Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Tommy had never met Techno. 

(Well, he had, when he was very young. He couldn’t remember the details of it, though. He’d been told Techno had held him softly, an uncharacteristic smile on his face. His other brother told him he’d clutched onto his finger with his own tiny, grubby hands. Techno, supposedly, had given him his real name, Theseus.)

And his father let him, because you can’t say no to Techno, can you? 

But no one ever called him Theseus.

(Hell, no one called him Tommy, either.)

Except Wilbur. Wilbur called him Tommy. 

But this part wasn’t about Wilbur. This was about how Tommy had never met Techno. 

Tommy was four when Techno died, sitting on the floor of their home while Wilbur watched him play with old, discarded toys. 

Techno died at fourteen, laying in a hospital bed as Phil held his hand tightly. 

(Tommy turned fourteen yesterday, actually.)

But no one celebrated that day. 

All his life, Tommy had been told he looked like Techno. That he had the same nose, the same ears, the same face shape. 

And that was nice. Tommy carried a piece of his beloved brother everywhere he went. 

But Techno died. And yes, it was very sad. But Tommy, even at a young age, expected people to stop comparing them. 

Because wasn’t bringing up a dead child to a mourning family sort of rude? Shouldn’t they have just kept it to themselves?

(In case you were wondering, they didn’t keep it to themselves.)

As Tommy grew up, the comments became more frequent. At six years old, people began mistaking him for a younger Techno.

He supposed that was where it all really started. 

But before we go too far, let’s go back again. 

Tommy had a father. Tommy’s father’s name was Phil. Phil loved Tommy. 

(Or at least, he said he did. He wouldn't lie about that, would he?)

When Tommy was born, Wilbur had been the first to hold him, arms wrapped around a baby with as blue eyes as his father. 

(Techno didn’t have blue eyes. Tommy clung to that difference. They had to have noticed that, right?)

You could probably guess where Phil had been during Tommy’s first moments. Just in case, though, I’ll give you a hint: he wasn’t there. 

No, Phil was with Techno, at the other side of the hospital, holding his son's hand as the doctor stuck needles into his marrow. 

Which Tommy understood. If Phil wasn’t with Techno, then he would’ve been alone. And to be a 10 year old in the hospital, alone while nurses and doctors in long white coats and reflective glasses sampled and tested things from you, it would’ve been terrifying. 

So Tommy couldn’t really hold it against him. 

But at the same time, Phil wasn’t there to hear his third-borns first cry, nor to see the first open of the eyes that looked exactly like his own. 

Nor was Phil there to see the last moments of his wife’s life. 

Kristin died three days after Tommy’s birth, holding onto her almost newborn baby as the heartbeat monitor released a steady beeeep. 

Surprisingly, Wilbur said that Techno had been there. When Kristin died, Techno had been there, in a hospital issued wheelchair and an IV drip that Wilbur had said made a weird sound. 

Phil had been off yelling at nurses while he sorted the fees of Techno’s treatment. 

But Tommy didn’t hate Phil. No, of course he didn’t. Why would he? Phil loved him. Phil fed him. Phil made sure he was okay. 

Technically speaking, actually, Tommy could be considered the favourite child. 

But on the other hand, Tommy wasn’t the favourite child. 

He’d never be. 

(It was fairly obvious who the favourite child was.)

Surprise, surprise, it was Techno. Techno was the favourite child. Techno, the boy who had been dead for 10 years, was the favourite child. 

But, again you may be wondering, if Techno was dead, how was he still the favourite child?

And the answer to that, dear reader, lies in the fact that Tommy looked like Techno. 

(Honestly, he could see the resemblances. They did have the same face shape. They did have the same nose. They did have the same ears.)

And to top it all off, Tommy inherited a bit of the genes that he and Techno both inherited from their mother. 

You see, Kristin was a lovely woman. Long dark hair, beautiful brown eyes, and the kindest smile. 

Only Kristin wasn’t born with her dark hair. No, Kristin was born with a condition where all her hair was a quite lovely shade of pink. 

Techno got most of the genes. His hair was just like his mothers, long and thick and pink. 

Now Tommy, on the other side, had gotten both Phil’s and Kristin’s genes. He had a curly head of blond locks and single lock of the bubblegum pink just below his ear that exactly matched Kristin and Techno’s. 

(Lucky him, huh?)

Wilbur didn’t get Kristin’s genes. He got his from Phil’s father, curly brown hair that sat atop his head like an organized mess. 

Tommy remembered he’d once commented that he was once jealous of such hair. 

(He’d never say it again, of course, but the reason for that will go unsaid for now.)

Tommy often wondered what his life would be like if Techno hadn't died. Would Wilbur still be taking care of him?

(Probably. The only reason Phil left the hospital to see his second and third-born was because his first born had died.)

So did Phil actually love Tommy?

(Of course not.)

But Tommy could pretend he did. He could stay up all night, convincing himself that it was the truth. He could say it so many times that eventually it becomes true. He could. 

Another question that may be arising in your curious little mind is where I’m going with this. Some of you may have figured it out already.

I’ll lay it out one more time. 

Phil loved Techno. Techno died. Tommy looked like Techno. Ergo, Phil loved Tommy. 

See, Phil was a smart man. He knew what he wanted. He was an emotional man, a man guided or blinded by love and obsession and something that Tommy couldn’t place no matter how hard he tried. 

Phil knew Tommy looked like Techno. In fact, he told him this everyday. 

(He told Tommy a lot of things, really.)

Something he didn’t tell Tommy, however, was that his name was Tommy. 

(No, Wilbur was the only one who did that, remember?)

So here's the punchline of a joke no one asked for:

Phil called Tommy, Techno.

He could vaguely remember the day it started. It was a little slip. Phil was calling them down for dinner, (“Wilbur! Techno! Dinner!”) and Wilbur, understandably, got upset.

He’d called Phil out on his mistake, tears flying from big brown eyes. And Phil had apologized. It was an honest mistake. He would never do it again. 

(He did it again, obviously.)

Wilbur hadn’t been home. Maybe he’d been out with friends, or even at school. 

Phil had been teaching Tommy shapes. He asked if Tommy knew the shape he was pointing at. 

Only, as you may have guessed, he didn’t use Tommy’s name.

Now, Tommy was only four and a half at this point. He was a child. So he’d laughed and corrected his father, before babbling further toddler nonsense. 

And from there, it only escalated. 

When Tommy was eight, it became frequent. Techno almost became some sort of nickname for him. He responded to it. He grew used to Phil shouting ‘ Techno!’ or accidentally ‘slipping up’ around or in front of Wilbur.

But that was fine. Phil was still grieving. It was only a name, and Tommy knew he wasn’t Techno. 

(It was only a name.)

Plus, it wasn’t as if Phil was doing anything else, right?

Wrong. 

Once again, I’m going to bring up Techno again. Techno was dead. Tommy looked like Techno. 

Do you get it?

Tommy was Techno’s replacement. 

