Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“Hey! Thief!”

Tommy doesn’t move, staring at a young child with cookies overflowing from their hands as they book it. His own stolen cookie is half eaten, but the baker runs right past him without a single glance. The door to the shop slams closed, and Tommy’s left alone.

He looks at the cameras, flipping them off meaninglessly before hopping over the counter and taking a bite out of each cookie displayed. After each bite, he throws them across the bakery, watching them burst into pieces when they hit the wall and the floor.

A sharp grin replaces his formerly apathetic frown, and slides back over the counter, using his foot to shove chairs over on their sides, flipping a table with both hands so hard that it hits the wall and shatters a mirror that was on it.

It’s then that the baker walks back in, grumbling and wiping his hands on his apron. Tommy smirks when the baker realizes what happened to his bakery, slowly creeping forwards before stopping just where Tommy is. Tommy’s slightly taller, and he looks down on the baker as he takes in his destroyed surroundings with wide eyes.

“Fuck. That fucking bitch,” the baker curses, stepping back and picking up a few chairs. “Fucking brat must’ve been a distraction or some shit. Destroyed my fucking shop.”

Tommy picks up a chair and throws it at the wall.

The baker doesn’t even flinch, not even glancing towards it or acknowledging the now splintered chair. He continues to clean.

Frustration grips Tommy tightly, and in a split motion, grabs a chair and slams it into the glass door, shattering it to pieces.

The baker doesn’t make any move. Not a twitch, a look, or a sound. He just has the pinched expression on his face that’s been present since he walked into the aftermath of a bull in a china shop.

Just as Tommy’s about to step outside of the broken glass door, he turns around the gives the baker two middle fingers, shouting a “fuck you” that goes unnoticed before turning on his heel and strutting out into the street.

The city is busy, cars stopped in a gridlock on the streets and people crowding the sidewalk. A few people spare the broken door some looks, but Tommy doesn’t care.

He is imperceivable afterall.

It's a shitty power, one he was cursed with at ten years old. Almost everybody receives a power when they turn ten, some extremely useful and some not so much. An even rarer few don’t receive anything at all. However, Tommy’s is in one of the most uncommon categories: life ruining.

He woke up to a mother who didn’t even know she had a son, and a father who didn’t hug Tommy back no matter how tightly Tommy squeezed. He threw things, broke the coffee pot, even ripped one of his mother’s paintings, but it was like he didn’t exist.

In a last ditch hope to escape from this hell, Tommy had walked himself to school, tears falling from his eyes when Mr. Sam and his classmates acted like he wasn’t there. It had to have been fake, like everyone was pretending to ignore him, pretending to not know he’s there.

Tommy had that false belief until he walked up to his best friend, Ranboo, and Ranboo didn't even look up from the book he was reading. He tapped his shoulders, screamed in their ears, and even slapped their face once. Not a flinch.

Tommy wasn’t alive anymore. That was the last time he saw Ranboo and his parents, moving to the big city where there are things that could actually keep him occupied when nobody else can. He went back a year ago, heart thundering as he walked through his hometown to find it vacant of his parents and best friend. They disappeared without a trace, just like Tommy did, but at least he remembered them.

And it leads him here. Standing on the curb as the traffic jam slowly inches forwards. A few years ago, when he was still desperate for any attention (he totally doesn’t need any attention now), he would climb on top of the cars and shout at the top of his lungs, but now it feels pointless. Even his little tantrum in the bakery was meaningless, just something Tommy did because he was bored.

He did get free cookies because of it. A plus side of his curse is that he never has to pay for anything, he supposes.

Now, he watches the traffic, or the stilled traffic, munching on cookies from his pockets. After a moment, he weaves through the cars, walking for no reason. He doesn’t really have a purpose; if no one can perceive him, what is he meant to do?

There’s somebody singing in front of a store a few feet away, and Tommy follows the sound of guitar strings strumming and a soft, but confident voice rising in the air. The man sports a maroon beanie on his head, a long tan coat over his shoulders, and a plush yellow sweater under it.

He looks stupid, and oh, how Tommy wants to tell him that much.

Tommy sits down directly in front of the open guitar case, nodding his head along with the man’s as he plucks the strings. He isn’t currently singing, but Tommy thinks his music is good enough without his voice as well. His brown hair falls in front of his eyes, and he tries to blow it out of his face to no avail. The man looks so idiotic, that Tommy almost laughs.

The man sighs, before suddenly lurching up, bringing his guitar with him and expertly setting it in his case and latching it shut. Tommy wasn’t prepared for the quick exit, but he gets up just as fast as the man, running to catch up.

He walks in step with the man, before saying, “I’m Tommy.” It’s useless, and is proven useless by the way the man ignores him. Or more accurately, doesn’t know he’s talking to him.

He tries to swallow down the bite that comes with being ignored—it’s been happening for five years, why is this any different? It’s not, so he keeps talking.

“Your hat looks fuckin’ awful. Everybody knows that blue is the best color. Not that fuckin’ ugly rose flower color. Roses are the fuckin’ worst flower. They hurt you when you try to touch them. Bastard.” He rambles on and on even though the man just walks along the streets humming to himself.

Tommy stops when they walk into a neighborhood, once that looks comfortable but not overly wealthy. The man must be going home, and Tommy has no reason to not follow him. It’s not even creepy at this point; the man has no clue Tommy is there, and he never will.

He slips in behind the man, standing off to the side as the man takes off his jacket and hat, throwing the hat on top of the coat on a hook.

“Techno?” The man yells up the stairs, pausing for a second before shaking his head and going into the kitchen.

There’s another man there, blond hair pulled back at the nape of his neck and a green bathrobe tied around his waist. Something’s sizzling on the stove, and Tommy walks over without any regard to the brown haired man anymore, focusing on the bacon in a pan. It smells wonderful, and Tommy grabs a slice that’s already been placed on a plate. The missing piece of bacon goes unnoticed, like it never existed in the first place, as expected.

