Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The worst part about scaling the side of an apartment building half past three AM with a bullet lodged between his ribs is that it probably isn’t the worst thing Tommy has done.

It is, however, shaping up to be the last.

He hasn’t stopped bleeding since he’d picked himself up off of the gritty, cracked concrete behind the boutique on seventh street which is… not ideal. Usually, any injuries he earned on his nightly patrols would heal just enough for him to make it across fourteenth district and back through his apartment window so he could put himself back together on his bedroom floor.

Now, he’s not even sure he’ll get that far.

“Fuck,” he hisses through gritted teeth, fingers digging into the brick as he clings to the wall.

His fingers are rubbed raw from climbing, and the thin tendrils of green ivy sneaking out from the ends of his fingerless gloves are the only thing keeping him from falling. He can feel more of it winding around his legs, digging into the mortar of the bricks, trying to push him up.

Tommy brings a booted foot up and winces, trying to secure a foothold. Ivy snakes under his boot, pushing and pushing and supporting. Just that short movement has his head spinning, and he is painfully aware of the amount of blood soaking through his undershirt.

(Distantly, hazily, he laments the amount of scrubbing it’s going to take to get that out of the fabric.)

“Come on,” he breathes, voice wavering. He looks up, head feeling particularly heavy as he cranes it back to get a look at the window above him – maybe a meter away from his shaking hands. He can do it. He has to do it. “Just a little–”

He cuts himself off with a grunt, preserving his energy to try to bridge the unbridgeable distance. His head spins, and– fuck. That hurt. Is he concussed? Probably. Double fuck.

He really, really should sit down. It’s a shame that he’s nine whole stories in the air. If he falls now – which is looking more likely by the second – the only thing that would catch him would be hard, unforgiving concrete.

The thought makes him swallow hard, and the bolt of fear gives him the burst of energy he needs to get his bloody fingers around the thin windowsill. His next breath comes a fraction easier as Tommy pulls himself up, muscles straining. His arms are going to ache like a bitch tomorrow – well, if he makes it that far.

He drags his clumsy fingers onto the glass, bracing his palms against it and pushing.

His heart skips a beat when the window doesn’t give. Dread washes over him, turning his blood into ice. No fucking way it’s locked. No fucking way he’s that unlucky tonight of all nights.

The glass wiggles – Tommy remembers how to breathe. He pushes harder, gritting his teeth. His bandana, fastened over the bottom half of his face, presses uncomfortably against his mouth, damp with blood. The glass slides up an inch, then the rest of the way.

If Tommy wasn’t so utterly exhausted, he might cheer. As it is, it’s all he can do to boost himself up that last, agonizing distance.

He feels the last of his power drain right as he manages to hook an arm through the window. His ivy shrivels, and falls away from him with a soft rustle.

“Fuck you,” he grits out victoriously to the universe as he tumbles inside, too out of it to attempt to catch himself. His limbs go leaden immediately, and he collapses into a messy heap on the floor. He laughs deliriously under his breath, blinking hard at the blurry white ceiling. “I win these.”

Or maybe not.

Victory tastes like thick, heavy copper on his tongue, and his eyes are already threatening to slip closed. He clings on to the last of his slipping lucidity and tries to push himself upright. Tommy might be new to the whole vigilante-scene, but even he knows that if he falls asleep now – now when his side is still bleeding freely, powers too depleted to attempt to fix it – he’ll be well and truly fucked.

(And then they’ll find you, whispers that cruel voice in the back of his head. They’ll wake up in the morning and find you and they will know. And they will hate you as they grieve.)

Bile climbs up his throat. Tommy gasps quietly as he sits up, hands flying out clumsily to balance himself. He squints into the blackness of his room, and it’s– it’s really dark in here. He thought he’d left a light on but maybe not. In any other circumstance, he’d just summon a ball of light to the palm of his hand but, well.

Tommy gets upright and instantly staggers. He thinks he’s sort of going the right way, towards the first aid kit tucked under his bed, but he’s clearly wrong, because his hip bumps into something and glass shatters. Tommy freezes, swaying on his feet.

His brain is working overtime to try to orient himself – what the fuck did he just knock over? A cup maybe? Tubbo was always on him about hoarding glasses in his room.

Does that mean he’s by his desk?

Tommy takes a tentative few steps forward and collides into something both soft and firm. It’s enough to topple him; he drops onto his knees and falls further into it. Forehead pressed against the thing, he frowns, hands sliding up testingly over what is unmistakably a sofa, and– okay.

He… he’s a little out of it, admittedly, but he does not remember there being a sofa in his room.

It is soft though. He slumps against it, easing himself down so he’s leaning his back against it, legs out in front of him. He doesn’t even have enough energy to pull himself onto it properly but even sitting on the floor with his back against it feels great. Or better, at least. He doesn’t feel too great in general.

And since when did breathing get so difficult? Tommy doesn’t remember that either. But his lungs contract with a rasp and he coughs, chest shaking. The fit ends quickly, and his eyelids droop. Maybe it won’t be that bad to fall asleep here. A brief repose, to catch his breath. Just this once.

Five minutes, Tommy promises himself lethargically. Five minutes then back up.

He exhales, muscles loosening as tension seeps out of him. That seems like a good deal. Five minutes. He can– he can do that. Everything’s gonna be just fine if he just… takes a second to rest. Even the heroes rest, sometimes. This is okay. Pog, even. It’s fine.

It’s what he tells himself, anyways, as his eyes slip closed.

⋆⋆⋆

It’s almost cruel – the way that the one time Techno lays himself down for bed at a somewhat decent hour, someone breaks into his apartment.

His first thought is that retirement made him slow, because he doesn’t hear the intruder until he hears the glass break. Then, his eyes are snapping open, awareness flooding him instantly. The voices clustered at the back of his skull awaken with him: an indistinct choir of restlessness and hunger that grows louder as he stands and catches a strong whiff of blood.

Paranoia has its virtues – by the time Techno makes it out of his bedroom, he’s wielding twin silver blades. Incessant, the voices push and shout and claw and–

Come to an unprecedented halt as he rounds the corner into the living room.

Techno freezes, blinking at the crumpled form in front of his now-heavily-bloodstained couch. What…?

He steps closer, feeling strangely exposed with the voices’ unusual absence. They’re there – of course they are. But they’re quiet.

Techno doesn’t like loud, but the quiet is almost worse.

He steps forward, faint moonlight glinting off his knives. It draws his eyes up to the window: wide open with blood streaked across the glass and sill like a macabre fingerpainting. Wind pushes against the curtains and that’s what makes it click.

Did– did this guy break into his home through the window? Of his eighth-story apartment?

For a moment, all he can do is stare – very, very faintly impressed.

Then, the scent of blood slams into him again and he snaps out of it. The voices churn again, not a shout but a nudge. Techno listens, approaching the crumpled form. He deposits the knives on the floor as he crouches down – his instincts are telling him it’s safe, and his enhanced senses point to the same conclusion.

Techno nudges the guy’s shoulder, inspecting him carefully. He’s clad in red and white – not the type of clothes he’d expect to see on a burglar but then, he wouldn’t expect a burglar to be able to get in through his window so–

Not a burglar, hisses a voice, rising above the muddled amalgamation that had retreated to his nape. Look.

And Techno does, wondering why the voices are acting up and then discarding the thought to inspect the guy properly.

Blonde, he charts, hurt. Then, the pieces start to click together in his mind: the attire that looks less like a burglar’s garments and more like a uniform, the bandana that is fastened poorly over his face – not even hiding his eyes – and the edgy fingerless gloves. He knows what he’s dealing with. Hero– no. Too scrappy. Vigilante.

The voices murmur in agreement and he frowns, appreciating the unusual commentary even if he doesn’t need it.

The guy stirs, a quiet groan of pain cutting through the silence. Techno looks down, following the shining trail of blood on the floor up to the guy’s side, which is drenched in barely-visible crimson. Techno reaches forward without thinking, palms pressing over the fabric.

The guy jerks as Techno touches him, eyelashes fluttering. Techno presses harder, feeling totally lost. He doesn’t know why a vigilante has ended up in his apartment, but it’s probably not anything good.

However, Techno can’t just… not do anything. If he dies here, not only will that be a whole mess, but Techno won’t be able to find out why exactly he’s here.

(And if the sight of an injured vigilante reminds him too starkly of, well, himself, then that’s between him and the voices.)

“Alright,” Techno grunts, sliding his hands behind the guy’s hands and beneath his knees. “Up you go.”

The vigilante whimpers, and it makes Techno wince, sympathy panging through him almost foreignly. He tries not to jostle him, but he has to move fast if he wants to help him – and he does. Perhaps this is some sort of divine intervention. Nobody needs a normal sleep schedule. Certainly not him.

The guy is light, almost too light. Techno gets him onto the couch easily, grateful for his semi-night vision that is saving him from having to run to a light. The voices are starting to clamor again, acting independently even as they magnify his own worry.

He doesn’t need his powers to tell him this is bad. How the guy managed to get all the way up here is beyond him, even if most superpowered people had some sort of enhanced healing factor. Then again, adrenaline had its perks.

Bracing himself, Techno lifts the bottom of his jacket, then his undershirt, and grimaces.

Bullet wound, he identifies instantly – and ouch: he’s been shot enough times to know it hurts. The skin around it is red and inflamed, blood leaking sluggishly down his side. Techno slides his hand behind the guy’s back, feeling around and finding only smooth skin where an exit wound might be. His grimace deepens.

Blood manipulation and cell regeneration – it’s easy enough to use those facets of his abilities on himself when they happen automatically, but it’s much harder and infinitely less effective to use them on another person. Techno manages, focusing on shifting the blood to get the bullet fragments out first and foremost.

The guy lets out a strangled gasp, back arching as Techno’s powers struggle to do their work. He stays asleep throughout, which doesn’t surprise Techno in the slightest. It’s not a pretty injury.

A short eternity and an endless litany of hitched breaths later, it’s done. Techno pushes more power into his fingertips, attempting to knit the skin together as the last of the bullet fragments drop into his palm. His power resists – Techno has always been better at breaking things than fixing them.

Techno leans back, exhaling. The voices are dim and pulled-back as he tries to orient himself with where to go from here. Undoubtedly, he’ll need the first aid kit for the rest of this. And pain meds. And maybe a Xanax for himself.

He huffs, pushing himself up to his feet. He casts a scrutinizing gaze over the unconscious vigilante – fast asleep and no longer gasping out pained noises – before retreating into the bathroom to fetch his collection of medical supplies: particularly the suture kit.

It’s only because of Phil that he has one at all, because apparently relying purely on his abilities wasn’t “the best idea, mate.” At the time, Techno had rolled his eyes but begrudgingly accepted it. He’d inflicted his own paranoia on his oldest friend enough times to return the favor and entertain his antics.

Now, as he heads back into the living room to play nursemaid to the intruder on his couch, he considers himself grateful – and then wonders what karmic chain of events he’d participated in to land himself in this position.

Techno showers, changes, gets most of his living room in order – the blood on the window and the couch will have to wait – and is on his way to falling back asleep in the hours that it takes for the vigilante to regain consciousness. It’s only right that the moment he starts to drift off, the vigilante wakes with a loud gasp.

Techno straightens in the adjacent armchair, watching the guy struggle upright and instantly look around, eyes squinted as his drowsy gaze slides slowly over the room. Techno had turned on a lamp, thinking it might help, but the way the guy winces away from the soft gold light – gloved hand flying up to shield his eyes – he thinks he should’ve abstained from doing so.

“Tubbo?” the guy rasps.

He’s looking straight at Techno now – and Techno will admit that he freezes up, brain lagging.

Tubbo? Is he supposed to know what that is?

“Heh?”

The vigilante blinks again, and that’s when Techno notices the uneven pupils.

“Tubbo,” he repeats. “Where’s–”

He cuts himself off with a gasp, clutching his head. That’s enough for Techno to stand, retrieving the bottle of water he’d purposely left on the end table – once he had picked it back up anyway – and reaching out to the guy.

“What…?”

“Here,” he grunts, twisting the cap mostly off. The guy blinks at him before clumsily wrapping his hands around it. Techno nods awkwardly. “Drink that.”

Through the concussed fog, he’s clearly trying to think. Dehydration must win out because he pushes up the bottom of the bandana and tries to bring the bottle to his lips – tries, because his hands are shaking too bad to let him drink. Techno’s hand shoots out instinctively, stabilizing his hands. Relief rushes through his blue eyes as he drinks.

The voices hum in approval. Techno frowns.

The vigilante downs most of the bottle before he pulls it away. Some of his energy must be restored because he looks up at Techno curiously as Techno’s hand falls away.

“Who the fuck are you?”

Techno will be the first to admit that he has never had the most tact, but even he winces when the first thing out of his mouth is, “You owe me a new couch.”

The vigilante looks at him for a minute, eyebrows furrowed above his mask. He’s looking more and more concussed by the second.

“What?” the guy slurs, blinking hard again, blue eyes hazy.

“I asked how you were feeling.”

Liar, snickers a voice in the back of his head, rising above an equally as insufferable chorus.

Techno resolutely ignores it.

“Like shit,” the vigilante coughs out. His left hand comes down to hold his side, fingers skimming under the edge of his hoodie – because that’s what he fights in, Techno had come to realize – and brushing over the fresh bandages. “Did you–” He stops, and Techno frowns when he sees the guy’s eyes widen: laser focused on the front of his hoodie. “Wait.” Techno obliges. “Are you– is that Bloodlust merch?”

Techno stops. “What?”

“Bloodlust,” the vigilante manages. “Coolest–” he coughs again. “Coolest guy ever. Killed many people. Probably got so many bitches. Is the fuckin’ icon of icons–” His face, or what Techno can see of it, scrunches up. “Well, except maybe for Crowfather, he’s pretty fuckin’ sick–”

“Okay,” Techno interjects, incredibly out of his depth. “You’re done. Lay back down.”

“Huh?”

Techno presses his palm against the kid’s sternum with just enough force to push him back down on the pillows, not that he objects. “You are talkin’ way too much for someone whose pupils are two different sizes. Back to sleep.”

“Fuck you,” the guy croaks even as his eyes are already drooping shut. Techno internally groans. “I’m– I’m the man and the best. I can do what I want.” He coughs again, eyes managing a spark of heat. “Bitch.”

“You’re a home intruder,” Techno drawls out, seriously questioning every decision that has led him to this point. “I don’t want to hear it.”

The guy squints, confusion flickering over his tired face. “This is m’ house.”

A home robber too, then. Lovely. “This is, in fact, my apartment, actually.”

The guy squints, drowsiness burned away by hot accusation. “Did you kidnap me?”

Techno thinks he could be hung off the side of a helicopter by his ankles and still be less thrown off than he is now. “Heh? You broke into my apartment!”

The guy sinks against the pillows, eyelids drooping as the exhaustion slams back into him. “I’m gonna beat the shit out of you when I wake up.”

Techno resists the urge to groan, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Alright.”

The guy nods, self-satisfaction oozing off of him even with his eyes closed. “Pussy.”

Techno sighs.

“Where am I?”

Techno, coming back in from the kitchen with a hastily-made peanut butter sandwich on a plate, will admit that he startles.

Not because he’s scared, no, but because when he looks over at the couch, the vigilante is awake – far sooner than he probably should be – sitting up, and pulling his mask off of his face.

His mask – as if he is not injured in a stranger’s apartment that he was (possibly) attempting to rob.

“Do you have zero survival instincts?” Techno asks, voice threatening to pitch up into disbelief, even as he feels a thin layer of panic wash over him. “Put your mask back on.”

The guy blinks, looking down at his lap where he is holding the bandana then back up again, and Techno goes very, very still because–

He looks so young.

The vigilante that crash-landed into his apartment a measly eight-ish hours ago can’t be older than seventeen, Techno is sure of it.

Techno will admit that his very first instinct is to wish, desperately, that Phil was here.

He’s equipped to handle a lot of things. But a child? And a vigilante-robber at that?

“Whoops,” the kid says. Then he sees the plate in Techno’s hands and his face – his bruised, painfully youthful face – lights up. “Is that for me?”

Techno hands him the plate wordlessly. The kid’s hands are shaking as he lifts the sandwich to his mouth, tearing off a bite ravenously. He– he doesn’t even hesitate.

Jesus Christ.

“Quit staring at me,” the boy demands after a moment.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” Techno drawls dryly. “Am I supposed to not watch the guy who broke into my home?”

The boy’s eyebrows furrow, and he swallows his next bite. “I didn’t break in, dickhead.”

Techno glances over at his window, where he hadn’t had a chance to wipe the blood off the outside of the glass. The boy’s eyes follow the direction of his gaze and he frowns, recognition washing over him.

“Oh, is that– huh.” He takes another bite of his sandwich then glances up at Techno bashfully. “What, um–” He coughs awkwardly. “What floor are we on, right now?”

“Eighth.”

Panic flickers over the boy’s face. He sets his sandwich down, glancing up at the ceiling.

“Fuck.”

Techno almost laughs. He isn’t sure what he’s feeling more of: delirium, disbelief, amusement, or some combination of them all. Things suddenly make a bit more sense.

“I take it you didn’t mean to wind up here,” Techno guesses, relief blooming in his chest.

This is good. This means Techno can deliver him up to the correct floor and wash his hands of everything. This is great.

The boy laughs awkwardly, and it breaks into a chesty cough. He rubs his chest, pain creasing his face.

“No,” the boy admits. “I didn’t… I was coming back from patrol and must’ve…”

He trails off, brows scrunched and eyes faroff. He brings his sandwich up and takes a slow, contemplative bite.

“You are a vigilante then,” Techno confirms, skimming over his costume. “I figured.”

The boy’s eyes bulge, and he almost drops his sandwich. “You’ve heard of me?”

Techno hesitates, uncertain if he has the guts to crush this kid’s hope. He does.

“No,” he answers bluntly, only feeling a little bad when his face falls.

“...Are you going to call the cops?” he hedges carefully.

That is a good question.

Part of him thinks he should, if only because less than eight hours ago he was coaxing a bullet out of the kid’s side. Crime-fighting was a dangerous occupation – Techno would know. Before he was Bloodlust, he was a low-level vigilante just like he presumes this kid is.

He’s positive that he had triple the amount of survival instincts that this kid seems to have, but that doesn’t mean he necessarily should have been taking on armed robbers and making drug busts for free at the ripe age of sixteen. But at least he had a functional, protective uniform and the ability to walk off most of the injuries he’d ever earned. This kid is… woefully less prepared.

For both of their sake, Techno should call somebody to get him sorted out.

However.

Techno can tell from his body language that turning him in might not be the best option either. The kid has gone from loose and relaxed to stiff and jumpy, coiled like a spring. His eyes flicker over to Techno’s window like he’s ready to jump out of it should Techno move an inch. Considering that he’d climbed through it, Techno wouldn’t be surprised.

“No,” he finds himself saying eventually.

The boy bites his cheek, eyes two pools of distrust as he skims him over. “Oh. Why not?”

Techno sighs. “Are you going to stop fighting crime if I do?”

Techno doesn’t even have to hear whatever response the kid plans to muster up, because he hesitates, and the intent to lie is written so starkly on his face that Techno wants to laugh again.

“Thought so,” Techno huffs. The voices flurry, stirring. “I know better than anyone what it’s–”

Techno stops, tripping over his mistake. The voices groan, magnifying his own idiocy as if he didn’t realize the possible implications of what he’d almost said.

The kid must not be completely obtuse because his face changes. “You do?” The next few moments feel like a trainwreck – a collision in motion – as the kid’s face splits into something questioning, then recognition, then pure awe. Techno, realizes belatedly, that at the very least he should’ve changed out of his hoodie. “I fucking knew it.”

“Knew what?”

“You’re Bloodlust.”

“...Who?”

Techno cringes before he’s even done saying it, flinching away from the screech of his own personal choir that chuckles like hyenas. If what he’d said earlier wasn’t a death knell on his identity, then this–

“Did you just– you’re wearing his merch, man,” the boy deadpans. Then, face brightening again, “Or– your merch. Holy shit.”

“I’m not Bloodlust,” Techno counters quickly, standing. “You’re concussed. You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

The boy’s face is incredulous. “Are you trying to gaslight me?” He exhales, breath shaking. “I’m getting manipulated by Bloodlust. This is the best day of my life.”

“I’m not–”

“And he’s wearing his own merch. What the shit?”

“You don’t know what you’re talkin’ about, kid.”

The boy leaps to his feet, face instantly greying out as he wobbles. That doesn’t stop him from launching into a rant, movements too animated for someone who had literally been on the brink of death not too long ago.

“I heard you in the kitchen, talking to yourself,” the boy counters. Techno opens his mouth to interject but the boy continues. “You thought I was asleep but I was pretending to make sure you weren’t a wrong’un. And at first I thought, well, maybe he was just thinking out loud. But then you said, and I quote ‘What do I feed him, Chat?’ And who the fuck was rumored to be able to talk to mythical voices? Bloodlust. Yeah, that’s right I know the lore.”

Techno feels hopelessly, hopelessly overwhelmed. How was toppling the entire Hero’s League easier than dealing with a concussed vigilante in the middle of his living room? He needs air. No, he needs Phil.

“Kid,” he tries, reaching out, and–

“And then I saw the hair–” Techno winces. “And then you said that–” He winces again, feeling Chat clamor loudly against his skull. “And then I saw the merch and it all came together.” His features screw up as he flashes Techno a lopsided smile. “It’s a real dickish move to wear your own merch, you know. That’s the kinda shit Tories do, man.” His eyes widen, and he whirls around in his pacing, staring straight at Techno. “Not that it matters! You can do what you want Mr. Bloodlust sir.”

Techno sighs. “Look, kid, I can’t–”

“Don’t– look, I’m Tommy – your biggest fan!” He pats his pockets like he’s searching for something but comes up bare. “Can I get your autograph?”

Techno flounders, reeling. First things first: “I’m– don’t tell me your name. Jesus–”

“It’s okay!” Tommy assures him, even as he sways on his feet, arms swinging wildly. “Really! You’re my biggest hero, man. You’re the reason I wanted to do this shit in the first place!” He gestures to his vigilante getup and suddenly his expression is softening, and his voice drops into something quiet: soft and hesitant with youth. “Please tell me I’m right.”

Techno resists pulling at his hair, but the urge is short-lived. Somehow, maybe it’s the fact that someone is actually calling him his hero – him whose hands break instead of build – that’s all it takes for him to crack.

What’s the worst that can happen? He’s Bloodlust, for crying out loud. There’s nothing a maybe-sixteen year old can do that would actually threaten him.

“I’m– okay. You got me.”

Tommy blinks, shakes, and then his face grows disturbingly serious. “I’m going to pass out.”

Techno instantly grabs his shoulders, pushing back towards the couch. “Not happenin’. Sit.”

Tommy just nods reverently, letting himself be guided backwards until–

“Are those knives?”

He twists out of Techno’s grip and lunges for the floor. Techno has a distant memory of setting them beside the couch and almost groans. Luckily, he doesn’t have to fight Tommy for the knives because the second the kid is walking on his own, his knees give out and he lurches towards the ground.

Techno swears and catches him, worry coursing through him. This is awful. This is horrible. How has his night devolved into this hell of a morning?

“Take it easy,” Techno tells Tommy, whose fingers dig into his hoodie as he lowers him onto the pillows. He can’t help the bite of admonishment from slipping into his tone: “If you pulled your stitches–”

“I have Bloodlust stitches,” Tommy half-slurs breathlessly. “Poggers.”

“You are so concussed,” Techno grumbles. “C’mon, there ya go. Yep.”

Tommy sags against the pillows. Techno drags a blanket over his shoulders, resisting the urge to fret. The chorus of spirits prodding at him isn’t helping.

They’re a nuisance on the best of days but today they are particularly persistent – and it’s not even to kill things. Techno sighs.

Now that he’s laying down again, some of the color has returned to Tommy’s face, which is good.

“I don’t know much about other people’s powers, kid, but I’m guessin’ you have some sort of healin’ factor?” Tommy nods lethargically which is about what Techno expected, but it’s a relief to hear. Phil is the same way, as are most enhanced people. “That’s good. I tried to heal you up when I got the bullet out, but even then I estimate it’ll probably be a day or two before the stitches dissolve, and longer for the pain to go away. Your concussion might be the same, or a bit slower, dependin’ on how good your body can heal itself.”

“A few days usually,” Tommy chimes in. Then, his face grows sober and concerned. “Wait.”

Techno braces himself.

Tommy swallows, eyes wide. “Are you going to kill me?”

Techno blinks, thrown off. “Heh?”

Tommy watches him carefully. “You know the whole, ‘If I tell you I have to kill you?’ Is that shit, like – I mean–”

Techno huffs, almost managing a grin. “After spendin’ all this time patchin’ you up? Nah.” Techno crouches down, putting himself eye to eye with the kid. “I do need’ta know if you’ve got anywhere you usually go.”

Or anyone, he thinks privately.

Tommy winces and tries to cover it. “Uh, well, usually I just patch myself up in my room.”

Techno’s eyebrows shoot up towards his hairline. “By yourself? Do you live alone?”

“Kind of.” At Techno’s look, he amends, “I don’t live alone, big man. I have roommates.”

Something about the way he says it puts Techno on edge. “They don’t know about your little hobby, do they?”

Tommy shakes his head mutely before: “Nah,” he says. “They don’t even like heroes. Vigilantes included.”

You included, Techno interprets.

Tommy must read his silence as some sort of judgement because he straightens, face hardening ever so slightly as he wraps Techno’s blankets protectively around his thin shoulders. “Hey, you can’t give me shit for it, alright? You’re Bloodlust–” The reverence that seeps into Techno’s moniker is almost intolerable, like a harsh beam of sunlight on his eyes. “–and you fuckin’ live alone, don’t you?”

Techno purses his lips. “Yes.”

“And you’re fine,” Tommy points out.

Techno pauses, considers that, because yes, he is.

But he also can’t help but think of Phil, who he’s barely seen in months, who made him promise not to wall himself in when the dust settled, to not be a hermit. Techno will admit that he hasn’t exactly done any of that.

“Very,” he says eventually.

The voices beg to differ; he lets them.

He stands, curtain of pink hair falling over his shoulder.

He can feel Tommy’s eyes on him as he grabs his twin blades in one hand, preparing to turn back towards his bedroom to put them away. He’s passing by the couch when a bruised hand shoots out, grabbing the sleeve of his hoodie. Techno turns, and Tommy’s expression is painfully unsure.

“Uh, sorry if I said something wrong, man,” Tommy says, eyes flickering over Techno’s face. “I figured– I mean you were a hero–”

He trails off awkwardly, looking lost.

Techno flashes him a tight grin, the corners of his mouth barely upturning as he studies the beat-up boy in front of him and wishes he didn’t feel like he was looking in a mirror.

A hero, Techno thinks. Depending on who you ask.

Unbidden, the voices push forward, briefly taking his thoughts and amplifying them, swirling around his skull in cold whispers.

Reverence, one sings, You looked at them in reverence too, and they forsook you, used you.

You offered your help and they objectified you.

You don’t know reverence anymore.

Do you wish to see his die too?

The voices settle. Techno tears his eyes away from Tommy’s face.

Quiet bleeds into the gap of their conversation. Tommy’s gaze drops, bandaged fingers dropping away from Techno’s sleeve to fiddle with loose threads on the blanket draped over his lap. From the window, wind rushes past the curtains, drawing out a whispered conversation between the linen and the breeze.

The loudest silence of all comes from the conglomerated energy at the back of Techno’s own skull.

He’s as good as a vessel of chaos and yet, he is alone in considering the idea forming slowly in his skull.

(In the end, he doesn’t know why he does it.

Maybe it’s because it’s early and he’s tired, or maybe it’s weakness, spilling out of him in the absence of being a hero anymore.

Maybe it’s because there is only one other person who has ever been able to turn the chaos of his mind into something contained and tranquil.

Or maybe it’s just because Techno’s lost his own mind. But–)

“It’s fine,” Techno tells him, voice ringing faintly hollow even to his own ears. “But next time you come crawlin’ through my window for help, don’t get blood on the couch.”

Tommy nods diligently. “Yeah, sorry about that, I–”

He stops. Inhales quickly. Stares at him, eyebrows raised a fraction and lips parted.

Techno’s face is purposely schooled into a solid mask of indifference as he stares back. His skin crawls almost uncomfortably in anticipation. He knows what he said, even if he isn’t sure why he said it – he knows what he’s offered: an olive branch, extended tentatively between them.

“Next time?” Tommy echoes, lilting up into something high and pitchy.

“I was a vigilante before I was Bloodlust, y’know,” he starts carefully, watching Tommy nod even quicker. “I know how it can be.”

(The words burn holes in his tongue as he contains them: Throwing your neck out for civilians who throw you to the wolves in reciprocation, standing over your picked-at bones with bland expressions.

Revered by those protected by him; reviled by those in fear of him.

Only as treasured as the headlines allowed him to be.)

Techno has no clue what Tommy’s relation is with the media, with the people – hell, he doesn’t even know what name he goes by in costume. He could be the media’s darling and Techno would be offering his trust out on a silver platter for no reason.

(So were you, hisses that unholy medley. They worshipped you like a god and when the time came, they crucified you like one.)

“What I’m sayin’ is, if you happen to get yourself into more trouble than you can handle, I would probably not kick you out if you came knockin’ on my window.”

Tommy’s eyes are saucers, two spiral galaxies brimming with infinite wonder and light.

“For real?” he asks, as suspicious as he is breathless with wonder.

“For real,” Techno echoes dryly back. “I’ll come up with a way for you to return the favor.”

He thinks of Phil, and a promise unfulfilled, and figures: this counts as socialization, doesn’t it?

Tommy chokes for air.

With growing amusement, Techno considers that maybe offering himself up as tentative mentor (not nursemaid, shut up Chat) might’ve been something he could’ve suggested when the kid wasn’t so incapacitated but it’s fine. Techno has always been as impulsive as he is calculated. He can’t say he’s surprised that he’d had an impulse and followed it – with a head as chaotic as his, sometimes it was less exhausting to give in.

“This– you won’t regret this, Mr. Bloodlust– Mr. Lust? Is it–”

“Technoblade.”

If it’s even possible, Tommy’s eyes bulge further. “Techno?” he squeaks, and Techno nods, lips twitching. “Technoblade? Thanks, Technoblade. Seriously, you won’t regret this, I’m like– the fuckin’ coolest vigilante in the district–”

“Are there many?”

Tommy hesitates. “Well–”

Techno snorts, shaking his head. The voices start to feed off of his sudden burst of merriment, clamoring to join him. For once, their chaos feels more like the pleasant roar of a lively bonfire and not the throbbing ache of a twisting migraine.

“Don’t stress yourself out, kid.” Too late, he thinks with a sharp sliver of amusement. “Still gotta climb back to wherever you came from.”

“Right,” Tommy agrees, nodding too quickly again. “I might finish my sandwich, and then–”

“Take your time,” Techno says, walking back towards his bedroom with a dismissing wave. “We should probably talk anyways.”

Tommy’s voice follows him into the room, “I love talking! Talking is fuckin’ poggers. I can talk!”

I think I’m starting to get that, Techno thinks.

It’s approaching noon when Tommy declares himself just well enough to crawl back to wherever he meant to go. He hangs off Techno’s window sill, wearing a pair of borrowed sweats and a limited edition Bloodlust hoodie. It’s too big for him, but he was vibrating with excitement when Techno begrudgingly offered it to him in lieu of the torn, bloodstained pajamas – sorry, super suit – that he was wearing, and now the sleeves are rolled up to his elbows as he crouches on a two inch ledge and prepares to do… whatever he’s going to do.

“Don’t fall to your death,” Techno advises, crossing his arms. “That’s bad for the property value.”

Tommy squints at him. Techno’s heart does not jump when he lets go of the window frame and leans back to salute with one hand.

“Tommy Innit never dies,” he announces proudly.

“That’s my slogan.”

Tommy coughs. “Right.” He stands, and Techno would be worried about him being seen had this side of the apartment not been facing a brick wall, and had Tommy not done something with the light to shadow his escape – Techno will have to ask him about that. Tommy pauses, gloved fingers curling around the window frame as he looks back. “Does this mean I’m best friends with Bloodlust?”

Techno’s lips quirk. “Not even close.”

“Well,” Tommy says, straightening. His smile returns, totally unbothered. “We’ll get there.”

“Don’t hold your breath on that.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Tommy grumbles, before the smile bounces back like elastic. “See you around, Mr. Blade!”

For your sake, I hope not.

“It’s Techno!”

Tommy throws him a final grin before pulling his bandana up over his mouth and flinging himself into open air. Techno catches a glimpse of a curling vine before Tommy is gone and the window – glistening clean and blood-free – is ushered closed by the wind.

In the absence of the kid, Techno sighs, falling back into his armchair as his energy drains out of him all at once. The events of the past few hours slam into him hard enough to leave his teeth rattling: the sleep deprivation he’d been staving off making itself abundantly clear even as the voices buzz incessantly like a hive of ants released in his brain.

“Shhh,” he hisses to the air, eyes shut. “I’m thinkin’.”

The voices obey, dissipating into softer whispers, and Techno relaxes, sinking into the worn leather. He almost wants to laugh as the past few hours settle firmly into him.

For better or for worse, he’d committed himself to sort of-helping a teenage vigilante with a spirit too bright for his costume. Techno just wishes he could tell which it is – better, or worse.

He sighs again before opening his eyes. He’s tired enough to doze off in the armchair, but he knows when he wakes up, he’ll have regretted not dragging himself into his actual bed. So he gets up, yawning as pink hair tumbles down his shoulders, reminding him to braid it again soon.

Techno makes it halfway across the living room before he stops, eyes landing on something in the middle of the room, and–

Shit.

He’d forgotten to have Tommy clean the blood off his couch.

Chapter Text

Techno doesn’t see Tommy again for almost two weeks.

And five days after the scrappy vigilante crawls out of his window, he wonders if he ever will.

Subconsciously skimming headlines reveals little: Fourteenth District remains mostly free of superhuman activity, as far as the newsmen proclaim anyway.

(Techno is not surprised. Casual praise is and has always been reserved for the big names: the heroes whose capes were made of the same lining as the government’s pockets. Faults, failures, and mistakes on the other hand – now that is prime feeding ground: tender strips of meat for the media to sink their gnashing teeth into until it comes apart.

And if there is one thing that Techno knows, it’s how the media prefers their steak: rotten.)

He thinks maybe he should’ve asked for Tommy’s persona name – social media tended to favor the small-timers – but as the days drag on and his apartment remains as barren as ever, he figures it might not matter anyway. Tommy hasn’t been back. The window, which he’d found himself leaving cracked more often than not, remains untouched. After a full week comes and goes, Techno stops leaving it open.

It’s a weird feeling: the one that gnaws at the flesh between his chest and stomach. It’s not quite hope, no – Techno isn’t hopeful that the scrappy vigilante he’d pieced back together would break back into his home. It’s something like expectation: the crawling static before a lightning strike – except Techno’s the one flying a key on a kite and waiting for the flash.

Tommy had upset his routine, had crash-landed into his life with the same ferocity as he had with his window. He’d dropped like an anchor into harsh waves, but where Techno had expected ripples, he’d been met only with stillness. Not for the first time, Techno is almost more put off by the quiet than the noise.

