Chapter Text
Techno hated the sun.
The rays were heavy on his face, blanketing in a way that felt too heavy, sweat running down his temple, and the beams glinted off the clear polish on the wood before him, reflected into sensitive eyes.
It was wrong.
In movies, in books, in every form of media Techno had ever consumed, funerals were accompanied by rain. It never made sense to him—surely you shouldn’t bury anyone in soggy earth. But, now, the sentiment was crystal clear.
The sky should be crying, he thought, should be weeping for the loss of life, for taking somebody so full of energy and love and goodness. It seemed almost disrespectful for the sun to shine on the coffin as it lowered, sinking into the ground as Techno felt like his heart was going with it.
Put me in the ground instead, he pleaded with every god he could name, anybody who might listen, Please, I’ll give you anything.
Part of him wanted to scream, wanted to glare at the sky and demand that they give him five more minutes. But the universe didn’t work like that, and gods cared little for the threats of mortals.
There was nothing to stop him from jumping in that hole, resting his head against solid wood, and letting cold dirt encase him in a grave that wasn’t his to occupy.
Nothing, except for the father crying silently beside him and the dark haired boy tucked into Phil’s chest and the golden haired child clinging to Techno’s arm like a life raft, turning his black suit jacket a bit darker with every falling tear.
Techno made his decision in that moment, as he rubbed Tommy’s back and pressed his lips against the crown of his head, that they were his to protect now, his to love.
Goodbye, Mom.
“Technoblade!”
Hands were heavy on his shoulders, shaking and rattling him like he was empty in the inside, and maybe he was, because his heart felt like it was laying exposed on the asphalt by his brother.
“Techno,” A blurry shaped floated, pulling him back as the visage of his father swarmed his vision. “I need you with me, mate.”
“I’m here,” he mumbled, tongue like cotton, and knowing damn well he was still stuck in the past, the unwelcome image of his mother’s casket unrelenting in his head, “I’m here.”
Hands cupped his face, tugging at the skin around his eyes, and, oh, those were his hands. His hands, connected to his body. His body, which needed to move because people were waiting on him, and Techno was supposed to be the rock, the dependable one, the calm during the storm.
Yours to protect, he snarled to himself, frantically trying to shove emotions down, so get the fuck up and do it.
Sirens echoed in his ears, ricocheting around his skull, and he looked up from where he was kneeling to see Phil crawling into the back of an ambulance, how did they already load Tommy up, and Wilbur was yanking on his arm, tugging with a desperation Techno had never seen.
“Come on,” Wilbur said, bordering on hysterical, “We gotta follow them to the hospital.”
“Can you drive?”
Wil shook his head, eyes red rimmed and only getting puffier, “Can you?”
Techno thought about the voices screaming in his head, threatening to cloud his vision and his thoughts, and felt dread at the thought of getting behind a steering wheel.
He took that raw emotion, clay in his hands, and pushed it down, down, down. Packed it away behind the emptiness, the quiet, the screaming; shoved it into a strongbox of his own making, tossing the key, and he could almost imagine it splashing in the puddle of blood Tommy left behind, a distant ring as metal hit asphalt. In the aftermath, his mind was silent, the kind that was deafening and unsettling, and part of him thought that it might be even worse.
“Yeah,” he said.
I guess we’ll see.
Minutes passed, hours, he didn’t know, as they flew down the interstate at speeds way too fast to be considered safe. Wilbur muttered something about telling Tubbo, maybe, but all Techno could focus on was staying between the lines on the road, trying to ignore the floaters in his vision that resembled a crimson spatter.
His grip tightened around the steering wheel, knuckles going white, as Wilbur told Tommy’s best friend that they were on the way to the hospital.
“We don’t know,” he was saying, “We don’t know, Tubbo, but he was unresponsive at the scene and—”
Techno’s stomach rolled, acid in his throat, and he recoiled as memories cascaded through his mind, painting pictures behind his eyelids every time he blinked. Memories of Tommy as a child, as a preteen, and his heart ached as he realized that those memories began to slow as they got older. As he stopped hanging around, stopped talking, stopped seeing what was right before his eyes.
Just let him be alright.
The strong aroma of disinfectant wafted through the halls, burning in his nose and making him grimace. Techno had never liked hospitals—too many ugly memories tied to cold stethoscopes and white coats and the rhythmic beep of a heart monitor.
