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Tommy likes to think he’s gotten a pretty good handle on how the world works now. Things used to be more complicated, too much to take in next to the buzz of schoolwork and the rush of forever moving human life. There were things such as social rules and government laws and basic human decency. It was life, that’s true, it was life as Tommy knew it, but it was a lot compared to what it is now.
Now it’s simple. Now it’s just this: survive, or die. That’s it. Now the streets are empty with dead bodies wandering around, the laws are gone to the wind, and humanity has turned a little cruel in the face of death around the corner.
It’s been about three years since the world ended, and in that entire time, everything has changed.
He’s changed.
Tommy was just a highschooler when this shit started. He was barely beginning his year, complaining over the workload and giggling with his classmates over stupid jokes and making the teacher roll their eyes and scold them all. He was freshly fifteen, bright and loud and brutal as all teens are meant to be. He had a backpack filled with notebooks and pens, although no pencils, because he had forgotten to buy those, and he always needed to ask to borrow one from someone nearby.
He still has the backpack now. It’s worn down and stained, but it holds his supplies as he travels. He’s left the notebooks behind, there’s no need for math lessons these days, he needs all the room he can get to carry any extra food, bottles of water, medicine.
But he still has the pens. Along with some added markers, which he uses to scribble on the walls, on the counters, on anything in sight so he can leave his mark as he keeps moving. There’s no rules against public graffiti now. He’s free to draw anything he wants.
When he’s not hiding, or running, or keeping count of his food, he spends his time doodling on the world around him. He doodles out simple figures of people he once knew, people he knows are now dead. He draws out the zombies he sees on the road, imagining them as they were when they still had a heartbeat underneath their ribs. He draws-
Home.
Not home as he knew it, not the home from before, because the home before is gone, and it’ll never return, but home as something that he knows now. Home, now, is people. Places are weak, houses and bases usually end up in flames, with blood stained across the floor, but people-- they can be durable. They can be stubborn and dangerous, loyal and smart. They fight back against being killed, unlike a building that only stands still when fire eats it up with no mercy to give.
Tommy knows what home is, and he doodles it out every day. He draws his ideal group, carving out their personalities and their skills into something solid, nearly true. One of them is kind, but tough, quick with a gun and quick on their feet. Another one is thoughtful, loyal, a person who leads the way so that no one even has time to panic. Another is stern, stoic, brutal against outside dangers so that none will come near enough to do any harm.
It’s a good group, a good home. Safe and warm and nearly real. Tommy draws himself beside them, interacting with them, surviving with them, living. He imagines them taking the world by storm, mowing down zombies like they’re bugs, finding food and water at every turn without any trouble at all. He imagines them laughing around the fire at night, sleeping quietly at each other’s side when the time grows late, waking gently in the morning when the sun rises into the sky.
At the end of the day, though, it’s all just drawings. It’s all in his head, and now, with the recent weeks, he doesn’t even have it in ink, because everything is cold and wet, and his markers and pens don’t quite stick to the walls.
The winter is harsh this year. Snow falls down relentlessly, covering the world in white, snuffing out any trace of warmth. It covers up the streets, and even covers up the zombies, hiding them away in layers of cold, letting them sit in wait until something disturbs them and they can reach out to grab onto an unsuspecting ankle.
For the last two winters, Tommy had a group to get by. He had a fire, he had food, and he had somewhat decent company. Now, he’s on his own, with a still-healing scab on his face, and a backpack that’s far too light to be reassuring. A pang of hunger sits heavy in his stomach, and his fingers are slow as he brushes off snow from his shoulders.
The roads are quiet and empty, but Tommy doesn’t trust that. He walks carefully, mindful of his steps, the snow crunching underneath his sneakers. He’s been walking for some time, and he’s not sure where he’s going, but forward is always good, he hopes.
His feet have gotten uncomfortably numb with the chill, and his legs stumble awkwardly as he makes his way down the snowy sidewalk. He wonders if from a distance, he looks like a zombie, all shuffling around, seeming half dead. The thought is funny to him at first, then it’s just terrifying, because he doesn’t like entertaining the thought of becoming a zombie, even as a joke. He licks at his horribly chapped lips for what must be the hundredth time, tasting a trace of salt on his torn skin.
The scab on his face aches with the cold. He wants to rub at it and keep it warm, but his hands are only ice now, and he’s sure that not touching it will let it heal faster. He scrunches his nose as a way to relieve the ache, and he can feel the tight pull of healing skin against the movement. It’s weird, so he doesn’t do it again.
