Archive of Our Own ^beta

Tommy is cold.

To be clear, he wakes up cold; wakes up clinging to a blanket tangled messily round his shoulders, teeth chattering, wings twitching. He blinks his eyes open. It feels rather like he’s come down with a sudden, slapdash fever; the world blurs in front of his eyes.

A chirp pops out of his mouth. He blinks at himself.

Shit. “Shit,” Tommy mumbles, and shoves himself out of his bed. His wings twitch like some kind of alive creature, writhing on his back like Motherfucker, if you don’t indulge our instincts right goddamn now—

Tommy ignores it. He’ll be fine. He curses and sweeps his closet open.

He yanks out the last couple blankets and stumbles back to his bed, piling them all over him and burrowing into the warmth. He’s still cold. 

A chill runs down his spine, shoulders shuddering. He slaps at the thermostat till it’s eighty degrees Fahrenheit (bloody Americans) and still, he’s cold. His wings tuck in like a feathery burrito and he’s fucking freezing.

He wishes Tubbo and Ranboo were here.

Fuck.

Wait.

He’s … oh, no. Oh, fuck, fuck, fuck.

He’s nesting.

“God dammit,” Tommy mutters, and yanks the blankets over himself for the illusion of warmth. “It couldn’t have happened after finals?”

⸻⸻⸻

He meets Tubbo and Ranboo at the library the next day for their study session, wings aching like nobody’s business.

He ignores it. He’s ignored the instincts for long enough, now, that he’s probably fine doing it. No repercussions, only rewards—that’s his catchphrase for suppressing his emotions.

“‘Ello, boys,” he bellows—quietly, because library—and drops, cross-legged, onto the carpet, bag thudding down beside him. He hauls a textbook out. “How’re we doing today?”

Tubbo groans and thumps his head down onto the tabletop. The corner of Ranboo’s mouth twitches like he’s trying to hold back a laugh; he pats Tubbo sympathetically on the temple. “You’ll be okay,” he says.

“I’m gonna flunk fucking Comp.”

“There, there.”

“Just ‘cause the damn teacher doesn’t know what accommodations are—”

“I’ll fight her,” Tommy says automatically, “is it Professor Smith, what a bitch, I know where she lives—”

“We are not going to fight Professor Smith,” Ranboo says. He pats Tubbo on the head again, and Tubbo swats grumpily at his hand. “I’m definitely gonna submit a complaint, though.”

“Ughhh,” Tubbo says, “she’ll hate me.”

“You’re almost done with her class.”

“She could tank my final grade.”

“Your final grade’s gonna tank anyway if she doesn’t help you like she’s required to,” Ranboo says. “C’mon. Study Bio with me. I don’t understand it.”

Tubbo pries himself up from the tabletop, pouting, and squints down at Ranboo’s textbook. “Oh, stem cells,” he says. 

“Ethical issues.”

“Ah. Okay, so the problem here is that fetuses have the actual stem cells we want, but of course we’ve got to destroy fetuses to get ‘em. To which I say, fuck the babies, but anyway—”

Tommy cackles. The librarian shoots him a glare, and he quiets down hastily.

He glances up at Tubbo and Ranboo, and his brain immediately screams, Family! Family! They’re family!

He chirps at them, and then blinks in dawning horror.

Tubbo stares. “Tommy!” he says, grinning. “Did you just—”

“No, no, I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“You chirped. You’re making bird noises.” Tubbo swats, playfully but gently, at Tommy’s wings, and they give a twitchy, annoying-ass shudder. Like, Christ, shut the fuck up, you’re not the only touch-starved bastard here. “Aww, it’s like you like us!”

Family. Family. Family.

“I do not,” Tommy says stiffly. “I actually hate you. Greatly.”

Tubbo giggles. “Sure. If you say so.”

