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Chapter Text

Tommy’s world started falling apart in the school bathroom, two minutes before a maths test, with paper towels stuck to his shoes. 

He stared at himself in the mirror, lips white, muttering trigonometric functions like a prayer. His hands trembled as he wiped sweat from his forehead with a scratchy paper towel, tearing mid-wipe and left a piece clinging to his brow. Another  fluttered down and caught on the heel of his shoe, unnoticed. 

“Sine, cosine, tangent. SOH-CAH-TOA. Come on. You know this,” Tommy groaned, throwing what was left of the paper towel into the bin. 

The lights above buzzed faintly, the kind of sound no one noticed unless their head was already spinning out of control. Tommy noticed. 

His breath quickened. His chest felt too tight. The bracelets on his wrist became too heavy. A sharp pulse throbbed at his temples, like a ticking timebob. Counting down to his first maths test of the year. His worst subject, by far. He tried to inhale deeply, but his body didn’t obey. It just panicked. 

I studied. I studied. Why do I feel like I don’t know anything?

The door creaked open. Another student entered, seeing Tommy hunched over the sink, and paused. 

“You okay?” the boy asked.

Tommy straightened, slapped a grin on his face like war paint, “Fine. Great. Just… hyping myself up.”

“Mrs. Harrison says everyone needs to be sat in like a minute,” the boy nodded awkwardly and ducked into the stall.

Tommy turned back to the mirror. His reflection looked like it was unraveling. 

What if I fail this test? What if I studied the wrong section? What will my parents say if I get a C? Or a D? Or worse?

He slapped cold water on his face, rubbed at the redness around his eyes, and peeled the paper towel from his shoe. 

He gripped the edge of the sink and tried one last breath. Just one. In through the nose, hold for 8 seconds, out through the mouth. A trick his therapist taught him back in 7th Grade. 

It didn’t work.

It rarely worked nowadays, if ever.

By the time he walked into the maths exam, a minute late, heard still racing. He gripped his pencil in his hand and that same forced smile was firmly stitched across his face.

He sat. He wrote his name. The questions stared back like strangers. 

And he began the test. 

Tommy didn’t remember most of it. Just that his hand cramped halfway through and how someone’s desk squeaked every time they erased something. 

The buzzing of the lights never stopped. Neither did the dull ache behind his eyes. He would have to take some painkillers when he got back to his locker. 

When the bell rang, he handed up his test with a half-hearted “thanks,” barely waiting to hear Mrs Harrison’s reply. 

He didn’t breathe properly again until he was halfway down the hall. His hands had finally stopped shaking, but the answers he had given might as well have been written in a different language. As he walked towards his locker, his backpack slung low, teeth clenched together and knuckles going white as he gripped to his binder with a desperate clutch. 

He wasn’t even at his locker yet when a folded piece of paper fluttered from his binder. He stared at it like it might explode.

To: Tommy

Please report to Room 3B – 

After School, 3:45pm. 

Bring nothing. Just show up.

After School Assignment. Do not Ignore.

No name. No signature. 

His stomach dropped. 

Did Mrs. Harrison see him freaking out? Had that guy reported him for panicking in the bathroom? Was it about the test? Already?

Tommy crumpled the note in his fist. 

He didn’t tell anyone. 

Not that he had anyone to tell. 

It hit Tubbo halfway through his second period; he wasn’t funny, he was just afraid. 

“‘I am not what I am,’” Mr. Latham reads aloud, underlining the words on the white board, “Now, what does this tell us about Iago’s character?”

Tubbo’s hand shot up, quicker than it should have. He knew this, he knew the answer to every question that got asked in this class. But he always had a backup answer. 

“He’s… got identity issues?”

The class laughed. Mr. Latham didn’t

“Not wrong, exactly,” he said, “But I was looking for a bit more of a literary analysis next time.”

It was the third time that morning Tubbo had cracked a joke instead of giving a real answer. The first two landed better. This one just echoed, then died. He had crashed and burned at the one thing people liked about him.

Mr. Latham sighed, “Anyone else?”

Tubbo shrank slightly back into his seat. That sigh. Not annoyed. Not disappointed. Something much worse. 

He used to love English. He used to sit up straight, annotate everything. He really tried, it had never come easy to him – words that is – but the idea that he could logically analyse what an author had once said, it stirred something inside him. He loved puzzles, figuring out what was wrong, what he could fix. 

Now his books were full of doodles and random observations that could help him later, when he was cooped up at home, finally able to put his all into his homework. He always made sure he had some extra notes, ready to spin them into a joke. Somewhere along the way, laughing felt safer than trying. Failing wasn’t funny. Being smart, most certainly, wasn’t funny. Pretending not to care? Now, that got applause.

He glanced across the room and caught Ranboo’s eye. He smiled faintly, but it didn’t reach his eyes. 

Lunch came. He didn’t go. Instead, he wandered into the library and sat with an old file of his own school reports. 

It had become somewhat of a weekly ritual. Remind himself of what could’ve been. Remind himself of why he can’t be that anymore. Feel sad for himself. Then diligently return to class, ready to make more jokes. To resume his role of class clown. 

Year 3: “Tubbo demonstrates real potential.”

Year 4: “Tubbo shows a flair for problem solving, this has aided his English work tremendously.”

Year 5: “Tubbo’s creativity remains strong, but he’s increasingly distracted during lessons.”

Year 6: “Quick wit, but needs more focus.”

Year 7: “Has begun masking his ability with humour.”

Year 8: “Tubbo’s intelligence is evident, but increasingly hidden behind sarcasm and self-deprecation.”

That one hit. 

He closed the file and stared out the window. Maybe he wasn’t dumb. Maybe he wasn’t even funny. Perhaps… Perhaps he was just afraid of not being liked anymore. 

Academic excellence always comes at a cost and sometimes that cost wasn’t worth it.

Especially when the price was being the odd one out. 

He blinked and looked back down at his English book. Something had been slipped beneath it, creased, folded tight like a warning. He tugged it free slowly, like it might accuse him of something.

To: Tubbo

Room 3B, 3:45pm.

Attendance mandatory.

After School assignment.

Bring nothing. Just show up.

He blinked. No context. No warning. No “good job” or anything.

That couldn’t be a good sign. 

He laughed, out loud, like someone had just told a joke. 

“Guess I finally subtle enough for them to notice,” he muttered.

He didn’t ask any questions. It’s not like he could, there had been no signature. He just shoved the note into his hoodie pocket and walked to his next class.

Of course, the printer jammed. And of course, Techno couldn’t bring himself to care. That’s when it really clicked. He was well and truly done. 

It was a masterpiece. Eight pages, double spaced, 12 pt Times New Roman, a surgical breakdown of GDP and how it is not an accurate measure. He’d worked on it for four nights straight. The footnotes alone were a minor academic achievement. 

He pressed print.

Whir. Click. Jam. 

The screen flashed: Error 04.

He stared at the message, his fingers hovering over the keys. In another life, this would have triggered a storm. Reprinting, troubleshooting, maybe even rewriting the conclusion, all while having a panic attack. 

But now?

He unplugged the printer and walked away.

In the cafeteria, Techno sat alone, earphones in. Not listening to music, just some static white noise. He pulled a battered notebook out from his bag and began sketching; a cracked golden mask, vibes curling out of its mouth. 

He didn’t look up when someone walked past. Didn’t flinch when someone called him “Tickno.” He didn’t care. Why should he care? 

People thought he was arrogant because he didn’t talk much. Or a genius. Or a genius. Maybe a weirdo to some. The truth was much simpler. 

He had always been top of his class. But lately, every A felt emptier than the last. Like collecting badges in a game that no longer matters. Maybe it never mattered to begin with.

Across the hall, he spotted Tubbo in the library, slouched at the table. Their eyes met for half a second. 

Techno looked away, checking his email, out of habit more than curiosity. 

Usually it was more deadlines, study resources, the occasional cryptic message from a teacher who thought riddles were educational as well as funny. They weren’t.

But this email stood out. 

Subject Line:  Selected for After School Assignment Program

Sender: P.Z

He almost deleted it out of instinct. 

Instead, he clicked it. 

The message was short. 

You’ve been chosen for something different.

Room 3B. 3:45pm. 

Bring nothing. Just show up.

He frowned. 

No explanation. No assignment. No reason. 

He reread it twice. He still didn’t care. He didn’t have time for this. 

But… he also couldn’t bring himself to delete it. 

When the final bell of the day rang, he walked towards Room 3B like he was headed to detention.

At 3:45pm, they all showed up; independently, cautiously, and late by exactly one minute. 

Tommy hovered near the door, his backpack clutched to his chest like a shield. 

Tubbo loitered down the hall pretending to check his phone. Pretending to not care in the slightest. 

Techno leaned against the wall, arms crossed, trying not to look like he was already planning his escape route. 

The door creaked open. A man stepped out – late 30s, maybe – cardigan too big, bright green, with reading glasses tucked in his collar. 

He gave them a once-over. 

“You three must be the students who need a little extra help,” he said with a crooked smile, “Come on in.”

They followed him inside. The room didn’t look like any of the other class rooms they spend their days in. Posters peeling on the walls, curtains half drawn, no lights turned on. 

In the middle of the room sat three desks. Three chairs. Three beanbags. A blank white board.

A kettle steaming in the corner. 

No grades. No seating chart. No pressure. Just space. 

“I’m Phil,” he stated gently, “I used to teach Art, now I run this… project.”

He looked at each of them carefully, “You boys can sit anywhere you want. Completely free reign.”

The boys each shuffled stiffly into the three seats. 

“You boys aren’t here because you’re failing. Far from it. Your teachers have noticed that you each seem a bit… stuck.”

That earned him three blank stares.

Phil nodded, like he expected that,

“By the end of the year, I want you to make something. Anything. A piece of art that represents who you are. Who you truly are. The only rule is that it has to be honest.”

Tommy hesitated, but spoke up first, “Is this… being graded?”

“Nope”

Tubbo raised an eyebrow, “So, like, for fun? To waste a few hours or something”

“God, no,” Phil breathed, “This project is just for you .”

The silence stretched.

Phil poured himself a cup of tea. 

And somehow, without anyone quite agreeing to it, the project had begun.

The silence was terrible. 

Tommy fiddled with a pen, tapping it against his desk until Techno shot him a glare. Tubbo swung back in his chair, letting it thump against the wall rhythmically. 

Phil remained in the corner, sipping his tea and reading his newspaper like they weren’t three deeply confused teenagers trapped in this after school hostage situation. 

“So,” Phil broke the silence eventually, “Why do you think you’re here?”

No one spoke.

“Tommy? Why don’t you start us off?”

Tommy straightened in his seat instantly. 

“I… I don’t know. Is it because I cried in the bathroom before my maths exam? Did that guy rat me out?”

Phil nodded thoughtfully, “Nobody ‘ratted’ you out, Tommy. But fair guess. Tubbo?”

Tubbo shrugged, “Either I’m not funny anymore or Mr. Latham doesn’t have a sense of humour.”

Phil raised an eyebrow, “Did you think you were?”

“Maybe not this time… but usually I am.”

Phil smiled, “Maybe being funny isn’t the problem.”

That made Tubbo smile for real. A little. Phil saw through him. Someone finally saw him, behind the laughter.

Phil turned to Techno, “And you?”

Techno didn’t loop up from his notebook, “They probably think I’m depressed.”

“They?”

“Teachers. Or the system. Or whatever.”

Phil just nodded again, like he’d been expecting all of this. 

“This hour after school is all about you boys. No grades. No pressure,” he explained, “Attendance isn’t mandatory but if you want to show up, I’ll be here. Every Tuesday and Thursday. Same time.”

“The note I got said that attendance is mandatory?” Tommy questioned, his eyebrows furrowing.

Both boys beside him nodded in agreement.

Phil chuckles, “I had to get you here somehow. I know what your lot are like. Unless it’s an obligation, nobody would see you.”

Tubbo snorts and nods. 

Tommy’s brows furrow further, “But if it’s not mandatory anymore, how do you know if we’ll show up for this project?”

Phil stood up, gathering his things, “I don’t. But I have a feeling that deep down you know that you need to do this, for yourself. You don’t need to work to impress me, you need to work to remember who you are.”

Phil walked out.

The door clicked closed. The trio sat in silence again.

Tommy broke it, again.

“What the hell just happened?”

Tubbo grinned, “I think we just got invited to a cult.”

“At least there’s no homework,” Techno finally looked up.

None of them realised it yet, but this project would be the last piece of school work that they would ever take seriously – not because they couldn’t – because they stopped pretending it mattered more than they did. 

Chapter Text

Thursday, 3:45pm

When the trio arrived – all within a minute of each other – room 3B didn’t look any different. 

The same peeling posters adorned the back wall. Tommy noted that it was Van Gogh, a half torn one about Dadaism, right smack in the middle of the wall. The same desks, with wonky legs. The same steam rising from Phil’s kettle in the corner, like the room was made to be comforting but hadn’t quite figured out what comfort meant yet. 

Tommy hovered in the doorway for a second too long before stepping inside. His shoes squeaked on the linoleum. He winced. 

Tubbo was inside, already sprawling out over a beanbag like it was the only safe surface in the room. His bag sat open beside him, but he was scrolling on his phone, his thumb flicking lazily upward every few seconds without really reading whatever he was looking at. 

Techno entered last, quiet as a shadow, head phones looped around his neck but they remained silent. He took the furthest desk from everyone else, avoiding eye contact. 

Phil looked up from the newspaper in his lap, “Ah, looks like the gang’s all here,”

No one responded. 

“You all came back. That’s something,” Phil smiled anyway, setting his cup down. 

Tommy sat down immediately and started fiddling with the pen cap in his hand. Tubbo exhaled dramatically and threw his phone haphazardly into his bag.

“Alright,,” Phil said, leaning back, “There’s no set lesson plan. But I do have a question that I want you to think about.”

He stood and walked to the white board, not giving the boys any time to respond. Not that any of they would have. 

In a blocky blue marker, he wrote “ What does your truth look like? ”

They all stared at the words. 

“That’s your homework,” he said, quickly amending his statement, “Except it’s not really homework. There is no due date. This is just… a seed. Something to jump start your thinking.”

Tommy raised his hand instinctively, then slowly lowered it, “What if we don’t know?”

Phil smiled softly, “Then that’s your truth for now, and that’s ok.”

He sat back down, and cracked open his sketchpad.

Silence returning to the room like an old friend. 

Tommy glanced across the desks, and then back down at the empty notebook in front of him. He drew a crooked line. Then another, and another. 

They met at awkward angles, jagged and sharp. Imperfect. 

A mountain range formed across the bottom margin. He didn’t know what his truth looked like, how could he? He was his parents' creation, the perfect golden boy. He could barely recognise what he felt at any one time.

He couldn’t possibly figure out what he was feeling right now. Nervous? Bored? Some weird cousin of both?

Tubbo let out another sigh and began pulling threads from the beanbag he was sitting on, flicking them on the floor. He wasn’t even looking at them. It was like he was somewhere else entirely.

Techno still hadn’t moved. His notebook laid open. his pen untouched. His eyes trained on the white board. Not reading it, just staring straight through it. 

Phil flipped a page. Sipped his tea. He didn’t press. The room breathed in and out around them. 

“You even feel like this room is fake?” Tubbo asked suddenly, his voice loud against the quiet of the room.

Tommy blinked, “Fake?”

“Yeah, like… it’s trying way too hard to be relaxed. Beanbags and posters and tea, right? But it still feels like school… it smells like school.”

Tommy couldn’t help but let out a snort, “That’s because it is school.”

Tubbo groaned and dragged a sleeve over his face, “Exactly!”

Techno’s pen finally moved. It scratched softly against the page in front of him. Tommy looked over, but couldn’t see what he was writing. 

Phil looked up, studying the, all for a beat, then went back to sketching. 

“What does your truth look like,” Tommy muttered, “What does that even mean?”

“It means whatever you need it to mean,” Phil spoke absently.

“That’s not helpful.”

“Wasn’t meant to be, mate.”

Time passed. Fifteen minutes, maybe more. 

Outside, the sky was shifting from grey to gold, as clouds were lit around the edges like something sacred. 

“I used to think mine was being the smart guy,” Tubbo said quietly, eyes fixed on the ceiling, “Like that was who I was. Who I wanted to be. Good grades. Neat handwriting. Knew the answers. Always participated.”

Tommy looked over. 

Tubbo didn’t meet his eyes, “Then I got tired. Tired of the whispers, being used for homework and projects. Tired of being called a ‘nerd’ and a ‘freak’ for liking to learn. I started pulling away. Not all at once. Just… slowly. Like water draining from a sink. And I realise… I don’t know who I am anymore beyond stupid jokes.”

No one said anything. Not even Phil. But they were all listening. 

Tubbo opened his mouth. Closed it. Looking down at his bag, searching for anything to do to avoid the silence. 

“I had a meltdown,” Tommy spoke up suddenly, surprised by his own voice.

“A few years ago. Didn’t tell anyone. Not even my brother. Just… completely crashed. Stopped trying as hard. I just couldn’t do it anymore. Started skipping class and lying about it.”

Tubbo glanced over, his expression soft.

“I don't want to be the golden boy anymore,” Tommy said plainly, “It feels like a costume. But no… that’s what my parents expect. They shoved me into therapy as soon as my grades went down. They didn’t even go down by a lot… they just weren’t perfect.”

Silence consumed the room again, but a different type. Not awkward, just still.

Phil drew something – none of them saw – and flipped the page. 

“I don’t think mine’s real,” Techno said, so softly it made both of the boys freeze.

Tommy turned, “Your truth?”

Techno nodded once.

“Everyone always says I’m the quiet one. The smart one. The reliable one. But that’s just what I learned to be. To not take up space. People expect it, so I give it. Doesn’t mean it’s me.”

Tubbo sat up slowly. 

Techno didn’t look at anyone. He kept his eyes on the white board.

“Sometimes I wonder if I even exist when I’m alone,” Techno whispered, “Like… if there’s no one to watch me, am I still real?”

Phil exhaled, deep and long, “You are always real.”

Techno nodded like he wanted to believe it but wasn’t sure how. It was just words at the end of the day. Four words, like a lifeline. 

Tommy walked to Techno’s desk, “You coming back next week?”

“Maybe,” Techno blinked.

Tommy watched him for a second longer. 

“I hope so.”

Techno didn’t respond but he didn’t back away either.

Phil stood and refilled the kettle. The hiss of water was strangely grounding to the trio.

“Tea?” he offered.

“Sure,” Tubbo said.

Tommy and Techno both nodded.

Tubbo joined them in the circle of desks and they sat with mismatched mugs. Tommy’s said “No. 1 Art Teacher.” Tubbo’s had a cat in a green spacesuit. Techno’s was just a plain baby blue. 

Then Tommy spoke up, “Truth is… I don’t feel real sometimes too. But I want to be. Real, I mean, not perfect.”

Tubbo nodded, “Yeah, perfect is too hard to figure out.”

Techno took a sip of his tea, then looked at them. Just looked. Yet, it was like something unspoken passed between them.

“You ever think that, maybe, we’re all just waiting for someone to see us. To really see us?” Tubbo asked.

Phil didn’t answer. He didn’t need to. 

When the hour ended, Phil gave no grand speech. That wasn’t his style. Just a soft “See you next week,” and a nod. 

Tommy lingered in the doorway, watching Techno leave. Then he followed him. 

In the hallway he called out, “Hey!”

Techno paused but didn’t turn to look at him.

Tommy caught up, “You okay?”

Techno shrugged. 

“I meant what I said,” Tommy pushed, “I want you to come back.”

Techno finally looked at him, “Why?”

Tommy shrugged, “Because you don’t talk much, and I think that means you have the most to say.”

“That makes absolutely no sense,” Techno actually smiled, just a little.

“Exactly” 

They parted ways at the stairs, Tommy returning to room 3B to get his bag. 

Tubbo stood by Tommy’s desk, waiting for him.

“You good?” he asked. 

“Yep. Getting there,” Tommy replied.

He dropped into the chair next to him. Their knees bumped. 

Tubbo smirked, “So, same time next week?” 

Tommy looked at him, at the shadows under his eyes, the nervous way his fingers kept picking at the last remnants of the beanbag he had. 

He needed this just as much as Tommy did. 

“Yeah,” Tommy nodded, “Same time, next week.”

Phil said nothing. He just smiled quietly to himself watching three broken things try to become whole again. The pair stood there, not talking, for a beat too long. Then Tubbo gave a small nod, awkward and rigid, and left.

Tommy stayed behind, staring at the closed door for a second before turning back. Phil was sketching again. Tommy sat down across from him.

“Truth still fuzzy?” Phil asked, not looking up from his sketch book. 

“Yeah.”

Phil smiled, “Good. That means you’re looking for it.”

That night, Tommy opened his notebook again under the dim light of his bedside lamp. 

What does your truth look like? was still written in the corner. 

This time, he wrote under it. 

“ I don’t know. But the me staring back in the mirror isn’t it. And I think I want to… I need to know. ”

The Next Week, Tuesday

Room 3B looked exactly the same, again, but something felt different this time. Maybe it was the fact that all three of them showed up again, unprompted. Maybe it was that they all noticed it too. The need for this class… or whatever it was. 

Tommy arrived first this time. He was early by nearly ten minutes, which he hated. 

Early is on time, on time is late, and late is inexcusable.

It had been ingrained in him from the moment he had places to be. Well… ever since he had places that his parents had to be.  

But the class room felt better than the hallway, so he took his usual seat and started drawing triangles on his paper. Equilateral. Then not. 

Tubbo arrived second, slightly breathless, as if he had sprinted up the last few flights of stairs. He flopped dramatically on the beanbag that he made his own, arms flailing. 

“My history teacher is actually the most evil man to ever curse this planet,” he announced to the ceiling.

Tommy couldn’t contain his snort, “What’d he do? Assign another essay?”

“Worse. A group project. With Jack freaking Manifold. ”

Tommy grimaced, “Yikes.”

“Right?” Tubbo waved a hand through the air, “The guy talks like a podcast host.”

“About himself?”

“Always.”

Tommy laughed, and Tubbo looked over. That spark was there again, small but unmistakable. Tubbo had never ever made someone laugh by accident… by being himself . They both looked away. 

Techno had arrived quietly in the middle of their discussion, sitting in his self appointed seat and taking out his notebook and pen. He silently listened, never once speaking. 

Phil arrived five minutes late with a bag of cookies and didn’t apologise. 

“A participation prize,” he said, dropping them on the desk, “Only one each though, my wife wants some when I get home.”

They each took two anyway. Even Techno, who timidly looked up at Phil as he did what the younger pair had done. Phil just gave him a soft smile and turned away. 

Ten minutes passed. Or maybe thirty. Time didn’t work right in room 3B/

“Are we supposed to talk?” Tommy asked.

Phil didn’t look up, “You can. Or you don’t have to.”

Tommy chewed on the inside of his cheek. “Do people actually come here? Like, before us.”

Phil smiled faintly, “Some. Not many stuck.”

“Why?”

Phil finally looked up, his pencil stilling, “Because sitting with yourself is a lot harder than it sounds.”

Tubbo made a noise somewhere between a groan and a laugh, “I sit with myself all the time. It sucks. I don’t blame them.”

Tommy smirked, “That’s why I avoid you.”

Tubbo threw a scrumpled up sticky note at him. It bounced harmlessly off of Tommy’s shoulder. Tommy tossed it back.

For a moment, they almost felt… normal.

Techno shifted, pulling his hoodie sleeves further down over his hands. Tommy noticed the movement. He didn’t say anything but the impulse to ask if Techno was cold – or anxious – nagged at him. 

Phil watched. He always watched, never interrupting. He just nodded to himself and continued to sketch. 

Eventually, the hour came and went.

“Alright,” Phil spoke up, stretching in his seat, “That’s enough existential dread for today, I think.”

Tubbo groaned, “How about participation stickers and doughnuts next time, Phil?”

Phil nodded solemnly, “On the board agenda it goes!”

Tommy stood and stretched. His back cracked. “Board agenda of what?”

Phil grinned, “Exactly.” 

Techno was already halfway out the door. Tommy hesitated and then followed.

“Hey,” he called softly. 

Techno paused, one foot still in the hallway.

“Are you… like… okay?”

Techno turned. His expression didn’t change much, but his shoulders tensed.

“It’s just… you didn’t say anything today… like… not at all,” Tommy added, shoving his hands into his hoodie pockets and swung back on his heels. 

Techno blinked slowly, “Didn’t need to.”

“That’s really the same as being okay though.”

Silence. 

Then, “I’m used to quiet.”

Tommy nodded, “Yeah, well… you don’t have to be with us. You don’t have to be quiet with me.”

Techno didn’t reply. But something flickered behind his eyes. A distant softness. Or at the very least… less hardness. He gave a slight nod, then walked away. Tommy watched him go.

Back inside room 3B, Tubbo was still lounging on his beanbag. 

“That was weirdly not awful,” he stated as Tommy turned back around.

Tommy snorted, “High praise.”

“I mean it,” Tubbo said, turning his head to look at him, “You were surprisingly less annoying than usual.

Tommy grinned, “You like me.”

Tubbo rolled his eyes, “I merely tolerate you.”

“Same difference.”

A quiet peace surrounded the pair. Then Tubbo sat up and slung his bag over his shoulder. 

“Think you’re coming back on Thursday?” he asked.

Tommy hesitated, then nodded, “Yeah… not like I have anything better to be doing.”

“Cool.”

Their eyes met. And again, that quiet hum between them. Not loud. Not flashy. Not uncomfortable in the slightest. Just real .

Phil watched them from the corner, saying nothing, but sketching all the while.

Tubbo was first out the door, yelling something about catching the bus. Phil gave a lazy salute. 

Thursday

Tommy arrived first, again. Early, again. Alone in the room, again. He hated himself for it. 

He scribbled something angry looking in the corner of his notebook and erased it before it was even finished. 

Tubbo barged in five minutes later, holding a juice box like a trophy.

“Victory snack,” he declared, “Because I survived double maths.”

Tommy raised an eyebrow, “Barely?”

“Emotionally, I am ruined.”

Tommy laughed. Tubbo offered him a sip. He took it with a grateful nod. Neither said anything, they didn’t need to. The silence felt easy and safe.

Phil entered ten minutes late with a box of those tiny supermarket doughnuts. Again, he didn’t apologise. 

“Bribery,” he explained, placing them down on the window sill, “Have at them.”

“Oh and Tubbo? I’ll have your stickers next time.”

Tubbo tried to scowl but his smile broke through, “I’ll hold you to that Phil.”

Phil put his hands up in mock surrender before sitting down. 

This time, Techno was the last. He walked in slower. He didn’t go to his usual desk, instead he sat on a beanbag in the corner. 

He nodded once in Phil’s direction, before sitting down and opening his notebook like he had been in the room the whole time. 

Tommy stared for a few seconds, before looking away. Today, Phil didn’t write anything on the board. Just spoke, “So, who wants to say something real?”

Silence. 

Then Tubbo raised his hand. The same hand raise that was usually followed but a bad pun or a preplanned joke based on the lesson plan. But with Phil, he never had a plan. He has to be real. He wanted to be real.

“I think,” he said slowly, “my brain is, like, permanently fried. Like… like all the little parts that make me a person got rewired into being a stupid class clown when I actually do care about my education. And now I don’t know what I am when I’m not trying to be funny.”

The silence that followed wasn’t awkward. None of their silences were. They were always respectful. Sometimes heavy. 

Tommy nodded, “Yeah. That. But like… the opposite.”

Techno didn’t speak. But he was listening. Phil didn’t push him. 

Phil leaned back, thoughtfully, “So, what would it look like if you just stopped trying?”

“Scary,” Tommy laughed bitterly.

Tubbo threw a doughnut at his face, “Liberating.”

Techno murmured, “Lonely.”

Everyone froze. Then turned to look at him. 

He didn’t clarify. Just turned a page in his notebook. Tommy stared at him, his heart thudding weirdly. 

Phil let the silence stretch before changing the subject, but something in the room had shifted. 

They were starting to try letting each other in. Sitting in the kind of silence that said ‘ You don’t have to explain yourself here. ’

Techno was the first to leave, as usual. He packed up silently, the scrape of his chair being the only real sound in the room. Tommy glanced up, half expecting to say something, like he had last time. He had never had much of a control over what came out of his mouth. Maybe another ‘ you okay? ’ But he didn’t.

Not today.

Today he understood that Techno didn’t need questions. He just needed some space to breathe and just be. So Tommy let him go. No pressure, no fuss. Just a small nod that Techno didn’t see. 

Tommy and Tubbo left together, waving goodbye to Phil. 

“Wanna walk home together?” Tubbo asked Tommy casually, like it wasn’t a big deal at all. 

Tommy shrugged, “Sure.”

They walked in a comfortable silence for a while, the wind tangling their hair, their sneakers scuffing the curb. Tommy talked about the annoying thing his brother had done the night before. While Tubbo ranted about a chemistry lab that was particularly hard.

It was nothing special, but it made it feel even better. 

Chapter Text

It started on a normal Tuesday.

Tommy slouched into room 3B five minutes late – a first for him – dramatically dragging his feet and holding a crinkled plastic bag above his head like a trophy.

“Behold,” he announced as he stepped through the doorway. “My sacrifice to the intellectual gods of this sacred space; a family sized bag of ‘Cheesy Disco Crunchies!’”

Phil looked up from his desk in the corner, smirking as he raised an eyebrow, “Looks healthy.”

Tommy ignored him, but his face was bright with a huge grin, lobbing the bag across the room towards Tubbo, who yelped and narrowly caught it with his hands, instead of his face. 

“What the hell, man?” Tubbo laughed while opening the bag, “Are you trying to kill me or just feed me?”

“A bit of both,” Tommy said, faux seriously, dropping into the seat beside him. “If the preservatives don’t get you, I will.”

“Ah, so you have a back up plan then?” Tubbo grinned as he took a mouthful of the crisps.

Tommy nodded solemnly, “I am always prepared, Tubs, you should know this by now.”

Techno glanced up from his notebook. He didn’t say anything but there was the tiniest – almost microscopic – smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. He reached for the bag a few minutes later, taking his own handful of the crisps, and for a few minutes the room was filled with the sound of crunching, crinkling, and the faint clicking of Phil’s keyboard.

Tommy leaned back in his chair while a smug smile, acting like he had just solved world peace through artificial cheese powder. 

Outside, the hallways buzzed with the low roar of students leaving their own afterschool clubs, but room 3b felt sealed off. It was the calm amongst the chaos, a small pocket of peace in a school that never seemed to stop demanding something, not even for a second. 

Tommy didn’t mention the three unfinished assignments waiting for him at home, or the way his parents still told him that he “wasn’t living up to his potential.” Tubbo didn’t bring up the test that he had bombed that morning because he had spent too much time preparing one liners for English. He didn’t also acknowledge the fact that he skipped lunch to help his science teacher re-organise the lab before their experiment. Techno didn’t talk about the scholarship applications piling up and collecting dust on his bedroom desk, or the way his hands, now, shook after every exam from trying too hard to stay calm.

They just sat. 

They simply ate bad crisps together, and it was the most peace any of them had felt in weeks. All thanks to room 3B, and Phil.

The next day, Tubbo set up camp in his usual corner of the school library with his laptop, maths textbook, and a caffeine free energy drink that he insisted was “just as effective.” He looked like a soldier preparing for a battle, which, given his upcoming exam, he kind of was. Tubbo had never been a natural when it came to academics, but his love for learning made up for it. He had always worked his hardest – doing his best, always – even now, when he messed around in class, he still cared about his grades. 

Tommy joined him half an hour later, dragging a chair over with a screech of defiance, “You know I hate maths, right? Why did you think I would be any help?”

“Yeah,” Tubbo said, without looking up, “But I hate dying alone more.”

“What are you even doing?” Tommy snorted.

“Crying internally. Integrating externally.”

The pair found a rhythm, silently working together, never scared to ask each other for help on their respective work. 

Techno showed up just after five. He didn’t say anything when he arrived, just nodding in acknowledgement before pulling out a physics worksheet and sat across from them. His head phones in, as always, with no music playing. He moved like someone who hadn’t seen sleep in days, his shoulders tense, deep bags shadowing his eyes. Tommy opened his mouth to ask something but closed it again. 

The trio worked – or tried to – in a quiet that felt just like the silence they enjoyed in room 3B. It was comfortable, chosen. 

At one point, Tubbo dropped his pencil and Techno reached over to pick it up before he could. When Techno handed it to Tubbo, he blinked, surprised.

“Thanks, Techno,” he spoke quietly. 

Techno gave him a small nod and looked back down at his worksheet that had long since been completed.