Wind howls over his head, like a warning call of a storm soon to come. Tommy eyes the sky above, trying to make something of the clouds, trying to see if the sight will give him a weather report into his head. All that he knows is that it’s cloudy. And cold. And it hasn’t stopped snowing.
If a snowstorm hits him now, Tommy doesn’t think he’d be able to bear it. Just walking through the snow like this is enough to render him weak, a snowstorm would snuff him out entirely. The thought scares him.
He keeps moving, legs too heavy, backpack too light, his hands itching to scribble something silly across the walls as a way to relieve the tension on his heart. He entertains the idea of settling down in a building for the night, and as he scans through the street for a good contender to keep him out of the cold, he hears a noise.
A loud bang, resonating through the air. Gunshots.
Tommy turns with a quiet gasp, eyes wide as he tries to figure out where the noise came from, how close it is. The way it had echoed makes it impossible to tell, so Tommy decides that he’s traveled enough. He’s too cold and numb to fight well, so it’s time to hunker down for the day and hide.
He turns the next street corner with faster footsteps, his legs wobbling underneath his weight as they protest against any further strain. He holds a hand out to the wall next to him, and he flinches and leans against it when more gunshots ring out. They sound closer. Far too close. Tommy’s throat grows tight.
He needs to hide. It doesn’t even need to be in a building, doesn’t even need to be under a roof, he just needs to get off the street, now.
There’s an alleyway just a few feet forward. Tommy can see the glimpse of a snow covered dumpster, and he has a quick idea of hiding amongst the trash cans, just until he knows the coast is clear. He pushes himself towards it, his fingertips scraping past the rough, cold wall, and as he’s considering the pros and cons of crawling into one of the dumpsters for the night, he turns the corner and has his heart stop.
This alleyway of trash cans and snow is already taken, it seems.
Three people are sitting kneeling up against the walls, huddled to the side to stay out of view, guns in their hands, backpacks over their shoulders. The one closest to Tommy is wearing a thick green coat, his blond hair pulled into a short ponytail, a gray scarf wrapped around his neck. The other two are farther back into the alley, wearing layered clothing, coats over hoodies, one of them even having a red beanie on his head. He thinks they might also have gloves. These are the wrong details to focus on, but Tommy’s been cold for hours, so it’s all he can focus on.
They all freeze up at the sight of him, mouths half open as if they were mid-conversation. Tommy can see the flicker of realizations cross their faces, going from ‘threat’ to ‘stranger’ to ‘a kid?’
(Tommy knows that last look well. Children are not a common sight in the apocalypse, apparently.)
“Oh-” Tommy opens his mouth, teeth chattering now that his jaw is no longer clenched shut. “Uh. Sorry?” He holds his shaking hands up as if in surrender, and he swears they all blink at him at the same time. They’re so surprised, and Tommy would laugh if he weren’t so sure this is a horrible place to be. “I’ll just-” Tommy takes a step back, and the person closest towards the edge of the alley suddenly stands to his feet, coming forward.
All that Tommy is aware of is the gun in his hands, so his heart jolts, and in his rush to make distance, his legs falter, due to being half frozen. He stumbles, then he falls, and he lands in the snow on his side, his breath feeling knocked from his lungs.
“Phil!” Someone whispers harshly from the alleyway. Tommy thinks it might be the one with the beanie. He’s already slightly annoyed by that person, and it’s solely because of the beanie. His ears are cold, sue him.
“Just a sec!” Phil whispers back, turning his head away to glance behind him. Tommy makes a mad dash to crawl away through the snow and get back on his feet. It’s hard to do with all his limbs feeling locked up and slow. Fuck, he should’ve gone in for shelter much sooner.
“Phil!” The other person calls, just as frantic as the first one. “Phil!” Phil ignores them both.
“Hey, hey-” Phil speaks gently, and as he comes near Tommy, he reaches a hand out, like he means to grab onto him and tug him upright. Tommy pushes himself onto his knees just as his arm is about to be grabbed, and he moves away with a jolt, twisting himself backwards and kicking his numb feet out at the person’s shins. “Oy-!”
Tommy tries to kick again, scooting himself back, his hands pushing against the snow. It’s biting against his palms with how frigid it is, but he doesn’t care, because this stranger is trying to grab him, and he is not letting that happen.
“Mate, you gotta get up.” Phil steps back, and Tommy frowns up at him, eyes narrowed in a squint.
“Fuck you!”
“Phil.” Beanie guy speaks up again, and he’s still crouched down, but the other one is standing on his feet, hovering in the alleyway like he’s debating on just coming forward to grab Tommy himself.