“You’re literally the worst.” Ranboo pouts, and Tommy softens—he can never say no to the kitty-cat eyes. (Or, well, the jaguar eyes, but same difference.) “Not you, Ranboo. You’re, like, a five out of ten.”

“Aww, okay.” Ranboo beams and turns back to his textbook. “Head in the game, Tubbo. You’ve got a final tomorrow.”

“Are you stalking me?”

“You put it on the dorm room calendar.”

“Well …” Tubbo sighs and begrudgingly turns to his Comp flashcards. “Alright, then. Fine.”

⸻⸻⸻

Tommy manages thirty minutes of the study session before he has to bolt.

It’s not his fault, really. Or, no, it is his fault—just not his regular brain. It’s the stupid bird brain that’s causing all this trouble. It’s just that his brain keeps going Family, family, family, and Tubbo and Ranboo—they’re not his family. They feel like it, but Tommy—he can’t—he can’t force that label on them.

They don’t want him, anyway.

“Gotta go,” he says, and stands up, once his wings really begin to twitch. “Er—got stuff to do.”

“I thought you didn’t work this week?” Ranboo says curiously. 

Tommy snatches the lie like a lifeline. “Extra shift,” he says, “Niki called out sick.” He slings his bag over his shoulder. “Sorry. Bye!”

He hastens out of the library.

Once he gets back to his dorm, he flops onto his bed, burying his face in his pillow. He never ended up with a roommate this semester, thankfully; for that he’s grateful. Being one of three seventeen-year-old freshmen at college would be infinitely more awkward if he were sharing a room with a legal adult.

Family, his brain chirps, hug your family, keep your family in your nest, safe safe safe, warm warm warm.

Tommy shivers.

He drags his heaviest blanket over his shoulders, hoping it’ll weigh down his stupid, twitching wings, and yanks out a textbook. He’s still got to study. Might as well treat this like a sick day.

⸻⸻⸻

Nine months ago, Tommy met Ranboo and Tubbo at the college tour, with no shortage of awkwardness.

See, some girl had tried to touch his wings, and he really hadn’t wanted that to happen—but then he’d accidentally ended up tumbling off the balcony, where she was supposed to be giving him and the other college freshmen a tour.

She’d shrieked. Tommy, honestly, was just glad to be rid of her.

Except then he’d ended up in a tree, sitting there awkwardly, swinging his legs to pass the time—because he can’t just go back, that’s even more awkward. So it’s twenty feet up in a tree that Ranboo and Tubbo first find him.

“What’s your name?” says the kid below him to the other one. The speaker is short, even from this angle, with a mop of brown hair and little horns and hooves. “I’m Tubbo.”

“Ranboo,” says the tall, spindly one. He’s got odd ears, almost human if not for the tiny, dark points at the tips; his teeth, with Tommy’s excellent birdlike vision, are unnaturally sharp. It’s … interesting. Curious. “Uh—nice to meet you.”

“Nice to meet you, too,” says the kid named Tubbo.

Tommy accidentally shifts. Tubbo, blinking, turns and squints up at him.

“Oh,” he says. “Hello.”

Tommy’s face heats. “Hi,” he says awkwardly. “Er—I’m Tommy?”

“Are you a freshman too?” 

“Yeah.”

“You’re sixteen, aren’t you?”

“Uh—fifteen, now.”

“I told you, Ranboo! Prodigies flock together!” Tubbo leaps up and grabs hold of a tree branch, hauling himself up; he’s stronger than he looks, and soon he’s clambering up onto a limb adjacent to Tommy, grinning. “I’m fifteen too. So’s Ranboo. We ditched the tour ‘cause it’s boring.”

“I mean, you should—you should probably go look around the campus. If you’re gonna stay here.”

Tubbo shrugs. “I already settled on it. They accepted me for early admission.” He swings his legs. “So why’d you graduate early? Are you just stupid smart like Ranboo?”

“I—no, not really,” Tommy says.

Tubbo narrows his eyes at him. “I got a 1580 on the SAT.”

