Archive of Our Own ^beta

The first time it happens, it’s completely by accident.

It’s not like Tommy had known that Techno would divebomb straight into his instincts. Even when it does happen, Tommy still doesn’t know what he did to cause it. It’s not his fault—being abducted into fucking space, kept in a cage, and experimented on will do that to you. Tommy doesn’t know much about space, or other aliens—not even the aliens that saved him, busting onto the trading ship with blasters beaming.

They don’t know much about him, either—not his species, anyway. They aren’t too familiar with humans. So sure, they don’t know that humans are supposed to eat three meals a day, or get eight hours of rest, or that they desperately need more affection than just an occasional brush of a wing or off-handed praise (or maybe that last one is just Tommy).

But, in the same way, Tommy doesn’t know what makes Phil tick, or how Wilbur manages to wail happily whenever a certain note rings out, or why Techno snorts from the back of his throat when he sees a glistening piece of golden jewelry.

But Tommy does know that Phil enjoys food small enough that he can peck it all up into his beak at once; he knows that Wilbur likes to study alien history and create songs based on niche personal experiences; he knows that Techno likes hard-cover books and that he secretly names the plants in the greenhouse.

And, Tommy knows that he can beat all of their asses.

“Come on, Wilbur, stop being such a pussy!” Tommy taunts, leaning as much of his weight against Wilbur as he can. Wilbur’s pinned to the ground, but he’s also a huge bitch , because he still shifts and wriggles underneath Tommy’s hold.

They had all been hesitant to allow Tommy to train with them, at first. Something about trauma, or hurting him, or blah blah blah. Tommy hadn’t listened to any of it. He needed to know how to defend himself! Even if they all swore that Tommy would never have to defend himself again. But enough puppy-eyes, and now Tommy has been training with them for months.

Wilbur’s definitely the easiest. With Phil and Techno, Tommy tries to maintain some sort of dignity, technique.

With Wilbur, it’s a fucking free-for-all. They both claw and hit and pull in equal measure, fighting without any real thought aside from I’m going to kill this fucker.

Which is a thought Tommy is succeeding in, by the way, because Tommy has Wilbur pinned, and there’s no way this fucker is getting up!

“Give up, prick!” Tommy yells, avoiding Wilbur’s flailing limbs. “You could never beat me!”

Except Wilbur is a sore fucking loser, because instead of conceding or admitting defeat, he begins to tickle Tommy.

Tommy honest-to-god squeals. He jumps backward and pushes Wilbur away, glaring at him as the man begins his wobbly laugh. “Oh, you bastard!” Tommy yells, face burning as, from the corner of his eye, he can see both Techno and Phil look over from their spot in the training grounds. “You absolute wrongun’!”

“Oh, am I? Am I?” Wilbur taunts, a mischievous smile spreading across his face. His spindled fingers twitch and hover, his eyes squint.

“Don’t,” Tommy warns with a nervous grin, shifting on his feet. “Don’t, Wil, don’t—”

Wilbur starts to creep forward, about to lunge towards Tommy to attack, when a low, loud growl grumbles from across the room.

Both Wilbur and Tommy freeze. Even Phil is still, when they look over, staring at Techno with furrowed brows. “Mate?” He says, taking a careful step forward. “What’s all that for?”

Techno doesn’t even look at him. His eyes stay laser-focused on Wilbur and Tommy, flicking between the two of them as he continues to display his tusks.

“Techno?” Wilbur tries, straightening slowly from his crouch. “Seriously, we were just playing around. Look, Tommy’s fine—”

It all happens so quickly.

Wilbur starts to reach out, and Techno is suddenly charging forward, shoving himself between Tommy and Wilbur and growling again! Tommy can’t even see Wilbur anymore, too tucked away behind Techno’s back.

Tommy blinks in shock. “What the hell? Techno, what is—”

Then Techno turns to him. Tommy shrinks backward, instinctually trying to avoid Techno’s sharp tusks, and snarling, and hard hooves coming right towards him—

The hooves land on Tommy’s shoulders, and Tommy flinches underneath their weight. Techno makes a wounded noise.

“Seriously, what the fuck?” Tommy tries to take a step backward, but Techno follows him. It’s fucking bizarre—Tommy doesn’t know if he’s ever been this close to Techno in his life, not including when they first saved him. “Why are you acting so weird?”

Techno brings his snout down, and for a second, Tommy is certain he’s going to bash his skull in. But then Techno’s snout is in his hair, sniffing and chuffing and nudging gently.

What the fuck. What the fuck? Is Techno on drugs? Tommy pulls away, and it looks like he could be. His eyes are all wonky and shit, all weird.

“O-kay,” Tommy drawls, “well, this has been fucking strange, but—hey!”

This shit just keeps getting more and more bizarre, because Techno picks him up.

Oh Prime. Is Techno going to kill him?

“Buddy, buddy, let’s talk about this,” Tommy breathes as he’s slung over Techno’s shoulder. They’re leaving the training area, and fuck, even Phil and Wilbur look confused!

The two trail after them as Techno marches from the training room all the way down the hall.

“Techno,” Tommy babbles the whole time, “some explanation would be great big-man, you’re acting all weird and fucked up—”

None of Tommy’s rambles manage to prick Techno’s concentration. He continues to storm forward until he’s reached his room, Tommy still hanging off of his shoulder like a bag of flour, or a misbehaving cat.

The door slides open with a woosh. Inside of Techno’s room, the lights are dim, and the temperature is hot. It’s so warm that Tommy immediately begins to sweat, and, yes, it is a nice change of pace to the cold metals of the ship, but holy shit is it sweltering in here.

“Bitch, bastard,” Tommy swears as Techno steps further into the room. “Fuckin—fuck!”

Techno drops Tommy onto the bed unceremoniously. “What the fuck?” Tommy complains. “What the fuck is happening—”

Tommy doesn’t get to finish before Techno is…leaning forward. The man isn’t fucking responding, but little snorts and snuffs keep coming out between breathy chuffs.

“Oh, man,” Tommy says, wrinkling his nose as Techno’s snout nudges at his temple. “Your breath smells fucking awful.”

Not even an insult gets Techno to do anything other than snort. It’s like the man doesn’t even care that Tommy is on his worst behavior.

After nudging a few times at Tommy’s head, the piglin crosses the room, opening a few of his drawers. When he comes back, he’s holding something in his hooved fists—Tommy can only see glimpses and gleans of metal. Then Techno is coming closer, and when he holds out his hand, Tommy can finally see within—it’s all gold, bits of jewelry and bobbles piled into his hooves.

“You’re showing off now?” Tommy says skeptically. “Oh, I’m Techno and I’m rich! I have so much money and so much—”

Except then Tommy has it, because Techno leans over and drops a thin, golden necklace around Tommy’s head.

Tommy falters off as the cool metal is draped from his neck. It’s nice, nicer than anything Tommy could have dreamed of ever getting his hands on. And it’s…

“For me?” Tommy asks weakly. “Big man, this is your stuff—”

Techno doesn’t even seem to care. He layers another necklace on top of that one, before taking Tommy’s hand and slipping on a golden band. It’s fucking huge—meant for Techno’s wrist, no doubt, because it threatens to slip off of Tommy’s wrist the moment its put on.

It’s…heavy. And it’s cold, and it’s…wrong. This is all wrong, the way that Techno isn’t doing anything but snorting; the way that Techno has allowed Tommy to lie in his own bed; the way he drapes Tommy in gold like he’s not Tommy Innet.

It’s all too good for Tommy—too expensive, too nice, too much. Tommy, despite now having a crew, a home, has never managed to separate himself from what he truly is—a street rat. A desperate thief on the streets, living in the dust and squalor. A beggar, willing to take any amount of beating and bruising if it just meant he got to eat.

Then he was caged—an animal—and animals don’t get nice things, either.

Techno had seen that—had seen Tommy’s small, shaking frame, teeth bared and eyes wild. He had heard Tommy’s desperate, terrified screams and growls.

They’d all seen it.

Yet, this crew has still been more than Tommy ever dreamed of. More than he deserved, even, because he’s never done anything good to earn what he has. They all say he doesn’t have to. Which, sure, might make sense for something like the shelter of the ship (Everyone deserves a home, Tommy, Phil says), or even the food they provide daily (Everyone has to eat, Wilbur presses, That’s not something you have to fight for). But this? This is…

Techno takes a single step back to observe his work.

The room is pretty dim—not like the bright lights of the ship outside—but still, the warm glow of glowstones makes the gold glimmer.

Tommy isn’t worthy of this. He waits for Techno to realize it too. He waits for Techno to grunt in displeasure and remove it all, shrinks into himself as Techno takes a step forward and—

And sits, right next to him. When his tusks come down, Tommy prepares himself for pain, but there is none. There’s a nudging at Tommy’s head, before Techno lowers his own and presses his forehead against Tommy’s own.

“The fuck?” Tommy mutters, but his usual display of loudness, rudeness, is all made of fucking glass—completely fucking see-through, and far too easy break apart; glass that easily shatters against the weight of the gold on his wrists, against the pressure of Techno’s forehead pressed against his own.

It’s all foreign, and fucking weird, and holy shit, the best thing Tommy’s ever experienced. It hurts as much as it helps—it splinters into his heart and patches it all back together, all at the same time.

It’s so overwhelming, Tommy hardly notices Techno’s door open until Wilbur speaks.

“Holy shit,” he warbles, sticking his head through the open crack of the door. “He’s all in his instincts, Phil.”

Phil, too, sticks his head in the door, his head popping above Wilbur’s. His wings rustle as he notices the pair on the bed. “Techno,” he crows, voice low in disappointment, “He’s a human, mate. He doesn’t like touch—”

“No,” Tommy cuts in, and the words can’t tumble out of his mouth fast enough. “No, it’s fine—it’s fine, Phil.” It’s hard to make the words sound anything but desperate. But for once, Tommy is so fucking grateful that the communicators are a bit off, because Phil doesn’t seem to notice that the words are a plea.

“Mate, you don’t have to just because he’s in his instincts.”

“That’s—” not the reason. Because fuck, Tommy wants this, Tommy needs this. Tommy takes the kindness given to him and it’s the most selfish thing he’s ever done. “That’s fine, Phil, seriously, I can handle myself,” Tommy says, and it’s the greediest thing Tommy has ever uttered.

Wilbur’s body shifts and slips uncertainly. “But humans—”

“Can make decisions for themselves, Prime,” Tommy grumbles loudly. “He’s fine, promise. Just… clingy.” Tommy tries to make the end sound annoying, or irritating, or anything but exactly what Tommy has been needing this entire fucking time.

It’s been a long, long time up in space. It’s been an even longer time since someone has reached out and touched Tommy. Because even on Earth, there was no one who cared about Tommy. Street-rat, or wild animal, or a lab experiment, no one reaches out with gentle hands. No one has gifted Tommy anything but pain.

Phil’s head cocks in skepticism. “You’re not in pain?”

Fuck, Tommy is. Techno’s arms burn around him like a supernova. Every centimeter of contact is too kind, too caring, too much. It’s overwhelming. It’s painful.

It’s everything Tommy’s ever wanted. Because the touch sparks like a flare of fire, but then it soothes. The scorching heat settles into a simmering warmth, and holy shit, Tommy needs this. Even if it hurts—if this is the last affection Tommy will ever receive, he wants it to hurt. He wants the heat of Techno’s arms to linger forever. He wants the weight of gold around his limbs to drag him downward like a fucking black hole. Because once the pain settles, maybe Tommy can remember that one time he was loved. Maybe Tommy can remember the first time in his entire life that someone has actually cared.

“No,” Tommy says, “it doesn’t hurt, Phil.”

Phil still looks unsure, but he rolls his neck with a small trill. “Okay, mate. But if it gets too much, you can call for us.”

“Okay.”

“Even if you just change your mind—”

“It’s fine, Phil—”

“Oh, if you’re hungry in here, we can bring you some food—”

“Phil!” Tommy yells. “Prime, it’s fine, it’s so fine. I’m not a baby, I can handle things myself.”

Phil might have had more to say, but Techno gives out a low, rumbling growl.

“Alright, alright,” Phil sighs, stepping back alongside Wilbur. “We’ll leave you two.”

Techno’s door slides shut. It’s just the two of them.

Tommy sighs, shoulders relaxing, and Techno seems to take it as a good sign. He begins snorting again, tucking his snout into Tommy’s hair. Then—even closer than before—his arms drag Tommy into his chest. One of his hooved-hands presses against the nape of Tommy’s neck. It holds and occasionally pinches, as if he’s trying to scruff a fucking cat.

It should be embarrassing. Tommy is a big-man, he’s not some sort of baby. He doesn’t need gifts, he doesn’t need to be held.

Techno tugs him closer, and Tommy can’t do anything but melt into his hold.

It’s safe, here. Safer than Tommy’s ever felt before. Techno’s the strongest one of the entire crew—maybe one of the strongest creatures Tommy has seen in space. And here Tommy is, completely tucked away behind his arms, into his chest. Besides, Techno doesn’t seem to mind—the space beneath Tommy’s ear begins to rumble in a low sort of…purr?

“Are you a piglin or a fucking cat?” Tommy grumbles, but it’s muffled by the fabric of Techno’s shirt.

Tommy is seventeen—practically an adult.

Techno cradles him as though a baby, and Tommy has never felt happier in his entire life.

When the tears start to burn at his eyes, Tommy can’t stop them.

Tommy doesn’t understand why this is happening. Why Techno’s instincts have decided to…care about him. There isn’t much to care about, when it comes to Tommy—he’s obnoxious, he’s needy, he underperforms. He’s never done a worthwhile thing a day in his life.

Techno doesn’t seem to care about that. Not right now, not in this moment. Tommy clings to Techno’s shirt, as if it’ll stop this all from slipping through his fingers. As if he could keep Techno here forever.

But he can’t. Tommy doesn’t know how much time passes before Techno starts to shift backwards, aside from the fact that it’s not enough. But Techno’s arms loosen, and Tommy flinches backward before Techno comes back to himself and sees the desperate mess that Tommy has made of himself.