That was pretty much the best way to put it. Tommy was his replacement. 

And he was pretty good at it, as well. 

(He wasn’t sure why he tried to be. Maybe because of the rewarding smile he’d get after?)

Huh. That made him sound like some sort of fucking dog. Tommy wasn’t a dog. Tommy was Tommy. 

Or rather, Tommy was Techno. 

Phil treated him like Techno. He gave him Techno’s clothes, dressed him up in the collared white shirts and the old red and royal cape Techno always wore. 

He didn’t mind, though. The cape was fluffy at the neckline. Tommy often buried his face inside it and just breathed. 

(Sometimes he thought he’d smelt Techno himself, but that was impossible so he ignored it.)

Little Tommy was given plastic and foam swords, encouraged to play as Techno should. He was given mythology and ancient literature, told to analyze them as Techno did. He shouldn’t be like Techno. He should be Techno. 

(It was exhausting.)

But at least he was treated like the favourite child. At least Phil held him in his arms as he fell asleep, even if he whispered Techno’s name as he bid him a good night. At least Tommy could sleep knowing he was loved, even if it was because he was another. 

(Sometimes he wondered what Techno would say if he saw Tommy in his shoes. Would he tighten the laces? Would he demand Tommy take them off and put them on his own? Would he tell Phil to throw them out, because their original owner was dead and he was never coming back, no matter how much he pretended he was still alive?)

Sometimes Tommy convinced himself he could hear Techno in the back of his mind, little voices here and there, providing helpful or unimportant sentences. 

He never told Phil this, of course. He wasn’t sure the man would believe him. 

(that, and he sort of wanted at least one secret to himself.)

“Secrets are bad. You tell me everything, okay, Techno? That way I can make sure you’re safe.”

This secret wasn’t endangering Tommy, though. In fact, sometimes they helped. Picking between multiple choice questions on tests, choosing between clothes for the day, or even reminding him to look both ways before crossing the street.

Of course, that last one was only when Phil would let him go on the street alone. It was rare. 

“You could get run over! We’re not having his argument again, Techno!”

Sometimes Tommy felt like arguing back. 

(It was rare, but sometimes he felt like being different, like acting out, like throwing ‘Techno’ away from him and just being Tommy.)

He never did, though. Why would he? He was loved as Techno. He was barely cared about as Tommy. No one loved Tommy.

So he’d be Techno. He’d be Phil’s oldest son. He’d play the part, and god damn was he going to play it right.

(Techno’s shoes weren’t too big for him anyways.)

No, in fact, they fit him quite snugly. Almost a perfect fit. 

Almost? 

He wasn’t Techno. He knew that. Wilbur knew that. Phil had to have known that. 

But no matter. If he was Tommy, or if he was Techno, at least he was Phil’s son. 

Sometimes, though, it would be nice to be recognized as Phil’s third-born, to be called by the name the person he was pretending to be gave him, to be loved as an individual and not the role he played every day of his life. 

But he would be fine as Techno as well.

Chapter Text

If Tommy could describe himself in one word, it would be malleable. He could bend, he could conform, he could fit. 

He was like a bar of gold from Phil’s lessons, pretty and shiny, yet easy to leave a dent into. You could bite down on it and be amazed at how your teeth marks could be seen in the metal. 

(Not that teeth marks stayed on Tommy. Not that he was bitten, even. Except when he was younger. Didn’t everyone bite themselves as toddlers?)

But anyways. Tommy’s point was that he was impressionable. 

Wilbur wasn’t. He had a sense of morals, a strong mental state, a- a sense of resolve. He didn’t believe things just like that.

And he stood up for himself, too. If he didn’t like something, he would tell the world, all bold and brash colours yet the same palette he wore everyday. 

Tommy envied that about Wilbur, as well. He could be anyone he wanted. He could be himself, and if he didn’t like that, he could change it. 

Meanwhile, Tommy was the same bar of gold he’d been melted into all those years ago, scratched and dented and imperfect, yet in the same shape he always had been. 

But gold was valuable and sought after, right, so he should be grateful, right? He was wanted like this. 

(After all, wasn’t raw gold only desired so it could be melted down?)

Hm. Maybe the gold analogy wasn’t too far off. 

But anyways. 

He said that a lot. ‘But anyways’. He wondered if that was his quirk, or Techno’s. 

Either way. It didn’t matter. Tommy was impressionable. Wilbur wasn’t. 

Wilbur wasn’t a lot of things. Wilbur wasn’t fourteen. Wilbur wasn’t scared of anything. Wilbur wasn’t Techno. 

(Well, the second one might not be true.)

Tommy had seen fear in Wilbur’s eyes only once, when he was eight and watching as Wilbur left for university. It was a weird day, honestly. He’d been repeating Tommy’s name as often as he could. Or at the end of the day. Wilbur had taken Tommy’s hands, had looked him deep in the eyes with fear in his own, (had he been scared of Tommy?) and told him to hang on. 

Hang on to what, Tommy had no idea. Wilbur had finished university two years ago and still hadn’t returned, nor explained his cryptic words to Tommy, so he remained clueless. 

Hm. Had it really been six years since Wilbur went to university? For some reason, that felt weird. Strange, if you will. He couldn’t quite say it felt longer, either, nor did it feel shorter. 

Oh, well. Wilbur would return when he wished. 

(Tommy didn’t expect him to, honestly. Especially now, since Tommy was fourteen, the age Techno died at. It couldn’t be easy to see your dead sibling every day.)

Then again, he wouldn’t expect it to be pleasant seeing his dead son, everyday, but here he was. 

But anyways. Phil must’ve had his reasons, and Tommy never questioned them. 

(And if he did, he kept them to himself because no one wanted to hear them.)

Phil told him that once. It sounded rude, and it did hurt a little, but Phil explained that it would’ve been more hurtful to Tommy if Phil didn’t tell him.

Which was true. 

So Tommy kept quiet. 

(He was a fast learner.)

Now that was something Phil liked. His ability to retain things and keep them retained. He praised him a lot because of this. 

He supposed it was a good thing he was a fast learner. Phil didn’t like repeating him, which was also something quickly learned, so Tommy listened, and he was fine. 

(And if he didn’t, well, he was sure he’d be fine as well. Because he was Techno. And Phil loved Techno.)

Which was flawed logic, but nobody told Tommy that. Plus, he was a flawed person, so it was fine. It matched perfectly. 

But anyways. 

Tommy liked being Techno. It was fun. He got cool things. Like his earrings, little hoops of gold and a gentle emerald. Or the sword, oddly light yet a sturdy steel. 

(He always thought it was weird that he was allowed a sword, yet barely allowed to cross the street, but that was fine. He didn’t dare question it.)

He did know how to use the sword, too. Phil hired someone to come to their house and teach him. 

Which was really cool. 

It was also so… Techno. 

Then again, so was everything he owned. The white collared shirts. The violin. The crown. 

Ah, the crown. 