Speaking of the bacon, it’s fucking delicious. It’s like butter on his tongue, crispy in the places it needs to be and soft in the other places. Tommy takes another piece, shoving it into his mouth like a deranged raccoon, and then he takes another. He decides to spare the two men unaware of his actions and leaves the rest, despite how much he wants to.

“Only bacon for dinner?” The brown haired man teases, nudging the blond guy.

“You can start on the eggs then, Wilbur,” the blond man says. And bingo, there’s the name of the guy Tommy was following. It’s a stupid name too.

“Phil, Dadza, Philza, you’re crazy,” Wilbur says, backing away with his hands up. “Absolutely insane.”

Phil rolls his eyes, and Tommy laughs before sobering quickly. He almost feels like he’s invading the two, like an unwanted spectator that’s indulging himself in personal conversations. He should turn around and leave, walk out the door and never look back.

“When’s Techno coming home?” Wilbur asks, walking to the bacon Tommy’s standing directly next to. He’s so close, Tommy could lean forward and touch Wilbur’s shoulder with his nose.

He does, but with his hand, lightly touching Wilbur’s shoulder and trying not to feel disappointed when nothing happens just like it’s been for the past 5 years. Tommy can feel himself stealing Wilbur’s warmth, but it’s false, meaning nothing when the touch isn’t reciprocated. He wants somebody to want to hold his hand or hug him, not this fake replacement that’s extremely one sided.

It becomes too much, too quickly, and Tommy yanks his hand off of Wilbur’s shoulder, gripping it tightly when Wilbur turns and leans against the counter, listening to Phil.

Phil starts up a pan of scrambled eggs, looking like there is enough eggs to feed a family of ten. “Soon,” Phil answers. “Anytime, honestly.”

As if they were in a movie or a book and a que was called, the front door jingles open, and a pink haired man Tommy can assume is Techno stumbles in. Papers fly to the floor, and his ruby red jacket is falling off his shoulders precariously. He dumps the books and folders onto the kitchen table, and it makes Tommy laugh out loud. It’s sickeningly funny that the three strangers in the room can’t hear him, so he laughs even harder.

Techno’s disheveled appearance is righted with the quick rebalancing of his glasses and a wince. “Hullo,” he greets, and Tommy pretends he’s talking to him as well, waving back. “Sorry I’m home so late, was caught up doin’ paperwork.”

Phil gives a look with pursed lips. He almost acts like Wilbur and Techno’s dad (he certainly looks old enough to). “You’re supposed to be home in time for dinner, Techno.”

“And I am,” Techno says, sitting at the table and pushing all his papers to the side. Wilbur sits at the table as well, setting down the bacon, and Phil follows with steaming scrambled eggs on a plate. “Breakfast for dinner? Scrambled eggs? Really Phil.”

“You can make your own food then,” Phil sniffs, putting a decent amount of eggs on his plate.

Tommy feels like a fourth wheel here, so he sits at the spare table, snatching Techno’s spoon before he could grab it. Techno blinks like he’s surprised but stands up and opens a drawer for another spoon.

“Phil, you forgot my spoon.”

“Shit, my bad,” Phil says through a mouthful of eggs.

Tommy snorts. “You look so dumb,” he says, frowning when he remembers he’s not actually in the conversation. “Fuckin’ bitches. Wankers. Shit. Cum. Piss. Bastards.”

The curses go unperceived (obviously), and Tommy rebelliously scoops some of the eggs on Wilbur’s plate into his mouth.

And holy fuck.

Why is there ketchup on Wilbur’s eggs?

The appalling red tomato juice is slathered all over the eggs, and Tommy wants to keel over and die right then and there. He runs out of his chair and to the sink, gagging and spitting out the garbage into the sink and rinsing it out of his mouth with water.

Of course, the three men continue with what they’re doing: Phil eating plain eggs, Techno eating eggs with syrup and a new spoon, and Wilbur, god forbid, eating his eggs with ketchup. It’s moments like these that Tommy can’t believe in his own power, that three different people didn’t notice a chair shooting back and falling to the ground randomly, or the sink turning on.

But it happens, and Tommy is both real and unreal at the same time. It would be easier to be invisible; at least then he could talk and touch people even if he’s unseeable to the eye. He may not be transparent now, but he might as well be.

Techno has a brain it seems, giving Wilbur’s eggs a side eye. “You’re so disgustin’. I can’t believe I’m related to you.”

“I’m your favorite brother,” Wilbur smiles sharply. He raises a hand, and oh, it’s Wilbur’s power, lifting the plate of bacon towards him without even a glimmer of wobbliness. Telekinesis, common, but Wilbur must be stronger than most with the amount of control his exhibits. “Mmmmm, delicious.”

“No powers at the table, Wil,” Phil scolds. His plate is almost empty, and Tommy’s reminded of his own grumbling stomach. He returns to the table and starts eating directly off of the plate of scrambled eggs. “And Techno’s your only brother, dumbass.”

“I know dadza,” Wilbur whines. “That’s the joke.”

“Stupid joke,” Techno says. He leans back in his chair, plate completely empty. Tommy takes Techno’s glass of water and takes a swig out of it, washing down his eggs.

“Agreed,” Tommy says, setting down Techno’s now half empty glass. The moment Tommy’s hands leave the cup, Techno’s follow. It’s actually quite funny to see somebody drink water that Tommy chugged without knowing. A little unsanitary, yeah, but funny.

Techno stands up, placing both his plate and cup in the sink. “I’m goin’ upstairs then,” he says, waving at Phil and Wilbur when they give similar sounds of acknowledgement. Tommy’s bored of the dinner, so he follows Techno.

Techno goes upstairs, into what is presumably his room, flopping down in the bed. There’s a large bookshelf on the opposite wall of his bed, with tons of novels Tommy doesn’t recognize. Pink ivory curtains match the bedsheets, complimenting the cream colored walls. Futuristic gadgets are placed decoratively on shelves, which Tommy knows aren’t that futuristic, but they are to him.

He watches as Techno opens a book and starts reading (nerd), and deciding that his boredom won’t disappear with Techno like he thought, he goes back downstairs to Wilbur and Phil.

