Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The weekend has wiped away whatever echo of warmth may remain in the chill corridors, no sound to cover the creaking of old floorboards and warped, rattling windows. Every night the students leave, and the building descends into darkness. But there is no fear, only the comfort of holding a stuffed dog tattered more from love than age; it has been ripped and repaired, held and thrown, old but never unfamiliar. The bones may settle and creak in the dark, but their language is comfort.

The nightly sounds of Watson University for History and the Arts are comfort to only a select few, but those few revere it. One’s out now, his footsteps muffled in the unevenly worn carpet. He holds no point to his walk besides the ritual of habit. One more night to add to the others, but what a night it is. The moonlight is soft and the breeze softer, the slow exhalation of one more day bringing a welcome peace. However this hall is dark and still, save for an open set of windows nestled at the end. The drapes are undone from their usual quick, elegant knots and hang, heavy and tired. Like the walk, this too is a ritual. But unlike it, there is meaning behind the action familiar to only two. Light bathes the shallow niche, and a few hours from midnight would fill it exactly. Inside a marble statue glows faintly, her eyes closed and head tilted, forever smiling at the stars like a dreamer not yet woken. She’s a companion when the nights get long, and the walker worries she becomes lonely too. There’s little cause for his concern though; he wasn’t the one to open the curtains and let her feel the moonlight again.

Every night the headmaster visits, a few hours before the man here now. He dusts, and fusses, and when the world is looking away he runs a calloused hand over her cold cheek, hoping for those few seconds it can again hold the warmth of life. And every night as he leaves the bronze plaque shines, never showing the many hands to pass over its carved lettering: Mrs. Trixtin, deeply loved and never forgotten. Never had any writing been truer.

The headmaster came hours ago and left the doors unlocked behind him. The hall may be closed, but the walker is always welcome.

“D’yah still think she would’ve liked me?” The boy speaks without an actual sound, no force to carry through an incorporeal throat. This is also a habit, the reassurance that someone he’s never met would have liked him, someone would have cared had they the time. 

“For the last time, Tom, yes.” The walker's voice, at least, breaks the quiet. “She would have liked you when you’re not being a nuisance during my classes. I still can’t speak on her love of pranks, but I like to think she wouldn’t encourage you.”

“That’s stupid, Mr. I-Know-Everything Blade. Just ‘cause you're both old doesn’t mean she hates pranks like you.” He huffs, something impressive considering the lack of air to move. “I’m Mrs. Trixten and I think Tommy should be given more people to influence for pranks” he sings in a high voice, throwing his head into and through the statue bust.

“I told you not to do that, Tom. Go have fun with the decorative armor stands, but not her.” He waves his hand through the air at Tom, more for the meaning of the motion than the hope of moving him. “It’s disrespectful.” He’d given up years ago on beating some respect into the kid’s head, and there was no else to see him or hear him use the wrong title anyway. It really was his fault for letting the students get away with Professor “Blade”, now Tom thought nicknames were fair game. At least only the headmaster knew he liked it, and even then it was used as light blackmail. He really shouldn’t have done a demonstration for his week on Renaissance Duels.

“Maybe she’s still around here! And I just haven’t looked hard enough. It would be nice to have… someone else.” Techno gets what he means. They have each other, but it’s not the same. Tom wants someone dead, just like him. The kid had left the paralyzing confusion and fear of early death behind, but having to exist without a single person that can feel the things you can is the worst kind of loneliness.

“I’m sorry, Tommy. I’ve been here so long, and even in the weeks after she was, ah, gone, I saw nothing. Though I’ll admit I wasn’t looking very hard; I hadn’t known she could return until I met you." Hadn’t known anyone could, until he met Tommy.

“Thanks, Techno.” Tommy really meant it, there was no other time he’d use Techno’s real name. What better way was there to express the bond between a lost kid and the only person he could reach to, the only person who could ever help him? The cracks in Tommy’s brave face always appeared during these brief moments of vulnerability, a few tears clouding his vision, already moving to hide them. So the living man and dead boy stood side by side watching the moon shift across the statue's features, each wondering how it felt to be loved so dearly.