“Just give me a second.” Phil tells them both, and he turns back to Tommy, reaching out a hand again. “Look, we have to get out of the street-” He goes to say, and then his eyes go wide, and he holds his gun up, finger on the trigger.
Tommy gasps, then screams as a bang sounds out, with the bullet missing him entirely. It goes into the skull of a zombie buried underneath the snow, its rotten hands just inches away from Tommy’s arms. Tommy stares at the body with wide eyes, his shoulders trembling as his breath stutters out through his throat. His ears are ringing.
“Sorry, mate.” Phil apologizes, and Tommy can’t look back up at him. Even when new steps come closer from the alleyway, all he can do is stare at that zombie, stuck in the fact that he was so close to being eaten alive.
Then hands are grabbing at his sleeves, and Tommy twists back around, mouth opening to scream as his feet kick out.
“Shh, no, do not-” The man picking him up hisses with pain as Tommy knocks his heel into his knee, and Phil winces from behind him with a small smile. “Oh my god, just come here-”
“Put me down!” Tommy flails, and his feet leave the ground, arms winding around his torso and legs to keep him restrained. “You fucking bitch, put me down-!” He squirms a hand out to try and punch the person in the face, but his hits are weak, and his arm is tucked back against his chest soon enough.
“Thanks, Techno.” Phil gives a sheepish grin as Tommy is carried over into the alley, wriggling and yelling the entire way.
“I hate this.” Technoblade declares, and he struggles with Tommy for a bit more, trying to get a better grip on his struggling limbs. “Stop it- stop-”
“Do we move back to base now?” Beanie guy asks, now standing on his feet, looking at Tommy and Techno with slight amusement. “That gunshot had to have given us away.”
“I have to carry him the whole way?” Techno complains, and Tommy tries to bite him. “Stop it-!”
“We’ll go right now. Let me see him first.” Phil puts his gun away, circling around Techno with his hands held out to Tommy.
“Get away from me-” Tommy warns, snapping his teeth as a warning. “I’ll fucking bite your fingers off!”
“I’m not going to hurt you.” Phil promises, Techno holding even tighter when he comes near. Tommy can hardly breathe, let alone move in the hold.
“I’m going to hurt you.” Tommy threatens. Beanie guy snorts. “And you! Beanie-wearing motherfucker.”
Beanie guy frowns with deep offense, holding his hands to his hat. “What’s wrong with keeping my head warm?”
“Everything. That color makes you look stupid.”
Beanie guy frowns even harder, mouth hanging open, but it’s too exaggerated now to be true. He’s just playing along. Teasing, even. He pulls at his hat, slipping it off and revealing messy curls underneath. Specks of snow fall onto him within seconds.
“Wil.” Phil scolds, and Wilbur waves him off, coming closer. Tommy tries to kick his legs, and he snaps his teeth again, but it’s not very intimidating. He isn’t very intimidating. He’s a scrawny, half-starved teen who’s basically a popsicle from how much he’s been stumbling around in the cold.
Wil steps up to Tommy in Techno’s arms and yanks the beanie over his head, adjusting it over his cold ears so that he’s all covered up. Tommy falters at the gesture, not because it’s kind, but because it’s warm, and his head doesn’t know what to do with the sudden nice change in temperature.
“There. Maybe the color looks better on you.” Wil hums, and when he steps back, Phil is taking his place, and grabbing onto Tommy’s face and lifting his chin up.
“Jesus fuck- he’s freezing.” Phil swears, and he grabs at Tommy’s hand, squeezing them for a moment with his palms feeling so much more warmer than Tommy’s own. Maybe that’s because the man has good pockets. Tommy’s pockets are thin, and ripped, and just shitty all around. “We need to get back to base. Techno, are you alright with carrying him?”
“I’ve got him.” Techno assures, despite the fact he had been complaining about Tommy just a few moments prior. “Although, if he bites me, I’m dropping him.”
“Don’t fucking drop him-” Phil scoffs.
“Hear that, child? Better not bite your mode of transportation.” Wil teases.
“I’m not a child.” Tommy spits out, but he no longer kicks and screams. Being in a stranger’s hold is arguably better than limping around in the snow. Is he being kidnapped right now? Possibly. Not the first time it’s happened. But kidnapping currently implies the idea of a warm base, with a fire, and possibly free food, and Tommy will gladly take that over freezing to death on an empty stomach tonight.