Phil loved the crown. It would sit on Tommy’s head, a little too big so it rested awkwardly on his forehead, and a little too heavy so it made his neck stiff. 

But Phil smiled when he saw Tommy wear it. He’d stare with so much fondness in his gaze that Tommy would forget how uncomfortable he felt in it, and simply relax. 

Tommy’s room was also very Techno. With the bookshelf filled with old philosophers and mythology, or the violin pinned to the far wall, or the old map tapestry that hung on the close wall, everything screamed Techno. 

But he supposed that was how it was supposed to be, though. Because everything was how it was supposed to be. Everything was perfect. Exactly how Phil wanted it. 

Like his schedule. Tommy would wake up at the crack of dawn, around five or six. He’d go downstairs for breakfast where he’d find Phil blearily drinking coffee. He’d be offered a cup, but he’d always say no, because Techno didn’t like his coffee that way. (Tommy did.) 

At nine, he’d bring out his notebooks and textbooks and Phil would teach him school. At eleven thirty, it was lunch, and Tommy would always stay perfectly quiet, because Techno never spoke while eating. 

After lunch, Phil would ask him what his plan for the day was. On Tuesdays, Tommy would reply with sword fighting. On Wednesdays, Tommy would say violin. Any other day, and he’d simply return to his studies. 

At five, it was dinner, and Phil would call him down like he did ten years ago. Tommy would always start eating his meat first, and then his vegetables, and finish with a glass of water, because Techno did that when he was fourteen. 

After dinner, Tommy would clear the dishes and find Phil laying on his couch, a far off look in his eye. Tommy would sit by such a couch, on the floor. Sometimes he’d recap the events of his lessons. Sometimes he’d tell Phil about the myths that lined his shelves. 

Sometimes, and this was Tommy’s favourite, but sometimes, Phil’s hand would ruffle gently through Tommy’s hair. He’d murmur about how much he loved him, Techno, and how happy he was with him around. He’d find that single lock of pink hair and twirl it between his fingers, whispers of praise and affection hanging in the air. 

And Tommy, poor, stupid little Tommy, drunk off of the warmth given to his dead older brother, would stay like that until Phil fell asleep, and he’d go to bed as well. 

And the next day, it’d repeat. And repeat. And repeat. 

And repeat. 

It was almost comforting, the familiarity of the whole thing. He couldn’t say any misfortune fell upon him, because his schedule protected him. He couldn’t say he didn’t like it, either, because it did feel good to do something right. 

Of course, he wasn’t saying it didn’t get boring. The same things, everyday, for give or take eight years? Things got old. 

And Tommy craved adventure. 

He always had. He always dreamed of spreading his wings, of running around outside, of going on his own journeys like the heroes in Techno’s myth-books. 

(He always thought it sort of ironic how he was named after a hero who had completed so many mighty feats, yet he was trapped within the walls of his house like a caged bird.)

But anyways. 

Tommy wanted to go to school. 

Phil said he didn’t really. Kids were cruel, he would say. They would tear him apart. 

Of course, he didn’t realize Tommy didn’t care about things like that. Being hated on would be a new experience. He’d never been picked on before, save for the teasing Wilbur used to give him. 

Plus, he was a fast learner. School would be easy for him. Phil said it himself once, that he’d ace any test school gave him. 

But Phil said no. 

That didn’t mean he didn’t try, though. He dropped hints whenever he could. He prayed to God, and the gods in his books. He even dreamed about it. 

But still nothing. 

“Dad,” Tommy whispered, leaning against the couch. 

Phil gave a little hum in response.

Tommy blinked slowly, staring at the wall. “Why don’t you want me to go to school?”

Quiet. 

Tommy didn’t like the quiet. 

Techno did. 

“You’ll get hurt,” Phil replied, voice even and emotionless. 

Bring up sword-fighting. 

“I can bring my sword,” he suggested. 

Yeah, right. 

Phil’s hand stroked Tommy’s head softly. “They don’t allow swords in school, Techno,” he chuckled softly. 

Tommy’s cheeks flushed red. 

“Do you not like staying safe and warm at home with me?”

The hand found the pink lock, gently pulling and twisting. Tommy winced. 

“No, it’s just-”

“We’ve had this conversation a lot, Techno,” Phil told him firmly. “My answer is no. Stop asking.”

How skilled he was, at making Tommy feel so undeniably foolish. 

“I can’t stay here forever,” he whispered, half to himself and half to Phil. 

“Aren’t you happy here? Don’t I keep you company?” 

The grip on his hair started to hurt. Tommy tried to pull away, but Phil held fast. 

“You’re too perfect for them, Techno. It wouldn’t be fair to them, would it?”

“You’re hurting me,” Tommy whined quietly, trying to get free. 

“School is no place for people like you, Techno. Do you understand? No matter how many times you ask, it’ll stay the same. No.”

Phil gave his hair a last sudden tug, and he let go. “Now go up to bed. I don’t want to hear any more from you.”

And with tears stinging his eyes, Tommy went to bed. 

It was almost funny, how hard he tried to be heard by Phil. How hard he tried to be heard as Tommy, that is. 

(It was hard enough as it was being Techno.)

Should’ve followed my advice. 

Tommy paced his room. Tonight, everything was too Techno. Nothing was him. It was too proper, too clean, too exact. 

I rather like it. 

He honestly couldn’t say how many times he’d gotten the urge to completely flip Techno’s room upside down. He wanted to smash the crown. Rip the cape. Snap the strings of the violin, stab the sword in the wall, unravel the tapestry. He wanted Phil to storm in with an outraged look, to ask what the hell Tommy was doing to his room. He wanted Phil to finally just snap and see his alive son, and not the one that died ten years prior.

He didn’t, though. This life as Techno, however frustrating, was good to him. 

(Wilbur would’ve done it.)

So he tucked himself into bed again, as Tommy, and not Techno, and fell asleep to the sound crying in the living room. 

(Phil was crying. Wilbur would laugh. He’d say good. He’d steal Tommy away, shake all of what made him Techno away, and love him for what he was.)

But, as you may remember, Wilbur was gone. That day marked the six year anniversary of Wilbur’s absence, actually. How fun was that? One day after Tommy’s birthday, too. Had they celebrated that day, six years ago? Probably not. They never did. 

But if Wilbur was here, he’d sing Tommy a lullaby, kiss his forehead and wish him goodnight. 

Here’s to Wilbur. 

(Tommy wondered if he was ever coming back.)

But anyways. 

This life as Techno was fine as it was.

Chapter Text

Wilbur wasn’t a good person. He never had been. He was fake, he was cruel, he was awful. 

You may have another perspective of him, though. One that was good, kind, loving. A 'perfect' older brother. 

Wilbur would like to say that it was very skewed. Biased, if you will. Let’s provide some reasons, shall we?

So, number one. He abandoned his little brother. 

Number two. He didn’t try hard enough. 

Number three. He was a coward. 

Number four. He still cried at night. 

And so on, and so on. The list was pretty much endless. 