Hours later the sun rose again, as it tends to, only to find itself already beaten by Techno. He’d gotten accustomed to staying late, walking the hallways in place of studying his bedroom ceiling beams for each crack and splinter he already knew would be there. Thankfully the headmaster knew about his odd timings and was up to greet him at an early but much more reasonable hour. 

“Ah, good morning, Techno! Ready for the new class? Feel confident in winning them over?” Speak of the devil, and he shall appear. Phil was close enough to the devil sometimes in Techno's opinion anyway. He appeared from the dining halls entryway like he knew Techno would be passing by that second. The man was scarily good at it, even better than Techno himself.

“G’morning Phil, Glad to see you’re still snooping around early. And yes, it’ll be fine. New kids are always fine, you just have to be a decent human to them and ignore the little voice yelling to give ‘em a good kick.” He shook his head slightly and continued toward the school gardens, calling behind him “Speaking of which, you should probably have a word with Professor Schlatt. I hear he’s encouraging gambling again.” He chuckled at the faint string of curses receding into the background.

The gardens weren't exactly his area, but he’d picked up a knack for potato farming the previous year. He’d let himself fall into a debate with a third-year student on the Irish potato famine, and both being too stubborn to back down, it ended with a graded project on who could grow the most potatoes in a square meter. Funding for the school garden increased after that anyway, greatly pleasing their caretaker Ms. Puffy. Her projects were never forgotten, just pushed to the wayside when faced with the never-ending stream of renovation ideas from Phil. After humbly winning (he bribed the dining hall to serve baked potatoes the day of his victory) the now-infamous “potato war”, the garden had become a place to think. He’d found Tommy here too, surprising the kid almost more than himself. It was hard not to remember, but that was the whole point of working in the garden. Remembering. He grabbed a pair of gloves. 

It was months ago when Puffy had complained of rabbits from the woods getting through the garden fence and eating her student’s lettuce. Knowing Techno’s late schedule and love of quiet places, she’d exchanged him a few old history books to sit outside and watch for them. As the sun went down, he’d sat in his favorite heavy coat watching, waiting, and thinking. In terms of patience, Techno could watch a bean grow into a vine and still not be bored. So it was assumed the kid, poorly hidden behind a tree in the back garden, would make a break for it long before he left. But hours passed and he stood motionless, head angled toward the ground. It seemed the world would shatter below him at a breath. And Techno, for a brief moment of fantasy, was sure that if he moved closer there would be no warm breeze to indicate the living. Like a carved statue, each muscle perfectly sculpted but never used. Until like glass shattering he did move, every bone crumpling inward as if it no longer held the will to stay together. Head in the dirt, blonde hair flying into his tightly shut eyes with each wracking sob. No sound reached Techno, no dust from the sudden movement. It was like watching a silent movie, but this time the audience wasn’t powerless and was mildly annoyed.

“Kid? Hey, kid. You shouldn’t be here, but I’ll be nice since you seem so committed to your ‘I’m stuck here’ act.” He stood up, remaining at the bench. Usually best not to give too much effort to the troublemakers that sneak in. In response the boy looked around, shaking harder if possible. This is worse than he thought, the kid might actually be having a real breakdown. This was not his area. There were no tears in the boys eyes, only an emptiness someone this young should never have in them. He looked up, and Techno stumbled back from above him. He was at the funeral again, Phil’s face held together by the thinnest of threads. They both looked at him the same way.

“I can’t do this, Techno.” And he couldn’t. Not for a while. But there must be something he could do this time, anything to put a whole mind back in those eyes. 

“Are you alone here? What happened?” As if despite himself, the boy reached toward the extended hand. And Techno fell back into the freshly watered mud as their hands connected then passed through, like smoke through leaves. The boy on the ground stiffened.

“...Warm.” His hand shook in front of his face, overtaken by something it hadn’t had to show in ages.

               “What did you do? That’s not supposed to happen. How did you get in here?” Stumbling back to his feet, only to watch in horror as the boy shoved an entire arm through him.