By the fourth week, room 3B had become a ritual to the boys. 

Phil still didn’t do much. Some days he graded papers, others he listened to music with a single head phone, sipping tea from a cracked mug. 

Last week, Tommy had commandeered the whiteboard and began writing “Quote of the Day” in increasingly awful handwriting. His mask of perfection slowly slipped down, allowing the others to see the true him. Tubbo and Techno followed suite and added their own quotes each day. 

Day 1: “ Whatever you do, give it 100%. I don’t even give 100% on blood tests, I’m tired.” - Tommy

Day 2: “One day, I am going to make onions cry. Mark my words.” - Tubbo 

Day 3: “Sleep is for the weak. I am weak. Let me sleep.” - Techno

Phil never commented. But he started leaving out markers in more and more colours. Tommy and Tubbo turned this into a competition, making it their mission to crack Phil. 

Day 7: “In real life, I assure you, there is no such thing as aLgEbRa.” - Tubbo

Day 8: “Hating people is like burning down your own house to get rid of a rat. It’s annoying and exhausting.” - Tommy

Day 9: “Lazy is such an ugly word. I prefer to call it selective participation.” - Tubbo

Day 10: “The biggest lie I ever told myself is ‘I don’t need to write that down, I’ll remember it.”

One Tuesday, a new quote appeared on the whiteboard with no name. 

“All you need is people who care. But a little bit of chocolate now and then never hurt anyone.”

Phil’s smirk as he walked in on their heated discussion about who the mystery quote writer was gave him away.

The trio also began to finish the weekly crosswords together. They would huddle around Techno’s desk, staring at the single sheet, debating whether a “ A six letter work for ‘to strive excessively’” was ‘ effort ’ or ‘ overdo. ’ 

It was ‘ strain. ’ Techno had known that immediately, but he let the younger pair guess first. 

There were still days where no one talked much, or at all. But there were becoming more and more days where they did. And those days came with laughter and smiles that the boys hadn’t arrived with on that first day. 

Tommy talked about getting detention for correcting his English teacher’s pronunciation. Tubbo mentioned a weird childhood memory involving sheep and a bouncy castle. Techno, in a rare burst of openness, shared that his childhood best friend used to drag him to chest tournaments until he got too good for her to beat. 

None of it was deep or substantial. But every word mattered. To themselves, and to each other. 

Lunch had become its own sort of sanctuary. 

The boys had taken over one of the empty tables near the vending machines. It was just out of earshot from the usual cliques that occupied the cafeteria. They managed to go blissfully unnoticed by the loud groups around them, while still enjoying their newfound air of quietness. 

Tommy always arrived first, often bursting into a story as soon as the others sat down. It was like he was saving it just for them.

Techno showed up next, his lunch consisting of protein bars and bottled water like he was preparing for a boxing match instead of a history quiz. 

“I told Mr. Dempsey  that if stress burned calories, I should be absolutely wham by now. He couldn’t even argue with me,” Tommy declared, “Anyway, he gave me an A in P.E. so I win.”

Tubbo arrived mid story, his mouth full after taking a bite of his sandwich, “He doesn’t even do the work. He just monologues until the teacher forgets.”

Tommy kicks him under the table, shooting back, “Shut up, they love it.”

Tubbo unwrapped his cereal bar, asking, “Did either of you actually sleep last night?”

“No,” Tommy said.

“God, no,” Techno added. 

“I dreamt I was stuck in a group project with you two and the walls just kept closing in around me.”

“In 3B?”

“Worse. It was in Mr. Latham’s class.”

They all laughed.

It was stupid, but real. The first real friendship any of them had, with a kind of unspoken solidarity that they thought they would only ever dream of. A table of teens who were done pretending they weren’t tired. 

One evening in room 3B, a storm had rolled in outside. Rain streaked the windows and the fluorescent lights of the class room buzzed with a hum that drove Tommy insane. 

Phil was grading papers in silence. The boys sat quietly, each absorbed in their own worlds. But there was something heavy in the air, and it wasn’t the storm. It was a tension that had been building for weeks now.

Tommy tapped his pen against the desk in a rapid rhythm. His foot bouncing under the table. With every rumble of thunder, his movements got a little faster and chaotic. 

He tried to play it off, cracking his knuckles, shifting in his seat like he was just restless, but Tubbo noticed, Techno too. Neither of them said anything.

Another boom. This one was even closer. 

Tommy suddenly sat up. 

“Hey,” he said quickly, like the words had been waiting in  his through for quite some time, “Can I ask something a bit weird?”

Techno glanced up and Tubbo blinked.

“You always do,” Tubbo said gently, trying to ease the tension. 

Tommy hesitated, “Do you guys ever… like… feel that you’re doing all the right things and still failing?”

The question landed hard. 

Tubbo looked down. “Yeah,” he said after a moment, “A lot, actually.”

Techno’s voice was softer than usual, less gruff, “All the time.”

Tommy exhaled, like he’d been holding his breath for days. He leaned back in his chair, rubbing his hands over his arms like he was freezing cold, even though the room wasn’t the slightest bit cold. His shoulders were tense, not just from tiredness, but tight, braced against something invisible. 

None of them offered a solution. There was nothing that could be fixed. But the silence that followed didn’t feel as tense or empty this time. 

Eventually, Phill stood and said, “I’m heading out for the night. You three can lock up.”

They looked at each other surprised. Phil had never left early. Were they allowed to leave early sometimes too? He trusted them enough to lock up even though they had never given him reason to.

Phil added, without turning around, “Just don’t wreck the place. I have a 9am class tomorrow.”

As the door clicked shut behind him, the thunder rumbled again. Tommy tugged his hoodie sleeves over his hands and tried his best to act casual, even as his eyes flickered towards the window every so often, checking for threats.

Tubbo shifted in his chair, moving slightly closer to Tommy. Techno pulled his head phones off and placed them on the desk, not saying a word, but stayed. A solid and unmoving presence like he always was. 

The three boys sat in the quiet for a long time, just listening to the rain and realising that, somehow, along the way room 3B had become the safest place in the school. Especially on nights like this. 

Chapter Text

History Class, 9:02 a.m.

Tubbo already felt all wrong when he walked into history. 

His hoodie was still damp from the wet walk to school. It was clinging to the back of his neck like a hand that he just couldn’t shake off. He dropped into his seat at the back of the room, muttering a joke under his breath about the school needing ‘human sized hairdryers’ more than the working projectors they had shelled out for. No one laughed. Not even him. 

Mr. Thompson slapped a stack of pop quizzes on the front desk like it was a punishment. The class communally groaned. 

“Five questions. No notes. Ten minutes,”

Tubbo groaned again, “Didn’t we just do a test last week though?”

“Participation, Tubbo,” Mr. Thompson snapped, “No commentary today, thank you.”

Tubbo bit his tongue. Literally. Hard enough to feel it. Almost hard enough to draw blood. Almost. 

He started the quiz. First question: List three causes of the Cold War.

He put:

1. The arms race
2. Disagreements over the post-war fate of Germany
3. Men in suits being dramatic 

He blinked at it, before scribbling it out.

He could feel it building, the heat in his chest, the pinprick energy in his fingers. Not rage. Not even an ounce of rebellion. Just exhaustion. Just done . He wrote: 

3. Ideological differences between the United States and the Soviet Union

By question three, his pencil had snapped in half. A clean break across his palm from gripping onto it like a lifeline. Like it was the only thing keeping him connected to the earth. 

He held the jagged ends in his palm, like a splintered match, then sighed and raised his hand.

“Anyone got a spare pencil?”

The room stayed quiet. 

Someone eventually tossed a dull, half-chewed one in his direction. He caught it, barely. 

Mr. Thompson gave him a look. One of those ‘ why are you like this? ’ looks that he had become all too familiar with.

He didn’t have an answer for him. 

Chemistry Lab, 10:16 a.m.

Tommy liked structure. Experiments. Measurable outcomes. Things that made sense. Things without variables for him to obsess over. 

But today’s lab made no sense at all. Half of the bunsen burners were acting up, and his partner – a guy who wore sunglasses indoors and thought not writing anything down made him look cool – was more interested in using the pipette like a toy than actually measuring anything. 

“Be careful with that-” Tommy started, but it was too late. 

His partner’s elbow knocked over the beaker. 

Clear liquid splashed up Tommy’s arm and across his sleeve. It was cold and had a sharp smell. It was acidic. 

“Shit,” he muttered, instinctually pulling back.

The sleeve of his jumper darkened, steaming slightly before the lab assistant rushed over with water and paper towels. 

“It’s only dilute,” the assistant explained, “You will be fine. Just rinse it off.”

Tommy rinsed. His arm stung. No one apologised. 

When he sat back down, his hoodie was soaked and his notes were smeared beyond recognition. His sleeve was stiff and discoloured. He stared at the page for a moment, then quietly flipped to a fresh one, drawing a neat line across the top to recentre himself. 

Reliable. Good student. Never make a fuss. Make your parents proud. 

He kept his breathing even. He didn’t speak for the rest of the class. 

As the bell rang and everyone packed up, the teacher approached him and told him to “try to stay focused next time.” 

He nodded. Then left and threw his hoodie into the locker before walking aimlessly towards his next class. 

English Discussion, 11:48 a.m.

The class room was too bright. Way too bright. Always too bright.

Techno sat near the window, hoodie pulled up, his pen balancing between his fingers. He’d done the reading. He had plenty of thoughts about the themes. He had even annotated his copy of The Metamorphosis with tiny, precise notes in the margins. He knew the book from cover to cover. 

But when the teacher opened the floor for discussion, he didn’t speak. 

It wasn’t that he didn’t want to. It wasn’t like he didn’t have opinions or the ability to discredit his classmates’, quite frankly, mundane takes. It was just that the words stayed caught in his mouth, tangled up somewhere between his brain and his lungs. 

“Techno?” the teacher prompted, “We haven’t heard from you yet. What do you think Gregor’s transformation symbolises to the reader?”

He looked up, his eyes slightly too wide. 

“I…” he started, then stopped.

She waited. The whole class waited. Everyone’s eyes were on him. 

He swallowed, “I wrote about it. In the paper.”

“Yes, but we want to hear it in your own words. We want to work together, benefit each other with our own interpretations.”

He blinked. He had used his own words. Six whole pages of them. 

“I… don’t really like… speaking?” he managed, the words coming out quiet and clipped, more like a question than the statement of fact that it was. “Not like this.”

She gave him a disappointed frown, “You can’t hide behind writing forever. The world is built on discussion.”

He wanted to explain that he wasn’t hiding. That he thrived in writing. That writing was where he could finally speak without shaking, without stumbling, without feeling like a spotlight was burning straight into his skin every second. 

But he said nothing. He had learned a long time ago that speaking would never get him anywhere. 

After class, she stopped him near the door. 

“You’re a smart kid, Techno. You’re really smart. You have a lot of stuff to say in your papers. You just need to try harder to connect with your peers.”

He just nodded once and walked away. 

By the time that lunch had rolled around, he was replaying the conversation on loop. He had barely touched his food. He hadn’t said more than ten words to Tommy and Tubbo.

None of them ate much. Mostly picking at their fries and half warm sandwiches. 

Tommy was still pacing –metaphorically, and also literally– while Tubbo scrolled blankly through his phone and Techno remained motionless, his arms crossed and eyes distant. 

“You ever feel like you do everything they ask,” Tommy said, finally flopping back down into his seat. “And it still somehow is never good enough?”

“Constantly,” Tubbo muttered.

“Like, what even is the point?” Tommy pushed his food away. “I go to all the classes. I do the tests. I make the jokes. I keep it all together, all the time. And all it gets me is a ‘Do better’ from my parents and teachers, and people calling me exhausting.”

“You are exhausting,” Tubbo said with a half smile, 

Tommy snorted, “Yeah, well that’s supposed to be charming.”

Techno didn’t look up. “I got told I’m too quiet. Again.”

“Didn’t you just ace that English paper?” Tommy blinked.

Techno nodded once.

“So what? You write a literal thesis and it’s not enough because you didn't say it loud enough? That’s fucked.”

Tubbo leaned back, “I helped clean up the science lab last week. I gave up lunch to do it. Got yelled at for not finishing my science workbook. Got detention for making frog puns.”

The trio sat in silence for a moment. Three high achievers –two model students and one class clown– burnt out and splintering quietly from the inside out. 

That afternoon, room 3B felt heavier than usual. 

Phil wasn’t there. No explanation. Just an empty desk and a note taped to the whiteboard that said, “ Won’t be in today. You know where the tea and mugs are. Don’t set anything on fire, please. ”

The three boys let themselves in and collapsed into their usual seats. Tommy and Tubbo dragging their beanbags to be closer to Techno’s desk. He still hadn’t built up the courage to take up room in a seat that didn’t feel fitting for a class room.

It was raining. Again. 

Tubbo grabbed one of the mismatched mugs and filled it from the still hot kettle. He didn’t ask anyone else if they wanted one, just poured three mugs and set them on Techno’s desk without a word. 

Tommy sat cross-legged on his beanbag, his hoodie bunched around his shoulders, his hair damn from his walk over. 

“You think he left us on purpose?” he asked. “Like some sort of weird social experiment?”

“Maybe he finally gave up on us,” Tubbo spoke, sipping his tea, “Took him longer than I expected.”

“Good,” Techno muttered, “I gave up on me first.”

That earned a laugh. It was the kind of laugh that was cracked around the edges. They were all fraying at the seams. 

Tommy looked up from where he sat, “What if we just… stopped trying?”

Tubbo blinked, “What? Like drop out or something?”

“No, not like… not just quitting. Just…” he waved his hand vaguely. “Just stop trying so hard to be what they want. Stop killing ourselves for our grades or praise or laughs. For whatever imaginary gold star we’re supposed to be chasing.”

Techno leaned forward, interested now.

“I mean it, guys,” Tommy said, his voice steadier than expected. “What if we just… didn’t? For one semester. No perfect scores. No extra credit. No pretending to be fine when we most definitely are not.”

Tubbo tilted his head, “Just be us? Be… real?”

“Exactly.”

They kicked the idea around for half an hour. 

At first, it sounded –and felt– more like a fantasy. A joke. Something they could laugh about, dream of, and forget. 

But the longer the trio sat with it, the more it made sense to them. Not slacking –not failing on purpose– just letting go of the obsession to be what people wanted them to be. Of being the best. Of being liked. Of being invincible.

“Still do our work,” Techno murmured, “Just… not destroy ourselves over it.”

“Still show up and have a laugh,” Tubbo added, “But without trying to win every imaginary contest.”

“Still care,” Tommy finished, “But… not in spite of ourselves. Care about ourselves too.”

There was a long pause. The rain outside quietened down to a soft tapping against the windows. Room 3B felt like it was suspended in something fragile but real.

“Okay,” Tubbo broke the silence, “Let’s actually do this.”

Techno nodded, “One semester.”

Tommy grinned, “The ‘We’re Done Trying So Hard and Want to Just Live’ Pact.”

“Terrible name,” Tubbo smirked.

“Shut up, it’s perfect.”

They stuck their hands out in the middle of the desk. Tommy first, then Tubbo, then Techno. No ceremony. No blood oath or dramatic display. Just three burnt out kids making a choice. 

To stop performing.

To stop chasing.

To stop pretending.

And maybe –just maybe– to start living in that time.

The first choice any of them had made for themselves. And GOD did that feel good.

They didn’t talk much after that. They didn’t need to.

The words had done their work. The silence that followed wasn’t empty, it was full… somehow. Full of understanding, of breaths that had finally been exhaled, of weight passed around until it no longer crushed any one of them. 

Tommy stretched out across his beanbag, his arms folded behind his head, his hoodie still bunched up beneath his neck. He stared at the ceiling, his eyes tracking the flickering hum of the old fluorescent lights. They blinked and buzzed like they were alive, pulsing in time with the rain that continued to patter outside. 

Tubbo had pulled out an old battered notebook and a half working pen from his bag. He didn’t write anything meaningful. Just doodled a robot with a toaster for a head, flames shooting out of its sides like wings. He added tiny labels. “Enotion chip malfunctioning.” “Burnt toast protocol: engaged.” “Fire wings: activated.” “Toast ejected for safety.”

He wasn’t smiling, not exactly, but his brow had relaxed in a way that it hadn’t been all week.

Techno leaned back in his chair until it balanced on two legs, headphones unplugged, his fingers wrapped loosely around his lukewarm mug of tea. His notebook laid closed beside him, his pen untouched. He stared up at the ceiling tiles, not thinking about anything for once. Just… being.

They weren’t fixed. Nothing was. Nothing could fix them. 

The world outside room 3B would continue asking too much of them. 

Teachers would still assign essays and homework. 

Deadlines would still loom.

Their parents would still ask how they were “doing,” not how they were feeling . 

But something had shifted between them. Not loud or noticeable, but deep.

A quiet rebellion. A private truth. A permission they had given themselves and each other. 

They’d made the pact. Not to give up or to coast. But to stop pretending that everything was ok. To stop being perfect. To stop destroying themselves for top marks, tidy reputations and cheap laughs. 

To be real, whatever that looked like. Whatever that ended up meaning to them.

Tommy closed his eyes, and for once his thoughts didn’t rage and scream. They were still there, racing, but they were murmurs.

Tubbo drew a tiny heart in the corner of his page and quickly crossed it out, then left it there anyway. 

Techno didn’t move, but something in his chest had unlocked. A long rusted door easing open. 

Nothing had changed. Not really. Not yet. But for the first time in a long time, none of them felt like they were failing. Not in the ways that mattered.

And somewhere between the tea, the rain, and the silence, a strange and stubborn hope began to grow. 

Chapter Text

Tubbo stood in front of the classroom, holding up a beaten up poster board in one hand and a marker stained index card in the other. He cleared his throat and launched into the presentation before his group could even adjust the projector.

“So… welcome to our groundbreaking study on photosynthesis, or as I like to call it, plants doing their little light powered dance moves.”

A few kids snorted. One girl actually let out a laugh. Tubbo grinned like he had scored a goal, completed his task.

Behind him, his group shifted awkwardly, clearly unsure of if they were meant to follow his lead or wait it out. Tubbo continued, his voice bouncing between over-enunciation and cartoonish impressions.

“Now, over here, you’ll see an absolute legend of a life,” he said, pointing to his crumpled diagram, “She’s out here converting sunlight into sugar like the hottest new trend on social media. Inspiring stuff, really.”

The class laughed again, not loudly, but enough to keep Tubbo’s energy going. It was all he needed. He barely glanced at the notes he’d prepared. He didn’t need them anyway. He knew his stuff.

He had them with his jokes, his presence. Or at least, he almost had them. All he had to do was keep the tempo up, keep the jokes coming. Keep himself from pausing long enough to let anyone notice how hard his heart was beating. Keep from looking over at the science teacher who was scowling in the corner.

“And… uh… this part,” he pointed vaguely to the section someone else in the group had written, “This has some very important sciency… photosynthesis thing that we all understand. Yes, yes. Anyway...”

That got a bigger laugh. Even the students in the back that were zoning out looked up now, their eyebrows raised, entertained if not educated.

From the back of the room Ms. Kelly raised an unimpressed eyebrow.

When Tubbo wrapped up his speech with a sarcastic bow and a, “That concludes our botanical TED Talk, thanks for leaf -ing us your attention,” the class clapped politely. Some of it was genuine. Most of it was probably relief. 

His group didn’t say much as they returned to their seats. One of them gave him a small smile. Another just rolled his eyes, muttering under his breath. 

Tubbo flopped into his chair and began bouncing his knee under the desk, his fingers twitched with leftover adrenaline. The laughter always felt good, even if it was short lived. 

When the bell rang, he packed up quickly, slipping his torn up notebook into his bag with a practiced motion. Fast, neat, gone before anyone could ask what he’d actually written.

But as he reached the door, Ms. Kelly called his name.

“Tubbo? A moment, please.”

He stopped in his tracks, spinning on his heel with a lopsided smile.

“Did I break science class with my overwhelming charisma?”

She didn’t smile, “You don’t have to turn everything into a joke, you know.”

That stopped him. Just for a second. Not enough to be obvious, but just enough for her to notice.

“You’re smart,” she added, more gentle now, “You know this material inside and out. You always score well on the tests and homework. It’s okay to take it seriously.”

Tubbo shrugged, with a breezy detachment, “Yeah, well, serious is risky. Laughter is safer.”

Her eyes softened, but she didn’t press him. Just nodded once and let him go. 

He walked out into the corridor, his smile fading the second the door clicked shut behind him. His fingers tugged at the hem of his sleeve, pulling the fabric over his wrist, then let it snap back. 

He didn’t stop walking, but something about the hallway felt louder than usual. Every echo of every footstep stretching longer than it should. Every sound reverberation around his head. 

By the time he rounded the corner towards his locker, he wasn’t thinking about the project anymore. 

He was still thinking about a different classroom, a different facade, and a much smaller version of himself. Ms. Kelly’s words gnawing at his conscience. 

The book was too heavy in his hands. It wasn’t really –it was a thin paperback book, laminated at the corners and smudged with other kids’ fingerprints– but it felt like the heaviest thing he had ever held. His thumbs were sweating. His lips moved silently as he scanned the paragraph, trying to read ahead before it was his turn. Predicting what section he would be asked to read. 

“Next… Tubbo?”

Tubbo froze. The teacher’s voice wasn’t exactly cruel, just tired. Like this was just one step on a checklist she was already bored of.

He cleared his throat and began to read. The words were simple enough. It was just a story about a fox and a picnic basket. But the moment he opened his mouth, they blurred together. His voice wobbled. He read too fast, and then too slow. Skipped a line and then doubled back.

“...The… the fox went into the… b-bushes to… to…”

He squinted at the page like it was lying to him. His chest burned. 

Someone in the row behind him snickered. He didn’t look around to see who.

“Take your time,” the teacher said, but not kindly. It was the kind of patience that sounded more like a warning. It didn’t go over his head that she was tapping her foot and watching her watch. 

He tried again. Fumbled a word. Gave up halfway through and mumbled it.

Another laugh broke the silence of the room, louder this time. A chair creaked behind him as someone shifted with theatrical boredom. 

Tubbo’s cheeks flushed red hot. He managed to finish the sentence, somehow. The teacher moved on without a comment. Relief should’ve followed, but it didn’t. Just a strange type of hollowness, like his skin was too thin and everything sharp had been let in. 

Recess was worse. 

He sat on the edge of the yard wall, picking at the loose thread of his coat, trying to go unnoticed.

“Hey, too slow Tubbo!” someone called from the climbing frame. 

He didn’t look up.

Another voice joined in, “If the fox had asked you for directions, he’d still be lost!”

The laughter that followed sliced through him like a cold east wind.

Tubbo stared down at his scuffed shoes, willing the ground to swallow him whole. He didn’t cry. He didn’t say anything. He couldn’t. But something inside him clenched. Small, tight, and scared.

He didn’t understand why it mattered so much. He knew what a fox was. He knew what buses were. He knew things, he knew a lot of things. So why did his mouth always betray him when it counted? Why did the words swirl on the page in front of him? Why did that get to determine what he was?

That night. He stayed up past his bedtime with a flashlight tucked under his chin with the same book opened on his lap. He whispered every page out loud, again and again. His lips were dry, his tongue tripping over the syllables like loose wires.

He didn’t stop until his voice rasped and the words lost all meaning.

By the time he finally closed the book, his eyes were burning and his throat ached. But he knew the story by heart.

He didn’t want to be the dumb kid. 

He couldn’t let that hold power over him.

So the next day, he raised his hand more. He spoke faster. He answered first. Even when he wasn’t sure. Even with his hand shook. Even when it terrified him. 

He decided that it was better to sound smart and mess up than to sound scared and let them laugh at his stumbles.

Somewhere deep down, he promised himself that they would never see him flinch again.

By 6th Grade, Tubbo thought he had learned how to win.

It wasn’t about being the fastest reader or having the best, neatest handwriting anymore. It was about being right. All the time. Before anyone else has the chance to. 

He knew the structure of every essay before the prompt had even finished being written on the board. He double checked his math homework during lunch. He had colour coded flashcards for history, science and even geography. His bag clinked with the weight of his binders.

When a teacher asked a question, his hand was already half way up. Sometimes they didn’t even call on him anymore. They would simply glance in his direction for confirmation and give him a slight nod to start.

And at first, it felt good. Better than good. Amazing. Safe. 

No more stumbles. No more whispers. No more being called slow or dumb.

That was until they started calling him other names.

It started small. A muttered, “ Okay, Sheldon ” under someone’s breath. An exaggerated sigh when his classmates saw his hand shot up again. Someone groaned once, “ Jeez. just let someone else answer for once, Einstein. ”

He brushed it off. Laughed even. Like he was in on the joke. 

But then it started to sting. Each word was like another small paper cut. 

One Monday morning, in geography, a group project was assigned. Tubbo turned around automatically towards the boy he usually paired up with, Purpled, a quiet kid who liked drawing topographic maps.

Purpled looked away, “I’m actually working with Ranboo and their group this time.”

He followed his statement with a mumbled, “ I’m sorry, ” as if it made the news hurt any less. 

“Oh. Yeah, that’s fine. Yeah. Just… next time, maybe?” Tubbo tried to suppress his frown.

Purpled hesitated and then shrugged, “It’s just… when we’re in a group with you, it’s like we don’t even matter. You do most of the work yourself. You make us look kind of… dumb?”

Tubbo laughed way too loud, “What, because I know what a tectonic plate is?”

Purpled didn’t laugh back. 

“Whatever,” Tubbo said quickly, already turning away, “Have fun with Ranboo and his friends. See if I care.”

He didn’t hear Purpled’s reply. Or maybe there wasn’t one. It didn’t matter. His throat had already started to tighten, and he hated how fast it happened now.

Later that week, during lunch, he sat alone in the library, his new lunch spot. His notes were perfect, his homework was complete, and yet his stomach still ached from the weight of being right all the time.

On the walk home that evening, rain soaking through his too thin hoodie, something sharp and ugly settled in his chest. An unnerving realisation. 

Trying too hard made people hate him just as much as failing did .

There was no winning. No version of him that people didn’t laugh at, mock, or avoid. 

The bell rang, loud and final, marking the end of another day. Students piled out of class rooms like bees from a broken hive. Tubbo lingered at his locker, carefully stacking the books he needed for homework. His history folder was still clinched in his hand, the grafe circled at the top in red ink, A+ . He had worked hard for it. Stayed up laye cross referencing dates and polishing every sentence. The praise in the margin – “Excellent analysis, Tubbo!” – made his chest feel warm. 

It lasted exactly twenty six seconds. 

“Hey, Einstein,” came a voice from behind him –Callum– tall, loud, always accompanied by someone else who laughed before he even said the punchline. “Got enough gold stars yet, or are you aimg for a Nobel prize?”

Tubbo turned slowly, folder still in his hand. He gave a small, confused smile. “Uh, just… did the assignment?”

Callum snorted, “No one cares, Spencer Reid. It’s just an essay for history class, not your autobiography.

The laugh came before Tubbo could answer, from someone behind Callum. Another voice chimed in, “Literally, you make the rest of us look bad.”

Tubbo’s mouth opened then closed, “I… That wasn’t what I was trying to–”

“You always are,” Callum cut him off, “You always try. That’s the issue.”

He stepped closer, just enough to crowd the space between them. Not touching, just way too close for comfort.

“You think you’re so much smarter than the rest of us? You think the teachers like you ‘cause you’re special or something?”

“I don’t think that,” he said quietly, gripping his folder tighter.

“You don’t need to think it. You make it painfully obvious.”

Then, like he was delivering a final blow, “Nobody likes a suck up.”

A couple of kids walking by snickered. One of them added, “Teachers’s pet,” in a sing song voice. It felt too rehearsed, like a joke they had used many times before.

Tubbo didn’t say anything else. He just turned bacl to his locker, shoving the folder inside like holding it any longer would burn him, and closed it a little too hard. 

As he walked away, he could still hear the laughter behind him. 

That night, he didn’t finish the rest of his homework. Not because he didn’t know how, but because he didn’t want to give anyone another reason to hate him for trying.

His realisation from earlier that week forced itself back to the forefront of his mind, “ Trying too hard made people hate him just as much as failing did .”

So maybe the only way to give himself the illusion of winning was to give them something to laugh at.

He began cracking jokes in class. Nothing big at first. Just slipping a sarcastic comment into the quiet, or exaggerating an answer like he was performing a stand up routine. 

He, most definitely, stopped answering questions with the correct answers, or letting his hand shoot up. He twitched to give the right answer, he still knew the right answers. 

It worked. The kids who used to roll their eyes at him now smirked. A few even laughed. The teachers weren’t thrilled, but that didn’t matter. They weren’t the people who hated him in the first place. His work still got top marks, they couldn’t complain.

Tubbo grinned through it all, even when his joke didn’t land, even when he was still right and still annoying. At least now, he was in control of the laughter and whispers. 

If he was making the joke first, then nobody else got to. He couldn’t be the butt of the joke when he was the joker. They were laughing with him, not at him. 

And that felt like a kind of power. 

Even if it still hurt.

Room 3B was mostly empty now, the sound of chairs scraping and the general hallway chatter had faded into the usual late afternoon quietness. The sun had dipped just low enough to catch on the scratched windowpanes, spilling blinding streaks of dusty orange across the floor. The air inside felt still, like the kind of quiet that only came after something had cracked open.

Tommy was flat on his back in the centre of the room –having given up on his beanbag all together– his arms splayed dramatically like he’d just survived a car crash. His hoodie strings were uneven, his jeans had risen slightly displaying his mismatched socks, and his backpack laid discarded beside him like he had thrown it away in protest..

Tubbo walked in a few seconds later and slumped into a chair with a loud groan. 

“Well,” he declared, “That was the worst group project presentation in the history of education. My group has officially lowered the academic average of the entire school, maybe the entire district!”

Tommy opened a single eye, “Didn’t even notice. Was too busy watching you channel your inner game show host. The PowerPoint was dying and you just stood there like, ‘Let’s spin that wheel, folks.’”

Tubbo grinned, “What can I say? When the ship goes down, you might as well play music.”

“I don’t think mocking your own project mid-presentation counts as music,” Techno said from the windowsill, not even looking up from his book. He had one leg drawn up and one of Phil’s mugs balanced masterfully on his knee like this was some sort of student lounge. At least he had gotten more comfortable. 

Tubbo threw his arm over the back of his chair. 

“It was basically performance art, actually. My own commentary on the insanity of the modern education system and the futility of group work.”

“Bold of you to assume the teacher saw it that way,” Tommy commented. 

“Oh she didn’t,” Tubbo gave a short laugh, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes, “She pulled me aside after class. Something about not having to make a joke out of everything. Blah blah blah. There’s a time and place to be silly. That I should take things more seriously.”

Tommy winced, “Ouch.”

Tubbo waved his hand haphazardly, brushing it off. 

“It’s alright. Just a misunderstanding between two professionals. Happens all the time.”

“Right,” Tommy half smiled, “You and Ms. Daly. Equals. Yeah.” 

Techno closed his book with a soft snap and finally looked over. “She’s right… you know. You don’t have to be funny all the time.”

The words landed like a pin drop in the middle of the room. Quiet, simple, but not on time. 

Tubbo’s smile faltered.

It wasn’t even an accusation. It didn’t feel like a dig. It usually felt like a dig. If anything, it felt like something closer to concern. And somehow… that felt worse. 

He could survive mockery. He had always survived mockery. He had absolutely no idea what to do with kindness. How to react to it.

He forced a grin, “It’s either that or sob in public, and even I’m not that brave.”

His voice tilted a little too high on brave, like it was another one of his punchlines. But the wobble in his voice was evident. 

Tommy sat up a bit straighter, glancing between them. He didn’t say anything at first, just studied Tubbo for a second. His lips pursed like he was weighing his options. 

Then, “Crying in public is overrated anyway. I did it once, at the park, and someone gave me a banana. It was confusing for both of us.”

Tubbo let out a laugh. A real laugh this time. “Seriously? A banana?”

“I think it was supposed to be comforting,” Tommy shrugged, “Like a weird sympathy snack or whatever.”

“Maybe it’s for the potassium,” Techno remarked, deadpan, “For emotional cramps.”

Tubbo let out a breath that he hadn’t realised he was holding. His shoulders loosened, ever so slightly. The tension didn’t disappear though, but it dulled at the edges.

He leaned forward, his elbows placed on the desk, and traced a scratch in the wood with a pencil. His voice dropped a little lower. 

“I don’t know. I just… when I’m in class, I can feel it. It’s like I can feel everyone’s eyes on me, just watching, waiting for me to choke. Waiting for me to stumble on my words. I just figured, if I’m making a joke, then it’s mine. They can’t use it against me.”