Which drew him to the conclusion that he was not a good person. 

(A reasonable conclusion, or so he thought.)

Tommy would say differently, of course. Sweet, innocent, little Tommy. He’d find some way to convince Wilbur he was wrong. He’d look up with adoring blue eyes, and remind Wilbur everytime that he was a good person. 

It was nice, of course, to have someone think you were a good person, no matter how much they were wrong. 

Hm. There were other people to thought Wilbur was good. Then again, he never really told them about his personal life. 

(Another reason why he was awful. What truly good person didn’t tell their best friends about themselves?)

So, in short, Wilbur was awful. 

End of story. 

He did try to be good, though. He tried to be a good older brother. He tried to protect Tommy as best he could.

Now, seeing as Wilbur was awful, you could guess correctly that this failed very miserably. 

(He hadn’t returned to see the exact caliber of his failure.)

Maybe that was a good thing, though. He was sure he’d hate himself even more if he saw Tommy again. 

Something he hated more than himself, (yes, that was possible), was Phil. 

God, Phil. 

Phil was the worst thing to happen to Wilbur. (And Tommy, but this part wasn’t about Tommy.)

Why was he, you ask? 

Let’s start at the beginning. (Again.)

Wilbur was the youngest of a set of fraternal twins. It was him and Techno, born five minutes apart. (What a difference five minutes seemed to make. No matter how short it actually was, Wilbur always wondered what would have happened if he was born five minutes before Techno.)

But anyways. Maybe it was for the best. 

Although, he did always wonder about that. Would it have actually changed anything? Or would he be six feet under, instead of Techno? Would Tommy be alright, still, and not trapped by the likeliness of his older brother?

Well, no matter. He wasn’t the first born. He wasn’t the favourite child. He would never be the favourite.

Hell, he was barely held. 

(If you didn’t count Kristin. Kristin loved him. She held him.)

Phil, obviously, did not. 

Well , maybe he did, in his own sick and twisted ways. Maybe not showing him any love was his way of showing love. 

Or Wilbur just wasn’t good enough for Phil. 

You know, that one made a lot more sense. 

He wasn’t quite sure what about Techno made Phil his favourite. His quietness? His personality? His fearlessness?

(Wilbur tried to be Phil’s favourite. All he really got was an offhanded ‘that’s cool, Wilbur’ or a distracted laugh.)

Techno was the favourite, though, and that was apparent in every single thing Phil and Techno did. 

Like shopping. Every trip Phil took, he came back with something new for Techno. A crown, perhaps, or a book, maybe even a cool sheath for his sword. 

(A sword.)

Techno was given a sword at the ripe age of nine. It wasn’t even his birthday, either. Phil had just overhead Techno talking to Wilbur. 

Wilbur always thought that was unfair. Phil always heard Techno. Through walls, through calls, through whispers that were supposed to be little secrets between twins. 

Meanwhile, Wilbur would only get a crumpled twenty dollar bill for every birthday, along with a quick smile. 

(Phil was oddly good at those smiles. Wilbur thought it was amazing how fast a warm, adoring smile could change so fast when he looked his way.)

But you’re probably sick of hearing how Techno was this, and Techno was that, right?

Okay. Let’s move on. 

When Wilbur left for university, Tommy was seven. (Eight? Wilbur had long since forgotten. How bad was that?)

That day had been weird. Phil hadn’t worried about him at all, which wasn’t the weird part, but it was still notable. 

No, the weird part was how Wilbur felt that day. 

And he felt… excited. 

Which was bad. It was awful. He was excited to leave his little brother in the clutches of a psychopathic father?

But you couldn’t mistake this excitement for anything else. Wilbur had been excited that day.

So, the original point stood. Wilbur was awful. 

But that didn’t mean he didn’t feel bad now. He condemned Tommy to pretty much hell. He left. 

(At least he protected himself, though, right? At least he was safe?)

Wrong. Wilbur was not safe. He was far from it, actually. Maybe even more than he had been at home. 

He’d never been in any physical danger at home, had he? Phil never really cared enough to discipline him in the first place, much less abuse him. 

So why was he in more danger away from home? 

Well, Wilbur tended to fall in with bad crowds. Even when Techno was alive, Wilbur would nearly always found himself aligning with bad people. Bullies, even. 

(Techno was barely at school. Phil always had to take him to doctors appointments and physical therapy. No one really knew him.)

Then again, no one really knew Wilbur back then, either. They didn’t know he and Techno were brothers. (Whether that was because Wilbur begged Techno to not tell, a late night with tears springing to deep brown eyes and a feeling that he knew he would come to regret, or because no one connected the dots with their last names, Wilbur didn’t know. It was too late to care, really.) All they really knew was that WIlbur walked himself to and from school, that he hated ant-eaters, and that he was the ‘reasonable one’ in the group. 

Reasonable being, of course, that WIlbur stopped them from bullying people too severely. Basically, he stopped them before they traumatized kids. 

But he had a place with them. They respected him. They listened to him. 

And he never got calls home. Not like Techno, who was failing every class he was in because he was never there. 

(Phil always argued that he did pass, but the teachers never counted it because there was no way to get it all back to them. In reality, he never considered giving it to Wilbur to hand in. WHether that was because he forgot Wilbur existed, or because he just didn’t trust him with it, Wilbur didn’t know. It didn’t matter now, anyways.)

Falling in with these types of crowds seemed to stick with him to university as well. He seemed to pick up smoking, as well, after a rough night of just not being able to say no. 

And when he finally found good friends, it was too late. He was still associated with them. They still slung their arms around his shoulders as they walked, they still made those jokes, jokes that weren’t funny even when they were friends. 

(They still punched his arm, gently at first, but growing harder and harder the longer he tried to avoid them. Wilbur probably still had a bruise on his arm from them, a constant reminder that he’d never really leave them.)

It seemed like Wilbur couldn’t truly escape anything. 

(And he really should quit smoking.)

It made his throat dry when he woke up, and his clothes stink of smoke no matter how many times he washed them, crying as he scrubbed them with his bare hands on nights that he felt everything and yet nothing at the same time. 

(God, he was pathetic.)

He still cried over Techno. 

He still cried over Techno, tears that tasted like blood dripping into his mouth and smoke curving over his head like a spirit. He still cried over Techno, puffy eyes and sunken cheeks in the mirror reminding him that he was still as pathetic as always. He still cried over Techno, lungs heaving to inhale something, something that wasn’t tainted with sorrow and smoke and regrets of leaving behind the one thing he missed the most. 

(Had Tommy cried?)

Probably not. He was too young to really know what death meant. Hell, he barely met Techno. His condition only worsened in the four years of Tommy’s life, keeping him in the hospital most of the time. 

Hell, even if he had spent time at home, he doubted Techno would enjoy spending it with Tommy. He never did like children.

Heh. Neither did Wilbur, but he supposed he didn’t really have a choice, did he?