               “You’re warm! Everyone else is so cold, I’d forgotten what this feels like…wait! Please stay, don’t leave me, my name's Tom, I -” The boy, Tom, froze. “Can you actually see me? Can you hear me? But you’ve never noticed me before, are you alive?” He scrambled forward as Techno scrambled back, a ridiculous game of tag with unknown consequences. “Please stay, I’m sorry, just talk to me, please…”

               And Techno had stayed, and talked, and listened to the ghost in the garden. There were days he regretted it, but never again did he want a face so seemingly young to hold a despair so old.

Chapter Text

Morning air should be cold enough to burn the nose and put an ache in the lungs, clean and traceless of the previous day. It came with a slight frost to make the entire garden sparkle in the rising sun. Techno wondered sometimes if it bothered the stems shivering above the loose soil, so small and fragile. But speculations on if plants could feel would have to wait. Puffy was kind enough to set aside an entire bed for him to do with as he pleased, and the carrots he planted two months ago needed to be pulled within a few days. He liked having troublesome students help with the dirty work, it taught them some patience. And even he couldn’t deny ripping a carrot or two out of the ground was satisfying. Thinking of students, he needed to put down the trowel early today. He knows walking into class at the same time as them creates the wrong kind of dynamic. A new class needs to start off the right way. Of course being a half-decent (half obsessed professor means he planned it down to the minute weeks ago, but one must expect the unexpected. Earning their admiration and trust was the critical part. There wasn’t much other way they’d listen to him ramble about the key components of historical innovation tactics in war for more than ten minutes. However he wouldn’t have been at this school long if he didn’t always carry a backup plan. The components to a miniature trebuchet rattled in his coat pocket with each tug of a stubborn weed. The kids needed to learn sometime they weren’t the only wild variable in the classroom. 

Planning never stops, but at least the repetitive motions of weeding give his hands a welcome distraction. 

“Bell’s ringing in 30, mate.” Shouts a voice from the fence. Phil memorized the habits of every professor in the place, like a living memory bank. He’s also the only person who can tell when Techno’s thoughts have run off with him, or is at least exceptionally good at guessing.

“Thanks Phil, just finishing up here. These guys’ll be ready soon, think the kitchen needs any carrots?”

“As much as they need another couple hundred potatoes. Now get moving before you lose your half-hour advantage and show up… on time. I’ve got to have a word with a few of Schlatt’s kids on the ethics of running a student gambling ring.”

“Busy as always Phil, what would we do without you.”

“You’d be forced to take over and do a brilliant job, but hate every second of it. No time for the garden when you could be in meetings. Maybe think about this the next time you help the kids plan mock battles and give me a heart attack. I’ll add it in my will!” He swept off, with surprising grace for someone trodding through wet dirt. Techno had to admit, it was hard to win against Phil. He knew people too well, just another reason he was the best headmaster since god knows when. Even Techno himself wasn’t around long enough to be there when he was first instated, but he’d been assured it wasn’t much of an event. “Just kinda happened.”, was the only thing he’d say when asked. There must be some kind of secret to him, but that’d be a mystery worthy of the scooby gang. Occult or not though, Phil was right. Techno returned his work gloves and trudged out the same gate, albeit much less gracefully.

The sun had a leg up on the horizon now, and was firmly rising. It was set to be a beautiful day, the dread of any professor. Anyone coming through his classroom would have a hard time keeping their thoughts on historical machines of any kind, regardless of his efforts. Seems like the trebuchet would have its moment of glory after all.

Through the garden and the massive building's side entrance, back through the same halls he’d wandered the night before. He had purpose in his step this time, a right, a left, a banistered staircase up, and three doors down. Techno appreciated Phil’s insistence on keeping the old architecture of the place, even through the constant need for fixings and renovations. Two years ago a kid flooded the second floor bathroom trying to get rid of banned slime, completely destroying the 1800’s style custom molding. Right above Techno’s current office, too. No one knew how to repair it, but Phil told every professor to ‘stay out the hallway mate, I’ve got it.’. And he had, a month later it was good as new. He insisted an unnamed friend owed him a favor, but rumor between the faculty is he came in late every night to fix it himself. Techno liked encouraging it, mostly to get back at Phil for refusing to let him help. At least he got to have some very well-chosen words with the kid, Charley, who did it.