There was a long pause. Tommy looked down, picking at a thread on his sleeve. Techno didn’t interrupt. 

Tubbo blinked, surprised by his own honesty. He didn’t mean to be that honest, he hadn’t meant to say that part out loud.

“I mean,” he added hastily, “That was dramatic. It’s not actually that–”

“It’s not,” Techno said simply, But, you should be prouder of your work Tubbo. You’re really smart, you shouldn’t hide that.”

Tubbo’s throat tightened. He tried to joke again, to try to pivot into a new conversation, but the instinct didn’t come fast enough. The silence stretched, not uncomfortable exactly, just unfamiliar. Like a new kind of space that he wasn’t aware of how to exist in yet.

“I used to think, he said slowly, carefully, “That if I could just be enough of something –smart, funny, anything– people would just stop making fun of me. Stop them from looking for ways to tear me down. But apparently that doesn’t work. They made fun of me for struggling in class, hated me for working hard and becoming smart, and avoid me now that I make everything a joke.”

Tommy looked up, his expression more gentle that usual. “Yeah. People just pick a new reason everytime.”

Tubbo gave a soft huff of laughter, less bitter this time. “Exactly.”

Techno didn’t laugh. He just tilted his head, studying Tubbo, “You flinch every time someone compliments your work.”

Tubbo froze. It was barely perceptible. The briefest stutter in his breath, a flash of something unreadable in his eyes. But it was there, and it was enough for Techno and Tommy to notice. 

“What?” he said quickly, “No I don’t. Don’t be silly.”

“You do,” Techno said, quietly this time, “I just told you that you were smart and it was like I had slapped you.”

Tubbo blinked, “No, it wasn’t!”

“It was,” Techno nodded, “Just for a second. You flinched. Like it hurt.”

Tubbo opened his mouth before closing it again. He glanced at Tommy, who wasn’t laughing now, just watching a titled head expression.

Tommy smiled sympathetically, “It’s like… you’re waiting for someone to pull the rug from under you. Waiting for them to make it a joke. Or turn it into a weapon.”

“I didn’t mean to…” Tubbo started, then cut himself off with a weak laugh. “God, this is all so dramatic.”

“No one said it wasn’t allowed to be,” Techno said, “I just figured… you should know. That I saw it. We noticed it.”

Tubbo looked away.

No one said anything else for a while after that. The sun dipped in the sky, casting a deep amber glow across the ceiling. Outside, a car honked. Somewhere in the building, the janitor’s car squeaked against the linoleum tiles. 

Inside room 3B. The quiet held. 

Eventually, Tubbo leaned back in his chair again. He didn’t laugh. Didn’t deflect. Just sat there, succumbing to the silence for once. Letting the silence be what it was.

For him, that was new. 

Not quite progress. But it was definitely a new beginning. A crack in the wall. And maybe –just maybe– that was enough for today. Enough for Tubbo to break the cycle.

Tubbo laid flat on his bed, staring at the ceiling like it might blink first. The room was dim, lit only by the soft yellow of his desk lamp and the occasional flash of car lights passing outside. His phone sat on his nightstand, face down and untouched for hours. A message from Tommy had blinked once, then disappeared into the silence. He wasn’t ready to joke again. Not yet. 

Tubbo let out a long breath and turned onto his side, his eyes drifting towards the top draw of his desk. 

He hesitated, the pulled himself up and off of him bed. 

The drawer creaked slightly as he opened it, reach past discarded pens, worn out highlighted, and a half eaten packet of mints. At the very back, hidden beneath a stack of perfectly neat notebooks for school, was one that didn’t match. This one was battered and soft-covered, its corners were bent and the spine was duct-taped twice. A sticker on the front had been scratched off, leaving behind the faint ghost of what once was a cartoon character. It was private in a way nothing else in his room was. Not because it was full fo secrets, but because it was the only thing that didn’t have to act up for an audience. 

Tubbo sat on the edge of the bed and opened it. 

The pages weren’t organised. No dates. No structure. Just a chaotic stream of thoughts. Scribbled equations that trailed of into nothingness, half written poems that ended mid sentence, personal rants written in messy, slanted handwriting. Drawings of cities. Of gears. Of tangled lines that looked like neurons or maybe they were tree roots? Some pages had small coffe stains, some had scattered tear stains. Others were torn slightly at the edge, like he’d nearly ripped them out, then changed his mind. 

Most of the entries in the notebook weren’t jokes. The robots didn’t have silly faces. The captions weren’t punch lines. They were just for him. 

He flipped to a new page and stared at the blankness for a long time, a pen resting loosely in his fingers. Then, he wrote, in small, blocky letters;

What if I say something serious and nobody listens?

Or worse… what if I say something serious and they do?

He stared at the words until they started to blur. He didn’t know what scared him more. Being ignored, or being truly seen again. 

There was no answer –of course there wasn’t– so he didn’t write an answer. 

Instead, he tossed the pen back into the drawer, closed the notebook slowly, and set it beside his bed. Not inside the draw, not under his pillow, not hidden. 

Just right there. Out in the open. Like maybe he was allowed to exist too. 

He turned off the lamp and the room went silent. And for once, the silence didn’t feel like something he needed to fill with another joke or sarcastic comment.

Chapter Text

Two days before. Same room. Same rain. 

The storm had rumbled in just before the session, and it hadn’t let up since. The rain lashed against the windows harder than usual that day. It matched the energy in the room; wild, unpredictable, and teetering on the edge of something dangerous. Thunder cracked in the distance, rattling the fluorescent lights overhead. 

Phil had stepped out –just as he had grown accustomed to– trusting the three boys could handle themselves. 

This time, he had miscalculated.

Tommy was pacing. That was never a good sign. He had never done well in storms. The restless energy in his body doubled when thunder rolled outside. It was like the sky was yelling at him and he couldn’t yell back.

“Can you not do that?” Techno muttered finally, not looking up from his notebook.

“Do what?” Tommy snapped. He whirled around, his hands balled into fists at his sides. “Walk? Breathe? Simply exist? Sorry if me not sitting like a fucking statue bothers you so much.”

Techno’s pen paused. He looked up at Tommy, his eyes cool and flat, “You don’t have to explode every time someone asks something, you know.”

“Oh, yeah, brilliant,” Tommy threw his arms into the air, “There you go again, doing your cryptic monk routine. Always acting so–” he waved vaguely in Techno’s direction, “–above it all.”

Tubbo shifted uneasily on his beanbag, his leg bouncing fast. 

He tried to cut him, his voice lighter than he felt, “Guys, maybe we just… ignore the weather. Yeah? Pretend it’s, I don’t know, applause. Really aggressive applause for how well we’re not working together right now.”

But Tommy spun on him like a whip. The thunder outside made his voice even sharper than he had meant. 

“You’re always doing that. It’s so annoying. Trying to fix things, crack a joke, smooth things over. It’s like you think that if you joke hard enough, none of this is happening.”

Tubbo flinched like he’d been struck by the lightning outside. His voice cracked when he finally shot back, “I’m trying alright? What else do you want me to do? Just sit here and pretend that we don’t all hate being in this stupid room right now? You’re not special.”

That landed like broken glass. For a second, even the storm seemed to quieten down outside. 

Tommy’s face twisted, like he wanted to shout something else, but the words got stuck in his throat. The silence that followed was thick with everything they had been swallowing for weeks –everything they thought they were beating– all bursting out in the wrong ways.

Techno stood up first. His chair scraped against the tiles, sharp and ugly. He didn’t look at either of them before he walked out. 

Tommy followed with a muttered, “Whatever,” under his breath, slamming the door harder than he meant to. The echo rattling the lights in the room. 

Tubbo was the last to leave. He didn’t move at first. He just sat, staring at the rain until his vision blurred, like the storm was trying to drown something in him that he couldn’t name.

No one spoke the next day and when they came back to room 3B again –today– it was like they’d all silently agreed that nothing had happened. Even though it clearly had.

Room 3B, after-school. The kind of grey outside that seeps into everything.

Rain tapped steadily against the windows. It wasn’t the kind that poured or thundered, just a rhythmic, steady patter. It filled the room like white noise, soaking into the corners. It was the kind of rain that made people feel comfortable to be quiet. Not sad –not exactly– just quieter than usual. Like the clouds had pressed down on the building and told everyone to keep their voices low.

The three of them sat in their usual scattered corners of room 3B in a triangle of awkward silence. 

Tubbo was at his desk nearest the window, one foot tucked under him, his chin in his hand, watching the glass fog slightly with each breath. He looked like he wanted to say something –not to say anything important– just to fill the silence. That usually came easy to him. In the weeks leading up to this week, he’d even started enjoying this room. He’d even told a joke once –something truly dumb and fast– and Tommy had actually laughed, and Techno had smirked without looking up. That had felt like progress. And if that was progress, Tuesday’s session felt like five steps back. Today, every sentence in his head curled up and died before it could reach his mouth.

Across the room, Tommy was slouched so far down in his chair that he looked like he was half melted. He kept spinning his pen between his fingers, tapping it against the desk in arrhythmic bursts. He didn’t look at either of the others. His leg bounced once, then stilled. Then bounced again. Normally, Tommy would’ve said something. Something loud and sarcastic or sharp-edged. But the words felt wrong in his mouth today. Too forced. Too much effort. 

He’d been thinking about saying something –maybe just, “You both look like kicked puppies,” or “Rain got your tongues or what?”– but something in Tubbo’s hunched shoulders made him hold back. It wasn’t like Tommy to hesitate, but he didn’t want to get it wrong. Not in a way that would make Tubbo stop smiling again.

And then there was Techno.

He sat in the same back corner every time, as still as a statue, his pen clutched in one hand like he might eventually use it for something. His eyes were half-lidded behind his glasses, following the rain but not truly watching it. He looked tired. Not physically –though, maybe that too– but tired in that way that people get when they’ve been stuck in a place for far too long.

He hadn’t spoken since he walked in. Neither had Tubbo. Neither had Tommy.

But they all remembered the last time, the uneasy argument that came from nothing, and exploded into nothing. They all wished to rewind to before that Tuesday –back to when they laughed, when something unspoken settled between them– but each boy was stuck in place, unsure of how to fix this. Unsure if they should fix it. 

Phil sat behind his desk, flipping through papers with the kind of energy people only reserved for tasks that they didn’t want to be doing. Every so often, he glanced up at the trio with mild concern –or maybe curiosity– like he was watching three wild animals being forced to share a cage. He didn’t push them though. 

He cleared his throat eventually, stood up, and grabbed a thin stack of worksheets from a plastic tray.

“Well,” he said, not to anyone specifically, “I need to grab a few things from the staff room.”

No one responded. Tommy scratched at his ear. Tubbo blinked. Techno remained unmoving. Phil paused, tapping at the edge of the papers on his desk to square them. 

He gave a vague wave towards the boys, and spoke, “I’ll be back in ten. I’d appreciate a note, if you guys decide to disappear on me again.”

The door clicked shut behind him. The rain filled the silence that he left behind. Still, no one spoke. The silence didn’t feel new. It felt more like something they’d grown up inside of. Something familiar, despite only resurfacing two days ago. Like a coat they’d worn for too long.

Tubbo opened his mouth, then closed it again. 

Tommy rubbed the back of his neck and shifted in his chair.

Techno kept tracing the edge of his notebook with the top of his pen, like maybe the answer to everything was hiding between the empty lines. 

There was something wrong. Not in a dramatic way. Not like a fight, or a blow up, or a betrayal. Just something off-kilter. Something unsettled. They had almost become something like friends. Almost . But today, it felt like they were starting over. And none of them knew how to address that. 

For a while, it was just the rain and the buzz of the fluorescent lights. Then, without warning, Tubbo leaned back in his chair and gave it a slow spin. It creaked in protest, the wheels scraping against the old floor. 

Once. 

Twice.

A third time.

He wasn’t looking at anyone, just staring at the ceiling as the room slowly rotated around him. By the fourth spin, Tommy had shifted slightly in his seat, side eyeing him with just enough interest to register as human curiosity. 

Tubbo slowed, letting the chair creak to a stop facing the window, then turned halfway around again and mumbled, loud enough to be heard. “If I spin fast enough, maybe I’ll escape the school dimension.”

Silence.

A pause.

Then, a sharp breath. Tommy snorted. He tried to cover it with a cough, but it was too late. Tubbo sat up straighter, a tiny smile twitching at the corner of his mouth. Victory. 

“I’m being serious,” he said, adjusting his position like a pilot preparing for takeoff, “Faster spins, means more momentum. Enough diverging force, and–” he made a dramatic whooshing sound, “–boom! Gone. straight into the void. No more maths tests. No more homework. No Phil trying to get us to do whatever the fuck this is.”

Tommy rolled his eyes, but his lips witched, “You would throw up before you even made it past the ceiling tiles.”

“Totally worth it,” Tubbo replied, spinning again, this time with more enthusiasm. “I’ll puke into the void. Interdimensional problems require interdimensional solutions.”

From the back corner, Techno didn’t look up, but the scratching sound of his pen had paused. Tubbo noticed, a beat of courage hitting him. He sat still for a second, then spoke up, “You know, if you concentrate hard enough, you can taste colours.”

“What–?” Tommy blinked. 

“I’m just saying red clearly tastes spicy and blue is kind of minty.”

Tommy snorted again, louder this time, “What type of drugs are they putting in your lunch tray?” 

“Mystery meat Monday is a gateway experience dude,” Tubbo said, deadpan.

Tommy let out a laugh –an actual laugh this time, not just a nose exhale– and leaned forward on his desk, shaking his head like he was regretting the fact that he found any of this funny. The air in the room had shifted. Just ever so slightly. Like something had tilted back towards normal, or maybe towards something better than this new normal. 

Tubbo kept spinning, slower this time. Not to escape anymore. Just because it gave him something to do with the restlessness in his chest. Outside, the rain continued tapping. But inside, the silence felt different. Less like distance and more like just waiting. 

Tommy drummed his fingers on the desk, watching Tubbo slowly rotate like a confused office plant chasing the sunlight. 

“You’re unbelievable, you know?” he muttered, but not unkindly.

“Thank you, man,” Tubbo said cheerfully, still spinning, “I pride myself on being a natural phenomenon. Like… emotional whiplash. My name needs to always be said with a question mark at the end.”

Tommy leaned back in his chair, his arms crossed over his chest. His mouth tugged into his familiar crooked grin. The one that meant harmless trouble was brewing.

“More like a biohazard with a wifi connection.”

Tubbo gasped, mock offended, “I’ll have you know that I would be a stable wifi connection. Full bars. Excellent latency.”

“You’re literally  buffering right now,” Tommy gestured haphazardly towards him. 

“That’s just a processing delay. My server’s just emotionally overloaded right now.”

“Yeah, exactly,” Tommy said, “That tracks. If you were a Minecraft server, you’d crash any time someone tried to log in.”

“Vetter than being one of those servers with no players,” Tubbo shot back, pointing a dramatic finger, “At least I have a personality.”

That made Tommy laugh again. Short, sharp, and surprised. He hadn’t meant to. But Tubbo was relentless in the weirdest way possible. It was like he couldn’t help but make noise in the quiet, and Tommy couldn’t help but respond to it.

“God, you’re so annoying,” he said, grinning now. “Do you ever shut up?”

“Only during sleep mode,” Tubbo said brightly, “Though I wouldn’t recommend it. I do snore. 

They were still miles apart, but for the first day since the incident –that’s what they had decided to call Tuesday from now on– the distance didn’t feel as impossible. It felt… bridgeable. The air in the room had lightened. 

In the corner, Techno was still quiet, still unmoving. But if you looked really close there was a tiny shift. His pen had stilled again. His head tilted just slightly. He was listening. Maybe even enjoying it. 

The chair spinning had slowed. Tommy was half laughing, half grumbling, and Tubbo was bouncing slightly in his seat, like an overexcited puppy who’d just been told he was technically allowed on the couch.

The room, once thick with silence, now buzzed with low level chaos. Tommy tossed a pencil at Tubbo’s head. He missed. Tubbo threw a crumpled post-it note back. He also missed. They were still flinging words like darks when the quietest voice in the room cut clean through them.

“If I wanted to escape the school dimension,” Techno said flatly, “I’d just eat the fire alarm.”

The room fell silent. 

Tommy blinked, “You’d what?”

“Fire alarm,” Techno repeated, without looking up from his notebook, “It’s a shortcut to the void. Everyone knows that.”

Tubbo made a choking noise, “That’s– no, wait… that is genius!”

Tommy just stared at him, “You’ve been sitting there for like twenty minutes and that’s your opening line?”

Techno finally glanced up. Just once. The faintest smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“I only speak when it matters.”

“You just told us that you;d eat a fire alarm,” Tubbo said, half wheezing now, “How does that matter?”

“It’s a survival strategy,” Techno replied coolly, “In case things ever get dire.”

Tommy let out an incredulous laugh, not mocking but genuinely just amused, “I take back every single time I called you boring.”

“You called me boring?”

“Not to your face,” Tommy admitted, grinning.

Tubbo was still giggling, slouching sideways in his chair now, his hands half covering his face like he couldn’t believe what he was hearing. Techno just went back to his notebook like nothing had happened. But there was a glint in his eyes now. The quiet spark of someone enjoying himself and trying hard not to show it.

The room was different again. Not loud. Not comfortable, exactly. But looser, easier. They weren’t just three boys trapped in the same space anymore. They were, somehow, talking again. Underneath the persistent rain, the buzz of the lights, and the lingering awkwardness that was slowly dissipating, there was laughter. 

The laughter had faded, slowly. Not cut off, not awkward… just softened. Like a song winding down on its own. No one said anything else for a while, but no one seemed in a rush to leave this time either. The air was still, and no longer heavy. Like the room had finally exhaled. 

Tommy leaned back in his chair and let his head lull to the side, staring at the ceiling. Tubbo had slumped forward, his arms followed on the desk, with his cheek resting on top, still grinning faintly at nothing in particular. Techno sat upright but loose in his seat this time, his pen finally sketching out actual notes or thoughts, or maybe even just lines that looked like thoughts. 

There was no pressure now. No weird weight in the silence like there had been earlier. This was different. They had earned this silence. 

None of them knew what exactly had happened, or how, or why it felt so difficult at first. Maybe that was just how this kind of thing worked. Some day it felt like progress. Some days a few steps back could be taken. And other days… it felt like nothing at all. And then, suddenly, someone said something about tasting colours or eating the fire alarm, and the ice cracked all over again. 

It wasn’t fixed. They definitely weren’t best friends yet. But the room wasn’t empty today. And that was good enough for the trio right now. 

Footsteps echoed from the hallway. Slow, uneven, the familiar shuffling of someone trying not to spill a too full coffee cup. The door creaked open finally and Phil stepped back into room 3B, squinting over the rim of his mug as he took in the sight. 

Three boys. One leaning back like he owned the place, one half asleep on his desk, and one calmly writing like he was pretending not to notice any of it. Phil paused mid-step.

“Well,” he said, raising an eyebrow, “Didn’t exactly expect to walk into a peace treaty.”

Tubbo lifted his head while Tommy snorted and Techno gave the slightest nod of acknowledgement, barely a movement, but enough for Phil to register it.

“What were you expecting, Phil? A knife fight or something?” Tommy asked, his tone dry but not at all hostile. 

“Considering what it was like before I left? A little, yeah,” Phil muttered, placing the mug on the desk, “Or at least a death glare of two.”

“We’ve actually matured,” Tubbo said, sitting up straighter and brushing his curls out of his face with an exaggerated elegance. “We are now functioning members of society.”

“Speak for yourself,” Techno said without looking up.

Phil blinked at him, surprised. He had come to expect Tommy and Tubbo to bounce off each other over the past few weeks –they had the same brand of chaotic energy, even when it wasn’t synced up yet– but Techno had been a fortress since day one. Silent and distant.

This wasn’t something that he had expected at all, but he didn’t push it. Just glanced up at the clock and said, “Alright, you lot are free to go.”

The sound of shuffling and moving came almost instantly. The scraping chairs, the slow gathering of bags and books, the quiet shuffle of getting ready to leave. But none of it was rushed. Tommy zipped up his hoodie and shoved his hands in his pockets. Tubbo shoved his feet back into his shoes and nearly fell over doing it. Techno calmly tucked his pen behind his ear and stood like the end of the day didn’t matter to him in the slightest. 

At the door, Tubbo paused. He glanced back, his hand resting on the door frame, looking at them. Not just Tommy and Techno, but the room itself. The desk where he’d sat. The place where they’d laughed. The light that always flickered, slightly less annoying now. 

He cleared his throat. 

“Same time on Tuesday?”

His voice was casual. Like it didn’t matter. Like the question he asked wasn’t hanging there between them with all the weight of what this could become. 

Tommy didn’t say anything at first. He just lifted one shoulder in a shrug and gave a sideways nod that could have meant anything. Yeah sure or whatever or I guess this wasn’t terrible . But he didn’t say no. 

Techno looked up from under his hood and met Tubbo’s eyes, just for a second. The he nodded, barely perceptible, and looked away again. 

No one said yes. But no one had said no either. That was more than enough.

Tubbo smiled to himself and stepped into the hallway, his trainers squelching slightly on the wet tile. Tommy followed a moment later, his hood up, muttering something about how he hated Thursday’s anyway. Techno came last, quiet as usual. 

Outside, the rain was still falling, heavier now, slanting across the pavement, turning the campus into a blur of grey and silver. But room 3B, behind them, felt just a little warmer than it had when they had walked in today. Like something had started. Or more aptly, restarted.

Chapter Text

The classroom buzzed around him with the restless shuffle of mid-morning energy, chairs squeaking, pens tapping. Sunlight streaked across the whiteboard where the teacher –too cheerful for this hour– announced, “Alright, everyone. We’re going to have a quick practice quiz today. Nothing serious, I just want to see where everyone is at.”

Most of the class groaned. A few rolled their eyes, already leaning back in their seats, unconcerned. But for Tommy, the word quiz detonated like a firework in his chest. The rest of the teacher’s words –not graded, don’t worry– blurred into static inside his head. 

Quiz. Questions. Answers. Failure waiting to happen. 

His pencil was in his hand before the paper had even landed on his desk. He didn’t even notice that the sheet slid slightly askew when the teacher dropped it off. His shoulder instantly hunched, every single one of his muscles coiled. Around him, other kids were lazily flipping through pages, whispering to each other, but Tommy was already scribbling furiously, pressing the lead of his pencil so hard the tip snapped. He sharpened it again, his hand shaking furiously and continued. 

The first question wasn’t even that difficult. It should have been easy. But as soon as he read it, his brain flooded with that familiar static. He scribbled down an answer anyway, half convinced that it was wrong. He ignored that sinking feeling, already moving onto the next question because what if there wasn’t enough time ?

His breathing thinned into shallow, quick pulls. His handwriting slipped from his normal neat block letters into jagged scraws, the kind you could barely read. Smudges spread across the page, dark fingerprints left by his restless hands. His leg bounced under his desk, rattling the metal frame.

“Tommy,” the teacher’s voice cut through the haze, soft, almost kind. “It’s just a practice quiz.”

He flinched like he had been caught doing something wrong. Just practice. That phrase didn’t exist in his house. His parents had never believed in wasted effort, in easing into things. Everything had to be done perfectly, one hundred percent of the time, otherwise it wasn’t worth it. His brother had never needed practice. He’d been brilliant the first time, every time. And Tommy? Well, he wasn’t allowed to be any less.

He bent lower over the desk, his hair falling into his eyes, willing the page to stop blurring. He chewed the inside of his cheek raw, his jaw clenching, because if he slowed down –if he so much as breathed for a second– he would lose the thread. And losing the thread that tethered him meant failing. And failing meant proving everyone right. His parents, his brother, his teachers, even himself. 

The words swam on the page, letters breaking apart, numbers looking suddenly wrong even though he knew they weren’t. He forced his pencil across them anyway, desperate to pin them down before they wriggled away again. Desperate to get it all perfect.

Time stretched and then snapped. The teacher called it, cheerful as ever again, telling the whole class to put their pencils down. Tommy’s chest locked up, his breath snagged like it couldn’t get past his ribs. He stared at the paper in front of him. Half right, half wrong, smeared gray with panic. It may as well have all been wrong. To him –to his parents– it wasn’t just a practice sheet. It was as good as a report card stamped with ‘not enough.’

Around him, chairs scraped against the lino. Voices lifted as classmates joked about weekend plans, already done with it all. Tommy didn’t move. He sat rigid, his knuckled white where his fist still strang;ed the pencil, as if letting go meant the whole fragile structure of himself might collapse. 

He stared down at the paper for so long that his vision tunneled, the edges of the room going soft. His heart was still racing like he hadn’t stopped running. Everyone else, already laughing, were already free, not caring about the practice quiz, while he was stuck in the trap that was his own chest. The quiet roaring in his ears was louder than any of the chatter around him. 

He couldn’t tell if he wanted to cry or scream or just vanish all together. Instead, he gripped the pencil.

The living room was too quiet for Tommy’s liking. Just the tick of the clock above the fireplace and the low murmur of the news on the TV, filling the silence like background static. His mum was sitting on the couch with her glasses perched halfway down her nose, knitting needling clicking. His dad was scrolling through his phone, his brows furrowed. 

Tommy stood in the doorway, his school bag hanging heavy on his shoulder, like it contained the weight of the world. He’d been carrying his results around all day, folded so tightly in his pocket that they were soft as the creases. His fingers had sweated through the paper, and the ink had smudged a little in the corner.

“Uh,” he started, his voice too high, too thin. “We… uh– got our exam scores back today.”

That got their attention. His mum set her knitting aside and held out her hand expectantly. His dad finally looked up, a faint curiosity tugging at his face.

Tommy walked forward and passed over the sheet. He kept his eyes trained on the floor, his socks catching against the rug fibres as he shifted his weight from one foot to the other. His mum unfolded the paper and scanned down the page. For a moment, there was silence. Then…

“An eighty seven.”

His dad leaned in closer, “Out of a hundred?”

Tommy nodded quickly, “Yeah. It's one of the highest in the class.”

There was a pause. His dad’s mouth pressed into a thin line, before he gave a small nod. 

“Not bad.”

Not bad. Two words that somehow had the ability to drain every bit of warmth from Tommy’s chest. 

His mum sighed through her nose, “It’s good, Tommy. But… your brother was already pulling nineties consistently  when he was your age. Remember? Are you sure you studied hard enough?”

He nodded again, his throat tightening. He remembered. Of course he remembered. The comparisons never stopped. 

“Eighty seven is fine,” his dad said, folding the paper neatly on his knee, “But it’s definitely not your best. You can’t get complacent. You’ve got to keep pushing. If you want the same opportunities as your brother, you can not afford to be anything less than excellent.”

His mum leaned forward, her voice firm in that way that feigned gentleness. “You are capable of more than this. You’re smart, Tommy, but you’ve got to prove it. You can’t coast on ‘good enough.’ We don’t settle for that in this house and you know that.”

Tommy’s face burned hot. He wanted to argue, to say eighty seven was good, that he had worked hard, that he had stayed up until midnight every night studying and memorising until the numbers swam. But the words jammed in his throat, clogged by shame.

His dad patted the folded paper like it was final, like it was all the evidence they needed, “Next time, don’t stop at eighty seven. Get the ninety five. Show us you care about the opportunities we keep giving you.”

His mum added softly, “Your brother never needed reminders like this.”

That one landed even harder than anything else they had said. Tommy clenched his fists at his sides, nails digging into his palms. His chest felt hollow, like there wasn’t enough air in the world to help him now. He nodded quickly, the motion jerky. “Yeah. Next time.”

They didn’t press further. His mum went back to her knitting. His dad picked up his phone again. The conversation was over, as far as they were concerned. 

But Tommy carried the weight of it upstairs, every step heavier than the last. In his room, he dropped his bag and collapsed onto his bed, staring at the ceiling fan spinning slowly overhead. The exam paper sat crumpled on his desk, abandoned like it was evidence of a crime.

He didn’t feel proud. He didn’t even feel disappointed. Just wrong, like he’d failed some invisible test nobody had told him about until afterward. In the silence, with only the fan blades whirring above him, he whispered to himself, “ Next time, I’ll be better. ”

And he believed it. Not because he wanted to, but because he couldn’t bear the thought of hearing “not enough” again.

The kitchen smelled like lacquer and burnt toast. Tommy’s paint set sat on the counter, a rainbow of colours, but one small slip of his brush had left a streak of green across the edge of his homework page. 

He froze, his heart hammering, staring at the tiny smudge. It wasn’t even in the main section. It was just in the corner. But he could feel it already spreading across his chest like fire. 

“Tommy!” his mum’s voice cut sharp from the table. She didn’t yell, but the way she said his name made him flinch. 

“Yes, mum?” his voice was small.

She held up the page. The green streak was like a spotlight on everything he’d done wrong. 

“Do you see this? You can’t just… leave mistakes like this. It makes you look sloppy. You’ll have to do it again.”

“I… I can fix it?” he whispered, more as a question than the statement it should’ve been.

“You will fix it,” she said, her voice firm, “Neat. Perfect. Or you’ll start over. Again.”

His dad glanced over, not smiling, “Tommy, your handwriting is messy here too. You need to project excellence, to receive excellence. Make sure it’s perfect. Every line, every letter. Do you understand?”

Tommy nodded quickly, the pencil trembling in his hand. He didn’t ask why it mattered so much. He didn’t ask what he couldn’t just try his best and leave it at that. He just bent over the page, eraser in one hand, pencil in the other, redoing every line, every word, until the smudge was gone. 

Hours later, when the kitchen was quiet and his homework was finally ‘acceptable,’ Tommy leaned back in his chair, his jaw aching from tension. His hands were sore, his eyes stung from staring at the page for too long. 

It wasn’t a punishment with anger or cruelty. It was worse. It was quiet, insistent pressure. Every mistake, no matter how small, mattered. 

And from that day, Tommy learned something about himself; if anything goes wrong, it is never okay. Mistakes were dangerous. Panic was survival, and absolute perfection was the only shield. 

Even when no one was watching, he carried that with him.

The field smelled like cut grass and sweat, the air thick with late spring heat. Tommy jogged across the pitch, his shirt sticking to his back, his lungs burning in that good way. For a while, he forgot about school, about the expectations, about numbers on papers. Out here, it was just the thud of the ball against his football boots, the shouts of his teammates, and the simple rhythm of the game.

He wasn’t the best. Not the star striker or the fastest runner. But he was decent. Steady, reliable. And for once in his life, that felt like enough.

Until the car ride home.

His mum was in the passenger seat, his dad driving, both quiet in that heavy way that made his stomach twist and turn in anticipation. The silence stretched until his dad finally spoke up, “You spend a lot of time on this, don’t you?”

Tommy wiped the sweat from his forehead, still buzzing from the match, “Yeah, I mean… I like it. And the coach says I’m getting a lot better.”

“Getting better at football doesn’t help you with your exams,” his mum’s voice was soft but sharp around the edges.

“It’s just a couple afternoons a week–”

“A couple afternoons that could be spent studying,” his dad cut in. His tone wasn’t angry, just final, “Your brother didn’t let hobbies get in his way. He didn’t waste his time like this. And look where he is now.”

Tommy stared out of the window, his heart sinking. He wanted to argue. He wanted to say that football wasn’t a waste of his time, that he felt truly alive out there in a way that his textbooks could never give him. But the words tangled up in his throat. He could always picture the look on their faces if he pushed back. Disappointment, sharpened into frustration.

By the end of the week, he told his coach that he had to quit. The man clapped him on the shoulder, told him that he’d be missed. His teammates groaned, begging him to stay. He forced a smile, said he just needed more time for school, like it was his own decision.

That Saturday, he sat on the bleachers in his kit for the last time, pretending he was just there to cheer. The sun dipped low in the sky, painting everything in gold. On the field, his team –his old team– surged forward, the crowd roaring as they scored the winning goal. 

Tommy clapped alone, plastering on a big grin, though it felt hollow. The sound of their laughter and triumphant shouts drifted up to him, echoing against the emptiness in his chest. He told himself it didn’t matter. Football didn’t get you into university, unless you were the absolute best. Football didn’t prove you were worth anything. 

He told himself quitting was the smart choice. The right choice. 

But as his teammates lifted the trophy without him, he learned something else instead. Joy wasn’t worth it if it risked failure. And once he learned that, he never forgot.

The dining room was warm with the smell of spaghetti bolognese and cake icing, the kind of birthday dinner that should’ve felt special. Balloons were drooping in the corner, tried half heartedly to the back of a chair. Tommy sat at the table, a small stack of wrapped presents sitting in front of him as his family crowded around with polite smiles.