As he and Wilbur scrambled down the halls in a flurry of movement, he tried desperately to tune the typical background noise out, focusing on the sound of his soles hitting white tiles.
But as they stood at the nurses desk, Wilbur leaning on the counter and harassing a poor man for the location of their little brother, Techno found himself rooted in place as healthcare workers breezed around him, some more hurried than others.
An alarm rang in the distant, yellow light above a doorway, and a nurse sighed before taking off down the hall.
Wilbur placed a hand on his bicep, suddenly back in front of him, and Techno had to drag his gaze away from the distressing yellow to meet the concerned gaze of his brother.
“He couldn’t tell me much, but Tommy’s in surgery, and Dad might be in the waiting room,” he said, sullen at the lack of information. “Come on, we’ll go find him.”
The trek to find Phil involved many wrong turns and missteps. The colorless walls leave very little distinctions between the many of them, making navigation more than difficult for two weary teens.
But, eventually, the sight of their father hunched over in a hard plastic chair appeared, a cold rag on the back of Techno’s neck during a fever. Phil glanced up at the sound of their steps and practically wilted before their eyes.
“Boys,” he breathed, standing and pulling them both into a warm embrace. He buried a hand in Techno’s hair, freeing pink strands from their already messy braid, and planted a kiss on his forehead. Wilbur got the same, and if they all sagged a bit in the arms of one another, nobody mentioned it.
Phil’s arms were like a barrier between worlds, a wall Techno could hide behind when the hurt came shooting at him as if he had a target painted on his back. Sometimes, Techno thought that Phil’s arms defied the basic laws of physics—an immovable object pausing the unstoppable force of his demons.
He couldn’t stop himself from nuzzling slightly in the crook of Phil’s neck, humming as his mind silenced for the first time in hours.
“How’s Tommy?” he asked quietly, hesitant to disturb the temporary peace that had settled over the three but too desperate for information to delay the question any longer.
Phil leaned his head onto Techno’s hair, grazed a hand gently over Wil’s back, and said, “They’re doing everything they can.”
Wilbur shuddered, choking as he failed to hold back a sob, and Techno could only watched as Phil shushed him softly, whispering quiet reassurances. Reassurances that were flimsy, unreliable. What placating excuses could be bought when they all knew Tommy was open on a table, dependent on fallible humans and his own will to stay alive?
Techno stepped back, granting Wil privacy to cry in their father’s arms if he needed to, and collapsed on a brittle old chair, catching his head in calloused palms.
Eventually, Techno remained unmoving, but the other two eased down into the chairs beside him. Wilbur’s tears had slowed, but his face was still red, cheeks still wet. He saw the other boy reach for his phone, checking the screen and responding when he noticed a text.
“Tubbo is on his way,” Wil murmured, hair falling to obscure his vision as he swiped at his face with the back of his hand, “Says he has to make a few stops, but he’ll be here soon.”
Phil made a small noise of acknowledgement, but his eyes were vacant, unseeing as time passed like pouring molasses. Techno looked, vividly struck by a reminder of Atlas, forever burdened by the weight of the sky, and found resemblance in the way that Phil’s shoulders curved inward, chin falling to meet his chest.
Techno wanted to shield his dad from the rest of the world, to provide that shelter that Phil had always been for him. But this storm was unrelenting, unavoidable, and all he could do was watch as his dad attempted to keep everything together, even as he fell apart all over again.
The last thing Techno expected to see when Tubbo burst into their area two hours later was the entourage following him. A lanky kid with two toned hair, a tall blonde, and a boy with a white bandana around his forehead. Dream and Sapnap, he recognized immediately, and it was with a belated thought when he realized the other teen was Ranboo, somebody Tommy had mentioned quite frequently.
“How is he?” Tubbo demanded, running right up to them. The other three followed at only a slightly less frantic pace, all shadowing the young brunette with auras of anxiety. “What happened?”
“He’s still in surgery,” Phil said, “But we should be hearing more soon.”
“What happened?” Dream repeated Tubbo’s question, brows furrowed and hands clenched at his sides. Techno thought that it was rather bold of him to show up and demand information when he was half the reason Tommy had run away this morning.
Wilbur tensed, opening his mouth to surely make some scathing remark, but Techno cut in before it could land. “Tommy was in an accident—”
“No shit, dumbass,” Sapnap interrupted.
“—involving a truck.” Techno glared at the teen, already regretting trying to be diplomatic, because fuck diplomacy. “He got hit at a crosswalk, and they, the doctors, haven’t updated us on his condition yet.”
