Chapter Text
Snow crunches underneath Tommy’s feet. The cold seeps into his one sock— he lost his other shoe a while ago and never bothered to find it— chilling his skin with every step but he keeps running. He can’t stop moving, he refuses to because if he stops he’ll second guess his decision. He’ll freeze long before the snow and ice get to him and he’ll find himself turning around, running back to his exile before anyone could notice that he left. He can’t do that, so he keeps moving. The water that lingers on him from falling into that pond drags him down as it frosts on his skin and the rags that used to be his clothes. His lungs burn with the icy air, nipping at the scars that wrap his organs, but he keeps running, never stopping to breathe. Tommy will let himself breathe when he’s far away, when all he has to fear is the shadows he catches in the corner of his eye and the looming spruce trees that stretch out their limbs at attempts to grab him. All of that’s better than waking up in that God awful tent again, waiting for some bastard to make his day Hell while disguising it as friendship. Speaking of his tent, it’s the only thing he thought to take with him. He ripped it apart so now its’ cloth is draped over his shoulders to keep at least some of the cold from eating away at his bones. The compass he keeps tied loosely around his throat hangs low on his chest as it thumps against him with every stride, mimicking his heartbeat so well it might as well pump his blood. Tommy keeps it safe under the fabric as best he can; what good is his heart if it’s completely frozen over?
He can’t recall how long ago he jumped from that tower into the too shallow water below; his legs hurt from knocking against the sand that laid undisturbed underneath, and now they hurt from running immediately afterwards. He’s cold and wet and tired. Although, he knows better than to stop now. Who would he be if he listened to that pestering voice in his head? He never needed it before, and he doesn’t need it now. Even when the voice tells him how much his legs ache, and how hard it is to feel his face, he does what he always does: plugs his ears and tell the voice to fuck off.
Of course, the Gods have placed bets on what his downfall would be. On what would make him turn back and pretend he never thought of running. What’s one more sign from them that this was a bad idea? Tommy’s breath lodges in his throat, making him choke up. He guesses inhaling so much gunpowder and smoke would leave lasting negative effects. He trips over his own feet and plummets into the snow, kicking it up in the process. Sputtering, he tries his best to push himself up but instead he shrivels. Gritting his teeth, he refuses to freeze in the snow like this, he feels too close to Logstedshire. Too close to the water that he finds himself in when he can’t fucking think and the only way to hush his thoughts is by shoving his head under. Fingers freezing and stubborn, Tommy digs them into the dirt before harshly pushing himself up, ignoring how his muscles scream from overexertion. Gasping, he pulls his imitation of a cloak tighter around his shoulders and starts to run again. The fabric flaps behind him like a cape, and, for a second, he imagines it’s a deep red and soft to the touch instead of a tattered, desperate attempt to stay warm. He pushes the thought away before it could worm into his heart any more.
Suddenly, he stops in his tracks when he spots lights in the distance. Through the mist of the horizon, he also sees a chimney blowing out smoke from a burning fire hidden somewhere inside. Something tight coils in his chest when he realizes who’s cabin that is. Something that makes his mind split between running towards it or staying away.
A gust of wind— or perhaps a helping hand— pushes Tommy’s feet forward and suddenly he’s running again, running towards the sight of something familiar— something safe, his mind offers but he again pushes it away.
It’s when Tommy’s close enough to feel the warmth radiating off of the cabin that he stops again. The stairs leading up to the door are so terribly welcoming, but so terrifying. His eyes flick instead to the doors on the ground level. The lights are off on the other side, meaning the resident is upstairs, bathing in the warmth of the fire with a well read book sitting in his palms. It’s an easy decision, of course. Tommy knows that. Simply, he can just hide underneath his house, living off the things he can ‘borrow’ from the floors above. It’s the best option, considering know one will know he’s there; no one who’s sane will come looking underneath the floorboards of The Blood God’s little cabin for him.
No one would come looking.