“Happy birthday, Tommy,” his aunt said, handing him a package wrapped in shiny paper. He tore it open to find a set of books, nice ones, heavier than he’d expected.

Before he could thank her, someone laughed. 

“Funny isn’t it? Your brother was already reading university-level stuff when he was this age? Remember that? Those books were terribly difficult to get our hands on.”

The table chuckled in agreement, the way families do when they’re telling an old, harmless story. Tommy forced a smile, his fingers tightening around the edge of the box.

“Yeah,” his dad added, smiling proudly at the memory, “At thirteen, he was writing those big essays. I had to keep a dictionary beside me when reading them. Always so focused. A natural talent.” He clapped Tommy lightly on the back, “you’ll get there too, of course. Some day.”

Tommy nodded, his cheeks burning. He didn’t know what to say. The books in his lap felt heavier now, less like a gift and more like a challenge that he hadn’t signed up for. 

The cake came out, candles flickering. Everyone sang, cheerful and warm, but the glow didn’t reach him. As he blew them out, someone joked, “Make a wish! Maybe you’ll catch up to your brother!”

More laughter erupted around him. Harmless. Polite. But each word lodged inside his mind like a pin. 

He smiled through it –of course– because that's what you are supposed to do on birthdays. But inside, it hollowed him out. He wasn’t the star, was the one people told stories about. He couldn’t even be the centre of attention on his own birthday. He was just the shadow trailing after his brother’s light.

When the plates were cleared and the chatter had moved on, Tommy glanced down at the candles melted down to was stubs. His wish had been simple –childish even– and desperate.

Please, just let me be enough.

The library was nearly silent, save for the occasional cough or the soft shuffle of the librarian reshelving books. Tommy sat hunched at a corner desk, fluorescent lights bleaching the colour out of his already pale notes. His pen flew across the page in uneven bursts, his handwriting shrinking smaller and smaller as if trying to cram more knowledge into less space.

A half empty water bottle sat forgotten beside him. His leg bounced under the table like it was powered by something he couldn’t turn off. The more he wrote, the less sense the words seemed to make to him. The paragraphs in his notebook blurred into shapes, taunting him with just how unfinished they looked.

He barely noticed Tubbo until the chair beside him scraped back and a loud whisper cut through his tunnel vision.

“Boss, you’ve been in here since… What, the Jurassic era? Come on. Food time.”

Tommy didn’t look up, “Can’t. Not done yet.”

Tubbo leaned across the desk, peering at his mess of notes. “Not done? You’ve written, like, the Federalist Papers. And you wrote all 85. What even is this?” he plucked up a page from the pile before Tommy could snatch it back off him. “‘Key themes of industrialisation’ –Tommy, this is paragraph soup.”

Tommy’s jaw clenched, “I don’t have time to mess around, Tubbo. If I don’t finish this, I’m screwed. You can go if you want.”

Tubbo cocked his head, not offended in the slightest. “You’re acting like you’re on death row and the essay’s the executioner.” 

He grinned at his own joke and something in Tommy snapped. His pen hit the desk with a sharp clatter.

“You just don’t get it!” his voice cracked, a little too loud for the library. Heads turned. He lowered it to a hiss. “If I fail, it’s not just me. My parents –my whole family– they’re counting on me to be something. To be like my brother. I can’t just stop and let them down. I can’t.”

The words hung in the air, heavier than he meant them to be. His chest rose and fell too fast, his panic bubbling just beneath the surface.

Tubbo blinked, his smile fading into something softer. He didn’t argue. He didn’t tell Tommy that he was being dramatic. He didn’t lecture him about pressure or perspective. Instead, he reached into his bag, rummaged around, and tossed a crumpled bag of crisps onto Tommy’s open notebook. 

“Eat. Brain food or whatever. Doctor Tubbo’s official orders.”

Tommy stared at the crisps like they were an alien object. Then, slowly, his shoulders loosened. The knot in his throat didn’t disappear, but it did ease just enough to let him breathe. 

He didn’t thank Tubbo out loud, but he finally relented and opened the bag. That was enough. 

For the first time, Tommy had said it out loud. The weight that he carried wasn’t invisible anymore. And surprisingly, someone didn’t just try to fix it. They just sat with him, crunching crisps in the too quiet library. 

Tommy’s room was quiet except for the faint hum of the radiator and the soft tick of the clock. The curtains were drawn, blotting out the streetlights and leaving the space dim except for the glow from his desk lamp. He stood in front of the full length mirror, his shoulders tense, hands fidgeting at his sides.

He stared at his own reflection, trying to psych himself up. He straightened his back, squared his jaw and spoke aloud in the kind of voice he imagined his parents would approve of.

“I will do better. I will make you proud. I’ll… get everything right next time.”

The words sounded hollow, even to him. They weren’t his after all. They were the expectations he had been carrying for as long as he could remember, the ones that tightened around him like a rope whenever he tried to breathe.

He exhaled slowly, letting his chest loosen a fraction, and then whispered the part that he had never said aloud before.

“And I just… want to be me, too.”

His voice was soft, almost a secret, but it resonated deeper than any pep talk or reprimand could. For a moment, he let himself really look at his reflection. Really look. The messy hair, the slightly hunched shoulders, the tired eyes. He didn’t even flinch. 

He reached for his phone, thumbs hovering over the screen, then typed something short and dumb. 

“Hey, I just ate three packets of crisps in a row and thought of you. Don’t tell anyone.”

He hesitated, then hit send, before leaving his message screen with Tubbo. It wasn’t a joke to hide behind. It was more of a lifeline. A tiny bridge to the person he could be outside of the expectations. Outside of grades. Outside of comparisons.

His phone buzzed almost immediately with a reply, a small string of emojis and a laugh. Tommy smiled faintly, the first genuine one he had had all night. For the first time in a long time, it felt like he wasn’t just surviving the weight of everyone else’s eyes. He was existing for himself, even if it was just for a few minutes.

And maybe that was enough. 

Chapter Text

Room 3B had a quiet, lived in feel like a place that they –now– wanted to be. The fluorescent light buzzed faintly overhead, but it was soft, almost comforting, casting a warm glow on the mismatched desks and sagging beanbags that seemed perfectly arranged for them. The echoes of the last storm were gone; the air was calm now, carrying only a faint charge, like the promise of something new rather than tension. For once, being there didn’t feel like a trap. It felt more like a small, safe corner of the world that they could call their own.

Phil had ducked out ten minutes ago with his usual shrug of authority. “I’ll be back in a bit. Just… don’t burn the place down." He never explained what he did while he was gone. None of them ever asked.

That left the three of them circling silence like cats too wary to fight again.

Tommy sat at one of the desks, leaning forward with his chin in his palm, his pencil tapping rapid fire against the wood. He wasn’t even aware of the rhythm until it started echoing back into his skull, like a second heartbreak he couldn’t shut off. Tubbo had sprawled into the beanbag with his notebook half open, flipping pages pretending to work on the project, as if that would make the hour go faster. Techno had claimed his usual spot against the far wall, his knees drawn up, pen tracing lazy spirals and symbols in the margins of his notebook.

No one said anything. And the silence felt worse than the fighting of the week prior. 

Finally, Tubbo dropped his notebook onto the floor with a slap, “God, we are pathetic. This is pathetic.”

Tommy’s pencil froze, “...What is?”

“This,” Tubbo gestured around the room, his voice pitched just high enough to cut through the quiet, “Us. Here. Acting like we’re –what– future geniuses? Scholars? Leaders of tomorrow?” He put on a mock serious voice, imitating some lofty adult. “Oh wee Tubbo, you’ll save the world with your big brain one day!” He dropped the act just as fast, rolling his eyes, “Meanwhile, I’m sitting here on a beanbag, in this ‘non graded project’ class, wasting my life away.”

Tommy frowned, defensive without meaning to be, “It’s not wasting. We’re working.”

“Working at what? Nothing in here anyway,” Tubbo shot back, leaning forward now, his energy catching, “Grades, though? Numbers on a page? It’s a treadmill, man. We keep running, and running, and running, but we’re not getting anywhere. Honestly, if we weren’t stuck doing this–” he waved his hand to his own homework notebook and folder, the piles of worksheets spilling out, the invisible pressure of school itself, “–what would you even do?”

The question landed in the room like chalk dust, powdery and heavy, settling over all of them. Tommy shifted, thrown off. He opened his mouth to answer, then closed it again. What would he do? He could picture what he was supposed to say –study harder, get into a good program, make his parents proud– but that wasn’t the question Tubbo had asked. His stomach churned.

Across the room, Techno didn’t even look up from his notebook. His pen scratched once more before he muttered, “Anything else.”

Tommy’s head snapped towards him, “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Techno didn’t raise his eyes, “Exactly what it sounds like. Anything would be better than this.”

Tommy’s mouth worked, searching for an answer, something to argue with. But all that came out was a weak, “That’s stupid.”

“Is it?” Techno finally glanced up, his eyes cool and steady, “Think about it, Tommy. Take away the pressure, the grades, the expectations… what’s left?”

Tubbo barked out a laugh, like Techno had proved his point. “See? Even the Ice King over there thinks this whole thing’s a joke.”

Tommy bristled, heat rushing to his face. But the worst part wasn’t Techno’s dismissal, or Tubbo’s laughter. It was the sting of recognition. A small, microscopic, unwelcomed part of him agreed. And he hated that it did.

The room had grown tighter after Techno’s “anything else,” like the walls themselves leaned in, waiting. Tubbo pounced first, of course.

“Don’t you see?” he said, grinning wide, though his tone carried that edge that meant he wasn’t joking as much as he looked, “Ice King Techno gets it. We are wasting our prime years being model students when we could be –oh I don’t know– actually living.”

Tommy’s face screwed up. “That’s stupid. You can’t just… You can’t just skip things. Or blow them off. That’s how you ruin everything.”

“Everything?” Tubbo sat forward, raising his eyebrows, “Boss, it’s one homework assignment, not the end of civilization itself. I’ve skipped plenty of assignments in my time. The world didn’t end. What’s the worst that happens? You get a B instead of an A?”

“Yes!” Tommy shot back, too sharp, his voice cracking in the middle. His leg jiggled under the desk, and he gripped his pencil like it might anchor him to the world he knew, “That is the worst thing. That’s how you slip, that’s how it all–” He bit the words off, his chest heaving.

Tubbo tilted his head, watching him. His smile softened, but he didn’t back down.

“Tommy. Look at us. We’re rotting in this room. Rotting. We got sent to Phil for a reason. We push and push and push until, one day… poof . We’re done. Do you really think the pinnacle of our lives should be whether or not we can memorise history dates or chemical formulas?”

“That is literally the point of school!” Tommy snapped, but the conviction in his voice faltered at the end. 

“It’s the point someone else picked for us,” Tubbo leaned back, spreading his arms like he was presenting the case of a lifetime, “What about you, huh? What’s Tommy’s point? ‘Cause as far as I can see, it’s only panic attacks and hunched shoulders. You doodle all the time in here, but I’ve never once seen you enter the art room.”

That hit a little too close for comfort. Tommy’s ears burned, and he turned towards Techno, hoping for backup. “Tell him that he’s being ridiculous and dramatic.”

But Techno just shrugged, eyes half lidded.

“If the only thing holding you all together is grades,” he said, his voice flat and sure, “You’re already failing.”

The words sliced cleaner than a shout ever could. 

Tommy froze, his breath catching like he’d been slapped. He wanted to argue, to bark something back, but nothing came. Because somewhere under all the panic, under the loyalty to his parents and the rules drilled into him since he was small, the words rang true. 

For a moment, the three of them sat suspended in the silence, the air humming with something new. Not quite agreement. But not the same fight either. 

Tommy stared at his clenched fists, then let out a shaky laugh that wasn’t really a laugh at all, “So… what? We just… do whatever we want?”

Tubbo grinned, sharp and bright, “Now you’re talking!”

The air in room 3B had gone stale. Not in a bad way, but it wasn’t the kind of silence that was peaceful. It was the restless, itchy kind, the sort that made even the ticking of the clock sound too loud. 

Tubbo finally gave in, as always. He shoved his chair back with a scrape and dug into his backpack, muttering, “We need… something.”

He pulled out his dog eared notebook, flipping past pages that looked more like battlefields than school notes. Crooked equations, scribbled over margins, doodles of exploding rockets and stick figures doing questionable activities. 

He tore out a page with dramatic flair and slapped it onto the desk. “Behold.”

Tommy blinked, “That’s… that’s a piece of paper, Tubbo.”

“Not just paper,” Tubbo corrected, already scribbling at the top in bold, jagged letters. He pressed down so hard that the pen nearly broke in his hands. 

The Detour List

Tommy squinted, “Detour? That’s not even a cool name. It sounds more like a road sign.”

“Exactly,” Tubbo said, underlining the title three times until the pen tore a little hole through the paper. “The main road is boring as hell. The detour’s where you find greasy diners and suspiciously cheap candy and maybe a man selling questionable fireworks from the trunk of his car. That’s us. We aren’t doing the main road anymore.”

Tommy stared at him like he had lost his mind, “You’ve gone completely insane.”

“Yes, and you’re welcome,” Tubbo grinned, tapping the pen against his teeth, “First item: Skip class once.”

The pen squeaked as he scrawled it down. 

Tommy sat bolt upright, “No! Absolutely not! Are you crazy? Do you have any idea what that does to your attendance record? If you dip below a certain percentage, you can get flagged, and then your parents get letters, and then–”

“Calm down, Nancy Drew,” Tubbo interrupted, “I said once. One class. Singular, a beautiful act of rebellion.”

“That’s not rebellion,” Tommy snapped, jabbing a finger at the page, “That’s suicide.”

“Tommy, man, if this is your idea of suicide, I don’t even want to know how you define living.”

Before Tommy could combust any further, Techno finally spoke from his corner. He’d been leaning back in his chair, half slouched, watching them like they were a mildly interesting chess match.

“Fail on purpose.”

Both Tubbo and Tommy looked at him.

“What?” Tommy’s voice cracked like glass. 

Techno met his eyes calmly, “Fail on purpose. Next item.”

“That’s the absolute dumbest thing that I’ve ever heard,” Tommy blurted out, “Why would anyone – anyone – deliberately fail?”

“Because if the idea terrifies you,” Techno said, his voice staying as steady as stone, “Then it owns you. And if you do it on purpose, even one, it stops being able to own you.”

The words hit Tommy harder than they should have. He opened his mouth to argue –to say something, anything– but nothing came out. His throat felt tight, like he had swallowed barbed wire. 

Tubbo, ever unfazed, scribbled it down with a little cartoon skull beside it. 

“Edgy,” he muttered, amused, “I like it.”

He shoved the notebook towards Tommy. 

“Your turn, big man.”

Tommy froze. His turn? His palms had gone sweaty against his knees. He racked his brain for something that wouldn’t sound pathetic, wouldn’t sound like admitting too much. Everything that came to mind felt risky. Not because it was dangerous, but because it was far too honest for him. 

The silence stretched. Both Tubbo and Techno waited. Finally, Tommy muttered, so quiet that it almost got lost. 

“...Make a real friend.” 

Tubbo stopped doodling, and for once, he didn’t crack a joke. He just looked at Tommy, his eyes softened, then he nodded and wrote it down in big, uneven letters. “Good one, Tommy.”

The quiet that followed wasn’t sharp or tense anymore. It was heavy, yes, but also… careful and understanding. Like they’d all agreed not to ruin the moment. 

To break it, Tubbo leaned forward again, doodling a wobbly sun in the corner of the page. 

“Do something artistic. Doesn’t matter if it’s rubbish, or what it is. Music, painting, finger puppets. Interpretive dance even, if you’re feeling particularly spicy.”

“Interpretive dance?” Tommy asked flatly.

“I’d pay good money to watch you or Techno interpretive dance,” Tubbo shot back without missing a beat, a grin on his face.

Techno ignored both of them. He tapped the desk once with his knuckles, then said, “Try something scary.”

“Failing on purpose isn’t scary enough for you?” Tommy looked at him like he had two heads. Techno just waved him off.

Tubbo threw his hands up. “Scary how? Like jumping off a cliff, risk your life scary, or ask the lunch lady for extra fries scary?”

“Doesn’t matter,” Techno said, “We’ll know it when we see it.”

Tubbo scrawled it down, then leaned back to admire their masterpiece. The list looked less like a plan and more like a bad graffiti job. Messy handwriting stacked at odd angles, words crossed out and rewritten, doodles bleeding into the margins. Tubbo’s dragon breathed fire onto “Skip class once.” Tommy had added two lines under “Make a real friend,” as if trying to anchor it to the page. Techno’s contributions sat plain and unbothered, no decoration needed. 

It wasn’t neat. It most definitely wasn’t perfect. It wasn’t even that coherent. But it was theirs. And the air in room 3B shifted. It felt different again. Like maybe they had just built something that was worth holding onto.

Tommy’s hand hovered over the list, his fingers twitching. He could practically see the headlines in his mind;

“Student Found in Possession of Rebellion List, Parents Outranged, Future Doomed.”

His chest tightened, his breath short, thoughts stumbling over each other like they were racing downhill. 

“If anyone finds this,” he whispered, his voice shaking, “I’m dead. My parents… they would bury me alive if they even knew I was thinking about half of this stuff.”

Tubbo flopped back onto his beanbag, letting out a dramatic sigh. “Relax, Tommy. Relax. It’s not like we’re planning a heist or stealing the Mona Lisa,” He grinned, trying to lift Tommy’s tension with a joke, “Besides, worst case scenario, we get detention and a mildly disappointed principal.”

Tommy’s eyes didn’t leave the paper. “Detention isn't the worst. The worst is… everything. Them knowing. My brother knowing. Everyone knowing… that I failed. The list–” his voice caught in his throat.

Techno, as usual, remained quiet. He leaned back against the wall, his arms folded and his pen tucked behind his ear. But he wasn’t staring at the paper, he was keeping a trained eye on Tommy. Watching the way his hands shook, the way his knuckles whitened around the edge of the desk. The fear underneath his panic was almost tactile, like a pulse in the air.

You’re overthinking it,” Tubbo said, softer now, losing the grin. “It’s just a list, Tommy. Just five things that we might do one day. Nobody has to see it but us.”

Tommy exhaled, barely audible, but it did nothing to calm the storm inside of him. He pressed the paper flat against the desk as if trying to smother it. 

“It feels… dangerous. Like, wrong, I guess. If I touch it, it’s like I’m betraying everything I’ve ever worked for. Every grade, every assignment, every… expectation.”

Tubbo leaned over, nudging him lightly with his elbow. “That’s exactly the point of the list, Tommy.”

“Point?” Tommy said, incredulous, “That’s terrifying.”

“Yes,” Tubbo admitted, shrugging, “And that’s why it’s worth doing. You feel it too, right? The list isn’t just about fun, it’s ours. Probably the only thing that any of us have that’s just for ourselves. It’s secret, forbidden, dangerous. In all the best ways.”

Tommy’s fingers trembled as he traced the letters of his own contribution. Make a real friend . The words felt a little heavier than the others, but also… different. Less like a failure, more like a possibility. 

For a long moment, none of them spoke. The list sat in the middle of the desk, scrawled and messy, a tiny rebellion within the ink. The room was charged, almost sacred, holding the kind of quiet that comes along when everyone knows something that they shouldn’t.

Finally, Tubbo broke that silence with a grin, louder this time, “Just promise me two things. 1. We don’t bring Phil down with us. And… 2. If this blows up in our faces, you’re letting me take the fall. You guys have far more to lose than I do.”

Tommy let out a short laugh, shaky and unsure but genuine. “Yeah… sure. I guess that makes sense.”

Techno’s eyes didn’t flicker, didn’t move. But the faintest corner of his mouth tilted upward, almost imperceptibly. He didn’t need to say anything. Tubbo knew he’d been seen and agreed with. And somehow, that made the list feel a little less dangerous.

The list remained laid between them, a small rectangle of paper that somehow carried more weight than all the textbooks in their bags combined. Tubbo leaned over it, his fingers tapping the paper like he was deciding whether to press a button on some mysterious device. 

“Well,” he said, his voice light, “I guess this is it.”

Tommy’s hands twisted nervously in his lap. 

“And.. it really… it stays between us, right?” his voice was low, almost urgent, as if just one more confirmation would make the list more real, and maybe less terrifying.

“Of course,” Tubbo said, sliding the page towards his bag. He folded it twice with exaggerated care, like it was some sort of fragile artifact, then tucked it deep inside, leaving only a corner of it peeking out. “Safe. Secret. Ours. Locked down.”

Techno, as always, didn’t react much. He leaned against the wall still, his arms crossed, his eyes trained on the floor, but the weight in his gaze was clear. He wasn’t speaking, but Tommy felt it. The understanding that whatever spark they had lit, whatever risky plan they’d just conjured up, it belonged to them. And them alone. 

Tommy swallowed, and for a moment, the silence pressed in on him. Not the oppressive kind, the silence of expectation –of unspoken rules and deadlines– but a quiet that felt watchful, careful, almost protective. It gave him room to breathe. 

No one said, we’re doing this . The words didn’t need to be spoken aloud. The agreement existed in the space between them, in the folding of the paper, in Tubbo’s soft smirk, in Techno’s steady presence. It was unspoken, but it was real.

For the first time in months –maybe even years– Tommy felt something loosen inside him. A tension that he hadn’t even realised he’d been holding onto. His shoulders uncurled ever so slightly, and he could breathe without panicking, just a little. The panic, the dread of imperfection, the constant pressure to prove himself –to be like his brother– didn’t vanish, but it became something smaller, something shared. 

Tubbo lifted his head from his beanbag, his legs splayed, eyes no longer on the ceiling. 

“There. That’s our little secret,” he said, grinning, “Nobody else can touch it. Except for us. Forever.”

Tommy glanced at Techno, searching for some reassurance. His friend’s face was calm, unreadable. His usual wall of neutrality. But the tiniest twitch of his mouth, and the slightest nod of his head, a hint of acknowledgement, made Tommy’s chest feel even lighter. Techno understood. He didn’t need to say anything to prove that. 

Eventually, Tubbo’s grin grew bigger. “So… who’s going first when we actually start this madness?”

Tommy shook his head, exhaling slowly, and let a laugh slip past his lips. It wasn’t entirely confident, not entirely free, but it was a start. He may have said no to going first, but he didn’t reject the idea of trying at all. 

Because the pact existed now. Quiet, messy and dangerous. And Tommy finally felt something he never thought he’d ever feel, relief. And hope. And the comforting knowledge that the weight wasn’t all his alone anymore.

He glanced at his two friends, then at the page tucked safely away in Tubbo’s bag, and for the first time in a long time, he allowed himself to imagine a future where he wasn’t carrying the world on his shoulders. Where he wasn’t constantly expected to be perfect, or a carbon copy of his brother. 

And just like that, the knot in his chest loosened a little more.

Chapter Text

The living room smelled faintly of chocolate frosting –his least favourite– and waxed floors. Balloons were already half popped or given away to the younger cousins to play with. The couch was pristine, the coffee table cleared except for the cake and a few plates arranged with military precision. Techno sat on the edge, his hands folded tightly in his lap, his posture rigid as if it alone could keep the room from tipping into chaos.

“Happy birthday, Technoblade!” his mother said, smiling like the words themselves could fix the quiet that usually stretched between them. She held a small box, carefully wrapped in glossy paper, and pushed it towards him.

His father leaned in from the side, nodding. “Thought you might like this,” he said, his tone upbeat but measured, like he was testing the waters to see how much love could land before spilling over.

Techno tore off the paper with precise folds, lifted the lid, and froze. Inside was a set of walkie talkies. Shiny, new, and… totally, completely useless. 

“For you and that friend of yours, right?” his father said, chucking awkwardly, as if the gift could magically create a companionship that he didn’t have.

He forced a polite smile. “Thank you,” he said, his voice even and careful. Inside, his stomach churned. He didn’t have a friend to use them with. Not yet, maybe never. The gift wasn’t bad, he was sure it was chosen with misguided love, it just completely missed him.

Across the room, his parents exchanged small glances, satisfied, as if the polite words and forced smile were all they needed. There was no siblings, no older cousins lingering to steal the attention, and the relatives who had shown up were still distant, polite, offering generic nods.

“That’s nice,”

“We remember when you were little…” 

Their praise never lingered. Techno felt even more invisible, like he existed only as a set of expectations that they hadn’t fully defined yet, and probably never would.

He set the walkie talkies down with precise care, arranging them neatly on the table, as though alignment could ease the gap between himself and the world. He thought about the birthdays before this one, how he consistently tried to be what they wanted him to be, hoping that someone –anyone– would notice the real him.

But the attention had always been fleeting. A nod. A polite, “Well done, Technoblade.” then back to their own lives. Techno had learned quickly that he wouldn’t get seen for being who he was. So he channeled himself into things that could be measured –grades, charts, tasks completed– with perfect precision.

He stared at the walkie talkies again, imagining the quiet static they would make if he ever actually used them, imagining the emptiness of holding one and talking into the air. It made him feel both absurd and painstakenly aware of how alone he truly was. 

Still, he kept the polite smile plastered on his face. Polite, controlled, measured. Inside, though, a small, almost imperceptible spark of frustration and longing flickered. One day, maybe someone would see it –not just the tidy surfaces, not just the grades, not just the list of achievements (which they barely saw anyway)– but him.

For now, he folded his hands over his knees, breathed evenly, and sat rigid, as if being perfect and calm could somehow make the loneliness less sharp.

Techno stood at the edge of the stage, the polished wood cool beneath his shoes, trying not to let his fingers tremble. The principal’s voice rang out across the assembly hall, crisp and deliberate, announcing the winners of the regional math competition. When his name was called, his chest tightened with a mix of pride and nerves. This was the culmination of weeks of late night problem sets, painstaking calculations, and rehearsed formulas. Maths had never been his strong suit, but competitions were surely his one way ticket to parents who paid attention. Right ? This was the moment he had imagined a hundred times over.

He walked up the aisle, certificate in hand, trophy tucked under one arm. The spotlight made the edges of the stage glow, and for a second, everything felt surreal. Faces blurred into the background as applause swelled around him, classmates clapping, some cheering. He scanned the crowd automatically, hunting for the familiar face he craved to see more than anything. His parents.

The reserved seats where they should have been were empty. His mother, he guessed, was buried in work, glued to her laptop at home. His father was probably elsewhere, absorbed in his own projects, or perhaps just assuming someone else would tell him. The thought gnawed at him, familiar and sharp. I did this for myself. I did this for them too. And yet… they’re not here.

After the applause faded, he stepped down from the stage, trophy still awkwardly clutched in his hands. Other students celebrated around him, hugging friends, laughing. Their excitement was tangible. Techno felt a hollow tug at his chest, a quiet ache beneath the surface of his pride. 

Later, at home, the trophy sat on the kitchen counter, gleaming under the hard light. His mother glanced at it once, her eyes flickering from her phone.

“Well done, Technoblade,” she said without looking up at him, barely raising her voice over the hum of the dishwasher. 

His father passed by with a distracted, “Good job,” without stopping. Neither asked how he felt, what it had meant to him, or even congratulated him properly. No questions, no acknowledgement beyond the perfunctory words.

Techno’s fingers itched to pick up the certificate, straighten it, align the edges, make everything perfect, even if the recognition he craved so deeply was absent. That hollow ache deeped into a familiar tension. This isn’t enough. It will never be enough .

That night, he sat at his desk in his room, carefully arranging the certificate beside the trophy, adjusting the angles and edges until everything looked impeccable. The small thrill of the achievement was buried under a heavier weight, the knowledge that, despite his best efforts and excellence, he remained invisible.

He closed his eyes for a moment, thinking of the empty seats at the assembly, the distracted words at home. The lesson was clear: success alone won’t make them see him. He has to be flawless, perfect, beyond what anyone could expect. 

Techno opened his notebook and began jotting out a meticulous plan for his next project, mapping his schedules and deadlines, calculating grades, imagining every possible scenario. He would do more next time, push harder, anticipate every mistake before it could happen. Maybe then, he told himself, someone would finally notice.

Even as he worked, the faint ache of invisibility lingered. A quiet, persistent reminder that no achievement, no perfect calculation, could ever replace the connection he had never had. But he had to try something.

Techno’s room was quiet except for the low hum of the heater and the faint click of his keyboard. Every surface was orderly. Notebooks stacked by subject, pens lined up by colour and tip, folders labeled in neat block letters. On the wall, charts hung, tracking everything –grades, project deadlines, revision schedules– all colour coded and precise down to the last detail. Even his desk lamp was angled just so, casting a perfect rectangle of light over his workspace.

His parents were home, somewhere, physically present but absent in every way that meant anything. His mother flipped through social media on her phone, thumbs scrolling so fast it was a miracle that she actually took any of it in. His father tapped away on his laptop, muttering numbers to himself, his eyes never lifting from the screen. Occasionally, Techno would go downstairs and sneak a glance at them, noting, every time, the invisible boundary between their words and his.

He opened his grades spreadsheet and scanned the numbers. Every A was accounted for, percentages calculated, extra credit received, predictions made for the next report. If these numbers were impressive enough, maybe they would notice him. It wasn’t through arrogance or vanity. It was strategy, a quiet plea wrapped tightly in precision. He spent hours rewriting notes, highlighting key points, checking and double checking formulas, formatting every page until it was flawless. Each perfect sheet a beckon in the night. See me. See that I am capable. See that I’m worth it .

But even as he worked, he noted the emotional inefficiency of any distraction. A stray thought about making friends or having fun, a pang of longing, even a flicker of doubt. He filed it away in his mind under inefficient, discard. Emotions were messy and unpredictable. They were dangerous. Better to control, better to suppress, better to become the image that he thought would earn even an ounce of recognition.

He leaned back in his chair for a moment, staring at the charts lining the walls. The order felt safe, almost soothing. The numbers never judged him, never disappointed him, and never let him unseen. Real people –his parents– may never see him at all, but here, in the spreadsheets, in the schedules, in the meticulously logged achievements, he was visible. 

Structure was like a sanctuary. Precision was his armour. And emotions were just a liability. And so, with a deep breath, he bent back over his desk and continued, every pencil stroke, every keystroke, a silent attempt to earn the one thing he craved but rarely received, notice. 

Techno sat at his desk in the quiet library, his notebook open, his pencil poised, but his mind drifted elsewhere. The fluorescent lights above hummed softly, the pages in front of him waited patiently. He remembered a day not long ago –a year ago, maybe two– when a teacher praised him for remaining ‘so calm under pressure’ during a class debate.

The words should have felt good. Instead, they pressed down on him heavier than any criticism could. Calm. capable. Perfect. It wasn’t a compliment, it was a label. Techno, ‘the boy who made everything easy for everyone else, while he allowed himself to drown all alone.’ The label was one that reminded him that showing anything else –panic, doubt, frustration– was completely unacceptable. Any slip, any visible struggle, would mark him as inadequate. 

He thought of handing in a major project last semester. He had stayed late, rewritten sections over and over again, formatted everything with a near obsessive precision. He imagined that when his parents saw it, they might actually notice the hours of work that he had poured into it, the care he’d taken, and the person behind the grades.

The acknowledgement came, but it was fleeting at best. His mother glanced at it briefly, murmured, “Good job, Technoblade,” and returned to her knitting. His father had barely looked up from his laptop. Perfect work. Still invisible. 

Techno compared himself silently to his classmates; the ones who laughed freely, who raised their hands without fear, who messed up and were comforted anyway. But he was too much if he showed emotion, not enough if he faltered. He had learned from a young age to contain himself, to present a carefully measured exterior. Composed, calm, controlled.

Even in moments of success, he always felt the absence of validation like a hollow echo. Achievement alone was never going to be enough, he knew that. It became a rule; don’t react, don’t falter, don’t show the chaos inside. Let the work speak, but don’t expect anyone to hear the person behind it.

He closed his eyes for a moment and let his fingers rest on the pencil. The library was silent, but he could still hear the weight of expectation pressing down on him, the quiet pressure that had built over years. And as always, he met it in the only way he knew how. Perfectly still, perfectly calm, perfectly unseen.

Techno’s eyelids fluttered behind closed eyes, and suddenly he was somewhere else. Somewhere impossible. A room stretched endlessly in all directions, walls made up entirely of monitors and charts. Numbers scrolled endlessly across the screens, blinking red when they fell behind, alarms muttering silently in a language he couldn’t ignore. Every chart was a verdict, every graph a silent accusation. 

He tried to move, to adjust a screen, to fix a flashing error, but his body refused. His hands hovered uselessly over a desk that wasn’t there. Panic coiled in his chest, tighter and sharper than anything he had ever felt awake. His mind raced faster than the numbers, calculating, comparing, anticipating the failures that hadn’t occurred yet. 