The shock was practically tangible as it rolled through the group. Ranboo gasped, hand flying to cover his mouth, and Tubbo reached to grasp tightly at the sleeve of the taller boy.
“Oh my god,” Sapnap said as his eyes blew wide, color draining from his face.
Wilbur snorted, sarcastically mocking oh my god, and added, “Like you have any right to be upset.”
Techno winced internally because damn it, Wil, that was definitely the wrong thing to say.
“What did you just say?” Sapnap asked, stepping forward as he narrowed his eyes, only for his chest to hit Dream’s outstretched arm. “Nah, man, say it to my face.”
“Like you have any right to be upset,” Wilbur repeated, emphasizing every syllable as though speaking to a child, a nasty smirk on his lips. He stood up, towering over Sapnap as he moved closer.
Phil uttered a small, “Wil, no.” But tensions were high, and Dream was stepping to meet Wilbur, almost eye to eye.
“Sit back down, Wilbur,” he warned, “You don’t want to do this right now.”
“Oh,” Wil breathed, brown eyes blazing, “I really do.”
They were nose to nose, anger simmering in between the two explosive teens. It left something acidic on Techno’s tongue.
Dream bared his teeth, more a grimace than it was a true smile. Techno watched as the boy’s jaw flexed, temple shifting under his skin, as he rolled his shoulders.
He was angry.
“Really?” Dream asked, voice barely above a whisper and seething with concealed rage, “You really want me to tell you how Tommy was in my arms—mine—as he tried not to cry about how his family didn’t care enough to show up to his games? How we played for a championship title and Tommy had no family in the stands? Or what about that time when Tommy got hit too hard at practice?
Wilbur had frozen, mouth parted and breathing harshly. The indignation had fled in the face of Dream’s accusations, leaving his limbs shaky, hands trembling at his sides.
Dream plowed on, practically snarling, “How he sat on the front steps of the school for two fucking hours with a concussion because none of you would pick up the damn phone? I had to drive him back your empty house.”
Techno saw exactly when the fight left Wilbur, saw the wind under his sails leave him flailing in the middle of the ocean with no aid in sight. He should move, put himself in between the two and demand Dream’s attention before Wilbur broke. He couldn’t. Techno was frozen in the aftermath of Dream’s words, mind desperately grappling for purchase before he buried himself in a grave of his own sorrow.
He couldn’t afford to lose himself here, not with people depending on him, not with Tommy so close to—
“No.” Green eyes glinted dangerously, and Dream’s head tilted back, confident, as he sneered, “No, I think it would kill you to know how many times Tommy chose me to pick up his pieces—how many time I was the one he ran to when he had a problem.”
“Fuck you,” Wil said, swallowing.
Dream only shrugged, raking his gaze over Wilbur. “I’m not gonna stand here and berate you while Tommy is fighting for his life under this same roof. But I won’t let you tell my friends that they shouldn’t be here—because we’re all well fucking aware that if there’s anybody that deserves Tommy—”
Sapnap grinned, feral, “It certainly isn’t you, bitch.”
“Tommy is a good kid,” Dream said, tone leaving no room for any more argument. “A really fucking good kid. So, I’ll say this once—man the fuck up and give him the family that he deserves.”
It was strange to be chastised by someone you barely knew. Even stranger to see his dad look so thoroughly defeated in the wake of it, shoulders slumped and tears leaking down his face. Phil brought a hand to cover his mouth, shutting his eyes, and Techno hated the way his chest started to shudder.
“I’ve really fucked up,” Phil admitted, turning bloodshot eyes towards his two sons.
Techno shook his head slowly, not denying the truth but warding off the self sabotage, moving to rest a hand on his dad’s shoulder. “We all have things to make amends for. Hating yourself won’t bring anyone resolution.”
He begrudgingly looked to Dream, who was watching the small exchange with curiosity, and inclined his head in a silent thank you—as much as he would admit his guilt to anyone other than Tommy. Dream held his gaze, a moment of grim understanding passing between the two.
A throat cleared.
“Hem-hem.” A woman appeared, wearing dark blue scrubs and a weary expression. “The family of Thomas Craft?”
“That’s us.” Phil stepped forward, coughing as his voice came out rough. “I’m his father.”
“Right,” she said, skeptically scanning the small crowd of people, “My name is Cara Puffy, I’ve been the attending surgeon working with your son. He’s out of surgery, and he should be transferred to an inpatient room soon.”