Perhaps the freeze from the blizzard has wormed its way into Tommy’s blood because he swears it runs cold. He blames it on the storm brewing outside rather than the one in his head. He grips the front of his faux cape a little tighter as he lets his thoughts wash him away. Would he be worth the search party? Is that the only party they would feel inclined to attend? Instead of receiving handwritten invitations, would they prefer the missing persons posters? Is that the only way to get anyone to come around him anymore? All they do is promise they’ll come, promise to visit, to stay a little longer, to not leave him alone again— what a bunch of bullshit. When the frostbite starts to eat a little harder at the soles of his feet and the tips of his toes, it snaps him out of his thoughts. Tommy’s eyes find themselves lingering on the stairs leading up, his feet frozen in place. From the cold or from the uncertainty, he can’t tell. If he hides, then there can’t be rejection. There can’t be a pitiful look if he’s found because he won’t be found. There can’t be any traitors or monsters because he will befriend the creatures that have to hide, that live happily being under the world instead of on top of it. He can be happy like that too.
But there’s no comfort in Tommy’s arms anymore when he holds himself. No love in the way he stares into his own eyes, his reflection in the water just as empty as he feels right before he shoves his head under. No soft voice to read to him as he drifts off, curled up in a warm bed or an even warmer embrace; something heavy, but soft draped over him like a blanket. It would feel safe and impenetrable, the only thing to keep the shadows from pulling at his hair or picking at his scars. If he hides, he gets rid of any chance that might still linger from the ties he was forced to cut.
Tommy blinks and he finds himself at the top of the steps, hand shaking as it’s raised to knock on the sturdy, spruce door. Before he can think too long about this, or talk himself out of it, he knocks on the door three times. The sound is loud in his ears, and it feels to him like a damnation. His air leaves his lungs just as it did when he fell from that pillar not even an hour ago; he’s falling fast, and the wind tries to force his life into his lungs. This time, instead of keeping it out, he takes a deep breath as the door handle jiggles and the door swings open.
Unbraided, pink hair wisps past Tommy’s vision as the warmth of the cabin flies past him, enveloping him in something scarily familiar, something that he craves for so deeply that the desire for it is etched into his skin like tattoos. A shaky breath leaves his torn lips as he stares up into deep brown— almost blood red— eyes. Instead of his usual loose, puffy shirt that’s neatly tucked into brown pants, he’s wearing a red knitted sweater with a white shirt underneath and black, soft looking pants. Tommy suddenly feels self-conscious about the clothes he’s wearing and wraps the tent cloth around his shoulders a little tighter. His hands shake as he sits under the weight of his eyes, but it’s from the cold. Nothing else.
“Tommy,” Technoblade breathes his name softly, and Tommy’s surprised the wind didn’t sweep it away. He hasn’t heard his name said so… tenderly like that in a while; it makes Tommy’s shoulders slump a little. “You’re soakin’ wet.” Techno points out helpfully. Tommy feels the chill engrave in his skin a little deeper as he’s reminded.
“I didn’t know where else to go.” Tommy confesses before he can think, eyes not breaking away from Techno’s. They sting but it’s just from the cold air, nothing else. Tommy swears his gaze is the only thing keeping his feet planted to the porch instead of booking it in the opposite direction. Techno’s gaze unfocuses for a beat before he moves to the side, allowing Tommy to come in. Even the whispers in the back of his mind— the voices that tell him that it’s just a taunt, that Techno will slam the door the second Tommy moves towards it— quiet in his brother’s presence as he walks in.
The sheer warmth that swallows him nearly makes him cry, nearly distracts him from something else. He called Technoblade his brother. His brother? Gods, the word tastes otherworldly on his tongue. It makes his head spin, lightheaded as if someone was breathing cigarette smoke down his throat. It makes his heart squeeze, eyes burning as if someone was pressing a loving kiss to his forehead after being tucked into bed— a feeling he hasn’t felt in a long time.
Technoblade was a lot of things to him, and he knows that Techno knows that. But what was Tommy to him? Certainly not his brother in his eyes, but something enough for Techno to open the door and let the storm in.