At the far end of the room, his parents stood like statues of expectation. Their faces were unreadable, their eyes fixed on him. They did not speak, they did not smile, they didn’t even gesture. Only observed. Only judged. Surrounding them were authority figures, teachers, coaches, older versions of himself. All watching, all silent. The pressure was suffocating. Too much, not enough, never enough.

He tried to explain, tried to say something, anything, but no sound emerged. His voice dissolved before it got to leave his throat. He tried to move closer to the monitors again, to adjust the numbers, to fix some small part of the chaos but his legs still remained anchored to the ground. His arms felt like lead, sinking into invisible molasses. Frustration burned red hot in his chest.

The charts pulsated, red streaks widening across walls and floors. He saw every undone assignment, every grade slipping, every expectation unmet. Every glance that had ever ignored him, every polite nod that had felt like nothing, pressed down all at once. He clawed at the air, mentally begging for recognition, for approval, for anyone to see the person behind the performance. But the silence was absolute.

Then, as abruptly as it began, the monitors vanished. The charts disappeared. His parents dissolved into mist first, followed by the other authority figures. All that remained was the endless, gray void. And still, the frustration, the panic, the ache of invisibility did not fade. They lingered like smoke in his chest, and he realised that he was truly alone, completely unreachable, entirely unseen. 

He woke up with a jolt, sweat soaking his hair and clinging to his shirt. His chest tightened, ribs aching, as if the dream’s pressure had carried over into reality. The room was dark, silent, normal, but the echo of that emptiness, the lingering weight of all the unseen expectations, pressed in on him.

He swung his legs over the side of the bed, hands going instinctively to his desk. Charts, spreadsheets, schedules, to do lists. There they sat, tangible, controllable. Each number could be corrected, each task completed, each failure anticipated and then prevented with ease. Slowly, meticulously, he checked and rechecked. Assignment deadlines, upcoming tests, cumulative grades, personal goals. Precision brought a brittle comfort.

His parents weren’t home, they were on a business trip. He was alone. There truly was no one around to help him. To see him. For a brief moment, he allowed himself to imagine relief. His parents rushing into his room to hold him. To ease the burden. To see him. In that world, the chaos of the dream would have no power here. He would have power, he would have love, he would be noticed. 

He closed his eyes for a second, inhaling deliberately, then bent back over the spreadsheets, recalculating, realigning, perfecting. The monitors in his mind were gone, but the fear lingered, a shadow that he would never truly shake. And still, he continued to work. Because for Techno, being unseen was unbearable, and being perfect –if nothing else– was something he could control.

Techno sat stiffly at the dining table, the envelope in his hand still warm from the post. He had spent hours checking and rechecking the answers to his latest exam, convinced that the perfect score was the perfect way to get his parents to finally see him. When he opened it, relief washed over him. Straight A’s. Finally, he thought. They can’t not see me this time.

But as soon as he looked up, the conversation at the table had shifted elsewhere. His parents were animated, talking about the neighbours’ son, James, who had just scored a perfect goal in his football match. 

“Did you hear? James is so talented, he’s just like his father!” they gushed, completely missing the envelope in Techno’s hand. 

He cleared his throat. “Mum… Dad… I–”

“Oh and did you hear about little Hannah?” his mother cut in, her eyes sparkling. “She just won the art competition at school. Isn’t that just amazing?”

Techno forced a polite nod, sliding the envelope under the table. He felt the familiar knot tighten in his chest. His work, his achievements. They were real, hard earned but somehow they were invisible. Compared to the effortless successes of others, his effort seemed like nothing.

Too much if he cares, too much if he notices, not enough if he succeeds. The lesson was burned into his mind. It was clear. Even perfection wouldn’t earn him the attention he wanted. Even being seen wasn’t a guarantee. He pushed his shoulders back, keeping his expression neutral, locking away the frustration and disappointment. 

Inside, though, the heat of quiet anger and isolation continued to burn. He made a mental note. Next time, work harder. Perfect scores. Flawless execution. Make it look effortless. Maybe, just maybe, someone would look up.

The house was silent except for the faint hum of Techno’s laptop. He sat cross legged on the floor of his room, a small breadboard and a tangle of wires sprawled around him. Tiny LEDs blinked as he adjusted a circuit he’d been working on for weeks. Something that had nothing to do with schoolwork, nothing to do with grades, nothing anyone could assign a score to. At first it felt pointless. But the more he worked on it, the more he felt proud of his work, regardless of the end goal. 

A low, satisfied smile tugged at the corner of his mouth as the lights synchronised perfectly to a simple melody he’d coded himself. He hadn’t shared it with anyone. Not his parents, not a teacher, not Tubbo or Tommy. He had learned a long time ago that this part of him –the curious, creative part– was usually misunderstood. 

A pang of warmth spread through him as he watched the LEDs pulse. This was his. Nobody could take it away. It was small, fleeting, but it felt like joy. 

And then, like a switch being flipped, he imagined someone seeing it. His parents glancing at the circuit, a classmate noticing, someone asking what it was. The warmth fled. Judgement, misunderstanding, pity, or worse –disappointment– loomed instantly in his mind. He took a deep breath, straightened, and set the breadboard aside. The glow of the LEDs dimmed as he covered it with a textbook.

If anyone knew this part of him, they’d only judge. Better to stay calm, stay invisible. That’s how people liked him. He repeated it silently, a mantra that had carried him through countless classrooms, meals, and family gatherings. It was a rule he had learned to live by, a shield he never lowered.

But even as he obeyed that rule, a small, stubborn thought lingered at the edges of his mind. Maybe… someone could see it. Maybe someone could get it. Tubbo and Tommy had never given him a reason to believe they would judge him, or ignore him. He pushed the thought down, but he didn’t push it all the way.

He pulled out a notebook and began jotting some ideas, sketches, code snippets. Small experiments that no one else would ever see. For a few minutes, the room smelled faintly of solder and possibility. And for a fleeting moment, Techno felt the smallest twinge of connection. Not to anyone else, but to himself, to the part of him that he was finally allowing to exist beyond the expectations.

The LEDs blinked again faintly from under the textbook, like a heartbeat that only he could hear. And as he closed his notebook and leaned back against the wall, he came to a realisation. There was a part of him craving something more than this. A part of him that might some day let someone in. Maybe two someones. Maybe the boys that saw him –really saw him– in room 3B. 

It was tiny. Tentative. But it existed.

Chapter Text

Over the next few weeks leading up to their fall break, the trio put their detour list into action. They were determined to make something of themselves, for themselves. To have stories. Real stories. Not just school, or grades, or perfection. 

The bell for the first period had barely stopped ringing when Tubbo leaned forward, resting his arms on the bench table, a grin tugging at his face like he was about to set off fireworks. 

“Let’s skip,” he said, his voice low but daring, eyes sparkling.

Tommy blinked, “Skip what?”

“Class. Duh.” Tubbo raised his eyebrows, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “Come on, Tommy. We’ve got the list. It’s been a week. We can’t just keep talking about it forever. It’s time to actually do something.”

Tommy’s chest tightened. Skip class? He knew Tubbo had put it on the list, but he didn’t expect to have to do it too, or so soon at least. His brain flipped through the potential consequences like flashcards. Detention, phone calls home, the sharp click of his mum’s disappointment, the long sigh from his dad. His brother, smug and perfect, never skipped a single class, perfect attendance. Skipping meant falling behind. Falling behind meant failing. Failing meant–

“No way,” Tommy said too quickly, shaking his head. “That’s– no. That’s… We shouldn’t, not with exams coming up.”

Tubbo rolled his eyes. “It’s first period history. Mr. Thompson literally reads the textbook out loud. If we die without hearing about the Vikings again today, I think humanity will survive.”

Techno closed his notebook with deliberate calm, the sound sharp in the quiet morning hum. “I’m in. All I have is study hall anyway.”

Tommy gaped at him. “You can’t… You can’t just–”

“Skipping one class won’t kill us,” Techno said flatly, “And if it does, then I guess Tubbo was right all along. We’re already rotting here anyway.”

Tubbo smirked triumphantly and hopped to his feet, swinging his backpack over his shoulder. “Majority rules. Come on, Tommy.”

Tommy froze, his stomach twisting. He wanted to say no. He wanted to dig in, to be the one who kept things safe and sensible. But the thought of being left behind –of sitting here alone while they went off and did something fun, without him– felt way worse than fear. 

So he stood, legs wobbling, and followed them. 

The hallway was unnervingly empty, their footsteps echoing like gunshots in the silence. Tommy’s pulse hammered in his throat. Every door they passed felt like an accusation, and he was most certainly guilty. Any second now, a teacher was bound to step out, arms folded, eyebrows raised. He imagined the phrase irresponsible behaviour landing on his report card like a verdict. 

Tubbo, of course, looked like he’d been handed the keys to his own kingdom. He darted ahead, checking corners dramatically, like they were spies in a heist movie. 

“All clear,” he whispered, then sprinted down the corridor with exaggerated stealth, nearly slipping on the tiles.

He even tried to do a tumble like the spies in the movies, but he ended up going sideways instead of forwards. Tommy bit back nervous laughter and proceeded to follow them in a hurried state.

Their first “close call” happened by the vending machines. The sound of heels clicked sharply down the hall, and Tubbo shoved both of them behind the machines. They squeezed together in the cramped space. Tubbo stifling giggles and Techno’s face completely blank as if crouching in a metal alcove was a perfectly ordinary experience. 

The teacher walked past without glancing their way. As soon as her footsteps faded away, Tubbo let out a loud, relieved snort.

“Mission accomplished, agents,” he said, grinning.

Tommy couldn’t help it. He laughed, short and sharp and utterly horrified at himself. The sound came out strange, like he wasn’t sure if he was choking or enjoying it.

“See?” Tubbo nudged him once they came out from behind the vending machines. “You’re already having fun.”

“I’m not,” Tommy insisted, cheeks hot. But he was. Just a little.

They kept moving, slipping into corners of the school that always seemed off limits, even when you had permission to be there. An empty stairwell that smelled faintly of cleaning spray. A darkened music room, where Tubbo plonked a single tuneless note on the piano before collapsing into a fit of laughter. 

By the time they sprawled across the music room floor, adrenaline buzzing in their veins, Tommy’s panic had shifted. It hadn’t gone away –his leg still bounced uncontrollably– but underneath it was something else. Something lighter.

No one was policing them. No one was watching. No one was measuring him against an older brother’s shadow.

Tubbo hummed triumphantly, lying flat on the piano bench like a king. Techno leaned against the wall, his arms still folded, as if this wasn’t rebellion at all but the most natural thing in the world.

And Tommy sat there, trembling, breathless, realising for the first time that freedom wasn’t some huge declaration. It was this. A skipped class, a secret laugh, the thrill of knowing the world hadn’t ended just because he’d stepped out of line. 

Tubbo sat up suddenly, his eyes gleaming with fresh mischief. “Ok, hear me out. What if we skip the whole day?”

Tommy almost choked. “WHAT– no! We’re not– Tubbo, that’s… that’s basically academic homicide!”

Techno, without missing a beat, spoke up, “I’d call it manslaughter at most.”

Tubbo snorted so loud that it set Tommy off again, halfway between horror and helpless laughter.

The corridors after school were quieters than they ever were during lessons, filled with that strange echo of a building still alive but drained of chaos. Tubbo was leading the way, practically bouncing with each step, muttering something about ‘artistic genius waiting to be unleashed.’

Tommy followed reluctantly, clutching his backpack straps like they might anchor him to the ground. “Why are we even doing this? It’s a Wednesday. Don’t we usually, you know… go home?”

“That’s exactly the point.” Tubbo grinned, kicking open the door to the art room like he owned it. The smell of acrylic and clay dust drifted out, sharp but warm, clinging to the air. The room was a mess of canvases propped against walls, jars of cloudy paint water, and shelves of cluttered, forgotten student projects.

Techno raised an eyebrow, stepping in behind them. “This is your grand plan?

“Yep,” Tubbo said cheerfully, dropping his bag on a paint splattered stool. “We’re going to create something. Doesn’t matter what. Could be a masterpiece, could be a monstrosity. Art isn’t about getting it right.”

Tommy froze halfway into the room. “Wait… hold on. That’s not– Tubbo, I can’t just paint. I’ll screw it up.”

“That’s the point! Did you not listen to a word I said?” Tubbo laughed as he already got his hands on a box of supplies, pulling out brushes and tubs of half dried paint he shoved one brush at Tommy and another at Techno. “You can’t screw up something that doesn’t have any rules.”

Tommy stared at the brush like it might explode. His heartbeat was already speeding up. Messing up was practically his biggest fear. If he painted something badly, it would sit there on the paper, proof that he wasn’t good enough. His parents' voices buzzed faintly around his head. If you’re going to do something, do it properly .

“Relax,” Tubbo said, already smearing a streak of red across a blank sheet with exaggerated flourish. “We’re not entering this in an art competition. Just… put something down.”

Techno, after a long pause, dipped his brush in black paint and dragged a single, deliberate line across the page. He set his brush down. 

“Done.”

Tommy gawked, “That’s it?”

“Minimalism,” Techno shrugged.

Tubbo burst out laughing. “See? That’s art. He’s basically a genius already.”

Tommy shifted uncomfortably, but slowly –hesitantly– dipped his brush into the paint. His hand hovered over the page for far too long before he finally dragged a messy stroke of blue over the page. It looked awful. Uneven, streaky, crooked. His stomach twisted.

“It’s terrible,” he muttered.

“Exactly!” Tubbo slapped another streak –yellow this time– right across Tommy’s blue, the colours blending into a muddied green. “Now it’s a collaborative terrible. Way better.”

Despite himself, Tommy barked out a laugh. He dipped the brush again and made a bigger, messier swipe across the page.

Within minutes the three of them were attacking the paper like children let loose in kindergarten. Tubbo started doodling faces in the corner, all lopsided and grinning. Techno, with absolute calm, drew tiny squares and rigid patterns, only to have Tubbo scribble smiley faces in each one. Tommy kept muttering that it looked like rubbish, but his strokes grew bolder, less careful, util his hands were splattered with paint and he was grinning. 

At some point, Tubbo flicked a streak of paint onto Tommy’s sleeve. Tommy gasped, horrified.

“You– Tubbo! That’s my jumper!”

“It’s abstract fashion now. You could sell that for millions,” Tubbo said with a mock serious nod.

Tommy retaliated with a flick of his own, catching Tubbo’s cheek with a streak of blue. Tubbo howled dramatically, clutching his face like he had been eternally wounded.

Even Techno let out a soft chuckle at that, though he ducked his head quickly to hide it.

By the time they stopped, the paper was an explosion of clashing colours, jagged lines, doodles, and smears. It was ugly. It was chaotic. It was theirs. 

Tommy stood back, chest heaving like he’d just ran a race. His hands were trembling, but this time not from panic. “It’s… awful.”

“Yeah,” Tubbo agreed proudly, “Awful. It’s perfect!”

Techno’s year had a history teacher that was notorious for calling on students at random, pelting them with questions about dates and treaties like he was hosting some sort of grim quiz show. Techno rarely flinched under the pressure. He had the kind of reputation that teachers stopped testing after a while, assuming he always knew the answer. 

But that morning, he decided to do something different. To fulfil his part of the pact.

“Who signed the Treaty of Versailles?” the teacher asked, his tone sharp and expectant.

Every head turned towards Techno when his name was called. He was sitting there, calm as stop, twirling a pen between his fingers. Without hesitation, he answered, “Shrek.”

The silence was instant, heavy. A few students stifled snickers. One girl actually choked on her water.

The teacher’s face darkened. “Excuse me?”

“Big green guy. Lives in a swamp. Known for his negotiation skills,” Techno deadpanned.

Laughter broke loose then, sharp and uncontrollable, filling the room with chaos. The teacher sputtered, trying to regain a semblance of control, while Techno leaned back in his chair like he hadn’t just set fire to his spotless reputation. When the teacher demanded that he take the question seriously, Techno muttered something about ‘checking the onions clause,’ and the laughter doubled.

By the end of class, Techno had earned himself a warning slip and a glare sharp enough to cut glass. But he walked out, unfazed, even a little smug. 

Tubbo heard about it first, catching fragments of the story from two older kids standing in front of him in the line for the canteen. He burst into room 3B practically bouncing.

“Tommy,” he wheezed between laughs, “Techno just failed a pop quiz in the most beautiful way!”

Tommy blinked, half in disbelief. “What do you mean failed?”

“Apparently he said Shrek signed the Treaty of Versailles," Tubbo said, barely able to get the words out without cackling, “In front of everyone, on purpose! He did his detour!”

Tommy’s stomach lurched. “He… what? He can’t just– what if the teacher reports him? What if it goes on his permanent record? What if–”

“Relax, Tommy,” Tubbo grinned, “He’s fine. He’s Techno, he was completely unbothered.”

Tommy’s mind spun. The idea of answering wrong on purpose made his throat tighten. He pictured his parents’ faces if they ever found out. The disappointment, the lectures, the how could you waste your potential like that ? He;d never even considered failure as an option, let alone something you would want to do deliberately.

And yet.. The fact that Techno had done it –and survived– gnawed at him.

Later, Techno showed up to room 3b with the same indifferent expression he always carried. He didn’t bring it up, didn’t laugh or brag about it. He just sat down, pulled a book from his bag, and started reading.

But Tommy couldn’t stop staring.

“You really said Shrek?” he blurted out finally.

Techno didn’t look up, “Yup.”

“Why?”

“Felt like it,” Techno shrugged.

“That’s insane,” Tommy said, his voice too high pitched, caught somewhere between horror and fascination.

“It’s one pop quiz. They aren’t life or death. Grades aren’t either.” Techno flipped a page, his tone maddeningly neutral. “Nothing happened. I failed. Then the world kept going.”

Tubbo snorted. “You’re more of a menace than I gave you credit for.”

But Tommy was quiet, chewing on the thought. The world hadn’t ended. No thunderbolts had struck. No report card had been carved into stone.

Failing didn’t destroy him.

For the first time, Tommy let himself wonder that maybe mistakes weren't proof of weakness. Maybe they could even be… survival.

The library at lunch was usually a quiet refuge. Not silent, but filled with the soft hum of shuffling books, whispered conversations, and the occasional clack of a keyboard. Tommy liked it that way. It was predictable. Safe. 

He sat at one of the side tables, half hidden behind a pillar, flipping aimlessly through a textbook he had already finished. Tubbo and Techno weren’t with him. Techno had some upper-year thing, and Tubbo had gone to hunt down snacks from the vending machine. For the first time in a while, Tommy was alone.

That’s when he saw Niki.

She was in his year. Quiet, neat handwriting, always seemed to have a thermos of tea and a calm smile. They’d been in group projects together before, but Tommy had never really talked to her. Not properly, anyway. 

She was sitting two tables over, sketchbook open, a pencil moving lightly across the page. 

He hesitated. His stomach churned with the usual doubts. What if she thinks I’m weird? What if I say something stupid? What if she doesn’t want to talk to me?

But then he remembered the list. His addition. 

Make a real friend .

Not an acquaintance. Not a group project partner. A real friend.

Before he could talk himself out of it, Tommy stood up and crossed the space between them.

“Uh… hey… hey Niki,” he said, his voice feeling too loud in the quiet, “That’s… cool. Your drawing, I mean.”

Niki looked up, startled, then smiled brightly. “Thanks.”

Up close, Tommy saw that she was sketching a little cartoon panda in a hoodie. It was charming and weirdly expressive, like it had a secret.

“You draw a lot?” he asked, shifting awkwardly from foot to foot.

“Yeah,” she said, a little shy, “Mostly animals. Helps me think.”

“That’s… really cool,” he repeated, his brain stalling.

She tilted her head to the side, “You’re Tommy, right? From Mr. Thompson’s history class?”

He blinked. “Uh… yeah, hi.”

“I liked your presentation on the Berlin Wall,” she said, “You really knew your stuff. You even managed to make it a bit funny. Most people just read from the slides.”

Tommy stared at her. He had been certain that no one had paid attention.

“Oh… uh– thanks.”

She gestured to the seat across from her, smiling. “You can sit, if you’d like.”

He did. Slowly, awkwardly, like he was stepping into a new dimension.

They talked. Not about homework, or test scores, or impending deadlines, but about weird documentaries they’d watched, their favourite books, how bad the vending machine pretzels were.

It wasn’t flashy. There were pauses, for sure. But there was no performance. No pressure.

When Tubbo came back with snacks and spotted him through the glass wall, he raised his eyebrows. Techno, who had wandered in quietly behind, followed his gaze. 

Neither of them said anything, but they definitely noticed. A soft smile sneaking onto both of their faces. 

Tommy sat a little straighter.

For the first time in a long time, he felt like he wasn’t trying to impress someone. To live up to someone’s expectations. He was just… there. And that was more than enough.

The sky outside had already softened into late afternoon, that strangle in between time where the world felt less supervised. The last bell had rung an hour ago, but the trio lingered in the back corner of the school ground, perched near the rusted fence and the crooked oak tree that grew stubbornly out of the concrete.

Tubbo pulled The Detour List from his bag with a magician’s flourish, though the crumpled paper looked more like it had survived a war than a harmless trick. The pencil scrawl was half smudged, more doodles covering the margins, but the heading still held. The Detour List .

“Alright, gentlemen,” Tubo said with a mock formality, smoothing the paper against his knee. “Five items. Four down. One to go: ‘try something scary.’”

Tommy shifted uneasily, his arms crossed, ‘Define scary.”

“Not like ‘horror movie scary,’” Tubbo explained, “More like… out of your comfort zone scary.”

“That’s… vague,” Tommy muttered.

“Exactly,” Tubbo grinned, “We each pick something for ourselves. No excuses.”

Techno, lounging against the fence, gave the smallest nod. Tommy groaned. This was happening whether he liked it or not. 

Without warning, Tubbo charged at the oak tree, his sneakers scraping against the trunk as he scrambled upward. 

“See?!” he called down, half grunting, half laughing, “This is terrifying!”

“More like embarrassing,” Tommy shot back, though his heart lurched as Tubbo’s foot slipped.

Tubbo clung to the bark, his arms flailing, before he hauled himself onto the lowest branch and threw his arms wide like a champion. “Look! I’m King of the tree!”

Then his phone tumbled out of his pocket, narrowly caught by his other hand. “Ok, ok, never mind!” he yelped, fumbling down again.

By the time he landed, Tommy was doubled over with laughter. “You nearly died for a tree.” 

“Totally worth it,” Tubbo said breathlessly, hair sticking up in all directions. “Scary box: ticked. Your turn Techno!”

Techno didn’t even hesitate. Straightening his blaze, he strode across the open quad where a group of popular kids from his grade were lounging on the steps, mid-conversation. Tommy and Tubbo froze.

“Oh no,” Tommy hissed, “He’s going to be murdered.”

“Shut up and watch, it’s your turn next,” Tubbo whispered, eyes wide.

Techno stopped dead centre before them, cleared his throat, and said with his usual unnerving calm, “Which of you losers is strong enough to face me in single combat… at chess?”

The popular kids blinked. One snorted. Another muttered, “What the fuck?”

Unbothered, Techno executed a slow, solemn bow, turned, and walked back towards Tubbo and Tommy as if nothing had happened. 

The moment his back was turned, the popular kids erupted into confused laughter.

Tommy gaped at him, “You’re actually insane.”

“Scary enough?” Techno asked, adjusting his bag strap.

Tubbo had collapsed against the fence, wheezing. “You looked like a weird cult leader!”

For the first time in days, Tommy’s laughter felt unforced, bubbling until his ribs hurt. That was until his world came crashing down with one simple sentence.

“So Tommy, pick your poison," Techno said.

His smile faltered. He shoved his hands in his hoodie pocket. “Yeah, uh… nope. No thanks. I’m good.”

Both pairs of eyes locked on him.

“Come on, man,” Tubbo urged, “Your turn. Doesn’t have to be huge. Just… something that scared you.”

Tommy’s stomach churned. He imagined climbing, shouting, making a scene. His palms were already sweating. The idea of deliberately drawing attention to himself made his lungs feel tight.

Finally, he blurted, “I’ll… I’ll put my hand up in Ms. Kelly’s class tomorrow. Answer something, anything. On purpose.”

Tubbo stared. “That’s it? That’s your scary?”

Tommy’s face burned. “You… you don’t get it. Her questions are so hard and if I’m wrong… everyone stares. Or worse, she stares. And then my parents–” He bit his lip, cutting the spiral short.

For a moment, no one spoke. Then Techno broke the silence, “If your scary is answering a question, then that’s your scary. Doesn’t have to be ours. Go for it, Tommy.” 

The quiet honesty in his tone shut down Tubbo’s teasing.

Tubbo gave Tommy a small nod and a smile. “Fair. Okay. Scary box: ticked, by all.”

Chapter Text

By the time the last bell had rung, room 3B was half dark, the winter light stretching thin across the scratching linoleum floor. The desks had been shoved into a lopsided horseshoe, papers and pencil shaving still scattered. It looked more like a bunker than a classroom, their unofficial headquarters for whatever nonsense they came up with during their time with Phil. 

Tommy threw himself into one of the squeaky plastic chairs, legs sprawled like he owned the place. His bag toppled off the desk and onto the floor with a thud, but he ignored it, already brimming with whatever idea had been fermenting in his head all day. He had really grown into himself around Tubbo and Techno since the detour list, allowing himself to be him without grades and perfection.

“Right,” he declared,stabbing a finger into the air like he was about to make a life altering speech, “Listen up. Hallowe’en’s next week, and we are not spending it alone at home like sad little losers. We have to do costumes and go do something.”

Tubbo, halfway through unwrapping a squashed cereal bar, perked up immediately. His face lit up like someone had switched on a string of fairy lights in his head. “Costumes? Oh, I’m so in! Group theme, yeah? Obviously! The three musketeers! Or pirates! Or…” he paused dramatically, eyes sparkling, “Bananas. We could be bananas.”

Across the circle, Techno didn’t even bother to glance up from the notebook he was annotating with absurd precision. His pencil moved steadily, his face unreadable.

“Bananas,” he repeated flatly.

“Yes!” Tubbo slapped the desk for emphasis, nearly knocking his cereal bar to the floor. “It’s bold. It’s terrifying. Nobody messes with fruit!”

Tommy turned slowly in his chair, staring at him like Tubbo had just suggested they dress up as teaspoons. “Tubbo. Bananas are not terrifying. Bananas are– they’re like, bottom tier fruit, at best. They’re soft. They bruise if you look at them funny. We’re not doing anything dressed up as bananas.”

Tubbo’s grin only turned wider. “Imagine it, though. We’d be unforgettable.”

“I say zombies,” Tommy cut in quickly, unwilling to let the banana idea take root. He pushed himself halfway up from his chair, shoulders hunched, face twisted into a snarl as he shuffled forward with stiff arms. “Raaagh! Brains! Mmmmm! See? I’d kill it as a zombie!”

Tubbo laughed so hard he nearly choked on his cereal bar. “Ten out of ten, Oscar worthy!”

“Zero out of ten,” Techno muttered without looking up.

Tommy froze mid snarl, his head snapping towards him. “Excuse me? Zero? That was the best acting the world has ever seen!”

“You looked like you were constipated,” Techno deadpanned, finally lifting his eyes just long enough to deliver the line with brutal precision. 

Tubbo howled, pounding the desk. “He’s got you there, Tommy!”

Tommy sat back down with a huff, crossing his arms. “Fine then, Mr. No Fun Ever. WHat’s your big idea, huh? You going to wow us with your endless charisma?”

Techno calmly shut his notebook. “I don’t do costumes.”

The words landed like a record scratch. For a moment, both Tommy and Tubbo just stared at him.

“You– What!” Tommy sputtered, “What do you mean you don’t do costumes!? It’s Hallowe’en for crying out loud! That’s literally the point!”

“I don’t see the appeal in the whole dressing up thing as something I’m not,” Techno said with a shrug. “Seems inefficient.”

Tommy looked personally offended. “Inefficient? It’s not a maths test, man, it’s Hallow freaking ween! Inefficient? Inefficient?!” he was practically flailing now, gesturing wildly at the ceiling as though the gods of fun might just appear and back him up.

Tubbo, meanwhile, was grinning so wide it looked like his face might split in half. “I say we vote. New group rule: if two of us want something, the third has to cave. Just like when Tommy joined us when we skipped class. We are a democracy. Democracy never lies.”

Techno narrowed his eyes, but Tubbo was already running with the idea, his brain spinning out costume suggestions out costume suggestions like a broken slot machine. “You could be a wizard. Tall hat, long cloak, you would totally pull that off!”

“Or a ghost,” Tommy added gleefully. “Classic white sheet with eye holes. Minimal effort/ very you.”

“I’m not cutting holes in a sheet,” Techno rolled his eyes.

“Okay, fine, fine.” Tubbo tapped his chin dramatically. “What about something ironic? Like… you go as a clown or something?”

The look Techno gave him could have frozen lava. Tubbo only laughed harder, clutching his stomach.

“You’re both insufferable,” Techno muttered, but there was no real bite to it.

Tommy leaned forward, smirking like he’d already won. “So, that’s a yes then. You’ll be in costume.”

“That is not what I said.”

“Could’ve fooled me,” Tommy smiled.

“Anyway, it’s too late,” Tubbo sang, darting up to the whiteboard. He grabbed a nearly dead marker and scrawled COSTUMES!!! Across the top in oversized letters, adding three aggressive exclamation marks for good measure. “Majority rules. The pact is sealed.” 

Techno stared at the board, silent, weighing the merits of walking out versus letting them think they’d won. After a long pause, he sighed, low and deliberate. Tubbo struck a triumphant pose with the marker, beaming from ear to ear. 

And though he’d never admit it, Techno felt the corner of his mouth tug upwards, the smallest, sharpest flicker of a smile breaking through. 

Tubbo’s kitchen table had seen better days. The wood was nicked from years of dropped cutlery and scribbled homework, the corners chewed up from when he was a lot younger and thought they made decent teething toys. But today, it was covered with old newspaper, three fat pumpkins wobbling in the centre like orange bowling balls waiting to be thrown down the lane. 

Tubbo rubbed his hands together, already buzzing with energy, “Right, lads, this is it. The ultimate test of skill, artistry, and raw pumpkin based genius!>

Tommy grinned, brandishing a blunt carving knife like a sword. “I think I’ll make the happiest pumpkin in the world with a big smile, big eyes. He’s going to look like he just won the pumpkin lottery!”

Techno sat down with an unnerving calm, folding his sleeves neatly before pulling his own knife closer. His expression was all business, like he was about to perform delicate heart surgery instead of mutilating a squash. He was already marking his pumpkin with faint lines, measured perfectly into quarters.

“Symmetry is the foundation of all proper design,” he said matter of factly, “If either of you produces something lopsided, I’m not associating with it.”

Meanwhile, Tubbo jabbed at his with a reckless enthusiasm. “I’m doing a dragon! Big wings, flames, the works!”

Tommy blinked. “On a pumpkin?”

“Yes, on a pumpkin,” Tubbo snapped, like the idea wasn’t utterly insane. “I’ll prove you wrong, just you watch, bitch.”

Within five minutes, chaos erupted. Tubbo, humming cheerfully, had pumpkin guts dripping from his elbows as he scooped fistfuls straight onto the newspaper, barely paying attention to the mess spreading across the table. 

“It’s like pumpkin spaghetti! He said, grinning, and promptly flicked a slimy strand in Tommy’s direction. 

“Oi!” Tommy yelped, ducking, only to fling his own handful back. Seeds pattering against Tubbo’s jumper.

Techno didn’t look up from his meticulous carving. “If a single piece of your pulp touches my workspace, I swear–”

Too late. A rogue chunk had just splattered against the edge of his newspaper. His jaw tensed, but the faintest twitch tugged at his mouth when  he saw Tommy and Tubbo dissolve into a fit of laughter. He sighed theatrically and went back to slicing flawless, mirror perfect triangles for his pumpkin’s eyes. 

“Mine’s so going to blow yours out of the water,” Tubbo boasted, though his drago now looked suspiciously like a mangled blob with uneven nostrils. “Fear the beast!”

Tommy leaned sideways to peek and nearly fell off of his chair laughing. “There’s no way that’s a dragon. That’s– that’s roadkill.”

“Shut up! It’s abstract,” Tommy shot back, cheeks flushed. 

When they finally lined their creations up in a row on the counter, the results were… telling. Tommy’s pumpkin beamed with a goofy, lopsided grin, one eye bigger than the other, as if it had drunk too many fizzy drinks. Tubbo’s dragon –if you squinted hard enough– looked like a pumpkin that had gotten into a bar fight and lost. And Techno’s? Perfectly symmetrical, every edge clean, the expression eerily precise, as though the pumpkin itself was silently judging the others. 