She paused, and the group held their breaths.
“He’s stable.”
“Oh, thank the gods,” Phil breathed.
The overwhelming feeling of relief was palpable as it swept through everyone. In his peripheral, he could see Tubbo curl into Ranboo’s arms, and Sapnap looked as though he might run up and pull the doctor into an embrace of his own.
“When can we see him?” Wil demanded.
“Soon.” Puffy pulled off her scrub cap to reveal hair the color of fresh snow. “However, he suffered some serious internal damage—two broken ribs, internal bleeding, pulmonary contusions—and his body experienced a lot of stress. As of right now, it’s up to him to wake up, and I can't promise a strict timetable that he’ll stick with.” She ran a hand through the tangles, stuffing the cap in her coat pocket.
Techno shifted. The wording played in his head, and he spoke softly, “But he will wake up, right?”
The doctor hesitated, a split second of unsureness, and it was enough for Techno to feel his stomach plummet to the floor. "We expect him to wake up within the next forty eight hours, but, like I said before, it's really up to Thomas. There are measures that we can take that might help him, but the effects of extensive trauma on the body can be unpredictable. So, while most cases like his do wake up relatively quickly, it isn't an absolute guarantee."
Silence filled the hall—each processing in their own way. Techno’s head still felt fuzzy, a buzzing in the back rattling around his skull. Wilbur was picking at his nails, cuticles red and raw, a habit that only flared when he couldn’t be bothered to tamp down his anxiety.
“We’re gonna do everything we can to help Thomas. Considering the accident, his injuries could have been far more extensive. We expect a quick recovery,” Puffy reassured.
“Tommy,” Tubbo corrected quietly, “He prefers Tommy.”
“Tommy,” Puffy allowed, gently.
“Okay,” Phil said, exhaling sharply, “Okay, thank you.” He stepped forward, extending his hand. Puffy shook it, offering him a small smile.
Techno watched as the doctor turned to walk down the hall, footsteps echoing against the tile, until she disappeared around the corner, and he numbly made his way to his seat.
It was good news, right? Puffy said their expectations were high. His injuries were light, all things considered.
Tommy was lucky.
Lucky, his mind chided, Lucky enough to have a family that ignores him, lucky enough to be hit at a crosswalk.
Techno huffed. He got really fed up with his own self, sometimes.
A creak pulled him from his thoughts, somebody sitting down next to him. But it wasn’t Wil, or his dad, or even Dream.
It was Tubbo.
Tubbo, who was eyeing Techno anxiously, gnawing on his lower lip.
Techno threw him a limb. “Was everything Dream said true?”
Tubbo startled, eyes wide like he didn’t expect the older boy to even talk, much less start a conversation. After a second, he shrugged hesitantly. “Yeah, pretty much.”
“Pretty much?”
“Well, sometimes, Tommy chose me to clean up his messes instead.” Tubbo cracked a smile.
Was that a joke? Techno snorted inwardly, face remaining impassive. It fell flat, like most would probably expect, but he had to give the kid props for trying.
They sat in silence for a few minutes, neither eager to start anything serious. It wasn’t awkward, not completely, but Techno kind of wanted to leave anyway.
That would be rude. Where would he even go?
“Um,” Tubbo tried again, wringing his hands, “Are you okay?”
“Am I okay?”
The boy’s cheeks tinted pink, but his eyes were wide and honest as he nodded.
“I don’t know,” Techno admitted. “Tommy’s unconscious, possibly not gonna wake up, and all I can think about is how I’ll never forgive myself if he doesn’t.”
Tubbo didn’t respond, choosing to watch his feet as he shuffled them around on the floor. Techno paused, running his next words over in his head, dreading the answer but needing it all the same, feeling settling in his gut like a block of ice.
“How bad is it?” Avoiding Tubbo’s curious look, he tugged on the end of a pink strand, feeling the pull in his scalp, before letting his hand fall to the armrest.
Techno had never been more thankful than when Tubbo answered, not needing clarification, though the relief was short-lived. “Tommy was really upset. He didn’t show it, you know, ‘cause he’s Tommy, but I saw the way he looked at the stands when he won their last football game. He was devastated, man, when he didn’t see you guys in the stands.”