Something heavy is on Tommy’s shoulder and he blinks out of his thoughts. Tommy looks around a little to find that he’s been moved to stand near the fireplace instead of being by the front door; the sound of logs popping in the crackling fire is gentle in his ears and he takes a deep breath, allowing the fire to defrost the snow and ice in his lungs. It isn’t enough to burn away the scars, but to do that his body would have to burn too. He wants to move closer, to let his hands ghost over the flame until it licks his palms with a forgiving burn, but decides against it, shifting his weight from foot to foot. He looks to his side to see Techno’s callused hand picking at the tent-cape around his shoulders as he looks over him. Tommy’s red shirt has seen better days, and the white long sleeves don’t cover his arms fully anymore. He had to rip the fabric apart to cover up gashes in his legs or arms from times he lost his footing, sometimes too distracted which led him to get nicked by an arrow. Techno’s face, of course, shows no emotion. Stoick bastard.
Technoblade is the first to break the silence, his monotone voice lulls something in Tommy. He shuts out the thought. “You’re missing a shoe.” Techno states. Tommy can’t help but roll his eyes.
“No shit.” He says dully. Only then does Tommy realize he’s shivering; the subtle chatter of his teeth being a helpful, but slightly painful, give away. That and the slight tremor of his body, easy to see now that he’s standing still. Techno snorts at his remark and Tommy bites back a smile.
“Not to mention,” Techno starts again, leaving Tommy’s shitty cape alone to instead cross his arms over his chest. His eyes are once again on his own. Tommy looks away. “You’re shiverin’, wet, and runnin’ in a blizzard with nothin’ but a napkin as a blanket.”
“Gods forbid a man have ho-hobbies.” Tommy retorts, eyebrows furrowed with a snarky tone. He fights to keep his voice from shaking too much, stopping occasionally to straighten his voice like that’s any better. “And it’s not a napkin, for you-your information. It’s a very re-regal cape, and it’s b-better… better than yours.” He informs him. He might as well be puffing out ice at this rate. Technoblade just hums before walking away, down the hall to the right. Tommy tries to peek down it, he doesn’t move so he’s folding his body to the side a little awkwardly. He quickly straightens back up when he hears Techno coming back. When he reemerges, he has a towel in his hand.
“Couldn’t you have a hobby that didn’t involve hypothermia?” Techno suggests. There’s a small warmth under his words that tells Tommy that he finds his response humorous. He holds the towel out for Tommy to take, but he hesitates. Tommy’s eyes flick between the towel and Techno before, begrudgingly, he lets the fabric around his shoulders drop to the ground. There’s no nasty feeling in his gut or a strike of lightning outside when it tumbles and lays crumpled at his feet like it didn’t keep him together for so long when he himself could barely do it. As if it didn’t keep him warm when he was sleeping on the dirt floor with nothing but his arms to cover him. Sometimes, when the nights were rough(er), and the wind was blowing, the sound of the tent flaps that brushed against each other would fill Tommy’s ears. And, he’d close his eyes. He’d close his eyes and let himself think it was the familiar sound of feathers rustling, letting him pretend he was safe, watched by someone with sharp wit and a loving gaze.
There’s no bitterness that lingers in the tattered, worn down threads of the cloth tent cover, but Tommy can’t help but feel a sense of guilt as he takes the soft, clean towel in his scarred, dirty hands.
It felt like family when he had none. Now, with family standing before him, he feels a little cold without it. His hands tighten around the towel.
“What, do you not like the colour?” Techno asks with a raised eyebrow. Tommy, only when he looks up at him— face not as scrunched anymore, but instead confused— realizes he was glaring at it. Techno huffs at his reaction, “You’re glarin’ at it like it kicked you out of your nation.”
Tommy instead, turns his glare from the towel to Technoblade. The compass just above his chest feels heavier and he grasps it tightly, throat a little tight. Arms crossed, Techno looks unaffected by the daggers being thrown at him. Tommy opens his mouth to call him a bitch, or whatever other profanity he lets slip from his mouth without a second thought, but he stops. He remembers the last time he ran his mouth, and he swallows down the bile crawling up his throat at the memory of having to eat only rotten flesh for a week because his rations were taken away. Letting the words die on his tongue, he stays quiet, though he continues to glare. Tommy notices the way Techno’s eyes widen just barely; in a blink, his expression is neutral again. Techno takes the towel from Tommy’s hands, and— before Tommy can even mourn the loss of it, wishing that he had just relished in the feeling of being given something nice— Techno throws it over his head, bending down a little. Tommy squacks when Techno starts to dry him off, starting gently with his hair first.