“Nice,” Tommy says. “That’s—that’s good.” 

That’s his automatic response, now—“good job” or whatever. He learned to hide his score after the quarterback shoved him down the stairs because Tommy had gotten a higher SAT score than him. In ninth grade.

Tubbo grins. “I can see it in your eyes,” he says. “You scored higher than me, probably.”

Tommy flushes, ears heating. “Er—sort of,” he says, “I got a 1590.”

Tubbo snaps his fingers. “See, Ranboo!” he calls down, and Ranboo blinks up at them. “Another prodigy!” He turns back to Tommy, swinging his legs again. “Ranboo got a 1600.”

They make the same face at the same time, and Tubbo laughs. “We’re both jealous,” he says.

Tommy rolls his eyes. “We can’t all be fuckin’ perfect,” he mutters. After a moment, he offers a tiny nugget of information, a clumsy olive branch: “I, er, I also graduated early ‘cause I wanted to get emancipated. From foster care.”

“Oh,” Tubbo says. “Sorry.”

“Yeah. ‘S not too bad.”

“Ranboo and I were in foster care for a while. His parents’re in jail. I wish my parents were in jail, it’d be a lot more interesting. They just died in a car crash.”

“Sorry.”

“Yeah. I was eight. Could’ve been worse, to be honest, they never really gave a shit about me. Ranboo ‘n’ I were in the same house for a while, but then we got separated, but we finally figured out where the hell we were this year and decided to apply to this college.”

“Cool.” Tommy hesitates; “That’s a lot more interesting of an origin story than mine.”

Tubbo snorts. “You can join us,” he says. “Join the college—the college minors. We’re the hit new frat.”

“Aw, fuck yeah. Are we hosting parties?”

“No,” Ranboo calls, down near the base of the tree. They both glance down toward him. “Hi, Tommy! My name is Ranboo! It’s nice to meet you.”

⸻⸻⸻

And they’ve been friends ever since.

⸻⸻⸻

But not flock friends.

Which is dumb. Because, obviously, Tubbo and Ranboo know each other better than they know Tommy. So it’s stupid and idiotic and entirely Tommy’s bleeding heart’s fault that he’s decided, out of pure Bird Brain, that he trusts Ranboo and Tubbo like this.

It feels creepy as well. Like having an unrequited crush and staring at them across the classroom. Some kind of fuckin’—platonic crush, or something, twisting Tommy’s heartstrings into a tangled mess.

He wakes up to a voicemail, and shudders; the second day of nesting is always the worst. And fuck, he’s got class, but this’ll knock him out for the week and that’s if he’s lucky.

“Hey, Tommy! Tubbo and I ran into Puffy and apparently she’s hosting a studying party for finals at the cafe if you want to come! It’ll be really fun.”

“You better come hang out with us—”

“Tubbo! Give me back the phone—”

Ranboo laughs, and the sound cuts off. 

Tommy tugs the phone away from his ear and stares at it, blinking slowly.

Groaning, he flops back into his blankets.

He shouldn’t go. He shouldn’t. It’d be stupid, first of all. No reason to. Really, he should distance himself. Maybe this stupid nesting instinct will go away, and he’ll go back to how he was before, curled up in winter craving any sort of kind touch, aching for a family he doesn’t have.

It’s better than aching for people who are right there and couldn’t be further away.

Tommy can’t bother them. He won’t bother them, not with his idiot problems. He’ll handle this himself.

He taps a message out.

TommyInnit: sorry guys, cant go. feeling sick :(((

Tubbo: awww :((

Ranboo: feel better soon!!

Tubbo: well bring u chicken soup

Tommy hesitates.

TommyInnit: no need, i think im contagious

He flops back into his bed.

⸻⸻⸻

He goes to the studying party.