So, no. He’s not hopeful and he’s definitely not disappointed by the lone echo of his voice, magnified by the hollowness of the walls. Why would he be? This isn’t anything he isn’t used to, and one upset isn’t going to change that. Techno falls back into his routine with barely a missed step: donate blood on Monday, call Phil on Wednesday. He has groceries delivered to his front door on Saturday. Trains in the late nights or early mornings – whichever time his sleep schedule allows. Exists throughout.

(And if he’d moved his end table away from the window on Tuesday, that was being proactive – he doesn’t want to lose another vase in the event it gets knocked over again. Moving a stock of medical supplies into the hall closet was nothing more than convenient. He’s always been paranoid – there is nothing abnormal about any of this.)

Ironically, though, it’s only after Techno has resigned himself to the idea that Tommy is actually competent enough to survive without the help of a forsaken hero – as doubtful as the idea is – that he wakes up to the sound of incessant knocking against his windowpane.

The voices flurry into consciousness like a pile of dry, autumn leaves stirred up by a persistent wind. Techno yawns, drags himself out of his bed and towards the living room, and leans against the doorway to peer into the room.

Sure enough, there’s a head of blonde hair and a pair of bright, blue-lightning eyes poking up above the edge of his windowsill. When Tommy sees Techno, his eyes widen, and he brings a gloved hand up to wave wildly. He’s shouting something excitedly, bandana-mask bunched under his chin, but the sound is dampened by the glass. Techno waves back lazily.

Tommy catches the gesture and grins wider, dropping his hand to slide the window up with minimal effort. He sticks his arm through, balancing his elbow on the sill.

“Hello Technoblade,” Tommy greets, grinning crookedly as he tests the name. He lifts his other arm, previously hidden by the edge of the window, and holds up a creased, red and white fast food bag, the bottom heavy with splotches of grease. “I brought food!”

Techno is pretty sure that he defies at least six different laws of physics as he manages to swing a leg up, contorting himself awkwardly in order to shove his leg through the window and hook it over the edge of the frame.

“And a stab wound!”

Techno’s smile, or the ghost of one anyway, drops. Any trace of amusement he’d conjured up drains out of him in one fell swoop.

Tommy’s grin never wavers as he wiggles his leg, unblinkingly displaying the penknife sticking out of his calf. Blood stains his pant leg, surrounding the hilt of the knife like a bullseye.

Techno sighs.

“Sorry to bother you with this—”

“I told you to come,” Techno counters easily – once they’re on the sofa, over a blanket this time, with Tommy’s leg stretched across his lap – taking practiced fingers and guiding a pair of scissors through the fabric of Tommy’s sweats. He cuts them above the knee, carefully maneuvering around the hilt of the knife, and gently pulls the sticky fabric away, sympathizing with the hiss of pain Tommy pushes through gritted teeth. “It was smart to leave the knife in.”

“Yeah,” Tommy agrees breathily, tracking Techno’s ministrations unblinkingly. “Learned that one the hard way.”

Techno’s hand stills, neurons firing off a beat too slow at the unpleasant imagery that the blasé statement paints behind his eyes.

“That’s… concernin’,” he manages after a moment, setting the scissors down on the floor. Tommy nods, leg bouncing minutely as he watches Techno bring his hand up to wrap around the black handle. He takes a moment to meet Tommy’s eyes. “Brace yourself.”

Tommy blinks, then swallows, eyes widening a fraction as he looks down. He glances between the knife and Techno, nose twitching. Then, before Techno can blink, Tommy’s hand shoots out, landing on Techno’s shoulder, fingers twisting into the fabric of his T-shirt with a shaking sort of distress. Techno pauses, barely able to express his discomfort in the face of Tommy’s pale face, features screwed up tightly.

He looks, in this moment, remarkably like a child.

“Just do it,” Tommy breathes out through tight lips, eyes shut tight. “I’m not a bitch.”

Techno looks him over one last time before shrugging, tightening his grip, and pulling the knife up. The collar of his shirt rubs his skin raw as Tommy twists up the fabric even more. To his credit, though, he doesn’t make a sound – something which Techno both admires and is perturbed by.

The bloodied knife hits the floor next to the discarded scissors. Tommy exhales shakily, some sort of laugh bubbling just under the surface of the sound. Techno steadies Tommy’s arm without thinking as he presses a clean, dry rag beneath his knee. Tommy looks at him, smiling gratefully as his fingers loosen and slip away from Techno’s shirt onto his lap.

“Sorry,” he breathes, leaning back. “That’s– it’s weirder when someone else does it.”

Chat, previously quiet, mimics Techno’s faint unease as he considers that.

“We’ve still gotta clean it,” Techno tells him, glancing at the penknife with a grimace. “That thing probably has so many diseases.”

“Oh, yeah,” Tommy agrees sagely, following Techno’s eyes down to the unassuming, crimson-stained blade. “Fucker pulled that out of nowhere, I swear. One minute, I’m pinning him to the floor and the next—” His hands come up to mime a stabbing gesture at the air, “—No more leg for Tommy.”

Techno snorts, grabbing Tommy’s hand and maneuvering it to take over pressing down on the rag. “Your leg will be fine.” He gently eases Tommy’s leg off of his lap, even as he’s unable to resist slipping under his breath, “Probably.” Tommy’s mouth opens, but Techno doesn’t give him a chance. “Hold that.”

“What?” Techno grins sharply as he disappears into the other room. “Technoblade, what?” Then, barely audible, “What the fuck. Did he just…?”

Tommy trails off, and Techno huffs as he rifles through the first aid kit. Maybe talking to people can be fun.

The stab wound that Tommy has earned is significantly less fatal than the bullet wound that Techno had first patched up a little over a week ago: which is to say, not fatal at all. By the time it’s cleaned, and Techno has learned approximately ten new combinations of swear words – each more colorful than the last as they tumbled off of Tommy’s lips – it’s starting to scab, and to close, likely guided by the subtler aspects of Tommy’s enhancements. Techno doesn’t need to stitch it up, but he does wrap it.

Tommy is fascinated. “That’s so nice, what the fuck.”

Techno’s lips curve. “The bandage?”

“It’s crisp,” Tommy emphasizes, brushing his fingers over the clean edges as Techno finishes up. “Mine never look like that.”

Yikes.

“Practice makes perfect,” Techno remarks, scooping up the scissors and scattered medical supplies littering his hardwood.

Tommy smirks at him as he stretches his leg testingly, rolling his ankle and bending his knee repeatedly. “You get stabbed a lot, Blade?”

Did he? “More times than I can count.”

Tommy’s eyes widen appreciatively, still shining with that strange admiration. Techno turns his head away, vaguely discomforted by it, even as he’d anticipated it. The taste of fame has long since soured on his tongue. Despite the threat of warmth unfolding somewhere in his ribcage, the corruption he’d cut out of existence casts a heavy shadow on his glory days. Even if it feels… different, coming from Tommy.

“That’s badass,” Tommy breathes. Techno ignores the faint spark of pride skittering through him, even as the voices latch onto it like rabid dogs on a greasy bone. Tommy leans forward, eyes alight with curiosity. “Did you have someone to patch you up, too? You know, like… a sidekick.”

Techno casts a squinted glance at him over his shoulder. “I am not your sidekick.”

Tommy grins sheepishly. Techno shakes his head, amusement fading into consideration. Phil, he thinks automatically, before the thought is rejected like a bad dollar bill.

“Not at first,” he settles on, which is true.

Before he and Phil had met, they’d joined the old Hero’s League near-synchronously – clad in the efforts of their own personas. They’d had their own legacies, their own lives.

Techno had forged his legacy in the slums, the “Pits” of the gilded city, where the crime was thick and the chaos thicker – places like Fourteenth District. Phil had fancied the richer suburbs, the business districts, where the human corruption wasn’t any less present but significantly less blatant: putrefying the streets in the form of pressed suits and silk ties. What they had in common, and what had led them to the Hero’s League and the start of it all – making them not sidekicks but vicious partners – was that they both had nothing to lose, and everything to prove.

“Oh,” Tommy says appropriately, apparently less able to cope with the fallen silence than Techno. His eyes land on the forgotten fast food bags and his face lights up. “Burger time?”

Hunger twists in Techno’s stomach. He nods.

Tommy beams, like a flower turning its face up to gleaming sunlight – except in this case, it’s the barest dregs of Techno’s validation. Distantly, as Tommy limps over to his kitchen table before Techno has a chance to advise him not to, Techno wonders if this cheery demeanor is more of a facade than anything.

Techno is not hailed for his great social skills: if Tommy is so pleased by a mere nod, his network of support must be painfully lacking. Considering that he’s hobbling around Techno’s apartment dividing fries onto two separate napkins, and not, say, with his actual roommates, Techno can believe it.

It ignites a familiar sort of melancholy inside of him, twisting between his ribs like weeds through tough soil. He shoves it down — that and all the images of rusted fire escapes and flickering street lamps and nights that felt like small eternities as he crashed on benches and in alleyways and wherever the biting chill of winter didn’t fall so harshly.

Vigilantism has always been a lonely business. He knew what he was signing up for with every bruise and scrape he earned that his powers couldn’t keep up with. He’s sure, despite the disagreeing prod of a restless choir tapping at the back of his head, that Tommy does too. He wouldn’t have made it this far otherwise.

(It’s not enough. It doesn’t have to be enough.)

He ignores that too.

It’s not Techno’s place to press. The uneasy dynamic they’ve established is just that – uneasy. As fragile as a scab. He’ll do what he can, and for the things he can’t… he won’t. Simple as that.

(If only.)

“It’s kinda hard to be quick when you’re all stabbed and shit so, you know, sorry if the food’s cold,” Tommy explains, sliding him a wrapped burger as they settle down into Techno’s wooden chairs. He’s sitting in Phil’s spot as he pops a fry in his mouth, not that he knows that. “Had to come all the way from Eleventh.”

Techno hums a dismissal, and Tommy takes that as an opportunity to continue. He rambles like each word contracts his lungs, and stopping will leave him blue-faced and well, dead. Techno expects to be annoyed – his social battery these days never has much of a capacity. But it’s almost… pleasant: popping room temperature fries into his mouth as Tommy’s mindless chatter washes over him.

Even the voices have dimmed as if to listen: another defied expectation. It seems Tommy is full of them. Techno will have to watch out for that.

“—and then the fuckin’ police showed up, threatening to arrest me and shit if I didn’t leave, but then this old lady was like, ‘No, officer, don’t shoot Glare! He’s the coolest and best and he just saved me from being mugged! Shooting him down would be so not on!’ and then I—”

“Wait,” Techno interrupts, snapping back into the present. “Glare? Is that what they call you?”

Tommy frowns, faltering. “You really didn’t know?”

Vaguely startled by the slight change of mood, and more than vaguely confused by it, all Techno can do is offer lamely, “I… I don’t know anything about you, kid.”

For some reason, Tommy’s frown deepens. Techno only catches a glimpse of the avalanche that is Tommy’s expression falling before it’s gone, concealed even as he unfolds a tiny, hopeful grin. Once again, the action makes his facade more visible – and familiar – than ever. Techno wonders if Tommy thinks he’s a good liar.

“Well,” Tommy says after a moment, as he plucks a damp piece of lettuce off of the top of his sesame seed hamburger bun and flicks it onto the napkin. “Maybe we can change that.”

He laughs under his breath, if only at the foreign feeling of it all. “Sure, kid.”

Something about the way he says it has the silence settling over them awkwardly. At the back of his skull, a rush of displeasure erupts. Techno doesn’t know what to make of it, so he doesn’t say anything, even as Tommy’s eyes skim his face and he wilts.

(Techno resists the urge to wince.)

“Well,” Tommy repeats, with a gusto that feels hollow as he pushes up to his feet, shoving his half-eaten food into his bag. “It’s getting a bit late now, isn’t it?” It is – the setting sun has painted the sky a mixture of burnt orange and silky lilac – but Techno knows that’s not why Tommy stumbles back towards his living room. “I ought to be going. Thanks for, uh, stitching me up Mr. Technoblade. My leg appreciates it.”

“It’s Techno,” he reemphasizes, drawing his hand away from his own half-eaten fries. “And, uh, be safe.”

Tommy nods – quickly, too quickly – and looks away. Techno feels oddly cold as he watches him slide the window back up and pull himself through it. It closes behind him a shade too harshly, cutting off the rushing wind with a dull thump.

The silence has the voices spilling forward, more present than they had been since Tommy had shown up. He doesn’t quite know what they want, but he pushes back against it.

“This is above my paygrade, chat,” he chides quietly to the open air, lamely bringing a cold fry to his mouth and chewing it slowly. When he swallows, “I didn’t sign up for emotional baggage.”

The voices hiss in displeasure, but as they are part of him, they don’t contest: only settling at the nape of his neck uncomfortably.

Techno takes his time finishing the rest of his food, trying to stretch out the night. As the quiet presses close around him, noticeable in a way that it’s never really been before, Techno wishes that he’d employed more discipline on his sleep schedule.

At least then, he wouldn’t be confined to the mercy of his voices and his own scrambled thoughts for the next eight hours. Even that, it seems, is too much to ask of himself.

Techno expects another gap before Tommy returns, if he returns at all, but to his surprise, Tommy is knocking at his window the next day. Where Techno had thought he might’ve scared him away, the kid bounces back like elastic — this time, without the smile to match.

“Come in,” Techno says, watching him wave lamely through the window.

It’s well past ten, and the sky outside is black velvet, scattered with white-diamond stars – meaning, nowhere near as early as the last time – as Tommy tumbles in through his window, clutching his ribs.

Sudden alertness burns away any exhaustion as Techno grabs the remote to mute the droning television, cutting a newscaster off mid-rant as he stands. “Someone get the jump on you?”

“Everyone,” Tommy grunts out, watching Techno approach almost warily. His shoulders are stiff, tension coiled in every harsh line of his lanky silhouette. “Bad night.”

Though his arms are hugging his torso protectively, he doesn’t shy away from Techno’s gentle hands, letting Techno usher his arms away from his stomach. Swallowing, Tommy’s shaking hands grab at the bottom of his hoodie, pulling it up to expose an abstract painting of mottled purple and black bruises stretching across his ribs and stomach.

Techno whistles lowly, prickly unease rolling over him at the acute knowledge of the force it would’ve taken to put the bruises there. “Yeah, that’s not pretty.”

Tommy looks up at him. “Can you make sure nothing’s broken?”

Techno nods – he’s not an X-ray, but he can try – stepping closer to put one hand on Tommy’s shoulder and flattening the other on his chest, with barely any pressure to be mindful of the tender bruises. “Breathe for me.” Tommy does, leaning into his stabilizing grip. “Does that hurt any worse?”

“Not worse,” Tommy grits out after a moment, breathing hard. “All of it– all of it kinda hurts.”

“What was it?”

Tommy winces, eyes dropping towards the ground. “Baseball bat.”

Worry coils through him, but he shoves it down. It’s hard to tell with absolute certainty if something’s broken – but Techno thinks, with the faint knowledge of Tommy’s enhancements, it’s just bruised. That doesn’t mean it’s any less nasty of an injury.

“Let me get you some ice,” Techno tells him, nudging him towards the armchair he’d abandoned. Tommy sinks gingerly onto the edge of it, back straight as a rod and fists clenched tight in his lap. “Take it easy.”

“Will do,” Tommy breathes shakily, face riddled with discomfort.

Techno casts one last, scrutinizing gaze over him before slipping into the kitchen. As he’s opening his freezer and sifting for the ice packs he knows are buried somewhere beneath the stacks of frozen TV dinners and bags of vegetables and hash browns, he can hear Tommy in the other room, swearing under his breath.

When Techno returns, ice pack and paper towels in hand, Tommy’s staring down at his phone with his lip between his teeth, face closed off and grip around the phone case almost bloodless. Techno’s silhouette cuts through the soft TV light, falling onto the side of Tommy’s face, and Tommy looks up, sliding his phone into a pocket of his cargo-style black jeans. Through the nervousness painted across his face, Techno can make out a question churning beneath his skin.

He passes Tommy the paper towel-wrapped ice pack. “What?”

Tommy blows a nervous breath out. “Do you mind if I stay here for a few hours? Just enough for it to stop hurting? I don’t think I can h–hm.” Tommy coughs, looking away and making his near-obvious slip up of… something more obvious. “I don’t think I can keep, uh, patrolling right now.”

He’s almost pouting as he brings his eyes up to Techno’s, eyes verging on pleading – contrasting the tension in his shoulders, like he’s bracing for something—

“Sure.”

Tommy blinks. “Sure?”

Techno eyes him as he moves over to the sofa and drops down onto it. “Did you want me to say no?”

“No, I just– I thought–” He cuts himself off, brows furrowing before his face smooths out with relief. “Thanks.”

Thought what? Techno wants to ask, but doesn’t. It’s almost more amusing to watch Tommy battle through his own thoughts: each flickering emotion playing plainly and obviously over his face.

Tommy is still stiff as their conversation dies, so Techno takes the liberty of getting comfortable on the sofa, lying supine as he stretches his legs across it; settling against the arm to hopefully appease some of the swelling awkwardness. From the corner of his eye, he catches Tommy looking at him before the tension slowly drains out of him, and his shoulders slump. He relaxes against the armchair, pressing the ice against the smattering of bruises.

Techno’s faint satisfaction is echoed by the amalgamation at his nape. He drags a throw pillow behind his head, angling his neck so he can continue craning at the television. Exhaustion pulses persistently behind his eyes, trying to drag his eyelids closed. Admittedly, he hasn’t slept since the day before — not that he plans on it with Tommy in his apartment. Besides the fact that his blanket is on the armchair that Tommy is sitting on, he doesn’t want to leave the kid to his own devices.

But Chat is quiet again, making it all too easy to slip into that heavy tiredness. Techno shifts, stubbornly blinking the sleep out of his eyes.

“Turn the volume up, would you?”

Tommy jumps, startled. He glances over, the whites of his eyes bright in the near-dark. Without a word, he fumbles for the remote and aims it at the TV to comply.

The crisp voice of the news anchor floats over the both of them. Techno watches with mild interest, though he will admit that more of the words are lost to his hazy mind than he means for.

He’ll get up in a minute – stretch his legs. Turn some lights on. Stimulate his brain. For now, he’s content to just settle.

“Holy shit,” Tommy breathes.

Techno glances over, watching him lean forward, ice pack falling away from where he’d had it pressed to his side. Tommy’s eyes are wide and unblinking as he stares at the TV screen. Techno follows his wide gaze just in time for grainy CCTV footage to pop onto the screen.

“—circumstances still unknown as to the vigilante prowling Fourteenth District, locally known as Glare—”

Tommy’s face sours. He recoils, leaning back, and Techno realizes what’s happening right as indignation consumes Tommy’s every feature.

“Are you fucking—” Tommy’s eyes are narrow, face red even in the harsh lowlight. “I don’t fuckin’ prowl, I strut.” Techno snorts, and Tommy’s face whips over to him, eyes flashing. “Oi, dickhead, don’t laugh. There’s nothing–”

Techno laughs again – a real one. Tommy’s jaw drops, seeming to be lost for words as his eyes comb Techno’s face.

Instantly, his face drops into a sulk. “Fuck you, man.” He throws a damp paper towel at the screen. It doesn’t make it a foot in the air before floating pitifully to the hardwood. Tommy’s sulk deepens, but Techno thinks there’s a sheen of amusement there as he sinks back against the chair. He sighs, and it’s a cross between wistfulness and shallow irritation as the newscaster switches topics — clearly not finding the brief encounter with Glare very entertaining. “They got me all wrong, they do.”

“Do they?” Techno rumbles, lips quirking up.

Tommy throws an affronted look his way. “You’re the worst.”

“That’s not what you were sayin’ two weeks ago.”

Tommy’s face scrunches up. “I was– two weeks ago I was dying, so. Doesn’t count, does it?”

The voices stir pleasantly, piqued by the banter. Techno closes his eyes, silently agreeing. “I think it counts.”

“‘I think it counts,’” Tommy mocks, dropping his voice so low that it grates against his younger vocal cords, almost a growl. “Mehmehmeh. My name is Technoblade Bloodlust and I am a prick.”

“...You’re a child.”

“You’re a bitch.”

“Nice one,” Techno quips lowly. “Did you come up with that all by yourself?”

Tommy inhales, and when Techno looks up, his chest is puffed, eyes slanted. “You know, Technoblade—”

“Yeah?”

There’s a pause, Techno’s lips quirking towards a smile, then–

“I like you,” Tommy announces, bestowing the statement upon him like a gold medal.

Techno’s face twitches. He cracks his eyes open, raising an eyebrow. Tommy is beaming at him, letting the banter fade into something quieter, but still comfortable. Techno sighs, settling back against the chair as the voices hum happily.

Stop that, he thinks. No going soft.

But even as he chides his own personal choir—

“Tommy,” Techno starts, grinning internally at the breath he feels the kid draw in, in the brief pause that Techno drags out. “You are not the worst.”

Tommy exhales. “That’s– thank you.” The edge of genuineness almost makes Techno want to cringe before he can help himself. Luckily, Tommy slips right back into his pestiferous demeanor, voice pitching it up into what Techno is quickly being familiarized with as his spewing nonsense voice. “Hey, Technoblade,” Techno, Techno corrects internally, “I needed that today.” He hears him sag against the armchair. “Now where the fuck did I put the remote. I need to change this shit.”

“End table,” Techno mumbles belatedly, hardly aware that his dozing is rapidly becoming less of a “resting his eyes” doze and more of actual sleep.

“Oh,” Tommy says. “How did you– thanks, king.”

“Mhm.”

White noise floods his head as Tommy switches between channels. Techno sighs contentedly, tension bleeding out of him as he gives in to the nap that he feels coming on – never mind that it’s nearing eleven at night. Distantly, as he drifts off, he hears the tinny voices of the TV mesh with the sound of rapid typing against cell phone keys, louder now that Chat has dimmed as if falling asleep too.

It’s because of him, comes a thought, lethargically floating across his skull. It’s him.

Techno doesn’t know what that means.

And after about five more minutes of dozing, he doesn’t know anything at all.

And later, when the night has bled into the earliest hours of the morning, he won’t remember the quiet click of the television switching off, nor the sound of the remote hitting the end table. The soft footsteps padding across the hardwood will be lost to the sleepy haze consuming his thoughts: violent voices docile as a shadow hovers by the sofa, a blanket being draped carefully over him.

And if it weren’t for the note that he finds on the end table the next morning, displaying a crudely drawn smiley face followed by a scribbled THANKS AGAIN! that thaws something long dormant in his chest, he’d barely be aware of it at all.

Chapter Text

Tommy watches the clock with an anxious sort of anticipation, brain torn into two neat halves: one half focused on producing an endless number of iced coffees and chai teas for the patrons lining his counter; and the other somewhere in the back room, where his backpack — containing his suit — shoved in his locker, is waiting for him. There’s a measly half hour between now and the merciful end of his shift, and the knowledge of that leaves him jittery, practically vibrating in his skin.

Yanking a receipt out of the machine, he slides a latte to an old woman in a startlingly-green sweater, wincing as heat lingers on his palms. He hopes the latte managed to stay at a safe, consumable temperature, what with the excess energy buzzing at his fingertips. Tommy looks around covertly before wiping his palms on his apron. He has a line to clear, he doesn’t need any… mishaps.

(He doesn't need a repeat of the last one, thanks very much. Replacing light bulbs — all of them in the building — couldn’t have been cheap, and Quackity had been a guilt-inducing combination of frustration and mystification when he’d seen the damage that Tommy had secretly, unintentionally caused.)

Somehow, he manages to distract himself enough for time to liquefy: the rest of his shift slipping by like loose sand through spread fingertips. The moment that the clock hits four, Tommy slams the last cappuccino down — so fresh that steam curls over the plastic lid — and all but rips his apron off his shoulders on his way to the back room.

“Take it easy, Tommy!” Quackity calls amicably from the cramped little room he calls an office, sandwiched between the break room and the bathrooms.

“Thanks, Big Q!” Tommy yells back, fumbling to untie his apron and chuck it into the appropriate basket.

His hands are almost shaking too much to get his lock open, blood replaced with pure, liquid espresso. Tommy rips his backpack out of his locker and slings it over his shoulder, scooping up his phone and tangled white earbuds with one hand before slamming it shut. He rounds the corner so fast he nearly collides with Hannah, and mumbles a hasty apology as he unlocks his phone, typing out a quick message to Tubbo that only makes his heart squeeze a little bit:

staying late today Dont wait up

He doesn’t look at it long enough for that tiny squeeze of guilt to augment into something bigger, sharper, instead powering his phone off and sliding it into the mesh side pocket of his bag as he hurries out onto the street, looking for a place to change.

His palms itch — a sure sign that he needs an outlet before he blows a metaphorical fuse. He’d learned the hard way, over a painful series of weeks, what happens when he tries to hold off on using his powers for too long (and eventually, so had the lights at Quackity’s.)

Nevertheless, it’s a shallow worry. He doesn’t have to worry about dampening his abilities — he has Glare now, and not only that — Bloodlust. Someone in his corner. Even if him and Techno are not exactly close, Tommy’s not completely and utterly alone anymore.

He’s only been doing this vigilante-stuff for a few months — and has only known Technoblade for a fraction of that — but still, as he bursts into an alleyway to prepare for patrol, Tommy can’t help but feel like he’s doing this for the first time.

This is what he is supposed to do. This is who he is supposed to be.

(He can only wish, distantly — with panging regret accompanying the mask that he pulls over his mouth — that Tubbo and Ranboo could be by his side while he does it.)

⋆⋆⋆

It starts like that, like an avalanche: slow, then fast all at once.

Tommy, it turns out, is even less capable than Techno expected, which is saying a lot. Either that, or his luck is nothing short of abysmal. He shows up at Techno’s window most nights — a bad cut here, a sprained ankle there, a head injury for the spice — and however unsteady, Techno grows used to the rhythm of gloved knuckles against his windowpane and the constant need to restock his makeshift medical cabinet.

One thing that Techno doesn’t get used to is how much of a walking contradiction Tommy seems to be. Techno doesn’t think he’s ever met a more tight-lipped over-sharer in his life. Tommy likes to ramble, a lot, and yet his ceaseless prating never verges beyond anything Techno would consider meaningful: snippets of his patrols, complaints about customers at his part-time job, violent combinations of swear words that make Phil’s casual obscenity seem tame.

But he doesn’t give any names, ages, nothing he’d find on a government document — only offhandedly mentions that his seventeenth birthday is in a few months, which he quickly follows with a wistful profession that he’s one year closer to being able to “hit the pubs, you know?” that derails any response Techno can hope to come up with.

More often than not, Techno finds himself holding back the questions piling on his tongue – questions like, Where are your parents? Are you in school? Are you sure you’re not homeless?

(He only makes the mistake, once, of asking Tommy why he isn’t bothering his roommates with any of this mindless palaver. Tommy’s face takes on a nauseated grey shade and his mouth snaps shut so fast that the last word of his rant almost gets caught in his teeth. By the time Techno battles past his confusion to work out what verbal landmine he’d triggered, Tommy is already bidding him a curt goodbye and disappearing into the night.

When Tommy shows up at his window, three days later — the longest gap since his visits had become somewhat routine — Techno elects, for now at least, not to bring it up again.)

Techno has less luck digging for hard information about Glare than the boy himself — even that information is sparse and vague: Glare’s moniker barely surfacing even on Twitter update accounts. The most he gets is occasional grainy CCTV footage of a red and white figure sifted from watch groups, most of which is distorted by flashes of brilliant white light and flickers of green that render most footage unhelpful.

Not that Techno goes out of his way to look for it… most of the time. Somehow, perhaps the rising influence of Chat, or just his general intuition, Techno doesn’t get the feeling that he needs to look too far into Tommy’s daily activities. Though sometimes, when Tommy’s rambling tapers off into contemplation that doesn’t quite suit his youthful features, it’s like looking at a crumbling glacier: watching the fissure lines deepen into fracture lines, and bracing for the collapse.

Everything will happen in due time, he’s sure of it. For now, Techno doesn’t need to pry — doesn’t want to. Whatever Tommy’s got going on is his own business. He may have stumbled into Techno’s orbit like a comet, but that doesn’t mean Techno needs to change his trajectory. He’s content to leave them both in mutual parallelism, orbiting around each other, crossing occasionally, and maintaining appropriate distance. No need for lines to get tangled.

(Mistake number one: thinking that could ever be true.)

“So, what have you been up to, mate? Keeping busy?”

Phil’s words are casual, hopeful maybe — even as they feel anything but. It’s been too long since he’s seen Phil in person — in fact, Techno can almost classify the last time as BT: Before Tommy. The instinct to divide the segments of the last month comes naturally, before he can help it, but what comes even more natural and unconscious is the instinct to hide it.

“Yeah,” Techno answers gruffly, when the silence threatens to drag on a beat too long.

You could say that.

When Techno abstains from elaborating, Phil straightens minutely, office chair ceasing in its mindless swivelling. “Yeah?” Techno nods, curt. Phil huffs a smile. “Alright. That’s good.”

“Very,” Techno agrees, feeling Chat scratch against the inside of his skull. They’re tame — always tame around Phil, and lately, not even just Phil.

He doesn’t need to tell Phil, he justifies, because there’s nothing to tell. What good would it do Phil to know about that vigilante that pops into his place about once a day so that Techno can stop him from succumbing to whatever injury he’d managed to earn fighting low level crime? Not very much.

Phil’s barely-there smile grows into something more opaque. “Well, you certainly seem healthier, mate. If not a little tired.” Techno’s brow scrunches, a motion that’s infinitesimally perceptible – he has been trying to somewhat snap his sleep schedule into some semblance of normality to compensate for Tommy’s near-daily visits – and Phil sighs: leaning back in his chair and staring listlessly into the flood of watery-yellow light that spills in from the window. “I’ve been meaning to come see you more, but…”

He trails off, and Techno easily lifts the threads of guilt out of the chord of his voice and soothes them. “It’s alright.” Because it is. Somehow, it is. “I know you’re busy.” Wry amusement twists his lips. “How’s the limelight treatin’ you? Last I heard—”

“Oh, hush,” Phil chides, rolling his eyes. “I don’t want to hear it.”

Techno grins, swinging his leg over the other to cross them in front of him. “Don’t you enjoy bein’ the number three hero of the city?”

“Number four now,” Phil corrects with a sharp smile, eyes glinting with amusement that mirrors Techno’s. “Kristin’s taken my spot.”

Techno raises an eyebrow. “Oh, come on, what’d you do?”

“One too many curse words on the job,” Phil answers, “You know the newspapers prefer us to keep it PG—”

The words are almost out of Techno’s mouth before he yanks them back, startling himself so thoroughly that he completely tunes the rest of Phil’s statement out: You think you're bad? Wait ‘till you meet Tommy.

He doesn’t know what’s worse: the fact that he can’t help but associate the sharp wit and blonde hair in front of him with the gangly vigilante that treats his window like a front door, or the fact that he — doubtlessly irrationally — doesn’t want Phil, his oldest friend, to know about it. It plants a strange rock in his throat that grates against his trachea as he swallows it down.

Nothing to tell.

Techno’s snapped back into the present by Phil’s second sigh. He looks up, eyes focusing, as Phil scrubs a hand through his hair, flashing him a smile that crinkles the corner of his eyes with thinly-veiled exhaustion.

“I’ll let you go then,” Phil tells him, prompting Techno’s eyes to fly over to the clock on the wall. It’s early – earlier than their “check-in”s usually last, but Phil catches his confusion and assuages it. “You look like you’re going to fall asleep.”

Techno would retort against that if the words alone didn’t drag a weighted net of exhaustion over him.

“I’ll take a nap when I get home,” Techno finds himself saying, needing to say something. So much for fixing up his sleep schedule, he thinks belatedly. “Don’t get all concerned on me now, Phil.”

“You know I can’t help it,” Phil counters, straightening as he waves towards the door. “Now, go. I’ll let Kristin know you said hello.”

“Thanks, Phil.” Techno stands, stretching. It’s approaching noon, but his head already swims with images of his bed — probably one of the only things he’d splurged his superfluous earnings on. “Same time next week?”

He nods. “Bye, mate.”

The minute the door clicks closed behind him, Chat leaps forward, restless — nearing migraine territory. His flare of irritation must make itself known because the flame of their chaos softens, pulling back. Techno massages his temples.

A nap it is. He just needs to get to his apartment first, preferably before his thoughts become more blended and messy than aspirin can fix.

(Mistake number two: deluding himself that anything, even a nap, could ever be that easy.)

There’s someone in his house.

Techno pauses with his fingers halfway to the doorknob, skin electrified with tension as he slowly, slowly retracts his hand and straightens. Chat murmurs, creeping to the forefront of his mind with surprising constraint as Techno slides a small throwing knife into his palm.

He takes another second to listen — hears the sound of a chair scrape against his linoleum tile, just inside the door — before it settles on him with even more certainty: there’s someone in his house. Heart strumming in his chest, revving up as the voices sway — lazy but deadly, a panther tail — Techno slides his key into the lock.

The sound of distant shuffling in his kitchen does not cease as he silently twists the key, senses acutely aware of every grind of the pins inside of the lock. The lock clicks. Techno wastes no time throwing the door open, knife raised, aimed—

Techno catches a glimpse of Tommy’s surprised expression with barely enough time to change the deadly trajectory of his throw. The knife embeds itself into the cabinet above his head.

Time screeches to a halt as they lock eyes: Techno stiff in the doorway of the kitchen — breathless off the thrill of a potential fight — and Tommy gaping from where he sits wide-eyed at the kitchen table, jaw hanging towards the floor. The spoon in his hand is frozen in the air, hovering halfway between his mouth and the bowl of cereal in front of him.

For a moment, all Techno can do is stare — uncomprehending.

Then, the anger sets in.

“Are you— why are you in my house.”

Tommy blinks, glancing at the knife, then back at Techno. “Did you just try to fuckin’ stab me?”

“Tommy,” Techno snaps, inhaling deeply. “Why are you in my house?”

Tommy falters, fumbling for a response. His mouth opens and closes a few times, eyes skimming questioningly over Techno’s breathless silhouette, before his shoulders drop, spoon landing harshly in his – Techno’s – cereal bowl, sending a tiny spray of milk onto the tabletop.

“You said I could.”

“I—” Techno sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose as he exhales. “You can’t just break into my house when I’m not here.” He glances at the opened box of cereal on the counter – recognizes it as the Golden Flakes he’d purchased not two days ago. “And– did you steal my cereal?” Before Tommy can utter a word, Techno powers on, “We’re not— no, you can’t just barge in here whenever you want.”

“Sorry,” Tommy mutters automatically, quietly, and somehow — somehow — that sends a sharp bolt of ice directly into the faint heat of Techno’s anger. “Sorry, Techno. I’ll– I’ll leave.”

The words tumble off of his lips like cannonballs. Techno’s anger is flattened under the weight of it — the weight of watching Tommy’s face crumple like an aluminum can. Clarity finds him in the absence of sound as Tommy stumbles back towards his ajar window.

“Wait,” Techno says, gruff. The voices chitter in agreement, solidifying his next few words as Tommy’s eyes snap up to meet his. “Look – you don’t have to leave.”