“I’m a big f-fucking man, I can do it myself!” Tommy pushes Techno’s hands away, protesting. Techno doesn’t budge, just humming at his words rather than giving him an actual response. Techno pulls the towel down so it rests on the back of Tommy’s neck and over his shoulders. Taking it carefully to his skin and the top of his shirt, drying him off as best he can.
“Well, you’re not so I am.” Techno states simply, his hair falling a little out of the loose ponytail to fall gracefully over his shoulder. After a while, Tommy relents, huffing with a mumbled cuss under his breath. Only then does Techno pull away, allowing Tommy to do the rest. As he starts to awkwardly dry off his legs— he doesn’t want to sit down on anything and get it wet incase that’ll upset him— Techno eyes Tommy again. He’s had mixed emotions when he does things like this. When he’s reading every page in the Book of Tommy— noting how worn down the paper is, faded and exposed to the sun long enough for the pages to yellow and crack. Tracing his eyes down his too thin arms and too dark bags like he’s trailing his finger along the words etched into his skin that only he can see. The occasional flick of his ear or a swish of his piglin tail is an annotation; a sentence or a scar that’s caught his attention so much so that he physically reacted. A metaphor, another mannerism and he writes it down by pushing up his glasses.
Eventually it irritates Tommy.
“Can you fuckin’ stop that?” Tommy snaps. Techno’s eyes lurch up to Tommy’s and something twists in his gut, making him falter before crossing his arms around himself, looking away. “Always hated when you did that. Creepy sh-shit, you know.” He mutters. The corner of Techno’s lips lifts just enough for Tommy to immediately shrink. He knows his smile when he sees it..
“Relax, Tommy. I was just tryna remember if I still have some clothes that might fit you.” Techno says before he turns around to walk down the hallway, gesturing for Tommy to follow. He catches up, wrapping the towel around his shoulders in the process before standing a little behind him.
“You mean before you became a fuckin’ brick wall?” Tommy mutters under his breath, thankfully his words have defrosted enough for him to speak without stuttering. Walking down the hallway, Tommy gains a sense of deja vu. Photos hang on the walls, all too familiar faces staring down at him, smiling happily and so incredibly unknowing of their future. All knowing of their future, he avoids their gaze despite feeling their eyes on the back of his head. He sees a couple potted plants in the corners to take up space, as well as some propaganda thrown on the walls. Tommy bites back a snarky remark. Techno’s small chuff has his attention shifting back to him.
“Somethin’ like that.” Techno glances at him from the corner of his eye, his tusks protruding from his lips do nothing to hide a small smile, before he looks away again.
They pass by the bathroom, door slightly ajar. Techno keeps walking but Tommy’s steps falter. He assumes Techno didn’t close it all the way, but he wishes he had. Just through that little sliver does Tommy see a mirror. The thought of looking at himself in the glass makes him wince. A thought pokes at the backs of his eyes like needles: who would he see if he peered in? Would he like who he saw? Did he ever like who he saw?
Quickly, he looks for something else; his eyes settle on the sight of the shower.
Gods, he would give his last life for a shower. To feel steam curl around him, filling his lungs till he can’t breath as the hot water bears down on his skin. It spilling over his sun kissed skin, trying to burn away the scars the sun ruthlessly left behind. He’d come out, clean for the first time in weeks, smelling like whatever floral shampoo Techno has because he obviously uses shampoo that smells like flowers. Even if soap wasn’t an option, he’d still love to get the shit from his exile off of him, washing that last part of him down the drain so he can forget.
That’s if he stays. If he would be allowed to stay. Tommy can’t ask, of course. He came here unannounced and Technoblade didn’t have to let him in, but he did. He can just as easily decide he’s done wasting supplies on this lost cause and kick him out once the storm stops.
The blizzard. That’s the only reason Technoblade let him in: pity. Tommy was shaking, soaking wet, and cold in the middle of a raging snowstorm, of course he pitied him. Once the eye of it passes over, giving a temporary break in the chaos, Tommy’s back out into the cold. Back out into the dangers of being hunted until he crawls back to his exile, begging for forgiveness. That, or until he’s found, eyes glazed over, under the snow.
He prays that this storm is blind. The Gods don’t give him an answer— as if they ever do.