Like the school, Techno’s classroom has changed year after year while still remaining the same. The draft from the doors motion ruffled papers carefully tacked to the wall, revealing the patchwork fading beneath it all. He liked to put up exceptional student essays, sometimes proudly taking them down to mail along with congratulatory letters. It had also become a trend a few years back to make him art. There was a special corner to exhibit them, the only entrance requirement being a handmade museum label. The first piece had shown up over his two months of medical leave, carefully folded into a get-well note. He was drawn walking, face obscured by a pig mask and heavy crown in place of his signature braided hair. Influenced by the last lecture on the battle of Blair Mountain, she’d added a pickaxe and short cape in place of the red bandanas. He put it up on the wall the same day he got it, and soon he was getting a drawing nearly every week. It slowed when he returned, but it was still popular for graduating students to leave their art on the wall, each loosely inspired by a lecture. He worried about this year’s class, the wall was quickly becoming too small without resorting to covering old papers. Their soft shuffling continued after the draft settled, what was making the breeze? He hadn’t left a window open. Has someone gotten in? They would have had to come through a window, but nothing was broken - ah. He heard the cackle right as the back corner window slammed itself shut.

“Tom Michael Simons, I swear once I have the time to figure out how you’re doing that I’m going to personally make sure it never happens again! Get out here!” It was victory enough he didn’t flinch, Techno decided. 

“Hey, you know that’s not my middle name. Just ‘cause you want to be serious ‘n all doesn’t mean you can make stuff up.” He’d been standing inside a large cabinet by the window, evidently planning the best time to strike. A battle played across his face, childish pout winning over the grin.

“I’ll ‘make up’ whatever I want Tommy, it’s unfair to the other students who can be properly terrified when I use their middle name.” It was a little game they played, Tom refusing to tell him and Techno coming up with a new one each time he was annoyed enough to get creative. “You’re starting to make me think you don’t actually know it.” Silence again in the room. “What, don’t get it? Cause you won’t tell me, I’ll think-”

“I get it. Thanks.” He must have struck a nerve, it was the shortest sentence he’d ever said.

“Are you, uh, good?” There were better ways to do this. But there were also no better people to do it.

“You’re right.” He drew back into the wall, a child pulling up a protective blanket. “I don’t remember it. I thought if I just waited long enough it would come to me, but it never did and everyone’s got a middle name, and I know I have one too, but I just can’t remember it, and it’s such a dumb thing to forget” The wall wasn’t enough to protect him from his own mind, but he kept retreating into it like he was trying to drown.

“Tommy. Stop. It’s fine if you don’t remember. It’s a middle name anyway, no one cares about those. Hell, you could even choose a brand new one.” A nose and spot of forehead reappeared from the wall. 

“Really? I guess that’s fine,” His teeth showed before the rest of the smile, a Cheshire cat back in its full glory, “as long as it doesn’t sound stupid , like ‘Techno’”.

“That’s a perfectly fine name and you know it. It’s not a middle name anyway. You’re deeply uneducated in the way of picking good ones”
“If you’re so good, pick one for me then.”  No amount of bravado could hide the hope in his eyes. The kid was so strong, bouncing back from every hit however frequently they came. First the complications of being dead, then barely remembering most of what came before it. He’d never met anyone that could handle it like this.

“Alex. I think it’s been long proven a reasonable name.”

“Oh.”

“You don’t like it?”

“N-no, I just, I don’t know what to say. It’s…too good.”

“Hey, keep it. I’m the expert, remember? Free of charge too.” Tommy giggled, lapsing into a comfortable silence. 

“Excuse me, professor, I don’t mean to interrupt whoever you’re talking to, but is it alright to sit inside for now? I know I’m early.” From the doorway.

Chapter Text

He hadn’t been paying attention to the time, very out of character. Damn this dead kid.

“Of course, of course, come in. I don’t recognize you. Have you transferred recently?” He kept mental files on his students, mainly since real files would be concerning to anyone who noticed, and this kid didn’t match. But the year had only begun, so transfers were still common. He’d catch up. The real problem though was how long the kid had been in the doorway. It’s generally not good to be seen having an emotional discussion alone in a classroom. Tommy, forever helpful, was scrutinizing the kid from a ridiculously close distance. Well, he calls them kids but the difference is obvious; the top of Tommy’s head just barely reached the older boy’s chest. But still both kids.

