, kid?" 

There's that question again. 

Is it fun for him to pour himself into a shaped bottle and hold himself there to be looked at by thousands? Is it fun for him to measure his own facial expressions and words and movements day in day out to survive? Is it fun for him to watch people sing enthusiastically about his heartbreak without considering that he still feels it? 

Tommy has no idea how to answer that. 

So he inhales. Then, mechanically, pretty much as a trained response, Tommy smiles. "Yes," he goes, and it's bright and strained and forced, like a surreal Saturday morning cartoon. TV training at its finest. "I do."

Unfortunately, Schlatt isn't like all the fans and online interviewers. He frowns. "If you say so." There's a beat of discomfort, the kind that comes between two people who both know they're skirting around something dangerous, and then: "well, that doesn't fucking matter. Because tonight, you're gonna have the time of your damn life, alright? Mark my fucking words, Tommy, you're not gonna know what hit you."

They leave that evening. 

Tommy, nervous about being recognized, frets about what to wear, but Wilbur calms him, and hands him a hat, then puts his own hat on and smiles all silly like. "We're matching now," he teases, soft and gentle, and Tommy's tight chest loosens. 

Olive buzzes with excitement in the doorway, almost drowning in one of Schlatt's hoodies. When he steps forward, they grab his hand, squeezing slightly. 

"This is crazy," he whispers. Olive bobs their head. 

"Crazy great." Olive goes. "I don't even know a single hockey. What even is that? I have no clue. What do they do?"

"Walk on ice, hit circle into small net," Techno lists absently as he scoots by to get his jacket. Olive makes a face. 

"Sports are so weird!" 

Tommy laughs, squeezing their hands and Olive beams triumphantly. It flickers though, just for a moment. 

"Thanks Tommy," they say. Sheepish now. "I – I really appreciate you letting me come." 

"Letting you?" Tommy frowns. "No, Oli, you're always invited. Always." 

Olive laughs lightly and nods, like of course, of course, but Tommy gets the feeling that they don't actually believe him. He doesn't have the time to address it though, because Schlatt is bursting back into the bus, grin wide. 

"Uber's here." He calls. His eyes settle on the two of them. "Are you kids ready for the best experience of your life?"

"I don't know, is people walk on ice, hit circle into small net going to be the best experience of our lives?" Olive asks cheekily. Schlatt tsks at them fondly. 

"Alright, alright kid. You all think you're so funny." Tommy and Olive exchange looks and break into giggles. "Yeah, yeah. Alright, let's go now. Watch your step coming down." 

Tommy lets go of Olive's hand to let them go first, but just when he's about to go, a hand curls around his wrist, stopping him. Tommy startles, looking back. It's only Techno, though. 

"Sorry kid," he apologizes. "I just needed to get you and ask–" he points out the bus window. "Are they coming with, or do you want me to say something?"

Tommy follows his finger down and out to see Charlie and Ted standing there, as if waiting for Tommy. They've got their smaller cameras and equipment bags with them, and they're talking to each other quietly. 

Tommy's heart drops. 

"Um –" Tommy hesitates, fighting the childish urge to ask Technoblade to tell them not this one. Please not this one. Let this time, this night, be just for him. Don't turn it into content. Don't capture him at his weakest: when he's happy. But he can't. It isn’t professional of him. They have a job to do, and it's not a big deal. Honestly, Tommy should have just argued against the camera crew the first time he heard it if he didn't want them around. 

Not like it would have gone well, but –

"They're fine," Tommy makes himself say. "It's okay, Techno."

Techno is slow when he lets go of Tommy's wrist. Disbelieving. "Sure. Of course. Just let me know if they get to be too much. I'll tell them to back off." 

Tommy nods, then presses his hand into Techno's gratefully. How bad could it be, he thinks.

The rink is loud. 

Tommy, bundled in the warm clothes that Wilbur layered him in and tucked between Niki and Techno, doesn't feel the cold, but that doesn't stop him from flinching every time the guys on the ice smack at the puck. The sound cracks and echoes across the stadium so clearly. It isn’t as if his shows are quiet, but, well, the noise is different. With his in-ear in and the show planned out so clearly (step by treacherous step) in his head, every sound mixes together smoothly. This noise is sudden, and violent, and makes his heart jump into his throat. 

"Are you alright?" Niki whispers to him after the fourth time he accidentally turns into her and away from the men getting smashed into the barrier. "It's a bit violent, isn't it?" 

Tommy swallows, then thinks about Schlatt and Olive, who are sitting on Techno's other side and cheering raucously. They've got huge glowing grins and flushed cheeks. 

What's so wrong with him that he can't have fun like them? 

"It's okay," Tommy decides. He'll make it okay. Schlatt was so excited to let them come here, so Tommy's going to enjoy it. He won't disappoint him. 

Niki shifts back, but after a beat, threads an arm through Tommy's so she can lace their fingers together. Tommy blinks as Niki squeezes reassuringly. She doesn't say another word, but Tommy finds himself relaxing either way. 