Tommy pauses, stopping. He swallows, shifting his gaze between the window behind him and Techno, the harsh edges of his tense posture painting him painfully unsure.

“Seriously,” Techno emphasizes, not fond of the sticky guilt that drapes over him at the sight of Tommy’s disbelief. “Eat the cereal. I don’t actually care.”

Tommy’s lips part, and he sucks in a deep breath before saying, face hardening minutely, “Then why did you get mad?”

It feels more defensive than accusatory, and Techno can’t blame him. Instead, he waves vaguely towards his throwing knife, lodged in the cabinet door — anyone with Techno’s aim and less control wouldn’t have been able to change the course of the throw so quickly. Not before blood was spilled at least. Even Techno himself, most of the time, could never help creating more bloodshed than he meant to.

“I could’ve killed you, Tommy,” is what he settles on, voice carefully contained.

Tommy frowns. “But you didn’t.”

“But I could’ve,” Techno repeats.

“But you didn’t,” Tommy says, as it’s that simple. “That was like, way off.”

Barely, corrects his thoughts in a sharp hiss. Too close.

“Just eat your cereal.”

Tommy observes him for another moment before tentatively edging closer to the table. Techno allows him, letting any remaining tension drain out of his posture. Tommy slides into the chair, picking up his spoon carefully. His eyes never leave Techno’s face as he lifts a spoonful of Golden Flakes towards his lips.

Techno stays planted in place, needing a moment to slide more firmly into his skin. He doesn’t appreciate the buzz of adrenaline humming in his blood, irrationally strong.

Tommy eventually gets tired of either the swelling quiet or Techno’s lingering glances because he swallows his next bite of cereal and offers a meek, “So… ‘ow do?”

Techno huffs, a smile attempting to pull his lips up. “I’ve been better.”

Tommy falters again — though it’s shuttered away so quickly that Techno almost doesn’t catch the microscopic fall of his face at all. “Because of me?”

“No,” he answers honestly, and faint relief flashes across Tommy’s face. “Just… had a talk with a friend. And I’m tired.”

I lied to my friend, his head amends. And I don’t know why.

“Mm,” Tommy hums through a mouthful of Golden Flakes, nodding. “Didn’t know you had those.”

Techno’s eyes fly over to him, flashing. “What— friends?”

Tommy’s sharp amusement rises to meet his. “Yeah.”

“...Y’know, for a moment there, I was starting to find you tolerable.”

Tommy snorts, and the sound unravels the knot of tension between Techno’s ribs. He slides his jacket off of his shoulders and turns to drape it onto the hook beside the door with his keys. When he turns around, it’s to drop into the chair opposite Tommy with a sigh, resolution carved onto his face.

“Alright, I think we should set some ground rules, kid.”

Tommy blinks, watching him carefully. “As in?”

“As in you not bargin’ into my house when I’m not here,” Techno replies, leveling him with a flat look. “I feel like there’s a level of trust required there that we aren’t at yet.”

This conversation is, admittedly, long overdue — probably only prolonged by the brevity of their interactions and the charade of their distracting banter which tended to commandeer most of their previous dialogue before Techno could ever, should he try to, catch a real glimpse of the boy in front of him.

Tommy frowns, glancing down at his cereal like he’s stifling a pout. “That sounds stupid.”

Exasperation washes over him. “Kid—”

“Fine,” Tommy interjects, meeting his eyes once more. Petulance oozing off of every word, as he enunciates every syllable: “I will not barge in when you’re not here.”

Techno snorts, lips curving up into a wry smile. “That’s not goin’ to be enough.”

Tommy narrows his eyes, shoulders curling defensively. “What do you want, then?”

“How about knowledge,” Techno offers, leaning forward. “I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but I don’t really know much about you.”

Understatement, he thinks.

Tommy considers that, and the resistance that Techno half-expects doesn’t come. He sets his spoon into his bowl and leans back. When Techno doesn’t say anything, impatience creases his face.

“Well, come on. Ask me questions, Tech-no-blade,” he begins, dragging out every syllable of Techno’s name. “And nothing too fuckin’ personal. I don’t have to tell you shit.”

You’re in my house, Techno almost snipes. Eating my cereal. Using up my medical supplies. Plaguing my mind.

He decides to start small. “How old are you?”

“Sixteen.”

Only slightly perturbed — this knowledge isn’t exactly new, more of a confirmation than anything — he continues. “Parents?”

“Dead,” Tommy answers automatically, voice dull.

It’s about what Techno was expecting, but it still sends sympathy ringing through him. “And your roommates?”

Almost imperceptibly, Tommy straightens. Less covertly, his face closes off. “What about them?”

“Are they your age?”

“A bit older,” Tommy answers, response clipped, and before Techno can summon another question— “And don’t ask me their names either.”

He raises an eyebrow. “Why not?”

Tommy squints at him, shoulders squared. “It’s personal, innit?”

At that, Techno scoffs. Tommy’s face hardens further. He leans forward, instantly defensive.

“What?”

“It’s just funny,” Techno responds easily, lips curved. “You told me your name, like, two seconds into talkin’ to me.”

Tommy’s face scrunches, and he glares. “Well, that was— that’s different, bitch.” Why, Techno almost asks, before— “Plus, I was concussed. So don’t—”

At the heat in his voice, Techno raises his hands in silent surrender. “Fine. That’s personal,” he concedes. It’s only afterTommy relaxes some does Techno elect to continue on. “Are you in school?”

“Sort of,” comes Tommy’s hesitant response. He glances down, fiddling with the sleeve of his hoodie, face oddly stony. “I’m not. Dropped out.” His eyes flicker up, quick and scrutinizing, skimming Techno’s face for… something that he doesn’t find — accusation, maybe, as if Techno has ever been one to laud social norms — before dropping back down to study the apparently interesting wood grain of his table. “One of us is. That’s all I’m telling you.”

“Tommy—”

“What is this, a fuckin’ interrogation?” Tommy snaps, heat coursing through his words. “I told you—”

“I just want to know who I’m workin’ with,” Techno attempts to reassure, instantly lamenting his lacking ability to navigate emotionally-charged situations. And Tommy’s roommates, apparently, seem to be just that — or at least, a barbed-wire wrapped touchy subject. “For all I know, you could be a criminal. All of you.”

Or worse — all children.

Tommy scoffs, the surge of anger seeming to deflate as he mumbles, “I’m not a criminal.” When Techno abstains from filling the swelling silence, he sighs — utterly put on. “I have a job, that’s why I’m not in school. Same with— uh, my other roommate. Same with him.” Techno doesn’t have to prompt for more information before Tommy keeps going, eyes a bit far off as he gestures vaguely. “He’s really smart. Sometimes, our landlord has him help with fixing, like, maintenance and shit in return for charging us less rent.”

Oddly, that throws Techno off almost more than anything. “Tommy, I’m goin’ to be honest, that sounds like exploitation.”

“Better than homelessness.”

“What?”

“What?”

Sensing his rising disbelief — and maybe concern, as stifled as it is — Tommy won’t meet his eyes. Getting the feeling that fighting with him about it would be fruitless, Techno drops it — for the moment.

“One last question,” he says, mind churning. The half-shaped question forming in his skull isn’t as imperative, but it is something that’s been on Techno’s mind with every injury of Tommy’s that he’s treated. He can’t resist asking.

“Tommy,” he begins, drawing Tommy’s hesitant eyes up to his own. “Why are you doin’ this?”

Tommy holds his gaze steadily, raising an eyebrow. “Doing what?” After a beat, he gestures to his red and white getup. “This? Vigilante-ing?” Techno nods, not bothering to correct him. Tommy shrugs. “I’ve already told you, big man. Because of you.”

At that, some foreign warmth wiggles its way out from between his ribcage — not that Techno lets it play across his face. The voices though, previously quiet, stir, warming with it, prodding at his skull.

It’s… Even from Tommy, whose words tended to drip with some childish reverence whenever he brought up Techno’s previous status, he hasn’t heard that one in a while. Not quite like that, anyway.

“Why?” Techno manages to ask, whipping his thoughts into line.

“That’s two questions,” Tommy points out. But, “And I’m just— I mean you saw what happened to the old Hero’s League.” He huffs a laugh, amusement that Techno finds himself mirroring at the mention. “You fuckin’ destroyed it.”

That I did, Techno thinks, as that far-off expression descends over Tommy’s face once more. Tommy meets his eyes, blowing out a breath.

“It just— I wanted to be like you. I wanted to make a change. Be like the guys that the old heroes were supposed to be.” Techno can’t tell if there’s more to that — he suspects there is, but he doesn’t think he needs to ask about it. “And then, you know, I got my powers and boom! Now I’m Glare.”

Techno nods, absorbing that information. He can’t deny that there is more that he wants to ask, more pieces of Tommy’s puzzle that he’s sure he’s missing, but he thinks, for now, it’s enough. As it is, Tommy’s demeanor seems brittle: likely to crack if Techno presses further.

As if on cue, Tommy leans forward, false bravado resurging with a fresh vigor as he loudly declares, “Alright! My turn to ask a question.”

Techno raises an eyebrow, but doesn’t stop him. He can’t imagine what Tommy wants to ask — the sharp, curious grin shining at him isn’t giving him the most hope — but he can always veto. Admittedly, though, he expects something more personal, or at least revealing, than what actually comes out of Tommy’s mouth.

“Why do you live in this shit hole?”

Techno frowns. “What do you mean?”

“Come on, Technoblade,” Tommy begins, the full name again, nearly patronizing if not for his grin. “You’re Bloodlust. The world’s biggest fuckin’ hero. Don’t act like you’re not a fuckin’ billionaire.” Techno snorts. Tommy’s grin widens. “I figured you’d have a mansion, or a— I don’t know, a private island or something, and not that you'd be—” He spreads his arms, and Techno gets the idea. “—slummin’ it up in Fourteenth.”

“I started out in Fourteenth,” Techno points out, rosy nostalgia bubbling up through the less-bright memories as he tacks on, “Which I’m sure you know.” Tommy’s face flushes. “But even then, with how everythin’ went down, I needed somewhere to lay low.” Wry amusement twists his lips. “It was supposed to have kept people from figurin’ out where I was. Guess that didn’t work out so well.”

Tommy smiles, eyes shining. “Guess not.”

(Somehow, that doesn’t elicit the beam of regret, or frustration, that he might otherwise expect. That doesn’t mean it’s any less strange.)

Techno huffs, rising from his seat. “Alright. That’s enough chit chat for today. Feel free to leave my house when you’re done pillagin’ my cereal like a raccoon.”

“Oi,” Tommy yelps, and though Techno is content to leave him simmering in his — admittedly very funny — indignation, Tommy gasps, short and riddled with pain.

Techno whips around right as Tommy’s spoon clatters loudly against the tabletop, eyes instantly lasering in on Tommy’s right hand: now clutched to his chest, fingers curled and stiff.

Of course he’s hurt, comes a shard of clarity over the threat of panic. That’s why he came here. Not the cereal.

“Let me see that.”

Tommy swallows, extending his shaking hand as Techno crosses the room in two long strides. He carefully takes Tommy’s hand into his own, turning it gently to examine the unnatural redness of his knuckles — no doubt the start of a nastier bruise.

“Did you close your hand in a door or somethin’?” Techno asks, frowning as he studies the mottled redness.

What he also wants to ask: Why didn’t you say something half an hour ago?

Tommy smiles — it’s half-hearted, if not edged with embarrassment. “Uh, actually I punched someone.”

It takes a second for the words to click.

“Heh?” Tommy’s face flushes, and his eyes shoot towards the ground. He tries to pull his hand away but Techno catches it gently by the wrist, eyeing him incredulously. “You’ve been a vigilante for how long and you don’t know how to throw a proper punch?”

This time, when Tommy tries to jerk his hand away — eyes flashing with hot anger —Techno lets him. “Shut up!” He pulls his hand back to his chest, glaring at him. “I’ve only been doing this for like, six months, you massive prick.”

Six months, laments his choir.

“Still,” Techno says, incredulity dripping off of every word. “That’s— Tommy, that’s six months of you fightin’ crime without knowing how to punch properly.” Tommy’s scowl deepens. Techno steps back, hands raised in surrender. “I’m just sayin’— how are you alive?”

Tommy’s chest puffs up. He straightens, elbow knocking into the yellow cereal box on the table. Indignation turns his eyes into two coals.

“Because I can do this, bitch.”

And then, before his eyes, Tommy’s hand bursts into flame.

No — flame might be too simple a word for it. Light.

Tommy’s hand, from the wrist up, glows brilliant white: hazy and celestial — consuming his fist and edging towards his elbows. As he watches, Tommy twists his fingers. The light jumps, swirling into white fire, heat pulsing off of it. Above their heads, the overhead bulbs flicker, shadows dancing across his kitchen walls. When Tommy’s fingers spread, the light obeys, shifting into a perfect sphere: a miniature star, captured in the palm of Tommy’s hand.

Techno blinks, thoughts lagging. “I… I’ll be honest, I was not expectin’ that.”

Tommy smiles, and his eyes are pure white, light bleeding out of them — pupils, iris, all of it gone, eclipsed by brilliant light. Satisfaction ripples over his expression, and then the light dies in both his eyes and in his palm, sinking back into his skin. As Techno’s kitchen lights smooth back out, things suddenly make a bit more sense.

“Glare,” Techno realizes after a moment, thinking back to grainy CCTV footage and the flickers of light distorting the videos. “That’s why they call you that.”

Tommy nods proudly. “Yeah, it’s ‘cause I literally glare.” He obnoxiously shoves another spoonful of cereal in his mouth. “And—” he swallows. Techno cringes, watching him. “—I like to cuss people out.”

“Right,” Techno says after a moment, thoughts lagging as another impulse starts to shape in his head, rapidly becoming more tangible the longer he considers it. He can feel Tommy watching him as he opens his mouth, barely aware of the words about to spill off of it— “Do you want to learn how to throw a punch?”

“...What?”

He says it softly, but Techno can feel the undercurrent of wonder creeping forward, wavering in its uncertainty.

“Properly,” Techno continues, settling more firmly into his decision as he watches Tommy’s eyes trace his face for a punchline he’s not going to find. “You can’t be a vigilante if you don’t even know how to knock someone out.”

And I can’t morally let you terrorize the streets without some sort of actual fighting ability.

Before his eyes, Tommy’s face morphs into incredulity, pure joy radiating off of him with all the fury of a supernova. “You’re going to—” He blinks, marvelling, “Bloodlust is going to teach me how to fuck people up?”

“You could put it like that.”

“Oh, I am so fuckin’ putting it like that,” Tommy breathes. He glances up at Techno, eyes wide. “When? I mean, when can we— when?”

Techno glances at his right hand, the harsh red painting his knuckles starting to darken into an unpleasant violet. “Ask me again tomorrow,” he says evenly. “I still have to wrap your fist.” He casts a wry glance at Tommy. “Hopefully, it’ll be the last time.”

“Yeah,” Tommy agrees, clearly still caught up in the throes of Techno’s impulse decision. He swallows hard, throat bobbing. Excitement radiates off of him in waves. “It will. It– oh my God.”

(Mistake three: thinking this could ever remain cut and dry.)

⋆⋆⋆

It’s well past midnight, and Tommy’s in the middle of stopping a shitty attempt at a mugging when he realizes he was supposed to have been home an hour ago.

Swearing, he only spares a second to finish apprehending the masked guy — securing him in a makeshift straight-jacket of thick, unbreakable ivy for the police to find later — before taking off towards his apartment, mentally kicking himself all the way.

He should’ve known better than to let himself get too caught up in patrol to watch the time, but his quick visit to Techno’s had left him even more excited and restless than he’d been when he’d arrived, and he’d needed to do something before his pent-up energy exploded out of him. (Preferably, in a way that wouldn’t lead to mass lighting outages.)

Now, as he books it towards Fourteenth — cutting through every alleyway that he possibly can — he regrets that decision immensely.

With any luck though, Tubbo and Ranboo are both asleep, and won’t have noticed that Tommy isn’t back yet. Then again, luck never seems to be on good terms with Tommy, does it? Still, as he rips his backpack out of the hedges lining the outside of the apartment complex to change, he sends a quick prayer up to the universe to favor him, just this once.

He repeats that prayer until he makes it up to the ninth floor, and digs his keys out of the pocket of his trousers: feeling awfully like he’s about to enter a lion’s den of his own making as he gets ready to enter.

Ultimately, Tommy's mistake is not that he’s not being stealthy as he sneaks back into his apartment, because he is: sliding the key into the lock so slowly that it’s painful. He’s acutely aware of how the door whines against its hinges as he presses it open, releasing the doorknob as quietly as he can manage. Their apartment is bathed in shadow, save for the flickering light of the television seeping in from the living room. Tommy eases the door shut behind him, exhaling as it closes with a snick barely louder than a whisper.

A heady combination of faint relief and fainter victory rushes through him — for about two more seconds.

“Tommy?”

Tubbo’s voice is low, but it sounds against Tommy’s eardrums like a gunshot.

He jumps, whirling around with a swear that he doesn’t quite manage to catch before it reaches the roof of his mouth. He tries to turn it into a choked whisper rather than a frantic shout, but Tubbo’s eyes still widen, and he grabs his arm.

“Dude, Ranboo’s got class tomorrow,” he whisper-shouts, glancing at the short hallway leading to their two bedrooms worriedly. “Shut up.”

Tommy raises his hand in surrender, flattening his features before the pain that strikes against his hidden bruises can play across his face.

“Sorry,” he murmurs, acutely aware and very grateful that he’d taken the time to change out of his costume before he’d left. He’d had to keep his boots, though, which does make his pajamas that much more incriminating beneath Tubbo’s scrutinizing gaze. He clears his throat when Tubbo’s eyes linger on the backpack over his shoulder, shifting awkwardly on his feet. “I’ll be quiet.”

(No, Tommy’s mistake was not that he wasn’t being stealthy, because he was. His mistake was thinking he’d be able to be stealthier than Tubbo.)

“Where were you?” Tubbo asks, expression unreadable in the dark. Tommy’s palms itch to summon light, or something to his palms that might burn the tension, or even just the heavy darkness out of the air, but that would sort of ruin everything, so he settles with fiddling with the sleeve of his sweatshirt. “It’s like, midnight, bro.”

There’s concern there, and that’s what Tommy latches on to to quell the rising guilt threatening to deal the finishing blow to his aching body as it expands in his chest like a burning star.

“I was with Purpled,” he lies lamely, ignoring the quick skip of his heart bouncing around with his lungs.

The look that flashes across Tubbo’s face is evanescent, and barely perceptible, but Tommy sees it before he can shutter it away. It threatens to bowl him over completely, and it’s all Tommy can do to ignore it, straightening as Tubbo does, matching him.

“Okay,” Tubbo says after a moment, voice completely dull. Somehow, it still strikes a sharp knife into Tommy’s sternum. “Text me next time, yeah? I was worried.”

Tommy nods, desperate to peel off his skin or– or something. He wonders if it shows, and figures that it does, at least a little. At least to Tubbo.

But he doesn’t press, and that almost makes Tommy feel worse as he steps back towards the hallway, throat bobbing as he swallows.

“‘Night, Tubs,” he says softly, offering a tiny, plasticky grin that he knows the shadow of the hallway absorbs. “Love you.”

Tubbo hesitates, reading his face one more time, then looks away. “Goodnight, Tommy. Love you too.”

Tommy bites his tongue hard enough to draw thick, metallic blood onto his tongue as he shuffles towards his room.

It’s not until Tommy’s inside, bedroom door shut and locked firmly behind him, does he let himself recognize that look on Tubbo’s face — the one that flashes on loop behind his closed eyelids, infects his chest like poison; the one that makes his blood feel leaden and his heart weak, the one that sours every justification he summons to his tongue in the skeletal quiet of his room.

The look that has become less and less unnatural on Tubbo’s face, ever since the first time that Tommy became “Glare.”

It’s simple. One word — five letters that require his mouth to be shaped like guilt before they ever drop off of the precipice of his tongue:

Doubt.

Chapter Text

Techno hears the scuffling outside his window just in time to look over his shoulder and watch a blonde-and-red blur collide into it, a dull thunk echoing painfully off the glass.

A startled shriek graces his ears before the blur falls past the window, disappearing out of sight. Techno freezes, Chat following suit. For a moment, all he can do is squint at the window — displaying the burnt orange sunset — with his braid halfway undone between his still fingertips, and wonder if his sleep deprivation had finally devolved into making him hallucinate.

Then, a gloved hand wraps around the window frame, hoisting Tommy upwards. He fumbles to get the window open before tumbling inside, landing not-so-gracefully on his feet.

“You didn’t see that,” Tommy gasps breathlessly, face flushed red.

His backpack — a ratty olive green one that Techno has noticed he occasionally brings with him — is around his shoulder. As he watches, Chat dissolving into animated chitters at the back of his skull, Tommy deposits it against the wall beneath his window.

Techno, seated cross-legged on the ground, leisurely braiding his pink hair out of his face, raises an eyebrow and turns back to face the full-length mirror propped against the wall in front of him.

“There’s glass there,” he remarks, watching his lips twitch in his reflection.

“Gee, thanks, Technoblade,” Tommy snaps back, and Techno flicks his eyes towards Tommy’s reflection: watching the indignation color his face a deeper shade of red like clockwork. The child that he is, the expression slips off his face in an instant once his eyes land on Techno, and the way he’s positioned in the corner of the room, nimble fingers flying over his hair. Tommy trots forward, curious. “Whatcha doing?”

Tommy drops down next to him, a tad too close for comfort — not that Techno makes him move. That would be much more work than letting him admire both of their reflections, which he does, leaning so close that his nose threatens to bump the glass.

Techno glances at him, offering him a dull look, before shifting it back at his reflection. “Braiding my hair.”

Tommy scoffs, rolling his eyes. “Oh really? Someone should rename you to Captain Obvious,” Tommy retorts, grinning faintly as he sighs, “Missed opportunity.”

Techno slides unimpressed eyes his way. “Well, if they did that, they’d have to name you— hm.” He pauses, considering. “Eh, maybe that’s too much.”

“What?” Tommy asks, excitedly — predictably. He leans closer, face obnoxiously close as his eyes spark challengingly. “Say it, bitch.”

“Nah,” Techno replies easily, staring ahead as his fingers approach the end of the braid. “It’s too big of a word. You wouldn’t know what it means.”

Tommy’s mouth pops open, features nearly jumping off of his face with the fury of his outrage. “That’s— I know big words, prick!”

“You asked me what ‘egregious’ meant yesterday,” Techno responds flatly. “I don’t want to hear it.”

“Who the fuck knows what egrarious means!” Tommy sputters, bumping his shoulder harshly as he butchers the pronunciation bad enough to make Techno cringe. “Nerds, that’s who. Nerds like you, Technoblade.”

Eyes glinting, Techno swivels his face towards him. “Is that so?”

“Yeah,” Tommy drawls, leaning close. “It is.”

Techno appraises him for a long second before shaking his head. “I think I liked you better when you were fanboyin’ over me,” he laments. “Can we go back to that?”

“No,” Tommy replies instantly. “Not until you stop fuckin’ bullying me.”

“That’s unfortunate,” Techno sighs, put upon. “Guess we’ll both be disappointed.” He reaches the end of his braid, fingers stilling over the cherry blossom pink ends. “Hand me one of those, will you?”

Tommy glances over, then to where he’s gesturing. He complies, dropping a hair tie into Techno’s palm before retracting his hands into his lap. He watches silently as Techno ties off his braid, eyes utterly engaged and lips slightly parted. It’s oddly reminiscent of a goldfish. The thought almost makes him snort.

“How’s your hand?” Techno asks after a moment, breaking the short silence.

Blinking once, Tommy looks down, lifting his right hand and flexing his fingers, curling and uncurling them. “All good.”

“Hm,” Techno grunts, reaching over and inspecting it himself. His trust in Tommy’s self-preservation instincts has gone down the drain after Tommy had sat in silence with a hurt hand the day before. “Where’d the bandage go?”

“Took it off,” Tommy explains shortly, letting Techno maneuver his fingers.

When Techno raises an eyebrow, a silent prompt for elaboration, Tommy swallows and says nothing. Not acting on the urge to pry, Techno lets Tommy’s hand go.

“Let me know if it starts to hurt,” is all he says, rising gracefully to his feet. He waits a beat before extending a hand to Tommy, still cross-legged on the floor. “We can always start teachin’ you to punch another day.”

“I will,” Tommy promises quickly, as he grabs Techno’s hand.

Techno pulls him up — perhaps a bit too forcefully.

Tommy stumbles. Techno steadies him, patting him awkwardly on the shoulder when he’s regained his balance. Tommy grins slyly as he straightens, practically bouncing on the balls of his feet.

“Ready to fuck shit up?”

Techno sighs. “Do you ever stop swearin’?”

“Not really.”

“I figured,” he grumbles. Tommy laughs, and the sound swells over him, rattling the walls. Techno cracks a grin. “This way.”

Techno does most of his training in the spare bedroom, having converted it into somewhat of a minimalistic gym. Phil had helped him get a treadmill inside, and now it occupies the back corner. A punching bag hangs from the ceiling, reinforced to compensate for well, him — and also to make sure the ceiling remains intact. He’d gone ahead and dragged some mats out onto the floor for protection’s sake, but Tommy’s eyes skim over all of it: locked only on the various swords and knives mounted neatly on the walls.

His eyes are saucers as Techno ushers him in. “This was here the whole time and you never fuckin’ showed me?” he all but screeches, spinning slowly around to take it all in.

Posters plaster most of two walls — Bloodlust posters, primarily, though there are a few Crowfather and Angel posters, sprinkled throughout — and blackout curtains over the far window keep it private. Hands already wrapped in preparation for their makeshift training session, Tommy brushes his fingertips over the handles of two dual shortswords before pulling them back, eyes wide.

“Is this even legal?” he breathes, turning on Techno with sparkling eyes.

Techno crosses his arms, leaning against the doorway. “Eh… probably.” At Tommy’s dubious look, he grins. “Come on, kid. That’s never stopped me before.”

“Ah yes,” Tommy agrees sagely, nodding. “All that anarchy bullshit.”

“Mhm,” Techno agrees noncommittally. A bit more than that. “You ready?”

Tommy steps away from the walls and nods, gaze flickering over to Techno. He’s jittery — keyed up, clearly. Either that, or nerves are pushing to the surface of his typical unshakeable demeanor. Techno pushes off the wall and strides to the center of the room, facing Tommy. He’s almost excited to see the kid in action — something tells him that the sparse CCTV footage doesn’t do the kid justice. The voices stir, hunger rippling over them: hunger for a fight, not blood.

“First things first,” Techno starts, looking him over. “Form. Yours is… okay, but it needs work. Spread your feet a bit more.” He demonstrates; Tommy mimics him. “Having a good center of balance is important. Means you’re not gonna have to worry about being thrown off too much by your opponent.”

Tommy nods, soaking in his words like they’re oxygen. Techno admires it.

“Alright. Now punch me.”

At that, Tommy hesitates, energy dimming. “What?”

“Punch me,” Techno repeats, holding out his hands and pressing them side by side, palms out. “Show me what you’ve got.”

Tommy only hesitates for another moment before his jaw sets, determination hardening over his face. He balls his fist, throwing it towards Techno’s palm. Techno catches his fist halfway through the punch, stopping it. Surprise washes over Tommy’s features.

“Yeah, that’s one way to break all your fingers,” Techno remarks dryly.

Tommy’s brows furrow. “What? Then how—”

Techno cuts him off with a look, raising his own wrapped fist. “Watch and learn, kid. I’ll show you.”

Techno wasn’t sure if Tommy would be a good student, but he’s proven wrong quickly. Tommy’s receptive, and cleverer than he lets on — he takes all of Techno’s critiques with stride and applies them wordlessly. He’s also quick — good reflexes. With six months of experience, Techno hadn’t expected him to be completely inept, but it’s nice to have a good base to build upon, and Tommy’s… decent. Techno will give him that. By the time he moves them back to basic throwing, Tommy’s barely out of his breath, and his punches are landing harder, barely wavering — save for his own hesitation.

“Harder,” Techno advises, repositioning his hands back into place. “I can take it.”

Tommy glances at him before his face hardens, damp with sweat, and he throws another punch. Techno sees the hesitance a millisecond before his fist collides with Techno’s palms, not even hard enough to make him stumble.

“You’re holdin’ back,” Techno tells him. “Stop it.”

Tommy wipes sweat off his brow. “I’m trying, I just—” He cuts himself off, looking unsure. Techno cuts him slack, giving him space to think. Tommy shifts uneasily on his feet, eyes lowered. “I don’t want to like… hurt you.”

Techno frowns, hands lowering. “You’re not gonna hurt me.”

“You don’t know that.”

“Yes I do,” Techno counters. “I may not know much about you, Tommy—” I may not know why you’re scared of your own abilities “–-but I know that I’ll be fine. Come on. I’m Bloodlust.” He glances wryly over to the many posters plastering his wall, nearly all of them bearing the same slogan which he recites: “Bloodlust never dies.”

“You’re Technoblade,” Tommy mutters, rolling his wrists nervously.

“Technoblade never dies,” Techno offers.

When Tommy stays silent, worry drawing his features into an unsure pout, Techno sighs — then thinks back to his first time sparring with Phil. Thinks of the man who’d helped Techno settle more firmly into his own skin, his own abilities, and opts to replicate that.

“Alright,” Techno begins, the lightness in his voice bringing Tommy’s eyes up to his. “Close your eyes.”

If Tommy looked unsure before, now it's tripled — as painfully expressive as Techno is realizing that he is. But beyond that, inscribed just as fiercely in the glacial irises that stare back at him, is some level of trust. Techno can’t say if it’s warranted or not, he barely knows the kid, but if it’s enough, it’s enough.

Tommy closes his eyes. Techno holds his hands back out.

“Now raise your fist.”

Tommy does. Techno reaches out, gently guides Tommy’s hand forward so it makes contact with his palm a few times, cementing the target, before releasing it.

“Now punch me. Hard.”

Tommy inhales deeply, brings his arm back, and obeys.

The time, Techno feels it, reverberating through his arms, shoulders, chest. He grins.

“There you go,” and despite himself, despite his reservations — it’s pride, bleeding into his own words, as Tommy mirrors his grin, eyes fluttering open, bright. The voices swell in agreement, not that Tommy can hear them. Still, Techno’s words seem to rejuvenate him, and he lands another hard hit — this time with his eyes open. Techno staggers, and approval sharpens his grin. “Good. Keep doin’ that and you’re golden.”

Golden, the voices hum, swirling agreement. He’s golden.

“Techno,” Tommy sighs, draping himself over the kitchen chair. “I think I’m dying.”

They’re in the kitchen now, Techno having called it for the night. It’s late, and Tommy had started to grow tired — not that he’d admitted it. But Techno had seen the way he’d needed a few extra seconds to catch his breath, had seen the short delay between when he’d registered Techno’s blows and when he’d jerked out of the way. That was enough for him to call it quits, feigning his own exhaustion when Tommy’s features had drifted toward an unsure pout.

Techno glances at him. “You’re fine.”

Miraculously, Tommy’s ailments disappear upon Techno’s dismissal. From the corner of his eye, he sees him straighten, sitting in the chair properly. “Easy for you to say. You’re fuckin’– you’re literally Bloodlust.”

There’s nothing negative about the way he says his name — there never is, not with Tommy — but Techno finds himself frowning anyways as he reaches down to grab two bottles of water, wet with condensation, from his fridge. Wordlessly, he passes one to Tommy, not missing the way that he falters at Techno’s blank silence.

“Techno?” Tommy asks carefully, fingers closing around his water bottle.

He is Bloodlust. So what is he doing?

“Hm?” he grunts, not looking up — eyes locked blankly on the wood grain of the table.

Tommy’s hesitation is tangible, bleeding into the air — and that’s what draws Techno’s eyes up. Across from him, Tommy’s eyes are two pools of concern, brows furrowed and face earnest. His shoulders are curled forward, fingers twitching, like he’s one breath away from reaching out to him.

“You alright?” Before Techno can answer, the uncertainty on the kid’s face multiplies. “Is— is it me? I know I can be a bit… much.”

“No,” Techno answers, the word rolling off his tongue quickly, before he’s aware that it’s formed. “No, it’s not.” Tommy studies him, still looking unsure. “It’s not,” he repeats.

And that’s the problem, his mind supplies.

“Good,” Tommy replies, the evanescent wavering of his expression only visible to Techno’s keen gaze. “I’m glad we both agree that I’m the coolest. I could never be the problem.”

“Don’t get too ahead of yourself,” Techno retorts, watching him fumble to open his bottle cap. Tommy’s words suck the strange cold right out of him before he’s conscious of it. “You’re still a raccoon.”

Tommy sighs, eyes flashing threateningly — or some attempt at it anyways. “Technoblade, if you call me a raccoon one more time—” he cuts himself off, nose wrinkling. “I’m not a fucking raccoon.”

“You’re right,” Techno agrees, casting his features into cool sageness, “Raccoons are not nearly as garrulous.”

Tommy squints at him. “...I don’t know what that means but if it’s bad, I’m going to clart you.”

He leans back in his chair, a distant smile flashing across his face rather than the typical challenge. Exhaustion weighs heavily on his limbs — perhaps it makes his tongue a little looser than usual.

Or perhaps it’s him.

“You know, after today, you might actually stand a chance,” Techno remarks offhandedly.

Techno anticipates more of that heatless aggression, but instead, Tommy smiles, galaxies overflowing onto his face as he leans forward.

“Thanks, Techno,” he says, surprising him. “Like, really. Today was cool.”

Discomfort prickling vaguely over his skin — softness, gross — Techno merely nods. “You’re welcome.”

“I know you don’t— I know we’re not really friends—”

“We’re not,” Techno agrees.

“—But I appreciate you taking time to teach me, you know? It’s kinda hard doing this vigilante stuff all by myself…” He trails off, and when he looks back up, his lips are quirked, eyes bright. “Too much?”

“Absolutely.”

“Alright,” Tommy says, grinning brighter. Techno huffs, shakes his head. “That’s my cue, then, eh?”

“It is late,” Techno agrees, casting a glance over to the far window, where darkness has consumed the horizon. “Don’t you have a curfew or somethin’?”

Tommy stands up, face contorting even as he hesitates. “No, big men don’t have curfews.” Techno, despite already having a vague idea of Tommy’s situation, tries not to wince when he hears Tommy’s muttered, “Or parents.”

“Get out of my house.”

“Okay!” He trips over to the window. Techno has to lean his head around the doorway to see him swing his backpack over his shoulder. “Bye, Technoblade!”

“It’s still Techno!”

A spill of raucous laughter is the last thing he hears before the thud of the closing window seals the distance between them.

Glare doesn’t tend to make major news.

That’s why, when Techno sees the headlines flash across his television screen, he stops in his tracks to watch.

Images of fire flood the screen. It’s an apartment building — not too unlike his own — and it’s shrouded in flame, black smoke billowing around it in thick, nebulous plumes. Techno stops in the middle of his living room with his thumb hovering over the remote; he’d been two seconds away from turning it off when the alert had blared, stealing his attention.