Plus, it wasn’t like taking care of Tommy was torture. He didn’t cry as much as other children, or didn’t require him as much. It was as if he knew that crying louder wouldn’t give him anymore attention than he already had. 

(Wilbur hadn’t seemed to know that. He remembered when he was nine, Kristin had told him he was a fussy child, always kicking or crying or refusing to sleep until he was held. He supposed he grew out of it, considering both Kristin and Techno were dead. Who would hold him now, Phil? Yeah, right.)

He wondered if Tommy was doing alright, where he was. Had things gotten better with him gone? Had he learned to speak up for himself? 

Or did he still reply to ‘Techno!’ while wearing the exact same things the real Techno wore? 

Huh. The real Techno. The real Techno was dead. He wasn’t coming back. Oh, how he wished he could tell Phil that. If he would listen, that is. 

Was it weird that he was still so passionate about this subject? He hadn’t seen them in like, five years. He had no right to complain about his father. 

(If he was still considered his father. Phil had most likely forgotten about him.)

He hoped Tommy hadn’t. 

And although he really had no right to hope that at all, it was very unlikely that Tommy had forgotten about him. He always did have a good memory. 

Wilbur didn’t. He couldn’t remember what Tommy’s first words were, or the kindness of Kirstin’s smile, or even the warm embrace of his father. 

One of the thoughts he did remember, though, and this was one that frequented his mind quite often, was one of Tommy. 

What if Tommy didn’t mind being Techno?

That would certainly change everything. It would make Wilbur less of an awful person for leaving him with Phil. It would make forgetting things so much easier. It would make the thoughts that always came back at ungodly hours of the night easier to deal with. It would make Phil less of the bad guy in this story. 

Was that what he wanted, though? For Phil to be less of a bad guy? 

Hm. That was debatable. He didn’t think so. Whether or not Tommy liked being Techno didn’t excuse the fact that Phil literally abandoned him for Techno. It didn’t excuse the fact that Phil hadn’t contacted Wilbur once during his time at university, or the fact that Phil never showed up to his first high school recital with his guitar. It didn’t excuse the fact that Phil never taught him to ride a bike, or shave his face, or tie his shoes. 

It didn’t excuse the fact that Wilbur would never be Techno. 

But that was fine. Like he said, he was fine. He didn’t want to be Techno. He wanted to live. He didn’t need Phil’s love. He didn’t need to be doted after, didn’t need a gentle kiss on his forehead as he was tucked into bed. He didn’t need any of Phil’s flawed love. He was fine. 

And Tommy had to be as well. He was fine. Because he must’ve liked being Techno, right, or else why would he stay being someone else? It didn’t make sense. So he had to be fine. 

So that justified Wilbur not visiting. They were fine without him. They were probably better without him, honestly. 

So it was fine. He was fine. Everything was fine, and everything would be fine. 

(He was out of cigarettes. He’d run to get some in the morning.)

Old habits seemed to die hard, didn't they?

Chapter Text

Tommy never had a phone. 

Maybe that wasn’t as surprising as he thought it was, considering he was only fourteen, but it was important nonetheless. 

He never asked for a phone, either. He supposed it was never one of his top priorities. 

Plus, where would it fit into his schedule? He had to do all his homework, and his phone would only distract him from it. Same with his violin and sword-fighting. It’d only end up being detrimental. 

Phil had a phone. Tommy would always catch him on it, bright screen haloing his face. He’d always hide it once he was aware of Tommy’s presence, though, for some unknown reason. 

Tommy knew what a phone was. He’d held one before. He knew what they could do. So it was kind of weird that Phil didn’t want him to even see his phone, but whatever. Phil did a lot of weird things that Tommy learned not to question. 

(Tommy didn’t question a lot of things. Like, for one example, why Phil made him pretend to be Techno.)

But anyways. Some things just… were, he supposed. 

Tommy once ‘owned’ a computer. It was an old thing, previously belonging to Wilbur, but left behind to help cure his younger brother's boredom. 

Tommy loved that computer. He’d sit by it whenever he could, eyes straining to see in the dark. He had to keep it on low, or else Phil would see the light under his door. 

(He never quite learned to stuff a blanket under the crack. Something in him maybe thought it was too bad, and would leave him guilty afterwards.)

He’d go on online games, chat rooms, or sometimes he would just search up things that Phil would never tell him. 

He made his first friend that way. He couldn’t remember their username, nor any details they’d shared with him, but something he knew he’d never forget was the sheer excitement he felt talking to them, a kid his age. They’d talk for hours, sometimes in the chat option of shooter games, or simply on a website that worked for the both of them. 

It was them who taught Tommy how to swear, actually. They’d have fun adding the curses in as many sentences as they possibly could. Tommy often had to stuff his blanket in his mouth to stifle his laughter. 

Of course, Tommy never swore anymore. No, his swearing days were long behind him. He could blame Phil for that, and the bruise his grip left on Tommy’s grip as he shouted at him to “Never say that again!” and that “Techno never swore so you better fix yourself right now”. 

It was fun while it lasted, though, he had to admit. 

There was one other thing they taught him, too, one thing that stayed with him despite the time lost between them. 

That thing was his name. 

And he didn’t mean the name his father gave him, Techno, nor the one his first brother gave him, Theseus. 

No, he was talking about Tommy. 

(Was it weird how validated it made him feel? How right? How… free?)

It probably was weird. After all, it was just a name, just a collection of letters in a random order that just so happened to be presented to him at birth. 

He honestly didn’t care how weird it was, though. His friend called him Tommy, and every single time they did, Tommy glowed. 

Of course, this was all past tense, now. He didn’t have that computer. And as obvious as it may be, Tommy lost his first friend to lack of communication. 

(Phil had taken them away from him. He’d stormed into his room one day, uncharacteristic anger on his face, and snatched it up and away, never to be seen again.)

It wasn’t really a mystery as to why it was stolen from him. He actually knew quite well why it was. 

It was because Tommy was greedy. He felt the sheer rightness of how someone saying ‘Tommy’ made him feel. 

So he’d asked Phil to maybe call him that instead of Techno?

The rest is, understandably, history. Of course Phil wouldn’t do it. He loved him as Techno. Why in the world would he love him as Tommy?

(Hell, even Tommy didn’t love him as Tommy.)

That was three years ago, anyway. It was a long time ago. 

No use crying over spilt milk, right?

Well, Tommy cried over that milk. He wept over it, tears soaking into a blanket that could never quite feel like his own. He cried over it, whispering his own name over, and over, and over again, like he was in severe danger of forgetting it. 

And he kind of was. Phil didn’t call him Tommy. Wilbur wasn’t around to call him it, either. And with the not-so-recent loss of his best friend, that meant another person who couldn’t remind him of who he was. 

So he took upon that duty himself. 

Alone. 

At night, just before he climbed into his neatly made bed, folded in just the way Techno himself did it, he’d take off everything that made him Techno. 

The earrings. The necklace. The collared shirt, the neat pants, the cape, the crown, the mask, anything. 

And he’d stand in front of the mirror. 