Tubbo paused. “I don’t wanna tell you this to upset you, but . . . Techno, Tommy was fucked up over it, like, majorly.” A jolt of surprise shot through him at hearing the younger boy cuss (when was the last time Techno had been around the brunette?), but Tubbo didn’t stop. “He told me weeks before that he was excited for you all to ‘see him in action’.”
“He never mentioned it to me.”
“Are you sure?” Tubbo leveled him with a critical stare. “Tommy had no reason to lie about it. He said he told you, and I believe him. Maybe, you just didn’t listen hard enough.” The younger boy sniffed.
“Yeah, I’m startin’ to realize that,” Techno said under his breath.
“Listen,” the brunette started, “Dream’s already tore into you once, but I’ll say this: if you don’t fix this as soon as possible and mean it, the government will never find where I stash your body, alright?”
With a nod, like he was reassuring himself, Tubbo was trotting back to his spot by Ranboo, who apparently had been keeping an eye on them. Techno watched as they sat together, talking quietly, and wondered when they grew up and how he missed what was right beneath his nose the entire time.
The day passed quickly, strangely, as though Techno zoned out and never quite managed to zone back in. They moved Tommy to an inpatient room, allowing visitors, and the sight of his younger brother pale and bandaged and hooked up to too many lines tugged at his heartstrings.
As soon as Tubbo entered the room, he never left Tommy’s side, stuck like glue. He sat, holding Tommy’s hand, with Ranboo right beside him, as though they were holding some sort of vigil. Stayed there until the moon came up and the four—Tubbo, Ranboo, Dream, and Sapnap—were forced to go home for the night.
They were all reluctant to leave, promising to return early next morning.
Techno and Wilbur would have to leave soon, too, returning home to change clothes, to bring some back for their dad. They were delaying it as long as they could.
Phil stood, groaning as he arched to stretch the aching muscles of his back, and patted Techno’s knee. “I’m gonna grab a bottle of water. Want anything?”
Pink hair swished as he shook his head, sticking to his lips and forcing him to swipe at his face.
“Okay.” Phil murmured, eyes shining with something Techno couldn’t distinguish, something almost domestic in nature.
Techno sat for a moment, watching his dad leave, and glanced to check if Wilbur was still asleep. From the way the brunette was drooling in the crook of his elbow, curled up in a position that had to be uncomfortable, Techno felt safe in his assumption that he was.
Tommy’s hand was cool as Techno covered it with his own, running a rough thumb over the boy’s knuckles.
He chuckled humorlessly. “This is the cliche moment when somebody talks to the coma patient, huh? The part where I tell you that ‘it’s okay, it’s okay if you need to let go.’”
He kept his gaze on the way Tommy’s legs were silhouetted underneath the scratchy white blanket, unable to lay eyes on the kid’s peaceful face, pale and bruised. The idea that sleeping faces were peaceful in the light of unconsciousness was something incomprehensible to Techno. Tommy’s face was meant to be expressive, flying from to disgust to irritation to joy in the span of a second. Anything less was unsettling.
“But I can’t do that,” Techno said, voice thick with all the emotions that were getting harder to suppress, “because it’s not okay. It’s not okay for you to let go because you have to fight, Tommy. Do you understand? You have to come back to us, just fight long enough to stay, to wake up. Then I’ll take it from there, okay?”
Memories flashed in his head, his own words floating by tauntingly. Indestructible and resilient Tommy.
He’ll come back, Dad.
The monitor kept beeping, Wilbur kept snoring, and Tommy’s chest kept rising and falling.
“Don’t make me a liar, Tommy,” he pleaded, desperation in the tears that carved tracks down his face, clutching that too cold hand.
Tommy opened his eyes to bright blue skies littered with wisps of white, like an angelic form of cotton candy. He blinked, slow to perceive the soft poke of blades of grass cushioning his limbs.
He didn’t recognize this place—didn’t recognize the feeling in his chest or the mindless happiness teasing his mind.
“Tommy?”
Tommy turned, shocking recognition jolting through him at the sound of the voice. His heart missed a beat as he saw the woman standing beside him, the dark hair, the gentle stance, the soft upward curve of her lips.
“Oh, my baby,” His mom said, holding out her hands to him, “My sweet Tommy.”
Tommy was flying to meet her before his mind even registered that he was on his feet. Bodies colliding, he felt the warmth of her arms curling around him, a heaven in and of itself. He buried his nose in the crook of her neck, and it was wrong, wrong, wrong, because the last time she had held him, Tommy had barely reached the underside of her chin.