Techno’s eyes aren’t quite focused, yet. They flutter and blink, before Techno squints them shut and takes a long, deep breath.

Then his eyes open, landing on Tommy.

Tommy holds his breath. Maybe Techno does too, because for a long moment, the two just stare at each other.

Techno’s eyes flick from Tommy’s hair, to the necklace around his neck, to the band of gold around his wrist.

Techno takes a breath. “Sorry,” he mutters, and he looks…

Well, he doesn’t look happy. Tommy’s heart wilts a little inside of his chest.

“You’re fine, big-man,” Tommy says, bravado hopefully hiding the way he wants to shrivel into his ribcage. “I mean—you just went all loopy, out of nowhere. I mean, you were—you were purring and shit.”

Techno still just stares at him.

“It—it was funny,” Tommy tries to remedy quickly. “Really, Techno, I didn’t mind. You don’t have to be, like…embarrassed, or whatever. It’s not your fault.”

Techno blinks, and, finally, seems to shake himself out of it. “Right,” he mutters hoarsely.

Slowly, Tommy shifts off of the bed. “Well. I guess I should—I should probably give you all of this back.”

Tommy starts to slide the bangle off of his wrist, but Techno quickly grunts. “Keep it, kid.”

“Really?” Tommy stutters. “It’s—you can have it back, Techno, it’s—”

“It’s fine,” Techno finishes with a low grumble. “It’s yours.”

His. Tommy’s. Even as he slips out of Techno’s room by himself. Even as he crosses the cold hallway, into his own frigid room.

Tommy stops in front of his mirror. The gold still glistens where it hangs from his body. Like this, Tommy can imagine that he’s a king, or a fairy, or someone who is loved.

Tommy tucks all of the gold into a small box under his bed—one titled Mementos, filled with spare feathers from Phil and a few books from Wilbur—and crawls into bed.

The room is cold. Tommy feels more alone than ever.

It had been easier, at the start, to just tell them that humans couldn’t stand touch.

Tommy certainly couldn’t, not then. Not when he had been kicked and beaten, poked at and prodded.

And Tommy hadn’t known them all back then—back then, they were strangers. Savior-strangers, sure, but it had taken a long while for Tommy to finally settle into this newfound life. It took a while for Tommy to accept that he wasn’t scum, or an animal, or an experiment.

It took too long, though. Too long for Tommy to take back some of the things he had said in defense. Too late for Tommy to rescind his “Humans hate to be touched,” too much time for Tommy to mend his, “Humans need lots of time to themselves.” Not without seeming like a liar, or at the very least, a loser.

It’s been a tough thing to accept, but still, this is the best Tommy has ever had it. The fight to convince himself that he doesn’t need affection—not how humans usually do—has gotten easier over time.

Or, it had been easier. It’s hard to miss something he’s never had.

But now?

The first time Techno falls into his instincts is an accident.

The second time…still is. Sort of.

At least, it’s easy to paint it that way.

That first night, Tommy had lied in bed and let the scene run in his head over and over and over again.

They were training. Wilbur startled Tommy. Tommy made a sound. Techno loved him.

It doesn’t really make sense—none of this shit does. Tommy can’t understand how it all happened.

So Tommy decides to…find out. Just to ease his own curiosity—just so he can understand.

(Just so Tommy can know what he has to do to be loved again).

Tommy spends the next few days practically glued to Techno’s side. He’s not sure exactly what triggered Techno’s instincts in the first place, which means he doesn’t know what he’s supposed to be waiting for.

It’s a good time, even though Techno’s instincts haven’t even flickered for the past week. But normal-Techno is still fun to spend time with. He doesn’t conversate much, really, but he lets Tommy ramble on and jump circles around him. He lets Tommy follow him from the kitchen to the greenhouse to the control room. He grunts as Tommy chatters and huffs when Tommy makes a joke.

And it is good, really. Mostly. But there’s an ebbing shame that tugs at his gut, because if there’s one thing Tommy knows, it’s experiments.

This, by all means, is…

But it’s not. It’s not! It’s not an experiment, just…observation! He just observes Techno whenever he makes odd sounds, or acts peculiarly. He just observes Techno’s eyes, searching his pupils for any sign of affection. Which means that, on the eighth day, he observes how Techno immediately gives him an odd look as Tommy finds him in the large sitting room.

“Kid.”

Tommy looks up from where he’s pillowed himself in blankets, knit from the wool of space-sheep. “What?”

There was a part of Tommy that thought that maybe, maybe, the blankets had finally tugged Techno under. Techno’s own bed is pretty piled on with them. And they’re warm! But when Tommy looks upward, Techno is still just looking at him with a flat look.

“You need somethin’?”

Oh, shit. “No,” Tommy says grandly, ignoring the way his heart skips in his chest. “Why you asking, big-man?”

Techno’s eyes squint a centimeter, unimpressed. “You’ve been followin’ me around for the past few cycles.”

Shit. Shit. Techno really had noticed.

“So what do you want?” Techno finishes, voice low and rumbly.

“Money,” Tommy says quickly, loudly. Anything to cover up the panic that’s starting to putter in his chest. “And clout. And bitches.”

“I don’t know what that last word was.”

“Nothing you’d know how to get,” Tommy ribs before shaking his head. “Can a man not want to sit, Techno? I forgot, only pig-bastards can sit in blankets, oh, you absolute bastard—”

“Tommy.”

Tommy falters off.

“You’ve been actin’ strange since our last training session. Seriously, what’s goin’ on?”

Since…the training session.

The training session.

They haven’t been back to the training room once this past week. But that’s where Techno last fell into his instincts—that’s where Tommy might be able to find answers!

“I want to train,” Tommy says decisively.

Techno had seemed confident before—all prying and shit—but now, he seems to falter. “Phil and Wilbur are busy,” he rumbles, but Tommy throws himself back with a groan.

“And?” Tommy complains. “You train by yourself all the time! Surely we can train just the two of us.”

Techno grunts uncertainly.

“Come on!” Tommy presses. “You love punching shit!”

“I appreciate knowing I can protect my crew,” Techno corrects, voice all low and solemn, and ugh, Tommy hates when he gets so serious.

“Please?” Tommy asks. “Practice protecting us, then, we haven’t trained in forever!”

Techno stares at him for a long moment, before finally shifting to rise. “You haven’t trained in forever,” he grunts.

“Wh—huh?” Tommy watches as Techno starts to walk down the hall, but—“Hold on, you haven’t either!”

“Mm-hm.”

“You couldn’t have! Not unless you did that while everyone was asleep ‘n shit! I’ve been—”

Tommy cuts himself off. When Techno turns, he raises a single eyebrow.

“I’ve been…in the same space as you,” Tommy finishes. “Completely by coincidence.”

“Uh-huh.”

“It’s a small ship, Techno!”

“It’s not.”

“It’s a small ship when you’re as big a man as me,” Tommy complains. He’s ready to keep defending his own honor, but suddenly, his surroundings finally catch up with him. They’re standing in front of a large double-door, stationed in the center of a long, winding hallway.

“We’re training?” Holy shit, yes! “You’ve agreed?”

“You won’t leave me alone otherwise,” Techno grumbles, and though the words sting, the potential of finding out about Techno’s instincts quickly numb away any sort of hurt.

The training room looks the same as ever—a long obstacle course against the far corner, a few weighted punching bags, rings dangling off of the ceiling for Phil to fly and flip off of.

Tommy claps his hands together. “So what’s the plan? Beating the shit out of each other? Racing? Sword-fighting?”

Techno lowers himself to the ground. “Stretching.”

Right. “Right,” Tommy breathes, letting himself fall to the ground in a heap. “But after that, then what?”

“Just do your stretches, Tommy.”

Prime, he’s so boring.

Techno seems to take even longer with stretches today than he usually does. Tommy swears he’s reached down to touch his toes at least twenty-million times by now. He’s curled his torso and pulled at his legs and held his own arms.

Patience has never been Tommy’s strong point. In fact, he’d argue that his urgency is one of his many, many great character traits. Who has time to sit and think when he can be doing action? But Tommy can’t ruin this before it’s even begun, so he stretches his core for the twenty-one millionth time and only cusses up a storm in his head.

Finally, Techno rises from the floor, wiping off his hooved-hands.

“Holy shit, finally!” Tommy yells, scrambling upwards. “Took you long enough. Now tell me what we’re doing!”

“You,” Techno says, pointing a hoof, “are working on whatever you want.”

Tommy frowns. “Oh. Cool, so we can—”

“I am going to work on arm strength.” Techno jabs a finger towards the punching bags.

Tommy frowns. “That’s boring, Techno, I don’t want to do that.”

“Then don’t.”

“But—” But I have to be with you, Tommy thinks damningly. I have to see if anything here sets your instincts off. “But it would be so much better if we did something together! We haven’t done the obstacle course in ages , let’s do that—”

“Nope.”

“Or let’s practice our sword-work! That’s way more interesting than what you’re doing—”

“Too bad.”

“Techno—”

“Tommy.” Fuck. Techno looks at him, unmoved. “Go find somethin’ to do.” And then he’s turning, just like that, away from Tommy.

He starts swinging at the bags. They sway and shift with each hit, but Techno shifts and slips with it.

Damnit. Tommy’s plan had only partially worked. Now he’s going to have to be bored while Techno ignores him this whole time!

For a solid few minutes, Tommy really does try to occupy himself. He runs through the obstacle course (boring, when there’s no one else to beat to the end), does a few sit-ups, and throws imaginary kicks into the air.

It’s all boring, though—and more than boring, useless. Tommy’s not any closer to finding out what sets Techno’s instincts off.

A glare takes over Tommy’s face, and he makes sure to send it all towards the back of Techno’s neck.

That bastard. Tommy wouldn’t have argued to come in here, if he’d known he’d be ignored the whole time! He wanted to train, not do shit by himself!

There’s not much else to do. Unamused and thoroughly irritated, Tommy walks towards the weapons they have hung on one of the far walls. He considers tugging down a sword, just to irritate Techno—he insists that Tommy is watched with blades, because they’re dangerous and Tommy commits chaos on purpose, blah blah blah—but an irritated Techno is worse than a distracted one, so Tommy sighs and tugs down a wooden practice-sword.

Techno’s really the only one who uses swords, anyway. Which would make it helpful if Techno would actually practice with him.

The wooden sword lies light in his hands. Tommy doesn’t want to train by himself, and if Techno is going to be stubborn…

A mischievous idea crawls into Tommy’s mind. The grin that takes over his face is absolutely gleeful, but he’s got to be silent now—he’s got to be quiet if he wants his plan to work.

One of Humans’ most feared attributes is their lightness of step. It’s not true for all humans, obviously, but compared to beasts like Techno, it’s easy to slowly slip and step towards an unassuming target.

Tommy waits until Techno is preoccupied with a series of harsh hits. It means he’ll be hyperfocused on the bag in front of him, means he won’t hear Tommy sprinting behind him with a raised sword—

“Take this, you pig-bitch—”

Listen, Tommy is a smart-man. Observant, confident, just so aware and all that.

But, admittedly? Tommy has no fucking clue what happens next. Not at first, anyway, because one moment he’s jumping into the air, about to smack at Techno with a wooden sword, and the next, he’s slamming into the ground with a harsh grunt.

Ow, Tommy thinks, almost subconsciously, before a rush of pain slams into his chest like a fucking elephant on steroids, and fucking Ow, ow ow ow, what the fuck?

Holy shit, it hurts, and it must have hit right on Tommy’s sternum because he can hardly fucking breathe. He gasps on the floor, trying to take in any fucking air available, when—

There’s a grunt. One, two, three, quick and panicked, and suddenly a large, fluffy mass is leaning into Tommy’s space.

Still curled up in pain, Tommy almost misses it—almost misses the dilation of Techno’s pupils, almost misses the constant chuff, chuff, chuff, and snort, snort, snort, as Techno’s head dips down to look at him. But Tommy’s been looking for it all week, so, as if magnetized, Tommy still lifts his pained head upward.

Instinct-Techno is back. The Instinct-Techno that looks out for him. The Instinct-Techno that actually cares.

When Techno reaches out, Tommy lets him. Arms are slipped underneath Tommy’s knees and back, and then he’s being rushed out of the training room.

The care is almost too much. Tommy’s skin burns, and he doesn’t know if it’s Techno’s body heat, the pulsing of pain in his chest, or the warmth of affection.

Either way, Tommy takes it as if he has frostbite. He relishes in the burning, tucking his head closer to the heat and squeezing his eyes shut.

Too soon, Techno is at his room. When he sets Tommy down, it is so careful, so gentle, as if scared he might hurt him. And maybe that really is the reason, because Techno sits down right alongside him and reaches a hooved hand out, pressing lightly against the hit on Tommy’s chest.

“I’m fine, man, I’m fine,” Tommy manages to choke out. “ Fuck . You just hit the shit out of me.”

Snort, snort, snort. The sounds are endless from Techno’s snout.

“It hurt like a motherfucker,” Tommy complains. “I think I deserve compensation. I will be calling my law-yer.”

Tommy doesn’t really mean what he’s saying—aside from the bit about it hurting really badly, because fuck, that shit was painful—but Techno seems to take it all to heart, anyway. Again, he reaches into his drawers, pulling out handfuls of glimmering jewelry.

“I already have some,” Tommy protests weakly as Techno places a large ring on one of his thumbs. “I don’t need more.”

No, he doesn’t need more—but he wants more. Not for riches, not for wealth. But as a gift, as a reminder that someone out there cares for him. Someone loved him, someone thought him worthy of this. Even if that person was in an instinct-haze—it means that some part of Techno cares about him. Tommy will take some-part over no-part. Tommy will take any fucking scrap given to him. So he doesn’t protest further as Techno dawns him with jewels and precious metal.

It takes a long while for Techno’s instincts to finally soothe. Longer than the first time. Long enough that Tommy has been put in a comfortable den of blankets, wrapped in cloth and gold alike.

