Chapter Text
The first time he meets one of them, the full moon is shining down on him and he’s been kicked out of his fifth foster home.
It’s cold and he’s shivering but he’s annoyed and angry and that seems to give him enough heat and reckless abandon to stalk into the forest by his house with no regard for his safety. Maybe he wants to see what it’s like to be ripped apart by a bear. Maybe he wants to fall asleep on the forest floor and be engulfed by moss.
Tommy has heard stories of these woods. His teachers always told them to never stray from the path, to never go into the forest when it’s dark, to being a gift of milk and honey.
He never really paid attention to the stories. They’re stories and he’s having arguably one of the worst days of his life.
So he enters the thicket with a snarl, hands shoved into the front pockets of his jeans.
It’s dark and he keeps tripping over roots but he doesn’t stop, doesn’t dare go back and ask for some type of forgiveness.
He has done nothing wrong and it will not be given anyway. His foster father will laugh in his face, maybe even hit him for the sake of it, while his foster mother pretends she does not see as she too spits vitriol and he’ll be in the same situation he is now.
It isn’t until he stops tripping over roots that he freezes in place.
Because he can see the roots. He can see the tree bark and the flowers and the moss and the bushes and-
And the forest is deathly silent.
Tommy knows enough about nature to know that when the forest falls silent, it’s because a predator is near.
He draws his gaze from the forest floor, looks up only to come face to face with the most beautiful man he’s ever seen.
Curly, brown hair the colour of the tree trunks falls into his porcelain face, nearly hiding the wire-frame glasses atop his straight nose. He’s tall and lanky, with eyes the colour of old, weathered covers of hardback books.
Something is off about him though. Something wrong. Something that makes a primal part of Tommy’s brain scream and shudder and shiver.
He looks human.
Too human.
“What are you?” Tommy breathes and the not-human laughs, the sound like bells and melodies.
“Oh,” the not-human speaks, his voice compelling Tommy to come just a little closer but he locks his muscles, grits his teeth. “I haven’t been asked that in a long time. What gave it away?”
It sounds curious and Tommy blinks. The thing before him tilts it’s head and starts to prod at it’s cheeks - the perfect amount of blood rushing under pale skin.
“Do I need acne? Or maybe messy hair? C’mon kid, help me out here.” The thing pauses, lips pulling into a perfectly white smile. It reminds Tommy of a shark. “Can I have your name, little one?”
Tommy shudders. That question is all wrong and he may not know what’s before him, what it’s truly asking of him, but he knows he cannot say his name.
“Why’d you say it like that, prick?” He hisses, even as his heart pounds. “Makes you sound like a fucking creep.”
The not-human pauses, and Tommy thinks he’s being sized up before the thing throws it’s head back - showing a pale neck that doesn’t seem to be thrumming with a pulse - and laughs. It’s the same melodic laugh and Tommy has to dig his heels in.
Part of his brain wants to get closer, the thing before him is so inviting.
The smarter, more primal part of his brain is telling him to slowly edge away before taking off into a full-blown sprint.
“You’re a feisty one, aren’t you?” The thing asks.
“Fuck off,” Tommy snaps.
He knows he’s playing with fire. It’s like those nights he purposefully presses his foster father’s buttons so that he’ll get hit and finally feel something.
The not-human both looks offended and not.
In fact, it’s eyeing Tommy up like he’s a zoo animal behind the protective glass barrier.
“You’re scared,” the thing comments. “I can smell it.”
“Man, what the actual fuck?” Tommy snarls, heart pounding and dread pooling in his stomach. “What the fuck are you?”
“I think you know,” the thing says, then tilts its head and frowns. “No. No, that’s not right. You truly don’t know, do you?”
“If I did, I’d be doing something to make you piss off.”
“Hmm,” the thing says. “You’re scared but you’ve yet to run. How strange.”
The thing meets his eyes then and Tommy’s heart stops for a split second. The not-human’s eyes are as cold as ice, no warmth, no nothing.
It’s like looking into the void.
Only this time, the void is looking back.
Tommy snaps his gaze away and focuses on the thing’s yellow jumper and dark jeans. Only then does he notice the thing isn’t wearing any shoes.