“Toms,” Damn, it’s been a while since he’s heard that. Techno’s accent wraps around his name and it makes him recall times where it was breathed in exasperated tenderness when he would come back home, pants having grass stains on them and face covered in dirt. Sometimes, the nickname would be wrapped in a bubbly laugh, the sound roots into his mind like a homesick rose before it withers and crumbles as the petals fall from his hair. The recent times it was used made his skin crawl— everytime it was echoed off those cave walls by a crazed, lost voice, or taunted to him as he stared down at his hard work in a hole in the ground, watching as he was forced to light the fuse that eroded away at his willpower— he’d feel like a willow tree infested with bark beetles, rooted deep into the earth as they eat their way through his body, not caring of the hollowness they leave behind.
At the sound of Techno’s voice, something low warbles in his throat before he can keep it down. Techno’s kneeling in front of him, hands on his shoulders and eyes gentle. His callused, rough hands contrast with his soft, tender expression. Something swirls in Tommy’s chest at the sight and he digs his hands into the front of his shirt. “Breathe. You alright?”
“I’m fine,” Tommy manages out, softly. He takes a deep breath anyway, because the last thing he needs right now is to spiral. “I’m fine… Sorry.” He lets his hand fall from his chest to dig his nails into his ring finger instead.
Again, Techno’s expression switches to something that looks a little too much like concern for his liking. It’s gone before Tommy can focus on it.
Techno looks to the bathroom, then looks back at Tommy. He squeezes his shoulders once more before getting back up. Tommy misses the feeling, but he swallows down the words that taste bittersweet on his tongue.
“You can take a shower before you change, if you want.” Techno offers. Tommy thinks about it and, if he’s going to get kicked out once the storm quiets, he should take the chance to. Tommy goes to answer, but Techno beats him to it, “Actually, I’d rather you did. I don’t know what you’re covered in, and I don’t want it all over my house.”
Tommy huffs a laugh, smiling, before, “I was gonna say yes, but just to spite you I’m not going to. I quite like the natural musk of outside,” he says proudly, “Who doesn’t love mud and dirt and shit?” Tommy has grown to hate it actually; Techno doesn’t need to know that though.
“Right, how could I forget,” Techno starts, a light tone under his words, “considerin’ I saw you shove a mouthful of moss down your throat once without an ounce of hesitation.” Techno chuffs before opening the bathroom door to walk in. Tommy follows him in. Techno notices. “Knowin’ you, you’d do it again.” He adds on under his breath.
With a cocky laugh, Tommy rolls his eyes, “You think you know me so well, do you, Blade?” A kind of fondness seeps into his voice, making his grin sharpen. Banter like this… it makes him miss something he had once.
“Hm, I do.” Is all Techno says and he sounds so... he sounds so rueful. Tommy, his smile faltering as he forces his eyes to leave Techno’s. He decides to look around the bathroom instead. Making sure his back is facing him, Tommy blinks a couple times.
The room is small, but it’s nice. Nothing notable other than a couple plants on some shelves and a few unlit candles. A small window sits high on the wall in the shower, acting as a shelf where the shampoo and other products sit. The shower opens into a tub, so he could lay down instead of stand. There’s also some on the corners of the porcelain tub and— fuckin’ hell how much shit does this guy’s hair need? Out of the corner of his eye, a mirror sits to his left above a sink. Tommy keeps his eyes from meeting the ones in the glass.
“That can’t all be for you.” Tommy gestures to the bottles of shampoo and other hair products, finding the amount of them to be ridiculous. Yes, Technoblade has a lot of hair, but he didn’t think the man would still take it so seriously; he thought he’d grow out of it by now. He kinda likes the idea that he didn’t.
“Who else would it be for?” Techno asks before walking away to open a little cubby in the corner of the room, squatting down to pull out another fresh towel.
“I dunno. Maybe the bear?” Tommy says, shrugging with one shoulder as he rocks on his feet.
“You think I’d bathe Steve— the polar bear who stays outside— in my bathroom?” Techno asks, his tone flat. Tommy nods. “Seriously? You think I’d go through all the trouble to get him into my small cabin just to push him into this smaller bathroom, all so he can be slightly softer?” Technoblade finishes. Tommy just stares at him.
“Well,” he prompts, “do you?”