He knows it’s a bad idea. Knows it’s stupid in, really, every facet. There’s absolutely no concrete reason for him to attend this study group—not even for some kind of feeble “I’ve got to study” excuse. He’s not gonna get anything done, and usually he’d be fine with that, thrilled to hang out with his friends.

But. Well.

He yanks on a hoodie beneath his big, puffy jacket, and frowns at himself in the mirror. His wing twitches relentlessly; he yanks it back in. 

He’s cold.

He can’t disappoint Ranboo and Tubbo, though—and Tubbo’s awww :(( lingers at the back of his head. He can’t disappoint them. He’s already enough of a disappointment the way he is now, clingy and annoying and too damn loud and—

Right. The mental health videos at his school would tell him that now is the time to—how do you say it— calm down.

He yanks his hood over his head. There are dark circles beneath his eyes, stark in his pasty face. He looks, quite frankly, awful.

He tugs his bag over his shoulder and takes a hissing, shaky breath. Family, says the voice in his head, suspiciously like a sob. Please, please, lonely cold hurting aching, need family, need family, need family.

Out the door he goes, and off to the study party.

⸻⸻⸻

He shouldn’t have come.

That’s his first thought, and the most prevalent one. He stumbles through the door and instantly he’s assaulted on all sides, buffeted by noise and heat and the smell of cinnamon and hot chocolate. “Tommy!” Sapnap hollers. “You made it!”

Tommy glances back and forth, half-dizzy, looking for Tubbo and Ranboo. He finds them at a table near the corner and squeezes his way through the crowd, hunching into himself.

“Tommy!” Tubbo says, eyes wide. “You’re here! You made it!”

“Yeah,” Tommy says shakily. “I—you said you wanted me to come?”

“No, you didn’t—you didn’t have to, Tommy, of course not. You look sick—are you okay? You want me to take you home?”

You didn’t have to come, Tommy thinks wryly, and it’s so obvious, of course he knew—but, well. Fuck. His brain feels like mush.

He bundles himself into a chair and is suddenly overtaken by a wave of frigid cold.

He’s dizzy for a second, darkness flashing over his eyes. His wings judder. It aches, frost in his veins and jagged in his heart. Family, cries his brain, family, flock, please—

“Sorry,” Tommy says, and takes a wheezing breath, “I’ve—gotta go—”

He shoves himself up from the table, yanking his wings in, gritting his teeth. They threaten to flare outward, to snap to either side, and he can’t, he can’t, he’ll send tables and people alike toppling and Ranboo and Tubbo are having fun and he can’t—

He can’t—

“Tommy!” Ranboo calls after him. “Tommy, what are you— Are you okay?”

Tommy offers a hasty thumbs-up. He’s crying, he realizes, tears blurring in his vision as the door to the cafe swings shut behind him. He’s outside now, feet crunching down in snow—good thing he never managed to take his jacket off. He lasted—what, five minutes? Pathetic.

The good thing about this cafe—the one good thing—is that he can stumble toward the nearest dorm. Nobody shoots a second look at the sobbing freshman—god knows there are enough of them around finals season. He takes refuge hastily in the dorm bathroom. It smells like mold and Axe Body Spray and five-in-one body wash, and he clutches his head, doubling over above the sink.

“Fuck,” he rasps, “fuck.” A warble tears itself out of him, some kind of horrid, mangled sob, and he stares at himself in the mirror and hates it, his red gleaming eyes and the wide gape of his mouth as he tries to hold back the crying. He clutches his head tighter, yanking his eyes away from the mirror. Fuck you, he mouths at himself, forming the words, fuck you fuck you fuck you “fuck you fuck you fuck you—”

Footsteps echo outside the hallway. Tommy trips into the shower; he loses control of his wings, finally, and they snap out into the tiles. He lets out a shaky gasp, then a ragged sob, as pain flares through his fucking bones.

“Fuck you,” he sobs, to the memory of his reflection, to everything he fucking is, everything nobody fucking wants, “fuck you fuck you fuck you—”

It pitches up into a whine, so high-pitched that it bounces off the tile. He crumples into himself.