Tommy knows what to look for, this time around—he watches as Techno’s breaths start to turn long and deep, as he begins to blink in flutters.

When Techno finally comes out, Tommy holds his breath.

Techno stares down at him with normal pupils. He doesn’t say anything, just blinks. Then, “Nice sneak, kid,” he finally rasps, and Tommy’s breath comes out in a short puff of air.

He’s not mad. He doesn’t think Tommy is undeserving, or unworthy, or disgusting. He’s just Techno.

“I don’t think I even hit you,” Tommy manages to say back. It’s a rough attempt at sounding casual.

An attempt that Techno seems to accept. “You wouldn’t. Train for another hundred cycles—”

“Oh my Prime, yeah, yeah, I’ve heard this shit before,” Tommy gripes. “It would have worked if you weren’t an absolute beast.” Tommy points a gilded finger at him, and in tandem, both falter.

Rings adorn the finger that Tommy holds out. Bangles of gold hang from his wrist.

Techno’s tusks grind. “I didn’t mean to,” he gruffs lowly.

Just as Techno’s voice, Tommy’s heart does much the same—dip lowly. Lower, lower, until it settles in the sick pit of his stomach.

“I know,” Tommy says weakly. “You didn’t hit me that hard.”

Techno’s snout twitches. “Yeah. That too.”

That too. Because Techno didn’t mean to hit him, but that’s not what he meant. He didn’t mean to do this—love him. Look out for him. He didn’t mean to care for Tommy like this.

The reminder burns him, but not in the same way the touch did. It’s not the crackling burn of a fireplace—it’s the harsh burn of a cigarette, or maybe the heat of a pod plummeting downwards until it crashes and crumples.

“Right,” Tommy murmurs. “Right.”

Techno sends Tommy off with all of the gold. Tommy offers to give it back, but Techno warily waves him away.

Lying in bed, Tommy layers himself in enough blankets to feel even half the warmth of Techno’s hold.

He falls short, and falls to sleep only with the cold of loneliness.

“Good things come in three.”

Like Wilbur, and Techno, and Phil.

That night, Tommy had lain in bed and desperately tried to find connections between the second time and the first.

The conclusion he comes to is shaky at best, inconclusive but consistent.

Both times, something had happened, and Tommy had reacted, and Techno was sent into his instincts.

Which means it…must be Tommy’s reaction. The noise he makes, maybe—a startled squeal, or an injured grunt. It makes sense, the longer Tommy thinks about it—it must be an alien-pig thing. He was startled by Wilbur, and he squealed. He was thrown to the ground, and he grunted. Just like a pig, right? It makes the most sense, out of all of his theories—Techno’s instincts think he’s something else. They think he’s a piglin. They think he’s anyone but disgruntled, terrible, annoying Tommy. It’s got to be true, surely, because what other reason could there be for Techno to go all instinct-crazy?

The third time it happens is a confirmation.

Tommy has to know. He has to try it, just one more time.

(He has to scrape up these last few scraps of affection—because once he knows, he won’t have a reason to gain it anymore. Tommy will stop making noises, and Techno will stop falling into his instincts, and Tommy will go back to being uncared for, unloved).

It’s hard to catch Techno by himself. The crew sticks together, most of the time; chatting in a circle, eating together, piled upon a nest of soft cushions so they can watch some sort of space-opera. Which means that when, in the middle of the night, Tommy hears Techno’s heavy footsteps head towards the kitchen, Tommy is quick to scamper out of his room and follow him.

“Techno, my man!” Tommy yells as he throws himself into the room.

Techno glances up from the counter, unimpressed. “Tommy.”

Shit. The pressure is on, now, but Tommy can’t just…do it. “Sit down, sit down,” he presses, shooing Techno towards the nearby seating. “ I’ll make you something.”

That seems like a good start. It would be rude to take Techno’s kindness without offering back, after all—maybe this can be a fair trade.

(Except nothing can be, not really. Not when living with Tommy is one of the worst burdens of all. Not when Tommy owes them everything, and they really don’t owe him anything).

Techno doesn’t fight Tommy’s pushing. He sits with a grunt, and Tommy runs to the fridge and pulls out a random assortment of things. He places them all onto the counter with no real plan. But he’s got a few “vegetables” (as close to vegetables as you can get in space), so Tommy grabs a knife in one hand and one of the vegetables in the other.

“So what’s been going on, Techno?” Tommy rambles nervously, swinging the knife around with a loose hand as he speaks. “Getting lots of women? Punching innocent victims? Crashing us into meteors?”

Techno’s eyes narrow as Tommy swings his hand casually, back and forth. “Careful with the knife.”

Tommy rolls his eyes. “Ugh. Whatever, Techno. We play with swords, you don’t think I can do this?” Tommy swings the knife down in one sharp motion, stabbing at the food below.

“Tommy,” Techno snaps with a harsh grunt, but Tommy just laughs nervously.

“I’m a master! Knife-Master, that’s what they call me, Techno, all of my many women and admirers.”

“Tommy,” Techno grits. “Seriously. Watch the knife.”

Tommy takes a breath. Right. He’s got a job to do, here, a plan to follow.

It’s a bit…awkward, though. Oh Prime, what if Tommy can’t do it? What if Tommy tries to sound like a piglin, but he just sounds stupid instead? What if Techno realizes what Tommy is trying to do?

A rough sort of chuff sticks like peanut butter to the back of Tommy’s throat. It’s probably one of the easier sounds to make. Just a little…huff of air. Kind of. That can’t be too hard, can it?

Tommy takes another breath, deeper this time. Deep enough that on the down-breath, the chuff can go with it, and Tommy can—

The breath comes out sharp and ragged as Tommy’s finger suddenly starts to burn.

Tommy blinks, finally paying attention to what’s in front of him, and oh shit.

“Uh oh,” Tommy mutters, lifting his bleeding finger upwards.

At least it’s not terrible. Tommy will need a bandaid, surely, and it stings like hell, but at least Tommy can just wipe it away and—

And flinch backward as hooved hands reach out towards Tommy.

“Prime, man, what—”

What’s the matter, Tommy was going to say, but it dies in his throat as he looks upward.

Did he do it? He must have done it, must have gotten enough of the sound out, because Techno is leaning over him with dilated pupils and gnashing tusks. He snorts and whines as he takes Tommy’s finger, observing the red that drips down from it.

“Techno?” Tommy tries cautiously, even as Techno brings Tommy’s hand to a nearby tap. “Is it you, or have you gone all instinct-y again?”

Techno snorts and grunt. He runs Tommy’s finger gently under water. It’s not enough, apparently—he rummages through the cabinet until he’s got a roll of bandages, and he wraps a small amount around Tommy’s injury.

When they make it to Techno’s room, Techno tucks Tommy’s finger close to his chest. His hooved-hand stays pressed against Tommy’s neck.

Techno smothers Tommy with affection, and Tommy hurts.

It’s not the cut on his finger. It’s not the rough sting of marred skin or the tight pressure of bandages.

It’s this. It’s the safety of Techno’s arms, it’s the doting of Techno’s warm embrace and nosed-snuffles. It all hurts, all of it, because Tommy knows that this is the last time he can ever get it.

Now that he knows what causes Techno’s instincts, he’s got to be sure to never do it again. It must be annoying for Techno, to keep coming back to himself to see someone as pitiful as Tommy in his den. It’s got to be bothersome to keep sending Tommy off with his gold, again and again and again.

And Tommy knows it’s true, because when Techno’s instincts finally subside, he doesn’t apologize, or make a joke. He just stares. Longer than he usually does. Face more guarded than it usually is.

The silence is starting to choke Tommy, so he gets a few words out before it becomes suffocating. “You never got to eat. We left all that shit in the kitchen, Phil is going to be pissed.”

Techno stares. He blinks, slow, eyebrows furrowed.

Tommy’s heart stutters in his chest. “Honestly, Techno, I didn’t even get a chance to finish! I was making something for you, and you just…”

Techno’s eyes flick from Tommy’s face to his finger. His eyes darken. “Right.”

On unsteady legs, Tommy shifts off of the bed. “Well, I don’t know about you, but I’m still hungry. I’m going to go and—”

“The gold.”

Tommy looks back up. “Huh?”

Techno’s hooved-hand is out. “The gold, Tommy.”

Tommy falters. This is the first time Techno’s actually asked for it back. He doesn’t look disgusted, or…or mad, just…tentative.

“Yeah, sorry,” Tommy breathes. The metal is cold, but it’s impossible to feel under the rising heat of embarrassment Tommy feels as he hands it over. “Sorry, Techno, I didn’t mean to assume or anything.”

Techno stares at the gold in his palm for a long moment. Then, “Sure.”

Fuck. It doesn’t sound quite alright. Tommy’s about to open his mouth to spill more apologies, but Techno beats him to it.

“Alright. Get movin’, kid. Clean up the kitchen before Phil catches you.”

It’s a light send-off—a lighter send-off than Tommy thought he might be getting, when Techno had just been staring. When Techno had asked for the gold back. Still, Tommy can’t help the way his heart sinks to his soles as Techno’s door closes behind him. Because the door closes, and that’s…it. The last of Techno’s affection, the last sliver of love Tommy will ever be able to scrape up for himself. Gone, just like that. As if it never existed at all.

Tommy goes to bed and pretends he’s not being pulled into a black hole: cold, heavy, and miserably alone.

Techno had been the one to carry Tommy out, the day they took down the illegal ship. The day they took him. The day they saved him.

Tommy hadn’t gone easy—had refused to go easy, even if not consciously. He kicked and thrashed like a rabid animal. He screamed and screeched like a banshee. And then—when nothing worked, and Tommy was still held—he did the only thing he knows how to do: weep like a baby.

Techno carried him through it all. Through the kicking and thrashing; through the screaming and screeching; through the sobs and the hiccups of a boy, body limp and pliant—through the cries of a street-rat playing dead.

Yet, even through the fighting—even when Tommy was completely wild—Techno held him close to his chest. The touch had burned Tommy. He could hardly see, not with his eyes squeezed shut and burning with tears; he could hardly see, not when he finally gave up, and his head was tucked against Techno’s broad chest.

They hadn’t been able to understand each other. Techno couldn’t understand Tommy’s cries of Please, please, please, and whatever the hell Techno had grunted and chuffed back then, Tommy hadn’t understood either.

If Tommy had understood, maybe he would have savored the touch for what it was—protection. Warmth. Not love, not yet, and maybe not even now—but it wasn’t pain, for all that Tommy thought it had been. But that Tommy had been desperate for it to end. That Tommy had burned and begged to finally be put down, to finally be free.

This Tommy—the Tommy right now, wandering over a strange planet alongside his crew—is desperate for it.

Tommy’s past was fucked up. It was torture. It was pain, it was burning, it was screams and pleads and all-encompassing fear.

Tommy watches Techno’s back as they traverse dusty cliffsides, a sky of hazy orange sprawled above them, and wishes he were back to then. Not back to the experiments—not back to the cages. Just back to where Techno saved him. He wishes he could go back with everything he knows now. He wishes that he could go with Techno easily, and when Techno tucks him into his chest, Tommy would beg for something else: he’d beg to keep being held. He’d grip to the front of Techno’s shirt so tightly that once on the ship, there’d be no doubt that humans need affection. There’d be no question that humans need love.

Maybe, if Tommy had gone like that, he would’ve had it now. Maybe that would’ve been enough, and the endearment would’ve come as easily as Tommy had gone with them in this alternate reality.

It’s not the reality Tommy lives in.

The fourth time it happens, it’s an accident. Just like the first. A full circle.

This planet is completely empty, which means it’s also completely boring. The orange sky is atmospheric, sure, but he’s not Wilbur —the man can entertain himself by waxing stupid poetry about it, but that only serves to make it worse for Tommy.

“Can you write something not boring?” Tommy complains, draped over Wilbur’s wobbly shoulder. “Write something cool. Write about me. And all my women. And my money.”

One of Wilbur’s eyes blinks slowly. “You’re not cool, Tommy. And this isn’t boring. It’s literature, and it’s a unique composition, at that, so if anything, this is actually—”

“Oh my prime, don’t care,” Tommy grumbles, tossing himself off of Wilbur and bounding towards Techno instead. “Techno, when are we off of this boring-as-shit planet?”

Techno’s gaze only shifts from his tablet to Tommy for a moment. “Stay away from the edge, Tommy.”

Tommy groans, making sure to drag it out extra long and extra loud. “Phil is allowed to go near the edges.”

“Phil has wings. You don’t.”

“Okay, and?” Tommy throws his hands up dramatically. “Why couldn’t Phil just take me flying too?”

Techno’s eyes are already back towards his tablet. He shrugs, silent, and begins to slowly walk alongside the cliff.

“Has he ever taken you flying?” Tommy asks, bounding his way back to Techno’s side. He’s absolutely filled with energy. Energy that could be perfectly burnt off, thanks very much, if someone would actually do something with him. As of now, all of his energy goes towards bouncing on his feet, going in circles around Techno as he walks. “You could be like a fucking cannon ball.”

“The ledge, Tommy,” Techno grunts, and for just a second, he reaches out and tugs at Tommy’s arm, bringing him closer. The touch is warm, and Tommy’s breath catches, but it’s gone just a second after.

Techno’s hand drops back to his side, and Tommy’s heart falters and crumples in his chest so pitifully, it feels as though the ground beneath his feet falters and crumples in turn.

It’s lame and fucking shameful, and Tommy rushes to act normal again. “I think this is an unexplored market,” Tommy stutters, going right back to bouncing circles around Technoblade.

(He stumbles, once or twice, and he convinces himself it’s just the way his overeager feet trip over one another. It’s just the way his body tumbles over the eager terrain. It’s an accident, is all).

(It’s harder to convince himself when every stumble pushes him towards Techno. When every trip and almost-fall has him bumping against his frame).