“I’m Toby, but most people call me Tubbo. Like a nickname.” He took a seat in the back, two rows up from being impolite. 

“I’ve had my fair share of nicknames too, Toby. I hope it’s one you like.”

“Yeah.” He seemed bent on compacting himself into a small, very dense ball, unless he first succeeded in disappearing behind his shaggy brown hair. Tom followed him to the seat, opting to sit directly on the attached desk with feet through the unsuspecting lap.

“I dunno, he seems like a weird ‘un.” Techno sighed rather than lecture empty air. No need for worried reports to Phil on his mental state.

“You’re right, by the way. I did transfer recently. You’re not the first professor I’ve met though.” Each word comes out like a cough, unexpected and too loud in the small room.

“Meet one with sideburns, Professor Schlatt? He’s the only one you need to know about, just remember to take none of his advice,” Toby frowned down at his desk “Oh don’t worry, you’ll be fine.”

“Hm.” He looked distracted. Unnerved, even. Did he say something wrong? The boy, Toby, he’d have to remember that, could be one of those chronically shy kids. If so, it wasn’t his place to do anything. Best to leave him alone for now. There was still time to set up, and the empty air  was soon covered in the creaking of his leather bag and ruffle of textbooks. 

Kids began to trickle in, some announcing themselves with laughter and shouts echoing down the hall, others quietly slipping in to wait out the day. Toby remained alone despite the seats filling around him, never looking up for a greeting or movement. It would be easy to mistake him for asleep if not for his hands holding a tarnished watch, spinning the minute hand around and around like it might just turn the world a little faster. Tommy lost interest soon enough, instead wandering through the small groups of students as they boasted about summer trips like it’s the first time. Techno likes to watch, and out of the corner of his eye he’ll see a room full of students, sitting, and breathing, and laughing with one shorter student joining because he belongs, because he’s only different in the ways that make him Tommy. Until a girl reaches to high-five a classmate and connects through Tommy’s chest is the brief illusion splintered, small fragments burying themselves again into skin. Soon he’ll resume his usual spot, a seat Techno takes care to hang his coat over.

A bell rings over the voices, and Techno takes a stand in front of the class.

“Mornin’. I’m continuing the lecture from yesterday, but with a brief demonstration if you lot decide to behave yourselves. I’ll be passing out the textbook soon, but an announcement before we get into the good stuff. I promise it’s not what you think,” A handful of  students exchange confused glances, but only Toby sees the subtle wink. There’ll be no new student announcement, something he’d already been condemned to in the previous days classes. The wink brings up a strange swirling in his gut, the oil-water of frustration and gratitude. 

“There’ll be a trip out in two weeks, and permission slips passed out next Wednesday with the information. I know you all think you’re too old for this, but no one’s too old for history. And with that excellent line, it’s lecture time.” This was more Techno’s element. He could lecture for hours, preferably with a silent video in the back to illustrate a few key points. Really the hardest part was finding an audience who could stay awake the full time. Phil had tried once, and to give him proper credit he’d lasted much longer than most. It was still a quick fall once he’d moved on from architecture and fortifications. This class wasn’t made of the same steel, and the usual few nodded off before he could get through the first dramatic retelling. Even Tommy, who wasn’t quite sure he could sleep, was looking as unconscious as he could get. 35 fruitless minutes later and all hope was lost. Summer break was too recent and the day too nice.  They would learn to listen after the first exam, but now it was time for a demonstration.

“Harry, I’ve said three times now to get back. It’s now your problem if this takes an eye out, I can’t be blamed. So! I trust that even if you weren't listening to my lecture everyone here understands how a trebuchet works. Your basic falling and hinged counterweight energy into mechanical advantage for a high launch speed. Pretty cool, eh?” Blank stares, and Techno breaks his record for how much disappointment you can put in one sigh. “Big rock or heavy object is attached to one end, gets dropped. Other end swings forward and throws something far. Comprende?” Less blank stares, their interest is secured. 

“Sir, is there going to be a target? The back lawn is so empty, it’s a real shame to have this great setup with nothing to aim at.” Smartass. 