“You certainly look young.” Phil points out, and he nods towards Wil, stepping down the alleyway. “Wil, keep an eye out.” And Wilbur does, lifting his head with his gun back in his hands, his eyes alert and on the watch. Phil does the same, but he waits to the side, and lets Techno pass him so that he can walk behind.
“I’m eighteen. Legal adult.” Tommy argues. He tries to peek over Techno’s shoulder, and Techno adjusts his hold so that it’s easy to lift his chin over to look at Phil. “I could pay taxes.”
“Taxes don’t exist anymore.” Techno points out.
“Thank god for that.” Wil mutters.
“And neither do laws.” Techno continues. “So does eighteen really count as an adult, then?”
Tommy frowns at Phil, the expression for Techno. “The fuck? Of course it does.”
“I vote no.” Wilbur says, as they step out into the open street, quickly making a path towards somewhere they know.
“I also vote no.” Phil adds on, looking around the street and sticking close to Techno’s back. “I say you’re not an adult until you’re…twenty.”
“Wha- No!” Tommy sputters.
“I vote yes on that.” Techno says.
“I also vote yes.” Wilbur agrees, enjoying the strangled noise Tommy makes at them all. “I love democracy.”
The wind blows through with a particularly cold chill, and Tommy can’t lift a hand to pull at the hat on his head, so he instead just burrows his head against Techno’s shoulder. He’s still cold, teeth chattering and legs feeling numb, but the edge has been taken off, and he’s sure he won’t freeze right through anytime soon.
Tommy stares off at the buildings they pass, wondering which one would be their base, tucked away from the cold. He wonders if they plan on letting him stay there for a while, out of the generosity of their hearts, or out of a favor they feel they owe to a young face out on the street. People can be lenient with children, Tommy’s learnt that well, but he knows he’s not a child anymore.
Well. Not to others. To these, he’s apparently got two more years to go until he can legally pay taxes.
Wilbur slows in his steps, a sharp swear leaving his lips. Techno stops in his tracks, and Phil comes up to his side, reaching out and pulling Wilbur backwards.
“Wait, wait-” Phil tries to say, and then a voice far off yells out, hostile and loud. “Shit.”
“Do we run?”
“They’ll shoot.” Phil shakes his head. “Put your gun away. Get in front of the kid.”
“Phil.” Wilbur murmurs, but he does as he’s told. They all wait in place as other survivors come close, walking through the snow covered street. Tommy sneaks a glance, and sees three of them, all with guns in their hands.
“Hey, mate.” Phil greets them as they walk up. “We’re not looking for trouble.”
“Neither are we.” They respond. “You’ve got something in your bags?”
“Please, we can’t spare anything.” Phil holds out a hand. “We’ve got a sick kid, we have to keep what we got.”
“He’s sick?”
“Fever. He’s not bitten.”
“Doesn’t matter much, does it? He looks half dead already.”
Tommy can see Wilbur take a step closer to him and Techno, hiding him further from view. Techno’s hold grows tighter for a moment, and he turns Tommy away, pressing him close to his chest.
“It’s a shame, but it’s life. You won’t need food for him soon.”
“... Excuse me?”
Something has gone cold, there. Not with the air, or the temperature, but with Phil. The entire time he talked with Tommy, talked with the others, he was friendly. Wary, careful, as all survivors should be, but still friendly. Warm.
This is cold. Tommy shivers with his lips pressed tightly together.
“I’m just pointing it out.” The stranger says, like Phil’s overreacting. “Hand something over, and we’ll leave you be.”
Phil huffs. “What do you have in your bags?” He asks, as if honestly curious. “We’ve been wanting to stock up on more medicine. It’d be nice if you had that.”
“We’re not trading.”
“I never said we were.”
Tommy swallows down a lump in his throat. Technoblade breathes out over his head, his breath coming out as smoke against the cold.
“That coat on you looks good enough for the kid.” He says. “We’ll take it.”
“I’m not- I'm not giving it over.”
“We weren’t asking.” Phil says, and both him and Wilbur move, firing their guns before Tommy can even take his next breath. Tommy flinches in Techno’s arms, and he hears three bodies thump into the snow, with Phil giving a short, almost satisfied sigh.
“Hey, good shot, mate.” He praises, walking forward to look at what the people had on them, and to take that coat for Tommy. Tommy turns his head to look at the bodies as Wilbur moves forward, and he sees all three of them have been shot through the skull, clean hits.
“My aim is impeccable.” Wilbur brags, looking over his shoulder at Tommy and waving his gun up with a grin.