“Phil would take you right up, and then drop you right back down.” Tommy trips. “It would be epic , man. It’d be like a fucking explosion, except for you’d be like a big-ass rock.” Tommy stumbles. “Like in the movies, where everything goes whoosh and there’s wind and a loud as shit boom as you—”

Fall.

Fall, just like Tommy, because this time, it truly is an accident. One foot slips, just slightly, and the ground beneath him falters. It crumples.

Tommy had thought it was all in his head before, but now—

This time, his heart doesn’t fall with it. It leaps out of his fucking throat, pounding and raging against his ribcage as Tommy starts to drop downward, fuck, fuck, he’s going to die, he’s going to die—

The fall is interrupted with a rough, screamed-grunt from Tommy as a hooved-hand grabs at his wrist. It hurts immediately—fuck, the pull of his arm and the grip of Techno’s hand burns and aches and stabs, but holy shit, he’s alive. He could have died. He really could have died, the cliffs are huge, and Phil is so far out, and Tommy was about to fall—

It’s impossible to stop the tears from welling up as Techno drags him up the rough cliff. It hurts, and more than anything, Tommy is scared. He’s pierced with a fear he’s forgotten about, a fear he hasn’t felt since he was crammed into cages, or strapped onto medical tables, or when he was taken from Earth in the damn first place.

But—again, again, again—Techno saved him. Techno saved him, and his hand is gripping to Tommy’s arm even as he shakes on solid ground. Tommy starts to stumble forward, because he’s been saved, he’s been saved, just like back then, just like when Techno cradled him like a child, and right now Tommy feels like one, Tommy is scared like one, and Techno—

Techno lets go of Tommy’s arm. When Tommy stumbles forward, Techno stumbles backward, away from Tommy’s reaching arms.

With a shaky breath, Tommy looks up.

Techno looks…bad. Bad, because Tommy can’t think of any other word to explain the way his tusks juts, his jaw grits, the way his eyes are wide and wonky, and usually, this would be the point where Techno holds him. The point where instincts take over, the point where Tommy is protected and safe and loved, but this time, Techno does none of that. He blinks, and he stares down at Tommy, and when he huffs, it sounds…angry.

When Techno finally speaks, it is in a low rumble. It’s simmering, teetering on pissed, but it’s dripping with a sort of disbelieving realization. “You’re doin’ it on purpose.”

Tommy freezes. He’s not even sure if he’s shaking anymore. “What?”

Techno takes another step back. His eyes squint further. “You’re tryin’ to push me into my instincts on purpose.”

Oh fuck.

“No,” Tommy breathes, quick and desperate; desperate to keep everything from falling, falling down and falling apart. “No, no! I wouldn’t, not—” It’s so different from before. Tommy trips, and he stumbles, but the words fall like deadweight to the ground. Techno might have saved him, but he can’t save them; he can’t save this. Not with his eyes flickering with a sort of heat, not with Techno burning guilt straight through Tommy’s heart like one of his blasters. “Not—not this time, I wasn’t—”

The rough stutter of truth only makes things worse. Techno’s face shifts, for just a moment, before it hardens with anger once more. He huffs, low and hot. “Instincts aren’t funny,” he growls. “They aren’t a joke, Tommy.”

“I know,” Tommy rushes, desperate to fix this while it’s still in front of him. “I know, I’m sorry—I’m sorry, Techno, I didn’t—I didn’t mean it, I didn’t know—”

None of the apologies, none of the excuses, end up mattering. Phil finally flies in, a single minute too late. Dust flies upward as Phil touches the ground, unaware of the thick air of tension he’s just flown into.

“Techno,” he calls, a bit startled by Techno’s flashing tusks. “What happened, mate?”

Techno just grunts before pushing past him. “We’re headin’ back.”

Tommy’s heart drops lower, lower, in his chest. He thought the fall from earlier was going to kill him, but this—

Tommy, shaking, desperate, falling, stumbles forward. “Techno, please, I’m sorry—”

It doesn’t end up mattering. Techno walks back to the ship, to his room, in silence.

He shuts the door with Tommy outside.

Tommy didn’t mean to. He didn’t, he didn’t, he just—he thought maybe—

He should have known. Tommy should have known better.

Good things come in three.

Bad ones come in four.

And Tommy is the worst of them all.

Tommy regrets every single time he’s ever cried himself to sleep over being unloved.

He’d been too stupid back then to be grateful for what he had. At least he had food. At least he had a home. At least he had a crew who liked him, even if he wasn’t loved.

Tommy doesn’t have that last one, anymore.

At least, not in the way he used to.

It’s been days, by this point. Techno still refuses to even look at him.

Even when they’re all together, Techno keeps his gaze forward, towards Wilbur, or Phil, but never towards Tommy. Any question is met with a low grunt. Any conversation is stopped with a leveled stare.

This conversation isn’t proving to be any different.

They’re in an empty stretch of space, so the ship moves ambiently on autopilot. They’re all in the sitting room, tucked into fabrics or seated on chairs. Tommy sits on the opposite end of the sofa as Techno and tries not to wilt when Techno huffs a low warning breath.

“Another band of thieves have been on the rise,” Phil is muttering, swiping a lazy talon over a flickering hologram. “They made another attack through the meteor-bend in Sector XI-Galx.”

“Really?” Wilbur says, leaning forward. “They must be traveling fast. Their last report said they were light-cycles away from there.”

Tommy shifts in his seat. “We should find them. We’d kick their ass!”

Wilbur’s body wobbles with obvious amusement. “Yeah, right. You’d be the first to go down.”

“Hey! That is simply not true!”

“It is! You’d be so annoying they’d go for you first—”

Tommy lunges forward, but Wilbur just manages to dodge out of the way. “You bastard! They’d kill you first, because you are so ugly. They’d want to get rid of your stupid, disgusting, hideous face—”

The two lunge and scramble around each other before Phil lets out a whistle. “Alright, alright. Settle down, you little shits.”

Tommy throws himself back into his seat with a hmph. “They’d go after you next, Phil. You’re old. They’d know it, too. They’d take one look at you and say, Oh! The horror! The elderly! We must put him out of his misery—”

“I am not—”

“But I wouldn’t have to worry about that, because I am very young and handsome and epic. I am too cool to be shot at, it simply wouldn’t work! I would just send the blasts right back.”

“O-kay, I don’t think—”

“And then Techno would come and beat the shit out of them. Right, Techno?”

The playful air gets put on ice as Tommy turns to look at Techno. The chill seeps down Tommy’s spine. The ice splays out uncertainly underneath Tommy’s pressing.

Techno, looking down at his own tablet, grunts.

The ice splinters. Tommy does his best not to falter.

“Maybe you could finally use one of those swords in the training room. Or you’d take them down and steal their blasters! Or you’d be so cool, you’d take them down with your bare hooves!”

Techno doesn’t respond. The air gets colder.

“Right?” Tommy pries weakly.

Techno just grunts again. It’s disinterested. It’s irritated. “Phil. Keep readin’ any news.”

The ice cracks. Tommy falls in.

It’s only more embarrassing that the others are here to witness it. Wilbur shoots him a pitied look, and Phil, after a moment of hesitation, begins to read something else.

Tommy sinks into the sofa cushions and pretends he isn’t drowning in the ice-cold of Techno’s resentment.

The desperation to make things right claws at Tommy’s chest consistently, constantly. It digs with the force of the sharpest sword, the hardest hooves, the most edged tusks.

It scratches his ribcage and tears at his heart. It hurts, hurts worse than being alone, or maybe being stuck in a cage.

He’d hurt Techno. He’d hurt Techno’s feelings, and fuck, he wants to fix it, he just doesn’t know how.

Tommy doesn’t follow Techno like a shadow. That would require him to be close to Techno, which Tommy…isn’t. He can’t be. Instead, he follows him like a mangy dog: desperate to be near, but too scared to get close. Especially when he knows Techno would get upset.

When he finds Techno in the ship’s greenhouse, he stays right in the greenhouse with him. Not next to him, of course, but across the room. He touches a few plants and pretends he’s helping. Techno ignores him as he actually does something—taking notes on plant growth, sprinkling a powder over some of the plants, trimming dead leaves and scraping off odd bits of growth.

“Can I help?” Tommy eventually asks, voice weak in its own hope.

Techno’s voice comes back low, unamused. “No.”

“Oh.”

Shit. Tommy’s running out of chances. It’s been over a week now, several cycles over. 

“What are you doing after this?” Tommy asks. There’s a bravado in his voice that certainly doesn’t stem from his chest. It’s fake and it hurts, but it’s steady and loud, which is what matters. “We should do something! Just—just us. Or everyone! We can all be there!”

Techno huffs. “Tommy,” he starts, but fuck, Tommy already knows that tone, already recognizes the low rumble of his breath.

“We can do anything you want!” Tommy adds on quickly. “Even if it’s boring. Like—like reading, or some shit. Or we can play a game, or…or train! Let’s train together, Techno, it’s been ages! We should—”

Techno’s eyes flick over to Tommy. They’re set in an ice-cold glare. “No.”

No. Tommy can’t really fight against that. Maybe once, maybe when they were okay. But the message is clear now.

“Alright,” Tommy mutters weakly, and Techno only huffs before turning back to his plants.

When Techno is done taking notes, he leaves without looking back towards Tommy even once.

There’s always been plenty that Tommy is bad at.

It’s just about everything. Tommy is bad at cooking, and Tommy was never very good at swimming. Tommy is bad at living on the streets, Tommy is bad at taking a punch. Tommy is bad at living, Tommy is bad at being lovable.

Tommy is bad at begging.

Which isn’t to say he never tries it—he does. He has. Frequently.

Tommy begged not to be abandoned. Tommy begged to be free when he was abducted and caged. Tommy begged to be released when he was strapped down and experimented on.

Tommy is not bad at the action, begging: Tommy could beg for the rest of his life. Tommy could beg with every single breath, beg until the only words that ever stumble their way out of his disgusting mouth is just please, please, please.

Tommy is bad at the result of begging: Tommy was tossed out of the house at the age of seven with nothing. Tommy was abducted and thrown into a cramped, cold cage of steel. Tommy was held down and tested again and again.

The begging has never worked. It’s never given Tommy more than pain.

The begging has never stopped. It’s the only thing Tommy knows how to do. The only thing he can do even half-right.

Begging with Techno is going to be hard—near impossible. Tommy knows it. Techno is strong, and his will is even stronger. If Techno doesn’t want to forgive Tommy, he won’t. If Techno wants to hurt Tommy, he will. If Techno wants to ignore Tommy forever—a fate far worse than any punch Techno could throw his way—he could. He would.

It’s not even love that Tommy wants, now. He just wants things to be normal. He doesn’t want to beg for love, or affection, or presents or touch or anything.

Please, Tommy wants to beg, I’m sorry. Don’t be mad. Please don’t be mad. Please know that I’m sorry.

If Tommy wants to show that he’s sorry, he’s going to have to try extra hard. Just the words won’t be enough. And Tommy doesn’t want it to be enough—he needs to put forth effort, he needs to show Techno that he truly is sorry.

In one of the storage rooms of the house, Tommy finds an old basket. It’s a simple thing, but Tommy wraps scrap pieces of fabric around the handle to make it look nicer. He takes every piece of jewelry and gold that Techno has ever given him and places it gently into the center of the basket.

It’s not enough. It’s pitiful, even. Looking at it makes Tommy feel stupid. It’s fucking shameful to look at, and Tommy knows it.

There isn’t a lot that Techno loves. Swords, plants, books, his family. None of those, Tommy can put into this basket. Techno already owns all of his books, just like he owns all of the gold Tommy is returning. If he already owns it, it’s not really a gift.

Which means that, as the ship docks in a busy trading planet, Tommy is more determined than he’s ever been.

The answer is obvious, really—he needs gold. He needs something shiny and grand enough for Techno. He needs a piece that Techno would feel worthy of having.

Tommy’s always enjoyed going to the market. It’s sullied, now, bogged down with the sick feeling swirling around his stomach, but he still gets ready as quickly as usual.

Humans aren’t exactly common in space. It means that Tommy’s got a special outfit for when they go out—a long cloak that covers his two arms and scrawny legs, mittens that hide his five-fingered hands, and a mask that goes over the entirety of his face, a veil spilling down the back and sides to cover his rounded ears and curled hair.

“You ready?” Phil asks once Tommy is suited up, and Tommy gives one solid, strong nod.

He’s ready. He’s very ready, because this is another one of the rare things that Tommy is good at:

Stealing.

Look, he’d love to take the ethical route and pay. If Tommy says he wants something, Phil is right there, depositing money into the vendor’s hands. But Tommy can’t let them know about this one. That would ruin the surprise! It would also ruin the thought—it wouldn’t really be a gift from Tommy, then, would it? Not if Phil was the one to pay—or, Prime forbid, if Techno was the unlucky sap who partnered with Tommy for this market trip. He can’t exactly make Techno buy gold for himself.

“Can I please go off on my own?” Tommy asks Phil, gripping onto his cloak. “Please? I’ll be right back, I promise!”

Phil’s head tilts with beady eyes. “Mate, you know it’s too dangerous out here for that. If someone figured out what you are—”

“Then I’ll take Wilbur!” Tommy rushes. “Come on,  Phil, we’ve been doing this ages! It’ll be fine!”

Phil looks skeptical. Techno looks even less pleased, even though his gaze sticks to the row of tents rather than Tommy himself.

“Wilbur? Would you be alright taking Tommy around?”

“As long as he doesn’t complain about which vendors I go to. I’ll be going to some of the paper ones, Tommy, I know you get bored at those ones.”

“That’s fine!” Tommy whines, because it is fine.

Because Tommy won’t even be there.

Wilbur always spends ages at the paper stalls. It doesn’t make any sense—it’s paper. Space-paper, sure, but they all look exactly the same. Who the fuck cares about thickness, or the way it might gleam in the sun?

Wilbur cares, is the answer, which usually pisses Tommy off. Today, though, it’s to his benefit.