He makes it through the first and second periods with Schlatt leaning over and tapping Tommy's knee and pointing at things to explain what they are, and Wilbur leaning over to point out things to explain why they don't make sense, and Niki quietly making fun of both of them under her breath for jostling her. He finds himself feeling warm even in the airy rink. Pressed between these people who he's been allowed to call his friends, experiencing this together, with no expectations except to enjoy, he, stunningly, actually does find himself enjoying it. 

When Olive and Schlatt cheer wildly, he claps and beams. Not because he particularly cares about who just scored a goal, but because he's happy that they're happy, and that they're here, and that he gets to be here too. 

"Better?" Niki asks, and this time, Tommy can answer truthfully. 

"Yeah," he smiles. "This – this is kinda fun." 

Niki coos slightly, making him flush. "Good. I'm glad. Are you hungry? In this next break we can all go get some food." 

Tommy nods, and so that's what they do. Techno and Niki go with him, with Techno complaining lightly about Schlatt's volume, saying he needs just one second of peace, while simultaneously patting Olive’s head, who is just as loud, if not louder than Schlatt. Double standards, Schlatt complains, and Techno rolls his eyes. Not double standards, I just don’t like you. I like Olive. 

“Do you want anything?” Tommy asks, tugging at Olive’s purple scarf to get their attention as they argue. 

“Oo – a pretzel if they have one?” 

Tommy nods, then follows after Niki as she yanks Techno away before they can start really arguing in front of all these people. 

Tommy blames himself for everything that happens next. 

It was, objectively, stupid of him to think that he could have all of this without consequences. His band members, even Olive, were allowed to think so, because they hadn’t had the same experience with fame that he has. They haven’t had to avoid restaurants, or certain streets, or hurried from any car into a building because people were watching. They haven’t had to dress up to go out, hadn’t had to become someone different in order to cling to something normal. They didn’t know the warning signs; didn’t know to look out for them the way that Tommy should have been. He couldn’t possibly blame them for not knowing. 

He, however, should have known the second they stepped into line with the moving crowd and a little girl gasped in shock. He was distracted, trying to decide whether to get popcorn or a pretzel like Olive, and didn’t track the way the whispers swelled in volume, or the way the excitement grew like a wave. Not until he was well in it, being swarmed by a group of girls, then their parents, then their friends, and then other people, ones who probably didn’t know him, but knew they had the opportunity to get attention from someone who was considered famous. 

“Woah, woah – Tommy?” Techno calls from somewhere on his right, behind the two girls with the matching pig-tails, but Tommy can’t respond, overwhelmed by the flash of a camera and then a hand tugging at his sweater. His hat falls off as he tries shuffling backwards, which reveals him more. 

“ It’s Tom Simons,” someone says. There’s a squeal, then more noise. Questions, one after the other, like rocks being pelted at him. Can I have an autograph? Can you sign my jersey? Do you like hockey? I was at your concert last night, do you remember me? 

Distantly, over the roaring in his ears, he can hear Niki snapping, and Techno calling his name, but he can’t see them, and he can’t reach for them, so in his head, there’s no hope. 

“I’m sorry,” he gasps. To the people trying to grasp at him, to his press people that will have to deal with his mistakes tomorrow,  to Techno and Niki, and then he turns and wrenches away, taking off blindly. 

Techno is livid. 

Niki, even more so, maybe, with the way she practically starts shoving people aside to clear the way, but Techno follows her closely, silently daring anyone to push back. He's a big guy, and he doesn't like hurting others, but as well as Niki can handle herself, he knows that people can be unpredictable. 

If he needs to protect his band members with his size, then he will. 

"The kid is gone," Niki whirls around, her expression full of anger born from fear. "The kid –"

"You're Niki Nihachu," one of the girls says, phone already clicking, and Techno has to reach out and grab Niki's wrist before she knocks the phone back into her face. 

"Tommy," Techno reminds firmly.

 Niki's jaw sets. "Right." 

Together, they go off, leaving the frazzled crowd and trying to follow the path that Tommy might have ran. They know enough about him to know that he wouldn’t go back to their seats. No, he knows that Olive can read him like a book, and that Ash and Wilbur are starting to learn to, and he wouldn’t want them to ask what happened. He wouldn’t want to make a scene. 

Well, Techno thinks ruefully, another one. 

“Tech,” Niki calls, getting his attention. “That better not be what I think it is.” 

Techno’s frown deepens when he sees the camera, and heat flickers in his gut when he sees that it's trained on a corner in the empty sports hall. 

Charlie's speaking, and it's soft – " – need me to do. I can try –" but Techno doesn't bother listening. 

"Hey," he barks, sliding in front of the lowered lens. He holds up a hand, keeping Tommy behind him. "You gotta get out of here." 

Charlie falters, but nods, backing up easily. "Sorry, man, I just saw him running, and–"

"And you decided to point a camera at him?" Niki snaps, raising an eyebrow. Techno doesn't bother responding, turning to look at the kid. He looks tiny, with his bowed head and the brown hair falling in front of his eyes, and the way he's breathing, all haggard and pained. 