“How stupid,” the thing says, taking a step closer and Tommy scrambles back.
“Tell me your fucking name, dickhead,” he commands, even as his voice wavers, panic burning hot in his veins.
“Wilbur,” the thing replies - too quickly - and Tommy knows - just knows, deep in his gut - that Wilbur isn’t it’s real name.
Or birth name.
Or whatever myth or legend this creature is from.
Vampires don’t like sunlight and garlic. Werewolves turn on a full moon and have claws. Witches have pointy hats and warts on their nose.
Tommy has never believed in fairytales; he’s always considered them stupid with their tales of saving a princess from an evil dragon.
Tommy really hates himself for not reading them thoroughly, for not paying attention to what his teachers said about this forest.
“Oh,” Wilbur says, a smirk pulling at his lips. “You’re trying to work it out, aren’t you? I thought they told children that entering a forest was a dangerous thing-“
“I’m not a fucking child, Wilbur,” Tommy interrupts, stressing it’s name to make the thing aware he knows it’s name isn’t right.
Just like the rest of it.
It’s too perfect. It’s all wrong.
Wilbur frowns. “You’re a young human, no? That is a child. I remember what children are…”
It trails off and Tommy rolls his eyes. “I’m not telling you my name, not when you asked for it in such a weird way. Bitch.”
Wilbur once again laughs. “This is the most disrespectful conversation I’ve ever had,” it says but lazily grins at Tommy. “It’s so interesting.”
“I will shank you, bitch,” Tommy spits and Wilbur rocks back on it’s heels.
“You’re very blunt,” it says, opens it’s mouth only to freeze.
It’s head tilts away from Tommy, turns to an almost one eighty. Tommy doesn’t move, he doesn’t even blink.
He has a feeling even without watching him, this creature will catch him if he runs.
A breeze blows through the trees and Wilbur lets out a dramatic sigh.
“Just as we were making progress,” it grumbles and then smiles at Tommy. “I mustn’t be late: he’ll skin me! Until we meet again, little one.”
The creature waves him off and Tommy stumbles back, keeping Wilbur in full view before spinning and sprinting.
He is not followed.
He does not stop until he falls out of the forest, darkness once again clouding his vision.
A minute later, noise fills the forest.
The not-human is gone and Tommy is alive.
Tommy does not go back into the forest.
He does have to walk along the border to get to school though and regularly finds himself with the strange sensation that he’s been watched.
Every time, he flips the forest off with his middle finger.
Every time, the forest falls silent as a melodic laugh fills his ears.
Tommy does not go back into the forest until he is forced to.
It’s been more than a year later, the leaves are browning and Tommy has read more myths than he’s ever had in his life.
He believes Wilbur is a Fae but he could be wrong.
The book says to wear iron and carry honey and not give names and-
Tommy learns but he doesn’t care. He’s tired from the beatings and he’s tired from moving from family to family and maybe he doesn’t mind if the Fae rips him apart and eats his soul.
It would be nicer than this existence.
He’s so tired and hungry - he’s been denied food for the past two days and while he’s gone longer than that, his stomach is not used to it at all - and mistakes the pavement for the path into the woods.
Tommy staggers forward and his vision swims and he trips, nearly breaks his neck as he crumbles to the ground.
Maybe it’s the hunger. Maybe it’s the concussion from the punch of his foster father. Either way, Tommy falls and he does not get back up.
He simply closes his eyes and wishes for the moss to cover him whole as his salty tears drop to the forest floor below.
He does not hear the forest still and quieten as a creature appears from the undergrowth, a darkness in those cold, brown eyes.
He wakes to the sound of sweet humming and fingers dragging through his hair, itching his scalp in a soft and satisfying way. His head is cushioned on something cold but soft and when he blinks his eyes open, the sun is shining a soft hue of orange.
He’s fallen asleep for at least a night.
His eyes focus on the material beneath his head and then follows the material down until he can see a bare foot. No shoe or boot.
“Hello, little one,” Wilbur breathes, sensing his awareness and Tommy freezes. “Mind telling me who hurt you?”
Tommy swallows, tries to rise but the hand in his hair keeps him in place. “I’m good, man. Don’t worry about it.”