Wilbur immediately becomes enthralled with the different textures of the papers below him, and Tommy uses that chance to slip away. Hell, he’ll probably be back before Wilbur is even done here. He won’t even know Tommy ever left.

It only takes a little to find the striped stall selling beaming golden jewelry. It gleams in the light of the planet’s sun. Jewels and gems glisten within the shining metal, and it’s perfect. At least one of these has to be good enough for Techno.

Tommy saunters over to the stall next to that one—some stall selling trinkets of glass. They’re interesting, sure, but Tommy looks down at them with vacant eyes. His focus is really on what’s in his peripheral.

The stall is about as busy as all the others. There’s only one vendor stood in the center. This will be easy, absolutely no problem. Tommy’s had enough experience swiping wallets, this can’t be that different.

It only takes a few minutes for the vendor to finally turn around. Tommy takes two steps to his left, reaching out nimble fingers to grab at a nearby necklace. He wraps quick fingers around it, shifting his pinky through a ring at the same time, bringing them both down to his pocket—

Then there’s smoke. At first, a haze, before it shifts and twists and forms and holy shit, it grabs at Tommy’s wrist.

The smoke finally materializes. “Thief ,” It hisses, and holy shit, Tommy has got to run.

He rips his hand out of the smoke’s grasp and sprints through the crowd. He gasps desperately for breath, ignoring the gasps and trills from other aliens, surely surprised to see a dark haze of smoke slithering through their bodies and between their feet, because holy shit, what the fuck is this thing? How was Tommy supposed to know they had invisible guards here?

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” Tommy breathes, shoving harshly past a group of people. He can’t see the smoke, can’t turn around, for Prime’s sake, can’t risk being slowed down, but he knows it's there. It’s there, and Tommy keeps running, and fuck, fuck, he is so fucking scared.

This could be it for him. If it catches Tommy, it’ll surely unmask him, and then what? Then Tommy is revealed as human once more. Then the smoke decides that his punishment for stealing is to be stolen himself. He’s going to be taken, the smoke is going to grab him and drag him into a ship, and Tommy will be helpless, Tommy will be fucking helpless—

He needs to find Wilbur—fucking scratch that, he needs to find Phil, he needs to find Techno. Wilbur won’t be able to do shit against the wisps of smoke that lick at Tommy’s heels.

Tommy wants to scream for them, wants to yell and cry out until they hear him, but fuck, what if that sets of Techno’s instincts? Tommy still doesn’t know what sounds he’s making that makes Techno all hazy-like, but fuck, it isn’t something Tommy can risk, not when he’s trying to make it all better.

The smoke makes a grab at his elbow, and Tommy bites down a terrified scream. It slips only as a whimper as Tommy scampers around a corner. The smoke’s got fucking claws or some shit—it tears at Tommy’s sleeve, and the familiar sting tells Tommy that he’s bleeding. He’s got no time to look, though, no time to do anything but immediately straighten himself and begin to sprint again.

It’s then that he sees them—all of them. Wilbur, and Phil, and Techno, and holy shit, Tommy needs to get to them now. Phil will be able to take the smoke, Wilbur can run him back to the ship, Techno—

It doesn’t matter. Tommy can’t think about whether Techno will help him or not. It doesn’t matter if he does, right now, just that someone does.

Tommy leans forward, trying to run even faster. He’s so out of breath, he doesn’t even know if he’s breathing or not. They’re still specks in the distance, but they’re getting closer, Tommy is getting closer, he’s panting and begging and close to crying but he’s almost there—

A smoky hand finally materializes around his arm, and Tommy can’t stop the scream that rips out of his mouth. It’s bad, especially with Techno right there, but fuck it, now that Tommy has screamed he can’t stop. “Help !” He screams, grunting with pain as he’s thrown to the planet’s floor. “ Help! Please, please, help, help—”

The weight on Tommy’s back dissolves to nothing in a matter of seconds. It’s not an opportunity Tommy wastes—he lunges forward, towards Wilbur, the only one in front of him. He sprints and runs until he reaches Wilbur’s arms, and then they’re both running. From further behind, Tommy can hear the pounding of heavy footsteps, and the rustling of thick feathers.

They all run until they finally reach the ship. Tommy is the first one to desperately scramble in, while the others pile in after him. Phil is the last one at the door—he flicks his wings outward, a gust of wind generating before being shoved out of the door—before Phil finally closes the hatch.

Wilbur’s already on the ground with Tommy. “Tommy?” He cries, crawling forward until he’s leaning over him. “Are you alright? Did he hurt you? Did he find out that you’re human?”

Tommy takes several gasping breaths. He’s okay. Holy shit, he’s okay. His crew helped him. They made it. Wilbur is right next to him. Even Techno is here, not quite leaned over, but still looking at him from above, tusks grinding and pupils blown.

Shit. Tommy failed. He had screamed, and now Techno was going all wonky again. Not yet, though—Tommy just needs to keep it from getting worse.

Tommy doesn’t know how long Wilbur tries to pry answers from him. The shock, the adrenaline, is still making his brain all fuzzy. All he can do is keep taking gasping breaths.

It’s not until Phil comes back that Tommy finally manages to hear. Phil has leaned over his face. Careful talons take the mask away from Tommy’s face. “Tommy,” Phil says, stern and quick. “You need to tell us if you’re alright. Do you need the medbay?”

No. No, he doesn’t, so Tommy shakes his head.

“You’re sure? There’s no cuts, no scrapes, nothing sprained or broken? Nothing?”

“Sure,” Tommy breathes, still catching his breath. “I’m sure.”

It should be a relief, but Phil’s face is still stern above him. “Does he know that you’re human?” Tommy takes another second to breathe, but it’s apparently too long, because Phil takes his face into his hands. “Tommy. This is important, does he know?”

“No,” Tommy quickly rectifies. “No, no, he doesn’t—he doesn’t, I promise.”

Relief only overtakes Phil’s face for a single second. Then it goes right back to scorn. “What the hell happened?” Phil asks.

“Yeah,” Wilbur says shakily. “You disappeared, Tommy! Where the fuck did you go? Was it on purpose? Did he scare you away? Grab you?”

Fuck. Shame rises hot and heavy in Tommy’s throat. Wilbur’s benefit-of-the-doubt only makes it worse, because no, Tommy wasn’t scared away. Tommy wasn’t grabbed, not then. He had left all on his own.

Slowly, Tommy shakes his head.

Phil’s face tilts. “Tommy,” he chirps in scorn. “So you walked away on purpose. We told you to stick with Wilbur for this exact reason.”

“I know,” Tommy breathes, and it just barely comes out as a whimper. “I know, I’m sorry.”

I’m sorry. I’m sorry. The apologies don’t stop. Neither does the begging. Tommy just can’t stop fucking things up.

“Why?” Techno grunts, and when Tommy looks up, Techno is finally looking at him. This was supposed to be a momentous moment—one of presents, and sorries, and maybe forgiveness. Instead, it just fucking stabs. Techno’s pupils are wide, but his eyes are set in a glare. “Why was he chasing you?”

It’s the first time Tommy realizes his fists are clenched. Clenched around his prize—pitiful, now. Worthless. Fucking stupid, as Tommy slowly opens his hand and gazes down.

Wilbur makes a noise of confusion next to him. Phil trills in disappointment.

Techno?

Techno takes one look at the gold, and his face hardens. His own hooves clench, and Tommy, for just a second, thinks he might hit him.

Techno doesn’t. He growls, low and angry, before turning away. He’s out of the room before Tommy can push a single sorry out of his mouth.

Shame rockets to the bottom of Tommy’s gut. It hurts. It hurts worse than the smoke’s tightened grasp. It hurts worse than being slammed to the ground.

Phil is scolding him, as Wilbur takes the gold from Tommy in haughty disbelief.

“Why would you steal this?” Phil is saying. “You don’t need it, Tommy. And you know that we give you money for these things—stealing? Running away from Wilbur? What has gotten into you? I can’t believe—”

Tommy takes the words as stones. Stones that settle just as the shame does: heavy, solid, unbreakable in the deep pit of his gut.

The sick stones of shame don’t leave Tommy. Not as he gets sent to bed that night. Not as he wakes in the morning, not as he stays for hours at his desk, one of Wilbur’s papers below him and a colorful tool in his hand.

If anything, the stones only feel worse as Tommy finishes up his crude drawings. He had tried to make them good—really, he had—but Tommy has never been good at art. He’s bad at it. Bad, like he is at everything. Bad, like he is inside.

Still. This is Tommy’s last resort. There’s nothing he can do after this, not with Techno upset with him, not with the rest of his crew now equally exasperated. Now they knew they had a thief. One that steals gold. One that steals food. One that steals love like he owns it, like he deserves it, even when he doesn’t.

Tommy places the paper into the basket, alongside the gold. It looks fucking stupid. But Tommy doesn’t have anything else. He came with nothing. Everything he owns—everything he’s ever been given—has been stolen. Stolen from his crew, because even if they gave it willingly, it’s not something Tommy ever earned.

This will have to do. It won’t be enough to change Techno’s mind, but maybe it’ll be enough that Techno doesn’t hate him. Maybe he’ll just…dislike him. Or maybe he’ll just continue to ignore him, acting as though he never existed. And it would hurt, Tommy would curl into himself and cry for what he lost, but at least he wouldn’t be hated. At least Techno wouldn’t continue to be hurt in turn.

It’s late, by the time Tommy finally slinks out of his room. He didn’t want to risk running into anyone before running into Techno. They would see the basket in his hands, and they would ask about it, and Tommy wouldn’t be able to give an answer good enough. He wouldn’t have an answer that didn’t root himself to the floor in a weighted shame.

It’s only a small mercy that Tommy is successful in not seeing anyone on his way to Techno’s room. A larger mercy would be that Tommy’s basket wasn’t pitiful and tragic—or maybe that Tommy was never selfish in the first place, and it wasn’t needed at all—but tonight, Tommy will take anything that he can get.

He only hesitates a moment before knocking at Techno’s door. His hands are shaking. He grips onto the basket tighter and tighter, until they finally stop.

The few moments it takes for Techno to open the door are devastating. Tommy runs through his apologies in his head over and over, and he vows to himself, and to the Techno in his mind, that he’ll never do anything like this again. He’ll take the loneliness. He’ll take the hatred. Just as long as Techno knows he’s sorry. Just as long as Techno isn’t hurt by Tommy anymore.

Then Techno’s door slides open.

He seems a little startled by Tommy on the other side. Maybe he was expecting someone else—certainly not Tommy, and shit, maybe it was a bad idea to do this at Techno’s room. He’s only ever been in during Techno’s instinct-hazes. Shit, shit, Tommy knew this was a bad idea, fuck—

“Um—” Tommy grits his teeth. Fuck. “Hi, Techno. I, uh…Really, I just wanted to say, um…”

Techno’s eyes are steely as they flicker from the basket to Tommy. He grunts, and Tommy doesn’t know if it’s in anger or warning.

“Right,” Tommy breathes. Fuck, he’s ruining this. He needs to get it together, he needs to stop acting like such a desperate baby. “Techno, I just wanted to say that I…I’m sorry. I’m really sorry, Techno.” Tears begin to burn at Tommy’s eyes in an angry heat, but he presses his eyes shut as tight as he possibly can. Crying would only make it worse. “I—I was wrong, and I—”

Tommy’s rehearsed this apology a thousand times over. He’s picked words and got rid of others, placed them carefully before rearranging them again. It never did much. Not when the entire speech was mostly just I’m sorry, which sounds pitiful and stupid no matter which way you turn it. Still, Tommy had tried, had lied in bed until his head hurt, making sure it was the best it could be.

It doesn’t end up mattering. Not when the lights in the ship suddenly dim with a low vrmm sound, the hallway is sent into pitch darkness.

Then the lights go red. They pulse on and off, a sort of siren. A sort of alarm.

“Oh, shit,” Tommy breathes, and for the first time in weeks, for just a single second, the instincts-situation slips right out of Tommy’s mind. Really, everything slips out of his mind, aside from those two words. Oh, shit.

Then Techno shifts from behind him, and everything comes pounding forward at once.

“Tommy,” he grumbles, pushing past Tommy and shoving him into the room. “Stay here.”

“What?” Tommy cries. A little too loud, because Techno immediately turns and huffs out a warning hush. “No way,” Tommy says, a bit more quiet. “Something is happening, I can’t just—sit it out.”

“You can,” Techno growls, shoving Tommy back into the room again. “Let us handle this.”

“And let you all be killed? No way, Techno, I have to help too—”

Techno’s tusks come down, and Tommy flinches backward.

Techno pauses. It’s hard to tell what’s happening in the dim light. The light flashes red. Techno’s gaze is stern, and…

The light goes dark again.

“Stay,” Techno grunts.

Tommy does. The door slides shut as Techno leaves. The room is dark as Tommy is left alone.

The basket in his hands is suddenly insignificant.

It doesn’t matter if Techno accepts the basket or not. Not when he could be in danger. Not when they all could be in danger.

It could have been the lights that made Techno’s pupils blown, just now. Maybe he isn’t a step away from falling into his instincts.

Maybe isn’t good enough for Tommy, and especially right now.

If Techno falls into his instincts, who knows how everyone will fare. Techno will be too busy fussing over Tommy to look after them—to look after himself.

Tommy can’t let that happen. And if he argued with Techno—if he fought to stay by his side—it’s what would have happened, because if there’s one thing Tommy can’t do, it’s shut the fuck up.

He had already tried it with the smoke-alien at the market, but the second he was caught, he still made sounds.

If whatever danger is on the ship catches him?

Tommy will just have to be extra careful. He’ll just have to be extra silent.

Especially if I’m sneaking out, Tommy thinks, waiting two minutes, three, before pressing a button and sliding Techno’s door open once more.

The hallway is still flashing red. It’s hard to see, but Tommy’s familiar enough with the ship that he doesn’t quite need the light. He just needs to think of where to go now.