“—firefighters are on scene,” the newsman announces quickly, as the screen switches to a closeup of a burning window, “And heroes have been called. However, the only superpowered individual who seems to be on scene is a local vigilante—”

“Glare,” supplies the co-anchor, worry creasing her expression.

Techno squints at the screen, searching searching searching, and— there. Tommy.

He’s in his typical uniform, though even the distorted camerawork does not disguise its tattered state: soot staining most of it as he climbs the side of the building, hands wrapped in green. Techno feels his heart make a strange, lurching motion against his ribs — like some sort of panic.

He can’t get a handle on it, can only stare and wonder whether or not Tommy’s abilities were able to protect him from being burned. He doesn’t think so. He should’ve asked.

As he watches, confusion and shock swirling through him, Tommy kicks in a window and ducks inside. Techno drops down onto the sofa, clutching the remote tightly in his hand as every muscle in his body goes stiff.

Distantly, as the camera pans away to another wide shot of the building, he wonders if he’s about to watch his— to watch the kid die on live television.

The newsman nods in detached acknowledgement. “Glare.” Then, as if that name means nothing, he moves on. “As of right now, it’s unclear whether or not there have been casualties. Local authorities are doing their best to evacuate the residents safely.”

The camera pans once more, as another fire truck surges into frame. Techno’s eyes skim over it all with little comprehension. Chat murmurs anxiously at the nape of his skull as Techno drums his fingers over his thighs, waiting. Whether or not the kid is semi-competent — more so now that Techno has been giving him pointers on fighting — it’s hard not to let his thoughts get tangled on how utterly idiotic Tommy has to be to run into a flaming building with nothing more a scrap of fabric for a mask, glorified pajamas for protection, and more audacity than any sixteen year old should be able to muster.

Audacity, he wonders bitterly, or total lack of self-preservation instincts?

Techno’s phone rings, startling him out of the disjointed haze that he’d fallen into. He realizes at once that it’s noon — he’s supposed to be seeing Phil in half an hour, and this is no doubt the driver he’d sent, waiting in front of the lobby to pick him up.

Techno doesn’t spare an ounce of guilt when he sends the call to voicemail. He does, however, spare a text message — Can’t make it this week.

It’s enough, and if it isn’t, it’s not his problem. Phil is used to his antics. It’s fine.

The heroes show up on scene, to the fanfare of the newsmen. Techno recognizes a few of them — Frost, Nereid, Inferno, Pandora — and he’s grateful in the same breath that he comes to the realization that Tommy hasn’t reappeared, and the fire has only grown. The sky is completely drowned out by the black smoke, and the apartment is crumbling.

Tommy’s still inside.

Why does that scare him so badly?

Chat’s energy is sharp and wild, like thorns weaving through his brain. Techno forces them to calm. Even as his posture remains stiff. Even as his gut begins to slicken with oil. Even as.

Under the barrage of ice and water from the newly-arrived heroes, the tides start to turn. The news camera flashes rapidly between images of heroes guiding injured residents to triage tents bathed in ambulance light and images of the fire, starting to die. White smoke merges with gray merges with black, turning the sky into an abstract charcoal painting.

Through it all, Techno can’t pick up any glimpses of red.

He tells himself it doesn’t matter. He’d gotten himself into this situation knowing that Tommy would be on his own — would he? Is he really? — and knowing first hand of the dangers that came with throwing your neck out for people who wouldn’t reciprocate.

(Tommy had been the first one there, and they aren’t even saying his name.)

It doesn’t matter.

The voices reject that — of course they do. They’d softenened, and so had he. But reality isn’t soft. Techno had learned that the hard way, and he is learning again.

Catastrophization has always been his best friend, but it’s for nothing — no sooner does that blanket of dread wrap around him in a vice grip is there a flash of white: brilliant, ethereal, starlight white. Tommy.

As the cameras shift to give him a fraction of the time of day that the heroes had reaped, he is crawling out of a window, eyes glowing to obscure the top half of his face above his tattered, soot-stained mask while two small children cling to his arms. If Techno could summon the energy to breathe through the strange cold enclosing him, he might scoff at the distorted sight of the cat balanced precariously on his shoulder, claws digging into his collar.

The heroes spot him, and just like that, the camera angle shifts to one that is much clearer, and closer. Even from the shitty newsfeed, Tommy visibly stiffens as two heroes approach him from the air — though Techno wouldn’t be surprised if the motion is lost to everyone but him.

They hover around him as he makes his way down the side of the building, and Techno gets to witness first hand how he does it — ivy snaking from his hands and clinging to the brick, lowering them gently. A short, faint smile tugs at his lips, heavy with relief — if there’s one thing Tommy can do, it’s crawl on walls.

His feet have barely touched the ground before the children are relieved from him, along with the cat. The heroes barely spare him a glance once the children are removed.

There’s a few seconds before the camera moves away: a few seconds of Techno watching Tommy drop to his knees, shoulders slumping like all the energy has been drained from him at once. He ducks his head as the brilliant light fades from his eyes, throwing an arm up to shield his face. Then, before Techno’s concern can augment into something real at the sight of him, he’s gone — the camera sliding away to latch onto something else.

It breaks Techno out of his trance, lungs kick-starting up again to pump air back through his bloodstream properly. His fingers buzz with restless energy as he leans back on the sofa, tension draining out of him. The remote clatters out of his useless fingers, and he has to lean down to pick it up off the hardwood.

He’s alive. He’s not idiotic enough to get himself killed. That has to count for something.

It’s only when the quiet in his apartment starts to shove in around him, emphasizing the chatter of the voices, that Techno realizes he’s not off the hook yet.

Tommy may have dragged himself out of that apartment building alive, but he’d been far from unscathed.

Techno has a first aid kit to prepare. This time, at least, he has a warning.

It’s approaching three PM when there’s movement outside of the window.

Techno snaps his head up in time to see Tommy trying and failing to get his arms through the pre-opened window. He realizes why quick enough — Tommy’s hands are shaking too bad to offer him any sort of real grip on the window frame.

Propelled forward by the fractious pressure of Chat, Techno crosses the room in three long strides, sticking his head out of the window to look down at the boy clinging to the brick outside.

Tommy almost startles when he drags his exhausted eyes up to meet Techno’s. Techno only offers him a tight smile, eyes scanning over his ivy-wrapped, bloodied hands.

“Need a hand?”

Tommy nods tiredly, wordlessly. Techno leans out farther, gently wrapping his hands around Tommy’s biceps and pulling him up. He’s halfway inside before Tommy’s own efforts give out. He slumps against Techno, who’d anticipated it enough to shift his grip to carry him entirely.

He’s shaking, eyelashes fluttering, and Techno feels his arms tighten around him automatically, mind spilling over with a mess of thoughts, voices swirling and swirling around his skull as he holds him.

Techno gets him on the couch right when Tommy starts to cough, violent and hoarse. He sits up as soon as he makes contact with the sofa, rips his mask off, and hacks a lung out into his elbow, shoulders shaking. Hand brushing awkwardly over the curve of his back, Techno winces at the burns — bright red and shiny — streaking up the side of his neck, his gloveless hands, through the holes of his ripped jeans.

Definitely not fireproof.

He turns on his heel to reach for the bottle of water he’d left on the end table, realizing only as he holds it out to Tommy that there is no way the kid is going to be able to hold it in his hands considering the burns covering them.

Instead, he kneels, putting himself eye level with Tommy, Techno cracks the bottle open and raises it to his lips. Tommy’s eyes are puffy, swollen, and red as he looks down on him, smoke having left its mark both in his eyes and in the soot streaking his pale face.

“Thanks,” Tommy whispers, voice barely a rasp.

Techno just nods, words failing as they tend to do when he’s overwhelmed, and helps Tommy swallow down half the bottle. He pulls it away much sooner than Tommy would like, if the glint of thirst in his eyes is any indication, but he needs to ration it out before Techno ends up cleaning up sick.

“Fire did a number on you, huh?”

Tommy opens his mouth to speak and then thinks better of it, nodding. For some reason, a silent Tommy makes him more uncomfortable than anything, but he stifles whatever muted instinct that the realization attempts to provoke.

“Don’t try to talk,” is all he says. “Smoke inhalation isn’t fun.”

Tommy nods slowly, and the exhaustion that oozes off of him is enough to make the air feel heavy.

When he turns back to Tommy, it’s with a jar of burn cream in one hand and the first aid kit in the other. Tommy’s eyes are clouded with pain, but he doesn’t flinch away from Techno’s hands, only winces as he drags his ruined sweatshirt over his head.

The burns are more superficial than Techno had expected, which is good. They streak up Tommy’s arms angrily, a mess of red and pink, but they don’t seem to extend too far onto his chest. Techno might not have to have him remove the white tank top, then.

“Are you hurt anywhere else?” he asks, as he unscrews the plastic container of cream. “Anythin’ I need to treat first besides the burns?”

Tommy mutely shakes his head, eyes following Techno’s motions lethargically. It’s weird — patching Tommy up without ceaseless prattling of his that usually supplied background noise, washing over him in a way that wasn’t necessarily soothing in its presence but was noticeably eerie in its absence.

“I saw what you did,” Techno tells him as he starts on the burns. He feels Tommy’s eyes on the top of his head as he works, wanting to fill the sudden void. “Savin’ those kids. It’s admirable.”

Tommy snorts weakly, and Techno can get the message. Like, That’s my job. Or probably something more profane: No shit, Tech-no-blade, drawing out his name like he does, like it’s something to be lauded, woven past lips with care.

“And the cat,” Techno adds, trying to force a lightness into his voice. His eyes flick up, meeting Tommy’s with a twitching grin. “Can’t forget the cat.”

“Puss,” Tommy rasps through dried lips, eyes glittering through the drowsiness.

Techno sighs, long and resigned with amusement that he refuses to grant Tommy, and looks back down. “Don’t know what I was expectin’.”

Tommy laughs, and it’s hoarse, barely more than a gravelly breath punched through his lungs, but it makes the air feel lighter as Techno tries to put Tommy back together.

Burns are tricky. Techno has to be a bit more careful as he treats them, something which is even more true the longer that he goes on. Beneath his featherlight touches, Tommy trembles, every feature of his youthful face inscribed with pain that he tries to conceal behind gritted teeth and clenched knuckles.

“Fuck fire,” Tommy gasps out when Techno smooths ointment over the burns curling up his neck, towards his chin.

They’re already fading, becoming less angry-red and shifting into a violent pink. Techno doesn’t think they’ll leave scars, and if they do, they’ll be faint.

Benefits to superpowers, he supposes. Strong enough to let someone throw themselves into flame without lasting consequence so that they might do it again. And again. And again.

Techno knows that well enough.

His back is aching by the time he finishes Tommy’s arms and shoulders — even addressing the less severe ones on his back and stomach before realizing all he has left are the legs. He throws Tommy a pair of basketball shorts to trade for his tattered pants, and lets Tommy lean against his turned back so he doesn’t crash onto the hardwood while he changes into them.

He sways on his feet anyways, eyelids drooping, when he rasps out that he’s done, and Techno has to help him onto the couch before he faceplants.

“Sorry,” Tommy croaks, face flushing.

“Don’t be,” is all Techno says, smooth and cool.

It’s approaching five when Techno is finished. He manages to get another bottle of water and a half into Tommy, who is barely awake as Techno finishes addressing the ugly burn on his knee. Techno had to move onto the couch when he noticed Tommy nodding off, and as he screws the cap back onto the burn cream, he feels a weight against his arm.

Looking down, he can’t help but freeze, skin tingling.

Tommy is completely out, slumped against his side with his head pressed against his shoulder, blonde hair tickling his jaw. Even though he’s covered in soot and sweat — a shower on the radar — Techno hesitates to move him, oddly grounded by the weight against him.

The idea of waking him now, when exhaustion is splayed so prominently over him, feels illegal. Even Chat is quiet, dim and contained, as Techno gently breaks out of his brief trance: easing Tommy off his shoulder. His face, previously slack and calm, twitches into faint displeasure as he’s removed from Techno’s side, but he relaxes again once he’s settled against the pillows that Techno had dragged out onto the couch.

Techno doesn’t know if he will ever get over how remarkably young Tommy is. It seems more pronounced each time he clambers through his window, bruised and bloodied and pained. Right now is no different — Techno takes a moment to stand and observe the boy in front of him, heart squeezing inside the cage of his chest, before he steps back, sighing heavily.

He massages his temples with his fingertips, attempting to coax the half-shapen migraine away. Every part of him feels like a wrung-out rag, though he gets the sense it’s not from the physical labor, even if the thought of cleaning up the scattered medical supplies does feel like a Herculean effort.

Perhaps it’s that lingering uncertainty — dread, if he feels like admitting it — from those brief minutes where Techno’s TV screen had been clouded in smoke, and Tommy had been nowhere to be found. That sensation of freefalling; that breath between being airborne and slamming back down into the earth. This is him no longer having a place to put that dread; this is the crash.

Chat crawls forward, prodding at him. He sighs again, glancing over at Tommy one last time. The peace on his face seems chiseled from marble. He’s sure that when he wakes up, that won’t be the case. Healing faster doesn’t mean feeling less.

It’s on his way to the kitchen that he realizes his phone is still on the end table, long forgotten. He frowns as he picks it up and catches the short onslaught of message notifications from both Phil and Kristin — he hadn’t given either of them an explanation, had he?

Sorry, he types out — after skimming the worried iterations of “You okay, mate?”s from Phil and the gentler, “Are we rain-checking?”s from Kristen — Something came up. His fingers hesitate over the keys, then, It was important. See you next Wednesday?

Techno sets his phone on the counter face-down when the messages deliver, ignoring the faint gnaw of guilt attempting to push up through his ribcage like weeds.

Guilt — not because he’s omitting the truth, not because he’s keeping Tommy a secret, but because—

But because he doesn’t regret it.

Tommy jolts awake with a gasp — Techno hears it from the bathroom, and his fingers close around a small bottle of pain medication from the medicine cabinet with renewed haste.

When he rounds the corner back into the living room, Tommy is attempting to sit up — attempting, because he’s not doing very well. His chest rises and falls with shallow, staccato breaths that resemble wheezes more than anything.

His eyes are frantic as he swallows, and they stay that way until he sees Techno. It’s a strange feeling, witnessing Tommy calm instantly at just the sight of him. It’s contrapuntal to everything he’s ever shaped himself around.

“Ow,” Tommy gasps out lightly, voice choked and light. He’s blinking hard, and in the shadowed living room, Techno thinks his eyes are shining with tears. “Technoblade—”

“Here,” he says instantly, taking two steps forward and shaking two pills into his palms that he holds out to Tommy, along with the rest of his water bottle from earlier. “That should help with the pain.”

Tommy accepts them with gratitude that he doesn’t voice — that he doesn’t need to voice, because Techno skims his face and gets it. He stays back as Tommy swallows the medication, chugging the rest of the water bottle to chase it down.

When he’s done, the pained little breaths are barely starting, and clarity seems to burn the drowsiness off his face. He looks towards the window, where darkness has completely overtaken the sky. His brows crease.

“What time is it?”

“About eight.”

Tommy sags against the sofa, some relief that Techno doesn’t understand consuming his face. His tired eyes land on Techno, stealing his attention before he can ponder that too much.

“Are you going to sleep?”

His voice is still violently hoarse, throat grating against each word like he’d gargled gravel. It’s enough to make Techno want to wince in sympathy with every harsh syllable pushed through his teeth.

“Not for a while,” he tells him.

Tommy nods, settling further back onto the pillows and dragging Techno’s blanket around his shoulders. He blinks — long and tired — before fixing Techno with a look that he can only describe as pleading, like a dog poking its eyes above the table edge for scraps.

“Can you wake me up in a few hours?” he asks, with all the uncertainty of someone asking for the world, rather than a small favor. “So I can go home?”

Techno nods even as he frowns. Tommy’s burns aren't exactly dire, but that doesn’t mean he should be gallivanting on the outside of his building when they clearly hurt. Aggravating them would only prolong the healing process, something that Techno figures Tommy knows.

“I don’t have my phone,” Tommy adds, confusing Techno’s contemplative silence for a need for explanation. “Sorry, I just—”

“Of course I can,” Techno interjects softly, throwing another look towards the window. “But should you be…”

He trails off, gesturing vaguely with his hands. Tommy gets the jist of it.

“Roommates will worry if I’m gone for too long without telling them,” Tommy croaks.

Ah. The roommates again.

“I can handle the burns,” Tommy adds, scanning his face with a smidge more awareness than before.

His brows are furrowed, confusion written between them. Like he can't imagine that Techno would want to look out for him.

“Okay,” Techno says after a beat, because who is he to tell him otherwise? He turns his face away from Tommy’s strangely prodding gaze. “Get some rest, kid. I’ll wake you up at around midnight.”

Tommy’s smile — soft and grateful — chases any lingering worry away.

Midnight rolls around. True to his word, Techno gently shakes Tommy awake, raising an eyebrow at the drowsy anger that meets him.

“Tommy,” Techno repeats, voice low.

“G’way,” Tommy mumbles, shoving his face further into Techno’s pillow. The movement exposes his neck, and the burns from before are faded, barely a pink splotch that could be confused for a flush. “‘m sleepin’.”

Techno sighs — since when had he become a babysitter — and prods at Tommy’s shoulder once more.

“Tommy, it’s midnight.”

“F’ck off, Ranboo,” Tommy spits thickly, and Techno frowns.

Heh?

“Tommy,” he repeats, louder as Chat hisses with something that might vaguely be defined as laughter at his nape. Techno resists the urge to scowl. “Wake up.”

That, at least, seems to do the trick. Tommy frowns again, but he blinks his eyes open. When he sees Techno, his features soften into something like pleased recognition.

“Hi, Techno,” he murmurs, sitting up and stretching. “‘s midnight?”

Techno hums an affirmative, stepping back as Tommy yawns and swings his legs over the side of the couch. The pain that flashes across his expression is faint, and barely-there. The voices cling onto it though, much to his disgruntlement.

He gives Tommy space as he stands, though he does prepare to swoop in and stop him from collapsing should he need to. Luckily, though Tommy seems to verge on unsteady, he’s at least upright, and stable.

He shivers, and Techno hands him one of his hoodies — draped across the back of the sofa — without thinking. Tommy blinks, still attempting to sync with the land of the awakened, but accepts it with a pleased curve of his lips and wrangles it over his head.

“There are rags in the bathroom if you want to clean up, first,” Techno remarks, voice gruff from his own rising exhaustion. “You look like a chimney sweep.”

“...Fuck off,” Tommy mumbles drowsily, and Techno is pleased to see a glimpse of his spirit returned. “But thanks.”

Techno huffs — in the dark of the living room, it’s mostly to himself. Tommy lurches towards the bathroom, and Techno passes the ten minutes he takes to clean up to warm a mug of tea in the microwave. Normally, he’d opt for the kettle, but if Tommy is on some sort of schedule, the microwave would have to do.

When Tommy staggers out of his bathroom, his face is clean of soot, and not utterly pale either, flushed and healthy. He sees the tea that Techno had made for him and light sparks in his eyes.

“You’re the best,” he mumbles, already lifting it to his lips.

Chat preens. Techno grunts something resembling an agreement.

“You gonna be alright, tonight?”

Tommy swallows down a swig of tea, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “I think so.” His brows furrow, the way they do when he’s thinking particularly hard. “I think my mates are asleep, so. Don’t have to worry about that.”

That’s not what I meant, Techno almost says, but he doesn’t let the words slide off his tongue like they want to.

“That’s good,” he offers, and Tommy nods.

Tommy finishes the tea far too quickly, and Techno stands in the corner with his arms crossed as he watches the kid stumble around his living room like a corpse reanimated to retrieve the salvageable scraps of his suit — namely, his shoes.

“Techno,” Tommy calls, snapping Techno’s eyes over to him. He’d moved closer, not that Techno had been paying attention to see it, and his hands are shoved awkwardly in the pockets of Techno’s hoodie as he appraises him bashfully. “Thanks for helping me, man.”

The roughness of his voice has diminished some, leaving only a light rasp. Probably light enough for Tommy to pass it off if he is careful.

“Of course,” Techno responds, before the silence can drag on too long. “I’m glad you’re alright.”

Alright is a strong word, not that Techno voices that. He can’t voice it because this— this agreement, this symbiosis, this whatever-they-have — cannot exist if Techno cannot spare a fraction of the trust that Tommy offers him in hemorrhagic amounts. Even if part of him, a small part — a stifled part, as irritating but ultimately small as an itch — is inclined to disagree.

Tommy nods, another smile, quick as a comet flash. He’s about to turn towards the window, when—

“Wait.”

Tommy stops, facing him again. Moonlight spills in from the window, bathing his face in silver light. Silhouetting the youthfulness of his features with startling definition. Before he can talk himself out of it, Techno reaches into his own hoodie pocket and extracts his cell phone.

“Put your number in,” is all he says, holding it out with his Contacts page open. “In case you need anything.”

In case you can’t reach me.

In case I can’t reach you.

In case a building crumbles and smoke billows and dread festers.

Understanding creases Tommy’s expression, followed by a spark of pure light. Techno wonders if he’s imagining the celestial glow ringing Tommy’s irises as Tommy steps forward and takes his phone into his hands.

Techno ignores Chat’s pestering at the back of his skull as Tommy taps his number in, and then names himself. Techno snorts as it’s passed back to him, “BIG MAN TOMMY” now memorialized in his contact list.

“Bye, Technoblade,” Tommy bids him, waving lamely as he steps back towards the window.

“Don’t fall to your death.”

Tommy snorts, steps back towards the window, and that’s it.

It’s just Techno and heavy exhaustion and silver moonlight flooding his hardwood and space everywhere else.

He glances down at his phone, hesitating before typing out one last message, then turning towards his room to get ready for bed. It’s late, and in the absence of Tommy, that manifests much stronger. Exhaustion bleeds from every crevice in his brain, and it’s as he’s drawing the blankets on his bed that he wonders how he’d filled his days two months ago.

It doesn’t seem possible. Not anymore.

That is the last thought sticking to his brain before his eyes slip closed, and he knows nothing at all.

Chapter Text

Things are going good until they aren’t.

It starts like this: a hand around Tommy’s wrist, catching him right before he can slip through the door. Tommy wheels around, trying not to flinch as Tubbo’s fingertips send pain sparking up his hurt wrist, hidden beneath the fabric of Techno’s hoodie.

Somehow – but not really somehow, Tubbo knows him inside out – he catches the stifled reaction and his eyes widen as he steps back. His next words aren’t so lenient, undercut with suspicion.

“Where are you going?”

Tommy hesitates. The familiar acid sting of guilt prickles on his tongue. He shoves it down – of course he does. The strumming cry of his heart, begging for him to cleave himself open and let his secrets spill out the cracks, is promptly ignored.

Tubbo can’t know. Neither of them can ever know.

He hates lying, but he can take the crawl of bile up his throat more than he can take the anger — the hatred, the vitriol that is sure to come if they see who he really is — so he’ll do it. He’ll do it despite the ash that clogs his trachea, the sharp thorns that prick the roof of his mouth. He’ll do it.

Lying is an acquired taste, after all.

“...Work.”

Okay, so maybe he’s still… acquiring it.

“Work?” Tubbo repeats, eyes narrowing just a smidge. Just enough to send Tommy’s heart into a frantic dance against his ribcage. “I thought you had Thursdays off?”

The plastic that drips off of his smile sticks to his teeth. “Hannah called out. Quackity asked if I could come in.”

There's a second, where Tubbo just says nothing, just stares until Tommy's skin is on fire, burning beneath the glare of a laboratory light, then—

“It’s movie night,” Tubbo finally says, expression completely shuttered away.

Oh. Oh.

Shit.

“I know,” Tommy says quickly, tongue tripping over the reassurances toppling off it. “I’ll be back before then.”

The worst part about the doubt that flickers across Tubbo’s face is that he knows that Tubbo doesn’t mean for him to see it. But he does. Of course he does.

“I promise,” he adds, and he means it. He hopes, at the very least, that Tubbo can see that. “I’ll be here, Tubso.”

A smile flickers and dies on his lips, like a candle unable to sustain its flame.

“Okay,” he breathes, simple and trusting. The knowledge that that is more than Tommy deserves makes the words sizzle against his ears, even worse than the suspicion. “Be on time or Ranboo’s picking the movie.”

Tommy groans. “Oh, fuck no. If I have to sit through another corny ass rom-com I will do bad things.”

Tubbo cracks a grin, an amused spark jumping into his dark eyes. “He’s catching up on what he missed. Don’t bully him.”

Tommy rolls his eyes, smiling. “I’ll bully him if I damn please.” At Tubbo’s raised eyebrow, Tommy presses, “Come on. Don’t act like you weren’t falling asleep on my shoulder last time.”

Tubbo jerks his head to the side, but not before Tommy can see the flush creep onto his cheeks. It ignites a warmth inside of him too.

“I didn’t—”

“You did,” Tommy interjects flatly. “The drool spot on my shirt proves it.”

The full-on scowl that Tubbo flashes him has the opposite effect; Tommy laughs, loud and raucous.

“Go away, actually,” Tubbo snipes, shaking his head as he bats at Tommy’s shoulders; Tommy lets himself get shoved towards the door. “Go be a nuisance for Quackity.”

“Quackity loves me, actually—”

“Out of my sight.”

Tommy sighs, and it feels okay. This feels okay.

(Not good, but a step up.)

“Love you!” he calls as he tramps out the door.

He waits to hear Tubbo’s exasperated reply — “Love you, too, idiot!” — before he lets the door swing shut behind him.

For a moment — a brief moment; a weak, selfish, short moment — he’s convinced that he could have this, have both: Glare, and his best friends.

The moment ends.

And Tommy’s a lot of things, but he doesn't think he's naive enough, self-destructive enough, to trick himself into thinking they’d want him.

Not if they knew.

He thinks of curling scars, and six months of grey, and fractured bi-colored eyes, and the hope is extinguished.

By the time Tommy makes it to Techno’s, the smile he’d been wearing is gone, and so is the warmth that had nestled out of part of his chest. In its place, icy dread fills the gaps.

He deserves it.

⋆⋆⋆

He’s quieter.

That’s the first thing Techno notices when Tommy shyly — shyly? — ducks through his window that afternoon with a smile that flashes like a dim meteorite and plummets out of sight even faster.

The urge to pry blossoms inside of him, with a familiarity that has gradually grown over these past few weeks. A quiet Tommy isn’t something he’s used to, and it really isn’t something that he wants to get used to. The slight curl of his shoulders; the far-off, contemplative look in his eyes; the frown etched on his face, lip constantly being worried between his teeth: all of that screams wrong as surely as a fire alarm. But Techno bites his tongue, because like all the other times, it’s not his place.

He’s convinced of that up until the point that his wrapped knuckles — that by all means Tommy should’ve easily avoided — slam into Tommy’s cheekbone, whipping his head to the side.

The roar of the voices feels like a grating shriek against his eardrums as time screeches to a halt. Techno stiffens as Tommy stumbles back, clearly reeling.

“Ouch,” Tommy says lamely after a beat of elongated silence, blinking hard as he cups his face.

Techno stops, completely frozen and stiff as Tommy probes at the reddening skin.

“Are you okay?” Techno asks carefully, ash coating his tongue.

His knuckles pulse where they’d collided with Tommy’s face. The prickly sensation is accompanied by some faint amount of nausea.

“Yeah,” Tommy breathes after a moment, looking up. He lets out a shaky laugh that feels cut with self-deprecation. “You got me good, Techno.”

Techno doesn’t find it so funny. Tommy’s cheek is already bruising, accelerated by his ability to heal quicker. Because of that, Techno gets to watch the mottled redness unfold over his cheekbone like rose petals, already taking on a violet undertone.

“We’re done,” he tells him blankly, almost clinically.

It was a mistake to offer to spar with him when Tommy was so clearly distracted. An oversight, on Techno’s part. He won’t make the same mistake again.

Tommy seems to disagree, eyes widening as he steps forward. “What? No, but we barely started, I was just—”

“You’re distracted,” Techno informs him, looking away as he begins to unwrap his taped knuckles. He doesn’t offer Tommy a spare glance, not risking the chance to be convinced around it. “I shouldn’t have let you in here in the first place.”

To his surprise, Tommy reels back. When Techno looks up, hurt is written over his face, eyes stormy.

“I can handle it,” Tommy protests, voice nearly cracking, and Techno has to stop before he speaks again, because he can tell that there’s something weighted to that statement, some emotion he can’t identify.

“You can,” he agrees carefully, composing his thoughts. He watches Tommy cautiously as he speaks, sees the tension ease just a fraction out of his frame. “Just not today.”

Tommy’s mouth wobbles, eyes flickering down towards the floor, clouded over. He looks, startlingly, like a kicked puppy. Techno will admit that alarm shoots through him. This – emotions – isn’t exactly in what he’d consider his wheelhouse.

Still, he tries, reaching over and clapping Tommy gently on the shoulder. Tommy jumps, and Techno’s a split second from retracting his hand before his shoulders slacken against and he sighs, leaning into Techno’s palm.

“Everyone has off days,” Techno informs him, straightforward but soft. “Don’t worry yourself over it, kid. We can do something else.”

That seems to work, because the storm clouds shrouding his eyes recede, and he brightens.

“Like what?” he asks, looking up at him.

Techno’s eyes flick down to the violent bruise blossoming over one side of his face, and winces, guilt gnawing faintly at his chest. “Like gettin’ you some ice, for starters.”

Tommy’s fingertips fly back up to his face, as if remembering it’s there. He doesn’t seem too concerned about leaning close to the person who put it there though. Techno does, an itchy feeling attempting to drag him away from the kid, but he ignores it as he leads them into the kitchen.

Tommy tries to follow him to the fridge — lost puppy — but all he has to do is raise an eyebrow and tap his shoulder and Tommy drifts over to the table instead, dropping down into one of the wooden chairs with a sigh.

When Techno looks back, ice pack in hand, he’s staring blankly at Techno’s tabletop.

“What’d the wood grain do to you?” Techno asks, lips twitching as Tommy’s head whips up comically fast.

“It’s a bitch,” Tommy announces, too flatly to be reassuring. “Too much wood. Not enough grain.”

Clearly, whatever was bothering him during their sparring session is still bothering him.

“Alright,” Techno sighs, dropping down in front of him with a pointed look as he slides the ice across the table. “What’s the problem?”

Tommy holds his gaze for a count of one, two, three— and then looks down, features scrunching into a glare. “I don’t have problems.”

“You sure about that?”

The glare is directed at him, then. If Techno didn’t know him, it might be scarier. As it is, he doesn’t need it to get the hint to stop pressing. If Tommy wants to switch subjects, sure. Phil was always better cut for the therapy-type talks anyways.

“The media knew what they were doin’ when they called you ‘Glare,’” Techno remarks offhandedly as he meets Tommy’s narrow eyes, unperturbed. “It’s fittin’.”

The glare twists into suspicious perplexion, like he doesn’t know whether to accept it as a compliment or cuss Techno out. Techno waits, wondering what he’ll decide on. Surprisingly, it’s neither — but Tommy leaps onto the distraction anyways.

“You know, I wanted to be called ‘Big Moss,’” Tommy tells him. “Or Wife Haver.”

Technoblade blinks at him. “...Big Moss?”

Tommy grins, sharp and genuine. “Look, magic fingers.”

He sets the ice pack down and raises his hands. Techno blinks again as ivy starts to erupt from his palms, crawling over the table tops. They slide underneath the discarded ice pack, encasing it like a cocoon before continuing to slide over the edge of the table, hanging towards the floor like wriggling green garden snakes. The vines inch towards Techno questioningly. Techno leans back.

“So, that’s how you do it,” is what he eventually settles on.

He’d seen the ivy, of course, but not close up. It’s strangely fascinating, if not eerie, watching it crawl along his table, splitting seemingly-painlessly from Tommy’s skin. The voices are similarly a mixture of intrigue and vague discomfort.

“Cool, innit?”

It’s… something like that.

“Can you do that with any plants?” Techno asks.

“Eh, not really,” Tommy explains. Techno watches as the vines go slack, crumpling into a fine layer of near-white ash. “Mostly vines and moss. Dunno why.”

“Super abilities have never been stable,” Techno offers, reaching over and sweeping the ash onto the floor. “Part of the reason they are so coveted.”

“And hunted,” Tommy adds quietly, shocking him.

It… something about the way Tommy says it gives him pause.

“Yeah,” Techno says after a moment. Tommy’s face has become oddly shuttered away, eyes faroff. An uncomfortable feeling unfurls in Techno’s stomach. “You weren’t… did you ever…?”

Tommy blinks, zoning back into himself. “Me? No, not really. I didn’t realize I had powers until a few months ago. I was more thinking of my— of someone I know. He, uh, got wrapped in all that. The old Hero League.” He bites his cheek, looking at the floor, adding bitterly, “Or they got all wrapped up with him, is probably a better way to put that.”

The anger that rises in Techno is cooled like magma: rage that is cooled by the knowledge that he had taken care of all that. The ex-Hero League is no more, and the Guild that has risen from the ashes is… better, according to Phil. Last he heard, the new Captains are better.

“I hope he’s okay,” he says after a minute, a little stilted but genuine.

Tommy looks up again. “Who? R—the guy? Yeah, he’s… he’s better now. Doesn’t know if he still has all his old powers but he doesn’t use them anyways.”

Since the day he’d met him, Tommy has never been hard to read.

But he has always been one to defy Techno’s expectations. And now, Techno feels like he’s looking at a stranger.

As Tommy trails off, his voice takes on a strange tone, utterly dissonant to anything Techno has heard from him. Besides the slight downturn of his lips, his face is completely blank. The storm clouds are back, turning his irises into a tempest as he stares into nothingness.

Techno can’t read a thing off him.

Before he even has a chance to try, voice swirling unpleasantly at the back of his skull, Tommy seems to snap back into himself, eyes shooting up.

Panic — Techno feels it as if it's tangible in the air: sharp and frantic as Tommy stands, hands squeezed into fists at his side.

“I need to go… patrol,” he stammers, looking anywhere but at Techno. “Thanks— thanks for today, Techno.”

Techno frowns, chest stirring unpleasantly. He should stop him.

He doesn’t.

“Of course,” he replies automatically. “Are you sure you’re—”

“I’m fine,” Tommy insists, smiling weakly at him as he backs away, away, away. “See you, uh, whenever. Yeah.”

And then he’s gone — leaving Techno alone and confused in the shadow he’d left behind.

⋆⋆⋆

Tommy patrols, and patrols, and patrols.

It’s a slower day, which is unfortunate. He’d left Techno’s feeling restless and now, something makes him want to burn, to fight. But the lack of criminals denies him the opportunity. He ends up looping from Eleventh to Fourteenth and back again with little to show for it, until the sky is dark as an inkpot, and then keeps going.

By the time it's nearing midnight, Tommy doesn’t want to stop, even if he’s been going for so long that his eyes have begun to blur. He’d go all night if he was able to, but something prods at him to go early, go soon. Maybe it’s the fact that he knows Tubbo will be worried if he hears him come in too late. He’s not sure that’s it, but the thought of it anyway has him heading home soon enough.

Luckily, some exhaustion does begin to creep over him as he yanks his hidden backpack out of a bush, the makeshift cocoon of vines he’d made to cover it falling easily beneath the will of his fingertips.