“Mom,” he murmured, a blessing and a plea.
He didn’t know how long they stood there, surrounded by nothing but earth and sky and each other’s arms. He could have stayed there forever, he thought.
But forever was nothing if not a lie, anyway, and his mom was pulling away to cup his face between warm palms. One thumb traced over his cheek bones, while the other ghosted over his jaw, gentle eyes softening in a nauseatingly familiar manner.
“Tommy,” she murmured, almost in disbelief, “I’ve missed you so much.”
He had waited years to hear those words again, though he never expected them this soon. It was soothing, a balm on his aching wounds.
“I missed you too, mom.” Tommy covered her hands with his own, closing his eyes, leaning into the touch. He sniffled, emotionally drained with no more energy to spend on not being upset, and she cooed quietly.
“I’m not cryin’,” he said, even as her thumbs caught his tears.
Kristin hummed, “I know, baby, I know, but it would be okay if you did.”
With those words at his back, for the first time since his mom died, Tommy allowed himself to break.
He did not crumble gracefully or in a way that was worthy of poetry. He was a heap of his own misery, tears and snot running down his face, carving icy gorges in his cheeks, clutching his mother like she was his only lifeline.
Tommy tried to pull himself together, tried to slow the rapid thrumming under his skin, tried to stop his chest from heaving. He tried.
Didn’t he?
Tommy was always trying—trying to be the better son, the better brother, the better teammate, the better friend. And for what?
“I don’t wanna go back, mom,” he managed between the sniffles, “Just let me stay with you, please.”
A hand curled around the nape of his neck, and his mom shushed him softly. When she pulled back, she met his eye with a firm look. “You’re not dead, Tommy. Not yet.”
He froze, hiccuped. “I’m not? Wha—then where are we?”
“I don’t know, sweetheart. Wherever you want us to be, I suppose.”
Tommy looked at her, really looked, and he noticed how young she looked without the stress pulling her down. How she looked nothing like how he remember her in her final days, how she was appeared younger than he could have ever consciously remembered.
“Are you real?”
Her answering smile was heartbreaking. She ran a hand through his hair, raking it back, with a tilt of her head. “I’m real, I promise. And you have a decision to make.”
“Does it involve leaving you?”
“It might,” Kristin mused, “It’s up to you. Whatever you choose, I’ll always be here, okay?” She gripped his hands. “You can keep fighting, Tommy. So much—you still have so much to live for, you understand?”
“I understand,” he said, watching her even as her form flickered, transparent for only a moment. She wavered, lip twitching, and pulled him to her as everything felt hazier, as the peace wafted away and brought in subtle twinges of hurt.
“Your father loves you, Tommy. He’s done a terrible job of showing it recently, and somebody should give him hell for it, don’t you think?”
Tommy only nodded, holding her tight as the world tilted under his feet, as she held him closer and whispered soft reassurances.
“I love you, Tommy. Always.” She squeezed his hands tightly.
“I love you, too.”
His eyes started to burn, and he closed his eyes as the world grew brighter, too bright, but it was comforting—a summer breeze, a breathtaking hug, goodnight, goodbye.
It was not a hard decision to make in the end.
Florescent light flooded his sight, like an ice pick right down his pupil, hammering in his temple. He shifted, feeling a lumpy cushion beneath him, probably giving his neck a crick. Scratchy fabric caught on—was that gauze? It twisted his clothes around him uncomfortably.
His chest felt like a fucking linebacker was crushing it—a whole three hundred pounds just sitting on his sternum.
Soft conversation was the last thing he registered, muffled voices whispering unhurriedly, halting as soon as he let out a low groan.
“Tommy?”
That was him, he thought belatedly. They were speaking to him.
“Wha’?” Tommy grunted, blinking blearily at white ceilings, white walls, white bedsheets. The light was harsh on unaccustomed eyes, but he could just barely make out a blurry figure at the edge of his bed.
He couldn’t hear anything besides the ringing in his ears, a sharp repetition that grated on his nerves.
“—ommy, hey, dude. How’re you feeling?”
He didn’t recognize the voice, not off the top of his head, but he muttered, “Like shit,” all the same, coughing through the dryness in his throat.
A weight settled on his ankle, warm and light, and he squinted to see an easy expression, the upward curve of pink lips, freckles. Dream. They locked eyes, and the blonde’s smile widened.
“Good to see you, Tommy.”