“I’m not worried about it,” the creature says, voice as light as a breeze. “I’m extremely angry and refuse to let you leave until I have some answers as to why you’re bruised and bleeding. Do you know how dangerous it is, falling asleep in our forest?”
Our forest.
There are more Fae than just Wilbur.
Tommy desperately tries to not think about that.
“Couldn’t help going fucking unconscious, prick,” Tommy snaps and Wilbur snorts. Tommy doesn’t know how it makes even that sound pretty.
“What happened?” Wilbur asks and Tommy sighs.
“It’s nothing-“
“Little one,” Wilbur breathes and Tommy shudders.
Never lie to a Fae, they’ll know. Tommy sighs, relaxes his body. If Wilbur is going to kill him, Tommy cannot fight off a creature like the Fae. Not when he can barely fight off his foster father.
“I’m bad,” Tommy says, quietly, closing his eyes and brushing his fingers through the grass. “I’m too loud and annoying and stupid and all the other shit everyone says. So this is my punishment.”
Wilbur makes a low, almost growling sound. The forest stills, anticipation bleeding into the breeze. Tommy shivers but doesn’t try to run.
The noise isn’t aimed at him.
“Have you eaten, little one?” Wilbur asks after a moment to collect it’s self.
Tommy shakes his head. “I’m not going to accept food from you, man.”
“You know!” Wilbur laughs and the forest no longer braces for the worst.
“Yeah,” Tommy agrees. The hand does not leave his hair.
“You’re not scared, though.” Wilbur comments, idly. “You’re a very strange human.”
“Fuck off,” tommy snaps but there’s no heat behind it. The motion of Wilbur’s fingers scratching his scalp leaves Tommy sleepy.
“Humans are so violent,” Wilbur murmurs and Tommy pokes his thigh.
“I think out of the two of us, you’re the fucking predator,” Tommy hisses and Wilbur laughs.
“Yes but we don’t hurt the young,” the Fae replies, tone oddly serious. “We cannot procreate in conventional ways and so the young are always to be treasured, never harmed. It’s despicable that you have been beaten.”
“Weren’t you going to, like, eat me the first time you saw me?” Tommy asks and then furrows his brow. “Wait, why haven’t you eaten me yet? Am I not the best-looking meal you’ve even seen?”
Wilbur laughs once again and Tommy smiles at the sound of it.
“No,” Wilbur says. “I might have tricked you but hurting those who have yet to understand the rules isn’t fun. It’s stupid. Boring. Now you know, it’s a whole different game.”
Tommy frowns, pokes him again. “I don’t like games. Especially ones I know I can’t win.”
“Sometimes the games are not about winning,” Wilbur breathes. “Sometimes, it’s a triumph just to survive.”
Tommy pauses, understands the subtle threat. He relaxes further, allowing the gentle motion of Wilbur’s fingers in his hair to sooth him.
“Well,” Tommy says, tiredly, “if I lose, promise me one thing.”
“What would that be?” Wilbur asks and Tommy closes his eyes.
“Make it quick.”
The hand freezes, a low growl leaving Wilbur but Tommy doesn’t tense. Dying is not frightening when living can be so hard.
“Little one,” Wilbur says, that melodic tone twisting into something that sounds oh so dangerous. “I promise that I will never explicitly injure you.”
Tommy doesn’t mention that he never promised to not hurt Tommy, that he never promised to not kill him. He just nods, curls his knees closer to his body.
“I will be here when you wake,” Wilbur whispers and Tommy knows he is safe for now.
He drifts, allowing unconsciousness to take him.
When he wakes, Wilbur points him back to the path, back out of the forest.
Once again, no one follows Tommy out. He’s surprised that he does not ache as he picks flowers and twigs from his hair.
Only when he’s back in his foster parents’ house does he pause by the door, staring at the mirror hung there. Looking into the mirror, he has no bruise or cut or mark. There aren’t even any dark bruises under his eyes to show his lack of sleep.
He’s still bony and lanky from lack of food but he looks healthier than he’s been in months.
The next time he walks past the forest, he smiles and then instantly flips the trees off.
Wilbur’s laugh follows him.
He shouldn’t feel as warm as he does.