Phil’s sitting in a recliner, reading papers with typewriter style lettering filling the white pages, reading glasses perched on his nose. Tommy leans over his shoulder, squinting when the words are too complex for him to understand (he knows how to read, just not very well). He doesn’t feel like reading over Phil’s shoulder, so he goes to find Wilbur.

After a few wrong doors—which is weird because the house isn’t that big—Tommy finally finds Wilbur. He’s in some sort of a music room, his guitar resting across his lap like a baby. There’s a piano in the corner, and in a spur of motivation and nostalgia, Tommy sits on the seat.

His fingers dance in an erratic rhythm across the keys, lost practice causing random key pushes, but it’s still calming. Familiar. He pauses for a moment to sync himself with Wilbur’s senseless guitar picking. Soft piano playing with guitar strumming fills the room, only hearable to Tommy. To Wilbur, only a guitar is playing right now, and the piano seat Tommy is on is empty.

He slides his pointer finger across the keys, a beautiful run of each note rising from ocean deep to ear shattering high before slamming all ten of his fingers down for one final cacophony of shrill screams.

Wilbur keeps playing, oblivious.

Tommy frowns, burrowing his head in his hands. “This isn’t fuckin’ fair,” he curses, standing up abruptly and marching over to Wilbur. His hands twitch, the urge to take Wilbur’s guitar and smash it into a billion little splinters filling his veins.

He doesn’t, however.

Guilt washes over him in a fierce tidal wave, clenching his jaw taught with sparks of tears pricking his eyes. There’s no reason to punish Wilbur for something he didn’t have a hand in, and it’s not like Wilbur would even know his guitar was destroyed. Honestly, Tommy’s not sure how the universe would make what looks like Wilbur’s prized possession imperceivable.

Tommy can’t do this.

He’s known this family of three for only a few hours, and already, he needs to get out and leave before he becomes terribly attached and finds it hard to dissolve that attachment from people who will never know he existed.

Tommy starts his walk towards the door, exiting the music room and down the stairs to the front door. A hand is poised on the doorknob, and he… he hesitates. A glance behind him shows Phil in the kitchen again, this time with three cups of hot chocolate with large marshmallows bobbing in them.

Want lurches in his heart, and his hand slips off the doorknob. A quiet walk of defeat into the kitchen, and Tommy’s hands warm around one of the mugs of hot chocolate.

Phil blinks like nothing happened, opening up one of the cabinets and grabbing another mug. He quickly makes another cup, and it’s so strangely domestic that Tommy wishes it was real.

“Thank you,” he says, taking a sip. It’s rich, intensity as powerful as the moon waxing into fullness. “It’s good.”

“Techno! Wil!” Phil yells, “hot chocolate!”

Like a stampede, twin pairs of feet stomp down the stairs. Tommy chuckles when Phil sighs in exasperation, resting his hands around the mugs so they don’t rattle in a show of dramatic fashion.

Techno gratefully takes one of them, dipping his head in gratitude at Phil who gives a warm smile back. Tommy wishes he would have received one of those when he complimented Phil’s hot chocolate. What a cruel and unfair world.

“Phil, you are the best,” Wilbur says, face screwing when he takes a sip of the newest hot chocolate far too soon. “Why is this so hot? And why is Techno able to drink his right away? That’s not fair.”

“Use your brain Wilbur,” Techno says. “Yours was just made last.”

“Yeah, dumbass,” Tommy pipes in.

Phil takes a sip of his hot chocolate, lowering his mug to reveal a mocha chocolate mustache coloring his normal blond one.

Techno’s the first to notice, spitting his mouthful of hot chocolate back into his cup. It’s Techno’s reaction that spurs Tommy into motion, hot chocolate—which is still definitely hot—spewing out of his nose as he snorts it out. In fact, Tommy’s is still hot enough that if he were to hold it in his mouth, it would burn.

“Yeah, yeah,” Phil says, waving a hand as he licks his mustache away. “Laugh it off, you fuckers. And we all know that’s not the complete reason, Techno.”

“Huh?” Tommy questions. He goes unnoticed, obviously.

“Ugh,” Wilbur groans. “I forgot about your stupid temperature regulation shit.”

“It’s not stupid when it allows for me to drink my hot chocolate before you.”

“Please die.”

“Wilbur,” Phil says, “no death threats at the table.”

“You never let us do anything at the table,” Wilbur whines, tipping his head back and chugging half of his hot chocolate. Tommy finishes his in one giant gulp, relishing in the way that warmth shoots through him. “Tyrannical overlord,” finishes Wilbur.

Tommy snorts, leaning against the counter. “Phil’s the nicest person ever.”

“You’re the worst person ever, Phil,” Techno says dryly, and Tommy’s heart jumps in his chest. Can Techno, does Techno– “Can’t believe you even gave Wilbur hot chocolate.”

Techno doesn’t even look his way. False hope is a cruel bastard.

Wilbur pushes himself off the counter he was leaning on, setting his mug into the sink and sighing. “I’m going to bed if you two are only going to bully me.”

“I didn’t even say anything,” Phil mutters, crow lines at the corners of his eyes. “Sleep well then, cause I don’t think Techno’s gonna stop.”

“I won’t.”

Wilbur dramatically sighs, marching towards and up the stairs. Phil and Techno start laughing loudly, but Tommy follows Wilbur, drawn to the natural warmth Wilbur radiates. He’s silent, like a ghost, trailing Wilbur all the way to his room. It’s opposite of his room, which makes sense since Wilbur seems to be the only musically inclined member of this family.

He’s sitting on his bed cross-legged with a book, a picture book filled to the brim, and a small smile on his face. Fingers flip through the pages, and Tommy curiously climbs onto the bed next to Wilbur, trying not to notice how Wilbur’s mind is convincing him that the new dip in the bed isn’t there.

Pictures of two identical kids fill up the pages Wilbur is on, one with square glasses and the other with round glasses. Tommy knows that it’s him and Techno purely off the way Techno is standing away from where a younger Phil is hugging Wilbur. He snorts, reaching a hand out and preventing Wilbur from turning the page as his finger traces over the glossy picture. The space between Phil hugging Wilbur and Techno standing to the side is almost big enough to imagine himself placed there. With Wilbur looping an arm around his shoulders and Techno placing a hand on his arm. Almost.