Tommy narrowed his eyes. “Well, it’s not good to see you. You’re ugly.”
Dream barked a laugh, patting Tommy’s unhurt ankle, and grinned, “There you are.”
“Yeah, here I am—which is fucking where exactly?”
“In the hospital.”
Tommy rolled his eyes. He wasn’t so damaged that he couldn’t have figured that out himself. “Is—uh, is it just you?”
Dream’s gaze softened almost imperceptibly, the barest twitch of his lip, something sad and unfamiliar that Tommy didn’t have the energy to spend on figuring out.
“I’m here.” Sapnap leaned against the wall, where Tommy had just missed him, arms folded over his chest. “Wilbur took Tubbo and Ranboo to the cafeteria to grab breakfast, and Phil stepped out to get coffee a bit ago. Technoblade’s here, too.”
“He went to wrangle the others before they wrecked the cafeteria or something,” Dream added.
Oh. They all came.
“They did,” Sapnap agreed, moving to sit in the chair beside Tommy’s bed. He kicked his feet up, propping his heels near Tommy’s own.
Tommy hadn’t meant to say that out loud.
“Get your feet off my bed, dickhead,” Tommy said instead of acknowledging his previous statement, frowning at Sapnap’s shoes before turning to glare at the man.
Sapnap squinted, playful, and opened his mouth to retort, but—
“Tommy!”
A figure shot through the door, bounding over to him, and Tubbo was beaming, eyes crinkling, as he jerked to a stop right before Tommy. “You’re awake!”
“I am awake, yes,” he said, unable to stop himself from returning the bright grin.
Tubbo paused, unsure, and ran a critical eye over Tommy. “Can I hug you?”
Tommy only opened his arms, wincing as Tubbo slowly encased him in an embrace that tasted vaguely of sunshine and freshly cut grass, which could have just been the drugs talking. His chest ached at the touch, but he wouldn’t let go, not for anything.
Over a mop of brown hair, Tommy met Ranboo’s eyes as the other boy’s lip quivered, silent tears trickling. With a decision that was most definitely the drugs talking, Tommy extended his hand, inviting Ranboo, who didn’t hesitate to lay over Tubbo, a pile of warmth and safety and his best friends. Despite the twinge between his ribs, Tommy had never felt more comfortable.
Tubbo eventually pulled away, taking his honey and sunshine away, but hovered close enough for the rays to twist around his fingers, curling in his palm and acting better than any painkiller.
Just for his older brothers to take his place.
“Hey,” Wil whispered, crouching before him. Techno stood a half step away, almost unconsciously leaning towards Tommy but too hesitant to close the gap.
Tommy thought that they looked terrible. Truly twins, even down to the shadows resting under their eyes and the sunken cheekbones.
“You guys look fuckin’ awful,” he said, scrunching his nose.
Spattered laughter echoed through the room. Wilbur’s gaze lightened, and his lip quirked in acceptance, recognizing the statement for what it was—not quite forgiveness, but not a dismissal, either.
“Oh my gods, Toms,” Phil said, appearing in the door, coffee cup forgotten on the table as he hurried towards his youngest son.
A flicker of emotion sped through his veins, dulled by the painkillers—faint irritation. That nickname had been long forgotten, shelved between broken promises and empty words, collecting dust. He couldn’t remember the last time Phil had called him anything other than Tommy.
“Dad,” he greeted, voice still low and rough. He absently scratched at the base of his throat, lines pulling with the movement of his hand, watching his dad with an unreadable expression.
Almost hesitantly, Phil eased down in the chair beside Tommy’s bed, facing his hands clasped in his lap. An awkward silence lingered for a few moments before Phil shifted, glancing at the other occupants in the room.
Dream stared back for a second before narrowing his eyes and nodding once, some unspoken message passing between the two. The blonde shot a look at Techno, tilting his head toward the door, and the two made quick work of ushering everyone out.
That strange quiet drifted in the air as the door shut behind them, and suddenly Tommy was left alone with his dad.
“I don’t know how to say this without sounding horrible,” Phil started, “but there’s a lot of stuff that needs to be said and I won’t try to force any of that on you right now because your recovery is most important. And I’m not foolish enough to think that it won’t be painful to hear some on it—but Tommy, I need to make sure you know something, first and foremost.” He leaned forward, bringing his gaze up to meet Tommy’s for the first time since he sat down, and those brown eyes were housing unbridled emotion.