Their apartment complex is dead silent as Tommy pads down the hallway, head lost to a fuzzy haze that makes it hard for him to focus on anything but getting home. Something tugs at his chest like a compass, prodding and prodding and sending unease prickling over him as he unlocks and opens the door.

Nobody’s supposed to be awake.

It’s late — a school night for Ranboo, at the very least. Midnight isn’t really pushing it for Tubbo, but he’d seemed so tired that morning that Tommy had been convinced on his way home that he was in the clear, sure that Tubbo would’ve gone to bed early.

None of that changes the fact that, when he shuts the door behind him, body aching beneath his borrowed clothes, he turns and meets Tubbo’s eyes.

This time, he’s not alone.

“Tommy,” Tubbo greets plainly, voice taking on a slightly off tone — like a bad note struck in a soft melody.

Tommy comes to a dead halt in the doorway, feeling awfully cornered by Tubbo’s crossed arms and the frown that he wears. Behind him, leaned up against the kitchen island, is Ranboo. Even from three meters away, Tommy can see that he’s nervous. His clothes are rumpled, shaking hands fidgeting with a loose thread on his sweatshirt sleeve, and—

He won’t meet Tommy’s eyes.

It makes him feel cold, in a dead way. Cold like a corpse, cold like rot, cold like mausoleum marble.

Any ounce of sleepiness that he’d managed to earn himself on patrol disappears in an instant.

“Hey guys,” Tommy tries, fingers clenching tightly around the strap of his backpack. He can’t help but feel like he’s slowly being dunked in an oil tank of dread. “Um,” and it’s light, almost brittle in its certainty. He swallows it — everything — down to croak half-heartedly, “What’s up?”

The room itself seems to flinch along with his friends.

“Tommy,” Ranboo whispers.

He doesn’t say anything else, still doesn’t look up — eyes rooted firmly on the hardwood just in front of Tommy, like he can’t bear to look at him — and the dread multiplies. Tommy tries to breathe through it.

“What’s going on?” Tommy tries again, looking around as he shifts anxiously in place.

Do you know? is what he wants to ask. Because why else would they be waiting up for him? Do you know?

A flicker of hurt passes over Tubbo’s face. It’s gone almost as soon as Tommy sees it, but Tommy has already recognized it. And that’s what drags his eyes back over to Ranboo, Ranboo just inside the kitchen by the island — the island, where a bowl of popcorn sits, untouched, surrounded by three Coke cans.

It dawns on him instantly.

His head goes under, oxygen stolen, guilt drowning him, because—

Movie night. It’s movie night.

Two words, simple words, but they matter. They matter.

Movie night: the only tradition they’d carried from the group home, the only part of their former selves that still fit somewhat right, the only part they hadn’t lost when they lost everything else.

He’d promised Tubbo. Just that morning he’d promised that he wouldn’t forget.

And he’d missed it.

“Fuck,” Tommy stammers, throat closing up.

He’s barely aware of anything but the guilt closing over him like anaphylaxis as he takes a shaky step forward, pain running up his body as he moves. His bag slides off his shoulders, landing lamely behind him. He doesn’t register it.

“Fuck, I didn’t— I’m sorry.” It’s not enough; he knows it even as the words roll off his lips. Knows it in the hunch of Ranboo’s shoulders, the twitch of Tubbo’s lip. He tries anyway; Sisyphus. “I forgot.” Idiot. Idiot. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to—”

“Tommy.”

Tubbo’s voice is quiet, barely a whisper, but it’s enough.

Enough to shut Tommy up, send his voice crawling back down his throat to die. In that short breath of silence, his name hangs over all of them like a curse.

This is it, he thinks. This is where it breaks.

And as Tubbo’s next words fall like damnation across him, he knows he’s right.

“We need to talk.”

⋆⋆⋆

Tommy is shaking the next time Techno sees him.

It sends alarm shooting through him in an instant. In his haste to get over to the window, where Tommy is limping — face screwed up in pain — he drops his book, pages crumpling harshly against the hardwood in a way he probably isn’t going to be able to fix. He doesn’t bother going after it, not as Tommy practically trips into him.

“What hurts?” he asks instantly.

Tommy looks at him, or towards him — his eyes don’t quite manage to meet Techno’s, rather they hover somewhere on his cheekbone.

“Ankle,” Tommy bites out after a minute, face red. “Think I fucking… sprained it or something.”

He gets them over to the couch, marveling at how much it feels like clockwork. His hands know what to do as if he’s been doing it for years and not for just a little over two months. Tommy sinks against the arm of the sofa, eyes locked on his lap.

Techno frowns as he watches Tommy blindly fumble to unlace his sneakers, shakily pulling up his pant leg. Tommy seems determined to look anywhere but at him, so Techno drops into a kneel instead to examine his ankle.

(He pretends it’s not weird. That he’s so… closed off. But he can’t resist sneaking a look up at Tommy’s face, where the bruise has faded to a smudge of yellow against his cheekbone. Can’t resist wondering if that accident had led to Tommy blatantly avoiding him.)

“It’s not swollen,” he remarks after a moment, brows furrowed as he gently probes Tommy’s ankle. “Or very red.”

Beneath his palms, Tommy stiffens, and Techno retracts his hands.

“Really?” Tommy breathes, verging on shakily. “That’s weird.”

“Hm,” Techno grunts, standing. “Does it hurt?”

Tommy casts a fleeting glance up at him before lowering his eyes instantly. He can feel Chat’s unease rippling across his nape, but he shoves it down.

“Yeah,” Tommy answers after a moment. “Can I just—” He swallows, face pale as he stares fiercely at his lap. “Can I just stay here for a bit? And rest it?”

Techno hesitates, a frown etched on his face. Tommy’s not looking at him, but he can tell he’s bracing for a rejection, shoulders stiff and curled forward. Faint tremors run over his spine, and it goes straight to Techno's heart, twisting.

“Of course,” he answers. “I’ll get you some ice, and wrap it just in case.” Tommy doesn’t answer, only manages a nod so small that Techno barely sees it. “Sound good?”

“Yeah,” Tommy croaks.

When Techno turns to retrieve what he needs, he can’t help but get the feeling that his heart is spinning too, rotating awkwardly between the claws of his ribs. It’s strange — nonpareil to anything he’s ever felt. It’s not surprising that Tommy’s the one invoking that feeling, that panging concern. It hasn’t been surprising for a while.

Chat rolls at that, almost curiously. He keeps his eyes straight ahead as he digs through his medical kit for a simple compression wrap. Then, as he’s moving to the kitchen for ice, he wonders if he should get some food too. Tommy had seemed pale. Lamenting the difficulty of managing a teenager, Techno puts together a sandwich quick enough, grabbing a bag of chips for good measure.

Techno stops in his tracks when he reenters the room.

Tommy’s asleep — in the span of minutes, he’d fallen asleep. Slumped against the couch, exhaustion shrouds his face. Techno frowns again, hesitantly setting the sandwich on the end table.

He’s lived in this apartment for over two years, and yet, as he walks forward into his own living room, he can’t help but feel like he’s navigating new territory, and encroaching on it too. Or maybe that’s just Tommy, upturning his expectations at every step. Carving himself a place in Techno’s life like shrapnel in a wound, and Techno’s the skin growing around it.

He sighs, doubling back to the kitchen to put the ice back until Tommy wakes up. He’s not just going to kick the kid out, sprained ankle or not.

If someone had asked him, two years ago, if he thought he’d be watching over a scrappy sixteen-year-old vigilante for free, he would’ve laughed.

Now, as Chat hums soothingly at the back of his skull, and Techno drapes a blanket over Tommy’s trembling shoulders, he resigns himself to a couple hours of babysitting and… doesn’t hate it.

Weird.

He’s going soft. It’s the only explanation. Techno thinks if he listens carefully enough, he can hear the crow of Phil’s laughter, bleeding into his brain — surely his reaction, if he could seeTechno now.

Soft. It shouldn’t suit him so well, but it does. It should bother him, but it doesn’t.

The mighty Bloodlust, reduced to this. And he doesn’t really mind it.

Gross.

⋆⋆⋆

Tubbo and Ranboo barely spare him a glance as they move around the apartment, getting ready for work and school, respectively.

Tommy had woken up early, hoping to maybe catch them before they disappear out the door, but it proves futile. Tubbo is determined to hold out the silent treatment as he tucks the long pantlegs of his gray-blue coveralls into his boots, his work bag by his feet.

He drifts by Tommy, sat lamely on the island stool with hunched shoulders, as if he’s not even there.

It doesn’t hurt. It shouldn’t. Tommy deserves this. Deserves the silent treatment and so, so much more. But the selfish part inside of him, rotten and decaying, whines against it.

Tubbo spares him a quick glance that Tommy pretends he doesn’t see before disappearing out the door to go pursue whatever maintenance work their landlord had given him.

(Tommy only wilts a little bit when he sees the paper cup of coffee that he’d offered him just that morning, cooling and untouched by where Tubbo was sitting.)

Ranboo’s easier — he’s too spineless to give Tommy the complete silent treatment, but it’s almost worse to see him so anxious at Tommy’s lingering glances. Anxiety ripples over his face when Tommy drops down in front of him at their tiny, chipped garage-sale table, looking and feeling utterly pathetic.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers, the same way he’s done a million times over the last few days, and a billion over the last few months. “Ranboo, really, I didn’t mean—”

“It’s not about movie night,” Ranboo interjects, eyes flickering up before back down at his bowl of oatmeal.

Tommy wilts, curling back. Because he knows. He knows and he’s helpless in knowing.

Ranboo deposits his oatmeal bowl in the sink and leaves, casting him one more pitiful-but-not-really-pitiful look over his shoulder and leaving to catch his bus.

Tommy is glad for it.

Glad because he knows that if he hadn’t, if he’d stayed, then Tommy would’ve broken. Would’ve shattered, spilled everything. The fire of their hatred would be nothing compared to the torment he’s going through now: this gradual decay, this slow shove of his limbs through a meat grinder.

But Ranboo leaves and Tommy says nothing to call him back.

Instead, he does the only thing he’s been capable of doing these past few months; the thing he’s best at.

He runs.

Chapter Text

<Tommy> hey are u awake

I know its like seven

can i cmeo over???

come****

Haha funny word

sorry but can i

Techno barely has a chance to frown before the next message comes in:

<Tommy> i hit my head and everyythings spininng

The voices flurry, sharp and wild worry dancing around his skull. Techno sighs.

<Techno> you’re an idiot

<Tommy> is thta a yes?,??

<Techno> yes

be careful

<Tommy> anybthung for u tecnhoblade

Techno sighs again before dragging himself to his feet, a yawn crawling out of his throat. He doesn’t glance at the blinking alarm clock on the nightstand, because he already knows it’s proclaiming the time to be far too early for his sleep schedule. Somehow, it doesn’t upset him too much.

Oh, how the mighty have fallen.

“My roommates think I’m doing drugs,” Tommy proclaims ten minutes later, as he clambers through Techno’s window.

Techno looks up, closing his book. “Are you?”

“Am I doing drugs? Come on, Techno. You know me.” He’s in one of Techno’s merch hoodies and sweats, rather than his typical getup. Tommy pulls the hood down and offers him a crooked smile that doesn’t quite meet his eyes. “Only the good ones.”

Techno raises an eyebrow. “Really?”

Tommy scowls.

“No,” he amends in a petulant drawl. “I’m not doin’ fuckin’ drugs. Is that what you want to hear?”

“Maybe,” Techno answers noncommittally, standing and stretching. He eyes Tommy with shielded scrutiny, because he hasn’t stepped forward, is just hovering near the window, visibly jittery. “...Can I look at your head?”

Tommy hesitates, swallowing. “Actually, do you mind if I just… lay down for a bit?”

Techno steps forward, and Tommy steps back so quickly he nearly trips back out the window. Techno stops in place, frowning for real this time, as Chat scratches at his brain.

“Uh…”

Before Techno can speak another word, Tommy darts past him. Techno blinks as he throws himself down onto the sofa, yanks Techno’s blanket over his shoulder, and buries his face in his arms.

And then he’s just… laying there, sprawled across the sofa, face hidden in his arms.

Techno blinks slowly, confused.

“Tommy, what are you doin’?”

The blanket-covered lump shifts.

A tiny voice grunts out, “Sleeping.”

Shaking his head, Techno scoffs, walking over. “No, you’re not.”

“Yes, I am—”

“You’re not,” Techno reemphasizes, yanking the blankets off of Tommy and looking down at him with crossed arms and wry amusement. “Can’t sleep with a concussion, kid.”

Tommy rolls over, scowling. His hair is rumpled, eyes bright with anger. Techno only raises an eyebrow, batting Tommy’s legs to the side so he can sit down on the couch next to him.

“You’re a bitch,” Tommy spits, sitting up grumpily.

Techno sighs. “Just let me look at you.”

Techno doesn’t miss the panic that flickers across Tommy’s expression. It’s potent, nearly painful to look at. Luckily, he doesn’t have to for long, because in an instant Tommy shoots forward, leaning and dropping his forehead against Techno’s shoulder.

Techno stills, a nearly inaudible grunt being pushed out of his chest as Tommy drops the entirety of his upper body’s weight against him — clings to him like a koala bear on a tree. Automatically, his arms come up, one to grasp Tommy’s arm and hold him there, and the other hovering over the upper part of his back, ghosting on returning the gesture.

“Tommy,” Techno tries again, voice dipping into something quieter, softer but still firm.

“Me ‘ead is fine,” Tommy mumbles into his shirt.

Techno hesitates, heart pumping loudly in his ears.

He’d held a baby once, for a picture. Back when Bloodlust had been good — though obedient might be a better word — and had gleamed beneath the media’s spotlight rather than glared.

The woman had approached him with a stroller, and Phil — at his side, always at his side — had laughed as she’d ushered the barely-non-infant into his arms.

Techno had frozen up, arms stiff as toothpicks beneath the weight of a baby. Babies are painfully fragile, tiny things. Techno hadn’t wanted to hold it, but once he had, he felt like Atlas, cupping the sky in too-big hands and hoping he wouldn’t buckle beneath it.

This is… kind of like that. The faint wash of panic feels familiar to it, at least. To holding something so frangible, so delicate, knowing that a harsh breath could knock it over.

He doesn’t understand how Tommy can be comfortable like this, but it makes his blood sing with the need to make sure he’s okay safe protected even if he’s not exactly used to casual touches like this. Not used to being… comforting? Is that what this is? Is he comforting the kid?

“Let me at least check your pupils,” Techno offers after a moment, hand finally dropping to hold him properly, resting on his back, just below his neck.

“Is that a sign?” Tommy asks, burying his face further into Techno’s shirt when he tries to nudge him back upright.

“Yes, it’s a sign,” Techno drawls, lips twitching. Tommy doesn’t move though, only swears incoherently when Techno prods at him and clings more. “Tommy.”

Tommy finally leans back, just a few inches, to look Techno in the eye. “I’m fine. Just wanna sleep.”

Techno huffs out a laugh. “Tommy, this can’t be comfortable.”

“It is,” Tommy insists. “Technopillow. Me gusta.”

Anddd he drops forward again, burying his face right back in Techno’s shirt. His fingers curl into the bottom of Techno’s shirt, twisting the fabric between his fists tightly like a toddler. Like if he lets go, he’ll untether from the Earth and float away.

Techno exhales, hesitation consuming him. He’s aware that he’s a juxtaposing mix of stiff and relaxed. As glad as he is that Tommy seems to trust him enough to get this close — his legacy isn’t exactly the friendliest; he barely trusts himself to handle precious things like this — he can’t let the kid puppy-eye him into avoiding the issue at hand.

“You said everything was spinnin’,” Techno tells him. Chat hums unpleasantly. “You gotta let me check.”

Tommy sighs, as if utterly put upon. Ah, the woes of a sixteen year old. Techno taps his arm, grinning faintly when Tommy shifts irritably, dusty-blonde curls brushing the underside of his chin as he moves.

“Hate to break it to you, kid, but you can’t afford the brain damage of lettin’ a concussion get worse.”

“Fuck you,” Tommy mumbles instantly, sharp even through the muffledness of Techno’s shirt. “And it’s fine. I feel better.”

Techno frowns. “You said it took you days for concussions to heal.”

“Maybe it was just a headache this time.”

Techno opens his mouth to respond. Closes it.

Suspicion crawls over him, all at once. The way he says it feels decidedly off against Techno’s eardrums, and the hum of the voices tells him he’s not alone in that. Something is not adding up, and he thinks it might be a culmination of the long list of Somethings he’s been dealing with for the past week — ever since he accidentally bruised his knuckles against Tommy’s cheek.

“Hey Tommy,” Techno starts lightly, moving his hand up and letting his fingers run across the back of his head, threading through his hair.

He brushes his fingers over his scalp, feeling around. Tommy doesn’t react; if anything, he relaxes into the gentle ministrations. Techno sighs and doesn’t stop stroking his hair, even as a realization begins to take an uneasy shape in his skull.

“Yeah?” Tommy murmurs after a moment.

“Which wrist did you hurt yesterday? The one you had me wrap?”

Tommy stiffens — barely noticeable, had he not been pressed against Techno’s chest.

“Uh… the left one?”

It sounds more like a question than a statement, and besides that, it’s plainly wrong.

Confirmation.

“I bandaged your right one.”

Silence. Tommy goes completely rigid now, and Techno retracts his hand.

“Tommy,” and it sounds crazy to his own ears, but he’s sure of it. The voices roll, chanting quiet agreement as the realization settles. “Are you— are you fakin’ injuries? To come over here?”

“No.”

He’s never been a good liar. Now, it’s no different. If not for the obvious strain of the word against his lips, then Techno knows he’s lying by his abnormal stiffness: the way he’s utterly frozen, like an animal caught in a trap.

“Tommy, don’t lie,” he says, he and his voices stirring unpleasantly at the miniscule flinch that runs over the kid, and—

“I have nowhere to go.”

The confession, whispered and broken, makes every muscle in Techno’s body go taut. Tommy won’t look up, but Techno sees the quickness of breaths through the shallow rise and fall of his shoulders.

“Your apartment?” Techno asks, apprehension rippling through him.

Surely, he means something else. Surely, he has somewhere to go.

Tommy’s shoulders curl. He still won’t lift his face.

“They don’t want me there.”

“Who?” Techno asks, mind spinning, before Tommy’s own words echo through his head—

My roommates think I’m doing drugs.

A statement, said so casually, that Techno hadn’t bothered to read into it, to catch the thread of mournfulness lingering just under the surface. And just like that, the puzzle pieces slide cleanly together. Still, he has to ask—

“Your roommates?”

Silence.

Shame oozes off of Tommy, shame enough to make the voices flurry into chaos.

He finally, finally pulls away, releasing Techno’s shirt to lean back. He doesn’t raise his bowed head, blonde hair falling over his forehead to cover his downturned eyes. Despite the fact that he hadn’t wanted Tommy clinging to him, it’s almost worse to see him so pulled back and… ruined.

“Is that what you meant earlier?” Techno hedges, eyeing Tommy cautiously. “About your roommates…”

“They think,” Tommy starts without looking up, voice oddly brittle. “They think I’m in like, a fighting ring or some shit. Or that I’ve been doin’ drugs or— I don’t fucking know.” Another sigh, shaky and verging on something terrifyingly fragile. “It’s my fault. It’s— I’m gone all the time, I’m always getting hurt and I just— I mean, I don’t blame them.”

Ouch. The words bury themselves in Techno’s chests like tiny daggers of panging sympathy, cutting way too close to home.

He gets it. He gets it and he wishes he didn’t.

Heroism, vigilantism — it’s misery business.

It’d be wishful thinking to think that the knowledge of that could ever be enough to save Tommy from it.

“Can I ask you a question?” Tommy blurts, jerking back from Techno’s chest, finally raising his head and allowing Techno to get a look at him, at how desperation turns his face into a carving of a frantic plea. “A what-if question?”

That, at least, manages to distract him from the turbulent whirlwind that his thoughts have devolved to.

“A what-if question?” Techno echoes, brows furrowed as he tests the words.

“Yes,” Tommy agrees, fingers curling into fists, tucked anxiously in his lap. He’s talking quickly, too quickly. “A what-if question. A question that’s not real but you have to answer like it is.”

Slightly reeling by the pure overwhelming feeling of it all — of these new revelations, of Tommy’s sudden shift in attitude — Techno manages a clipped nod. He can tell, if nothing else, that Tommy needs this. Needs him to go along with this.

“Sure.”

Tommy exhales, fiddling with his fingertips almost spasmodically before spilling all in one breath, “If you were keeping a secret, like a really fuckin’ bad secret for a really good reason, and then your— and then the people you were keeping the secret from got mad at you for being secretive, would you let them be mad even if it fucking sucks, or would you tell the secret?”

Techno blinks.

So, not a what-if question then.

A few moments later, the question processes. For a fleeting, guilty second, he wonders if Tommy is mocking him — because surely this is about him and Phil? But that’s impossible. Uncanny, but impossible. Tommy doesn’t know Phil exists, nor that Techno has been… admittedly, bending the truth to him. But either way, he manages an answer.

“Depends on the reason.”

Tommy’s shoulders drop as his face creases with frustration, eyes clouded like he’s talking to both Techno and someone else: the universe, or maybe himself.

“The reason is, a while ago, some superheroes hurt your friend really bad. And now your friends, both of them, hate superheroes and powers and all of that but now you are sort of a superhero — but for free — so if you say something, they’ll hate you too. But they already hate you so— so maybe you would deserve it.”

Tommy is breathing hard by the time he finishes, eyes fractured as he stares up at Techno imploringly. Like he expects Techno to be able to take the broken pieces of his problems in his hands and fix them.

Technoblade has never done much fixing. But for Tommy, he’ll try. He’ll try.

“Do you care about them?” he asks simply.

Tommy blinks, and Techno is made more aware of his red, puffy eyes than ever. He takes a moment to comprehend the counter-question, before answering.

“More than anything,” Tommy croaks.

“Do they care about you?”

Tommy’s breath hitches, eyes dropping down as his throat bobs. “I— I think so.” He exhales, breath shaking. “And that’s why I’m so scared.” He says it like a confession, like a sinner, shoulders curled, hunched over a righteous altar as his voice cracks over the next whispered words. “Because I don’t want to lose that, Techno. I— I really, really don’t want to lose them.”

The voices whine, mournfully, like a pack of dogs. Techno can’t help but want to do the same, if only at the injustice of it all. Tommy should never seem so broken. Not for this.

So he swallows hard, squeezing Tommy’s shoulder and trying to convey everything his tongue can never eloquently impart.

“You won’t.”

Hopelessness consumes Tommy’s expression at the finality of the promise, or perhaps, his perceived fallibility of it. Techno doubles down.

“You won’t,” he repeats, “Because if they care about you, it won’t matter.”

Tommy shakes his head frantically, face pale and eyes verging on wild. “No, no, it will. It will matter—”

“It won’t,” Techno repeats, drawing Tommy’s eyes up to his, meeting his gaze with unwavering certainty, despite the awkwardness prickling over his skin. “Look, I don’t— what happened to your friend isn’t your responsibility to make up for.”

“Isn’t it?” Tommy whispers hopelessly. And before Techno answers, “They hate heroes, Techno. Literally, despise them. And I knew that — I know that, and I still… I’m betraying them.”

“Tommy,” Techno interjects softly, disbelief flooding into his voice as he picks up from where Tommy is clearly unable to get his next words out. “Tommy, you’re not—”

Atlas, he thinks. Not responsible for the world. Not more than a child.

Tommy cuts him off with a bitter laugh, heavy with self-deprecation that twists Techno’s organs into knots. “No, I am, Techno. I am.” He shakes his head, running his tongue across his teeth. “One— fuck, one of them won’t even look at the screen when a hero, or when I, show up on TV, and the other never misses a chance to cuss me out. Doesn’t matter if it’s a headline, a news clip, or anything. They’ve made it clear how they feel about people like me — about me.” And like a curse, each word punctuated by a short, wavery pause, “They. Hate. Me.”

The hollowness of his words are enough to stifle whatever counter that Techno might have tried to conjure. The image that Tommy paints behind his eyes is a pitiful one. He can only imagine: Tommy in a too-big hoodie, concealing some near-mortal injury while his friends tear him to pieces. Whether they mean to or not.

“And the worst part,” Tommy rasps, chin wobbling. “The worst part is I can’t blame them. Not after— not after everything.” Voice catching, “Sometimes, I wish I hadn’t gotten these powers myself.”

“Tommy,” Techno begins gruffly. He’s never felt weaker than he does now. There’s a reason he never does this. “You do a lot of good with them.”

At that, Tommy hesitates, eyes flickering up. “Do I, though?”

“You do,” Techno answers, and he means it. “I’ll be honest, kid, official or not, you’re the first hero I’ve seen in a while that has made me believe they’re not all awful.”

Tommy sniffles. “Really?”

Techno cracks the faintest of grins. “Really. You’re hopeful, Tommy.”

Tommy’s face scrunches. “What the fuck does that mean?”

“You care about people,” Techno clarifies.

“That’s not special,” Tommy mumbles, eyes flickering down.

What he doesn’t say: It is. You are.

The voices prod at him, sharp and insistent, to keep going, even as hesitation stills his tongue. Techno tries to think.

“Uh, not only that you’re…” He runs out of soft things to say quickly, and fumbles not to falter. “You… can make vines out of your hands.” At Tommy’s dubious expression, he coughs out an amendment. “You don’t destroy stuff needlessly, like the big heroes.”

Tommy still seems unconvinced, so Techno presses more.

“I haven’t seen you demolish even one buildin’ with your powers.” His lips twitch at the perplexion consuming Tommy’s face. At least it draws him out of the storm clouds gathering in his eyes. Techno bobs his head emphatically. “All good stuff.”

Tommy eyes him through tears, shaking his head with a small burst of irritation. “You’re bad at giving compliments.”

The voices murmur a quiet laugh, barely an itch. Techno huffs one of his own, glad to see some of that light restored at least.

“Maybe,” Techno concedes. “I’m still right, though.”

“That I’m good?” Tommy asks, wiping his eyes. “Or that my roommates won’t hate me.”

“Both,” Techno answers easily, bumping his shoulder gently with his own and relishing in the flash of a smile it produces. “Look, I may not know what’s goin’ on, but somethin’ tells me you’re not givin’ yourself or your roommates enough credit.”

It’s ironic — the ease with which the words fall off his tongue. He can’t deny that they’re not quite his own and are, rather, watery reiterations of lessons he’d learned himself. Lessons he’d been taught.

Once again, looking at Tommy proves to be awfully uncanny to looking at a mirror. Techno can remember, with near-painful clarity, being in his same shoes.

Another drag of silence follows his words, but one that isn’t as awkward as the rest. Tommy stares contemplatively at his lap, concentration inscribed in the crease of his brow.

“Is it bad that I’d rather them think, you know, the worst than… than know the truth? That I’m…”

He trails off with a vague gesture of his hands that Techno both doesn’t get and yet, gets.

“No,” he answers, and this, at least, comes more naturally to him. “It’s human, Tommy. Human to want to protect the people you care about.” He thinks of Phil, then, and Kristin, and also— well. The kid sitting right in front of him. “But you’ve gotta give them a chance. If they care about you, like you said, then they’ll understand.”

Tommy doesn’t believe him — or at least, he’s not letting himself. That much Techno can see. And there’s not much he can do to convince someone of something when they don’t want to — or are too scared — to be convinced of it. So, he tries a different route.

“And if it does,” he continues, before Tommy can drown in his own internal sorrows. “I’m not goin’ anywhere. And I know all about Glare. So you have me.”

He says it with absolute sureness, even as everything he’s ever considered himself is challenged by the idea that someone like him — brutal, destructive, detached — can be that person for someone. Can be a rock, a pillar of support.

“You have me,” he repeats, glad that the words feel more natural against his tongue on the second go. “And you don’t have to fake an injury to see me. Alright?”

Tommy swallows hard as he stares up at him, reading his face, poring over the uneasy emotions splayed across features that aren’t used to it, to being so open. He can’t help the crawling prickle of discomfort, rippling over him. Not at Tommy, but at the feeling of peeling his skin back for him so that he is totally exposed. Of dismantling his walls so thoroughly that it leaves him wholly unguarded. Utterly Tommy’s to trust in.

“Okay,” Tommy eventually whispers, and the voices relax along with Techno, sinking down into some sort of dim relief. Something has given; he feels it in the air, the break of tension, the breath of relief. “Okay, I’ll— I’ll try to— to talk to them.”

Techno offers him a half-smile. “Good. That’s a good first step.”

Tommy swallows, flashing him a partial smile in return, before sinking backwards, against the couch this time. Exhaustion bleeds over his face, and Techno knows it’s a perfect mirror of his own. Exhaustion that’s not just physical, but mental, squeezed out of both of them like a wet rag between twisting fingers.

Silence washes over them, gentle and unoppressive, and Techno’s half a second from removing himself from the silty cloud of emotions swirling around them, ones he’d participating in kicking up like a loose riverbed, when—

“Thank you, Techno,” Tommy mumbles after a moment. “I— just— thank you.”

Techno stands. “Of course, kid. That’s what I’m here for.” His lips twitch. Irony coats his words. “...Emotional issues. My specialty.”

Tommy snorts, and Techno, magnified by Chat, is pleased to see the return of that sarcastic flush, blossoming over his cheeks.

“Yeah, alright Blade.”

Techno raises an eyebrow. “I helped you, didn’t I?”

At that, Tommy rolls his eyes, but the bright glimmer of gratitude is not so easily disguised.

“Yeah,” he says. “Yeah, you did.”

⋆⋆⋆

In the end, he doesn’t get the chance.

The fight erupts like friction combusting. He’s barely inside before the spark catches, morphing into a full-fledged fire before he knows it, and then Tubbo is yelling, and Tommy is straightening, shouts building on the inside of his throat in defense, and Ranboo is trying to pull them apart while all three of them burn.

The noise envelops him, smothers him like thick ash, until everything is static beneath the blistering flame, not even charcoal silhouettes left standing.

In the end, he doesn’t really fight.

When Tubbo tells him to leave, he does.

Even as he burns, even as he breaks, he does.

In the end, he owes them that much.

He thinks about going to Techno’s, and discards that thought just as quickly.

He can’t break down in front of him, not again. Not twice in one day; not when every nerve in Tommy’s body still feels painfully sensitive. He knows he’s destined to collapse with the smallest shove of pressure. He can’t put that on Techno, on his idol.

So he ignores the selfish tug on his heart, urging him to the flat downstairs, and pulls his mask on instead.

Tommy might be breaking down, but Glare doesn’t have to be.

Nevermind that Glare is the reason his life is crumbling to ash in the first place.

(But he’d already paid for his sins, and his best friends were the forfeit. What more does he have to lose?)

The thought makes him want to shrivel up, wither into a tumbleweed and let himself flake away. He hadn’t even had a chance to tell them the truth, who he is.

Now, as uncertainty turns his stomach into a churning sea of nausea, he wonders if he ever will.

Guilt makes him weak, and self-disparagement makes him sloppy.

He stumbles through the impromptu patrol with a head full of fog, ears ringing with echoes of hateful words that never should’ve breached the air but had. It’s hard to concentrate through it. Tommy can barely summon the energy to light up. His fists end up taking damage that his light might’ve otherwise dampened.

It distracts him further — the pieces of his brain split like a messy mosaic, stretched in so many directions that Tommy can only rely on muscle memory to keep him going. He’s a mess, and he knows it, and everyone that watches him clumsily climb between buildings and rooftops and ledges probably knows it too.

Maybe that’s why he doesn’t see the creeping shadows until it’s too late.

They corner him in an alleyway a block away from his apartment.

They’re wearing masks instead of faces: black masks with red slashes. That’s the clearest glimpse of them that he gets before they’re on top of him, throwing him into the brick wall with superhuman force.

Tommy’s teeth rattle as the wall cracks beneath the impact of his body slamming into the old brick. He groans, dizzy as he collapses to the concrete ground. Pain sears through his bones but he rolls, dodging one hit coming right at him only to end up taking another.

It knocks the breath out of him and he gasps, summoning white-hot light to his fists as he rolls back onto his feet.

Techno’s words echo through his fear-shrouded brain, guiding each hit as panic streaks through him, hot and messy.

“Who the fuck are you?” he gasps, ears ringing as he punches a masked man away, fists raised defensively in front of his face, just like he was taught. The man doesn’t get up, and a faint burst of satisfaction curls through him before fear drowns it back out. “What do you want?”

Only eerie silence answers him, and Tommy swallows, throwing himself back into the fight before he can get knocked off his feet once more.

It’s not enough.

There’s too many of them. At least six still standing, and at least partially superpowered. Tommy’s vines can barely keep up, and with each ball of light he summons, he feels himself slowing, power dimming. It’s only a matter of time before he’s on the ground again, bursts of pain lancing through his ribs again and again until they’re cracking beneath the blows.

“Please,” he thinks he gasps at some point, through the blood bubbling in his throat.

He’s choking on it, his mask stopping him from spitting out, and something smashes his fingers when he tries to rip it off. Tommy cries out, forced to curl up as everything swirls and swirls. He doesn’t know where he ends and the other hands begin, only that it hurts. Everything hurts and he just wants it to stop.

Fingers close around his throat. It ignites a short-lived burst of adrenaline as his eyes fly open, lips straining desperately to suck in just one breath. There’s a laugh that sounds more like a hiss before he’s released, and he sags against the concrete. He tries — futilely — to bring his arms up. Then, the pain is back and back and back. It’s all he knows, and he can barely breathe through it, see through it.

“Just finish it,” someone drawls, an eternity later.

Boots crunch against loose concrete before someone’s seizing him by his collar, dragging up into something sharp and cold. He flops forward into the blade, unable to even flinch away.

White-hot pain flares in his stomach and he gasps, head thrown back as the knife slips messily out of him. His limbs do a funny little spasm as everything blurs.

Cotton covers his ears, which is weird, because he can still hear his heartbeat, galloping unevenly as reality melts.

Everything goes hazy as he lies there.

It takes him too long to realize he’s alone, that the laughter and the jeering has stopped.

Tommy is hardly aware of his own body as he peels himself off of cracked concrete, vision lurching dangerously. He rolls onto his side, yanking his mask down just in time for his throat to convulse painfully, the contents of his stomach threatening to spill out of him.

It doesn’t happen, and the attack fades.

Tommy blinks hard, faintly aware that he needs to get up. He needs to get up, and go — go right fucking now or he never will again.

Through the heat enveloping him, he feels that chill. That creeping crawl of eternal sleep, threatening to pull him under. Everything hurts so bad that it’s all he can do not to roll over and let it.

He’d thought he’d faced death before. The first time he’d crawled through Techno’s window, thinking it was his own. Tommy had thought he’d been here.

Now he knows he was wrong. Knows it’s nothing, nothing, compared to this.

Tommy has never understood death so intimately as he does right now. And fuck — he really, really doesn’t want to die. Not like this. Not alone, and broken, and nothing.

Tommy groans as he pulls himself upright.

He knows where he is — thank fuck. It’s his only saving grace, that he’s right around the corner from the apartment complex. He’d never make it otherwise.