Light pierces through the darkness of his squeezed-shut eyes.

“Oh, god, Tommy,” Ranboo gasps, and drops to his knees. Tommy shrinks away, and Ranboo hesitates.

Tommy pries his eyes open. “Don’t,” he tries to say, but he just sobs again. He shakes his head. “Don’t—go away—”

“I’m not going to leave you, Tommy,” Ranboo says, gently but firmly. Tommy recoils, then sobs, hanging his head, as Ranboo takes his hand. “Do you want a hug?”

Tommy all but topples into his arms, clutching tight, burying his stupid streaming eyes in Ranboo’s shoulder. And Ranboo—Ranboo hugs him even tighter, one hand rubbing his back, the other tangled in his hair, and fuck Tommy hasn’t been hugged in what feels like months. He clings tighter.

“Oh, fuck,” Tubbo says softly, and then he’s joining the hug too, and Tommy lets out a weak little cheep. He flushes at the sound, but he’s already sobbed and broken down and essentially made an absolute fool of himself in front of them—he’s far past the peak of embarrassment now. He cheeps again, I’m sorry, thank you, hold me, love you.

“We’re here, Tommy,” Tubbo says quietly. He’s combing one hand through the tangled, probably matted feathers of Tommy’s wing, and the pressure is so wonderful and warm that Tommy feels like he’s drowning in it. “We’re here. We’re not leaving you.”

“Never again,” Ranboo confirms. He’s purring softly, Tommy registers, and warbles in return; Ranboo tucks his chin protectively atop Tommy’s head. “Let’s go home, okay?”

“Okay,” Tommy whispers. 

They help him up, off the nasty-ass bathroom floor, one on either side—and they don’t let go.

⸻⸻⸻

In the taxi, Tommy dozes, head lolling onto Tubbo’s shoulder. His wings won’t cooperate, and the taxi driver seems annoyed by it—“Does he ever stop those fuckin’ things?” he calls back. “You’re gonna ruin my goddamn upholstery—”

A single snarl from Ranboo shuts him up.

Neither of his friends seems bothered by his wings, at least, though they keep twitching and jolting and flapping. Tommy hasn’t experienced this in, fuck, how many years now? Must’ve been after his wings molted, really molted, for the first time, when he hit puberty—and he’d been in shambles, sobbing and stumbling down the hallway and begging his foster parents to do something, anything, to help. What they did was give him a heating pad and a single blanket, and then tell him to shut up and stay in his room until he was done being foolish. And that was—that was fine. Tommy got used to it.

Nesting’s always been hell, really, but at least it was a predictable hell. He could get used to never being touched, never being hugged; he could get used to curling up, shaking like a leaf, in whatever pathetic nest he managed to create. He supposes, then, that this friendship has triggered some sort of dormant, bird-like state. Enter phase: Desperate for human contact. When humans are unavailable, a catboy and a goat will do.

The taxi pulls up in front of their dorm room. Tommy stumbles out of the cab, Ranboo and Tubbo following, supporting him on either side. He whaps Tubbo with a wing and winces. “Sorry. They’re—I don’t know why they’re—”

“Probably some kind of instinct response,” Tubbo says, not without gentleness. “You haven’t responded to your needs for so long, your body’s trying to get your attention in other ways.”

“That’s why I catch Tubbo eating out of the salt shaker at three in the morning,” Ranboo mock-whispers, “he’s responding to his instincts,” and Tommy giggles weakly.

They trip into the elevator and glide upward to the fifth floor. Thoughtlessly, Tommy drags them to his room—his room, which will be cold, which will be empty, and—and—and—

Fuck. He grits his teeth and drops their hands.

“I can go in now,” he says, “I can—you don’t have to—I’m sorry. I know I’m being annoying, I can just—nest on my own now. Alone. I’ll be okay.”