He removes his hands, and Wilbur flips the page to a new one, his smile growing brighter. Wilbur murmurs, “I won’t ever forget this day.” The picture features Techno and Wilbur, looking about twelve years old and both of them sitting in the sand at a beach.

“What happened?” Tommy asks, even though he doesn’t expect an answer.

Wilbur hums, flipping another page. Tommy’s question will go unanswered, not for the last time. Pictures of a happy family tease Tommy, and jealousy sparks unfairly in his heart. It’s a green headed monster that itches Tommy to tear the picture book from Wilbur’s hand and rip every individual page. If he can’t have a family, no one can.

He roughly grabs the picture book from Wilbur, who blinks and moves on, grabbing his phone. Tommy’s jaw clenches at the lack of a reaction. Fingers rip through the first picture, right between Phil and some woman. Techno and Wilbur weren’t even in the picture. The next picture to fall victim to Tommy has Phil and the woman again, this time with two newborn babies in their arms.

He hesitates on the next one, Wilbur and Techno looking to be five years old with just Phil. They’re dressed in all black, standing in front of what looks like a gravestone. A sick feeling churns in his stomach, and he skims through the rest of the picture book. The woman doesn’t appear again.

A blue sort of guilt takes over the green colored monster, and Tommy gently sets the picture book on the bed in front of him. Wilbur’s focus immediately shifts to it, and he picks it up with wide eyes. Gingerly, Wilbur picks up the torn pictures, glancing around like someone else is in the room with him. He slides them back into their clear sleeves.

“Oh,” Wilbur breathes, “I don’t remember tearing you.” Grief paints across Wilbur’s face, and he slowly closes the picture book, setting on the nightstand to the side. The atmosphere has grown heavier, and Tommy sits with his hands in his lap limp.

Sour tension in the air, and Wilbur flicks his light off, sending them both into pitch blackness as Tommy feels the mattress bounce under Wilbur laying down. They’re in a king sized bed, way bigger than needed for one person, so Tommy lays on the other side. He reaches a hand out and grabs Wilbur’s, relishing in the skin contact.

There’s one thing on Tommy’s mind as he falls asleep next to Wilbur, holding his hand like a cold ghost. Tommy wishes it was real.

Two months later, Tommy is sitting next to Techno on the couch. He’s peering over Techno’s shoulder, reading along with him when Phil and Wilbur stumble through the front door with two large, filled-to-the-brim bags on their backs. Cheeks flushed from the biting night air, they bustle in and dump the bags on the coffee table Techno had his feet on.

“Did anyone follow you?” Techno asks, setting his book aside. Tommy shifts to the front of the couch, trying to sneak a peek into the bags.

“No, Techno,” Wilbur says, grinning. “I’m too good for that. Stop being so paranoid.”

“I’m not paranoid, I’m a realist.”

Tommy laughs, sticking two fingers on each side of a bag and opening it slightly. Technology he’s never seen before greets him, and he means to grab one of the screens he sees when Wilbur snatches the bag from under him. Startled, Tommy jolts back, but no one notices, as expected.

“Plus,” Wilbur says, holding up the tablet he just pulled from the bag, “I used security cameras to make sure we weren’t being trailed.”

“Cheater,” Tommy says, opening up the other bag. He pulls out wires, completely tangled together and throws them to the side. They fall to the floor, and Phil picks them up, starting an untangling process that Tommy would rather die than do.

Techno picks up a weird looking gadget, wires coming out of the sides. Tommy almost swears it’s a–

“A bomb?” Techno asks. “Really?”

“To be fair,” Phil starts, grinning instead of finishing. Wilbur snickers, setting his tablet to the side and pulling out some more shit. Tommy almost joins in with the laughing, but it’s overridden by the curiosity crawling in his stomach.

Tired of picking things up piece by piece, Tommy grabs the bottom of the bag in front of him and dumps it out, wires and heavy electronics spilling out and crashing into one another. Tablets, a switch that does nothing when Tommy flips it back and forth, another bomb. It’s all useless stuff Tommy doesn’t care about, and stuff he knows Phil, Techno, and Wilbur all have. That is, until he spots a futuristic looking, arm-sized ring, nothing malleable about it when the metal plating and wiring he can see as he tries to dig it out.

He picks it up, turning over the cool metal in his hand. It’s a bracelet, that much is obvious, and Tommy slides it on his wrist. Nothing happens, like him going invisible (completely, totally invisible) or it turning off his gravity and him floating to the ceiling. It’s a boring, completely useless piece of junk, and Tommy’s about to take it off when the safety of a gun clicks and an icy ring presses against his temple.

Heart stammering in his chest, Tommy’s limbs lock, and slowly tilts his head upwards. For the first time in five years, Tommy makes eye contact with somebody.

“Who are you,” Techno says, low. His hand is unwavering as he holds the gun to Tommy’s head, while Tommy is shaking from fear and excitement. All he does is stare in disbelief, so Techno nudges Tommy’s head with the gun, knocking it back. “Answer me.”

“Hold on,” Wilbur says, pushing the gun down. Techno holds it there for a second—it’s pointing directly at Tommy’s heart—before lowering his hand to the side. He doesn’t turn the safety back on. “Kid, are you there?” Wilbur waves a hand in front of Tommy’s wide eyes.

Suddenly, Tommy gasps, jolting backwards and falling to the ground. He supports himself on his arms, scrambling a few feet back. “You can see me?”

“Yes?” Phil says, “but how did you get in here?” He’s holding his own gun, lazily pointing towards Tommy. He knows Phil doesn’t hesitate to shoot; he wasn’t oblivious to what his family would get up to in their free time; so Tommy answers.

“I’ve been here.”