His reflection, most of the time, was pitiful. A skinny fourteen year old standing most often with his shirt off, in front of himself. He’d tuck the pink lock of hair out of sight, beneath the golden curls that he tried to convince himself was good enough. 

He’d make faces at himself, and his reflection would copy him, pulling at cheeks and lips and eyes and hair. His reflection would stare at him with the blue eyes of his father and tell him he would never be good enough. That he wasn’t loved. 

Tommy didn’t like his reflection.

(Somewhere, deep in his head, it made sense that he was the one telling himself he’d never be enough, because how could a reflection defy it’s owner like that?)

That was harder to accept, though, than just the simple fact that his reflection hated him, so he clung to the latter instead. 

Sometimes he wondered, though, was where his best friend ended up. Did they hate him for not replying to their messages? Did they still think of him just like Tommy did?

That was a nice thought. Maybe they missed him. Maybe when Phil let him go, they’d get back into contact. 

(Maybe his best friend had already forgotten him and moved on.)

That was slightly less nice. He wouldn’t blame them, though, if they did. It’d been three years. And there were probably so many more interesting people out there. 

Maybe Tommy would meet those people too. 

Ha. If Phil let him go. That was really the base of this whole scenario. He could meet so many people, if Phil let him go. He could contact his best friend again, if Phil let him go. He could finally be happy, if Phil let him go. 

You’re not happy here?

Maybe he was just being greedy, though. There was so much hatred and violence in the world. Phil was just keeping him safe. 

Yeah. He was happy here. 

You’re lying. 

(Sometimes Tommy hated the voice in his head.)

I’m right. 

DId Phil have one of his own? He always wondered that. Was it an angel on his shoulder, guiding him with a gentle hand?

Hm. Probably not. 

Otherwise, Tommy wouldn’t feel like this, would he?

“Techno!”

Something Tommy noticed a long time ago was how differently Wilbur and Phil said his name. Wilbur’s was usually spat with anger, fire behind the name like he was trying to burn everyone around him. 

Maybe he was. 

And Phil?

Well, Phil spoke the name so gently, so full of affection and warmth, and- and lies. 

Phil spoke the name Techno like it was a lie he so desperately believed in. 

Which was true. He was lying to himself. He pretended Tommy was Techno, and in doing so, lying to himself. 

But anyways. It wasn’t Tommy’s job to point out Phil’s lies. His job was to be Techno. That was it. 

Socked feet gently thudded down the stairs. 

( “Techno walks gently,” Phil would always tell him. “You never knew when he was coming down.”)

“Come here, Techno.”

Tommy obeyed, bowing his head as he sat next to Phil’s couch. It wasn’t dark, which was surprising. Phil never sat on his couch before dark. 

Maybe he’s thinking. 

Tommy stayed quiet as Phil wrapped his fingers around the lock of pink hair, twirling it gently. 

“You look just like me,” Phil whispered, blue eyes so, so warm. 

Tommy felt cold. 

Tommy leaned into his touch. This was nice. 

He almost found himself chasing, though, so he recollected himself. 

(“Techno never chased. You should know that. Don’t chase.”)

“What did you need me for?” Tommy asked quietly. 

Phil didn’t say anything, just kept fiddling with Tommy’s hair silently. 

“Dad?” Tommy prompted. 

Phil took a breath. “What do you want most in this world?”

It was a trick. It had to be. 

“What do I want?” Tommy repeated carefully. 

There was no way it wasn’t a trick question. Why was he asking? Was he going to yell if Tommy said something, asking why he was so greedy? Was he going to just nod and never mention it again?

A tiny flare of hope fluttered in his chest, as futile as a caged bird with clipped wings. 

Or was he asking what Tommy wanted, and not Techno? 

Tommy swallowed. “I have everything I could possibly need,” he said quietly, trying to hide the tremor that shook his voice ever so slightly. 

“That’s not what I asked,” Phil replied. “What do you want?”

He knew. He had to. He knew what Tommy wanted. 

Say it, then. 

“I-” 

He cut himself off. What if it turned out like last time? What if Phil got mad and loved him less?

But this time he’s asking. 

Phil retracted his hand and Tommy tensed. 

“I know what you want.”

He didn’t dare move. “You do?”

Phil gave him a small smile. “You’re terrible at keeping secrets, Techno.”

He said nothing. 

“You want to go to school.”

His head snapped to the side. “No, I-”

Phil looked almost teasing as he met Tommy’s eyes again. “You don;t?”

“I-I do,” he replied slowly, helplessly. 

(“Techno never stutters. He’s stronger. He gets his point across.”)

“I want to go to school,” he repeated, fear and anxiety making every muscle clench. 

And to his surprise, Phil wasn’t angry. He looked almost… sad?

(Some sick twisted part of him rejoiced at this look. He was glad Phil was sad, but he quickly pushed that away. He hated that part of him. He pushed it to the side.)

He’s upset that you’re so greedy, Tommy told himself. He thought he raised you better. 

It was too late, though. The words left his lips already, hanging in the air like unshakable fog. He couldn’t backtrack. 

So he braced himself. 

“You’ve grown up so fast, Techno,” Phil said instead, changing the topic. 

Tommy tried to push off the itchy feelings that the name ‘Techno’ gave him. 

(He failed.)

“I wish I could just keep you here forever,” Phil whispered, tracing Tommy’s cheek with a warm hand. 

Oh, no. 

“How happy we’d be, Techno,” he continued. 

No, no, no.

Phil went quiet. 

There were many things going on in Tommy’s head at that moment. 

One of them was panic. Phil’s voice and words made it sound like he was never leaving. That Phil was going to hold him tightly to his chest forever. That Tommy would never escape his clutches, that he’d never meet anyone, that he’d be stuck in the same fucking routine that he’d been in all his life. 

(Huh. That was weird. He hadn’t sworn in a while. It’d been such a long time.)

Another part of him was oddly calm. Phil couldn’t keep him forever. It was impossible. Tommy had to escape at one point. Whether it was grabbing the phone and calling a number, any number, or breaking his window and running, or even slipping away when Phil took him to the grocery store. 

He didn’t want to have to do that, though. That was an extremity. 

And the last part was… well, happy?

That was another part of him that he hated. That part of him loved Phil’s attention. It loved being the object of Phil’s affection, the sole object of it. It was selfish. He was content to be warm, to be coddled, to be stuck in the shoes of a dead older brother. 

“I suppose I’ve postponed it long enough, though,” Phil murmured. 

Tommy blinked. 

Huh? 

“I’ll call them tomorrow,” Phil smiled. 

Them? 

“You can go to school.”

Oh. 

That was… unexpected. He didn’t know what to do. His heart thudded in his ears, eyes widening and jaw dropping. 

“I can-”

He’s lying to you. 

“-go to school?” Tommy breathed. 

What’s the catch? 

It didn’t matter. He’d do anything. Any catch, any requirements, he’d do it. He’d grow wings if that’s what it took, and that was physically impossible. 