They stood shoulder to shoulder, staring at their handiwork. 

“It’s beautiful,” Tubbo announced proudly. 

“It’s terrifying,” Techno corrected.

“It’s an absolute masterpiece,” Tommy insisted, though his voice cracked halfway through.

Despite their bickering, none of them moved to throw their pumpkins out. Instead, they lit tealight candles, dropped them inside, and switched off the kitchen light. The room glowed with uneven, flickering faces. One cheerful, one horrifyingly precise, and one glorious mess. 

For a quiet moment, they all just looked, their laughter still hanging warm in the air.

The air smelled like sugar and smoke. Cotton candy spun in the cold autumn air while somewhere nearby, someone had lit a bonfire. Kids in costumes darted between booths, their plastic pumpkin buckets clattering with the sound of sweets. 

Tommy barreled into the crowd first, his cheap vampire cape flapping behind him. “Look at this place! It’s like– like Disneyland, but with even more sugar and less lawyers!

Tubbo, dressed in his oversized banana suit, pointed at a booth where a skeleton puppet cackled on a strong. “That thing looks absolutely cursed. A tenner says it comes alive at midnight.”

“Better chance than you surviving the haunted house,” Tommy shot back, grinning, “You’re going to scream before the first jumpscare, I know it!”

“I’d survive much longer than you!” Tubbo protested, tugging the banana hood tighter over his head. “You’d be eaten instantly. Vampires are always the first to die.”

“Yeah, but at least I’d die heroically,” Tommy countered, “Like, saving everyone else. They’d build statues of me for sure! You’d just trip over your stupid banana peel."

Techno trailed a step behind, his arms folded over his dark hoodie –he had been wearing a Hello I’m God sticker that had fallen off almost instantly– his expression was flat, but there was a curve tugging at his lips. Every now and then, he would mutter commentary under his breath.

“That skeleton is help up by fishing wire.”

“The haunted house exit is behind the inflatables, not in front.” 

“That witch’s hat is not regulation cone shaped.”

Tommy elbowed Tubbo and smirked. “He’s so into it. Look at him. That’s clearly his ‘secretly loving Hallowe’en’ face.”

“I don’t have a Hallowe’en face,” Techno deadpanned. But when Tubbo handed him a wrapped chocolate bar, he didn’t refuse. He even pocketed another when the pair wasn’t looking. 

They meandered through the stalls, swapping streets, joking about costumes as they passed. A toddler dressed as a very convincing werewolf waddled past, and Tommy whispered, “That kid could definitely take me in a fight.” Tubbo laughed so hard that he nearly dropped his caramel apple. 

When a cheap animatronic ghost dropped from a tree branch, Tommy flinched so violently that he crashed into Techno. Tubbo immediately howled with laughter. “Survives the haunted house, he says!”

Tommy shoved him, his cheeks red. “I wasn’t scared! I was just… strategically repositioning.”

Techno didn’t even bother hiding his smirk this time. “Sure. Tactical retreat.” 

For the first time in weeks, Tommy didn’t feel like he had to think about homework deadlines, grades, or how perfect he was supposed to be at all times. For the first time in longer than that, Techno didn’t feel like a background character in his own life. He was just… there. Seen. a part of something. And Tubbo, for the first time probably ever, didn’t feel like he had to turn everything into a joke to be wanted, he was finally able to joke and enjoy it himself. 

As they passed under the glow of orange lights, Tubbo’s banana suit swaying, Tommy rambling about haunted houses, and Techno quietly hoarding sweets, the night felt easy. Almost like it belonged to them.

The fort began as a joke. Tommy had kicked off his shoes the second they had arrived at Technos and declared, “Right. If we’re doing Hallowe’en, we’re doing it properly!” Ten minutes later, Tubbo was draping blankets between dining room chairs, Techno was pointing out structural weaknesses, and Tommy was barking orders like a general leading troops.

By the end, the ‘base’ sprawled across half of the living room. Pillows stacked as walls, blankets stretched precariously across the sofa, fairy lights from a forgotten box wound through the gaps.

Tommy crawled in first, dragging a blow of crisps. “This is it, men. Peak childhood. If you don’t make blanket forts, you’re basically eighty.”

Tubbo wriggled in after him, banana costume half unzipped, clutching a bottle of coke. “I vote we never grow up. Just live here forever. Techno’s got a fridge, what more could we possibly need?”

Finally, Techno ducked inside, joining them reluctantly, carrying a packet of biscuits. “This thing isn’t structurally sound. One wrong move and it collapses. Then where would you go?”

“Don’t ruin the magic, Techno,” Tommy shot back, pelting him with a cushion. Techno caught it one handed, laid it neatly on the ground and sat without another word. 

They demolished the snacks first, then Tommy insisted on ghost stories. His tale was long, dramatic, and full of unnecessary sound effects. He ended up slamming the floor for ‘doors breaking down,’ howling like a wolf until Tubbo nearly fell over laughing. 

Tubbo’s story was supposed to be scary but quickly spiraled into complete absurdity. “The haunted fridge moaned every time someone stole the cheese… and then one day the cheese moaned back.” He tried to make a scary face, but ended up dissolving into giggles halfway through. 

“That’s not a ghost story, that’s a dairy tragedy,” Tommy cackled, almost choking on crisps.

Then it was Techno’s turn. He didn’t bother with theatrics. His voice was low, calm, and steady as he spoke of a man who walked home every single night to the sound of footsteps behind him. Footsteps that always stopped when he turned around. One night, though, the footsteps didn’t stop. One night, they followed him inside. 

He delivered it so evenly and monotonously that by the time he had finished, Tommy and Tubbo were wide eyed, holding their breath. 

“...Okay,” Tubbo whispered, “That was actually terrifying.”

Tommy hurled a crisp at him. “What the fuck is wrong with you? Who the hell tells a story like that with the voice of a maths teacher talking about quadratic equations?”

“It’s just a story,” Techno said mildly, brushing a crumb off his lap.

“Yeah, well now I’m never walking anywhere alone, ever again!” Tommy argued.

That cracked the tension. Tubbo burst into laughter, Tommy tackled him with a pillow, and soon the fort was a blur of shouts, flying cushions, and spilled sweets. Even Techno allowed himself the faintest smirk as he shielded himself from the chaos.

Eventually, breathless and tangled in blankets, the three collapsed in a heap. The lamps glow turned everything golden, the world outside shut away. It was Tommy –restless as ever– who noticed the door to Techno’s bedroom slightly ajar when the trio had gone up to the bathroom together. He stepped over, peeking inside. His laughter caught in his throat. 

“...That is like… my parents’ dream room.” His voice wasn’t mocking or joking now, but tinged with something else. Resentment, maybe. “Everything lined up perfectly, nothing out of place. If even a single book in my room isn’t at a right angle, my mum’s at me. Dad checks my desk and homework like it’s an army inspection,” he gave a short, bitter laugh, “You’d win ‘child of the year’ in their house, maybe even above my brother.”

Tubbo leaned over, curious. “Damn, he’s right. It’s so… tidy. Like a catalog.”

Techno shrugged, the gesture flat, almost practiced. “My parents don’t even know. I don’t think they've been in there since I was in Kindergarten.”

The words landed heavy, like a stone dropping into silence. Tommy blinked, trying to reconcile it in his own head. His own parents suffocated him with their constant scrutiny, while Techno’s. Hadn’t even noticed enough to care. Opposite problems, but somehow leaving the same ache.

Neither boy pressed him on it. Instead, Tubbo lobbed another pillow. “Well then, we’re claiming it. It’s haunted now. Officially ours.”

Tommy grinned, quick to join in. “Yeah! Screw the catalog look. We’ll mess it up for you. Add some personality. Maybe… cheese posters.”

“Or a shrine to crisps,” Tubbo suggested.

Techno rolled his eyes, but the corners of his mouth twitched upwards. The house rang with their laughter again, covering over what he had just revealed, softening it into something survivable. 

Later, as the lamp flickered and eventually dimmed, the three stayed curled in their cocoon of blankets and pillows, their voices quieting to a comfortable murmur. For once, the silence in Techno’s house didn’t feel like its usual emptiness. It felt like home.

The night had wound down almost without them noticing. The blanket fort still stood crookedly in Techno’s living room, empty bowls and crisp packets scattered inside like evidence of a battle fought and won. Now the three of them stepped out into the dusk chill, their breath puffing in little clouds as they made their way down the street. 

Tubbo trudged along the pavement, his banana costume long since stuffed in a plastic bag, yawning so wide that he nearly tripped over the curb. “I swear, blanket forts are more exhausting than double maths,” he mumbled, blinking sleepily.

Tommy snorted, far from tired. He was still practically bouncing with every step, still buzzing with leftover energy. “That’s because you have the stamina of a ninety year old, Tubbo. Me, though? I could run a marathon right now. Full on Olympic level! World record pace.” He threw a dramatic arm in the air like a victory salute. 

“You’d trip on the starting line,” Tubbo muttered, but he was smiling even as he rubbed his eyes. 

Behind them, Techno walked at his usual pace, his hands shoved deep in his pockets, eyes flicking between the glowing pools of lamplight and the shadows stretching across the pavement. He said nothing, but the silence wasn’t heavy the way it usually was. Tonight, it was comfortable.

He caught himself watching the other two. Their bickering, the easy way they filled the quiet without demanding anything from him. His mind, so often racing with charts and schedules, was strangely still. It felt different. Better. 

At the corner where the road split, they slowed. Tubbo stifled another yawn and waved halfheartedly towards his street. “If I don’t collapse before I reach the door, I’ll text you. Probably. Maybe. Unless I just fall asleep on the step.”

“Go on then, grandad,” Tommy teased, giving him a shove that nearly sent him into a bush. Tubbo swore at him under his breath but grinned as he peeled off towards home. 

Tommy lingered a moment longer, glancing at Techno. “Guess that’s me too. Big man marathon runner has got to rest up for tomorrow’s training.” His grin faltered just slightly, replaced with something softer, more genuine. “Tonight was good, though, yeah?”

Techno met his gaze briefly, then nodded once. Words felt too clumsy for what he meant, so he didn’t use them. Instead, his mouth curved into a small, real smile.

Tommy blinked, caught off guard by it, then grinned back like he’d just won something. “See you tomorrow, loser.” With a mock salute, he jogged off down his street, his laughter carrying in the cold night air.

Techno stood there for a moment, watching as Tommy jogged away, the corner quiet now, streetlamps buzzing faintly overhead. The smile on his face lingered, fragile but steady. He turned and started the walk back to his own house, the silence no longer feeling like a void, but like something waiting to be filled.

For the first time in a long time, he didn’t dread what tomorrow might bring.

Chapter Text

Room 3B, present

The classroom was quieter than usual, now that the boys were friends, the late afternoon light slanting across the desks in amber stripes. Phil sat at his desk, his sleeves rolled up, red pen in hand, and the steady scratch of ink was the only sound in the room. A stack of essays sat before him, perfectly squared, as though even their crooked edges needed taming.

He wrote with a careful precision, circling phrases, underlining, never letting his handwriting dip or falter. When he finished one page, he tapped the corner of the stack three times before sliding it into a second pile. Graded, done, contained. The rhythm soothed something inside of him, like breathing. Order meant control. 

Across the room, the boys watched in varying degrees of awe and amusement. 

“Man’s treating those essays like a sacred scripture,” Tommy muttered, sprawling over two chairs and though he owned them. 

Tubbo’s grin spread wide. “Bet he’s cross referencing every sentence with the Oxford Dictionary. He’s worse than you two.”

Phil didn’t look up, but his mouth twitched. “I heard that. And for the record, if these were scripture, I’d be marking them all down for their metaphors.” 

That cracked Tubbo, who doubled over laughing, while Techno added, in that deadpan way, “They’d probably misspell the commandments.” 

Phil glanced over his nose at the three boys. “And some of you still would, if we’re being honest.”

Tommy sat up, pointing a dramatic finger at him. “Hey! My hand writing is a creative art form –a rebellion– thank you very much!”

Phil chuckled, the sound low but genuine. “Creative, yes. Legible? No. Half the time I’m not sure if you’re writing an essay or confessing to arson.”

Tubbo thumped his desk, wheezing. “I knew it! He does keep a ranking system! Pay up, men!”

“Don’t tempt me,” Phil said dryly. “I could make one. Techno would be the only one of you that doesn’t fail spectacularly.”

The teasing rolled on, light and harmless, but Phil caught the way Techno watched him. His eyes flicking to the aligned pens on his desk, to the way Phil’s fingers brushed once more along the neat stack of papers. Techno said nothing, but his gaze lingered with a quiet recognition. 

Tubbo leaned forward, whispering not so quietly, “Bet he schedules his fun time in advance.” 

Phil smirked, “Only down to the minute, naturally.”

The room erupted again, but Phil’s laugh came softer this time, almost rueful, their jokes didn’t sting. Not anymore. If anything, they reminded him of old habits that he still carried with him, habits that once weren’t funny at all.

He remembered late nights bent over his own work, eyes burning, hand cramping, pushing past exhaustion because anything less than perfect felt like failure. He remembered the neat rows of binders, the obsessive notes, the panic when he slipped even once. And the silence from the people around him that he’d so desperately wanted to impress. 

That silence has been louder than any failure could be. 

Now with these boys –loud, messy, restless– it was different. They laughed at his quirks instead of admiring them. They saw him as a person, not a machine for achievement. And maybe that was why he let the corners of his mouth lift a fraction more than he used to. 

“Discipline,” he said at last, mostly to himself, “Helps to keep the chaos at bay”

The boys went silent for a heartbeat, the weight of his tone landing even if they didn’t understand it fully. Then Tommy leaned back, grinning. “You sound like a motivational poster, man. Next you’ll tell us to reach for the stars or whatever. 

Phil shook his head, smothering back a laugh, and forced his thoughts back into the present. “Don’t you boys have some homework to do? Or work on your project for this,” he said briskly, flipping to the next essay. “And no more commentary on my work life balance.”

Tommy raised his hands in mock surrender. “No promise, Phil.”

The teasing resumed. The room was warm with laughter again, but Phil’s thumb lingered for a moment on the even edge of the graded stack.

For the boys, it was just another glimpse of their afterschool teacher’s quirks. For Phil, it was a reminder of who he used to be, and the choice he’d made to become something different.

University

The library was almost empty, the kind of empty that made the quiet hum with exhaustion. The only sound was the scratch of Phil’s pen moving at a manic pace across the page. His desk looked more like a battlefield than a workspace. Journals stacked like towers, highlighters bleeding neon into every margin, empty coffee cups lined in a row like casualties.

He had three separate notebooks open, all colour coded. One was filled with outlines for an essay due in two weeks. Another mapped out a presentation draft for a conference he had somehow agreed to chair. The third was a list of deadlines, meticulously rewritten and recopied each time he felt like the handwriting wasn’t neat enough. 

Pinned to the corner of his desk were certificates from recent achievements. Best Student Research Paper, Excellence in Academic Writing, a commendation letter from a professor who had called him promising . The words should have carried weight. Instead, they stared back at him like a taunt. Promising wasn’t perfect.

The clock overhead ticked past midnight. He didn’t notice until his pen slipped, smudging ink across the page. He hissed under his breath, ripped the page out, and started again. 

From across the room, two of his classmates laughed as they packed up their things. One of them called out, “You still at it, Phil? Man, you’re actually insane. Better go home before they lock you in here.”

Phil forced a smile without looking up. “I’m almost finished. I’ll only be five more minutes.”

They were gone before he finished the sentence. 

His phone buzzed on the desk, a text from a friend:

• Want to grab a pint? First round’s on me!

For a second, Phil let his eyes linger on the screen. He could almost picture it. The warmth, the laughter, the relief of stepping outside the fluorescent prison he’d chosen for himself. But the thought of leaving his desk twisted in his stomach. If he went, he’d fall behind. If he fell behind, he’d lose. And if he lost, everything he had built thus far would mean nothing.

He deleted the message without replying. 

The next morning came and went in a blur of deadlines. By afternoon, he was standing at the front of a lecture hall, delivering his presentation to a panel of professors. He’d rehearsed it fifty times. His slides were pristine, each transition timed down to the millisecond. His voice didn’t waver once.

When he finished, a polite applause filled the room. His advisor patted his shoulder afterwards. “Excellent work, Phil. You’re on track for great things.” Great things . He smiled and nodded, muttering the expected thanks, but as he packed up his materials, the words sank heavy in his gut. Great things. Not enough things. Not finished things. 

He went back to his office, dropped his bag, and sat down at the desk. He should’ve felt proud, relieved, even happy. Instead, he opened a fresh notebook, uncapped his pen, and began outlining the next project. 

As the sun set, his reflection grew sharper in the window. Pale face, tired eyes, an expression wound too tight. He stared at himself, just for a moment, wondering what it would feel like to stop. To let the silence stretch without filling it with words or numbers or deadlines. 

But the thought terrified him. So he turned back to the page. He always turned back to the page.

The auditorium was buzzing, filled with chatter and the rustle of program sheets. Banners announced Annual Research Excellence Awards . Students sat in clusters, whispering nervously. Professors stood along the walls, already rehearsing their polite claps. 

Phil sat alone, hands folded too tightly in his lap. His suit was pressed within an inch of its life. He’d barely slept the night before, going over his speech again and again, editing single words until they gleamed. 

When the host called his name –“Philip Watson, for outstanding research in…”– there was polite applause, then louder clapping from the professors in his department. He stood, walked to the stage, and accepted the plaque. Smiled at the camera. Spoke his words. Every syllable measured, every pause calculated.

From the outside, he looked calm. Confident. Proud. Everything an overachiever was supposed to be. Inside, his heart pounded like it was trying to escape. 

The applause faded just as quickly as it had come. He left the stage, plaque in hand. People congratulated him in passing. “Nice work, Phil.” “Great job.” “Well deserved.” Their eyes were already moving to the next name on the program.

He slipped out of the auditorium early, unnoticed. The evening air outside was cool, sharp in his lungs. He sat down on the stone steps, staring at the plaque in his hands. Outstanding Research. The words glinted in the streetlight, but they didn’t feel real. 

He checked his phone. No new messages. No ‘congratulations.’ no family in the audience. His parents hadn’t even asked what the award was for. The one friend he might’ve told had long since stopped inviting him out, tired of hearing ‘I’m busy.’

For a long time, he just sat there, the plaque heavy in his lap. He thought of all the hours, all the notebooks filled and rewritten, all the sleepless nights. This was supposed to be the payoff, the shining moment. But it felt more like standing at the top of a mountain, alone, too cold to enjoy the view. Especially when he could see the higher mountain peak in the distance. 

He wanted to feel proud. He wanted someone to turn to, to laugh with, to share the weight of the moment. But all he had was the empty campus around him and the gnawing certainty, that if he stopped, if he let the silence settle, there would be nothing left. 

So he stood, squared his shoulders, and walked back inside. There was still networking to do. Another paper to submit. Another project to start. He would not stop. He could not. Not yet.

Cramped apartment

The apartment was silent except for the rapid clicking of Phil’s keyboard. Outside, the city was long asleep, but here, the air buzzed with the glow of fluorescent light, the stale smell of ground coffee, and the ever present hum of the fridge. His desk looked more like a battlefield than a workspace, as always. Pages covered in equations, drafts bleeding red with his own corrections, post it notes plastered across the surface with reminders like final draft due on Monday and don’t forget the funding form .

The clock glared at him from the corner: 3:47 a.m. again.

Phil’s jaw ached from clenching as he stared at the screen. He’d rewritten the opening paragraph five times, and still it didn’t sound sharp enough. His advisor’s words rang in his head. Precision matters, Phil . Don’t leave any cracks for them to pick apart. So he pushed harder. He deleted whole lines, rewrote them, checked citations, and then checked them again, as though perfection could ward off failure. 

A buzzing headache sat behind his eyes, steady and punishing. His fingers twitched from too much caffeine. He was three espressos in, and he was still contemplating a fourth. The thought of sleep almost made him laugh. Sleep was for people with margin, people who could afford to let their guard down. 

He glanced up at the calendar pinned to the wall. Every square was marked; exams, conferences, deadlines. A messy scrawl for every day of the month. No white spaces. No air to breathe. Just ink pressing down, pressing forward.

For a moment, he tried to remember the last time he had a day without something due. He couldn’t.

The mug was empty when he reached for it. He cursed softly, shoved his chair back, and stood. The room swayed. Not a metaphorical sway, but a literal one. The walls seemed to tilt, and his body lurched as he caught himself on the desk. 

“Not now,” he muttered, though there was no one to hear him. His heart thudded too fast in his chest, shallow and panicked. He pressed his palms flat against the wood, trying to steady ragged. 

When his vision cleared, he sat heavily back down. His breath came short, ragged. And that was when it hit him. Not the panic, not the exhaustion, but the emptiness. 

He thought of the plaques shoved into a box under his bed, prizes he hadn’t even bothered to hang on the wall. He thought of the polite applause at award ceremonies, the way colleagues shook his hand but never knew him. He thought of the nights he had ignored calls from friends because he ‘needed to work,’ until eventually, the calls stopped coming.

He couldn’t even remember the last proper meal he’d had. The last laugh that wasn’t strained. The last time he’d felt alive instead of just… efficient.

A memory surfaced, unbidden: his mother’s voice when he was a teenager. Don’t burn yourself out, love. You can’t do everything. He had laughed it off then, certain she was wrong, certain he could carry it all if he just pushed hard enough. And now? Now she lived a town over, and he still hadn’t seen her in six months. Always too busy.

Phil buried his face in his hands. The cursor blinked on the laptop screen, merciless and expectant. He had deadlines, obligations, people waiting on him. And yet, for the first time in his life, he couldn’t move his hands to keep going.

The thought formed quietly, almost clinically. If this is all there is, what’s the point?

Tears pricked at the corners of his eyes. Not a dramatic breakdown, but the slow leak of a pressure valve that had been wound too tight for too long. He let out a sound –not quite a sob, more like a gasp– and felt the weight of years pressing down on him.

He had done everything right. He had played the game exactly as they told him to. Sacrificed joy, rest, connection. All for his achievements. And it had brought him here. Alone, half sick with exhaustion, surrounded by papers that meant nothing outside this room. Phil leaned back in his chair, staring up at the ceiling, breathing hard.

For the first time in years, he didn’t touch the keyboard. The silence was louder than any award ceremony, sharper than any advisor’s critique. And in that silence, something cracked open. A question he had been too afraid to ask; What if I’ve been climbing the wrong mountain?

The cursor kept blinking. The deadline kept looming. But Phil just sat there, feeling the emptiness echoed back at him.

Room 3B, present

The classroom was quieter now, emptied of the usual chaos of shuffling papers and scraping chairs. The golden light of late afternoon slanted in through the blinds, striping the floor with uneven shadows. Phil sat at his desk, a stack of half marked assignments before him, red pen still uncapped. He wasn’t marking so much as staring at the words, his thoughts drifting. 

On the other side of the room, Tommy and Tubbo were bickering about something, as usual –a packet of crisps, by the sound of it– while Techno sat slouched with his arms folded, muttering dry commentary that made the other two groan they weren’t doing any work, not really. They didn’t do much of anything, anymore. But they kept showing up, and somehow, that had started to feel more and more important. Not only to them, but to Phil too. 

Phil let the red pen rest and leaned back, watching them. Not with annoyance –never annoyance– not even with the weariness that often came after a long day. Something quieter. Something closer to recognition.

He remembered sitting in rooms like this once, his own notebooks crammed full of notes written in cramped handwriting, margins filled with reminders and formulas. He remembered the pressure. The gnawing sense that if he didn’t get everything perfect. If he didn’t stay two steps ahead. Then he would lose the one thing that gave him any sense of worth. The memory made his chest ache faintly, like pressing on an old bruise. 

Teaching had never been part of his original plan. Back then, it had felt ike a detour, a consolation prize after the collapse of his overachiever’s path. But over time, it had become something else entirely. A chance to rebuild. A way to make sure no one else had to crack under the same weight that he had once carried.

Tommy’s laugh broke across the room, loud and unfiltered. A welcomed sound from the once anxiety riddled teen. Phil glanced over to see the boy sprawled on the floor, crisps scattered, and Tubbo triumphantly holding the now empty packet above his head. Techno rolled his eyes and muttered something dry, which only made Tommy double over harder. 

Phil smiled softly to himself. Tommy. The volume, the bravado, the newfound pushback against of authority. Underneath it all, though, Phil still saw the familiar edge of desperation. The boy who had learned to equate love with performance still lingered. That was himself once, too loud at times, too desperate –always– to prove that he deserved a seat at the table. 

Then there was Tubbo, always cracking to deflect, grinning just a little too brightly when anyone noticed the sharpness of his mind. Phil saw it all. The same survival strategies that he had used in in university, pretending the exhaustion and loneliness didn’t matter as long as the work looked flawless in the end. He knew that smile. He had worn it for years.

And Techno, quiet, meticulous, hiding his brilliance behind distant. The boy who came in room 3B already tired, already wary, already invisible. It had been as if he’d lived decades of expectation in only a handful of years. Phil felt a strange tug in his chest every time Techno adjusted his papers to perfect angles or sat stiffly at a desk as thought waiting to be judged. To be seen. God, he was him, too. He was Phil before the breaking point. Years ahead of schedule. They all were.

Phil rubbed a hand across his face, trying to shake the intensity of the thought.

He hadn’t chosen teaching because he though it would be easy. He’d chosen it because he couldn’y bear to see another generation swallowed whole by the same hunger for perfection that had nearly killed him. If he could give then a place –just one room, one hour, two days a week– where they could exist without proving, without chasing, then maybe it would matter.

At his desk, Phil flipped a paper over, tapping his pen idly. He didn’t need to say anything out loud. He didn’t need to make some grand speech about burnout and achievement. He just needed to keep the door to thus room open, keep showing up, keep giving them the space that he’d once needed and never had. 

“Hey, Phil,” Tommy called, his voice carrying across the room, “You’ve gone all weird and quiet. Planning our funeral or something, over there?”

Phil chuckled, shaking his head. “Just wondering how three supposed geniuses can turn snack time into a full scale war.”

“Survival of the fittest,” Tubbo said solemnly, though his grin ruined the act.

“More like survival of the loudest,” Techno muttered, though his lips twitched in the faintest smile.

Phil felt the corner of his own mouth lift. No, he though. This wasn’t just a consolation prize. This was exactly where he was supposed to be.

Room 3B, a week later

The classroom was alive in its own, lopsided way. Tubbo had half a maths worksheet covered in doodles of stickmen falling off cliffs, Tommy was trying to balance his chair on two legs, and Techno had actually finished his work but was staring off into space like he’d rather be anywhere else. 

Phil stood by the whiteboard, marker still in his hand, watching the chaos unfold. It wasn’t the quiet, orderly environment he’d once demanded when he was their age. But this –the chatter, the mess, the laughter– felt more honest. More real. More human. 

“Tommy, that chair’s going to snap any second and then you’ll have to explain to the caretaker why your backside went through school property,” Phil said evenly. 

Tommy wobbled the chair for dramatic effect. “Maybe that’s my destiny, Phil. The boy who broke the chair. My legacy will live forever!”

“You legacy would live in detention,” Phil countered, but his tone carried warmth. Tommy froze at first –authority did still scare him a little, his parents still scared him– then he grinned and dropped the chair back to four legs with a loud thud. 

On the other side of the room, Tubbo pushed his doodled worksheet across the desk. “Look, Phil, he’s me! Stickman Tubbo. He didn’t study for his test, so he jumped into a volcano. Very symbolic.”

Phil leaned over the desk, pretending to scrutinise the scribble. “Hmm… I think Stickman Tubbo could’ve used a mentor who told him that it’s okay to get the answers wrong.”

Tubbo blinked, caught off-guard by the seriousness woven into the joke. He gave a little shrug, softer than usual. “...Guess he never had one of those.”

Phil didn’t push any further, he had learned not to. He just tapped the stickman’s volcano with his marker. “Then maybe this version gets a different ending.”

Tubbo ducked his head, a smile tugging at his mouth. 

Across the room, Techno finally spoke up, his voice quiet. “You know, sir. You’re not very… teacher-y.”

“Just call me Phil, Techno,” Phil raised an eyebrow, “And I’m not sure if that’s an insult or a compliment.”

“Compliment,” Techno said after a pause, “Most teachers don’t let people figure things out. They just… shove the answers at you. Or expect you to already know them.”

Phil tilted his head. “And what do I do, instead?”

Techno hesitated, but then shrugged. “You wait. You let us… mess it all up first if we have to. You make it feel like… nothing we say is stupid.”

Phil smiled softly, tucking that one away. He didn’t need essays or grades to tell him if he was doing something right. Sometimes it was in the quiet acknowledgements like that. 

The boys retreated back to their tasks –or in Tubbo’s case, pretending to do his tasks– and Phil wandered the room. He gave nudges where needed, dropped in a reminder here, a pointer there. But he didn’t hover. He didn’t demand perfection. He had spent too many years in rooms where mistakes were treated like crimes. Here, he made sure that mistakes were just part of the process. 

As the light outside dimmed into evening, Phil leaned against his desk and watched them, his chest easing with something he hadn’t known he’d find in this job: peace. Maybe he couldn’t erase their pressures at home –or lack there of– or the expectations that clung to them. But he could give them this room. A place where perfection wasn’t the price of being seen. 

Tommy let out a sudden laugh at something Tubbo had said, while Techno hid his own smirk behind his hand. The sound filled the room, warm and unguarded. Phil thought to himself, this is why I stayed. This is why I came back .

Chapter Text

Tommy kicked open his bedroom door with the flair of someone who was introducing royalty. “Behold! My kingdom!’

The kingdom, as it turned out, was a battlefield. Clothes laid in strategic heaps across the carpet, schoolbooks were half buried under snack wrappers, and the desk was plastered with layers of old notes, doodles, and the occasional sticky drink ring. The walls carried posters that had been slapped up at slightly odd angles –to spite his parents– a collage of bands, games and inside jokes that only made sense to Tommy.

Tubbo whistled low, stepping gingerly over what he hoped was just yesterday’s socks. “Mate, I think something died in this room.”

“It’s called atmosphere,” Tommy shot back.

“Atmosphere? More like a biohazard,” Tubbo said, already poking through a stack of papers with mock disgust.

Techno, who had hung back in the doorway, gave the room a slow once over. His eyes landed on the corner where a mound of laundry was looming ominously against the wall. His expression didn’t change, but his voice carried the faintest edge of humour. “That pile of laundry looks like it could achieve sentience.”

Tommy whipped around. “Excuse me? That’s a carefully curated ecosystem. Do you know how hard it is to keep that level of balance? That’s at least a month of craftsmanship.”

Tubbo cackled, collapsing onto Tommy’s bed, which groaned in protest under the weight. “Craftsmanship! Listen to this guy! We’re not in a bedroom, Techno! We’re in a museum exhibit. The Life and Times of Tommy Innes: Chaos Edition.”

Tommy flung an empty crisp packet at him. “You’ve got no taste. Both of you. This is a highly advanced decorating style. It’s called ‘lived in.’ Normal people have it.”

“Normal people also have floors you can see,” Techno replied, completely deadpan which only made Tubbo laugh even harder. 

Tommy rolled his eyes but he was grinning, too. For once, the teasing didn’t sting. They weren’t laughing at him, they were laughing with him, inside his space, his chaos. And he kind of liked the way that felt.

The three of them were spread across Tommy’s floor –after they helped him clear it up a bit– the room smelled faintly of crisps and fizzy drinks. The corners of the posters on his wall were curling where the tape had given up. The carpet was still a patchwork of snack crumbs and scattered school notes. 

Tubbo had claimed the most comfortable spot, wedging himself against Tommy’s bed with a pillow propped behind his head. He shoved another biscuit into his mouth and said, “Right, then. Story time. Weirdest childhood memory. No excuses. If we’re going to be actual real life friends, we need the dirt.”

“Pretty sure you’ve already divulged all your dirt to me on our walks home,” Tommy shot back, tossing another empty crisp packet at him. 

Tubbo caught it, scrunching it into a ball. “Yeah, but Techno doesn’t. He deserves to suffer through it, as well!”

“I wouldn’t call it suffering,” Techno said evenly, though his tone suggested he would.

Tubbo grinned, “See? He’s into it! Ok, so, when I was seven years old, I tried to teach the neighbour's cat to skateboard. Nearly lost an eye. The cat scratched me so bad that my mum thought I’d been attacked by a fox or something.”

Tommy cackled, rolling onto his side, “That explains why you’re so twitchy around animals.”