It seems to be the wrong answer, because Techno is grabbing him by the neck, twisting and turning until Tommy’s back is to Techno’s chest, his left arm is pinned between them, and the one with the bracelet, his right, is stuck between his chest and Techno’s arm holding him by the throat. “Bullshit,” Technoblade says, the shift from vulnerability he shows around the house to the ruthless bodyguard that shows no mercy apparent in the bruising grip Tommy’s being held in. “We would’ve noticed you.” His hand squeezes Tommy’s throat as a warning.

“But you didn’t,” Tommy breathes out. A small grin makes its way onto his face. He’s actually talking to people, holding a real conversation with someone. This is wonderful. “And I’m real.”

Phil and Wilbur glance at each other. “What do you mean, kid?” Wilbur asks. Tommy almost melts at the nickname. Even Techno has loosened his grip slightly, and Phil’s put the gun away completely.

“I’m real,” Tommy says again. “Holy shit. I’m real.”

“Were you not before?” Phil says slowly, flicking his right hand. Techno immediately lets him go, and Tommy drops to the floor, holding the wrist that has the bracelet.

Tommy shakes his head in astonishment. “I’m real, Phil.” Techno jolts, and Tommy remembers that his family has never met him before, and he technically shouldn’t know their names. He doesn’t care.

“Phil,” Wilbur murmurs, and Tommy follows his eyes to the bracelet on his wrist. He tucks it to his chest protectively. “That’s a nullifier.”

“You can’t have it,” Tommy says. He considers taking it off and leaving with it, but the everytime he touches it he becomes perceived. Strange. “You can’t.”

“We aren’t going to take it, just– what’s your name?” Phil asks, crouching in front of Tommy. He seems closer to the caring dad Tommy has gotten used to for the past few months.

“Don’t–” Techno starts, stopping when Wilbur elbows him harshly in the side.

Tommy, still holding onto the bracelet like a lifeline, says, “Tommy.” It’s quiet, but Phil smiles like he heard him loud and clear. It’s been a long time since he’s told someone his name and they’ve responded.

Phil reaches a hand out, and Tommy takes it with the arm that doesn’t have the bracelet. He’s led to the couch, and he scoots all the way to the end as Techno, Wilbur, and Phil sit across from him.

“You seem to already know who we are.”

Tommy nods.

“Now talk,” Phil says.

Tommy talks.

Chapter Text

Tommy hasn’t removed the bracelet for two weeks.

Two weeks of tiptoeing around with wide eyes and pretending he doesn’t know more about Phil, Techno, and Wilbur than they know about him. Two weeks of white knuckles and baring teeth whenever somebody ventures too close to his bracelet.

Even now, as he sits next to Wilbur on the couch, a movie playing on the TV, his left hand hangs loosely around the bracelet clasped on his right. He rubs it subconsciously, icy metal soothing along his fingers.

Techno’s reading in an armchair near the fireplace. The bodyguard has tiptoed around Tommy this whole time, a guilty flit of his eyes down to Tommy’s neck and back to his face every time Tommy runs into him. The bruises faded a few days ago, so thankfully Techno has just started looking Tommy in the eyes again.

“You can have that,” Wilbur says suddenly, interrupting his thoughts. Tommy drops his hand from the bracelet, tucking both arms close to his chest. Wilbur’s looking at him earnestly, an unfamiliar seriousness overtaking the normal playfulness Tommy is used to seeing. “It’s yours. We won’t take it.”

Tommy scowls. “I didn’t think you would, bitch.” Wilbur’s expression lets up as he chuckles. “Shut up.”

“Bruh, I didn’t say anything,” Wilbur throws both hands in the air. One of them comes down over Tommy’s shoulders. He tenses for a second, then relaxing when he realizes Wilbur doesn’t have any malicious intent.

The hand around Tommy’s shoulders lifts up, and the TV remote flies into Wilbur’s hand. “I’m bored,” Wilbur announces, flicking through streaming services for a new movie. Tommy watches intently before landing on a house with what looks to be a million balloons popping up.

“Wait, that one,” he says, pointing. “I recognize it.”

“Up?” Wilbur questions. “This one is sad.”

“Wilbur cries every time,” Techno says, not glancing from his book. “Be prepared to be his personal tissue.”

Tommy stares at Techno. Is Techno talking to him? He’s not looking at Tommy, but he’s obviously not talking to Wilbur. His hand instinctively wraps around the bracelet, and he sneaks a look at Wilbur, hesitating until Wilbur raises his eyebrows at Tommy. His heart thumps a little harder.

“I won’t let ‘em,” Tommy tries, forcing some enthusiasm in his voice when his heart dips as Wilbur frowns at him. There’s a spark of pain in his chest, similar to when he first received his power and was experiencing the panic for the first time. “Nasty motherfucker,” he tacks on.

“Agreed,” Techno says, finally, finally, looking at from his book and meeting Tommy’s eyes. His chest relaxes at the connection, limbs slowly growing fatigued.

“Let’s just watch it,” Wilbur says slowly, clicking play. Tommy sinks into the curtains as the opening credits play, residuals of a racing heart and sweaty palms fading.

“I think he needs eye contact,” Wilbur says, taking a sip from his morning coffee.

Blearingly, Phil rubs his eyes from across the table. “Wil, you can’t just start a conversation in the middle. Who needs eye contact?”

“Tommy,” Wilbur says. Next to him, Techno pours coffee right out of the pot and immediately starts drinking it. Just because he can adjust temperature by touch doesn’t mean the taste of black coffee isn’t vile. Stupid fucker.

“He’s right.”

Wait, maybe Techno’s not such a stupid fucker.

The space between Phil’s eyebrows pinches. “What do mean he needs eye contact? Just look him in the eyes?”

Wilbur gives him an exasperated look. “No, Phil, I mean he needs eye contact to make sure he’s real. Er– perceivable. Last night Techno spoke without meeting Tommy’s eyes, and the kid was near a panic attack.

He looks at Techno for confirmation, and his brother purses his lips with a curt nod. “I only realized after I looked up.”

Phil sighs, setting down his coffee mug. Wilbur glances at the stairs, glad that Tommy isn’t awake yet. They would know it too—the kid isn’t exactly quiet. He imagines it would be difficult to remind yourself to be considerate of others after five years of solitude.