“I am so, so sorry for the pain that I caused you. I don’t have enough words to tell you how sorry I am. I failed you, I know that now, and I will be working to amend that for the rest of my life.” Phil curled his fingers around the bed rail, eyes not leaving Tommy’s. “From now on, I promise you the truth, mate.”
Emotion settled heavy in his gut. Mind hazy while still in the grip of who knows how many drugs, Tommy fought to feel something completely, but every thought was fleeting, and he was left grasping for straws.
“I don’t know what to say,” he admitted. “Thanks, I guess?”
That was all he could offer. He wasn’t ready to say those words, that final I forgive you, because it was binding and ending and everything that Tommy wasn’t ready for. He didn’t know if he forgave Phil, not yet, not now, and he couldn’t bring himself to hand his dad the easy way out. Maybe it was vindictive, maybe unnecessary, but the smaller part of him whispered that it was better to not put a stopper on his emotions, to give himself time to feel everything in its entirety without pressure to keep it bottled up.
Phil smiled, gentle and understanding. “You don’t have to thank me, Tommy. This is something I should have done a long time ago.”
Tommy thought Phil might be crying, maybe, but it could’ve easily been a trick if the light. Or the drugs.
“Do you think you can forgive me—after all I’ve done?” Phil asked, and Tommy’s bruised and beaten heart struggled to keep pumping because here was his dad, his unshakable dad, kneeling before the son he forgot to love, splintering and breaking and bearing the shards for Tommy to do with as he needed.
They were broken, souls bloody and blemished, a patchwork quilt of problems and things that still needed to be forgiven.
But they could heal.
Fate hadn’t cut Tommy’s string yet, and he was prepared to take up a needle and thread and stitch their family back together, piece by piece.
Together, there was still time. Maybe it was the conversation with his mom that lingered in his mind, the thought of her forgiving nature, how she would never ask anything of him that he couldn’t give but would give her forgiveness if it was her in his position, that made Tommy lean into his decision as though it was as easy as breathing.
“I can try,” Tommy whispered, reaching out to grab his dad’s hand.
Phil leaned forward, breath fanning over the planes of Tommy’s face, and pressed his lips to his son's forehead, free hand running through golden strands. Tommy closed his eyes as his dad lingered, like he was trying to convey all his sorrow through touch.
It would take time and effort, they both knew. Forgiveness wouldn’t come easy, not fully, and Tommy couldn’t promise that he would ever forget because as much as he was his mother’s child, he was also his father’s—stubborn and unyielding to a fault.
They would never be picture perfect, forever bearing the scars of their mistakes, both seen and unseen, branding permanent reminders into their skin, their minds, to be better than what they were. Colored outside the lines.
Shattered, but Tommy thought that mosaics were art, too.
Recovery was a bitch.
His ribs ached, his head hurt, he couldn’t stand upright for longer than an hour without blacking out and needing to sit down.
Phil liked to remind him that he’s only two weeks out, not even that, truly.
He liked to tell Phil to suck it. Respectfully.
But none of that mattered, because Tommy was dead set and determined to make it up these stairs if it killed him.
His team waited at the top, cheering, as he hobbled up the stairs, clad in nice pants and his jersey and this fucking boot that Dr. Puffy insisted he wear. (Techno was also insistent, but Tommy felt it was only right to tell his anarchist-ass ‘supreme authority’ to fuck right off, thank you.)
At the landing, he spun back to face to the small crowd, throwing his hands up and grinning cheekily as they clapped, chuckling. Tommy sketched a bow, all theatrics, and laughed as Sam pulled him back to the huddle of his teammates.
As their coach congratulated his team on an outstanding season, as Tommy felt someone throw an arm around his shoulders, meeting Dream’s gaze with a brilliant grin, he looked to the crowd to spot a green hat and pink hair and a specific head of brown curls.
Phil was smiling, finally a proud dad through and through, as he watched Tommy limp to the podium, the boy never letting the corners of his mouth fall.
Wilbur whistled as Tommy shook Coach’s hand, fist shooting into the air as a salute.
Techno watched as Tommy slipped a championship ring over his finger, returning Wil’s salute with a faux serious expression, and couldn’t help the pride that flooded his limbs at the sight of his little brother being raised onto his team’s shoulders.
And as he smiled down at his team—at his friends, brothers, father—Tommy couldn’t help but send another prayer of thanks to whatever deity was listening for surrounding him with such amazing people.
His family was right here.