Tommy relearns the meaning of pain with each drunken step he takes. It twists and twists within him constantly, omnipresent beneath the weak strum of adrenaline surging through him. He can feel his body trying to stitch him together, the muscles in his stomach contracting.

Tommy grits his teeth as he shoves his hand against the bleeding wound. Something tells him he got lucky, again. It’s bleeding a lot, but it can’t have hit anything vital, or he wouldn’t be standing — wouldn’t be staggering over to familiar brick and preparing to climb an impossible distance.

He doesn’t remember the climb. He’s sure that at some point, halfway up, he blacks out, fingers slipping loosely from the brick they’ve clawed into.

Somehow, he catches himself, eyelashes fluttering as a whine is ripped out of him.

He almost can’t bring himself to climb further. A broken laugh tumbles past his lips as he presses his forehead into the damp brick and just clings there for a moment. Like a bug flattened against a windshield, he thinks deliriously.

He’s fucked. More fucked than the last time he was in this position. Blood runs down his stomach, barely slowing. Too fast for his just-barely-advanced healing to keep up with.

Fucked, fucked, I’m fucked.

And the irony of that, that he’s back right where he started, is enough to lend him some sort of strength to drag himself up. It must be hysteria, rippling through him. The most primal of his instincts, keeping him moving.

Tommy makes it to the window before he’s aware of it. He thinks it must be his ivy, keeping him up. It has to be. He’s certainly not doing a good job of it on his own.

Techno’s apartment is dark — he registers that even through the ruin of his vision.

His next realization comes with another burst of helpless dread. He’s not going to be able to pry the window open. Not without losing his grip on the wall. Not with every ounce of his strength hemorrhaging out of him.

So he doesn’t try.

Instead, he balls up his fist and punches it through the glass.

It doesn’t take much to break, shattering easily enough.

He doesn’t realize how much he was leaning on it until he tumbles directly through the now-empty window frame. He can’t even hope to catch himself from collapsing on the glass carpet. It doesn’t hurt. Nothing can make it past the numbness slowly, mercifully consuming him.

Distantly, through the ringing in his ears, he hears footsteps. And he realizes he probably-sort of fucked up. That maybe Techno’s going to be mad. Mad that he got so fucked up. And also that he’s too fucked up to do anything about it. Anything but lie in a crumpled heap while his eyes flutter closed.

Someone comes to a halt right in front of him, dropping down beside him. He can feel their presence, their warmth, right next to him, and wishes he could lean towards it. He’s really cold.

(“Tommy? Tommy, no— come on, kid, don’t—”)

It’s Techno — it must be Techno. But Tommy can’t bring himself to open his eyes.

(“Don’t do that. Open your eyes. Tommy—”)

And as he sinks deeper into that inky veil of unconsciousness, his mind strays far, far away, drifting to his best friends. He’s here with Techno. Techno will stay with him. He doesn’t need to worry about that anymore.

(“Kid, please—”)

But his friends won’t know. And all he can manage to think is: I never got the chance to say sorry.

If he wasn’t already dying, Ranboo and Tubbo were gonna kill him for not coming home after the fight.

As it is, he’s almost even more sorry that he beat them to it.

Chapter Text

One week.

That’s how long it took for Tubbo to look at the two people in front of him and think, These are my people.

Tubbo’s room was tiny even before the matron informed him that he’d be needing to accommodate two other boys.

The house is small, she told him, in that curling, simpering voice that made all his hair stand on end. Everyone needs to make sacrifices.

Except you, he thought, but he held the bitter words between his teeth and bit his tongue as he stood in the corner of the room, watching his sad, little bed be dragged out of the room to be replaced with a bunk bed.

Tommy and Ranboo were ushered in not too long later, not that Tubbo had known their names at that point.

The both of them were stood so close together in the doorway that if Tubbo hadn’t known better, he’d think they were attached at the hip. Black garbage bags hung from curled fists at their side, limp and mostly-empty, dragging the floor.

But Tubbo’s first thought when he saw them?

You’re like me.

He could see it, with the ease of looking in a mirror, the chisel of cruel reality against youthful features: sharpening the soft lines, making jagged the smooth curves.

Where Ranboo had been willowy and anxious — shoulders tucked down to compensate for his tall frame, mouth downturned and fixed into a nervous frown — Tommy had been all harsh edges and sharp lines. His back was straight like a soldier, chin tilted up challengingly, eyes steely and mouth hard. It wasn’t enough to disguise the fact that both of them were cagy, wily — like wild animals confronted with the silver glint of a bear trap.

(Something that Tubbo knew well, because he saw it every time he looked in a mirror.)

They had matching black eyes. That was the next thing Tubbo noticed.

Ranboo’s was harder to see, with his eyes lasered awkwardly on the floor. But the mess of dark violet that colored the side of his face, curling over one of his swollen eyes, was brutal.

Tommy’s was obvious, a messy splotch of purple that he wore like a medal. With his face upturned, it almost shined beneath the muted yellow lights. His split lip was the same color, flecked with flakes of dried blood, and so were his knuckles, hung at his sides.

When he’d seen Tubbo, his eyes had gleamed, like a ray of white sunlight bouncing off a chunk of ice.

“Got something to say, bitch?” he’d spat, eyes narrowed as he edged himself in front of Ranboo.

Tubbo had blinked, not surprised at the hostility so much as being addressed at all. “Uh…no?” Then, his eyes had caught on Tommy’s black eye again, which he thought must be aching under the force of his glare, and the next words had just tumbled off his lips by themselves. “Where’d you get that?”

It was Tommy’s turn to recoil, eyes narrowing suspiciously. “Why’d you want to know?”

Tubbo shrugged. Tommy appraised him once more, lips pressed into a harsh line, before a smidge of that jaggedness had eased.

“Some bitches were fuckin’ with this guy,” Tommy explained, hiking his thumb towards him as he spoke. “Randall.”

“Ranboo,” Ranboo had corrected.

“Ranboo,” Tommy agreed, lips curling towards a smile. “But anyway. They were fucking with him. So I fucked with them back.”

He waved his hand, displaying the mottled red stretching across the back of his knuckles. Tubbo could appreciate it.

“That’s sick,” he remarked appreciatively.

At that, Tommy’s eyes lightened.

“I’m Tommy,” he told him, sticking out his bruised hand for Tubbo to shake.

He did. “Tubbo.”

“Tubbo?” Tommy groaned incredulously, and though Tubbo had heard it all before, he got the feeling that Tommy wasn’t actually making fun of him. Not with real heat, anyway. “Why can’t I meet one person with a normal fucking name? This is horrible.”

Ranboo’s lips twitched, and he reached out to pat Tommy’s shoulder twice. “There there.”

“Thanks, Ranboo. I needed that.”

“I know.”

“...Fuck you.”

“That wasn’t even—”

“I don’t care,” Tommy interjected.

Tubbo watched them banter with a faint smile and a fainter sense of unease, spooling in his stomach. “So, are you guys, like… friends?”

He couldn’t explain why that made his heart pang. His mind was already spinning, attempting to resign itself to the idea of being iced out in his own room. But he’d been alone all his life. It’d be stupid to be upset by that. Even if he kind of still was.

But Tommy’s face only twisted, comically similar to a baby swallowing a lemon.

“Who, me and this bitch?”

Tubbo nodded, eyes flicking back over to Ranboo, perhaps to see how he’d react. He’d expected him to cringe, maybe even cower, or get angry, but he’d only rolled his eyes, like this was old news. His lips were curved up into a faint, exasperated grin that mirrored the shining amusement in his eyes.

“Nah,” Tommy answered, dragging Tubbo’s eyes back. “I met him a couple of hours ago.” Tommy looked at Ranboo, as if for approval. “He’s chill, though. Even if he’s older than me. Isn’t that right, Ranboo?”

Ranboo nodded, slow and complacent, like a monk. “Very chill.”

“Mhm,” Tommy hummed, noddly smugly.

Tubbo looked between them once more. “And you’re already getting into fights for him?”

Tommy had shrugged. “They were being pricks, what can I say?” He flashed Tubbo a crooked grin. “I’m a real hero.”

Before Tubbo could respond, his eyes took on a serious glint: glacial blue irises now edged with a stoic, flinty grey.

“Outsiders gotta stick together, though,” Tommy added, voice dipping into something quieter. “Look out for each other, you know?”

At that, all three of them nodded. And though nothing had changed, Tubbo could feel a faint kinship blossoming between them. That sense of bitter understanding, branded on all them.

“Yeah,” he agreed quietly. “I know.”

Silence draped itself over them. It only lasted a minute before Tommy coughed — unable to bear it, as Tubbo would come to know.

“So,” Tommy said, cutting loudly into his thoughts as he traipsed further into the room, eyes sweeping around before landing back on Tubbo. “Is this where we’re supposed to be slummin’ it up?”

“What?” Tubbo found himself asking, as he watched Tommy sling his bag down onto the sad-looking mattress of the bottom bunk, and then throw himself down after it.

He kicked his legs out, laying back against the pillow looking utterly relaxed. When he felt Tubbo’s eyes on him though, he tensed, sitting up and curling his legs back in uneasily. Hesitation oozed off of him as he wet his lip nervously.

“How are we splitting the beds, then?” Before Tubbo could answer, it was like a switch flipped. Tommy’s shoulders slumped, eyes lowering. “Er, I could take the floor actually.”

Something about the way he said it, all resigned and deflated, made Tubbo want to recoil.

“You don’t have to,” Tubbo blurted automatically, not appreciating the sudden dimness. “We can all share.” Tommy’s face was a mix of faint hope and loud confusion. Tubbo amended his statement before he could think, “Well, maybe not you two tall fucks.”

As if the swear word was magic, Tommy positively beamed, lighting up from head to toe.

“But I’m small enough to share with one of you,” Tubbo continued, perhaps a bit awkwardly. He felt his cheeks flush despite himself as he gestured vaguely with his hands. “Yeah?”

Tommy, still grinning, shared a look with Ranboo, who shrugged mildly. “Sure.”

Tommy’s grin was contagious — Tubbo smiled back, warmth fizzing in his chest. Suddenly, in that moment, the room didn’t feel so cramped, the lights not so dim. He couldn’t say what it was, only that it was akin to sun breaking through clouds that had hovered over him for far too long. In that moment, things felt bright.

Maybe, Tubbo thought to himself, as Tommy leaned back on the bed and Ranboo set his bag by the rickety dresser, Maybe this won’t be so bad.

(He knows now that it wasn’t just not-bad.

He knows now that those two people were the best thing to ever happen to him.)

Before Tommy and Ranboo, Tubbo’s time in the group home hadn’t really been bad, per se — he’d had worse and known of worse — but as the days bled into weeks, and the three of them bonded as surely and inseparably as molecules, the days felt golden.

For once, he had something of a home — and it was them, not the rickety, three-story group home with walls that felt coated in ice; not the band of ten-or-so other kids shoved in the other rooms; and definitely not the matron’s children, always dealing insults and even blows if they thought they could get away with it (which they usually could.)

He had always been good at keeping to himself — self-preservation the first lesson you learn when your earliest memories start in a cardboard box on the steps of an orphanage — but it was different, in those few months: having someone to shove around in the yard, having someone to save a dinner seat for, having someone to stifle laughter with in the dead of night.

Having someone — two someones — at his back.

Tubbo had never been one to believe in a higher power. Destiny, fate, predetermination — those were all fickle, foreign concepts to him. But them? He believed in them.

Destiny may not exist, but Tommy and Ranboo were the closest thing to it. And that, Tubbo thought, was just fine.

—

It happened, as most strange things do, when they weren’t supposed to be awake.

It was late, midnight having turned the sky into a canvas of deep, inky-black, speckled with white-diamond stars. Silver moonlight, pale and watery, peeked through the curtains, spilling onto the floorboards where the three of them were sitting.

“Oy,” Tommy whispered, prodding his sharp elbow into Tubbo’s ribs. “Share.”

Tubbo rolled his eyes but obliged, passing the chocolate bar to Tommy for his allotted third. Tommy broke his piece off and popped it into his mouth, offering the remaining chunk to Ranboo.

They weren’t allowed sweets, and definitely not in their rooms, but that had never stopped them. They were lucky their room was at the end of the hall, as the matron was usually too lazy to come tell them off unless they were really loud.

(Not that they were willing to risk it.

With Tommy already having gotten reprimanded twice for getting into scuffles on their behalf, and the matron having threatened to split all of them up if they woke her up again, it was safer to muffle laughter into candy-sticky palms and between smiling teeth.)

Tubbo doesn’t remember what they were doing when it happened. It wasn’t an uncommon occurrence. Those nights — the good nights, the syrupy, sugar-spun nights — always tended to blur together in Tubbo’s brain: grainy, like a polaroid photo, and just fuzzy enough to make everything feel dipped in rich caramel, with Tubbo unable to recall any of the finer details.

But he does remember bouncing a tennis ball in one hand, up down up down. He does remember Tommy reaching over, grappling for it. Their fingers fighting to steal it, then both of them tumbling onto their sides as Tommy practically crawled over him to try to to wrench it from his hands, then—

It popped up like a rocket, slipping past clumsy fingers and flying at the wall.

Oh shit, Tubbo knew all of them were thinking, as it careened towards a very glass-framed, very breakable picture on the opposite wall. We’re fucked.

Except, they weren’t.

Because in less than an instant, between one blink and the next, Ranboo was there — across the room, catching the tennis ball midair, mere seconds before it would’ve collided with the picture. In the brief second before time unfroze and reality slammed into them, Tubbo caught a glimpse of purple (sparkles? particles?) sinking into the floorboards at Ranboo’s feet.

Then, silence.

Tommy said it best:

“What the fuck?”

Ranboo looked about as stunned as the both of them — frozen in shocked silence with eyes wide and pupils blown wider. Tubbo was still awkwardly on the ground, chin digging into the floor, with Tommy’s hand on his shoulder pressing him down, but he barely felt it as he stared at his friend in shock.

His friend who had just… teleported?

“Um,” Ranboo said, eyes comically wide as he stared at the tennis ball still clenched in his hand. “Um. Um.”

“Ranboo?” Tommy half-shrieked, toppling backwards and releasing Tubbo from the floor.

Tubbo sat up, blinking hard as his neurons fired on a delay. He was, however, alert enough to be able to slap a hand over Tommy’s mouth when another shout threatened to spill out of it.

“Sorry,” Tommy mumbled against his palm.

Tubbo retracted it.

“But what the fuck,” Tommy whispered, voice shrill and pitchy as he continued to chant under his breath, “What the fuck, what the fuck, what the fuck.”

Electrified silence closed around them as Tommy fell quiet.

Ranboo swallowed, blinking hard as he examined his hands. “I… uh, I don’t know what that was.” He jerked his head up, eyes flying over to the two of them. “Did you guys see that?”

“Did we see it?” Tommy echoed, verging on hysterically. “Yeah, we fucking—”

“Tommy,” Tubbo hissed, snapping out of his stupor as a realization slammed into him.

Now, more than ever, they could not risk the matron or one of her nosy kids waltzing into their room to tell them off. Not with Ranboo being… freaky.

“Ranboo?” Tubbo asked lightly.

“Yes, Tubbo?”

“Am I hallucinating or did you just… teleport.”

Ranboo looked down, examining his limbs, before locking eyes with him again. “If you’re hallucinating, then so am I.”

“Shared ‘allucination,” Tommy breathed to his right, voice shaking. “Poggers.”

Tubbo slapped him without looking over, barely catching the yelp through the odd ringing in his eardrums.

“Do it again,” Tubbo instructed.

“What?”

Tubbo rose, pushing himself onto shaky feet. “Do it— the teleport shit. Do it again.”

Ranboo appraised him nervously, throat bobbing. “Uh, I don’t know if I can really— I didn’t even mean to—”

“I’ve got it,” Tommy announced, and Tubbo looked over in time to see him reach blindly for one of the pillows hanging off the bottom bunk, grabbing it in his fist, raising his arm and—

“Tommy, don’t—” Tubbo tried to say, but it was too late.

Tommy launched the pillow at Ranboo like a rocket and Tubbo could only cringe and hope that it did not knock the picture frame off the fucking wall—

Vwoop.

There was another burst of luminescent purple before the pillow — still hurtling toward Ranboo’s cowering face — suddenly careened back at Tommy, as if it had been thrown.

Tubbo could only wince as it smacked into Tommy’s face, too quick for either of them to hope to anticipate it.

Tommy swore, nearly tumbling backwards, and peeled it off his red face.

In any other situation, Tubbo would have expectedTommy to be angry — instantly up in arms and ready to retaliate with a full-blown pillow fight.

As it was, all that all three of them could do was gape. Tommy just clutched the pillows in his hands and stared, mouth hanging open. Ranboo looked on just as stunned.

It was Tubbo who finally broke the quiet, clearing his throat awkwardly.

“We tell nobody of this,” he vowed, and he knew — with one shared look — that they all agreed.

Telekinetic-dematerialization.

That was the best theory Tubbo could come up with. Ranboo, who knew jack shit, and Tommy, who knew jack-er shit and also zero big words, fell into uneasy agreement with him.

Nothing seemed absolutely right. They were barely teenagers, fumbling to come up with an explanation for the unexplainable.

Well, partially unexplainable. Superpowers weren’t new. But they were unstable. And it was harder to research it when the only time they had to… experiment, as they dubbed it, was at night, when the house was dark and asleep.

Still, those months were among the most thrilling of their lives, even as each morning found them beyond exhausted. The nights were dipped in a honeyed haze, the days spent waiting for the time where they’d be sent up to the room so that they could fuck around until the first streaks of dawn brushed the sky.

Telekinetic-dematerialization. Meaning Ranboo could move shit with his mind. Including himself.

Meaning that from midnight to six a.m, they’d stay up: watching him try to roll the tennis ball across the room, or throw another pillow, or — when they built up to it and were confident Ranboo wouldn’t accidentally end up outside and have to be snuck back inside again — teleport himself into the locked pantry downstairs and back, with an armful of raided snacks to show for it.

We’re like superheroes, Tommy had whispered reverently one time.

And though Tubbo knew it was because he’d been obsessed with the headlines ever since they’d met, he couldn’t deny that they sort of felt super. Just a bit.

Helping teach Ranboo was hard, but it was fun. Exhilarating even. A secret, just for them. Something the matron, with all her griping, couldn’t take away from them. Something special. Something theirs.

Until, of course, it wasn’t.

Tubbo didn’t know how things had devolved so quickly.

One moment, they’re in the yard, fucking around on the grass on the first warm day of spring, and then the next — chaos.

Tubbo didn’t know what it was about Tommy that made trouble gravitate towards him all the time, but there was something. Something that made him a danger-magnet, something that made the matron’s kids flock uncannily to him when they were looking to start a fight.

This time, though, it was nothing — no reason. It was nothing and it cost everything.

They cornered them around noon — them, because where Tommy was, they all were, and that’s the way it was — and Tommy, stupidly noble, idiotic Tommy, edged himself in front when the other teenagers trotted over to them, when the banter turned sharp and barbed.

Most of the time, it was amusing, watching Tommy stand so readily in front of them, prepared to catch the weight of the sky for them if that's what he felt he needed to do.

It was ironic. Tommy was several months younger than him. Tubbo was pretty sure he could wrestle Tommy to the floor in an instant, but he typically let him take the frontlines. It was easier than trying to bat him to the side.

(There was always something jagged about him, about Tommy. Something flammable. Some visceral inclination to light himself on fire, to let himself burn, if only to offer his friends some warmth.)

And most of the time, that was amusing.

Now, as Tubbo watched the tension climb like a raging fire, rattling the ground at their feet, he was scared. Scared, because when the matron’s sons grabbed Tommy’s collar and shoved him up against the fence hard enough to make it shake, Tommy only glowered and remained still — complacent in his satisfaction that he’d be taking the heat and not Tubbo or Ranboo.

It got bad. It got bad quick.

Tubbo should’ve expected it, from the hungry glint in the others’ eyes, the twitch of their fingers into fists, the amber bottles clenched in red, too-young hands. The matron’s sons weren’t looking for a fight — they were looking for blood.

Tubbo gasped as a fist whipped across Tommy’s cheekbone, sending his head harshly to the side. It was a brawl from there: Tommy tackling the kid right back, sending them both slamming to the ground. Ranboo jolted to his feet, attempting to intervene as Tubbo tried to pull them apart.

It was a dumb, schoolyard fight, but Tubbo’s ears were ringing and everyone was yelling and Tommy was rolling around in the dirt, and—

And then, everything shattered.

The next few events happened far too quickly for Tubbo to grasp.

One moment, they’re squabbling, and the next, sunlight was glinting harshly against amber glass.

The bottle was raised, preparing to smash down onto Tommy’s head, even as all Tubbo can think is what happened how did this get so bad why—

Violet filled his vision.

And though Tubbo was still reeling, he didn’t miss the scared cries of the matron’s sons as they were sent flying backward: landing somewhere in the grass behind him. No, he didn’t miss that.

Tubbo turned to Tommy first: Tommy, who was breathing hard as glass shattered just barely above his head, soaking one of his sleeves in the thick scent of beer. His nose was bleeding, and glass clung to his hair, and his eye was sure to bruise, but he was okay. Frightened, and angry, but okay.

So, Tubbo turned to Ranboo, feeling like he was underwater.

To his left, Ranboo was deathly still. His hands hadn’t yet fallen, still outstretched and shaking from where he’d expelled a burst of energy: enough to send the other teenagers sprawling.

“Ranboo,” Tubbo breathed, edging closer, but before Ranboo could turn his terrified eyes onto Tubbo, there was movement out of the corner of his eye.

Tubbo turned his head in time to see the matron storm out on the porch, eyes locked on his best friend and promising danger.

Fuck.

—

“They were going to kill me, or— or something,” Tommy breathed, taking Ranboo’s shaking hands into his. “You had to do it, man.”

“I didn’t mean to,” Ranboo whispered, not looking at either of them.

The ash had settled hours ago, and the matron — shaking with anger — had sent them to their room. Despite that, Tubbo couldn’t shake the feeling that nothing was over. Even in the comfort of their room, the walls colored by golden laughter and soft memories, he felt like he was standing at the gallows. Waiting.

“You didn’t even hurt them,” Tubbo added firmly. “Seriously, they were fine.”

And they were — up until the moment that their mother had seized to their side. Then, the waterworks had started. Tubbo couldn’t remember a moment where he’d been so mad, watching them milk attention while his world seemed to crumble beneath his feet.

“It’s going to be fine,” Tommy told him, worrying his split lip nervously at the unnatural, grey pallor consuming Ranboo’s face. “She’ll probably just have us do extra chores, or some shit. Nothing we can’t handle.” He cracked a grin, prodding Ranboo’s hint with half-hearted playfulness. “Come on, man. That was fucking sick. You were like— I don’t know. A hero.”

That seemed to finally strike some light into Ranboo’s tense expression, and Tubbo re-remembered how to breathe again.

“I don’t even know what I was doing,” he breathed, lips quirked into the ghost of a smile. “I just saw you and—” He was back to frowning, eyes darkening with concern. “And acted.”

Tommy’s eyes lowered, storm clouds consuming the blue. “Thank you, man. For doing that.”

“Of course,” Ranboo answered instantly, voice the most firm it’d been since everything happened. “I’d never let anyone hurt you— either of you. Not if I could stop it.”

Tommy smiled, tentative and soft and sweet. Tubbo couldn’t help but mirror it as he leaned forward, grabbing Ranboo and Tommy’s interlocked hands, layering his own on top.

“Neither would we,” Tubbo promised, drawing their eyes up to his. “That’s why everything’s going to be fine. You got us.” He offered a half-crooked grin. “And we got you. It checks out, I did the math.”

Tommy groaned, rolling his eyes — allergic to being soft for more than a moment. “Not this math shit again.”

“Shut up,” Tubbo chided with zero heat. He locked eyes with Ranboo. “We’re fine. Say it with me.”

“We’re fine,” Ranboo murmured.

Tubbo grinned: tentative, reassuring. “We’re fine.”

(It was the first promise he ever broke to them.)

—

Gone.

The word echoed poisonously around Tubbo’s skull as he came to a halt in the doorway, heart jerking to a stop with him.

He could hear his sneakers squeak against the floor from the suddenness, and sure enough, Tommy collided into his back, not expecting him to stop.

“Oy,” Tommy complained, shouldering past Tubbo’s unfeeling silhouette, “What are you—”

Tommy stopped. Distantly, Tubbo heard his sharp inhale of breath, could imagine the shock filtering over his features if he himself wasn’t so utterly frozen: unable to do anything but blink at the room that was suddenly thirty-percent emptier than before.

“No,” Tommy breathed, stumbling inside the room, leaving Tubbo anchored in the doorway, feet stuck to the ground. “Ranboo?”

He’s not here, Tubbo would say, if his mouth wasn’t glued shut.

But he didn’t need to say it — the room itself said it. The room, which was now wiped of everything that Ranboo had ever owned. All the little bit.

It was like he never existed.

And suddenly, standing in that doorway, Tubbo felt very, overwhelmingly sick.

“No,” Tommy repeated, throat grating against the word. When he spun around, chest heaving, his eyes were shiny slivers of blue steel. At his side, Tubbo could see his hands shaking, and knew that his were too. “No fucking way. Not happening.”

Without another word, Tommy stormed out of the room, checking Tubbo’s shoulder harshly in his furious haste to get downstairs.

And Tubbo, only just relearning how to get his heart beating again, followed him.

“Where is he?” Tommy’s voice was shaking, horror bleeding into the rage.

The matron didn’t spare them more than a glance. “He was offered the chance to stay with a family, and took it.”

“Bullshit,” Tubbo spat instantly, as every hair in his body stood on end.

“He wouldn’t,” Tommy agreed, eyes glinting like flint. “He wouldn’t leave us. Not without saying goodbye.”

The matron cast them a look of boredom. “There wasn’t time.”

“Why the fuck not?” Tommy bit out, and the matron’s nostrils flared.

She stood, eyeing them both with oozing annoyance. “Mind your tongue,” she snapped, and Tommy’s eyes flashed. “Where the Ranboo boy is is none of your concern. He’s with a good family.”

“We’re his family,” Tubbo countered automatically, voice wavering. “He— he wouldn’t—”

He wouldn’t do that. Not like this. It’s only been a few hours.

“He did,” the matron told them flatly. “And you should respect that.”

Tubbo really, really wanted to lean over the crappy desk and hit her. Because as she turned, a crooked smile twisted the corners of her lips.

“Your room wasn’t equipped for three, anyway. I’d appreciate the new space, if I were you.”

Tommy straightened: so stiff that Tubbo wouldn’t be surprised if a harsh breeze caused him to snap in half as the matron dismissed them. When Tubbo grabbed his wrist to calm him, he could feel the tremors wracking the entirety of his thin, lanky frame.

“Don’t—”

“Come on,” Tubbo whispered, pulling him back.

He could tell, with a crawling, stifled sort of grief, that the conversation was over — no matter how long they begged. Tommy resisted, but a single pleading look melted his resistance. He caved, letting Tubbo drag him upstairs despite his own shaky legs, threatening to give out beneath him as they made it to their — to just their — room.

The minute the door snicked shut behind them, Tubbo’s knees were toppling.

Tommy swore, twisting to accompany him to the floor. Tubbo was crying even before his knees struck the cold hardwood.

Tommy pulled him close, jaw set even as his chin quivered and his eyes shone red — a dead giveaway that he was on the verge of losing it.

“She’s lying,” Tubbo gasped through barely-contained sobs, lungs threatening to burst. “She’s— he wouldn’t—”

“I know,” Tommy whispered. “I know he wouldn’t. She— they did something.”

And it was a plea, to the universe, to Ranboo, wherever he was, that he was right.

Because the only thing worse than losing him, was knowing that he’d left them. And Tubbo — for as strong as he’d deluded himself into thinking he was — didn’t think he could take that.

He couldn’t.

Nothing felt real that night.

Tubbo made it an hour before sitting up, squinting around the darkness of the room and shivering at the cold.

“Tommy?” he whispered.

There was a rustle, blankets shifting and a body turning, then a tiny, “Yeah?”

“I can’t sleep.”

When Tubbo peered over the railing of the top bunk, Tommy was peering up at him, shadows harshly crossing his face.

“Come here.”

Tubbo did, practically throwing the blankets off of him in his haste to get to the ladder. He almost fell twice before his feet connected with the floor, and then he was stumbling to the bottom bunk, chest aching miserably.

Tommy didn’t say anything, just shifted over so that Tubbo could climb under the blankets, body slotted neatly next to his. Tubbo could hear him sniffling, and it was painfully obvious that he’d been crying — so silently that it hadn’t even drawn Tubbo’s attention, which made his chest pang all over again.

It was silent for a long couple of moments. Tubbo’s thoughts were a tangled mess, mind running on repeat: trying to remember if Ranboo had looked any different at breakfast, had acted any different. If maybe Tubbo had, if he’d crossed an uncrossable line, and that’s why Ranboo had left in the middle of the day. Maybe because of him.

“I don’t want to sleep in his bed,” Tubbo eventually confessed, when sleep continued to play keep-away from him. “It doesn’t feel right.”

Tommy sniffled, shifting to look at him. “I know. Nothing does.”

Tubbo murmured a noncommittal response. When the silence fell again, he was sure that would be it: that they’d stir in their own mental turmoils until pure exhaustion finally dragged them into an abyss.

But he was wrong, because after a moment, Tommy was breaking it.

“It must be a castle,” he whispered.

Tubbo frowned. “What?”

“His new house,” Tommy whispered, and fuck. Tubbo’s chest split open like a frozen lake. “A— a big castle, with fancy ass chandeliers.” He scoffed, faint and brittle. “Ranboo was always a prince, in secret. He’s probably living the life.”

Tommy’s voice tapered off, momentum washed away. But Tubbo got it, what he was saying.

It must be good. It must be better. If he’d left us for it.

And Tubbo, in turn, silently in a way that he knew Tommy heard, Would he leave us?

And Tommy's silent answer, Never.

—

The next year was a haze.

A constant battle: him and Tommy trying to find peace in soil that had been ripped up, in dirt that had been salted and razed.

They got jobs, both of them — anything to get away from the house that, while more frigid than ever, carried Ranboo in every shadow and crevice, as surely as if he was a part of it, a ghost haunting it.

And maybe he was. Who said only corpses get ghosts?

Ranboo seemed to be able to haunt them just fine without one.

—

The collapse of the Hero’s League shook the world.

Tubbo remained still.

What does he care that the world, as the media cried, was ending? His had ended a year ago.

He’d learned to grieve — if they started now, he’s sure the city could catch up. And if not, well. That seemed like a problem for them to handle.

The world could split at the seams and it wouldn’t matter. All that mattered was Tommy, and getting out of the group home.

The world could figure its shit out. Tubbo had his, or the remaining fragment of it at least. He was fine just like this.

—

The call came on a random Thursday morning.

Tubbo was working when Sam popped his head in from the front, phone in hand.

“Call for you, Tubbo,” he told him, pulling Tubbo’s eyes away from the glittering circuitry laid out on the worktable in front of him, ready to be fixed. “It’s urgent.”

Tubbo frowned, but accepted it. “Hello?”

“Tubbo,” Tommy exhaled shakily, sounding breathless. “Tubbo, I found him. I found him.”

Tubbo dropped everything and ran.

“I almost didn’t recognize him,” Tommy had said, right after rattling off the address. “Be careful, okay?”

And Tubbo had wanted to scoff. Be careful? Around my best friend? What the fuck does that mean?

He didn’t understand until he’d seen him himself.

Tubbo had burst into the coffee shop with his heart somewhere in his stomach, and his lungs in his throat. He was out of breath, having sprinted all the way from Sam’s tech repair shop. He ignored the startled gazes of the various patrons, eyes scanning furiously under the room until— until he found them.

Tommy was all the way in the back, still in his barista uniform, with someone who… who must be Ranboo.

Tubbo’s breath caught in his throat. Because Ranboo was… Ranboo, but he was different.

He was shaky, and pale, and half of his hair was white, like all the color had been sucked out of it. And his eyes — his eyes which Tubbo only saw once he’d manage to stumble over to their secluded table — were different too: one the same warm brown, and the other a weird, dull, olive green.

Tubbo lasted a second observing that before throwing himself at him.

Ranboo caught him, standing even before Tubbo had moved, like he’d known — because his eyes had been different, sure, but they’d been filled with awe, and recognition, just the same. Just like Tubbo had dreamed about for months.

“Tubbo,” Ranboo whispered, as Tubbo fell apart in his arms. “Been a while, huh?”

Tubbo jerked back at that, eyes angry and tear-filled. To his right, Tommy was watching on, eyes red and puffy — like he’d already done this before, and he had, hadn’t he? He seemed content to observe, a watery smile etched on his lips as Tubbo glared at Ranboo with enough heat to melt the sun.

“That’s what you’re going to say to me?” was what Tubbo eventually settled on, rage digging up into his words. “The first thing?”

Ranboo smiled, raising his hands in surrender. “Sorry?”

“You should be,” Tubbo breathed, even as his mind spun and spun and spun. “We have a lot to talk about, idiot.”

“We do,” Ranboo agreed, solemnly, eyes dimming. “Hug first?”

And then they were hugging again, and fuck. Tubbo had missed this. Had missed him so much.

“Hug first,” Tubbo agreed.

(Ranboo’s story would’ve been enough to shred him to pieces if he hadn’t been so angry — not at him, but at the world, at the Hero’s League, at everyone who had taken his best friend away and hurt him like this.

What was enough to break him though was—

“I don’t remember a lot of what they did to me,” Ranboo had admitted. “But I remember you guys. I remember you.”

For now, that was enough. Tubbo let that be enough.)

Tubbo started paying attention to the news, after that.

He thought it would help, that it would make him feel better to know.

He was wrong. He was wrong and he learned that very quickly, with every word skimmed off a flashing headline:

Hero’s League. Corruption. Enhanced people. Experimentation. Trafficking.

It made him sick. Sick to know that the pieces had been right in front of him, if he’d cared to look. So, he’d stopped reading. Stopped reading and went back to existing.

After all, there was nothing the newspapers could tell him that the new scars criss-crossing Ranboo’s body couldn’t.

—

The aftermath of the fall of the Hero’s League meant two things:

One. The city was in utter disarray. With so many stories spilling over, so many superpowered teenagers submitting claims, the local government was fumbling to retain order. Emergency measures were being put in place left and right: some half-assed attempt at damage control. No matter — with a bulk of the hardest restrictions lifted, there was one benefit. Tubbo was finally able to get both him and Tommy emancipated, along with Ranboo, who’d told them how to do it.

And two. Fuck the heroes and anyone who called themselves one.

—

Tubbo looked and looked and begged until it happened.

It was nothing short of luck — it had to be. Luck that the city was terrified, luck that people were leaving, luck that he found the only landlord on earth willing to house three teenagers, emancipated or not, so long as they paid rent on time and helped out with repairs.

It was one of the most secluded complexes that Fourteenth had to offer, but with the three of them — together, after the most hellish year of Tubbo’s life — it might as well have been a castle. They could’ve found a cardboard box to live in and Tubbo would’ve laughed.

Because it was three of them and they were together and they were his home.

Never again, he promised. We’ll never have to be apart again.

—

Slowly but surely, over the next few months, life began to feel like life again.