The first thing that comes to mind is a weapon. For all that humans are feared out in space, Tommy knows better than to trust his own resilience. It hadn’t helped the first time he was abducted. It hadn’t helped the many, many times after that.

He needs something to protect himself—more than that, he needs something to hurt others. It’s unknown what exactly made its way onto the ship, but Tommy is willing to bet everything he owns that they have weapons of their own.

Lights still pulsing, Tommy slips his way into the hallway and into the darkness. He stays pressed against the wall. Every step is light. His pinky finger brushes lightly against the wall as he walks.

The training room should be just down the curved hallway. Tommy slinks closer and closer, before stopping with a cringe.

The training room door is already open. There’s the sounds of bustling and murmuring from inside.

None of it is heavy hoofsteps, or the rustling of feathers, or a low, trilling hum.

Fuck. Intruders. Tommy knew it.

Carefully, on one of the light’s pulses, Tommy risks peeking his head inside.

It takes a good few flashes for Tommy to get a good picture of what’s in front of him.

There are only three dark silhouettes in the room. They seem to be investigating the place—or ransacking it, maybe. There’s not a lot in the room to begin with, but they empty out barrels of training swords and look beneath the mats.

Fuck. It’s going to be near impossible to get something in here. The few blasters that the room has are tucked near the three aliens. That really only leaves…

Tommy narrows his eyes and stares across the room.

The swords. The real ones, the ones that Techno refuses to let Tommy use.

Well. If there ever was a time to start using one, it’s now. Besides, Techno is already upset with him—this can’t make it that much worse.

Slowly, Tommy slips into the training room. He sticks close to the walls, shuffling quietly in the opposite directions of the aliens.

He’s just got to make it across the room without getting caught. The only thing in his path is the obstacle course, tucked between its own high walls and individual lanes. It’s easy enough to pass, though. Tommy will just go around it, still tucking himself to the walls, and everything will be just—

“Hey!”

Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck—

Fuck going around, and also fuck these aliens, because they are fast. Tommy is scrambling into the obstacle course before he can second-guess himself.

The point of an obstacle course is that it's difficult to get through. And that’s when there’s light.

Tommy can only see when the dim lights flash red. There are several tall pillars, scattered and random in front of the way.

It’s pure instinct that leads Tommy through the maze. This is their maze, this belongs to his crew, and so Tommy weaves through the beams with minimal problems. He only winces as his elbow slams carelessly into one of the pillars.

Behind him, he hears a loud smack, and a subsequent gargle.

Great. One alien-bastard down—two more to go.

Tommy slips past the final beam and shoots ahead. Now, the floor gets tricky. There are several elevated platforms scattered across the floor. There’s nothing but a thick water keeping the platforms afloat.

Shit. These platforms move. Tommy can’t go as carelessly between these ones, he’ll just have to—

Jump anyway , because there’s a screech from behind him, and holy shit, Tommy is going to die.

The light flashes red and Tommy hops to the first wavering platform. It shifts and sways under his feet, and though the water won’t hurt him, it would certainly slow him. The light flashes, and Tommy hops again.

Tommy gets about two more light flashes and two more hops before the alien finally seems to realize what’s happening. Then they’re both hopping, jumping from platform to platform as fast as they can.

Tommy’s about halfway through the platforms already, but the alien is quickly gaining on him, fuck, fuck—

The next time the light flashes, Tommy takes a step back before flinging himself forward. He skips one of the nearby platforms, hurtling towards one further away. He just barely makes it—his feet dip in the viscous water below, but he’s quick to tug himself fully onto the platform.

At the end of the floating platforms is a tall wall. There’s a few different ways to get up—a single, long rope dangles from the top (for Wilbur), and several stones scatter throughout the wall (for Techno).

Usually, Tommy climbs the rope. It’s a good workout, and it’s fun, and he gets to tease Wilbur for being slower at it than him.

Right now? Tommy scrambles to grab at the stones poking out of the wall.

He’s a bit too eager. The platform underneath his feet starts to slip backwards as he slips forward. With a muttered curse, Tommy clenches onto the nearest stone and drags the platform back beneath his feet. Finally, with a mostly-solid ground beneath him, Tommy climbs.

Tommy doesn’t have time to wait for flashes in the dark. His hands move frantically against the wall, gripping onto anything that will bring him closer to the top. His feet move frantically in turn, trying to find any stone that he can use to push himself upward.

It’s not the cleanest method—hell, it’s hardly a method at all, mostly just the desperate scrambling of a dying dog—but Tommy is making it. The top of the wall is practically in arms reach, Tommy just needs to stretch—

One of his feet lifts off of the stone, and, in turn, a tight grip grabs it.

A scream catches in Tommy’s throat. He refuses to let it out—knows what could happen if he screams gutturally and Techno hears—but the grip of his left hand just manages to slip in surprise.

He falls slack against the wall, holding on with only one hand and one foot.

Get off! Tommy yells in his head, desperately scrambling to grab ahold once more of the stone above him.

Kicking the grabbed-foot, Tommy swipes for the stone above him. The alien tugs harder at his ankle, and Tommy’s swipe misses. He tries again, reaching and reaching for the stone before—

There.

Tommy’s fingers curl around the rough stone, and then both of his feet are lifted off of the lower stones. Tommy rears back his free foot and kicks it downward, right into that stupid alien’s face.

It screams and cringes backward, but it’s still holding on.

Tommy kicks, again and again, harder and harder, until finally, the alien’s grip slips. He falls right into the water, and—

There’s a gurgling as the alien hits the water. The light flashes, and Tommy can see that it’s face down in the water.

Fuck. It’ll probably die like that—they’re wearing masks, it’s not like Tommy can see their features.

Tommy doesn’t have time to do anything about it. The alien could die, sure, but it’s a stupid fucking alien that broke onto his ship anyway. It doesn’t matter, not when Tommy’s own crew could be in danger right now.

Tommy shakes his head, finally pulling himself to the top of the wall.

All that’s left to do is slide back down to the floor. Tommy had teased them originally for having, essentially, a piece of playground equipment to round off their course, but Tommy is so fucking grateful for it now. He practically throws himself down the slide, his momentum sending him flying out and—

And out towards the third alien.

Tommy bites down a shout as a blast of light shoots past his head. He’s going too fast, it zips by his ear but doesn’t hit. The alien is still near the bottom of the slide, running closer, closer—

Tommy ducks himself down and flies underneath the arms of the alien. It’s a quick tumble to get upright, scrambling towards the sword on the wall. Another blast just barely skims Tommy’s ear, but he tilts himself just enough to evade it, he’s just got to keep running—

Again —because prime, why does this shit keep happening to him—Tommy’s ankle is grabbed. This grab sends Tommy flying to the floor, landing with a harsh oomph. Nothing more, though, Tommy makes sure of it; the man points his blaster right at Tommy’s forehead, but Tommy twists his body, the blast burning into the floor. Tommy reaches up and grabs at the gun, pushing it just out of the way as a second blast strikes. The alien’s rises before kicking down harshly at Tommy’s chest. Tommy’s teeth clack and grit and jump, anything to keep himself from calling out. It hurts— hurts as the alien sends another harsh kick to Tommy’s ribcage, and he feels his teeth go through something. He can’t tell if it’s his tongue or his lip—impossible to tell, when all he can feel is the adrenaline surging through him.

The alien lifts his foot to send another kick downward, but Tommy isn’t having it. Tommy rolls out from underneath the lifted foot, shoving the alien as he goes, before scrambling his way back to the wall. His fingers just manage to grasp the sword before he’s already whipping around, sword swinging wildly, dangerously.

One of the blasts hit the blade and ricochets backward. A shocked trill rings through the air, replaced by a gurgling as Tommy’s sword stabs through the alien’s middle.

Tommy slides the blade out with a gasp. The alien falls limp to the floor.

“Fuck,” Tommy breathes, before immediately wincing again. Thick blood drips from his mouth to his chin. The sting of the bite is gruesome. Fuck, it’s a little hard to breathe, too. The blood is pouring out somewhere by his mouth, and he keeps accidentally swallowing it as he tries to breathe.

Whatever. It doesn’t matter, not now. Tommy can’t afford to falter. Not yet, not when the lights are still flashing in warning, and Tommy’s crew is still in danger.

Tommy steps past the downed alien and heads back to the hallway.

His crew could be anywhere. These aliens could be anywhere. Tommy steps cautiously, eyes sweeping back and forth each time the red light spurs on.

Tommy is almost to the control room when he finally hears voices.s. He slows his steps, making them careful, cautious, soundless.

It’s risky to peek his head out. But the end of the hallway leads into the room, and Tommy can just barely keep himself pressed against the hallway wall.

In the end, it’s not his head that almost gives him away—it’s the gasp he hardly manages to press back down.

All three of his crew members are kneeled to the ground. It’s hard to see if they’re alright, in the still-flashing red light. The light flashes, and Tommy can see the outline of a dark mark blossoming around one of Wilbur’s eyes. The light flashes, and Tommy can see a thick, gleaming liquid oozing down Phil’s wings. The light flashes, and Tommy can see Techno, tusks permanently bared, heated eyes glaring molten lava into his captors.

The light flashes and Tommy can see the captors, too. Three other aliens. They each hold blasters downwards, pointed towards the death-spot of each member of his crew. Another flash of light reveals a fourth one, rummaging around the control board.

The captors’ backs are to Tommy. His crew faces him, but in the dark—staring up at the glowing barrel of a laser blaster—they don’t notice Tommy. They don’t see him just yet.

No one does.

The sword weighs heavily in Tommy’s hand. It’s not Tommy’s preferred weapon—fuck, he should have taken the blaster from one of the downed aliens earlier. It’s too late to turn back, though. Even if it wasn’t, Tommy looks at the beaten state of his crew—his friends— and doesn’t think he could ever get himself to turn away from this.

“—hurry up, I’m sick of these lights flashing,” one of the captors says, and the gun twitches in his grip as he complains.

The alien at the control board groans. “I’m tryin’, alright? Prime, give me more than two spins…”

The alien continues to tinker and flip through switches.

The others continue to stand in stony silence, blasters pointed towards the others.

Backs towards Tommy’s blade.

Tommy shifts, just a single centimeter forward. The lights flash, and Tommy only lets his eyes slip to his crew one more time.

The light flashes.

Techno’s eyes flicker towards him.

It goes dark.

The light flashes.

Techno stares at Tommy with shock, and above all, dread. Tommy can only imagine what he looks like, favoring one foot, a glistening liquid dripping from his mouth down to his front.

It goes dark.

The light flashes.

Techno’s head is turned back towards the ground, eyes flashing. His movement is small, but Tommy still sees it: the barest flick of his head, barely half of a shake. Still, the message is clear. Don’t.

It goes dark.

Tommy sprints out.

The light flashes.

Tommy—successful now, for the first time, wills the blade to arc swiftly through the air, and lands through the back of the nearest alien.

It goes dark.

A blast is sent through the darkness, but it doesn’t hit Tommy. The room has erupted into chaos: Tommy can’t see it, but he can hear it.

The light flashes.

Everyone is standing now, and Phil is attempting to wrestle one of the aliens towards the ground. Wilbur is on the ground, tugging at a blaster pointed towards his face. Techno is running, away and towards the control board, where the other alien stands.

It goes dark.

The sound of tussling continues into the darkness. Grunts and trills and yells, and Tommy, unsure of where everyone is, stays in his spot on shifting feet.

The light flashes.

Phil and his captor are on the floor now. They still wrestle against each other, flipping and rolling as they try to get a desperate grasp on one another.

Techno’s almost got a handle on the alien by the control board. They’re head to head, snarls and growls echoing throughout the room.

Wilbur is struggling underneath the feet of his captor. He flickers and wobbles, and then he’s pulling himself outward. His captor makes a frustrated noise and fires a beam towards Wilbur.

It goes dark.

The beam of light must miss. Wilbur screams, but it’s more of a startled-yell than a hurt one. There’s a resounding bang as someone at the control board gets thrown down.

The light flashes.

Tommy’s eyes immediately flick to the control board. Techno—thank the stars—is the one left standing, panting over the body of the intruder.

Phil’s got his alien pinned, sharpened talons coming down to slash at their neck.

Wilbur is free—free and fine, mostly, except for his face. He looks upon the alien he just escaped from in horror.

Tommy follows Wilbur’s gaze towards his captor and freezes.

Their blaster is pointed right at the center of Tommy’s chest.

It goes dark.

There’s a whrrr sound as the blaster quickly heats up. Tommy hardly has time to take a gasping breath.

The light flashes.

And there—just as the alien is beginning to tug the trigger—is Techno, pounding towards the alien’s side.

It goes dark.

A thud and subsequent crash bangs through the darkness. Then there’s another harsh thud, and another, and another, quick and heavy.

The light flashes. Techno’s hooves pummel down at the alien below. The intruder isn’t even moving anymore. Phil moves hastily towards Techno. Wilbur rushes unsteadily towards the control board.

It goes dark.

Then, it goes light—really light this time, a fluorescent white that alights the room.

“—can stop, Techno, you can stop,” Phil says harshly. Techno’s got the intruder pinned below him still, but he finally draws back. His chest heaves from where he kneels. For once, Tommy is glad the intruders are wearing a mask—the alien’s face looks…misshapen beneath it, but Tommy doesn’t know how.

It’s all Tommy can do to take heaving breaths too. The air feels too thick to move in. The tension is too stretched to risk cutting.

Techno grunts, low, rumbling with an edging growl.

Then Techno’s head turns towards Tommy.

His pupils are blown to the edge of his eyes.

Tommy’s heart shatters in his chest. It tears apart, like the blaster really had shot his chest all along. There’s a moment where Tommy’s fingers twitch, almost tempted to feel upwards and see, because Techno is in his instincts, and Tommy’s chest burns.

“Techno,” Tommy breathes, and that’s all it takes for Techno to push himself upwards. “No, no—Techno, don’t—”

No matter how hard Tommy tries to push Techno away, Techno isn’t having it. He pushes past Tommy’s swatting hands. He continues to step forward for every step back Tommy takes.