Ranboo stares down at him. Tommy takes a shaky breath. Don’t cry. Don’t cry. Don’t cry.

“No,” Tubbo says. “Of course not, idiot. We’re not leaving you alone.”

Tommy’s so dizzy with the rush of relief, he feels close to passing out. Or maybe that’s the way his entire body is going family, family, nest nest nest, family in the nest family goes in the nest. He might be close to collapsing. Who knows, really.

“Okay,” he chokes out. “I—okay.”

Tubbo takes his hand, and Tommy fumbles his keys out of his pocket, opening his door with shaking hands. He pushes the door open, and Tubbo inhales sharply.

“Oh, Tommy,” he says quietly, and Tommy’s cheeks heat as he sees it from an outsider’s perspective: three pathetic, cheap blankets, and the pillows stolen off the spare bed, and the tiny divot in the middle where he curled up and sobbed last night. “Ranboo, go get as many of our blankets as you can carry, and then go back and get more.”

“Yep,” Ranboo says automatically, and Tommy chirps after him, desperate, as he steps away. Tubbo squeezes his hand.

“He’ll be back,” he says. “I actually think you’d have to kill him to keep him from coming back.”

Tommy nods weakly and tears his gaze away from Ranboo as he ducks into the elevator. They step into his room, and Tubbo says, “What do you need?”

Tommy blinks at him. Tubbo snorts fondly.

“What you need, idiot,” he says, and gently bonks Tommy’s forehead. “Up in that dumb bird brain of yours. Sometimes Ranboo gets really clingy, and he likes to mess with yarn and shit, so I keep some yarn balls for him. How about you? Hot drinks? Birdseed?”

Tommy opens his mouth. Shuts it. Frowns. “Birdseed?”

“It was a joke, Tom.” Tubbo bumps his shoulder gently. “I’m going to make hot chocolate.”

“I’ve only got the packets.”

“That’s alright. The only one who actually cares about that shit is Ranboo. And it’s funny seeing him be all picky, like Ooohh, gourmet hot chocolate.”

Tommy chuckles weakly. In a matter of minutes, he’s cupping a hot mug of cocoa in his hands, and Tubbo is steering him gently over to his tiny table, taking a seat across from him. He never lets go of Tommy’s hand. It feels like the warmth is washing over him, through his skin, radiating in waves from Tubbo’s point of contact across his palm and his fingers. In tiny, imperceptible intervals, he slumps, and slumps, and sighs.

“I’m back with the blankets!” Ranboo calls, from behind an absolute mountain. Tommy gapes. Tubbo grins. “I stole some from Quackity, he said I could take them. Here, Tommy. Now you can make your nest.”

Tommy reaches for a blanket, then snatches his hand back. “O-oh,” he says, “I can’t—”

“Oh, yes, you can,” Tubbo says, “unless you wanna have another breakdown because your instincts are going buck-fucking-wild.” He squeezes Tommy’s hand. “Nobody’s going to make fun of you for this,” he says softly, and Tommy’s gaze bores into the floor tiles, water gathering in his eyes. “No one will judge you. If they do, I’ll gore them.”

“He’ll gore them,” Ranboo confirms. He sets a gentle hand atop Tommy’s head, combing through his hair, and Tommy sighs and tucks his head onto the table. “Hey, hey, no, you’ve gotta make your nest, Toms.”

Tommy pushes himself carefully to his feet, staring at the pile of blankets. Hesitantly, he tugs one out, and drifts over to his bed, tossing the blanket over in a sweeping motion. He returns for another, and tucks it into a corner. Another. Another. Another.

He’s cooing, he realizes, halfway through the stack, and snaps his mouth shut before the noise can escape him anymore. He’s not a goddamn pigeon, he’s a human, he better act like it.

“Aww,” Tubbo pouts, “I liked the song. Keep singing! It sounds nice!”

Tommy blinks back tears and, after a moment, begins to sing again.