It wasn’t perfect, but Tubbo hadn’t expected it to be. Ranboo, effectively powerless, was still healing. That was the most obvious hiccup. But they could work with that. With time. Superheroes and the like were immediately sworn off in the flat. And once they were unpacked, Tommy and Ranboo had managed to get back into school.

And the best part: the three of them were closer than ever. Tubbo was convinced that would be enough.

It should’ve been enough.

(Even now, Tubbo can think and look back on those early months in the flat all he wants, but the truth is, he doesn’t know what changes. Only that something does. Something does and this time, he thinks it’s enough to break them all.)

Tommy started coming home late.

Tubbo wasn’t aware of it. Not at first.

Not until it became an every-night type thing.

Not until he pulled a shirt out of the laundry that was drenched in crimson — blood. Blood that Tommy had told him was a nosebleed, a “really fuckin’ bad one, I promise” nosebleed. A lie that Tubbo sensed and let him get away with, too caught up in the idea that the things were looking up from here. Things were going to be better.

Because it was the three of them, all together again, and that’s all Tubbo had wanted for so long. How couldn’t it have been enough?

(Maybe that was his mistake. Maybe his mistake was not caring enough to notice it sooner. Was letting a couple of loose pebbles turn into a rockslide.

Maybe his mistake was not believing in destiny.

At least, if he had resigned himself to the fact that he was clearly destined to lose everything he cared about, it wouldn’t have hurt so bad when it got worse.)

Tubbo stared unblinkingly at the papers in Tommy’s hand, utterly cold.

“What?” he finally asked, trying to line up the image in front of him with the words that Tommy had dropped onto him, just fifteen seconds ago.

“I dropped out,” Tommy repeated, eyes lowered to the floor, throat bobbing nervously.

“No,” Tubbo countered, blinking hard as he snapped back into reality. He shoved the papers back into Tommy’s hand, ignoring the flicker of alarm. “No, you can’t. Tell them— call them back. Tell them it was a mistake.”

Tommy just looked at him, and it was so defeated, and guilty that it made Tubbo want to fucking scream.

“I already returned my textbooks,” Tommy told him carefully. “It’s too late, I—”

“Why?” Tubbo asked, voice pitching into something hysterical. That must be it. “Why, Tommy? I thought— you were doing good.”

Things were going back to normal. We were normal.

“You needed help,” Tommy explained, and it felt weak.

Help? Tubbo doesn’t need help.

“And Ranboo is so close to being done with his diploma that it had— it had to be me.”

“Tommy—”

“Quackity said I can start working full-time at the cafe,” Tommy continued nervously, not noticing the blue-screen consuming Tubbo’s brain. “That means I can help out more, you know around the house and shit.”

“You should’ve told me,” Tubbo finally whispered, sensationless fingers trembling around the stupid papers in his hand.

“I am telling you,” Tommy said, eyeing him with something like concern, which was even more stupid. “Tubbo, I know that it’s been harder lately—”

“I know,” he snapped, cutting Tommy off harshly. “I keep us alive, of course I know. But you weren’t supposed to.”

Tommy straightened, a frown ghosting across his face. “Well, I do know. And that’s why I’m trying to fix it. Make sure you don’t work yourself to death taking all these odd jobs, and—”

“Okay,” Tubbo finally said, exhaling hard as he turned around. “Whatever. I— I get it.”

“Tubbo,” Tommy began, worried and brittle and everything Tubbo didn’t want to hear.

“Speaking of jobs,” Tubbo interrupted, without looking back, “I have one in twenty.”

“Tubbo—”

He didn’t stop to hear the rest of what Tommy wanted to say, despite the rush of guilt that accompanied the feigned ignorance.

He could apologize to Tommy later. For now, he’d deal with the one thing he did have control over — and it wasn’t this.

—

“Move over, dumbass,” Tubbo complained, batting Tommy’s legs to the side as he threw himself down beside him.

Tommy grunted, but pulled his legs up to make room on the couch. Tubbo glanced over, expecting a retort, only to find Tommy oddly silent: face pale and jaw clenched, like he was hurt or something. Tubbo frowned, brows furrowing with concern.

“You alright, big man?” he asked, reaching over and flattening the back of his hand against Tommy’s forehead. Tommy tensed, before relaxing, leaning his head into Tubbo’s hand. “You sick?”

“Nah,” Tommy muttered with a low rasp, and Tubbo, still frowning, pulled his hand back. Tommy shivered, swallowing. “Well, maybe.”

Tubbo dragged the blanket off his lap and threw it onto Tommy’s, shuffling closer when the shivering wasn’t eased. Tommy stiffened for a moment before relaxing, sinking back against the couch and his shoulder.

“You could’ve told me you were sick,” Tubbo murmured, grabbing the remote and flicking through channels while Ranboo made popcorn in the kitchen. “I would’ve grabbed medicine or something.”

Tommy shrugged. “Didn’t wanna worry you guys.”

“You worry us more when you hide dumb shit.”

“...Oh.”

“Oh,” Tubbo echoed heatlessly, rolling his eyes.

The quiet that followed was comfortable, and only interrupted by the faint murmur of the television. Tubbo’s thumb hovered over the remote as he paused on a news channel.

Beside him, Tommy tensed. Images of a flaming apartment building flashed across the screen — and roaming about: heroes. And a vigilante. Same difference.

Tubbo’s nose wrinkled automatically, some faint nausea rolling in his gut. He was extra aware of Ranboo’s shuffling footsteps in the kitchen. Tubbo changed channels.

“Wait,” Tommy croaked, leaning forward.

Tubbo glanced over. “What?”

Tommy blinked, eyes sliding over to his. Automatically, he leaned back again, eyes flicking towards his lap.

“Nothing,” he rasped, relaxing back against Tubbo’s shoulder, eyes fixed unblinkingly ahead. “Nothing.”

Like most of the worst moments of Tubbo’s life, he couldn’t recall when the line between bad and worse had finally been crossed. Only that it had.

At some point between Tommy stumbling inside hours after he had promised he’d be home and the explosion that had followed, it had.

It might have been the fear — fearing of losing him, of losing Tommy to himself — that had exploded out of him with nuclear precision, demolishing everything in his path.

It was a simmering cocktail of fear and worry and anger and weeks of feeling like he was grieving the boy in front of him without knowing why. And that’s when it had burst.

“Stop lying!” Tubbo had shouted, magma boiling over in his chest, ears ringing as Tommy straightened. “Cut the bullshit, Tommy. You’ve been acting weird and I’m sick of not knowing why.”

Don’t you trust us? he wanted to scream.

“I can’t tell you why,” Tommy whispered, eyes pleading with him, and—

And that had felt like a slap to the face, skin stinging.

“So there is something,” Tubbo had scoffed, metal dripping off his voice. “You’re just choosing to lie.”

Tommy had stepped forward, then, eyes disbelieving. “No, no— it’s not like that.”

And then the fire raged all over again. It raged and it burned and it scorched with the rising chorus of shouts echoing off the walls until finally—

“Then why are you here?” Tubbo shouted, voice breaking with the force of it, and Tommy had stopped, flinching back. “If you’re not going to be honest, then just— just fucking leave!”

The words sliced through the air like a guillotine; a death knell.

And while Tubbo couldn’t remember, in more than just red-tinted glimpses, what had brought them to that point — what had sharpened his words into blades, what had solicited the venom stinging his tongue — he did remember the thunderstruck expression rattling across Tommy’s face. He remembered him turning, jacket whipping up as he disappeared out the door, slamming it behind him.

He remembered stumbling back against the wall, suddenly drained and breathless. Totally and completely numb.

God, he’d remembered thinking humorlessly, as he sank down the wall onto the floor, burying a bitter smile in his arms, We’re all just self-destructing, aren’t we?

(He remembered wishing, in that moment, that they could go back to bunk beds and simple banter and linked hands and shared secrets.

He remembered kicking himself for even entertaining the idea.

He remembered, as reality crashed over him, trying really, really hard not to cry.)

⋆⋆⋆

One week.

That’s how long it’s been since they’d seen Tommy.

That’s how long it’s been since the door slammed behind him, and hadn’t opened again.

That’s how long it’s been since Tubbo’s world halted on its axis.

Ranboo finds him on the sofa, staring unblinkingly at the phone clenched in his hands, thumb shaking as it hovers uselessly over the CALL button beneath Tommy’s name. He’s numbly aware of the tears slicking down his face, distorting the screen, and he’s only aware at all because he feels the sting in his eyes.

“I called everyone,” Tubbo whispers, inhaling deliberately as his vision blurs. “Nobody’s seen him.”

“Purpled?” Ranboo tries, slinking silently across the room to join him on the sofa — sitting just far enough away that he’s close, without his skin brushing Tubbo’s.

Tubbo nods miserably. “And Quackity.”

And Hannah. And Sam. And anyone who maybe, maybe might recognize his best friend.

A sob catches in his throat, and the phone slips out of his hands, landing somewhere on the floor. He keels over, limbs full of static, but before he can crumple, Ranboo is there, wrapping his arms around him and pulling him close. Tubbo can feel his hitched breath against the crown of his head, choked with unspoken emotion.

“It’s my fault,” Tubbo whispers, and the confession cracks against his own eardrums like a gunshot.

Against him, Ranboo tenses, but Tubbo doesn’t give him a chance to interject.

“I told him to leave. He could be hurt, could be anywhere, and I— Oh, god, I told him to—”

Tubbo can’t finish. He jerks out of his Ranboo’s arms, careening towards the hallway as his stomach flips and bile crawls up his throat. His head is spinning, ears ringing, by the time he makes it to the bathroom, dropping to his knees in front of the toilet.

He’s barely eaten over the last week, but the breakfast that Ranboo had forced him to eat just that morning has him heaving through sobs.

Of course, Ranboo doesn’t leave him alone for long, even if he has it coming. Even if he’s the one that caused all of this. Even if he deserves it.

The hand on his back is the only thing keeping him tethered to Earth, the pressure on his spine stopping him from spiralling into outer fucking space. Tubbo wants to shift away from it, let Ranboo save it for someone better than him, but he can’t bring himself to. Can’t bring himself to do anything but lean back, swiping the back of his hand over his mouth as exhaustion weighs down on him.

Static fills his limbs, and Tubbo sobs as he sinks back into Ranboo’s arms — Ranboo, always steady, always an anchor.

“I can’t lose him,” Tubbo gasps, fingers digging into Ranboo’s shirt. “I can’t— I can’t.”

He feels horribly, awfully, disgustingly weak. Grossly disconsolate. He’s breaking apart in a way that he’s never let himself break before, and it’s killing him. He can barely get a breath in, lungs filled with needles, and he must be dying.

“Tubbo, breathe,” Ranboo urges, helping him forward. Tubbo lets him maneuver his limbs like putty, until his head is by his knees. “Breathe.”

It’s ironic, Tubbo realizes dimly, that Ranboo is the one doing this. Usually it was him and Tommy talking Ranboo through a panic attack, not the other way around. Tubbo loves him for doing it and hates him for seeing him like this. Not that he voices that.

Instead, he (selfishly) leans into the hands gently brushing up and down his back, soothing and rhythmic enough to restore some of the function to his decaying heart and failing lungs.

“We never should’ve fought,” Tubbo rasps, voice echoing guiltily off the chipped bathroom tile. “This is all my fault.”

“Tubbo—” Ranboo tries, infinitely pained.

Tubbo ignores him, self-deprecation steamrolling through his brain. He lets it. He needs things to make sense and this— this makes sense.

“I freaked out,” Tubbo admits, guilt gnawing holes in his ribcage. “I told him— I told him to go away.” Another realization, this one more shattering than the rest. “I made him cry.”

Ranboo hears the words he doesn’t say: When has Tommy ever cried in front of us?

Tubbo curls his knees to his chest, staring vacantly at the tile between his shoes. “He’s never been gone this long. Never.”

Ranboo is silent, and Tubbo knows they’re both thinking the same thing. That even when he was coming home bruised, and quiet, and late, he’d never truly been gone. Not like this. And Tubbo doesn’t want to even fucking imagine what that could mean.

“We’re gonna find him,” Ranboo breathes. “He’s too clingy to stay away from us, you know that.”

Weren’t you? Tubbo almost says, before he can help himself. Instead, he swallows the acidic words and tries to let the microscopic edge of humor digging up through Ranboo’s words envelop him.

When it’s quiet again, and the only sound he hears is his own harsh breathing, Tubbo finally pulls himself together — or, at least, into some semblance of “together” — to say:

“We need to make posters,” he croaks, voice raw. Ranboo stiffens against him, and the motion sends another phantom pain slicing through Tubbo’s chest. “Missing persons posters.”

“...Okay,” Ranboo agrees, voice barely a whisper as he breaks out of his stupor, shifting to sit properly next to him. Utterly exhausted, Tubbo slumps against his shoulder, and Ranboo grabs his hand and squeezes. “We can do that.”

“Someone has to have seen him,” Tubbo whispers, squeezing his eyes shut as he fights to breathe. “Someone— we can hand them out, and—”

He cuts himself off before his thoughts can careen into dangerous territory. Thoughts like, I’ve done this all before, and, Why are his friends so insistent on leaving him?

Against him, Ranboo nods, fiddling anxiously with Tubbo’s hand.

“He’ll come back. But just in case.”

“Just in case,” Tubbo agrees hollowly, even as his heart squeezes, protesting the words.

“He’ll come back,” Ranboo repeats, with a whisper of more vigor, like he’s sensing Tubbo’s decay. Even then, he says it like a prayer, but not like he believes it. “He always does.”

When? Tubbo wants to ask. How much longer can I wait, rotting?

Instead he says, “I know.”

I know, because it’s easier than saying, I’m scared. I’m losing him. It’s my fault.

(And in the end, all of his fears had come true, hadn’t they?

Because a week passes, and their door remains shut. All that remains in their cramped little apartment is splintered grief and bitter regret and the hollow shells of the liars that Tommy had made them into.)

They go door-to-door.

It’s the only thing they can do, really: start with the people closest, who may have seen something, and then branch out from there.

(And hope, desperately, that Tommy comes back before they have to.)

But Tubbo finds quickly that delivering posters is almost worse than waiting. At least, stewing in the flat means that he doesn't have to deal with the twisting pity, the ephemeral sympathy — vanishing as soon as the door snicks shut in their faces.

Tubbo tries not to crumple, if it’s even possible for him to wilt further, with each sad “No, sorry” he gets, each disinterested, “I’ll keep an eye out.”

He thinks if Ranboo wasn’t beside him, he would. Would just shatter, spill out onto the floor, and he wouldn’t care. But Ranboo’s here, anchored at his side, and Tubbo can’t give up. Not on Tommy, not ever. Not again.

(It’s easier said than done: by the time they make it through their floor, and then down to the next, he’s exhausted, utterly wrung out. That doesn’t stop him from reaching for the next poster, reaching for the next door, reaching for a smidge of strength from the dregs of his depleted stores.)

Tubbo raps his knuckles against the next door, heart clenching viciously in his chest. Hope is a fickle, dangerous thing: curdling just between his ribs, threatening to raise him higher just to drop him from that new height. Tubbo tries not to indulge it as he waits for his knock to be answered.

A minute passes, and Tubbo is prepared to turn on his heel when he hears the grind of the lock, sliding open from behind the door.

Tubbo straightens, clutching the poster in his hand anxiously.

The door opens.

The man that stares down at them is stiff, reddish-brown eyes narrowed in suspicion. He must be barely shorter than Ranboo, but he’s rugged: broad-shouldered and muscular. It’d be more of an intimidating sight, Tubbo thinks distantly, if his face wasn’t so gaunt, eyes ringed with blue smudges that screamed of exhaustion. Also, maybe if his hair wasn’t bubblegum pink.

“Can I help you?” the man grunts.

Tubbo’s lips twitch into the ghost of a dim, cordial smile as he hands the guy a poster.

“Have you seen this person?”

Chapter Text

Techno is breaking.

There’s no other word for it: this graceless collapse, this total devastation.

Tommy is motionless beneath his bloody palms — his bloody palms that are pressed over a wound that cries endlessly. There’s more blood soaking his floorboards, his hands, his kid, than he’s ever seen from one person, and he’s the fucking reaper of it.

He is carnage and he is bloodshed and he is breaking beneath the crimson spilling out around him.

“Tommy,” he rasps, a guttural cry threatening to be ripped from his throat when Tommy doesn’t even stir. “Don’t do this to me, kid. Don’t—”

His throat closes off, grief utterly suffocating him. Grief that he instantly shoves away because there’s nothing to grieve. He’s not losing him.

Technoblade refuses. He refuses to lose him.

Not now. Not like this. Not fucking ever if he can help it.

“Come on,” he mutters, yanking up the bottom of Tommy’s soaked shirt so the skin of his palms meets the slashed skin of Tommy’s stomach. It’s the only thing he can think to try. “Work with me here, kid.”

Heat sizzles at his fingertips as he tries to force his abilities to bend to the savagery of his will. Tommy seizes, jolts with a hitched breath, and hope cuts dimly through him for a fleeting second before it’s gone as Tommy goes still — too still — once again.

Techno wants to yell. Wants to scream until everything breaks with him. Nothing should stay standing when his world is caving in around him. Nothing should survive a loss so cataclysmic. Not even him.

For the first time in a long time, he and the voices merge into one raw, primitive being. His mind melds into only the sharpest shards of his grief, the barest of his instincts.

He’s not losing him. He’s not.

Techno flattens his palms over Tommy’s stomach and tries again.

“Fix him,” he grits, hands shaking, and his powers resist.

Tremors wrack through him. He’s splintering.

So Techno has nothing to lose when he raises his hand and slashes his nails across his own palms, deep. Pain sears his skin, blood bubbling up and spilling over the jagged gashes. Techno grits his teeth and presses his hands back down. His ears hum with static as his palms ignite.

“Fix him,” he demands, hands steady, and his powers obey.

—

The next few days are heaven and hell.

Hell, because it takes hours for Techno to put Tommy back together again. Hours for his heart to beat with any real vigor, for his cheeks to retain any color, for his lungs to stop protesting each jagged breath. And even then, Techno only really stabilizes him.

More of him is bruised than not, a nauseating palette of violent and blue marbling his skin. The bruises mottle his arms, his legs, his face. His throat.

(The voices roar at that, loud and intolerable: a barely-contained fury that amplifies the molten anger blistering through him. Anger that someone had put those marks there cruelly, deliberately. Anger that he yearns to quench with red. Anger that he will repay in full.

With time, at least. Not now, when everything is still so uncertain, when Tommy is too beaten to be alone. But after his healing factor has had a chance to knit him back together some more, then, well. Then Techno can act. Seek justice. That, at least, sates the voices’ bloodthirst — for the moment.)

Heaven — because Tommy wakes up for the first time less than a day later.

Techno is already close to his side when it happens, when a hitched gasp disturbs the fallen silence. He whips his head up when he hears it, every muscle in his body stiff as a board.

There is nothing that could impede him from making it to Tommy’s side when he sees his eyes open.

The utter panic staring back at him makes his heart twist, an overwhelmed, hopeless feeling washing over him. He knows in an instant, as he leans over his own bedside where he’d laid Tommy down hours and hours ago, that Tommy is not lucid. His eyes are open, but his glacial irises are cloudy and unseeing: wet with tears that streak down his bruised cheeks with every rapid fluttering of his eyelashes.

Voices murmuring unpleasantly, Techno brushes his palm against Tommy’s forehead, smoothing back his sweat-dampened hair.

At the contact, Tommy flinches, a strangled gasp leaping out of his throat. He’s shaking from head to toe, eyes fighting to focus and so, so afraid. It’s almost enough to draw Techno’s hand away, almost even more afraid of scaring him further.

"It’s okay,” Techno murmurs, threading gentle fingers through Tommy’s hair and losing his frown as Tommy relaxes, confusion shoving up through the pain. “I’ve got you, kid. I’m here.”

Tommy swallows, blinking hard and fast until his unfocused eyes land vaguely on Techno’s face.

“Techno?” he croaks, voice horribly broken.

“I’m here,” he repeats, throat bobbing. The voices murmur, amplifying that thought over and over. An eternal promise that Tommy can’t hear. “You’re safe.”

Tommy’s eyes droop, and he relaxes against the bedsheets, as if soothed by the sound of Techno’s rumbling voice. “Techno.”

Techno manages something that is vaguely, shakily smile-like. It’d be easier if an invisible hand had not slipped around his heart, squeezing. “That’s me.”

“Hurts,” Tommy gasps lethargically, chest convulsing as he sucks in a large breath, “Really hurts.”

(It’s hell, because Tommy’s in pain and afraid and confused and all Techno can do is be here.)

Something inside of his chest cracks, and it’s not the first time, but it feels fatal.

“I’m sorry,” he says quietly, and it rings true with every fiber of his being — for more reasons than just the all-consuming helplessness washing over him. “Go back to sleep, alright? I won’t let anything happen to you.”

It takes a moment for Tommy to process the words. Techno can see that moment play out in Tommy’s wide, pained eyes the moment that they hook onto him. The harsh fractures of fear ringing his irises smooth out, and pure trust pools in its place. It’s the most clarity he’s seen on the kid yet.

Tommy nods, jerky and delayed. He lifts his unbroken hand to paw stiltedly at his face, until clumsy fingers wrap around Techno’s hand to drag it down and press it to Tommy’s cheek, holding their overlapped hands there. Techno’s squeezes Tommy’s hand gently, and his lips twitch when Tommy leans his cheek into it.

“Thanks,” Tommy murmurs, eyes already slipping closed at the unspoken reassurance that Techno is with him. “Thank you.”

Always, Techno thinks.

(Heaven, because the kid is alive. And he’ll destroy the world before he ever gets so close to losing him again.)

Tommy’s recovery is slow, but sure.

He gets to the point that he’s no longer at imminent risk of dying, at least.

By the second day, some of the lesser bruises are fading, smudges of yellow mixing in with the violent shades of plum coloring his skin. Techno tracks his progress carefully, cataloging each scrape and bruise and break neatly in his mind.

There’s… a lot. All of it worsened by the fact that the skin it marks is that of a child’s.

He checks the stitches on Tommy’s stomach every couple of hours, especially. The wound is far from gone, but it’s not fresh, not like it should be — and it hadn’t been since Techno had forced his powers to heal it. His palms sting at the reminder, and Techno swallows before proceeding to rewrap it, keenly aware of every harsh breath that slips past Tommy’s parted lips with each jostle of his skin.

He doesn’t want to think about how close it was, or what he would’ve done if it hadn’t worked. So he doesn’t.

But Techno does only make it another few days before he caves.

A few days, throughout which Tommy drifts seemingly endlessly between feverish sleep and delirious consciousness as his body works to mend itself. Techno is there all the way, always with a damp rag or a glass of water or a hand to squeeze.

It’s on the sixth day, when Tommy has spent more time coherent than not, fever breaking, that he tells Techno what happened.

(And the voices sing red, a violent hunger raking sharp claws across the inside of his skull. Techno bides his time, ignoring the hum in his veins and in his head, urging urging urging. He waits for Tommy to drift off, falling back into an uneasy sleep that, for once, Techno appreciates. He’s sure that he will be back before the morning crests the horizon. He doesn’t want Tommy to be awake for his return.)

Techno goes around the apartment checking all the windows and locking them. The broken one — underneath which the floorboards have been scrubbed clean and raw, and the broken glass swept up — ignites a weird sense of unease in his chest. He can’t fix it now, and doesn’t really think he needs to, but that festering hunger makes his fingers curl, urging him to do something.

(He can’t take any chances. Not with Tommy. Not ever again.)

So he tapes it up, barricades it, and then drags the armchair in front of it for good measure. By then, the voices are shifting restlessly underneath his skin, coaxing him to hurry, to lose himself in that familiar haze that has run the streets red before, and will again now.

Techno can’t recall how long it’s been since he’s taken up his old mantle.

But even after all this time, his mask, fashioned out of a boar’s skull, greets his face like an old friend.

Beneath it, Techno grins.

(It’s almost too easy to track them down — two of them, that is, two of Tommy’s assailants out of what had doubtlessly been many others, but only two whose blood had been spilled along with Tommy’s — before the night ends. It’s always been painfully easy for him.

The essence of their blood emanates from the sidewalk, putrefying the streets, pungent. There are distinct trails, tracing imperceptibly down the shadow-bathed streets, leading to an alleyway that reeks of it, of Tommy too, before splitting. He follows each one with the poise of a predator, hardly aware of anything except chasing the trails — invisible to any except him. And all the while, his head sings and sings and sings.

The fate that he delivers them, in cramped motel rooms with passports still on the nightstands, is bloody, but swift — nothing short of mercy. They’d done worse, and had deserved worse, had deserved to feel every ounce of pain that they’d inflicted onto Tommy.

But with no other paths to follow, it’s over long before dawn. The crimson haze lingers.

The voices aren’t pleased; they tear and bite at him like starving dogs, with a near-insatiable hunger for more-more-more. As he stalks towards his apartment once more, Techno thinks they mellow, but he’s proven wrong the moment he steps through the doorway.

The voices are a swollen amalgamation of pure energy, conglomerated at his nape. They're full off the bloodshed, utterly content — and in the same breath: drooling for more, buzzing in his brain.

They hiss, shoving forward so loudly that Techno has to stop in the doorway to catch his breath. He inhales deliberately, wincing as inhuman restlessness claws at him sharply. Restlessness: this time not to attack, but to protect. His eyes flick downward, cataloging himself in an attempt to slip more firmly into his own skin, to separate his body and mind from this demanding choir.

Blood sticks to his clothes, soaking his sleeves, flecks beneath his fingernails. Strands of hair have come loose from his braid, sticking to the parts of his face not shielded by his mask. His heart strums rapidly between his ribs and he tries to listen to it, let the steady rhythm fill his ears like drum beats. It’s not enough to make him feel real again.

He shakes his head — a shower then. Rinsing his skin of the violent red with hot water might help.

To do that, he needs to go into his bedroom.

Techno stops in the doorway, and the voices stop their incessant murmuring with him. Tommy is still asleep, as anticipated, but the sight of him sends some amount of peace over him. The sharpest edges of the mounting hunger are shaved away.

He’s alright, Techno thinks pointedly, ignoring his own solace that he finds in the calm, safe expression and steady heartbeat he observes from across the room. Happy now?

Chat hums, but they aren’t necessarily pleased. Techno can feel it, the pointed throb of the oncoming migraine forming because of the persistent noise. He rolls his eyes as he unsticks himself from the floor to grab clothes from his dresser.

It’s nearing two in the morning when he’s done, skin clean and blood rid from all of him. On any normal day when the bloodthirst gets too much — too demanding, too draining — showering is usually enough to shock him back to reality, to shove him back into his own body completely. Now, though, the voices seem intent on evading any control.

Maybe this is what he gets for going so long without indulging them. Or maybe this is the universe, not that Techno particularly believes in fate, punishing him. Whatever it is, he can only hope it’s cured by sleep.

Techno casts one glance towards his bedroom, door ajar and faint light from the kitchen bleeding into the room, before turning towards the sofa where he’s been sleeping. He doesn’t make it more than a few steps before there’s a quiet voice, croaking out of the darkness.

“Techno?”

He stills, head jerking up. Tommy hovers in his bedroom doorway, like a ghost. He’s pale, and shivering, limbs tucked close to him. In the dim light, his bruises on his face, arms, and neck look like opaque splotches of paint. Techno immediately frowns, crossing to him before he can quell the urge.

“Tommy? You alright?”

Tommy flashes him a dim grin, softened by the muted yellow light spilling over his face. “Yeah.”

Techno’s gotta be honest — he’s not liking the sight of Tommy swaying on his feet.

“...Did you need something?”

“I wanted to know where you went,” Tommy mumbles quietly, before immediately yawning, another shiver wracking his frame. “I heard the door shut earlier.”

Techno’s mind is too much of a mess to do anything but overreact. He steadies Tommy’s shoulder, lips downturned as he ignores the unusually studious expression consuming the kid’s face, poring over his fresh clothing with something like suspicion.

Techno clears his throat, drawing blue eyes up to his. “You shouldn’t be out of bed.”

Tommy blinks, frowning right back at him. Techno expects resistance, maybe, or something of the sort, but Tommy only peers at him.

“You alright, Blade?”

Techno steps back, a hush falling over his choir of spirits. “What?”

“You’re like…” Tommy lifts his hands, gesturing vaguely with bandaged fingers. “I dunno. Being all weird and shit.”

Techno almost snorts — he might if his head wasn’t such a scrambled mess. He can always count on Tommy to be blunt.

“You don’t look too good yourself,” he retorts gruffly.

Tommy snickers, eyes flashing with light. “You try getting fuckin’ jumped in an alley, man. Let me know how that goes.”

It’s like an electric shock. All of the humor is sucked out of the air in an instant. If Techno had thought the voices were bad before, it’s nothing compared to now, as they swirl around his skull, whispering coldly, sharply, Failure. Failure. Failure.

That in itself is shocking — since when did he care that much? And worse — since when had he been so bad at it, at caring? What is he doing?

“Hey,” Tommy rasps, pulling Techno off the edge of a crumbling precipice. “I was kidding. Totally joking.”

“Right,” Techno echoes flatly, as if his own mind isn’t shredding him apart. When Tommy’s concerned gaze lingers, flipping their roles so swiftly that Techo feels weightless, without a tether, he coughs out a tense response. “The voices are… loud. Right now.”

Tommy peers up at him, frown deepening into a pout. “I’ll tell them to shut the fuck up.”

The response jerks a laugh out of him, which punches right through that tight knot of tension balled in his chest, but Tommy’s not done. Before Techno can blink, bruised hands are grabbing at his hoodie.

In the space of a breath, Tommy pulls him down and headbutts him, knocking their skulls together harshly as he croaks, “Shut the fuck up, voices.”

An ache rolls over his skull — and surely Tommy’s, too — as Techno straightens, glaring dully at Tommy as he steps back and rubs his forehead.

“What is wrong with you.”

“A lot,” Tommy retorts effortlessly, a mauve bruise on his cheek shining beneath the glare of the kitchen light as he grins. “Did they listen?”

“What?”

“The voices,” Tommy repeats, as if Techno is being utterly idiotic (as if he’s the one giving unprovoked headbutt therapy.) “Did they shut up?”

Techno frowns, staring at him in disbelief.

“What? Did they…”

He trails off, words dying on his tongue. Silence falls.

Astonishment blooms across his face because Chat did. They aren’t silent — they’re never silent. But like a switch has gone off, they’re quiet. Relaxed.

Huh.

“You’re a genius,” Techo breathes, lips twitching.

Tommy positively beams, and if Techno wasn’t standing in the short shadow cast by the corner of the wall, he’d think that the whole room lights up with it.

“I know,” Tommy boasts, chest puffing like a peacock. “That’s what they say.”

Still on a delay, Techno manages, “Who’s they?”

“The ladies. All of them. All seven billion.”

Techno huffs a laugh, and there is no tension in his ribs to protest it. “Right.”

“They do,” Tommy insists, nodding his head emphatically. His voice pitches up into something high and shrill, which his bruised throat does not seem to appreciate, to trill, “Oh, Tommy! Tommy! Genius-innit! Please bless us with your poggers ideas—”

Anddd moment over. Techno rolls his eyes, repositioning his hand on Tommy’s shoulder, gently guiding him back towards the room.

“Alright, that’s enough,” he interjects, shaking his head. “Back to bed.” Before Tommy can wind up a proper protest, “No arguin’. You’re hurt.” A beat, then, with the ghost of a curling smile, “And I’m pretty sure toddlers need at least eleven hours of sleep a day.”

“Oy!” Tommy shrieks, as he’s nudged (carefully) towards the bed. “I’m not a fucking toddler. Take that back right fuckin’ now.”

“No.”

“...I hate you.”

Techno snorts as Tommy petulantly crawls beneath his blankets, glaring at him beneath the swaths of gray. “Tell me that again tomorrow and I’ll believe you.”

Because in bed, his eyes are already drooping closed. “I will,” Tommy insists, even as his words begin to drag. “Watch me.”

“Okay.”

“Bitch.”

Always a pleasure when you’re injured, he thinks to himself.

Techno actually laughs as he turns away, finding himself tired too. “Goodnight, Tommy.”

“...‘night Technoblade.”

(He admits, distantly to himself as sleep drains coherence out of his thoughts, that if this is growing soft well. Maybe it’s not the worst thing he’s ever done.)

Tommy is in better spirits the next day.

Not good, and certainly not great, but better.

It’s potentially cringe, but Techno is glad to see it. He’d never thought he’d be wanting the kid to be swearing or bouncing off the walls of his apartment, but it’s much more preferable than him being quiet or so unnaturally still. At least then, Techno has an excuse to be a grouch. He misses the banter, and everything in between, even at the cost of his walls — not that Tommy is doing much “bouncing off the walls” yet.

The stitches slicing across his stomach still need constant attention.

Techno checks it over every few hours or so — marking the progress and making sure that Tommy hasn’t pulled them out of place (again.)

Sat up against his pillows, Tommy watches carefully and drowsily as Techno unfurls the bandage wrapping his abdomen. And though Techno grimaces at the thick pink line of puckered skin, crossed with stitches, Tommy’s eyes take on an awed wideness.

He traces his fingers over it, looking like he’s hardly aware that he’s moving, and Techno bats his hands away before he can give himself an infection.

“Don’t touch it,” he tells him, voice stern.

Even if he’s been mostly in bed, only the lord knows where Tommy’s hands have been. Grime clings to him as surely as a raccoon: Techno’s phone screen a worthy testament to that.

Tommy retracts his hands, apologies fluttering off his lips. “Sorry, sorry, it’s just—”

He frowns, cutting himself off. His eyes grow stormy, and Techno gauges the reaction carefully. They’re probably both thinking of the same thing — of that night, and everything in between. And though Techno doesn’t truly know what it’s like to be on the other end of a wound so deep, he doesn’t think he wants to — for more reasons than the injury itself. Not if it can paint a look like that on his face too.

“It’s hard to understand,” Tommy finally says, worrying the inside of his cheek between his teeth. “How it’s so…”

“Much better?” Techno guesses.

Tommy nods. “Like I know you explained that you, like— wait.”

The urgency ringing through his voice has Techno bristling, preparing. Tommy’s eyes are the picture of seriousness as they lock on his. Techno is, startlingly, taken back to the first time they met.

(Are you going to kill me?)

What he gets is somehow worse.

“Am I going to be receiving a bloodborne illness?”

It takes a good few seconds for the words to compute. When they do, Techno wishes they didn’t.

“Heh?”

Techno looks Tommy right in the face and gives him the opportunity to take the words back. Surprisingly to absolutely nobody, he doesn’t.

“You gave me your blood. Am I—”

“No,” Techno answers flatly, exhaustion crashing over him.

It’s the reminder he needed — why he doesn’t enjoy most social interactions. And many children, for that matter.

Tommy is unperturbed.

“What about, like, malaria—”

Pure pain creasing his face, “No. My blood does not have malaria, Tommy.”

Tommy raises his hands innocently, as if his eyes aren’t shining with mischief.

Menace, Techno thinks.

“My powers make it safe,” he explains without explaining, because even he doesn’t really know why his powers work like they do.