It’s silent for a moment as Techno simply stares back at him, his face incredibly emotionless. He gets up, folds the towel on the rack near the shower, and changes the subject by showing him which valve in the shower is for hot water and which one is for cold. Tommy can’t help the laugh that bubbles out of his chest. Techno’s smile spills over into his words, though Tommy doesn’t notice. In all seriousness, Tommy’s thankful that he explains how to use his shower considering he would fucking hate it if he got freezing cold water shooting into his skin in this already cold ass storm.
Before Techno leaves, he hovers by the door for a second.
“Once you're done, there’s a room to the left of the hall. You can stay in there if you want, or you can come back out to the livin’ room.” Techno says, tapping the handle aimlessly. A fidget, Tommy remembers. Not commenting on it, he nods. Mumbling a small thanks, he turns back around towards the shower, leaning down to turn on the water. The sound of water hitting the shower tiles quickly fills the room. Despite that, he can tell Techno lingers for a bit, hesitant almost, before he hears the quiet click of the door shutting. Tommy lets out a shaky sigh, shoulders going slack before sitting down, leaning against the cold porcelain tub. He takes the towel from around his neck and rubs it between his fingers as he waits for the room to fill with steam, allowing the mirror to fog up.
Tommy actually does cry when he steps into the shower. The heat loosens something in his chest and he crumples to the floor as he watches as dirt and grime flood down the shower drain. Nearly scalding hot water beats down on his skin, surely turning it red, but he couldn’t care less as he bites into his lip hard enough to bleed. He just sits on the floor for an hour or so, crying until he can’t anymore. Baking under the heat until the water begins to cool. Only then does he decide to actually wash. He’s gotten so used to bathing in the ocean or the pond that he forgot how good clean, hot water felt. There’s a lot of things he’s forgotten about while in exile. He’s forgotten about how good it feels to feel safe. To feel like he doesn’t have to look over his shoulder every now and then to make sure he wasn’t being watched, despite the way he never seemed to shake the feeling. Now that he’s here, he can’t feel anything other than the heat around his body, wrapping him in a loving hug that he wishes he could melt into. No eyes watching, even though the picture frames are just on the other side of the door.
Something else he’s forgotten is how much he missed being near people. People who actually cared for him… loved him, maybe. At least he can pretend that Techno loves him. He can pretend until he finds himself back on his doorstep, back in his old beaten clothes with his tent slung around his shoulders instead of an arm. Maybe that’s why he felt no bitterness from the cloth as he discarded it, because it knew he wasn’t meant to stay.
That, or maybe because it’s a piece of fabric.
Tommy decides that’s enough of the shower. Eyes puffy and red, but he’ll blame it on the hot water.
Drying off, he wraps the towel around his waist and moves to the door to leave, but stops. His eyes catch the blurry silhouette of himself in the mirror, hidden by steam and foggy glass. His hand hovers over the handle, but he pulls it away. The pads of his feet make barely any noise as he walks on the cold tiles towards the sink. His hands rest on the edge of the sink, gripping it like he needs it to keep him straight up, and he stares into a reflection of himself. Or, maybe not himself, the fog covers it like a blanket that hides who’s peering back at him through the mirror. Tommy can see the blonde, wet hair around his shoulders and the bright blue eyes— features far too familiar to someone he can’t think about right now. His heartbeat matches the water as it rapidly falls from the showerhead. He knows what he wants to see, but he’s scared he’s lost himself so much that it’ll be like meeting someone new.
His hand raises slowly, inching towards the mirror.
He doesn’t want someone new. His fingers ghost over the heavy film of fog.
He doesn’t want to see something that he was made into, or molded into, or broken into. The pads of his fingers fully rest on the mirror.
He wants to see Tommy. Not anyone else’s Tommy— not a soldier, or an echo, or a shell— but the Tommy that he still prays is there. Despite everything, he prays he’s still in there. If he can’t be that Tommy anymore, he at least begs that that Tommy will be in the mirror.
His hand is warm against the coolness of the mirror, the steam quickly dampening his palm. Taking in a shuddering breath, Tommy moves his hand and—
And he leaves the bathroom. Nothing out of the ordinary other than dirty clothes in a pile on the floor and a faint handprint on the fogged mirror.