"Hey, hey. Hey, Tommy." Techno starts softly. Tommy's head rises slightly. Not enough to meet Techno's eyes. "You're alright. They're all gone now. It's just me." 

Tommy takes another pained breath, then whispers hoarsely, "I just needed a second. I – it was too much. I wasn't– I wasn't ready." 

"They scared you," Techno says easily. "I understand. Can you breathe for me?"

But Tommy isn't listening. "I'm sorry," he continues. "I'm sorry, I can – can I just have –"

Sometimes Tommy needs to be reminded he can take a second, Wilbur mentioned once when they were sitting together watching as the kid signed people's CDs from behind the barrier. That he's allowed a moment to breathe for himself, you know? 

So he's like you, then? Techno responded. Half to be funny and half because he can see it even if they're both pretending it isn't there. Wilbur laughed shyly. 

I guess so. Yeah, he's like me. 

"Take your time," Techno says firmly. "Take all the time you need. There's no rush. It's just us." 

Tommy slowly stops shaking, and then lowers to the ground as if his knees stopped being able to hold him up. Techno kneels with him, hunching over him, keeping him out of sight. Niki and Charlie have moved further away and are no doubt keeping people away from them, but still. Techno feels the need to do this. To be whatever sort of shield he can for Tommy. 

"Better?" Techno asks once Tommy looks less pale. 

Tommy nods wordlessly. He reaches out, and before he retracts, Techno laces their hands together. 

"I'm sorry," Tommy says. To be expected. If unnecessary. "I didn't mean to – to do all of that." 

Techno tsks. "They shouldn't have swarmed you like that. And we should have prepared better. You don't have anything to say sorry for. We're supposed to protect you." 

Tommy's brows furrow. Techno doesn't understand what he's said wrong. 

"They're my fans," Tommy says slowly. "And you're –" 

He stops. He doesn't finish. Techno doesn't think he'd like to know what Tommy would define him as. 

"Just because they're your fans doesn't mean they're allowed to treat you like you're not human." He squeezes Tommy's hand once. "Do you want to go back now? The game should be over soon." 

Tommy gnaws at his bottom lip. His gaze flickers over Techno's shoulder nervously. "I – I think I'd rather stay out here? If that's okay?" 

"Yeah." Techno agrees instantly. "I can stay with you. Or Niki." 

Tommy curls a bit. "Does – do you think Charlie has to –"

"Not if you don't want him to." He says firmly. "Say the word, Tommy. I'll make him leave if you want me to." 

Tommy ducks. "Can you? Please?" Then his expression twists. "Sorry, this isn't your job. Protecting me isn't your job." 

Techno studies Tommy for a moment. There are a lot of things that aren't his job. He doesn't have to wake up in the morning and make coffee for Ash before soundcheck. He doesn't have to tell management that Niki needs her own personal space before shows to get ready. He doesn't have to scroll and scroll on their tour videos and report any comments he sees talking about Schlatt before the man can see them. None of that was written on the job description, and he doesn't get paid extra for it. 

Just like he doesn't get paid extra for caring about Tommy more than Tommy cares about Tommy. 

“This isn’t about my job,” Techno settles on. You are not my job. That is not why I do this. “You deserve to be protected. And I can protect you. Why wouldn’t I do it?” 

Tommy doesn’t seem to have an answer for him, but he doesn't duck away when Techno reaches up and tousles his bangs, so Techno decides to take whatever he can get. 

He'll make sure to show Tommy more. Much, much more. For however long the kid will let him. 

"Don't worry about it, kid," Schlatt says for about the seventh time since they came back after the game was over and most of the crowd was gone. Tommy, firmly holding hands with Olive, frowns like he doesn't believe the words. "Really. Don't. I can't believe– I mean, I fucking can believe it, kids are entitled little–"

Ash claps Schlatt's shoulder and smiles a smidge too bright. "There'll be other hockey games, yeah?"

"Ah, yeah. Yeah. We're not going anywhere anytime soon," Schlatt settles on, quelled, sincere now. "More fun times to come. Maybe hockey didn't work out, but I like a ton of other sports, Tommy. Baseball. Basketball. Football." 

Tommy laughs a bit, and Niki groans loudly. " More men tackling each other? Give me a break." 

"Alright, alright," Techno begins herding them to the door. Tommy pretends that he doesn't notice the man's hard look as Charlie's closed camera bag. "Let's go home. No more sports. No more men." 

Niki cheers, a loud hearye hearye, and Olive laughs boisterously, swinging their clasped palms. Techno situates himself behind them all, behind Tommy, and he feels a light touch at his shoulder for half a second before it's gone. 

You deserve to be protected. And I can protect you. Why wouldn't I do it? 

It, despite the forever lingering guilt, does make Tommy feel safe. And he thinks that maybe, just maybe, safety is a feeling that he, with the help of Technoblade and his members, could learn to live in.