“Am not!” Tubbo shot back, defensive but smiling.

When it came around to Tommy’s turn, he sat up straighter, chin lifted like he was preparing for a performance. “Fine. Story time. Uh… one time I ate a whole tub of ice cream by myself. The entire thing. My parents said that I had no self control. Dad said that I should be more like my brother –blah, blah, blah– and then I puked all over the carpet. Epic!”

Tubbo doubled over laughing, but Techno only raised an eyebrow.

Tommy smirked, waiting for the laugh to fade. “That’s classic me, right? Dumb and loud at all the wrong times. Always getting told off for it,” his smirk faltered, his voice trailing into something softer, “That was… pretty much the whole theme of my childhood. Me being ‘too much.’ Too messy. Not smart enough. Not calm enough. Not perfect. And then there was my older brother, the perfecting angel child. Always getting perfect grades, trophies, polite smiles. And me? I was just… the defective model, I guess.” He chuckled, but it cracked down the middle.

Tubbo blinked, his grin wavering. For once, he didn’t try to fill the silence. 

Techno, after a long pause, spoke up, “That’s not defective. That’s just being human.”

Tommy looked over at him, his brows furrowed. “Easy for you to say. Bet your parents didn’t spend your whole life telling you to be someone else.

Techno’s eyes flickered down to the floor. “They didn’t tell me to be someone else, yes. They just… didn’t say much at all.”

That made Tommy pause. He fidgetted with a crisp crumb between his fingers. “At least they weren’t on your back every second of every day, though. Mine are like… constant surveillance. Every report card, every mistake. Always being told I should be more like him.” He spat the words like it left a sour taste in his mouth. 

“You think the silence feels any better?” Techno asked quietly. He didn’t look angry, just level. “Silence is much worse. At least they notice you, even if it hurts. Mine barely even look up for a second to scold me, let alone praise anything that I do.”

Tommy blinked at him, thrown off by how calm he sounded, how sure. He opened his mouth, then shut it again. For once, he didn’t even have a comeback.

The quiet stretched until Techno added, matter of fact, “And anyway, being loud isn’t a flaw. That’s just you. And honestly? Your brother sounds boring.”

Tommy let out a startled laugh, loud and sharp, the tension breaking all at once. “Bloody hell, Techno, did you just– was that a joke? Did you just roast my brother?”

“Not a roast. Just an observation.” But Techno’s lips twitched into a smile. 

Tommy shoved his shoulder, still laughing. “Nah, man, that was, for sure, a roast. Don’t go backpedalling now. Next you’ll be telling me you actually like crisps and not your boring rabbit food.”

Tubbo, relieved that the heaviness had cracked, threw a crisp at Tommy. “Oi! Don’t start insulting rabbit food. Some of us like it… sometimes.”

But Tommy wasn’t really paying attention. He looked at Techno again, and even though he covered it with a smirk, there was a flicker of something real in his eyes. Relief. Gratitude. Like for the first time in a long time, someone had actually said the exact words he needed to hear.

The snacks had dwindled to empty wrappers, and the room had settled into that late evening haze where voices softened and the world outside didn’t seem to matter anymore. The lamp on Tommy’s desk cast everything in a warm glow, shadows stretching long, stacks of homework left untouched for once. 

Tubbo was lying on his back, staring at the ceiling like he was trying to find answers in the cracks of the plaster. His voice came out of nowhere, flat in a way that didn’t sound like him at all. “Well, at least neither of you guys were the nerd who got bullied for anything he did.”

Tommy blinked, halfway through tearing another crisp packet open. He was ready to toss back a joke, but the look on Tubbo’s face stopped him cold. He wasn’t smiling. Not at all. 

Tubbo sat up slowly, resting his elbows on his knees. He tugged absently at the hem of his hoodie, eyes fixated on some invisible point in the dirty carpet. “When I was little, I… tried. I had been laughed at for being stupid for so long. I struggled with reading stuff in class and… just all of it. I, like, properly tried though. I  started staying up late, writing out answers over and over, raising my hand every chance I got. Thought that was the game, right? Be smart, work hard, teachers notice you,you win.” He gave a short laugh that carried on humour whatsoever. “But all I won was kids calling me names again. Different that time, they called me a know it all, a teacher’s pet. Like it was some crime to actually care.”

Tommy’s jaw clenched. He hated hearing Tubbo sound so small. 

“So I thought… fine. I’d hide it. Don’t raise my hand, keep my head down. Only speak up if it was for a stupid joke or quip. Thought, maybe I could blend in, and it would stop. Thought, if I made everyone laugh, they’d like me, and they did… kind of. But I was still just the weird kid who everyone knew was smart but wouldn’t admit it. Like I was… pathetic for trying, and pathetic for not trying.”

His voice cracked for the first time, soft enough that only the two of them would have ever caught it. “I couldn’t win. I can’t win. No matter what I do, I’m either too much or not enough.”

Silence pressed in. Tommy shifted, chewing at the inside of his cheek before blurting out, “That’s–” he paused, his words tangling, then tried again. “That’s absolute bollocks, Tubbo. Absolute shit. They were just jealous.”

Tubbo gave him a crooked grin, but it was weak and defensive. “Yeah, sure. Jealous of the kid that would spend lunch hiding in the toilets and the library? Yeah right.”

“Well, that’s their loss,” Tommy shot back, louder now, heat in his voice. “They missed out on you. And you’re–” he broke off, frustration lining the edges of his tone, “You’re fucking fantastic. You’ve always been brilliant. If they are too stupid to see that, then that’s on them.”

Tubbo blinked at him, surprised by his sudden fire.

Techno, who had remained sat cross legged on the floor, quietly added, “He’s right, you know?”

Both boys turned towards him. Techno’s expression hadn’t shifted much, but his voice carried a weight that made Tubbo sit up a little straighter. “You learned to survive,” Techno said simply, “Most people don’t. They either keep breaking themselves trying to fit, or they stop trying completely. You figured out a third option. It’s not nothing.”

Tubbo frowned, not quite convinced. “Yeah, but it feels like lying, sometimes. Like I’m just putting on a mask at all times.”

Techno leaned back, arms folded. “Everyone wears masks. Some just get better at choosing them. But you’re not lying when you joke around. That’s still you. It’s just… not all of you.”

Tommy nodded fiercely, picking up where Techno left off. “Exactly! And you don’t have to hide all the rest of you when you’re with us. You don’t have to be a clown here. You can be clever, you can be loud. You can be funny, and you can, for sure, be annoying as hell–”

“Gee, thanks, Tommy,” Tubbo muttered, but there was a ghost of a smile tugging at his lips.

Tommy grinned, “What I’m saying is, you don’t have to just pick one side of you with us. We’ll take all of it. The full Tubbo package, even the annoying bits.”

Tubbo laughed for real this time, short and surprised. He ducked his head, muttering, “You are both such idiots.” But his voice was warmer now and his shoulders looked lighter than they had when he had started. 

For a long moment, none of them said anything more. They just sat there in the golden glow of the lamp, the silence no longer heavy, but safe. A common theme now, one that none of them were used to but loved dearly.

The air outside was crisp, the kind that bit at your nose but still carried just enough warmth from the shopfront lights to keep it from feeling sharp. The three of them spilled out of Tommy’s house like they’d been cooped up inside his room for days instead of hours.

The streets were quiet, save for the occasional car rolling past, headlights sweeping over their shadows. Hallowe’en decorations no longer stubbornly clung to porches and shop windows, they didn’t have to look at half deflated ghosts slumped against fences or that one plastic skeleton with a missing arm. There were, however, a few left over pumpkins laying around. 

“Oi, look at that one,” Tommy pointed at a faded carved pumpkin on someone’s doorstep. “That thing is more mold than pumpkin at this point.”

“Looks like it’s auditioning for the lead of a zombie movie,” Tubbo added.

Techno’s voice, deadpan, slipped in right behind them, “Honestly, that pumpkin still has more life in it than half of the kids at school.”

There was a moment of silence before Tommy and Tubbo burst out laughing so hard that they nearly tripped over the curb in unison.

“You–” Tommy wheezed, clutching his sides, “You can’t just drop that out of nowhere, Techno!”

“I can,” Techno said evenly, his hands shoved into his pockets, “And I did.”

Tubbo doubled over, in tears from laughing so much. “Fucking hell, you’re funnier than you let on.”

The trio wandered further into town, ducking into the corner shop ‘just to look,’ which quickly turned into daring each other to do increasingly stupid things. Tommy tried on a witches hat from the clearance rack and strutted down the aisle. Tubbo nearly knocked over an entire display of Santas trying to copy him.

Techno, watching them with his signature unreadable expression, finally sighed and picked up a rubber spider from a clearance bin. He set it gently on Tommy’s shoulder without a word. 

Tommy caught sight of it in the reflection of a freezer door and screamed loud enough to make the cashiers glare at them. Tubbo collapsed against the shelves, wheezing. Techno didn’t smile, but his eyes had a glint that looked like he’d been planning this whole thing for weeks. 

By the time they had left the shop, each with a packet of crisps they definitely didn’t need, the night had shifted. The confessions from earlier were still there, tucked safe between them, but the weight of them had been lifted.

They walked side by side under the orange of the streetlights, their shadows overlapping and stretching out as one long shape. Tommy glanced at Tubbo and Techno, a grin tugging at his face.

“You know,” he said, his voice low, “We’re a fucking great team. We’re basically like best friends.” 

Tubbo nudged him with his elbow. “Yeah, I think we are.”

Techno didn’t say anything, but he fell a half step closer, and for once, the quiet felt like an agreement rather than distance. It had started happening more often now, and Tommy thought –not for the first time– that maybe they really were.

They found a quiet park bench tucked under a streetlamp, the kind of soft amber light that made everything else fade into the shadows. The night smelled faintly of wet pavement, fallen leaves, and faint traces of last week’s bonfire. For a moment, it felt like the rest of the world didn’t exist. Just them. Their laughter. Their happiness. And the slow thrum of their own breathing.

Tubbo slumped onto the bench with a dramatic sigh, his arms stretched over the backrest. “Alright,” he said, a grin tugging at his face. “Time for secrets, this time. Nothing dark, nothing that’s life or death, just… stupid little confessions. Things that make us human. 

Tommy tilted his head, wary. “You mean like… things like ‘I still sleep with a night light’?”

“Exactly!” Tubbo exclaimed, “Or in my case…” he leaned forward, lowering his voice theatrically. “I once ate an entire advent calendar in a single day. Chocolate, paper, tin foil, the whole thing. Don’t ask me why.”

Tommy burst out laughing, nearly tipping off of the bench. “You are an absolute monster. That’s somehow… impressive, in a terrifying way.”

Tubbo puffed up with mock pride. “Thank you. Thank you. That’s a skill I’ve been honing for years.”

“Your turn,” Tubbo prompted, nudging Tommy. 

Tommy hesitated, his cheeks flushing slightly as he thought of what to say. When he finally spoke, it was quieter and more measured, “Okay… Well, I was deathly afraid of pigeons for most of primary school. Couldn’t go near them. My parents thought it was ridiculous I… I never told anyone, because, you know… perfection and fear don’t exactly mix.”

Tubbo blinked, “Really?”

Tommy shrugged, a little bit embarrassed. “Yeah, and I’d even panic if one came near me. Had to walk around them. Felt like the world was watching and judging me all the time. Like spy pigeons.”

Techno leaned back against the railing of the bench, finally speaking, his tone much softer than his usual gruff voice. “My turn, then,” he paused, glancing at the other two. “I never… really had many friends growing up. My parents, in all their wisdom, thought that walkie talkies were a great gift idea. I was supposed to have a friend to use them with. I didn’t. Not once.”

The bench fell quiet, save for the occasional rustle of leaves. Tommy and Tubbo exchanged a look, then just let the confession settle. 

Tommy's voice broke the silence, soft and genuine. “Well… now you’ve got us. That counts!”

Techno’s lips twitched –almost a smile– but he didn’t acknowledge it outright. Instead, he looked at Tommy, then Tubbo, and for the first time, his posture seemed… lighter, less rigid. The night air carried a quiet warmth, and for a moment, none of them felt the weight of expectations or fear. They were just three kids –three friends– on a park bench, sharing pieces of themselves without judgement.

Tubbo leaned back, smirking. “Okay, okay. One more silly thing each. Then we can go home before someone notices the three of us wandering around like lunatics.”

“I have an irrational fear of rubber ducks,” Tommy confessed, making Tubbo snort.

“I once tried to draw a cat with eight legs,” Tubbo admitted, “Said it was ‘abstract.’”

Techno, finally letting a hint of humour slip, muttered, “I actually alphabetised my socks last week… by colour gradient and material.”

They all laughed –genuine, unforced, lingering laughter– and the sound felt like it belonged to just them. 

Eventually they stood up, brushing imaginary dust from their clothes. Their steps were lighter now as they walked down the quiet streets, joking quietly, nudging one another, teasing over tiny, inconsequential things. The confessions from earlier were tucked safely between them, still heavy with truth, but softened by laughter and real trust. 

At the crossroad where their paths diverged, Tubbo paused, hand raised lazily. “See you both in Room 3B on Tuesday?” 

“Definitely,” Tommy said with no hesitation. 

Techno lingered a moment, his eyes flickering down the street, then back at the group disappearing into the shadows. For the first time, he realised that he was looking forward to tomorrow. Not because it held tests, or grades, or expectations; but because it would hold them, his friends. 

And if they saw Techno stay standing at the crossroads until he could no longer see each boy, neither of them ever brought it up. His quiet caring was enough. 

Chapter Text

The corridor was one of those forgotten stretches of the school. The kind with a row of noticeboards layered over with years of tape residue and curling flyers, all advertising clubs that no one had joined in years. Tubbo knew it well; he had passed it a hundred times, usually with some joke ready about how “the chess club is definitely a front for tax fraud.” Today, though, the drama club noticeboard caught his eye because of the two people standing in front of it.

Purpled and Ranboo. 

Tubbo slowed instinctively, sneakers scuffing against  the floor. Purpled’s shoulders were hunched, hood pulled up like usual, while Ranboo stood tall beside him, tilting his head to read the crookedly stapled flyer. Tubbo didn’t need to get any closer to hear them. The corridor was mostly empty, and their voices carried. 

“‘Desperate for more members,’” Ranboo read aloud, a laugh curling at the edge of his voice. “That’s literally what it says. It’s kind of sad honestly.”

Purpled huffed a short laugh, sharp and low. “Yeah, well, maybe if more people didn’t think theatre kids were lunatics, they’d have better luck.”

Tubbo’s chest tightened. Purpled’s voice still hit him like a sucker punch. The words you make us look dumb still rang around in his head, no matter how many times he’d joked about it, shoved it down, laughed it off. He could still remember going home and deciding to hide behind jokes, that way everyone would like him. He could remember his too loud laugh echoing down the hallway that day, the way Purpled hadn’t smiled back. The silence that had followed. The way Tubbo had turned too fast, desperate to get away before anyone saw his throat tighten. 

His first instinct now was the same. Walk faster, don’t look back, pretend he hadn’t seen them. Keep the joke plastered on his face until he was around the corner. 

But then Ranboo’s voice floated back to him, lighter this time. “Still… it could be fun. They’re doing that mini play thing, right? And, uh, they basically just need… watm bodies.”

Tubbo’s face betrayed him, slowing to a stop right there in the middle of the hallway. Warm bodies. Desperate. Fun. 

He wanted to scoff, to toss a throwaway joke over his shoulder and move on. But something in his chest twisted. That flicker of wanting, stupid and small, the same flicker that had made him join debate club for a month or science club for two weeks, or to try to stand with Purpled’s group of friends at lunch before the words had come tumbling out all wrong.

His mouth moved before his brain caught up. “So, uh, you guys finally decided to become theatre kids, huh?”

Both Purpled and Ranboo snapped their heads around, their conversation cut short.

For half a second, Tubbo regretted everything. Purpled’s eyes narrowed, the faintest crease of irritation crossing his face, and Tubbo braced for it the brush off, the look, the reminder that he’d already messed this up once again. His grin wavered, but he forced it wider anyway, leaning on his usual armour of bravado.

Then Ranboo laughed. A real laugh, not the polite kind, low and warm in his chest. “Theatre kids? Us? Please. I can barely walk in a straight line without tripping. Acting would be a disaster.”

Tubbo blinked, shoulders loosening by a fraction. 

Purpled rolled his eyes, muttering, “Says the guy who’s six foot five. You could just stand there and they’d cast you as a tree or… or a street lamp!”

“I’d be the tallest tree in the forest,” Ranboo said solemnly, before cracking a grin.

Tubbo snorted. He wasn’t being shut out. They weren’t shutting him out. His heartbeat picked up, thumping faster than he wanted to admit. 

He shoved his hands in his pockets, rocking back in his heels. “Well, I mean, if you’re looking for a real star…” he thumbled towards himself with both hands, smirking. “You’re looking at the next Oliver Twist. Natural born talent. The stage was made for me.”

Ranboo laughed again, shaking his head. Purpled sighed, but the sound wasn’t sharp. It was more like a tired same of Tubbo noise, one that didn’t sting the way Tubbo thought it would. He leaned a little closer to the board, scanning the faded flyer. Weekly rehearsals. Short play in December. No experience required. The words looked almost embarrassed of themselves, tucked into the corner of the board like they didn’t want to be seen. 

Purpled muttered, “Club probably won’t even last the semester.”

“Maybe,” Tubbo said, still staring at the flyer. His grin faltered, just a little, then reappeared. “Or maybe it just needs me.”

Ranboo elbowed Purpled gently, grinning. “Guess that’s one more member, then.” 

Purpled didn’t answer right away. He just looked at Tubbo, unreadable, then back at the flyer. “...Fine. If you actually show up, I’ll go too.”

Tubbo swallowed hard, but his smirk stayed in place. “Wouldn’t miss it.”

He walked away before they could see the way his hands shook a little in his pockets, the adrenaline buzzing in his veins. He told himself it was no big deal. Just a stupid drama club. Just a stupid flyer. Just Purpled and Ranboo not pushing him away. 

But the words followed him down the hall, soft and insistent. If you actually show up .

And for the first time in a while –excluding room 3B– Tubbo thought that maybe he would.

The drama room wasn’t much of a theatre. It was a converted classroom with a scuffed wooden floor and a box of costumes that looked like they had been stolen from a jumble sale twenty years ago. One wall had a half broken mirror, the kind where your reflection was warped at the edges. The fluorescent light hummed overhead. Still, there was a faint smell of paint and dust that gave the room a certain stage like weight.

Tubbo stood in the doorway, hands shoved into his pockets, chewing at the inside of his cheek. He half expected to walk in and see Purpled already rolling his eyes, waiting to make some cutting remark about him barging in where he wasn’t wanted.

Instead, Ranboo spotted him first. “Tubbo!” he said, grinning that easy grin of his. “You came!”

Tubbo shrugged like it was no big deal, rocking back on his heels. “Yeah, well… Figured someone has to save this club from total collapse, right?”

That got a laugh from a couple of the scattered kids in the room. Not big, but enough to take the edge off the heat crawling up his neck. 

Purpled was leaning against the wall, arms crossed. His eyes flicked to Tubbo, then away again. No smile, no scowl. Just… neutral. Tubbo told himself that was progress. 

“C’mon,” Ranboo said, beckoning him over and introducing Tubbo to the others. Three grade 12s and a girl who looked like she would rather be anywhere else. Tubbo gave them all a lopsided grin, cracked a dumb joke about being the club’s ‘new headlining act,’ and got a polite chuckle or two in return. 

Then warm ups started. The teacher –Ms. Michael, who had the perpetually frazzled air of someone who had once had big dreams and now taught drama in a crumbling school– led them through breathing exercises and tongue twisters. Tubbo joined in half heartedly at first, then leaned all the way into the silliness.

“Red leather, yellow leather,” the group chanted.

“Red leather, yellow– purple leather, disco pants!” Tubbo blurted out.

The Grade 12s snorted. Even Ranboo cracked up, wheezing. Purpled pressed a hand to his face, muttering something under his breath.

Tubbo grinned, soaking it in. This was familiar ground. Joke first, laugh it off, don’t let anyone see you sweat. But then came the reading.

Ms. Michael handed out photocopied pages of a short play. “Right, let’s hear this scene. Ranboo, you take Character A. And… Tubbo, you have Character B. Give it a go.”

Tubbo blinked down at the sheet. His instinct was to joke his way out of it. Maybe a big, silly voice, overplay it until everyone laughed. But Ranboo started first, reading with surprising earnestness and something about that steady voice made Tubbo pause.

His line came up. He opened his mouth, and, to his own surprise, he didn’t joke. 

Instead, he read it straight. Tentative at first, then firmer. He leaned into the words, felt them roll off his tongue in a way that was almost real. He didn’t stumble over his words once. The room went quieter than he expected. Even the Grade 12s stopped fidgeting.

For a moment, Tubbo wasn’t Tubbo the clown, Tubbo the one always talking too fast, too loud. He was just… the character.

When he finished his line, there was a beat of silence.

Then Ms. Michael clapped lightly. “Good. That's good, Tubbo. Let’s try that again, you two, with a little more breath behind it.”

Tubbo felt the heat crawl up his face, but not from embarrassment this time. It was something different, something that he hadn’t felt in ages. Like maybe there was a part of him that people hadn’t already decided on. 

He glanced sideways, instinctively expecting Purpled’s smirk. But Purpled wasn’t smirking. He wasn’t rolling his eyes. He was watching. Thoughtful. 

Tubbo’s chest tightened in a way that made no sense at all. 

He forced a grin, leaning back in his chair. “Guess I really am a natural,” he said lightly, but his voice cracked just a little. 

And for once, no one laughed at him. They just nodded, ready for him to read again.

Rehearsal wrapped in a blur of voices and rustling scripts. Ms. Michael, all scarves and enthusiasm, declared it a ‘promising start’ and shooed the group out with talk of ‘bigger things to come.’ Chairs scraped, laughter bubbled from clusters of students, and Tubbo found himself lingering by the door, not quite ready to leave.

He had expected Purpled to avoid him for the whole session, but aside from a few glances, there hadn’t been much. That was almost worse, the silence between them. It felt like unfinished business, something buzzing just under the surface. 

Ranboo, towering awkwardly in the middle of the room, slung his backpack over one shoulder. “Snack break before I actually collapse?” he asked no one in particular. 

“Yes, please,” Tubbo said quickly, grabbing onto the excuse. He trailed alongside him, pretending that he didn’t notice Purpled following a few steps behind. 

The hallway was quieter than the theatre room had been, lockers stretching down like endless rows of metal teeth. The fluorescent lights hummed. The vending machine at the end of the hall looked half broken, its keypad sticky from years of abuse, but it was working enough for Ranboo to dig out coins and feed them in.

Ranboo crouched, pressing his face to the glass while he typed in a number. “Every single time I get on stage, I swear I’m about to pass out. I can feel the blood rushing in my ears. My knees just–” he bent dramatically, wobbling as if he was about to fold in half. “Forget how to use my knees.”

Tubbo snorted, leaning against the wall. “Stage fright, huh? Couldn’t be me. At least you weren’t the nerd who got laughed at for trying.”

It slipped out sharper than he intended. The words hung in the air, heavy with too much truth. His chest tightened. He hadn’t meant to sound bitter, but there it was. 

Ranboo blinked, looking up. He didn’t laugh. He just frowned, thoughtful. “That’s… rough,” he said carefully. “Kids can be–”

Purpled’s voice cut in, flat but quieter than Tubbo expected, “At least on stage, no one laughs at you unless you want them to.”

Tubbo jerked his head towards him. The vending machine thunked as Ranboo’s crisps fell into the tray, but Tubbo barely noticed. Purpled stood stiff, his hands jammed into his hoodie pocket, eyes fixed firmly on the floor like the words had slipped past his very own filter.

For a moment, no one spoke. Tubbo’s brain scrambled, trying to make sense of it. Was that supposed to be comforting? A jab? Some half apology? It wasn’t sharp, though. Not like before.

Tubbo let out a little breath, something between a laugh and a scoff. “Huh. didn’t know you had motivational speeches in you.”

Purpled’s lips twitched, not quite a smirk, but close. “Don’t get used to it, Tubbo.”

Ranboo grinned as he passed Tubbo a packet of crisps. “He’s right, though. That’s kind of the point, isn’t it? Theatre is like… this weird zone where you get to choose who people see. Like controlled chaos.”

“That’s just how I treat life,” Tubbo ripped the packet open and shrugged. “Or, you know, a school sanctioned excuse to be dramatic without detention.” 

That got a laugh out of Ranboo. Loud and slightly snorty. Purpled didn’t laugh, but when Tubbo glanced at him, he wasn’t scowling either. He was just… watching. Thoughtful. 

Tubbo shoved a crisp in his mouth before he said something stupid. But the thought clung to him anyway. Maybe this wasn’t just a club. Maybe here, for once, he didn’t have to be the class clown to survive. 

They started walking again, crumbs falling between them, and Tubbo couldn’t stop himself from grinning. He wasn’t fixed, not by a long shot. But it was something. A bridge, maybe. It was definitely more than he’d had yesterday. 

The weeks blurred into a rhythm of dusty curtains, taped down scripts, and Ms. Michael’s endless class of ‘Again, but with feeling this time!’ The old theatre room smelled faintly of paint, wood polish, and stale popcorn, but for Tubbo, it was alive in a way classrooms never had been. 

Tubbo quickly discovered that theatre wouldn’t let him coast on charm alone. Far from it.

“Line?” he said for the fifth time in two pages, voice echoing off the high ceiling. 

Purpled groaned, running a hand down his face. “You literally just asked that.”

“I got distracted!” Tubbo waved his script in defense, to hide the fact that he still struggled with reading. “Ranboo’s hair looks like an actual halo in this light. I– how am I supposed to focus in these conditions?”

Ranboo choked on his water bottle. “A– what?!”

Even Purpled snorted despite himself, the corner of his mouth twitching in a way that Tubbo hadn’t seen in weeks. The laughter broke the tension, and for the first time, Tubbo didn’t feel like the odd one out. 

Later, when he tripped over a chair mid scene, sending a prop cup flying across the room, he expected the usual sharp remarks, maybe even an eye roll from Purpled. Instead, Ranboo ducked to catch it. “See? Nothing exploded. Crisis averted.”

Tubbo blinked, a laugh escaping him despite the humiliation. “Thanks,” he muttered. The relief in his chest was almost dizzying.

Painting the backdrop was another adventure. Tubbo tried to follow the instructions of blue paint across half the floor. “Modern art!” he announced, holding the dripping brush like a trophy. 

Ms. Michael groaned. Ranboo chuckled. Purpled sighed, grabbed a rag, and helped clean. No scolding. No alienation. Just a mess shared between them. And for once, Tubbo didn’t geel like the one everyone else had to tolerate.

The trio spent long moments running lines together, Tubbo stumbled over words, forgetting cues, and laughing at himself. Each time, Purpled prompted him softly, no sarcasm, just patience. Each time, Ranboo offered a gentle correction and an encouraging grin. And Tubbo noticed the shift. The way that they looked at him had changed. He wasn’t the class clown here, he wasn’t the try hard. He was just Tubbo, fumbling and human and part of the team. Just like in room 3B.

One evening, as they waited for their rides home, Tubbo leaned against the wall, script limp in his hand. Purpled was quietly flipping through his own lines, mouthing the words under his breath. Ranboo was sitting cross legged, humming a melody to remember a cue. Tubbo finally felt like he belonged somewhere, that messing up didn’t mean losing everything.

He laughed softly to himself, remembering how often he’d felt like a joke outside his own control. Here, joke outside his own control. Here, mistakes were a part of the process, part of the fun, part of being alive in the theatre. 

Maybe he didn’t always have to be the class clown. Maybe Tommy and Techno weren’t his only safe haven. Maybe he could just… be.

He exhaled, letting the warmth settle into his chest, a quiet promise to himself. That he could try, he could fail, and he could still be enough.

The gym smelled faintly of dust, sweat, and old wood, with fluorescent lights buzzing overhead. Folding chairs filled the floor, parents craning their necks for a better view, and somewhere in the back, a forgotten prop squealed under someone’s foot. Backstage, Tubbo tugged at the hem of his costume, stomach twisting into knots. His heart hammered so hard that he was sure the audience could already hear him.

“Deep breaths,” Ranboo whispered, crouching beside him. “You’ve got this. Just… remember your lines and stay in character.”

Tubbo nodded, forcing a shaky smile. He peeked at Purpled, who was standing a few feet away, adjusting a piece of scenery with his usual calm precision purpled gave him a brief nod. No smirk, no teasing, just quiet acknowledgement. That alone steadied Tubbo more than he expected.

The stage manager called, “Places!”

Tubbo’s knees wobbled, but he took a deep breath and stepped into the light. For the first moment, he froze –painc rising– before the first line left his mouth. His voice quivered slightly, then steadied, fueled by all the emotions he usually buried deep beneath his jokes. Frustration, fear, longing, and the faint thrill of being truly seen.

From the side of the stage, Tommy and Techno leaned against the wall, trying to look casual but failing spectacularly. Tommy fidgeted with his hands, biting his lip every time Tubbo delivered a line. Techno’s face was calm, but his eyes never left Tubbo, tracking him like a hawk, watching for the slightest stumble. In case he needed protection and defence neither of them laughed or whispered jokes. They were there to support him, pure and simple. That presence, solid and unwavering, gave Tubbo even more courage than any rehearsal ever had.

Ranboo was beside him, delivering his own lines with effortless timing, throwing glances that were reassuring rather than teasing. Purpled hit his cues perfectly too, his presence calm and solid. Even when a prop tipped too soon or a whispered cue was lost in the buzz of the lights, they adapted together, flowing around each other like water for the first time, Tubbo really felt the power of collaboration, of a group that had his back no matter what.

Phil stood quietly at the back of the room, a subtle smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. He didn’t clap or cheer prematurely. He simply watched, pride radiating from him. Tubbo knew, in that instant –he really knew now– that Phil understood. Not just the lines, not just the performance, but the courage it took him to show this other side of himself for the first time. 

As the play progressed, Tubbo noticed the small things. Ranboo’s exaggerated sighs punctuating tension. Purpled’s subtle eyebrow raises. The way the audience shifted on their chairs in silent engagement. Every laugh, gasp, and quiet murmur from the crowd only served to feed his confidence. He didn’t need to make anyone laugh. He just needed to be present, and that was enough.

The final scene approached, and Tubbo’s chest tightened, adrenaline mingling with a rare sense of pride. When the curtain fell, the applause erupted, louder and warmer than any laugh at his stupid joke answers, or any perfect perfect grade. He spotted Tommy clapping furiously, his cheeks flushed and eyes shining. Techno gave a small, approving nod when he caught Tubbo's eyes, while clapping softly. The nod was barely noticeable, but it hit harder than any verbal praise ever could. Phil’s smile from the back made Tubbo’s throat tighten. Real recognition, real acceptance. 

Afterwards, in the quiet chaos backstage, Ranboo slapped him on the shoulder, grinning. “You did great, Tubbo!”

Purpled muttered, “Not bad, clown,” and this time it wasn’t teasing, it was genuine.

Tubbo laughed, relief flooding through him. For once, he didn’t have to choose between being funny and being himself. He could be both. 

Chapter Text

The snow had been falling since before dawn, steady and relentless, until the whole town seemed muffled beneath it. By the time the school announced the closure, the streets were already buried in white. Windows glowed dimly behind frosted glass, and the few cars attempting the roads crawled past in silence. The only real sound was the crunch of boots as Techno, Tommy, and Tubbo trampled their way up the hill to Techno’s house, their breaths clouding the air like smoke.

Techno’s place loomed out of the snow as if it had been abandoned to winter. It was big but stark, its windows dark, the driveway untouched by tire tracks. When Techno pushed open the door, a faint draft of heat spilled out, carrying that familiar stillness of a house left too long on its own.

Inside, it was warmer but no less silent. The kind of silence that wasn’t peaceful so much as waiting. Like the house had been holding its breath. No voices from upstairs. No clutter on the counter. Just the faint hum of the heating and the sound of three sets of boots stomping snow from their soles. 

“It’s bloody freezing,” Tommy declared, peeling off his gloves with his teeth before flinging them onto the radiator. He shook out his hair like a wet dog, sending flecks of melted snow across the hallway. Tubbo yelped in protest, dodging, which only set both of them off laughing. Their voices ricocheted against the bare walls and high ceiling, filling the hollow space with noise it clearly wasn’t used to. 

It was strange, Techno thought, how quickly the place shifted. Most days, the emptiness pressed in on him. The long evenings alone, the cavernous quiet that never seemed to soften. But with them here, with Tommy’s complaints echoing down the hall, the silence seemed to retreat. The house didn’t feel so big. It didn’t feel so empty.