“Techno,” Tommy says, trying to sound stern, but the words come out shaky and wet. He acts like it’s from the blood dripping from his lips, rather than the sob that threatens to drip out right next to it. “Stop, man, just—” Techno reaches out with a gentle grunt, and Tommy reaches out his own hand and smacks his arm. “Wake up! You’re just—you’re not—I’m sorry, I didn’t—”

Horrifyingly, for the first time since this whole day started, tears begin to drip down Tommy’s face. Techno seems absolutely distressed by it. He begins grunting in earnest, finally pushing past Tommy’s hands and wrapping him into his arms.

“Techno, please—”

Tommy hiccups, but Techno isn’t hearing any of it. Techno bends down and wraps an arm around Tommy’s knees, and—just like that—Tommy is cradled once again.

Tommy sobs so hard, some of the blood pooled in his mouth spatters outward.

Techno saved him—again. Tommy doesn’t deserve it—again.

And as Techno holds him, almost running towards one of the healing pods, Tommy pleads—again, again, again.

“Please,” Tommy whimpers, gripping onto Techno’s shirt with a conflicted grip. He tries to push himself away, but his fingers clench hard enough that no one could ever rip him away. “Please, Techno, you’re going to be so mad. You’re going to be so upset, please just wake up—”

Techno places Tommy gently on one of the examining tables.

“Come on, Techno, just come back already—”

A forehead knocks against Tommy’s own. It’s gentle, even though Techno should be anything but. Even though he will be anything but, once he finally comes back to himself.

Then Techno is pulling away, and one of the machines overhead starts to scan Tommy.

It only takes a moment before another machine swoops down, and Tommy can hardly hold himself still enough for the precise laser of light to beam at his lip.

The clean-bite through his lip comes back together, effectively sealing the wound. It’s not bleeding anymore, but it still hurts like hell. Yet, not as bad as it hurts when Techno rounds the table once more, picking up Tommy as though he’s a small child and continuing to make his way down the hall.

“I shouldn’t be here,” Tommy stutters as Techno approaches his bedroom door. It’s only been…maybe an hour since Tommy last knocked on Techno’s door? Fuck. And here he was again.

“Seriously,” Tommy argues as Techno places him onto the bed. His stupid basket is sitting on the other side. Fuck. Fuck this. “You’re going to be mad. You’re going to be so mad at me, Techno.” The words are hard to press out over the tears. They’re frustrating, and Tommy tries to push them back down, but he can’t. Not when Techno brings a rag and begins wiping at the blood down his chin. “You’re going to be so mad. You’re going to hate me, Techno, you’re just…”

Techno places the dirtied rag on his bedside table. He gets up, only to return with a handful of more fucking jewelry.

“No!” Tommy grits, trying to push it away. “I have enough ! I shouldn’t have any of it, Techno, it’s yours. It’s yours, I don’t…I don’t deserve it, please.”

Instinct-Techno doesn’t listen. He keeps snorting and chuffing until finally, Tommy is too weak to deny it any longer. He lets a golden necklace fall around his collarbones like a noose. It is one, because Tommy is surely dead after this. Maybe not literally, but Techno will wake up, and he’ll see what Tommy has done. Tommy didn’t mean to—he tried so hard not to, he could have sworn he didn’t—but Techno won’t believe that. He’ll shun Tommy forever, and that’ll be a death within and of itself. The death of a friendship. The death of what Tommy once knew.

The thought brings more burning wetness to Tommy’s eyes.

Techno chuffs, chuffs, chuffs. His head comes down and presses against Tommy’s, and then he’s shifting to sit alongside Tommy.

They’re both seated, now. Tommy is all healed-up. There is nothing to be saved from.

Techno drags him into his chest anyway.

There isn’t any sort of dramatic sob, this time around. Just silent, dreaded tears. It’s salt in the wounds—it all is. Every single second of this. Because holy shit, Tommy doesn’t deserve this, Tommy tried so hard to keep this from happening.

But Tommy is also so scared.

He almost died. He almost died several times, he could have been grabbed and beaten just like his crew was. Or maybe it would have been worse than that—maybe they would have kept him. Shit, they could have kept him, and then Tommy would be all alone and hurt and scared.

Techno’s touch is all-encompassing, all-protecting. It soothes his fear like a crackling fireplace.

Techno’s touch burns like acid. It burns like a blaster, pointed right towards Tommy’s chest. It burns like a house-fire. A heat that brings down Tommy’s entire life. That threatens to bring him down with it.

Tommy doesn’t deserve this, and Tommy is scared, and the fear keeps him completely still in Techno’s hold. Even as Techno leans back, just slightly. Even as his eyelids start to flutter, and he lets out a few panting snorts.

Even as Techno comes back to himself.

Now, he’ll see Tommy. He’ll see how he fucked up.

But maybe this is when Tommy can make it right. Techno will hate him, and Techno will be so angry, but Tommy will let him be angry. He’ll let Techno do whatever he wants, as long as it proves he’s sorry. There’s no amount of pain Techno could inflict that would be worse than the pain of Techno’s hatred. There isn’t. Tommy would know.

Tommy stays as still as a deer facing headlights. The danger is right in front of him. Tommy knows it might kill him. He knows it will hurt. He stays anyway.

Techno presses his lids shut one last time, before finally opening hazy eyes. His chest rises and falls in even breaths.

Tommy’s chest stays completely still. He doesn’t take a single breath, not even as Techno lets out one last soft, rumbling chuff. Even as his eyes slide upward, towards Tommy’s own. Even as Techno, for a moment, just stares.

Tommy waits for the scorn. He’s ready for it. He’s deserving of it.

Techno takes a breath. Then—slowly, letting his eyes fall back shut—he leans forward. His forehead knocks gently against Tommy’s own.

That’s when Tommy finally takes a breath. It’s a short, soft gasp, because this…

Tommy doesn’t understand. He doesn’t know what’s going on, so he resorts to the one thing he knows how to do.

“I’m sorry,” Tommy breathes, not daring to move away from Techno’s own pressing forehead. “I’m sorry, Techno, really, I didn’t mean to—”

With a frown, Techno shifts backward. It’s not by much. He still keeps Tommy wrapped loosely in his arms. But his head goes back, just slightly, just so his eyes can survey Tommy’s face once more.

Techno’s frown deepens as his eyes catch on Tommy’s lip. Maybe it’s scarred, or stained red. Or maybe, Techno is deciding that it is certainly not enough to make up for Tommy’s misdeeds.

“Sorry, sorry, I’m sorry, I tried to be quiet, and then I tried to stop you, I swear—”

“Does it hurt?”

The words tumbling out of Tommy’s mouth come to a rough halt. “Huh?”

A hooved-hand comes up to lift Tommy’s chin into the light. “You were injured.”

Tommy blinks, his lashes fluttering with the force of uncertainty. “Y—yeah.”

“It doesn’t hurt anymore?”

Silently, as unsteady as if he were on stilts, Tommy shakes his head.

Techno grunts. Only after Tommy gives confirmation does he finally let go of Tommy, rising to his feet.

Tommy doesn’t know which is worse—the betrayal that Techno no-doubt feels, or the lingering warmth from the last shred of affection Tommy will ever receive.

There’s a moment where Techno just stares. Neither speak—Tommy just anxiously awaits the final judgment. Techno stares, surveying, and then his eyes…slide. They flicker to the other side of the bed and stall there, and when Tommy looks over, he realizes his stupid apology basket is on full-display.

Tommy watches breathlessly as Techno picks out the piece of paper.

“That’s…that’s you,” Tommy explains warily. “Looking all cool and shit.”

It’s supposed to be, anyway. It’s not very good. But Tommy had been sure to draw him with lots of swords and explosions, with glinting eyes and sharp tusks.

Techno glances over it. For just a second, his lip tugs upward. Then he flips the page over, and any hint of a smile immediately falls.

“That’s me saying sorry,” Tommy says weakly.

It’s a pitiful drawing: a small, cartoon Tommy, with a large frown and a big sorry written above him.

Techno stares at that one for a long time. Longer than he stared at the drawing of himself.

Finally—after what feels like an eternity—Techno puts the paper down onto the bed. He only glances at the gold within the basket before stepping back, arms crossed.

“Alright, kid,” he grunts. “Talk.”

It’s permission, but Tommy takes it as what it really is: a demand. Techno hasn’t even hurt him, but already, Tommy feels like someone has taken to kneeling on his chest. The apologies come out at the same time his breath does. “I’m sorry. Techno, I’m sorry, I didn’t—I tried so hard not to set off your instincts this time, I’m sorry, I’m really sorry, I don’t know what happened, I’m—”

Techno holds up a hooved-hand. Any more apologies catch and wither on Tommy’s tongue.

“Okay,” Techno rumbles. “Start over. Let’s start over.”

Tommy doesn’t understand. It feels like he’s been flung around in a sort of tornado. He feels woozy, confused. “I—I’m sorry—”

“Stop. I’m not askin’ for apologies, Tommy. I’m just askin’ for an explanation.”

An explanation. Tommy doesn’t know if he has one of those. Not one that doesn’t sound stupid as fuck. Not one that doesn’t bare the truth like an open wound. Not one that wouldn’t leave Tommy vulnerable and aching.

But Techno is hurt, and that matters far more than any of Tommy’s hurt.

When Tommy doesn’t get his words together in time, Techno starts. “Why were you pullin’ me into my instincts?”

Tommy takes a breath. It travels like stones down his throat, and his words come up like knives in turn. “I…I’m sorry.”

“Kid.”

“I know, I know, I…I was just…stupid. And selfish.”

“Instincts aren’t some kind of joke, Tommy.”

“I know,” Tommy whines, “I know, I…I lied.”

I lied. I lied .

Start over, Techno had said. Start from the beginning.

So Tommy’s got to start from the very beginning.

“I…sometimes, humans…sometimes, humans do need touch. Um. Or, not need—I don’t need shit, really, I promise,” Tommy is quick to rectify. “We just…want it, sometimes.” Tommy withers into himself. “ I want it sometimes. Even though I haven’t done anything to deserve it. So after the first time, I just…I just wanted to see what made it happen.” Tommy looks upward quickly, frantically. “But I didn’t mean to after that, I swear! I promise, I know I didn’t earn it, I—I didn’t mean to—to scream, or squeal, or whatever sets your instincts off. I didn’t mean to sound like a piglin, I promise, Techno.”

Techno’s eyes narrow. “Sound like a piglin?”

Fuck. It’s embarrassing, and it’s shameful, and Tommy nods miserably. “I tried being quiet, I swear. I was just—I wasn’t expecting it, when I fell. And when the shadow grabbed me. And today…” Tommy’s tongue runs subconsciously over the inside of his lip, feeling alongside the leftover scar. “I tried, really. I tried really hard, I didn’t think…I didn’t think I made any noises, but I must have, because you…”

Techno stares at him for a long, long time. Even after Tommy trails off and begins to wilt once more, Techno’s eyes continue to take in his face.

Then, Techno…snorts. Not a piglin snort—a laugh. Short, low. “You don’t sound like a piglin, kid,” Techno grunts.

The universe stops spinning. Everything is in orbit all of the time, but for just a second, Tommy is certain everything stands perfectly still. “Huh?”

Techno’s shoulders roll back uneasily. “You sound more like Phil, than anything. Always…chirping around.”

That…doesn’t make sense. “That doesn’t make sense,” Tommy utters, the words strung together decisively as they leave his mouth. “Then why…?”

Techno sighs. His head tilts, eyes finally leaving Tommy and instead resting aimlessly on his apology-basket. “Piglins are…very instinctual. More than most species. We’re group-oriented. And we’re protective of what we have.” Techno huffs. “And what we have is our group. Our sounder. Not siblings, really, but…family. Brutes are the biggest. They’re responsible for the protection of their group. Especially for the protection of the little ones.” Techno’s eyes flicker back towards Tommy. “Like our shoats. And our runts.”

That, at least, makes sense. It’s a hurtful final piece of the puzzle, but one that Tommy had been expecting. One he’d been suspecting all along. Tommy doesn’t deserve affection, but maybe a random, young piglin would.  “Your instincts think I’m a shoat,” Tommy mutters. “Or—or a runt, or whatever.”

Techno frowns. “My instincts think that you’re you. That’s enough.”

That doesn’t make sense either. “Enough for what?” Tommy bites weakly. “I’m not—I was tricking you, Techno, you thought…I thought that you thought…”

Techno frowns and, horrifyingly, goes back to sitting on the bed. He’s not touching Tommy, but he’s close. Like he could reach out, if he wanted to, but Tommy’s been tricking his instincts into thinking he’s a shoat, and he’s just a stupid human, so Techno would never…

“Kid. I never thought you were anyone but yourself. That was the problem.”

Hearing the words hurts just as bad as Tommy knew they would. The problem. Tommy has always been the problem. He wants to implode, he wants to curl so far into himself he becomes a black hole, but Techno is reaching out and touching his shoulder before Tommy can do much more than flinch.

“You were gettin’ yourself hurt. I don’t…I don’t like seein’ you hurt, Tommy. Especially not for somethin’ dumb like this.”

Tommy sniffles. Horrifyingly, it sounds wet, just like the tears that are starting to burn up in his eyes. Fuck. “But I…I wasn’t—” the words spiral uselessly in his mind. He hadn’t been trying to hurt himself, but he just…doesn’t know why it matters. It doesn’t matter.

Techno sighs. “I thought you were hurtin’ yourself just so you could get a laugh.”

“No,” Tommy stumbles quickly. “Techno, I wouldn’t—I wouldn’t laugh at you, I wouldn’t laugh at that—”

Techno raises his free hand. “Calm down, kid. I know. I know now. But the only other option was…” Techno trails off. His brow furrows, and his eyes squint, just a little. When he huffs, it’s with an edged rumble. “You said humans didn’t like touch.”

“Yeah,” Tommy whispers.