(It would be cool to have wings, as a matter of fact, and he’d dreamed of it many times, but that’s a story for another day.)

“Thank you,” Tommy whispered, bowing his head. It took all his willpower to not hug Phil with all his might. Techno never initiated hugs. 

Maybe he could be Tommy at school. Maybe he’d meet people who recognized him as Tommy. Maybe he’d meet friends, maybe he’d meet bullies, maybe he’d learn things that Phil couldn’t teach him, that Phil wouldn’t teach him.

Maybe Phil was lying, and this was just a ploy to get his hopes up? 

“I love you, Techno,” Phil said again, looking like a father was supposed to. (Not that Tommy would know, though. He wasn’t sure if all parents were like that, or just his. Probably the latter.) 

Even Phil’s ‘mistake’ wasn’t enough to make him upset, though. He wasn’t sure anything could dampen the mood he was in right now. 

“I’ll be good,” he promised. “I’ll keep my grades so high, I’ll be the top of my class, I won’t get distracted, I’ll- I’ll keep out of trouble.”

“I know you will.” 

The hand was back on his cheek, squeezing gently. 

“ Thank you.” 

That night, Tommy went to bed the happiest he’d ever been. Those few words, they were enough to erase everything that Phil had ever done to him, anything wrong that had ever come upon him. He didn’t mind being Techno, he didn’t mind the itchy feeling that came about. He didn’t check his reflection that night, nor did he whisper his name to himself. He didn’t throw all of Techno’s stuff on the ground, didn’t cry to himself, didn’t miss Wilbur at all. 

(Ah, Wilbur. He’d never know the amount of happiness Tommy felt at that moment. And unless he came back, he’d probably never know, either. But that was fine. Tommy didn’t need Wilbur. Wilbur didn’t need Tommy.)

Everything was fine. 

Everything was more than fine, actually. 

He wouldn’t let Phil regret his decision. He’d make Phil proud of him. He’d be good. He’d be perfect. 

He’d be Techno.

Chapter Text

Tommy, only once, had read the story of Rapunzel. The story of a girl, locked in a tall, tall, tower, hidden away from the world and its secrets by an old and evil hag. 

It was in a book of fairy tales, actually, sandwiched right between Cinderella, and Beauty and the Beast. He’d barely had time to savour each word, mouth each syllable carefully and slowly, before the book had been ripped from his hands. 

He didn’t forget the story, though. Tommy had a good memory. 

Now, one may draw the conclusion that Tommy fit the role of Rapunzel, a golden haired child locked in a place where no one could ever see him. 

Tommy thought that was stupid. First of all, he was nothing like Rapunzel. Rapunzel was a girl, for one, and for another, he wasn’t locked in the house. That was ridiculous. The door was open. Tommy had opened it himself, in fact, had felt warm air and sunlight on his face. 

(Granted, he’d been scolded heavily and the door had been locked until Tommy had been proven trustworthy, but he wasn’t locked in here.)

Plus, how could anyone be sure that the story had gotten it right? Tommy had read lots of stories with kings and queens and royalties before. A lot of them ended with a prince or princess running away from their royal obligations. What if Rapunzel was already destined to run away from being a princess, and the ‘old witch’ was just doing her a favour?

Not to mention, she probably would have treated Rapunzel better than her real parents would’ve. A king and queen would barely have time for their kid. Rapunzel was better off with the witch. 

And the witch was right about the world. Tommy often heard snippets of the news, eyes peeking out behind a corner as gentle blue lights washed over his face. It was all war, famine, thieves, and murder and accidents. Rapunzel wouldn’t like the real world. She only saw the tips of trees and the skies from her tower. 

That’s another reason Tommy wasn’t like Rapunzel. He knew what the actual world was like. 

(But somehow, he still wanted to see it.)

Because as gross and twisted as the world was, it was still real. It was alive. You could go out and see people, people like him, and just… live. 

Tommy knew how to deal with people. He’d made up scenario after scenario in his head, fabricated conversations ringing between his ears and satisfying him for only a short while. 

(Techno would’ve known how to deal with people. The smooth creative insults would’ve just flowed off his tongue, easy like writing your name on a piece of paper.)

Hm. Was that easy? It should've been. Everyone knew what their name was. They’d been called it since birth, or slightly after, even. They’d been told it as they were called down to dinner, or after a raised hand in maths class, or in screaming matches with close friends. 

You may start to see a small problem arise, though. 

Tommy had two names. One given to him, lovingly, as his own as- as… 

(Did he have anything that was his? Not his eyes, his hair, his room, clothes, or hobbies. Not even his thoughts, or the words he spoke. Tommy had nothing.) 

He had nothing to compare his own name to, but he still called himself it at night, even if he was the only one who did. 

And the other was one handed to him by his late-older-brother. One he’d been called, every day, every week, every month, year, minute even. 

He was Tommy, but he was Techno. 

(He usually ended up writing Techno, if he was honest. What used to be because of the gentle praise and soft feel of a hand carding through his hair turned into the hope of receiving such praise. The hope of getting that same rush of warmth from getting patted when he did something right.)

God, it sounded like he was a fucking dog, didn’t it, always chasing after the fleeting dream of being praised, always craving for more, more, more. 

It was never enough, was it? When you’re pretending to be someone you’re not, you’ll never be good enough. Not for him, not for yourself, not for anyone. 

Hm. he could try, though. He could try to be Techno, try as best he could to be Phil’s favourite child like he so desperately wanted to be. 

Phil liked when Tommy tried. 

(Even if it felt wrong, even if there was a pulling on his guts that warned him that this wasn’t right, that he was going too far, that he should stop.)

But no. Tommy wouldn’t stop. He’d stop only when it was enough, only when he was satisfied, only when he could finally look in the mirror and be happy with what his reflection decided to show him. 

(Who knew if that day would ever come.)

Right now, at this particular moment in time, Tommy was looking at his reflection.

(He looked quite proper, if he was honest.)

A nice, white collared shirt. Khaki shorts nicely ironed and reaching to his knees. It’d been an outfit Phil picked out for him. 

It was so… Techno. 

Tommy patted the shirt down once again, heart in his throat. Today he was going out. Today, on a nice, sunny, Saturday afternoon, Tommy was going back-to-school shopping, for the first time ever. 

(Was it still called back-to-school shopping, if he’d never gone to school in the first place? He wasn’t sure. He didn’t think it really mattered, anyways.)

He gently tucked the pink lock underneath the curls of gold, a selfish desire to look like himself overtaking him. He knew when he emerged from his room, Phil would untuck it, bringing it to the front of his hair for the whole world to see. 

His earrings still glinted in the mirror. He touched them gently. He supposed they weren’t on his least favourite items list. They often didn’t truly feel like Techno’s, instead, feeling like it was a birthday gift or a family heirloom. 

They were nice. 

Tommy’s hands fell to his sides. 