“Well, that’s something to keep in mind then,” Phil says, standing up. “I’m going to wake him up. Do you guys want anything for breakfast?”

“Eggs?” Wilbur asks.

Phil nods. He takes the steps two at a time, stopping just in front of the guest room turned Tommy’s room. He knocks, only opening it slowly when he hears a faint “come in.”

“Hey Tom,” Phil smiles, taking in Tommy sitting on his bed fiddling with the nullifier bracelet. Years of training is the only reason he keeps his easygoing expression on his face. “We’re having eggs for breakfast. Want some?”

Just like Wilbur advised, Phil holds eye contact with Tommy the entire time. Fortunately, the kid relaxes, unfolding his long limbs and climbing off the bed.

“As long as Wilbur doesn’t put fuckin’ ketchup on them, that sounds good,” Tommy says, scowling like Wilbur’s eating habits personally offend him.

“How do you know he eats his with ketchup?” Phil wonders aloud, going down the stairs first. He glances towards Tommy, realizing once he notices his wide eyes. “Oh, right. Well, no promises. In fact,” Phil says, entering the kitchen with Tommy in tow, “if you let him know he’ll do it on purpose.”

“Do what on purpose?” Wilbur says from where he’s refilling his coffee mug.

Sweetly, Tommy smiles at Wilbur. “Nothing…”

“Phil?” Wilbur questions, pouring in a buttload of creamer. “Techno?”

“I was with you the whole time, idiot,” Techno says, eyes flicking between his newspapers and Phil’s. “Tommy, how did you sleep?”

Phil bites the side of his cheek as he subtly jerks his head towards Tommy. Techno’s mouth forms an oh shape, and his son redirects the eye contact to Tommy.

“Fine, big man,” Tommy answers after a moment. “You?”

It’s very obvious that Tommy’s nervous. The kid must have spent too long without following regular societal norms by the way his eyes bore into Techno’s uncomfortably. Even Phil feels the intense attention and he’s pulling out pots and pans to make breakfast.

“Fine as well,” Techno says. “And, uh, kid, I was wonderin’ if you want to go shoppin’ today. Get some stuff for yourself.”

“Just you and me?”

“If that’s what you want.”

Phil raises an eyebrow. He wasn’t aware Techno wanted to take Tommy outside. They’ve been avoiding it for a while. Tommy tends to get overwhelmed with just the four of them in the same room, they don’t want something worse to happen in a mall or a store. That being said, however, Techno’s probably the best person for a reintroduction to the world.

He pushes half cooked eggs around as he waits for Tommy’s answer. When it finally comes, it’s so soft that Phil nearly has to strain his ears to hear. Nevertheless, he smiles to himself. Looks like SBI is expanding.

Tommy does not like how anybody and everybody can see him right now.

He never thought he would say that. A month ago, Tommy would’ve killed for all eyes on him. Now, he’s not so sure. There’s so many people with their attention barely brushing over him, but it’s too much. He feels too open, too seen. The mall is huge with lots of people inside of it.

“Hey,” Techno says, cutting through the overwhelming cloud in Tommy’s head, “if it gets too much, let me know.”

His ruby red eyes look into Tommy’s sincerely. The acknowledgement calms something in him. Before he can think too much about it, Tommy grabs one of Techno’s hands, feeling all too much like a little kid. When Techno doesn’t immediately curl his fingers around his, he pulls away, looking to the ground in embarrassment.

“Sorry, just– sorry,” Tommy says.

“It’s fine,” Techno says, “here.” He holds out his hand. Tommy stares at it before grabbing it again.

“I just–” Tommy huffs. He shakes his other hand to feel the bracelet move on his wrist. He feels like he owes Techno an explanation, even if he knows Techno’s going to be weirded out. “Before the bracelet, I would hold your hands and stuff. ‘Cause–”

“It’s fine, Tommy,” Techno repeats, giving Tommy’s hand a light squeeze. “I don’t mind. Plus, it’s better so you don’t get lost.”

Tommy nods in agreement, glad to be rid of the pressure in his chest to explain. “Well then, where to start, big man?”

“We should get you some clothes. More than the ones on your back.”

They walk into the first store. Tommy remembers stealing from here a lot since it’s a large corporation and he doesn’t feel so bad robbing them.

“I’m not Wilbur,” Techno says gruffly, leading Tommy over to a rack filled with men’s clothes. “So I won’t force you to get shit you don’t want, but please don’t leave with nothin’. We can afford it. You’ve seen how much we make.”

“How much you steal, you mean,” Tommy says with a smile.

“Yes, Tommy, that’s right.”

He pulls out the first red t-shirt he sees, throwing it into the cart Techno’s pushing after checking the size. Then he grabs a few more of the same style and color.

“That’s what you want?” Techno says with a raised eyebrow.

“Yes,” Tommy says curtly. “I do.”

“Whatever. Keep shoppin’.”

By the time Tommy’s filled the cart with pants, shoes, and other clothing items, he’s thoroughly exhausted with fabric and the amount of people in the aisles.

Techno seems to sense this, saying, “I’m gettin’ tired, you ready to go?”

Tommy nods faster than a puppy on steroids, grabbing a hold of the cart as they make their way to the front of the store. Their cart is filled to the brim, but it doesn’t stop Tommy from catching his eye on a thing he hasn’t bothered with for years.

Detouring by pulling the cart, Tommy leads Techno down the toy aisle until he stops in front of the Lego section.

“Woah,” he says, “it’s been a while since I’ve seen these.”

“Couldn’t you have taken them whenever you wanted?” Techno asks, grabbing a Minecraft set that advertises a large pig. He sets it in the cart.

Tommy shrugs. “I just never, I dunno, really bothered with them. I was too busy trashing cafes and walking across streets.”

“Pick out a few,” Techno says, gesturing towards the stacks of Legos. “Or a ton, I don’t care. This is all goin’ on Phil’s card anyways.”

Tommy doesn’t need any other persuading, picking up the Avengers Tower set and sliding it under the cart. A couple more Marvel sets are added into the mix, along with a cool car set and a mini flower pot set for the hell of it.