“Ehh.” Technoblade shrugs, Tommy’s lips twitching up into a near smile. “I’ve seen you during your practice shots. Remember that time you tried to shoot that bottle-”
“Techno, shut the fuck up-”
“-and you missed and instead you hit-”
“-I’m going to shoot you in the foot -”
“Oh, they do have medicine!” Phil exclaims, looking through the bags and holding up a small bottle of pills. “This will be good to have.”
“Is there anything else?” Wilbur asks, quickly taking another bag and looking through it so that he can move on from Techno’s topic at hand.
“Grab whatever’s good.” Phil waves a hand, and Wilbur does just that, emptying out the bags with Phil and filling up their own so that they could put it to good use. Phil takes the coat off from the corpse, folding it up and holding it in his arms. “I’ll wash this later, and you can wear it when we go out, yeah, mate?” Phil says towards Tommy, and Tommy just nods.
He’s not sure what to feel. There are three dead bodies on the ground. They seemed like they were going to be dead the moment they implied Tommy was going to die.
These people are touchy with threats. Or maybe they’re sensitive to the idea of a child dying? Tommy’s used to that sentiment as well. Humans may have turned cruel, but most still hold children as something precious.
Again, though, Tommy doesn’t think he counts as a child.
And again, though, he thinks that doesn’t matter, because these fuckers have voted otherwise. He hates democracy.
When all is looted and done, they go on their way again, a bit more relaxed, but still just as wary. Technoblade keeps a steady grip on Tommy the whole way, but Tommy isn’t thinking of escaping now. He’s busy weighing his pros and cons, his tired mind wondering if he’s now gotten lucky enough to get a spot out of the cold for quite some time.
He’s not sure when it happens-- maybe it’s between the constant movement of Techno walking along, or the soft humming of Wilbur singing a song out into the winter air-- but his eyes grow heavy, and Tommy drifts into something like sleep. He faintly stays aware of what’s around him, of the way the others climb up a set of stairs, metal creaking out. A door opens, and someone makes a short huff.
“I’m starting up the fire. Wil, go find some clothes for-” And Phil pauses. “Oh, wait a minute.”
“Can someone close the door? My hands are busy.” Techno says above Tommy, and Tommy’s eyes flutter open, his face half buried against Techno’s coat. “Alright, kid, I’m putting you down.” He says quietly, and Tommy flails a bit when he gets lowered onto something soft. A couch.
A couch? He blinks more, and looks around. Oh, a living room.
Wilbur’s laughing as Phil kneels in front of a fireplace, giving a long sigh. “You didn’t even think to ask?”
“You didn’t either!” Phil yells back, and fire comes to life, warmth crawling through the air. Tommy lays still at the feeling of it, blinking blearily with the strange sensation of something like safety. “Go get clothes!”
“I’m going, I’m going!”
“What are we yelling about?” Techno asks, sitting beside Tommy’s head, the couch cushions dipping down with his weight.
“Mate.” Phil says, coming over to the couch and crouching down to Tommy’s eye level. Tommy squints at him with a drowsy frown. “What’s your name?”
Techno snorts.
“Don’t laugh at me, you didn’t ask either.” Phil scoffs, but Techno just laughs lightly, glad to make fun of Phil. Wilbur comes back with another amused cackle. “You- Wil, if you keep laughing, I’m grounding you.”
“Why me?! Techno’s laughing too!”
“No I’m not. Your ears are broken.”
“Tommy.” Tommy interrupts them all, and the room goes quiet. Not entirely quiet, the fire is flickering away, and Wilbur’s footsteps are shuffling across the floor. But it’s hushed as the three of them take the name in. “My name is Tommy.”
Phil smiles, resting his chin down on the couch cushion, just before Tommy’s face. “Hi, Tommy.” He whispers, as if needing to be careful of Tommy’s sleepy mood. “Welcome home.”
Tommy blinks at the greeting. He glances over the walls, over the warm fireplace, and over the signs of life scattered around. He sees spare jackets thrown over the table, the couch, he sees boots beside the fireplace, he sees dried out flowers hung in frames up on the walls, with plenty of free space around it.
He thinks of his drawings, his doodles, his constant imagination to keep him going through the lonelier nights. He thinks of the people he’s made up, of the home that’s only in his head.
Maybe it wasn’t only meant to be in his head.
Tommy laughs, soft and relieved, and Wilbur laughs with him, still amused at Phil.
“Wil, you’re grounded.”
“Oh, for fuck’s sake-”
Tommy smiles, happy and careless, like a teenager should.