Phil had chosen Saturday afternoon with careful precision. He’d explained it to Tommy, saying it’s the least busy, so you can get used to school easier, and don’t worry, there won’t be a lot of people. 

Tommy appreciated this, appreciated Phil trying to help him merge into society gently and comfortably. 

(Even though he was the reason Tommy even needed to merge into society, the reason Tommy was kept away from other people, like Rapunzel in her little tower in the woods.)

No. Not like Rapunzel. Tommy wasn’t like Rapunzel. He wasn’t. 

He gave himself one more once-over, then headed downstairs. 

Phil was already waiting for him, black shades perched atop his nose and a bag clasped firmly in his hand. “Ready, Techno?”

Tommy gave a single, unsteady nod, and put on his shoes. 

(“Techno always had an odd way of putting on his shoes. He’d unlace his shoes all the way, then flip the tongue up, and then put his foot in. I remember he told me it was because he didn’t want his sock to be wrinkled, to be perfect.”)

Tommy had put his shoes on thousands of times before, late nights spent timing how fast he could use Techno’s method. The tricky part was re-lacing them, but after the first five hundred times, it’d gotten much easier. 

(The look on Phil’s face as he tied them up was well worth the time spent.)

And then Tommy was in the car, strapped into the back with hands balled into fists on his lap. 

Techno doesn’t get nervous, he repeated to himself, get a hold of yourself. 

Tommy wouldn’t say he liked cars that much. He’d been in them before, obviously, tagging along to Phil’s grocery trips in the past. He’d stayed in the car, cheek pressed against the cool glass as he watched people go about their day, pushing grocery carts or holding onto their little ones’ hands. 

Tommy wasn’t allowed to leave the car without Phil. And way more often than not, Phil wouldn’t take him. 

But that was fine. Tommy was content with just watching the people go about. 

(Until he wasn’t, and the trips began to feel like a torture method. He’d decline Phil’s offer to keep in the car while he shopped, deciding to stay home and play violin until his fingers bled and Phil came home to bandage them. What use was staring out the window if he couldn't actually be out the window?)

And now he could. He could finally be with them, could pretend to be one of them as he paraded around in somebody else’s shoes. 

The car stopped, and Tommy tensed. They were here. 

“You ready?” Phil asked, giving him an encouraging smile. 

(There was something weird about that smile. Something Tommy couldn’t place. Whatever. He’d think about it later.)

Was he ready? He thought so. He’d been preparing for this for so long. He’d waited for this for so long. 

But was he ready?

Short answer, yes. 

Long answer? 

No. Tommy wasn’t ready. Techno wasn’t ready. What if it wasn’t as he imagined. What if there were possibilities he didn’t plan for?

“Come on, Techno,” Phil said, tapping his fingers on the steering wheel. 

Tommy’s fingernails bit crescents in his palms. “One second,” he whispered. 

What if this was a mistake? What if Phil was right in keeping him at home? Home was safe, and Phil wouldn’t hurt him. Home was predictable, easy, warm. 

So tell him you take it back. He wouldn’t be mad. He’d be grateful. He didn’t even want you to go in the first place. Tell him you were too hasty in your decisions, that you regret it, that you want to pass up possibly the only chance you’ll ever get to be free. 

Tommy hesitated. No, he couldn’t pass this chance. He had to take it. He had to. 

Phil’s eyes softened. “We don’t have to do this, Techno.”

Tommy shook his head. “I want this,” he replied, fighting to keep his voice steady. 

Techno didn’t back down on his choices.

“I want this,” he repeated. 

Phil opened the door. “Come on, then,” he said brightly. 

Tommy opened his door. 

(It felt like a trap. It felt like Phil was waiting for Tommy to follow suit, to ignore the instructions given to him with a hand clenched around his wrist as he spoke in a stern voice. It felt like being told your execution date, waiting for the punishment to fall upon you but yet not having any power to change it.)

Tommy stepped onto the parking lot. 

It was a sunny day. Cars were still pulling into it, a buzz of voices and the humming of cars filling Tommy’s head. 

“Here, stay close to me,” Phil urged, beckoning. 

And so he did, with wide eyes gazing at everything and anything that moved. A child crying, a dog barking at the wheels of a cart, a child running across the pavement with a balloon in hand. 

God, it was loud, wasn’t it? 

“You okay?” 

But at least he had Phil. Phil would make sure he was okay. Phil wouldn’t let anything bad happen to him. 

He’d be fine. 

After, Techno had lived through this before, had lived through busy streets and yelling people, had thrived amid the chaos of society.

So could Tommy, then. Because he was Techno. 

Phil’s hand found Tommy’s, and gave it a squeeze. 

(Such a simple gesture. Tommy would’ve usually given it a squeeze back, finding comfort in contact.)

But now?

Now it just filled him with unease.

Chapter Text

I’m sure it’s not news to a bunch of you who’ve been active on Twitter, or YouTube, or anyone who watches technoblade, but to anyone who hasn’t heard, I’ll tell. 

technoblade has died. To those who hadn’t seen the video, please, do. It’s awful, it’s heartbreaking, but please watch the video. 

as for this story, I don’t know if I can continue it. I never expected this. Technoblade was a massive part of my life as a person. He was one of my favourite content creators, one of which I looked up to very much.

im so sorry to tell you but I don’t think I can finish it. I had a chapter lined up, and I’m so sorry to leave you on hiatus and then tell you all it’s ending, but this is it. This is my breaking point. I’m going to be okay. You all are going to be okay. But I can’t write DSMP anymore. Not after this. 

truthbetold, I’ve been always flickering between fandoms, but I’ve always watched technoblade. And now he’s gone. I hope you all are well, I hope all of you are okay. I want more than anything in the world to hug you all and tell you it’ll be okay if this hit you as hard as it hit me, or even harder for that matter. 

cancer fucking sucks. It rips you away from people. It tears apart family, it curses your body, it kills everything. I’m so sorry to everyone diagnosed with it, and to everyone who knows someone diagnosed with it. My grandfather was diagnosed with cancer, and did pass away, although I was much too young to be impacted by it. 

regardless, this is the last thing I’ll post for this story. I do not know if I’ll be active on other stories, or if this is totally it for my fanfiction writing career on ao3. I hope it isn’t. You guys have been the best friends I could’ve hoped for. You’ve all supported me so much, and I love you more than you’ll ever know. Thank you for everything, a thousand times over. I would sell my soul to go back in time to that era, so I could cherish it more before it was over. 

thank you to everyone. Truly. 

and to technoblade, thank you. and goodbye. 

I love you all. 

Chapter Text

Hello, everyone!! I’m so sorry for double updates, but I bring you more positive news than last time. 

i will be continuing this story. It brought me joy, and I had fun writing it. I’m sorry to jump this on you again, but in light of recent events, I realize it’d only do more harm to discontinue it than to finish what I started. 

it’s what techno would’ve wanted, I think. Thank you to those of you who understood, and to those who pushed me to continue. I love you all. 

may you all find happiness amid the troubles. Thank you.