In turn, Techno…grunts. He grinds his tusks. Techno starts to open his mouth, but his eyes flicker away before he speaks. “I thought you might have been usin’ me to hurt yourself.”

Tommy’s heart jumps so hard his ribs start to hurt. “What? I wouldn’t—Techno, that would have been fucked, I don’t—I would never—”

The hand on Tommy’s shoulder grips reassuringly. “I know. But if you were already hurtin’ yourself just to get me into my instincts…”

“I wasn’t doing that either!”

“That’s just what I thought was happenin’. That’s why I was upset, Tommy. I don’t want you hurt.”

This is all too much. This entire night has been too much.

Techno shifts closer. It’s supposed to be subtle, maybe, but he’s fucking huge. The bed practically creaks underneath his weight. “And I feel like you’re hurtin’ right now.”

The words take a long time to settle into Tommy’s head. Then, “What? No, we—we visited medbay, I’m fine.”

Techno huffs dismissively. “Humans need affection.”

“No,” Tommy stutters, “No, I just—I messed up, we don’t need it, really, we don’t—” Tommy can’t even finish. Not when Techno leans back and reaches into the basket, scooping out a large bracelet. He slips it carefully over Tommy’s wrist.

“You do. And we haven’t been givin’ it to you.”

“Yes, you have,” Tommy rushes. “You—you all feed me, and—and you’ve given me my own room, you talk with me—”

“Nope. Humans need more than that. You need more than that.”

Rejection dies in Tommy’s throat as another thin, golden necklace is dropped over his head. It’s hard to deny when the affection is right here in front of him. It’s hard to deny when Tommy is so desperate to take, and Techno is willing to give. It’s impossible to fight-back when Techno tugs Tommy into his arms, and Tommy is tired of fighting this. Tommy is street-trash, he’s a thief, he’s an animal and a nuisance; Techno holds him as if he’s something precious. Techno holds him as if he’s solid, shining gold. Techno holds him as if he’s a shoat, or a runt, even though Techno knows that he’s just Tommy.

Techno holds him as if “just Tommy” is enough.

“I lied,” Tommy chokes out again. “I lied, it’s my own fault, I’m a liar—”

“You were scared. I’m not blamin’ you for bein’ scared, Tommy. If that’s what you needed to say to feel safe, fine.”

A sob rips out from Tommy’s throat. “I—I tried to make you fall into your instincts. In—in the training room, and in the kitchen. I—I experimented, that’s so fucked up—”

“I don’t blame you for that either. It’s not right, necessarily—but I understand. You needed affection. You were just tryin’ to get what you needed.”

Fuck. Techno still isn’t getting it. Any desperate attempt from Tommy at getting Techno to understand—he’s shit, he’s bad, he’s not good enough for gold or chuffs or soft affection—is met with easy dismissal.

“I tried,” Tommy whimpers. “I tried, Techno, I tried to be good, I did, I promise.”

Techno leans back, just a slight shift, and Tommy lets out another cry. Maybe this is finally what did it. Maybe Techno thinks he’s lying about this, too.

“That’s what this is, huh?” Techno mutters, bringing a hooved-hand to Tommy’s mouth. “You were tryin’ to stop yourself from callin’ for help?”

Tommy nods pitifully. “And—and at the market, I tried then, too, I just—I didn’t understand, I thought—”

Techno frowns and shifts Tommy in his arms. “No more of that. If you need help, you call. Immediately.”

Tommy sniffles wetly. He feels weak. Drained. “I thought it would put you in your instincts.”

Techno huffs at that, leaning his snout into Tommy’s curls. Techno’s hoof settles against the back of Tommy’s neck, pinching just slightly. “I don’t care if it does. Anytime you need help. Instincts or not.”

But I don’t deserve it, Tommy thinks weakly. His body feels like it could collapse at any minute. His head aches and pounds against the wet clench of his jaw. I’m just Tommy.

Just Tommy. Not a shoat, not a runt, not a piglin or even an alien that Techno could be proud of.

Just Tommy.

And, apparently, that’s enough for Techno’s instincts. It’s enough to be “Just-Tommy.”

Techno gently presses a golden clip into Tommy’s curls.

Maybe Just-Tommy is enough for Techno, too. Maybe, Just-Tommy is all he has to be.

Exhaustion pushes any other thoughts to the dimmer corners of Tommy’s mind. They try to ring out in the muffled silence, but the weight of Techno’s body surrounding his is enough to press them down.

They stay curled-up long enough that Tommy almost starts to drift off. Fighting against a band of Space-Thieves will do that to you. So will having an emotional, tearful conversation. They’re about the same amount of difficult.

But the silence, eventually, is interrupted with a small snort of laughter. The breath blows at Tommy’s hair.

“Can’t believe you thought you sounded like a piglin,” Techno rumbles, the faintest traces of amusement lightening his tone.

“Hey,” Tommy defends weakly, “I was working with what I had at the time. It was a good theory.”

“Uh-huh.”

Tommy huffs, settling further into Techno’s chest. “I told you my sneak-attack move would work.”

“You did.”

“You didn’t believe me. I knew it’d work on any other motherfucker than you.”

“At least one of us knew. I motioned for you not to.”

“I know. But I couldn’t just do nothing. And besides, I saved the day, right? You all would have been toast without me.”

In lieu of a response, Techno just sighs, tilting his head to press against Tommy’s once more.

The exact message of the motion isn’t very clear. Don’t do that again, Techno could be saying, or Please stop talking . Or maybe just I’m glad you made it out safe, kid.

The feeling behind it is clear, though. Tommy feels it, truly, for the first time. Without the haze of instincts, without the weight of insecurity and doubt.

Love.

And Tommy didn’t even have to earn it.

Just-Tommy was enough.

Maybe Tommy shouldn’t have been surprised when, suddenly, every single motherfucker on this ship seems to know he’d lied when he first got here.

He was surprised, though. Wilbur and Phil hadn’t shown up, that night; too busy tying up a band of space-thieves, boarding onto their ship, and trying to get everything back into order. So Tommy had sort of assumed that that would be…it.

Tommy did it; he had his draining, emotional conversation with Techno, and Techno forgave him. That was what he had set out to do: to stop hurting Techno. Which he did! Which meant that this whole situation was done and over with.

At least, Tommy had thought so.

At the time.

Phil’s wing against his arm is…subtle. Soft. A mere flicker of feathers, resting over Tommy’s shoulder and against his wrist.

Tommy almost flinches backward. “The fuck?” He says instead, looking upwards toward’s Phil.

Phil’s head cocks sideways. “Tommy.”

Tommy waits for more. “Ayup,” he says, when there’s nothing.

They’re both seated on the sofa, not too far away from each other. As close as Tommy had ever dared to put himself, in the past.

The wing around his arm tugs him closer. It tugs him until he’s pressed against Phil’s side.

Tommy’s breath catches in his chest.

It’s…warm. Not as warm as Techno, but just as safe. Safe, when Phil’s wing fans across his body, a solid wall, or maybe a blanket. Safe, when Phil’s sharpened talons move to Tommy’s hair, shifting through his curls and against his scalp.

“Phil?” Tommy asks weakly, because he wasn’t even doing anything.

Phil croon uncertainly. “Is this right?”

Tommy slots against Phil’s body like a puzzle piece. The warmth seeps into his skin like the sunlight. Any poisonous thoughts in his mind are dragged away with each run of Phil’s talons.

“Yeah,” Tommy breathes. “It’s right.”

Tommy stays slumped against Phil for so long that he starts to drift, warmth washing over him like a lapping wave, and twitters singing from above him like a lullaby.

If there’s one thing Wilbur truly is—if Tommy had to look into the deep recesses of his dear, sweet heart—it’s fucking annoying.

“Get off me, you prick!” Tommy yells, kicking and thrashing against Wilbur’s bodyweight, lain completely on top of him.

Who the fuck did this bastard think he was, barging into Tommy’s room and slumping on top of him like that? Ridiculous! Horrible! Just absolutely abhorrent and terrible and ugh, Wilbur is so ugly—

“No-can-do,” Wilbur sing-songs. “This is mandatory. For your benefit.”

“It’s torture!”

Wilbur hums. “Well, now you’re just lying. Techno told me you loved this.”

“Fuck him!”

“And Phil told me you slept right next to him, like a little baby chick. Just the cutest, most adorable little nestling—”

“I will kill you,” Tommy growls. “I will simply kill you, and you will die! And I will laugh at your funeral, I will say haha, what a loser, what a loser—”

Wilbur slumps fully down again. “Whatever, Tommy. You don’t have to try to act cool about it.”

Tommy grumbles in dissatisfaction, finally giving up on wriggling his way out, but the words make him feel shaky. “I am cool,” he mutters. “All the time.”

Wilbur hums. “You know what I mean.”

It’s silent for a long moment. Wilbur’s body isn’t warm—it’s cool, like a spring breeze, or a bubbling stream—but it doesn’t hurt, against Tommy. It feels nice, refreshing. Light. Airy.

“You could have just told us, you know,” Wilbur eventually says. “We wouldn’t have minded. If you asked, we could have done this all along.”

Tommy scoffs, turning his head so Wilbur can’t see the pinpricks of tears that are starting to sting in his eyes. “Yeah. Whatever.”

Wilbur shifts slightly, drawing his head back. “Seriously, Tommy. I want you to know that. You can ask us for what you need.”

“I don’t need it.”

“Want, then,” Wilbur says dismissively, “though I don’t quite believe it’s not necessary for your species. But it doesn’t matter. Even if you just wanted it.”

Tommy frowns. He’s already explained it all to Techno, so it should be…easier. It’s not. The words still weigh in his mouth like sand. “Yeah, well…” The frown gets deeper. “I don’t know. Then you would’ve known that I’m…I’m a liar. Or something.”

Wilbur lets out a warbled scoff. “You’ve lied about a lot of things, Tommy. Your height, whether you’ve done your chores, if you can kick Techno’s ass or not—”

“Wh—hey, what the fuck—?”

“—and we were never mad about those,” Wilbur finishes. “Really, Tommy, I’m far more upset that you felt you had to be lonely, rather than that you lied to feel safe.”

Tommy’s lip starts to wobble, and he bites it to make it stop. This all feels fake. Like Tommy will blink away the stardust, and it’ll all have been a dream. Fake. It’s the only way Tommy’s been able to get what he wants, before.

But Wilbur’s weight feels real. His voice floats easily to Tommy’s ear. The slight chill of Wilbur’s body is like cold lemonade in the summer, or the breeze of a fan in a gentle night.

“We don’t care that you’ve lied, Tommy. And we don’t care if you’re clingy, or loud, or—or whatever else you think we might care about. We care about you.”

“I don’t deserve it,” Tommy breathes, his voice just barely a whimper. “I haven’t done anything to earn it.”

“Well, good,” Wilbur murmurs. “You don’t have to earn it. And you don’t have to deserve it. You’ve done more than enough, just being yourself.”

The tears welling up in Tommy’s eyes finally start to drip down. It’s everything Tommy’s ever wanted to hear. It’s everything Tommy’s ever wanted.

“Just by being your cute, adorable, little, tiny, small—”

Scratch that. Tommy forgot how much he also wants to kick Wilbur’s ass.

“Itty-bitty, precious—ah!”

The two of them wrestle and fight until Tommy gets tired. When they’re done, Wilbur lies ontop of Tommy once more. It’s the crunch of fresh snow, and the crisp air of a new autumn, and—most importantly—it is love.

Tommy’s been into Techno’s room a few more times, after the instincts-fiasco.

Techno is usually the one to pull him in. Not under his instincts—Tommy has been extra careful to not do anything risky, recently—but apparently, Techno isn’t willing to let Tommy’s confession go. So he tugs Tommy in and forces him to bundle up in the den of blankets, tucked underneath Techno’s arm as he rambles about his day.

It’s…good. Great, even. The first few times, Tommy had been a bit too nervous to do anything but sit in silence. After all, it was different, if Techno wasn’t in his instincts. This Techno could decide to toss him back out, or realize that he’s annoying, or decide he’s taking up too much space.

But he doesn’t. Techno hadn’t let Tommy’s shyness last for long—he had tugged Tommy right into his chest and rumbled about something stupid Wilbur had done. And, well—Tommy had been there for that stupid thing, so it’s not like he couldn’t not talk shit about Wilbur.

After that, it was easier. Tommy will slump into Techno’s arms with a dramatic huff, and Techno will hold him easily, as if he was made for it. As if it’s as simple as breathing.

“—so I asked Phil if we could pick up that outfit to scare Wilbur with, but he said no, the bastard. He just doesn’t know how to have fun, I tell you. And it’s unfair! Wilbur tried to scare me the other day by hiding out—”

Techno’s tusks rest gently in Tommy’s curls. His hooved-hand lies where it always does—on the back of Tommy’s neck, pinching just slightly before letting go again.

“—I think we should prank Phil. Oh, we could totally do it together, Techno, it would be so good! Except for you’re not very subtle, you’d probably give us away. You’d have to promise to keep this a secret, you pig-bitch, no snitching here—”

A snort huffs gentle air through Tommy’s hair. Tommy’s words stutter as snorts and grunt keep sounding against the crown of his head.

“Techno?” Tommy asks, a bit shocked. They’re just sitting here, after all. “Have you gone instinct-y, again?”

Techno chuffs, chuffs, chuffs, but when he drops his head to look at Tommy, his eyes are crinkled, not blown.

“Nope.”

Techno’s forehead presses against Tommy’s. There’s a rumbling against Tommy’s side, the side leant up against Techno’s chest.

“Well, you’re sure fucking acting like it.”

“Nope,” Techno says again, voice rumbling from the chuffs and the purrs.

Tommy huffs. “I didn’t even do anything.”

“No, you didn’t,” Techno rumbles in agreement. “You were just you.”

Just-Tommy, Techno says. Because Tommy isn’t in danger, and he hasn’t proved himself. He just…was. And just-being is apparently enough.

So Tommy leans forward and curls into just-Techno—not driven by instincts, not bogged down with a loving haze—and lets just-him be loved.