“You want to volunteer? If you do, you're paying for my lawyer when the school fires me.” A roughly 4-foot tall trebuchet isn’t really that dangerous, but there’s no telling what these fools could make happen. Sometimes you can hold the truth if it builds atmosphere. “How about this: you lot run and steal a squash from puffy, and if I can hit it first try you’ve all got to actually try during the Socratic Seminar next week. Not a bad tradeoff, although he might get a noise complaint from the cheers echoing around the courtyard. They run off, shouting and planning on how to smuggle out one of Puffy’s prized giant squashes. The university’s massive backyard enters what will possibly be the only quiet moment it sees until late that night. It’s never really silent; the trees planted around the edges by classes decades prior help muffle some noise but add their own in the rustle and creak of limbs. It’s almost peaceful, if not for Techno’s own thoughts. 

“Mr-professor, uh..?” pipes a voice from behind him. How’s this kid so quiet?

“Toby! You can just call me Professor Blade, I mind but no one else seems to. What happened to getting the squash?  Don’t think I can hit it?” Toby’s voice is louder than usual against the quiet, and being outside seems to 

“No, I just wanted to look at your trebuchet a little closer. It’s pretty cool, did you make this? I made one a while ago too. My friend made cool drawings on it.” The kid seems a lot bolder outside away from the noise of a waking school. 

“Yeah, it took a bit to make it right so it doesn’t fling things far enough to get outside the school property.” Kid’s an expert, huh? Absently he watches Tommy appear through the back entrance, running over now the lecture part is done.

“That’s too bad, you made this out of good materials. I bet it could go really far. Especially if it was bigger.”

“Bet it could,  but we’re not trying to put a hole in the roof of anyone dumb enough to live next to a high school.” It’s interesting, Toby looks more alive inside even if his end of the conversation feels stilted. There’s a trend Techno’s noticed among a handful of kids who come through his classes, where they think showing they care is a weakness. But Toby feels more like he’s missing something that would draw him out more. Maybe a person, someone to egg him on when his sentences peter out. Techno makes a mental note to keep an eye out for someone he thinks would fit that. A few carefully arranged seating changes can make his students more engaged, thus better reviews and more extra salary to spend on recreation swords. And friendship is kinda important. A bit. Toby’s shuffling around to check out the other side as Tommy finally runs up.

“Lose your whole class already? Or did you shoot them off into the woods? I wish you’d waited for me, I could’ve measured the farthest splat.” he cracks with a wicked grin. With Toby otherwise occupied, Techno’s fine to bring his attention briefly to the Wisecracking Wonder long enough to roll his eyes and shake a fist silently in mock anger. Tommy, despite being both invisible and unable to be heard, silently mimes falling over in anguish behind Toby. Dumb kid. A sweet moment, but a moment too long. Something in front of him clicks, and Toby gasps as the lever releases under his hands and the weight swings backward towards his head. 

Within an instant Techno’s hand is on his collar, dragging the boy to the side like a wet sack. Fencing has given him whip-sharp reaction times, but he can still only watch as the corner of the square stone weight drags an edge through the young skin before it’s covered by fresh dirt. 

Toby stares up at the sky from the ground, clouds reflecting in his wide eyes.

 “Oh…” he manages before they roll back in his head. Techno’s on the ground beside him immediately while Tommy stares on. 

“Kid? Hey!” giving him a light shake, “Great, he’s out.” The shaking only makes his arm flop off his chest onto the fresh grass, and Techno sits him up to check for other scratches, “He’ll come back ‘round in a minute, but that was a big surprise. I’m gonna take him to lie down at the nurse and hope Phil doesn’t eviscerate me.” He shudders in genuine fear at the memory of the last time someone was caught messing with the students. An email had gotten around referring to him as The Executionist. It was definitely good to hurry. “Tell my class the lesson’s over!” Techno shouts behind him in an afterthought as he quick-steps it into the building, Toby in his arms and completely forgetting that Tommy couldn’t even tell a flea to jump.

“Y-yeah…” mutters Tommy, still staring at the spot where Toby had fallen. Something had happened, and he wasn’t quite sure. Or didn’t want to be sure.