Chapter Text
The first time Tommy really spoke to Purpled without being told to by a teacher, it wasn’t because of the rumours. Wasn’t because he was scared of him. It was because the guy was sitting in the cafeteria, alone. methodically dismantling a sandwich like it had personally offended him.
“Who pissed in his cereal?” Wilbur muttered beside him, nudging Techno with his elbow. Their twin brother didn’t even glance up from his book, flipping a page with deliberate disinterest. “Dunno. Don’t care.”
Tommy didn’t mean to stare. Really, he didn’t. But there was something hypnotic about the way Purpled’s fingers moved—peeling the crust off with surgical precision, rearranging the lettuce like it was a puzzle he intended to solve. It was weirdly intimate, watching someone so focused on something so mundane.
Then Purpled looked up.
Purpled's gaze locked onto Tommy's like a bullet finding its mark. For a heartbeat, Tommy forgot how to breathe. Those weren't just eyes—they were violet storm clouds, the kind that warned of lightning before you heard the storm.
"Shit," Wilbur hissed. "Stop making eye contact with rabid animals, Theseus." Techno finally looked up from his book, one eyebrow arching as Purpled deliberately bit into his reconstructed sandwich without breaking staring. The message was clear: I see you too.
Tommy expected Purpled to look away first—everyone did. But when the bell rang and those violet eyes still hadn’t flickered, Tommy realized two things simultaneously: one, his coffee was cold, and two, he’d just been challenged by a guy who ate sandwiches like they were chess opponents.
“You’re gonna get us stabbed,” Wilbur groaned, dragging Tommy up by his backpack strap. Techno lingered just long enough to toss a glance over his shoulder—not at Purpled, but at the half-dozen kids shifting nervously at nearby tables. Their postures screamed don’t engage, but Tommy caught the way Purpled’s knuckles whitened around his fork when someone whispered *freak* just loud enough to carry.
——
Tommy didn’t tell Tubbo about the staring contest. Not because Tubbo wouldn’t care—his best friend inhaled gossip like oxygen—but because it felt oddly private, like catching someone singing in their car at a red light. Instead, he let Tubbo chatter about the upcoming chemistry quiz while his fingers drummed against his thigh, restless.
Three days passed before he saw Purpled again. This time, the guy was leaning against the lockers outside the gym, one knee bent, flipping a switchblade open and shut with absent precision. The hallway cleared around him like water parting for a shark. Tommy hesitated—Techno’s warning about “avoiding rabid strays” echoing in his head—but then Purpled’s head tilted, just slightly, and those stormcloud eyes flicked up.
Tommy walked right up to him.
The switchblade snapped shut with a *click* that sounded louder than it should have in the empty hallway. Purpled didn’t move, didn’t speak—just watched Tommy with the same unnerving stillness as a cat deciding whether to pounce or flee. Up close, Tommy could see the faint scar cutting through his left eyebrow, the way his tattoos coiled over his knuckles like ink-dipped vines.
“You’re in my light,” Purpled said finally, voice flat.
Tommy blinked. The overhead fluorescents were directly above them, casting no shadow. “Bullshit,” he said before he could stop himself.
Purpled’s lips twitched—just once—before his expression smoothed back into bored indifference. “Still bullshit,” Tommy pressed, crossing his arms. “You just wanted me to talk to you.” The switchblade flipped open again, the silver catching the light. “And why the fuck would I want that?”
Because no one else had walked up to you in three days, Tommy almost said. Because your shoulders tense every time someone whispers behind your back. Because you’re still looking at me like I’m a puzzle you can’t solve. Instead, he shrugged. “Dunno. Maybe you’re lonely.”
The blade snapped shut so fast Tommy barely saw the movement. Purpled’s fingers clenched around it, knuckles going white. “You don’t know shit.”
——————
The week after the locker confrontation, Tommy caught himself scanning the cafeteria for violet stormcloud eyes every lunch period. Purpled never sat in the same place twice—sometimes hunched in the corner like a shadow, other times sprawled across a table like he owned it, daring anyone to tell him otherwise.
On Wednesday, Tubbo threw a grape at Tommy’s forehead. “You’re doing it again,” he accused, grinning when Tommy startled. “Staring at Purpled like he’s gonna sprout wings and fly away.”
Tommy flushed, flicking the grape back. “Shut up. I’m observing.”
Tubbo’s grin widened, sharp as the switchblade Purpled kept flipping. “Observing,” he repeated, slow and mocking. “Right. Like how you ‘observed’ his hands for ten minutes yesterday? Real subtle, boss man.”
Tommy opened his mouth to retort when the cafeteria doors slammed open. Purpled strode in like a storm rolling over a quiet town—shoulders tense, fists clenched, his usual bored expression replaced with something darker. The whispers started instantly, but this time, Tommy caught the way Purpled’s jaw tightened at the sound.
Then he saw the blood on his knuckles.
Tommy was moving before he could think—Tubbo's startled "Tommy, *what the fuck*—" swallowed by the sudden rush in his ears. Purpled didn't react when Tommy grabbed his wrist, didn't flinch when Tommy turned his hand palm-up to inspect the split skin across his knuckles. Up close, the blood was fresh, smeared like war paint.
"You're bleeding," Tommy said, stupidly obvious, his thumb brushing the edge of a bruise already purpling along Purpled's wrist.
Purpled's fingers twitched. "No shit," he muttered, but he didn't pull away. His eyes flickered over Tommy's shoulder—where Tommy knew Tubbo was gaping, where Techno and Wilbur were undoubtedly watching with twin expressions of horrified fascination—before settling back on Tommy's face. The cafeteria noise dimmed to a hum, like someone had turned the volume down on the world.
Purpled exhaled sharply through his nose, a sound caught between irritation and something softer. "You're gonna get blood on your sweater," he muttered, but his fingers curled slightly against Tommy's palm—not pulling away, just shifting, like he wasn’t sure what to do with the contact.
Tommy didn’t let go. "Who pissed you off this time?"
"Nobody important." Purpled’s voice was flat, but Tommy caught the flicker in his gaze—the way his eyes darted to the side, where a group of juniors were pretending not to stare. One of them had a split lip. Tommy connected the dots instantly.
Tommy tightened his grip on Purpled’s wrist, ignoring the way the blood smeared across his own fingers. “You’re an idiot,” he said, voice low enough that only Purpled could hear it. The cafeteria was a held breath around them—everyone waiting to see if the school’s resident loose cannon would snap.
Purpled’s lips twitched. “Takes one to know one,” he muttered back, but his shoulders relaxed a fraction, the tension bleeding out like he’d been waiting for someone to call him out. Tommy didn’t miss the way his thumb brushed against the inside of Purpled’s wrist, just once.
Then Wilbur ruined it.