He bites his bottom lip as they ring up it all at the cash register, the price well into the thousands. But when he glances at Techno for any regret on his face, he’s met with none, only the man fishing out a card (that does say Phil’s name) and sliding it into the reader.

When they’re loading it all into the car a couple minutes later, Tommy finds it in him to say, “thank you.” He rubs his bracelet back and forth instinctively.

Techno looks at him, one side of his lips tilted to the sky. “No problem, kid.”

“If you take off the bracelet will we forget you instantly?”

Tommy looks up from the book he was reading, immediately reaching over and covering the bracelet with his hand. “You can’t have it,” he says, near a snarl. He doesn’t care if Wilbur’s sitting on the couch relaxed next to him. “Why are you asking?”

“I’m not taking it,” Wilbur says calmly, setting his phone down. “I’m just curious. Like, do your parents remember you now that you ‘exist’ again?”

Tommy shrugs, tucking both of hands under his legs. It’s better protection for the bracelet and for him. “I’ve no clue. I went back to my childhood house once a few years ago. They were long gone.”

“I’m sorry,” Wilbur says with a sober look. “That’s rough.”

“It’s been years. I don’t know them either.”

“So, do you think we would remember you then?” Wilbur asks, resting his head on the couch cushions. One of his fingers dances outwards, and a glass of water floats directly into it.

Tommy gives a deadpan look. “Obviously not.”

“What if you took it off then put it back on?”

Tommy throws both hands up. “I don’t know,” he says, exasperated. “Why do you care so much? I’m not going to test the fuckin’ theory.”

It’s Wilbur’s turn to shrug. “I dunno. I was wondering if you’d be good to come along for… missions.”

Snorting, Tommy shakes his head. “‘Missions.’ Fuckin’ nerd. I’m not really interested anyways.”

Suddenly, a heavy weight leans against Tommy’s shoulder. The contact burns as fluffy hair brushes his cheek. “Wha–?”

“Oh woe, my little brother doesn’t want to go steal with me,” Wilbur whines, flopping his arms around Tommy’s shoulders in a mock weeping hold. “How will I persist?”

“Awe, shove off,” Tommy says, interrupted by his own laughter. He jabs his elbows into Wilbur’s sides, but the older man doesn’t relent. “Prick, get off!”

Tommy forgets all about Wilbur’s questions as he giggles and falls to the floor in a heap of arms and legs.

Maybe Tommy should have tested if his family would remember him if he were to remove the bracelet.

It’s the first thought on his mind when a couple of masked men break into his room, tie a gag around his mouth and knot wrap around his wrists. He can feel the cold bracelet against his frigid fingers.

He’s unceremoniously dragged to his feet, his comforter wrapping around his ankles and making him trip. Without his hands to catch him, Tommy lands directly on his nose, a gasp of pain halted by the rough gag cutting into his cheeks. His captors laugh above him, one of them kicking his side with their boot.

“Get up, kid, stop wasting our time,” another says. Her tone and manner tells Tommy she’s the leader of the bunch. “We aren’t even here for you, unless the rest of them don’t cooperate.”

And she’s merciless too, jabbing harshly at his ribs when he struggles to get to his feet. She pushes him out of his bedroom door, uncaring when his head hits the doorframe. The last glimpse Tommy sees is of the half built Legos Techno bought him.

He stumbles down the stairs. Personally, he thinks the four people marching him towards the living room is overkill, but who knows.

If Tommy were any less of a man, he wouldn’t admit that seeing his family tied up in a similar fashion in various positions of the room tugs fiercely on his heartstrings. He can’t stop his noise of pain when he sees Wilbur’s individual fingers tied up so tightly, they’re turning purple and effectively not allowing his power to work.

The ropes burning into his wrists and his family wide eyed stares are the only things that confirms that Tommy’s real. He feels panic spark when Techno thrashes against his bindings, incomprehensible words muffled behind his gag.

It’s Tommy, Wilbur, and Phil’s turn to struggle when the butt of a gun cracks against Techno’s head twice. The man slumps over, eyes slowly blinking as his head tucks to his chest.

“Shut up or I’ll do worse,” the woman says, a large gun held expertly in her hands. She uses it to nudge Techno’s head up.

The three of them still. Tommy’s finally pushed to his knees, the carpet dragging bloody tendrils on his skin. His grunt of pain isn’t missed by Wilbur and Phil by the way they jolt. Techno remains scarily motionless.

One of the woman’s henchmen pulls Phil’s gag down, and the man retaliates by spitting on their thigh. He earns a backhanded smack to the forehead, a steady stream of blood trickling down his face.

“What the fuck do you want,” Phil rasps, glaring fiercely. Tommy nervously glances between the fifteen or so people in the room.

The woman laughs, strutting over to Wilbur and lifting his chin with her fingers. “You’ve been stealing from us for weeks. Did you think I wouldn’t notice?” The tips of her fingers turn icy, blue spreading onto Wilbur’s face.

“Leave him alone,” Phil says. Tommy’s chest heaves with air when the woman withdraws her fingers, leaving what looks like burns on Wilbur’s face. Not burns from heat, but burns from cold.

“What about that one, then,” the woman beckons towards Tommy. Sweat drips from his forehead and into his eyes. He makes eye contact with Phil, a wordless plea.

Tommy can feel Phil’s demeanor switch, can feel Wilbur’s panic rise. “He doesn’t know anything,” Phil says, flicking his eyes back and forth. “I swear, he’s just a kid.”

Her fingers are gelid against his cheek as she cups it, a thumb rubbing under his eye. It grows cold, colder than Tommy’s ever felt, and he jerks his head away from it. She grabs his hair, nearly pulling it out of his head to hold it in place.

“Fuck you,” Tommy tries to say through the gag. It works well enough because her eyes sharpen and four knuckles strike his left cheek. The woman cruelly laughs as Tommy topples to his right, eyes blurring in pain.

“He’s just a kid!” Phil shouts, arms straining.

“He’s the one with the fucking attitude problem,” the woman says. “I’ll kill him first if he gets it up.”