He finds that he can’t really bring himself to speak, after that—just gestures at the nest, and his two best friends clamber in, flopping into the warmth. Tommy snuggles into the very center of it, on his stomach, wings flaring out on either side. Tubbo lets out a content sigh.

“You’re alright, Tommy?” Ranboo says gently. “You’re okay?”

Tommy thinks about it, eyelids heavy. He nods. Ranboo smiles and takes his hand, and Tommy chirps happily.

“Good night, Toms,” he says, and Tommy drifts off to sleep.

⸻⸻⸻

He wakes up, and the first thing he feels is warmth.

Ranboo’s curled into a ball near the head of the bed, a blanket pulled haphazardly over his nose and his arms, purring loud enough to rattle the bedframe. Tubbo’s legs are tangled with Tommy’s, clutching Tommy’s hand in his sleep, letting out tiny little exhales.

Tommy hums happily and leans into his nest. He feels all mushy, a pile of overextended, achy bones, but in a good way. Friends-dragged-you-out-for-a-hike-yesterday achy. Went-for-a-long-fly achy. Had-a-slight-breakdown-but-it’s-chill-now achy. He squeezes Tubbo’s hand, and Tubbo lets out a tired, grumpy little bleat.

“Fuck off,” he mumbles. Slowly, he cracks one eye open. “Oh, you’re awake.”

“Thanks so much,” Tommy deadpans, “I love you too.”

“You’re gonna hold that over our heads forever now, aren’t you.” Tubbo kicks his leg gently, detangling himself; Tommy cheeps grumpily at the loss of contact and pushes himself up to a sitting position. “Relax, I’m not leaving. Let me—” He grabs Tommy’s shoulder and, with no prior warning, all but shoves him onto the bed. “When did you last get your wings preened?”

Tommy cranes his next to scowl up at him. “Bitch,” he says mildly. “It’s been … I dunno, two weeks? I kind of …” Was dealing with finals. Started nesting. Had a slight breakdown. Just regular teenage angst. “Lost track of time.”

Tubbo hums. “Let me preen them?” he says, and it’s a question, not a demand, and Tommy lets out a shaky breath. “You don’t have to if you don’t want—”

“No, you can,” Tommy says softly. In his sleep, Ranboo’s purring kicks up a notch, and he fumbles outward, kneading at one of the blankets of the nest. “It’s—it’s fine.”

Tubbo drifts a hand across the feathers. Tommy’s wing twitches, instinctively smacking Tubbo away; Tommy winces. Yep. Still bruised from the bathroom walls.

Tubbo snickers. “Quit bullying me,” he says. “We get it, you’ve got wings, fuck off.” He tugs a wing across his lap and scans the feathers. “Tell me if I should stop.”

“Okay,” Tommy mumbles, and Tubbo gently sets to it.

He hasn’t been preened in—god, he doesn’t even know. More than months. Years? Must be years. He was fourteen, and his foster sister was the first person who cared enough to do it for him—and then she stole food and that was it, she was gone. It’s been so long.

He melts further and further into a puddle as Tubbo tugs the feathers into place, rearranging them, combing through handfuls of the more matted areas and sending fluff drifting to the floor. Tommy’s not sure when he starts singing; when he realizes it, it’s already too late, and the lazy, chirping tune drifts out of him and across the blankets. His eyes flutter shut.

“You’re—you’re—” The words are thick and stick in his throat like caramel. He fumbles back for Tubbo’s hand. “You’re family. You’re flock.”

Tubbo’s other hand stills across his flight feathers. “Oh,” he says quietly. “You—oh.”

“Yeah, dumbass, I thought that would’ve been obvious from, I dunno, the breakdown,” Tommy giggles weakly. “Did you just think I wanted anyone to hug me?”

“Well, yeah, pretty much.”