Tommy kicked off his books and slumped against the wall with a dramatic sigh, his cheeks still flushed from the cold. “This place,” he said, spreading his arms wide as though he owned it, “is like a safe house from schoolwork. No teachers, no essays, no anything! Just us as the snow.”

Techno dropped his own coat onto the hook by the door. Normally, he would have deflected, called Tommy overdramatic or told him to shut up. But instead he found himself agreeing. The corners of his mouth twitched upwards, and for once he didn’t fight it.

“Yeah,” he said simply, “Something like that.”

The words hung there, warmer than the heating system humming through the vents. Tommy blinked, caught off guard by the smile, before grinning back as if he’d won something. Tubbo didn’t fight it.

For a moment, the three of them just stood there. Their coats dripping onto the mat, boots in a messy pile, and breath still catching from the cold. Outside, the snow storm raged on, the world beyond their little bubble blurred and muted by the snow. Inside, though, the house was no longer waiting. It had them now –their laughter, their warmth, their belonging– and that was more than enough.

The kitchen was the kind of spotless that felt unfriendly. Every surface gleamed, cupboards lined up with military precision, and the faint hum of the refrigerator was the only sound. The air smelled faintly sterile, like nothing had been cooked here in weeks. 

Tommy stepped in first and froze mid stride. His face twisted in exaggerated horror. “This,” he declared, waving his arms around like he was pointing at a crime scene, “is absolutely unacceptable. A kitchen without a cake? Without biscuits? Without… a soul?”

Tubbo ducked under his arm and leaned dramatically against the counter. “Ah yes, the great tragedy of the modern age. Perfectly clean kitchens and no snacks. A moment of silence, please.”

Tommy ignored him, his eyes already sparkling with an idea. “Right, new plan. We’re baking. Snow day rules apply.” He clapped his hands like a drill sergeant. “Aprons on, men– oh, wait, Techno you don’t own any, do you? Right then, sleeves rolled. Tubbo, recipe book. Techno, mixing bowl and various utensils. Let’s move, people!”

Tubbo raised his eyebrows at Techno. “Fucker wouldn’t even appreciate my moment of silence.”

“Did you think he would?” Techno asked flatly, but he was already moving to fetch the mixing bowl.

Tubbo, undeterred, snatched an old recipe book off of the shelf. The spine cracked as he flipped it open, dust puffing into their air. Clearing his throat, he put on his most pompous announcer voice. “Today on The Great Snow Day Bake OFF, our contestant is a scrappy underdog from the wild streets of L’Manburg – Tommy Danger Innes! Known for his lack of patience, his probable tendency to spill ingredients, and his relentless ego, he hopes to wow the judges with his sheer chaos.”

“Oi, shut up man!” Tommy barked, though the grin splitting his face betrayed him immediately. He had already started rooting through cupboards, stacking butter, sugar, flour, and eggs on the counter like a dragon hoarding his treasure.

The contrast was stark. Techno’s usually empty kitchen suddenly cluttered with ingredients, Tubbo’s running commentary bouncing off the walls, Tommy whirling around like an organised tornado. It was ridiculous. It was messy. It was alive.

Techno measured out flour with neat, practiced movements, trying to steady the storm. But Tommy hovered over him, buzzing with restless energy, “More enthusiasm, Techno! Put some flair into it!”

“I’m not juggling eggs,” Techno said dryly. 

“You’d probably drop them anymore,” Tubbo muttered from behind the recipe book,

Tommy gasped, clutching his chest. “You’re meant to be on my side! Oh, the betrayal!”

“On your side of what? You don’t even know what you’re doing,” Tubbo replied, his voice smug as he read, “Step one: preheat the oven. Did you do that yet, Chef Boy Wonder?”

“...I was getting to that!” Tommy snapped, lunging for the oven dial.

Flour dusted into the air as Techno shifted the bag, a puff landing squarely on his dark hoodie. Tommy noticed instantly, a mischievous grin spreading across his face.

“You look like a ghost,” he snorted, “Casper-no, the Friend Snow Ghost!”

Techno’s brows lifted, and before he could think better of it, he dipped two fingers into the baf and swiped flour straight across Tommy’s cheek.

Tommy froze. His mouth dropped in outrage, his eyes wide. “Did you just–”

“Yes,” Techno said simply.

The scream that followed could have shaken the ceiling tiles. Tubbo doubled over on the counter, choking on his own laughter. “Oh my god, Techno! You are a complete and absolute legend!”

Then it happened. Techno laughed. Not his normal sharp huff or the quiet, hidden chuckle that they were used to, but a real, full laugh. It burst out of him, unguarded and startling, filling the room with a warmth that Tommy and Tubbo weren’t expecting. 

Tommy stared like he’d just seen a rare animal. Tubbo caught his eye and, without a word, they shared a look. Did you hear that? Did you see that? I’m not dreaming, right?

But Tommy wasn’t about to let it go. He lunged for the flour bag with a wild determination. “Right. That's it. The flour war begins now.”

Tubbo scrambled back, holding the recipe book like a shield. “Don’t you dare– Tommy, I swear– don’t you–!”

Too late. A handful of flour sailed through the air, dusting Tubbo’s jumper and making him cough. “You maniac!”

Techno tried to wrestle the bag from Tommy, but it only made the chaos worse. Clouds of flour erupted like smoke, coating the counters, the floor, and them. Tommy cackled as Tubbo retaliated with a fistful of sugar. Techno’s hair caught the worst of it, streaks of white settling like early frost.

“Look at him!” Tommy howled, pointing at Techno, doubled over laughing. “He’s blending in with the bloody snow outside!”

“You’re one to talk,” Tubbo shot back, grinning through the flour on his own face.

For a moment, everything else –school, parents, pressure– fell away. There was only the warmth of the kitchen, the snow storm howling unheard beyond the walls, and the sound of three boys laughing until their ribs hurt.

By the time they finally collapsed against the counters, the kitchen looked like a bakery explosion. Flour footprints trailed across the tiles, eggshells scattered near the sink, sugar granules sparkling faintly in the light. 

Tubbo wiped at his sleeve, still laughing. “We’re definitely not going to win any baking awards.

“Doesn’t matter,” Tommy said, beaming as he swiped flour off of his cheek, “We’re having fun. That’s the bloody point.”

Techno didn’t argue. He didn’t even try. Instead, he let the smile linger, unhidden, while his chest still shook from the laugh he hadn’t managed to bury.

And just like that, the kitchen no longer smelled empty. It smelled like sugar and warmth, like something had shifted. Like the house had finally remembered what it meant to be lived in.

By the time the oven door clicked shut, the kitchen looked like the aftermath of a blizzard. Flour dusted the counters like snow drifts, sugar faintly under their socks, and the faint smell of sweet batter –they used way too much vanilla extract– already began to creep through the air. Tommy still had a pale streak of flour plastered across his cheek, though he wore it like it was a badge of honour.

Tubbo poked around in the cupboards until he unearthed a half forgotten tin of hot chocolate mix. “Aha! Score,” he said, brandishing it like a treasure, “Behold, the true nectar of snow days!”

It took a bit of improvisation –mismatched mugs, a whisk that looked like it hadn’t been used in years, and the slightly clumpy powder– but eventually the three of them sat around the table with their hands curled around steaming cups of hot chocolate. The room was even warmer now, the oven humming steadily, their laughter spent but still hanging faintly in the air.

For a while, they said nothing at all. The snow pressed against the windows, wind rattled faintly at the frames, and the kitchen filled with small sounds again. The tick of the oven, the crack of cooling wood in the walls, Tommy slurping his hot chocolate too fast and swearing when he scalded his tongue. 

It was Techno who broke the silence this time. “I used to do this with my mom,” he said suddenly, his voice low, almost casual.

Both Tommy and Tubbo glanced at him., Techno stared into his mug, running his thumb along the chipped rim, as if he could trace the memory out of the ceramic.

“She used to bake all the time when she was actually home,” he went on. “Cookies, scones, sometimes bread. She’d let me stir the mixes, even when I spilled half the flour on the counter. Said the mess didn’t matter, that it was more fun that way.”

He shrugged, the motion sharp but his voice was softer. “That was… a long time ago, though.”

The weight of it settled between them. Not heavy, not crushing, but just enough to remind them that silence could mean more than emptiness.

Tommy leaned forward, putting his elbows on the table, his mug cradled between his palms. His voice was a little too loud when he answered, as if to push back against the hush. “I bake sometimes too. Not like, with anyone. Just me. When I’m stressed out or whatever.”

He shifted in his chair, fiddling with the handle. “Feels like… you’re making something good out of nothing, right? Even if everything else is a mess, at least you’ve got this one thing you made. Doesn’t matter if it looks crap, as long as it tastes good… then everything else is ok.”

Tubbo smirked, slouching back so far that he nearly tipped his chair over. “Well aren’t you two just the picture of domestic goddesses.”

Tommy groaned and lightly kicked his shin under the table. Tubbo yelped but didn’t retaliate, just grinned even wider. “What! It’s true, is it not? Both of you are getting all sentimental over flour and eggs.”

But then his grin softened. He tipped his chair back onto all fours and said, more gently this time, “I get it, though. I like watching ovens. You put all this random stuff together –that shouldn’t go together– and then you just… wait. And then, somehow, it turns into something real. It kind of feels like waiting for magic.”

The three of them fell quiet again. Not an awkward quiet, just… full. Tommy reached across the table without a word and stole a marshmallow from Tubbo’s mug, ignoring his squawk of protest. Techno, without looking up, pushed the forgotten biscuit tin from the counter towards the middle of the table. Tommy took one, then slid it towards Tubbo, who took one too before nudging the tin back closer to Techno, like it was an unspoken pact. 

Tubbo, halfway through biting his biscuit, leaned sideways until his shoulder knocked gently against Tommy’s. Tommy elbowed him in return, but not hard enough to mean anything. The oven ticked. Their mugs steamed. The kitchen smelled of cocoa, sugar and something more fragile. Belonging.

Outside, the storm continued to howl. But inside, the house no longer felt empty. It was warm, lit up by the glow of three boys who had, somehow, been thrown together and found a kind of safety that they had never thought possible.

The kitchen had settled back into a hush, the kind that came after laughter had burned itself out. The over continued to tick softly, filling the silence with its steady hum, and the storm outside was growing wilder. Snow slapped against the windows in gusts, blurring the view into a curtain of white. Inside, the warmth wrapped around them, but there was something new in the air now too. Something a bit heavier. Waiting. 

Techno set his mug down, the click small but sharp in the stillness. His fingers tapped against the handle for a moment before he stilled them. “I don’t actually mind snow days,” he said finally. His voice was even, but somehow quieter than before.

Tommy leaned back in his chair, tilting his head. “Because you get to skip maths?” he asked, forcing a grin. 

Techno shook his head. “Because it means I don’t have to guess if my parents expect anything of me or not. No practice, no reports, no… checking in.” His lips pressed into a thin line, but his shoulders were looser, like he wasn’t bracing for judgement. “They’re too busy now. Always. And when it snows like this, it’s like the world just… shuts down. And for once, I’m not worrying if they avoid me. All my thoughts, shut down alongside the world.”

Tubbo’s smile falters. Tommy shifted in his seat, his grin slipping too. He fiddled with the biscuit tin, spinning it in small circles on the table. “That’s…” he paused, frowning at his own words before blurting, “That’s kind of sad, man.”

Techno glanced at him, then huffed something close to a laugh, “Yeah, it is. But it’s quiet. I like quiet.”

The storm pressed against the house, a soft roar sounded as the wind picked up again. Tommy looked down at the crumbs scattered in front of him. Then, as if the silence was daring him, he spoke. Too fast. Too loud.

“I’m scared I’ll end up like my brother.”

Both Tubbo and Techno turned their heads at once. Tommy hunched his shoulders, as if bracing for impact. “He used to be –like– top of everything. He still is. School, sports, all of it. He worked so hard, and now he’s just burnt out. He’s angry. Tired all the time. He doesn’t laugh anymore. My parents don’t notice, I don’t think they care unless it affects how great he is, and now… how great I am.” His throat bobbed as he swallowed. “And I–” his voice cracked. He pushed through anyway. “I don’t want to turn into him. I don’t want to end up hating everything I used to like. Not anymore than I do already.”

For a second,  no one spoke. Then Tubbo reached across the table and nudged his knuckles lightly against Tommy’s. “You won’t,” he said, quiet but firm. Certain. 

“You don’t know that,” Tommy muttered. His voice was thick, his eyes glued to the crumbs.

“Yeah, I do,” Tubbo said, and nudged him again, harder this time until Tommy glanced up, “Because you’ve got us. And we won’t let you. We won’t let that happen.”

Techno didn’t add anything at first, but his gaze lingered on Tommy, steady. “Tubbo’s right,” he said finally, “You won’t.”

Tommy sniffled, then wiped at his nose with the back of his sleeve in a way that tried to look casual. “You are both soppy as hell, you know that?”

Tubbo grinned crookedly. “It takes one to know one.”

The grin faded into something smaller, softer. He shifted, tugging at his sleeve before saying, “I’m scared of being left behind.” His voice was so low that it nearly drowned under the storm outside. “Like you two are always… quicker. Sharper. Running ahead while I’m just… trailing after. And one day, you won’t wait for me. Like everyone else.”

Tommy frowned, sitting up straighter. “Tubbo, that’s absolute bullshit.”

Tubbo’s eyes flicked up. “Is it, though?”

“Yeah,” Tommy said, with the same stubbornness he usually reserved for arguments, “You’re not slower. You’re just you. And we are not going anywhere without you.”

“Seconded,” Techno murmured.

Tubbo gave a small, uncertain laugh. “You guys don’t get it.”

Tommy kicked him lightly under the table, not hard enough to hurt. “No, you don’t get it. We’re stuck with each other now. You couldn’t shake me off if you tried. Ever since Phil kidnapped us three, we had no choice in the matter. We’re like a little family.”

Tubbo snorted, leaning back, but the tension in his shoulders eased. Techno, almost without thinking, pushed the biscuit tin back towards the middle again, a silent offering. Tubbo took another, breaking it in half and tossing a piece at Tommy, who caught it and grinned. 

The oven timer dinged, startling all three of them from the quiet that had settled. Tommy leapt up like he’d been waiting for a battle cry, yanking the over door open with a flourish. A wave of heat rolled into the kitchen, along with the sweet, slightly overdone smell of cake.

“Behold!” Tommy cried, dramatically shielding his face from the steam. “The fruits of our labour!”

Tubbo peered over his shoulder and burst out laughing. “It’s lopsided. And burnt on one side. And– oh my good god, is that a crack running through the middle?”

Tommy swatted him away with an oven mitt. “That’s called rustic charm, Tubbo. Clearly you wouldn’t know real baking genius if it smacked you right in the face.”

Techno, leaning against the counter, arched an eyebrow. “Generally, genius usually involves remembering the oven temperature.”

Tommy spun around on his heels, waving the oven mitt like a sword. “Traitor! Absolute traitor! First the flour attack, and now this?” But even he was laughing, his shoulders shaking as he set the tins down on the table.

The cake was undeniably rough around the edges. A little too brown, a lot uneven, with bits of batter crusted along the rim. But once they hacked into it with knives and forks, the crumb was soft and the taste was sweet.

“Ok, not bad,” Tubbo admitted through a mouthful, “Actually… really good.”

“Obviously. I am a god,” Tommy said smugly, though his grin was too wide to hide his relief.

They passed slices back and forth, sharing bites of each other’s plates, laughing whenever a crumb fell onto the floor, joining the battlefield of flour. For a while, it was just that. The warm sweetness of cake, the sound of chewing and laughing and half hearted bickering.

Then, between bites, Techno said it. No hesitation, no second thought. Just, “You guys can always come here.”

The words slipped out so naturally that for a moment, none of them reacted. Then the weight of it settled.

Tommy looked up first, blinking. Tubbo paused mid bite, fork hovering in the air. Techno kept his eyes on his plate, but the faintest flush touched his ears.

It was more than an invitation. More than a casual throwaway. The house, usually silent and hollow, had shifted tonight. It wasn’t just empty walls anymore. It was safe. Because it was theirs, together.

Tommy broke the silence with a crooked grin. “Careful, big guy. We’ll hold you to that.”

“Yeah,” Tubbo added, softer but certain, “We will.”

They didn’t push it further. They didn’t need to.

Outside, the snow kept falling, piling higher, sealing the world away. Inside, there was warmth, of the fire, of cake, of friendship that felt like it had carved out a safe place where there hadn’t been one before.

And for the first time in a long time, the silence of Techno’s house didn’t feel empty at all.

Chapter Text

The library was quieter than usual, the kind of silence that almost felt fragile. Sunlight slanted through the tall, dusty windows, cutting golden lines across the worn carpet. Techno had claimed his usual spot. A corner table, by the back wall, far from the main stacks, away from the chatter of other students drifting in and out. Here, he could breathe in his own rhythm, flipping through assignments, scribbling notes, pretending the world outside didn’t exist.

He wandered past a bulletin board on the way back from the reference shelves and froze. A slip of colour, taped crookedly at the corner, caught his eye.

“Youth Writing Fellowship – Voices That Need to be Heard”

The letters were bold, confident, daring. Techno’s chest tightened.

He laughed quietly under his breath, shaking his head. Voices that need to be heard. Yeah, right. No one noticed him in real life. At home, his parents barely registered when he came or went. The only sound they heard was the faint tapping of keys from the office or the distant drone of phone calls. If they weren’t ignoring him entirely, they were too busy to care.

He leaned closer, reading the details. Submissions open to writers aged fourteen to eighteen, raw, honest work encouraged, any genre. The words pricked at him, like someone had thrown a spotlight on a corner he’d tried so hard to keep in shadow.

He muttered under his breath, the sound barely more than a hiss: “Not for someone like me.”

And yet. His hands itched, his fingers flexing as though they wanted to touch the poster, tear it down, claim it. His mind immediately wandered to the notebooks under his bed, piled like hidden treasures. They were thick with stories, sketches of ideas, snippets of poetry, dialogue that he’d written and reread a hundred times but never dared to show anyone. Stories where he could say what he truly felt without anyone looking over his shoulder or dismissing it.

A part of him wanted to tear out a page, fold it carefully, and post it like a message in a bottle. But another, stronger part –the pragmatic, cautious one– whispered that no one would care. That even if he sent it, it would just vanish into a pile of other applications, or worse, be read and ignored.

A laugh shattered the bubble of thought. Tommy and Tubbo barged past, arguing loudly about crisps –the salt and vinegar versus ready salted debate– their arms flailing, voices bouncing against the high ceilings. 

“Salt and vinegar is for psychopaths, Tubbo! Are you a psychopath?” Tommy’s proclamation echoed.

Tubbo snorted, nearly tripping over a chair. “Says the guy who eats nothing but instant noodles!”

Techno almost smirked, almost let himself be pulled back into their orbit. The smell of warm library air mixed with the faint, nostalgic scent of old books. His lips twitched. He wanted to roll his eyes, to mutter something sarcastic, to snap at them like he sometimes did.

But he didn’t. His gaze slid back to the poster. Voices that need to be heard. He read it again, slowly, as if the words themselves were a kind of dare.

He traced the edge of the paper with his finger, imagining slipping one of his notebooks into an envelope, sealing it, sending it off into the unknown. The thought made his chest pound, his fingers fidget. Excitement, fear, and something else –hope, tiny and stubborn– all twisted together.

Techno didn’t tear the flyer down. He didn’t grab it. He just left it there, crooked and fluttering slightly in the draft, letting the possibility linger.

And for the first time in a long time, he felt like maybe –just maybe– there was a place where his voice could actually be heard.

The living room hummed with low, indifferent noise. The TV murmured a sitcom in the background, laughter canned and disconnected, echoing hollowly against the walls. In the office, his father’s keyboard clacked relentlessly, punctuated by sighs or muttered business calls. Occasionally, his mother drifted through the hallway, carrying a cup of tea, glancing at Techno as though checking a calendar rather than noticing a person. The house was alive, but it was hollow, like a stage set missing its audience. No one asked how his day went. No one noticed that he existed beyond the quiet corners of their routines.

Techno sat at his desk, his back rigid, fingers hovering over his notebook. The page stared back at him, blank and accusatory. Every fibre of his heart wanted to play it safe. A polished essay, a neatly structured piece that any teacher would praise. Something ‘worthy’ in the conventional sense. But even the thought of that felt hollow. These words… his words… were never meant to impress. They were meant to exist. 

He tapped his pen against the page, breathing in rhythm with the hum of the TV, the faint tick of a clock, the distant shuffle of feet upstairs. Too much. Too little. Will they ever see him? Will anyone ever care? His eyes flickered towards the stack of notebooks under his bed, pages filled with stories, half finished poems, and random observations. All ignored, all private. For years, he had been quietly pouring himself into these pages, never showing a soul.

And now… the idea of sending something out, letting someone else see this hidden part of him, terrified and thrilled him in equal measure.

At first, he wrote cautiously. I exist here. And no one seems to notice. The line left like a whisper, almost a test. When it landed, it was as if a valve opened. Words began tumbling out, raw and urgent. About invisible birthdays, parents lost in their own worlds, the pressure to always remain calm, capable, perfect. About the quiet ache of needing recognition that never came.

He didn’t stop to tidy up his sentences. He didn’t check the grammar or polish his phrasing. The page became a sanctuary, a place where every thought, every feeling, could be spilled, unfiltered.

Fragments poured out in jagged bursts:

The house is loud, but I am invisible I have spent my whole life measuring myself against expectations no one will admit they have

Even silence can sting more than anger

If I falter, does anyone care

If i succeed, will it matter

Hours slipped by unnoticed. The TV faded into background static, the clack of the keyboard in the office stuttered and restarted, but Techno was elsewhere. In the centre of a storm that was entirely his own. The act of writing had become almost trance-like, almost meditative, and yet every word left him more and more exposed. Like stepping into a lighted room no one else was meant to see.

As the night deepened, Techno leaned back in his chair, his arm sore, throat dry, eyes scanning the chaotic, overflowing page. Words sprawled in uneven lines, scribbles in the margin, jagged sentences that captured pieces of his life that he’d never really spoken aloud. And in that mess of ink and raw honesty, there was a clarity, a spark of liberation.

For a moment, he allowed himself to smile when alone. Faint, almost imperceptible, but real. The words were his own. No one had demanded them. No one had judged them. For the first time, they were visible, even if only for himself. 

And in the quiet, Techno realised something profound. Maybe this was the first step to being seen, really seen, outside of charts, checklists, and silent compliance. Maybe, the world could notice him for who he truly was. Not the perfect, invisible boy, but Techno.

The room was dark, the only light was a pale blue rectangle that flickered gently on the walls. Techno sat at his desk, his fingers hovering over the keyboard, staring at the blinking cursor over the submit button. His heart thumped in his chest, a hollow irregular drumbeat that seemed to echo in the quiet. 

He scrolled through the document one last time. Every word, every confession, every half formed fragment of himself staring back at him. It was all there. All of it. Every time that he had felt invisible, every time he felt too much or not enough. It was all there.

A thrill surged through him. This was it. This was him finally saying something. But almost immediately, that thrill twisted into anxiety.

What if it’s pathetic? What if no one understands it? What if they think he’s weak?

He shook his head. No, that wasn’t fair. He’d worked hard on this. He’d poured himself into these words. And yet another wave of doubt hit him.

What if it’s too much? Too intense? Too weird? Too boring? Too… too something he can’t even name?

He leaned back, gripping the edge of the desk. His eyes flitted to the window. The streetlights outside cast long, thin shadows that made the room feel even smaller. He could hear his parents in the living room, voices low, muffled by the walls and distance. Laughter, the TV, the faint clatter of dishes. They hadn’t asked how his day went. They never did. They wouldn’t notice. 

Maybe they’d never notice this either.

He exhaled slowly, then sucked in a sharp breath. He opened the document again. Reread the opening paragraph. The middle. The ending. No mistakes. No typos. Nothing he could “fix.”

But is it enough? Is it really enough?

He tapped his fingers against the desk. The cursor blinked, impatient, almost judging. He thought of every essay that he’d ever written, every note he’d ever shown a teacher. Always precise, perfect, controlled. And now… this? This was different. Raw. Real. Untamed. 

And what if no one wants raw? What if everyone prefers polished?

He shook his head violently, then pressed his palms to his face. Stop. Just… submit it. Just submit it and stop overthinking. Stop trying to anticipate everyone else’s reaction.

He hovered his finger over the trackpad. One click. That was it. One click to cast himself into the unknown.

But what if he regrets it immediately? What if he hates it the moment it’s gone?

Click. 

The file was uploaded. A confirmation message blinked on the screen. Submission complete.

Relief should have followed. It didn’t. Only a flicker of it –like a candle struggling against a gust of wind– before the tide of panic rose higher.

What has he done? What if they think he’s pathetic? What if no one ever reads it? What if no one ever cares?

The laptop slid shut with a soft thud. Techno sat rigid, his chest tight, staring at the blank space of the closed screen. Behind the walls, his parents laughed faintly. Their voices felt like a wall separating him from acknowledgment, from any care. They wouldn’t notice. They never notice. 

Was this a mistake? Should he have sent one of the safe essays? One that everyone already says is good? One that guarantees praise? But… that’s not him. That’s never him. He can’t do that anymore.

He rubbed his eyes. His thoughts bounced back and forth.

Too personal. Too soft. Too weird. Too raw. Too messy. Too much. Not enough. Will they even care? Will they even notice him? Will they even understand?

His hands gripped the desk edges, knuckles white. He wanted to stand, pace, scream, do something –anything to burn off the nervous energy coiling in his chest– but he stayed frozen, trapped in the hum of the room and the glow of the screen he’d just shut.

Maybe they’ll like it. Maybe they’ll get it. Maybe someone out there will see him. See him. Really see him. But… What if they don’t?

He pressed his forehead to the wood of the desk, breathing in short, uneven gasps. And beneath the panic, beneath the fear, a tiny pulse of pride stubbornly beat. He did it. He risked it. He sent a piece of himself out there.

A breath. A flicker of light behind his eyes.

And yet, the dread lingered, clinging like a shadow. For now, he let the TV’s muffled laughter fill the silence. For now, he let himself sit with the tension, knowing he had acted and that the waiting, the uncertainty, was a storm he couldn’t control.

November 12

No one asked how my day went. I counted the steps from my desk to the kitchen. 132. Even. Perfect. Still invisible.

-

There was a boy who tried to make a robot friend out of spare keyboards and empty coffee cups. It never worked, but at least it didn’t argue back. He named it Steve and insisted it understood him better than anyone else ever could.

-

Red markers,

empty chairs,

silent meals –

I hide in the margins

-

There was a boy who built walls from paper and pencils. Every brick was another grade, every door a rule. He never left his room, because if he did, someone might see the cracks.

-

September 7

I handed in the essay early. Polished and perfect. They smiled at it, glanced away. Enough? Never. 

-

I laugh quietly

so no one hears

the pieces of me

shattering inside

-

A calendar hangs on the wall. Xs and ticks mark survival. The boy counts them like breaths. If he stops, the world will notice he is hollow.

-

January 30

I tried to speak today. A joke, nothing serious. No one noticed. Silence answered better anyway.

-

Charts and graphs,

monitors red,

parents looking,

but never here.

-

He typed and deleted. Words flowed then stopped. What if it’s too much? Too raw? Too real? No one will read anyway. Still, he writes.

-

I am both too much

and not enough. 

Invisible but heavy,

silent but screaming. 

And still, I write. 

-

There’s a room where three boys sit like planets in orbit. One frantic with papers, one laughing at everything, and one quiet but watching it all. The walls are scrawled with doodles, no deadlines. The air is a mix of old markers and bad coffee. No one notices me most of the time, but one time he asked if I was okay and I caught a look –just a flicker– and I realise, maybe, this room is where I belong.

-

Invisible but noticing,

silent but scribbling, 

a boy both serious

and ridiculous.

And maybe, someday,

someone will read it all

The corridors were loud with the usual chaos. Lockers banging, shoes squeaking across linoleum, students shouting names and complaints. Tommy and Tubbo marched ahead, arms swinging, voices bouncing off the walls as they argued over some trivial thing. Tommy insisted Tubbo had stolen the last cookie in the cafeteria, Tubbo claimed he hadn’t even touched it. Techno walked behind them, shoulders straight, a faint smirk tugging at his lips, but mostly silent, letting the other two carry the conversation.

“You literally face planted on Monday,” Tubbo said, shaking his head, "You're lucky no one recorded it.”

Tommy laughed so hard he almost fell sideways. “And I didn’t even flinch! Legendary.”

Techno’s smirk widened slightly, but he kept his eyes ahead. He thought about the night before, about the story he’d poured out into the quiet of his bedroom, about the click of the submit button. He imagined someone reading it, slowly, carefully, noticing the small details he had been hiding from the world. It made his chest feel tight and light at the same time, like he had finally left something of himself out there, separate from schedules and grades and charts.

“Hey,” Tommy nudged him suddenly, breaking his reverie. “You look like you’ve got a secret.”

Techno raised an eyebrow, the corner of his mouth twitching in a ghost of a smile. “Maybe I do,” he said, keeping his tone casual, almost teasing.

Tubbo leaned in, his grin mischievous. “Let me guess,” he whispered, scanning the hallway as if the walls themselves might be eavesdropping, “You’re secretly a cat burglar. Stealing cookies, scaling rooftops, breaking into your own school?”

Tommy snorted. “Or worse… he writes fanfiction about us.”

Techno’s smirk widened just a fraction. It wasn’t laughter, not yet, but it was acknowledgment, an invisible bridge between him and the other two. The teasing didn’t sting; it felt safe. It felt like belonging.

As they rounded a corner near the lockers, the bell rang, and students poured into classrooms, pushing and shoving. Techno felt the familiar urge to step back, to vanish into the crowd, but he didn’t. He stayed beside them. For the first time, he felt like he was allowed to take up space.

“You’ve been quiet all morning,” Tubbo said, tilting his head, squinting, “Don’t tell me you’re brooding about… what? Math? Physics? Which way is the universe going to end?”

“Worse,” Techno said softly, almost inaudibly, but loud enough for them to catch, “I wrote something.”

Tommy froze mid-step. “What do you mean… wrote?”

Tubbo perked up. “So you do write fanfiction about us!”

Techno shrugged, trying to appear casual, but the weight of it pressed on his chest. “I wrote something and I submitted it. To… a fellowship. For writing.”

Tubbo stopped walking, mouth slightly open. “You… what?”

“I mean, yeah,” Techno said, feeling the words finally out in the open, “It was… personal.”

Tommy’s eyes widened. “Personal? Like, emotionally personal? Or like, secret diary personal?”

Techno didn’t answer. He only shrugged again, this time heavier, letting the moment hang.

Tubbo’s face softened. “Okay… that’s actually… brave,” he admitted quietly, “Even if it’s scary.”

Tommy shook his head, incredulous, but the grin returned, warmer now. “Dude, that’s… wow. You actually did it. That’s… you. That’s really you. And it’s not like… you know, a chart or a spreadsheet or… a perfect score. It’s you.”

Techno felt something inside him ease, something he hadn’t realized he was holding so tightly. His shoulders, normally stiff with tension, loosened slightly. He glanced at them both, the people who knew him, who didn’t need him to be perfect or funny or stoic, who just… saw him.

On the walk to the cafeteria, they started joking quietly, teasing each other about past mistakes and flubbed lines in class presentations. Tubbo made fun of a science experiment Tommy had accidentally turned into a chemical disaster last week, and Tommy retaliated with a story about Tubbo accidentally spilling paint in art class. Techno even added in a dry one-liner about how Room 3B might collapse if they all piled in there at once, and the two erupted laughing.

It wasn't a performance. It wasn’t an act. It was shared warmth, teasing without judgment. Techno felt himself laughing more freely than he had in months, maybe years. The three of them weren’t just a trio of conveniences anymore. They were a team, a found family. For the first time, Tubbo, Tommy, and Techno existed in a space that wasn’t defined by schoolwork, perfection, or expectation. They existed together, fully.

When they split off at the crossroads, heading to their respective homes, Tubbo nudged him lightly. “See you in Room 3B, yeah?”

Techno smiled, and this time it was real. “Yeah. See you there.”

He walked alone for a moment, letting the night air settle around him. He thought of his submission, of the story that now lived somewhere else in the world. And he realised something strange: he wasn’t afraid anymore. He was… looking forward to what might come next.

For the first time, he felt like his words, and by extension, himself, might be seen, understood, and maybe even appreciated. And that hope, fragile as it was, felt alive.