“I’ll give you your money back, or anything, if you leave my boys alone,” Phil says, unflinching even when the woman’s glacier eyes fixate on him.

“Anything?”

Phil hesitates, but it’s enough. The woman’s attention and all of her goonies are completely on Phil. Tommy takes advantage of this, thumbing at the clasp holding his nullifying bracelet together.

There’s a steady thump in his chest beating with fear. What if his family forgets him? Tommy’s not sure what he would do if he put the bracelet back on and they all had no clue who he was.

With a deep breath, Tommy unlatches the bracelet. It’s no use to wonder if his family would remember him if his family is dead. The ropes still hold tight, but when he gets to his feet, the men around him pay no attention.

Neither does Wilbur or Phil. Or Techno as he’s slowly coming to again. The roaring in his ears blocks out whatever the woman is saying now, panic freezing his limbs.

He snaps out of it when Wilbur’s kicked in the chest by the woman.

Snatching one of the knives from a henchman’s belt, he cuts himself free of his ropes. Blood drips from his wrist where he cut himself, but a quick inspection reveals it not being too deep. The gag is torn off next.

Considering there’s only one of him and about ten captors in the room, Tommy can’t just free his family to fight them off. There’s really only one way out of this.

Swallowing a lodge in his throat, Tommy gingerly grabs one of the pistols holstered in the belt closest to him. It’s been a while since he’s held a gun.

The first and only time was a year ago, freshly fourteen. He naively went into a Walmart and broke one the casings surrounding the first gun he walked up to. It was an assault rifle of sorts. It felt odd, too big in his small hands. But loneliness and hopelessness made his fingers curl around the trigger.

He was lucky he was so inexperienced with guns; there was no magazine loaded.

The naivety translates to the pistol held in his shaky hands. He knows there’s bullets in this gun when he pulls the trigger and one of the men drops to the ground, clutching his chest.

“What did you do?” The woman yells at Phil, hitting the AR against his head.

Tommy doesn’t have time to feel guilty at the blood coating his hands, quickly circling around so none of his family is in his line of fire. Just as the woman’s fingers twitch on the trigger, Tommy’s shooting three times in a row.

Blood splatters on his face, but he doesn’t rest in shooting most of the men, reloading when he runs out, and returning to the final few left over. His chest feels like it’s collapsing into himself as the final person falls to the ground, blood dribbling out of their lips.

The gun falls from Tommy’s hands, and a haze falls over him as he searches numbly for his missing bracelet. With a sigh of relief, he locks it onto himself.

“Tommy?” Phil breathes, looking at Tommy like he’s found something he’s lost.

Just the sound of Phil’s voice saying his name causes his knees to collapse under him, face buried in his hands. He sobs wetly, even as Phil crawls over to him, pressing his lips to the top of Tommy’s head.

“Are you okay? Why are you covered in blood?” Phil asks. “How are they all dead?”

All Tommy does is smear blood under his eyes, then moving his bloody hands down to start untying the knots binding Phil’s hands. He can’t even look at Wilbur’s stricken eyes, or at Techno’s unreadable face.

“I killed them,” Tommy mumbles as Phil’s ropes fall free. His hands immediately come up to cup Tommy’s face, thumbs a gentle contradiction to the woman’s as Phil wipes Tommy’s tears away. “I’m sorry, I had to.”

“It’s okay,” Phil comforts, sucking in a breath and hugging Tommy’s head to his chest. “We’re okay.”

They hug for a second before Phil pulls away. Tommy stamps down a whine at the loss of contact.

“Let’s untie your brothers, okay?” Phil says softly, gently leading Tommy towards Wilbur.

Almost robotically, Tommy pulls Wilburs gag down over his chin, then he starts to untie the ropes binding each and every finger.

“We forgot you,” Wilbur says out of thin air. Tommy jolts his head up. “I forgot you.”

Tommy swallows, nodding and ducking his head. He’s finished with one of Wilbur’s hands.

“I’m so sorry, I–”

“It’s fine, Wilbur, I had to,” Tommy cuts in. There’s a knot that won’t come undone no matter how much he twists and pulls. He grunts in frustration with large, warm hands enveloping his and taking over.

“No, it’s not fine,” Wilbur insists, but he goes ignored as Tommy’s tenderly pushed towards Phil.

“Thanks, kid,” Techno says. “You’ve done enough.”

“You saved us, Tommy, even though we don’t remember it,” Phil says, wrapping an around Tommy’s shoulders and helping him to his feet. “Did you shoot them all?”

Tommy nods, unable to look any of them in the eyes but unable to look at the bodies forming a layer on the floor. He’s a monster, a murderer. He’s about to start sobbing again, but he’s distracted by Techno helping Wilbur up. One of Techno’s hands lightly touches the place the woman grabbed, and Wilbur relaxes as the frozen pallor of his skin fades away.

Techno coughs, meeting his eyes with Tommy. “I did much worse at your age. I was a murderer by the time I was ten.”

“Plus,” Wilbur adds, “the three of us aren’t the most moral people. Obviously.”

“But,” Phil finishes, “we didn’t really want to introduce you to our world until you were older, and if you wanted to.” His hands take Tommy’s, fingers wrapping around Tommy’s trembles. “And I’m sorry you were forced to. But hey, you shot better than me and my power is literally sharpshooting.”

Tommy smiles weakly. “I’m just glad you all still remember me.”

“Me fucking too,” Wilbur says, striding over and wrapping Tommy in a big hug. Phil follows suit, and after some prompting from Wilbur, Techno joins in.

“So,” Tommy says after a second, moist huff of a laugh escaping him as he wipes away bloody tears. “What do we do with the bodies?”

His family groans in unison with Techno’s voice rising out of the three. “This is the worst part.”

“I’ll get the bleach,” Wilbur says. His fingers flick to the side and a couple gallons float in the air.

“I’ll get the shovel,” Phil grins.

Tommy gives a small, shaky smile. He can still feel the gun in his fingers, but at least he has the full support of his family. “I’ll… go shower.”

“Good idea.”