“It’s—it’s not like that. Well, no, it is like that, but not so—it’s people I really care about, when I get like this. People I want to keep in my nest. You’re people.” He squeezes Tubbo’s hand. “You’re flock.”

“Aww, Tommy,” Tubbo says, and his voice is wobbly—Tommy snaps his head back and finds him hastily swiping away tears. “You’re—you’re flock too. Or herd. Fuck, I don’t give a shit, something. You’re family.”

“Love you, Tubs.”

“You too, Tommy.”

Ranboo makes a tiny mrrp sound and reaches over, patting Tommy on the top of the head. “G’mornin’,” he says, groggy. “What’d I miss?”

⸻⸻⸻

Ranboo insists that he is perfectly capable of preening Tommy’s other wing, and Tubbo begrudgingly allows him the “privilege”—Tommy blushes to high heaven when he refers to it as such, burying his face in the blanket. “You guys’re so dumb,” he complains.

Ranboo laughs. “It’s true,” he says. “Your wings are so pretty.” Tommy chirps in protest as he combs a hand through them. “So many different shades of blue.”

Tommy huffs. “Sure. Fine.”

“Who told you your wings weren’t pretty?”

Tommy stiffens. Ranboo’s hand stills in his wings.

He clears his throat. “Sorry, Tommy, I didn’t— You don’t have to—”

“My first foster family,” Tommy mumbles. “They—I mean—well, all of ‘em. But the first ones especially. All humans. I wasn’t allowed to show my wings in the house.”

He jolts at the growl, recoiling, and Ranboo blinks. Slowly, his pupils flicker and center on Tommy; he blinks at him, very, very slowly, and Tommy relaxes. He blinks back.

“I’m not mad at you,” Ranboo says quietly. “Of course not. Do you know the address of that foster family, by the way? Asking for a friend.”

“I’m the friend,” Tubbo adds from the corner of the nest. Tommy laughs weakly.

“I dunno,” he says. “I finally got out of there after the mom threw a wine bottle at me.” He offers up his palm as proof. Ranboo takes it, cradling it like it’s something fragile, something important.

“That’s how you got that scar,” he says thoughtfully. He purrs softly and returns to Tommy’s wing. “Well, you’re here with us now. It’d be kinda hypocritical of two hybrids to bully you for being, y’know, a hybrid.”

Tommy opens his mouth. Closes it. “It’s different,” he says quietly, “with me it’s—it’s more obvious. It’s more annoying.”

“Have we ever been annoyed with you? Like—really, legitimately annoyed? To the point where we didn’t want to hang out with you after a day or so?”

Tommy thinks about it. And thinks. And … thinks.

“No,” he says, with something like wonder.

“No,” Ranboo echoes. “No, of course not. You’re family, Tommy.”

“And no matter what kind of annoying-ass stunt you pull next,” Tubbo says, “you being a hybrid will never be the reason we’re annoyed with you. That’s just a dick move, frankly.”

Tommy takes a shaky breath.

Ranboo settles a flight feather carefully back into place, brushing off the winter down he’s been shedding.

Tubbo prods his shoulder fondly with a hoof.

“Okay,” Tommy says softly. “I—I love you guys.”

“Love you too, Tommy,” they say in unison, and that’s that.

⸻⸻⸻

Six months later, Tommy bursts his way into Ranboo and Tubbo’s room, pouting, and only hesitates for a bit before he says, rather dramatically, “I’m nesting. Ugh.”

Tubbo glances up from his textbook. Ranboo lifts his head from where he’s curled up on the sunny windowsill. Tommy tucks his wings in for a moment, twitching awkwardly, and then they’re—they’re hugging him.

“This better be the first fucking day of nesting,” Tubbo says, “or I swear to god I’ll—”

“No, no, it’s the first day,” Tommy says. He tucks his head atop Tubbo’s. “I woke up, and, well.”

“Family time,” Ranboo says happily. “Have you eaten yet? I know this great new brunch place on Eaton Street!”

Tommy is warm.