Tommy nods diligently, then—

“What, so does this make you, like, a universal blood donor?”

Though it sounds almost sarcastic, Techno cracks a faint grin. “It does. I have a friend who arranges appointments for me to donate a couple liters of blood every week.”

Tommy’s eyes bulge. “Wha— a couple liters? Every week? What the shit?”

Techno snorts.

“I’d do more if they’d let me,” he adds, reaching for the new roll of bandages at the end of the bed. Then, catching Tommy’s dumbfounded expression at that, admittedly, odd facet of his abilities, “I have increased cell regeneration, Tommy. Blood cells included.”

And as if he hadn’t heard the last part at all: “If who’d let you?”

Phil. “Doctors.”

“Oh,” Tommy says, and Techno is prepared — hoping — for that to be the end to this barrage of questions, but he’s proved foolish to think he’d be so lucky. “Wait, but why do they— aren’t you, like, immortal or whatever? I thought—”

“Effectively immortal,” Techno corrects, meeting his eyes more seriously than he means to. “Sometimes it’s not so effective.”

Tommy frowns, unable to consider that further before he’s wincing as Techno finishes tying off his bandages.

“Sorry,” Techno mutters. He pulls back, stretching and letting Tommy brush his fingers over the neat bandage, face twisted with lingering pain. “You’ll probably be on bedrest for another day. Maybe two, if this keeps up.”

Tommy pouts, not that Techno hadn’t been expecting it. “What if I have to use the toilet?”

Techno sighs. “Then I’ll walk you to the bathroom and you can go.”

“Okay.”

Techno stares at him.

“...Do you have to go to the bathroom, Tommy?”

Tommy blinks. “What? Oh, no. No, I don’t.”

“Bruh.”

Tommy laughs.

“Bruh,” he mimics instantly, lowering his voice into a throaty growl.

And that’s it. Techno has had enough of the kid.

“I’m leavin’ now.”

Tommy shoots upright, eyes wide. “Wait, no, Techno don’t—”

“Too late,” Techno grunts, amusement curling in his gut as he turns towards the door.

“This is fucked up!” Tommy calls after him. “I’m calling child services!”

Techno ignores him, even as the voices hiss in muted laughter at his nape.

And then, before Techno can decide whether to give in to the joke or not, he hears Tommy mutter to himself — loud enough that he knows that Tommy knows he can hear —

“Never meet your heroes, kids.”

Techno rolls his eyes, not breaking pace as he heads towards the kitchen to heat some canned soup. It’s a dumb joke, made funnier by the lack of pain fracturing the words, but—

You’ll be the death of me, he thinks, the corners of his mouth pointed up.

(Somehow, the thought doesn’t perturb him. As he yanks a pot out from the cupboard and sets it on the stove, he chalks that up to sleep deprivation.

Yeah, that’s probably it.)

—

Tommy is napping when the knock sounds — three cordial taps against his front door.

Techno frowns, the sound vacuuming any sense of relaxation out of his lungs. He rises lithely from the sofa, a suspicious chill running over his skin. Chat, similarly, awakens at the noise: poised for action like a knot of writhing rattlesnakes, hissing in warning.

Slipping silently across the living room, Techno risks a glance towards his bedroom.

Even through the walls, Tommy’s strong, even heartbeat registers steadily in his ears — thanks to his advanced senses. And outside the front door, he can vaguely sense two unfamiliar people, their shoes scuffing near-silently against the floor.

Techno doesn’t bother detouring towards the kitchen for a weapon.

He doesn’t need one, and — he realizes distantly, with an undercurrent of bloodlust enough to make his moniker particularly fitting — he doesn’t want one. He’s sure, based loosely on the vague information he’s collected with senses alone, that he can handle whoever’s outside.

(It flickers through his mind, quick and fleeting like a comet: the possibility that he’s miscalculated, that perhaps the two forms outside aren’t strangers but friends. Phil and Kristen. And that sends another torrent off in his brain, like an itch he should be scratching, but as his fingers close silently around the doorknob, the thought is discarded as quickly as it came.)

Techno opens the door.

Suspicion crawls over him once again — for about three more seconds. Until it clicks in his brain that the maybe-assailants outside his door are, horrifically, teenagers.

He wouldn’t be surprised if they were Tommy’s age, not that it’s particularly easy to tell when one dwarfs him by about three inches and the other is a (generous) foot shorter than him. He skims their faces briefly, taking in the most clinical details.

The short one: dark brown hair, darker eyes as suspicious as Techno’s, flyers.

The tall one: brown hair with platinum blond(?) roots visible on just one side, bicolored eyes, fidgeting hands.

The both of them: bone deep exhaustion that emanates off them in waves. Techno, intimately familiar with it, can recognize it easily.

“Can I help you?” he grunts, aware that the shorter one is sizing him up with a set jaw that completely undermines whatever business pitch he’s probably about to spit out onto Techno’s doorstep.

The guy smiles, if the faint twitch of his lips could even constitute one. He thrusts a hand out, poster extended between calloused fingertips.

“Have you seen this person?” he asks without wasting another second.

He doesn’t retract his hand until Techno has taken the poster from him, flipping it over, and—

Huh.

There’s not a lot that shocks Techno these days.

The most shocking thing that’s happened to him over the last few months? Tommy.

It’s only typical that the kid would manage to do it again without even needing to be present. Because while the Tommy that stares back at him, immortalized in cheap paper and cheaper printer ink, is younger — with fluffy hair and a bright, candid grin that shows off a mouthful of braces — it’s undoubtedly him. It’s Tommy.

His thoughts swirl at the speed of light, tumbling over each other as Techno attempts to work out how to react—or better yet, what to do.

The realization strikes him belatedly. Are these his—

“He’s missing,” the taller one adds nervously, as if Techno doesn’t see the glaring MISSING printed above Tommy’s photo. “He’s— we’re his roommates. I’m Ranboo—” He gestures lamely to himself with a hiked thumb, desperation rattling through his movements, words clumsy on his tongue. “And that’s Tubbo.”

Ranboo keeps smiling tensely as he gestures to his left. The shorter one, Tubbo, grimaces, eyes never leaving Techno’s face.

Oh. So, that’s what a Tubbo is — his roommate.

Fragments of Tommy’s clipped sentences float through his brain, making a lot more sense.

“Have you seen him?” Tubbo repeats, jarring Techno out of his head.

He glances down at the poster again. “Uh…”

This isn't good. Techno’s mind is a warzone, thoughts converging on each other and leaving him horribly conflicted.

On one hand, these are Tommy’s roommates. Tommy’s roommates — who he’d both laughed over, in brief anecdotes, and cried over through whispered confessions on Techno’s sofa. Who were supposed to hate him — or at least, hate Glare.

But who were also going door to door looking for him, and who he’d been (theoretically) planning to reveal himself to — right before he showed up on Techno’s doorstep on the verge of death. Techno could end a whole lot of misery with just a few words.

But on the other, is it Techno’s choice to make? He doesn’t know. He doesn’t know, and that’s what prompts his frozen tongue into action.

“No,” Techno finally says. “I haven’t.”

It’s two words, but it seems to trigger some sort of collapse. The shorter one — or, Tubbo? — swallows hard, utter devastation raging across his face like a hurricane. It’s gone in an instant, shuttered away. In its place, a rubble plane of horrible resignation. And dare he assume: grief.

Ranboo isn’t much better off, nodding shortly, like if he moves too fast, he’ll split open like a crumbling glacier.

“Well, please keep that,” he breathes, voice wavering as his eyes flicker over Techno’s before landing somewhere on his cheekbone — close, but not quite meeting his gaze. “And keep an eye out? Maybe? He’s tall, a little shorter than me, and he’s— he’s loud. You’ll probably hear him before you see him, ha.”

It’s a pitiful attempt at a joke, but it’s slapped down like a paper airplane in harsh rain. Techno is not sure whether to pick it up or not. He doesn’t get the chance to consider it for too long either way.

“He’s been gone for a week,” Tubbo butts in, eyes carrying the same desperate heat as two smoldering coals. “He’s— he’s all we have.”

Yikes. Just like that, it’s worse.

“I will,” Techno tells them, and the words cling to his tongue bitterly, slimy oil encasing his gums.

That’s not a pleasant feeling.

The two of them nod synchronously, and oh God. As Techno eases the door shut, he can see their composure crumbling and feels worse. The snick of the door closing cracks like a gunshot. Techno grimaces and stays in place, fingers still curled around the doorknob as he listens.

He’s proven right instantly — right in that he’s witnessed a ship going under.

There’s a hitched breath that breaks into a jagged sob. It’s instantly muffled by what might be fabric, like they’re embracing. Techno feels, distinctly, like shit.

“He’ll turn up,” Ranboo breathes, so quietly that Techno wouldn’t have heard it without his enhancements. “He will.”

There’s only another quiet sob.

“What if we’ve already lost him?” Tubbo whispers, and Techno’s heart jumps despite himself. He thinks the Ranboo-guy’s does too. “What if we’re wasting time going door to door and he’s dead in an alley? We’d have no way of knowing—”

“Tubbo,” Ranboo chokes out, sounding strained.

“He could be hurt and alone and—” Another harsh lungful of air, like he’s drowning. “He hates being alone—”

“He’s not. He’s not.”

He was, Techno corrects, still horribly frozen in place. He was.

“I just want to say sorry,” Tubbo breathes, nearly inaudibly. “I just want to say sorry and hold him and never let him go again.”

Amidst the sound of Techno’s resilience fracturing, fissure lines arcing across his chest, he hears Ranboo admit, just as quietly, just as brokenly, “I know. Me too.”

“I was scared.”

“We both were.”

It’s at this moment that Techno realizes he shouldn’t be listening to this exchange, this whispered collapse. He’s intruding, and sure his morals might not be the purest, but this feels like too much. Too personal.

He wishes, severely, that that was enough to move him away from the door.

“I never should’ve shouted. Or, or any of it, really—”

“Tubbo, he’d understand,” Ranboo breathes, broken disbelief cutting into his words. “God, Tubbo, he’d understand. He loves us to death.” Voice wavering enough to break the Richter scale, “There’s not a universe where we don’t mean the world to him and you know it.”

And the final note of this broken melody javelins directly between Techno’s ribs:

“He could’ve died thinking we hated him.”

Techno has enough.

He yanks the door open before his mind can catch up with his hands, quick enough to make Tommy’s roommates jolt.

They blink at him, shocked faces wreaked with exhaustion and tears that they attempt to scrub away when they see him.

“Sorry,” Ranboo stammers, stepping back with Tubbo in tow, shoulders straightening. “Sorry, sir, didn’t mean to loiter, we can—”

“Wait.”

They do, chests rising too raggedly to make their charade of wellness convincing.

“I might have something that will help you,” Techno offers, well aware that he couldn’t have made a more awkward standoff if he’d tried.

“What?” Tubbo asks, immediately taking a step forward—

“Stay here for a minute,” Techno grunts.

He catches another glimpse of their furrowed confusion before he’s turning on his heel, feeling remarkably out of his depth. He leaves the door ajar, as he makes his way to his bedroom.

Tommy is still asleep when Techno enters, curled up on his bed with his face tucked into his pillow.

He sighs, lamenting what he’s gotten himself into with a woeful shake of his head. What made him think he was cut out for this, again? Techno can’t remember — perhaps it was lingering shreds of dread, of watching Tommy turn his floorboards red and knowing that he’d want to know, if he were them — that had triggered the impulse.

Either way, he’s more or less committed — “more or less,” because he’s still going to give Tommy the choice to turn them away.

Somehow though, call it intuition, or plain recollection of that tearful conversation a week ago, he’s not confident that will be the case. He’s somewhat familiar enough with Tommy’s bleeding heart. This will be fine.

And Techno will be here to intervene if something goes south. Those are the reassurances he lets loop through his skull as he kneels and gently shakes nudges Tommy awake.

He’s instantly met with the usual reaction — a muffled groan that dips into a vulgar whine.

“F’ck off,” Tommy mumbles, shoving his face into the crook of his arm, hair flopping down to shield it further.

Techno sighs and nudges him again. “Tommy.”

“Tubbo, I’ll hit you. Go away.”

Techno almost chokes out a hysterical laugh. Not quite Tubbo — but he’s right outside!

“Tommy, it’s Techno.” Nothing. Techno heaves a breath. “Tommy, quick, Crowfather’s outside.”

Tommy rolls over. “He is?” Immediately, a glare consumes his face. “No, he’s not.”

“He’s not,” Techno agrees flatly, an apologetic note slipping into his voice as he hands Tommy the flier. “But someone else is.”

Tommy frowns, skimming the paper with confusion furrowed in his brow, and then in a blink, the drowsiness is wiped off of his bruised face all at once. He squeaks out a choked noise, eyes flying up to meet Techno’s frantically.

“Fucking what?” he cries hoarsely, throat bobbing as he cranes his eyes over Techno’s shoulder. “They’re— they’re here?”

It’s alarm, mostly, bubbling up over his face, but Techno sees what he needs to see: painful, childish hope, splayed across Tommy’s expression.

“They think you’re dead,” Techno informs him, turning away from the myriad of bruises that only make their concern — while unevidenced — that much more real. Tommy flinches. “I’m goin’ to bring them in. If you’d let me.”

Tommy tries to sit up, forgetting himself in the brief burst of panic. He cries out, crumpling the poster between clumsy fingers as he clutches his abdomen.

“Techno,” Tommy breathes, his face a harsh contrast of pain and fear. “I don’t— I don’t know if—”

“I can turn them away,” Techno tells him, meeting his eyes with conviction. “But they’re worried about you. If you still want to tell them about Glare, this is your chance.”

Tommy swallows down another shaky breath, chest rising quickly. “What if— but what if they’re upset, or—”

Techno almost laughs. “Tommy, they’re fallin’ apart outside my door right now. You guys might be past that.”

Tommy nods, but his eyes are too cloudy for Techno’s comfort, like he’s hearing but not comprehending. Techno reaches out and lays a steadying hand on his shoulder, and Tommy exhales heavily.

“Look at me, kid,” Techno instructs gently. Tommy does, and Techno taps the side of his skull with his fingertips, smiling faintly when Tommy blinks with each tap. “Whatever’s goin’ on in that head of yours isn’t goin’ to happen.”

Tommy looks down, eyes lowered. His fingers twist anxiously in his lap, curling in the blanket. “I’m scared.”

The voices swirl, not liking that one bit. Techno can agree with the sentiment.

“I’m not goin’ anywhere,” Techno reminds him. “Alright?”

Tommy meets his eyes again, worrying his lip raw between his teeth. He scans Techno’s face obsessively, still painfully unsure, before his shoulders loosen, just a bit.

“Alright,” he whispers. With the flash of a grin and a vague gesture of his hands, he mumbles, “Go— bring those bitches inside, I guess.”

“Will do,” Techno tells him, cracking a grin in return as he rises to his feet.

Tommy’s anxiety is palpable, not growing any thinner as Techno makes his way back down the hall. It seeps into the walls, clings to Techno’s skin. Techno can only hope that he’s doing the right thing. According to some histories, and sometimes his own head, he really hasn’t done a lot of that.

Tommy’s roommates are whispering rapidly to each other as he approaches, but the hushed conversation comes to an abrupt halt as they hear his footsteps.

Techno opens the door.

They’ve had a few moments to regain their composure. Ranboo smiles blandly at him, like it’s more of an instinct than anything, and Tubbo just clutches his posters, staring him down warily. Techno can respect it.

Now. What is a soft, non-alarming way to put this?

“He’s in here,” Techno tells them bluntly.

Ranboo chokes on air. All of Tubbo’s posters slide out of his arms, fluttering down into a messy pile at his feet.

Ah. Maybe not like that.

(Well. In his defense, Techno never claimed to be good at this.)

“I’m sorry, what?” Tubbo sputters, entirely unaware of the posters scattered around his feet. “Fucking pardon?!”

“He’s inside,” Techno repeats, while the Ranboo guy looks on the verge of collapsing like a damsel.

Please no, Techno mentally pleads. No more injured teenagers. One is enough.

“Bullshit,” Tubbo spits, edging toward Ranboo’s side. “He’s not— why would he—?”

“Ask him yourself,” Techno offers, stepping aside and gesturing towards the door.

It’s only as Ranboo steps forward and is promptly dragged back by Tubbo’s yanking at his collar, hard enough to choke him — and a frantic whisper of Don’t just fucking walk inside, dumbass! —that Techno realizes what this looks like.

“Okay, that sounds bad,” Techno hastens to correct, raising his hands in surrender. “But he’s been here all week.”

Silence again, punctuated by two incredulous stares.

Techno thinks it’d be less painful to boil himself alive.

“Tommy,” Techno adds quickly, “Tommy Innit is supposedly his full name, but I don’t know if I believe that.”

Nothing. Techno panics.

“Uh, Tommy. He thinks he’s three inches taller than he is. Swears like it's his job.” Showed up on my doorsteps in shambles a week ago. “Talks about women more frequently than a country song.” What else? “Thinks that Bloodlust guy is… poggers?”

They’re still staring at him, and Techno regrets every choice he’s ever made in his life. Then—

“Well, that’s… that’s Tommy,” Ranboo says, blinking incredulously.

There’s a faint thread of exasperation, clinging to his words, barely-there and playful.

“It is,” Techno agrees, relief draping over him like a cool rag.

See Chat? Everything’s fine.

“Why the fuck is he here?” Tubbo sputters, glaring at him. Then, just as sharply, “And why can’t he come out himself?”

Techno fumbles again, and the only thing he can think of to say besides He can barely move is, “He’s afraid.”

“Of what?”

“You,” Techno answers, just a touch too bluntly, apparently, because Tubbo flinches. “Both of you.”

Techno’s words might as well have been water dousing a fire. Both of their shoulders slump. Tubbo steps back so quickly that he backs into Ranboo, who steadies him. The twin frowns they don are perfect mirrors of each other, and of something bitter and sad. Something that Techno doesn’t have the full context to understand.

“He’ll tell you himself,” Techno says finally. He gestures towards his door once more. “That’s all I know.”

Tubbo swallows, eyeing him with a stony expression. Techno has no choice but to meet it with his own, even as he attempts to play a cordial host.

He can finally identify the weird heaviness sticking to the air, to the two of them. They both look so miserable that Techno is surprised he hadn’t realized it before.

Guilt.

“Fine,” Tubbo says, and it dips towards a whisper.

The landmine that Techno accidentally triggered had created a blast bigger than intended, it seems. As Techno steps into his apartment, eyeing the scattered posters in front of his door wearily, Tubbo and Ranboo stick close together.

Tubbo, in particular, does his best to burn two holes into Techno’s back with his eyes. Techno ignores it.

“This way,” Techno directs easily.

Chat does not participate in this charade of relaxation. The conglomeration of voices feels pointed and jumpy, like a sea urchin squeezed between his skull and his brain. It makes him tense, muscles stiff even as he walks casually down the short hall, stopping in front of the door.

“Tommy?” he calls as he raps the edge of his knuckles against the door, a precautionary warning more than anything else.

Acutely aware of the tension radiating off of the teenagers trailing tentatively behind him, Techno pushes the door open.

It’s as he’s entering his bedroom that it occurs to him that he has made another miscalculation.

He enters first, shuffling immediately to the side so that Ranboo and Tubbo can see Tommy in full. Tommy — propped upright on the bed looking nervous as all hell, and absolutely covered in still-healing bruises.

Tubbo comes to a dead halt halfway to the bed, so abruptly that Ranboo collides into his back. He inhales sharply, before Ranboo can even steady himself, at the sight of his friend.

“Hey guys,” Tommy croaks, bashfully waving his bandaged fingers.

Techno has a brief moment to wince and to brace. Then, everything breaks.

“What. The fuck,” Tubbo seethes, rushing at the bed.

Tommy flinches back into the pillows, but the anger is not at him. Oh, no.

As Ranboo crosses hastily to Tommy’s side, Tubbo whips around to glare at Techno.

“What the fuck did you do to him?” Tubbo gasps, chest heaving quickly. His eyes burn like two embers, a vicious sort of anger blazing in them. “Did you— did you fucking kidnap him?”

Techno’s eyes widen, then immediately snap to Tommy, who looks just as startled as Techno as Ranboo and Tubbo flank him protectively.

Do something, his panicked eyes scream.

“I didn’t do this,” Techno tells them instantly, holding his hands out, but Tubbo doesn’t even seem to hear him.

“Ranboo, call the cops,” he snaps, not breaking fierce eye contact with Techno for even a second.

“Let me explain,” Techno tries, taking a step forward.

Tubbo instantly stiffens and Ranboo’s hand instinctively flies out to grasp Tommy’s wrist, like he’s ready to yank him through space-time if that’s what it takes to get away — only in his intense focus on Techno, it backfires instantly.

Tommy gasps, and Techno has heard him in pain enough to recognize it instantly. His eyes laser onto his wrist, where Ranboo is clutching it protectively — only there’s some sort of purple haze, nearly imperceptible, stretching over it. Next to him, the lamp on the nightstand begins to shake.

Techno doesn’t know what that means, but it tugs at his gut like an iron hook.

The air grows impossibly more tense, static electricity crawling over his skin. In his skull, the voices shove forward, viscerally displeased and straining to make that clear. Techno exhales harshly.

He steps forward, bristling, as his lips pull back to snarl, “That’s enough.”

Ranboo glances down and flinches. Releasing Tommy’s wrist, he stumbles back several steps, like he’s been stung. Hurt wrist tucked towards his chest, Tommy reaches for him with his other hand, looking utterly overwhelmed.

“Don’t,” Tubbo snaps, when Techno starts to take another step forward. He edges himself in front of him, eyes flickering between Tommy and Ranboo, now across the room. He’s panicked, like a cornered dog. “Stay back.”

“Tubbo,” Tommy tries, swallowing hard—

“Kid, calm down,” Techno advises at the same time, not appreciatively the level of control he doesn’t have over any of this. “Just—”

“I’m not calming down,” Tubbo spits, venom corroding his words. “That’s my best friend!”

Techno exhales harshly through the distracting sensation of Chat slamming ruthlessly against his skull.

“And that’s my—” He catches himself at the last second, with enough time to gnash the words between his teeth before they can escape him, swallowing them back. “Just— let us explain.”

And Techno looks at Tommy, forcing Tubbo to do the same. Tubbo turns to Tommy, eyes demanding questions with a feral sort of desperation, like he’s braced for a fight.

“It’s like he said,” Tommy tells him quickly, wetting his lips nervously. “He didn’t hurt me.” A breathy laugh that doesn’t feel so humorous, “He’s the one who saved me.”

Another breath of silence, during which Techno braces for an explosion. But Tubbo only exhales one word — so rigid that he could be chiseled out of ice.

“Explain.”

Tommy deflates, tension draining out of him. Techno can tell he’s exhausted from just one look, and he has to resist the urge to send both of them out to let the kid sleep.

“I will,” Tommy breathes, reaching out and grabbing Tubbo’s trembling hands, taking them gently into his. “God, I’ll— I’ll tell you everything. Just in a second, alright? I just need a second.”

Tubbo stares at him, and Tommy is a hard sight to say “no” to. His injuries are at their worst, are in that fun stage where his healing factor has finally gotten a semi-decent crack on them — which means they’re both darker and more colorful than ever, blooming over his skin like purple and blue roses. Techno knows, as Tubbo’s eyes graze Tommy’s darkened throat, that that’s why he relents.

“...Okay,” Tubbo finally says, and the final cloud of tension is shoved from the room.

He collapses forward, shuffling onto the bed until he’s sitting beside Tommy, painfully careful of moving too fast. Tommy swallows, weakly pulling close, so they’re shoulder to shoulder. Then, he turns to the side, glancing at Ranboo who is watching them with a restrained sort of expression as he fiddles with his fingers.

“Don’t get all angsty and shit on me, Ranboob,” Tommy drawls hoarsely, eyes glimmering. “Come here, too, bitch.”

That’s all it takes. Before Techno can blink, they’re all huddled on his bed, pressed shoulder to shoulder with Tommy in the center. He thinks they might be crying too, all three of them.

Yikes.

“We have so much to fucking talk about,” Tubbo whispers fiercely into Tommy’s shoulder, a full-body shake consuming him. “Starting by where the fuck you’ve been.”

“And why you look like you got hit by a truck,” Ranboo adds, concern overpowering the humor he tries to edge into his words. “That feels important.”

Tommy snorts, emotion clinging even to that short sound.

“You’re an idiot,” he breathes, sniffling. And then, to Techno’s surprise, he summons a grin, snaking his arms free to spread them out. “But hug first?”

There’s something there — something that Techno can feel but not place. Something in those words that makes Ranboo’s breath catch, that makes Tubbo’s face crumple into a watery smile. Something that Techno doesn’t understand, but doesn’t think he’s supposed to.

“Hug first,” Tubbo whispers thickly, and then they’re slamming into each other all over again.

Suddenly, everything feels fragile, and precious. Broken, but patched, like a mosaic: shattered fragments of colored glass shoved together to form something treasurable.

Techno silently decides to take his leave, then — but not before catching Tommy’s eyes over his friends’ shoulder, his eyes which are red and puffy and teary and utterly grateful. Like, thank you.

Techno only nods as he steps back, short and simple and unobtrusive. You’re welcome.

He’s done enough, today. Enough threading through emotions, enough fixing, to last him a lifetime. He can step back, and they can handle themselves, he thinks. Tommy, at least, can handle himself.

And when he’s done, well. Techno supposes he’ll be there to catch him.

Chapter Text

Tommy is pretty sure he blacks out during his confession. If he has to try to remember it, though, he thinks it sounded something like this: a breathless burst of sounds, strung messily together like a chain of paper dolls—

Hey! So,rememberhowyouhatevigilantes? Well, I’moneofthem!

Then, before either Tubbo or Ranboo could attempt to parse through his jumbled-up mess of syllables, Tommy had kept going, anxiety turning his nerves into a network of live wires, humming under his skin.

Glare! I’m—that’s me! I’m Glare. You know, the light and plant guy? That’s me. That’s…. Yeah.

He’d trailed off, lungs suddenly contracting, closing off his throat in the process. Fingers twisting into the blankets draped across his lap, Tommy had anxiously awaited a response. And he’s still waiting now, heart stopped and breaths completely ceased as he tries to determine if the unrevealing frown on Tubbo’s face is one of pure hatred or plain incomprehension.

“You’re… what?”

Ranboo is the first to break the quiet, brows furrowed and lips parted around his whispered question. Tommy turns his head to look at him, swallowing as he holds his gaze. But there is no hint of accusation on Ranboo’s face, not yet anyway, so Tommy can bear it.

“I’m a vigilante,” he repeats, slow and careful. His nails dig into his palms, and Tommy barely feels the dull sting of pain. “I’m— that’s what I’ve been doing. That’s why I’ve been acting weird.” He pulls a deliberate breath of air into his lungs. “That’s how I ended up here.”

He realizes dimly, as his gaze slides downward, that his hands are shaking. He curls them into fists, watching the bandages circling his fingers bend, watching the bruise snaking down his wrist distort.

It’s still quiet — painfully quiet. Like each molecule of air is squeezing him. Tommy feels their gazes against the side of his face as if they were tangible, but he can’t bring himself to look up. To a point, he can predict what’s coming: the onslaught of fire, the barrage of hatred, all thinly held back by a faint thread of stupid hope.

“Well,” Ranboo finally breathes, a faintly-humorous exhale accompanying words that crackle like ice, “That’s… not what I was expecting, to be honest.”

Tommy’s eyes shoot up hopelessly. Ranboo offers him a tiny smile, barely there, and painfully awkward. And in that moment — as he imagines eyes that aren’t two different colors but are alight with violet, as he thinks back to that bedroom in the group home, to excited whispers barely contained by hidden smiles — he wonders if the Hero’s League hadn’t just stolen Ranboo’s powers from him, but if it had stolen this wonderful gift, this weightless joy, from all of them.

It’s selfish, hideously selfish, but he doesn’t realize that until the thought has already shot across his brain. Until all he can think, in that beat of yearning, is, Superpowers aren’t supposed to be a curse. They’re supposed to be a gift. Why shouldn’t Tommy get that?

Then the thought is gone, buried until Tommy can’t hear it anymore. Like he never should’ve in the first place.

“How long?” Tubbo asks, cutting sharply through Tommy’s shroud of self-resentment.

Tommy looks at him, chest squeezing. A black hole blossoms in his lungs. It’d be impossible to miss the sharpness in Tubbo’s words.

“Tubbo—” Ranboo starts carefully, grabbing Tommy’s hand with a restrained sort of tenderness.

“No,” Tubbo interjects, throwing Ranboo a harsh look. “I want to know. I want to know how long.” And before Tommy can do more but wet his lips, Tubbo presses on. “How long, Tommy?”

His face is pinched, like he’s contemplating something horrific. Something far off, eons away, that only his eyes can see. He just wishes that Tubbo didn’t need to look through Tommy to see it. It makes him feel like he is the something horrific. Except, maybe he is.

“How long were you going out, and— and getting hurt, and— by yourself— and then coming home and acting like nothing was wrong?” A breath, strained with bitterness, rushes past his lips. “How long have you been— in pain, and keeping it a secret?”

Secret. The word no longer carries that rush of euphoria and sacredness, can no longer fit behind golden smiles or between sugar-sticky palms. Now, it just feels bad, hanging in the air. Like a candy apple gone rotten.

“A few months,” Tommy admits pitifully, because it’s all there is to say.

Tubbo’s chest heaves, like he’s fighting to swim through an invisible tide. “A few months?”

It’s nothing more than a soft echo, so quiet it might as well be Tommy’s own voice, bouncing off the wall back to him, but it sounds wrong. Tommy can’t tell why it sounds like that and it scares him.

“You’ve been doing this for a few months, and you never considered, I don’t know, telling either of us?”

Tommy’s heart hiccups in his chest. This is the talk he wanted to have, and yet, he’s fucking it all up. Just like he somehow always manages to do. The entirety of last week is proof of that.

“Tubbo, I—”

“I mean, look at you,” Tubbo continues, voice starting to shake, and— “You’re— what the fuck happened to you? Is this— is that why you’re like this? Why didn’t you say anything?”

“Tubbo,” Ranboo interjects quietly, and squeezing Tommy’s hand again. “He’s going to tell us. Right?”

Tommy nods, even as fear streaks through him again, icy and vicelike. That’s all he wants to do, actually.

Tubbo’s eyes widen, and when he looks at Tommy, it’s like he’s seeing him for the first time.

“Look, I’m sorry, I— I shouldn’t be yelling at you. I’m not—” He cuts himself off, and Tommy would grin at the fact that they both seem to be walking in circles if he could summon the energy or the humor to do so. “That’s just scary, Tommy. Anything could’ve happened to you and we wouldn’t have known.”

And that’s what it takes for Tommy to get it.

The sharpness in Tubbo’s voice isn’t anger, it’s worry. Tubbo was worried for him. He breathes again, but before his lungs can finish expanding, Tubbo is swallowing hard, eyes skimming over him before dropping harshly to stare into his own lap.

“Something almost did happen,” Tubbo finishes, voice low and gravelly. “And this is crazy, I don't even— I just… I guess I just wish you would have let us help.”

Tommy’s new revelation is instantly dampened by a heavy wash of confusion.

He blinks, unable to deny it from presenting on his face: the confusion, nor the hint of accusation.

“Would you have?”

“...What?”

“Helped me,” Tommy clarifies, clearing his sore throat when his voice threatens to give out. “Would you have helped me?”

And Ranboo seems to understand what Tommy is saying-without-saying before Tubbo does, because his eyes flick down, regret settling across his shoulders. Tommy swallows, wishing his voice wasn’t so utterly broken. It makes him sound childish, and weak, and all things he doesn’t want to be right now.

“Tubbo, you hate superheroes. And vigilantes.” A bitter laugh, so empty of humor it may as well not be called one, as he tries to joke, “You saw me on the news and called me a little bitch, like, two weeks ago.”

There’s not a lot of things Tommy has been sure of these past few weeks, not himself, his hobby, his place in their lives. But this— this, he knows. Even as he tries to joke, even as he tries to strip away the heaviness, he knows this.

This has been rattling around in his brain like a snake set loose, hissing and corroding and destroying and he refuses to let himself believe that any of it isn’t true, because it is.

If nothing else, this is true.

“You hate me,” he continues, voice as low and resigned as a grave. It’s the simple, bitter, truth, and no amount of flowers decorating the burial plot can disguise that. “Or, you would if—”

“No.”

Tommy blinks, faltering. He swings his eyes up so quick they swirl like a slot machine.

“What?”

Ranboo is made from tension, each line of his body cut harshly and stiffly. His eyes are just as sharp, pointed and determined, like pins holding Tommy in place so he can’t miss the message falling off his lips.

“We don’t hate you. We’d never hate you. Not with a superhero getup or without one. We wouldn’t— Tommy, we love you.”

Tommy suddenly finds it increasingly more difficult to breathe. A voice at the back of his skull urges him to go find Techno because surely, surely, this tightening in his chest is a result of his heart imploding.

“I think,” Ranboo continues lightly, a shaky grin tugging at his lips, “that we might’ve messed up a little, uh, over these past few weeks. And we should probably talk about that.” He scrubs a nervous hand through his hair, biting the inside of his cheek before releasing it. “But this— I’m not letting you think that we hate you. Because that’s not true, and it never has been.” He turns his eyes to the side. “Right, Tubbo?”

Silence.

No, not silence. A sniffle. Tommy follows Ranboo’s gaze, some distant cousin of horror creeping over him. Because Tubbo is staring at his lap, with white-knuckled hands clenched into fists on top of it. And Tubbo is crying.

His cheek shines, a tear slicking down to gather at his jaw, gritted to stop the wobble of his chin.

“Tubbo?”

If Tommy hadn’t felt his sore throat protest the words buzzing past it, he wouldn’t know that it is him that speaks at all.

“I’m sorry,” Tubbo whispers, and the room freezes. “I’m so fucking sorry.”

Concern arcs through him, making his skin prickle. “Tubbo?”

When he looks up, his face is ruined, like a fallen battlefield still-smoking. The shining eyes send darts between Tommy’s ribs.

“I want to know all about it,” he continues, wiping his eyes almost angrily— no, desperately— with the side of his hand. “About you, about Glare, about everything. I want to love all of it with you. And I— I never should’ve made you think that that wouldn’t be the case, Tommy.” He exhales, shuddering, like there’s a sob fighting to scrape past his lips and he’s holding it back. “You’re my family. My brother. Both of you. And it’s not— it’s not conditional. It’s never—”

Tommy’s heart squeezes so badly that he lurches forward, needing to get away from it.

“Tubbo, it’s fine,” he insists, leaning forward and only wincing a little bit when pain steals his breath. “It’s—”

Ranboo’s hand shoots out again, wrapping around Tommy’s bicep and easing him back down against Techno’s fancy-ass pillows. Suddenly worn out, Tommy lets him, fingers digging instinctively into his sleeve so hard his knuckles turn white, but Ranboo doesn’t shrug him off, only leans further into him so the guide back down is smoother. Only continues to ground him, eyes filled with that soft, Ranboo-reserved concern that makes the world seem much gentler.

If Tommy weren’t so hurt, or so distracted by the words tumbling out of him, he’d be embarrassed to be so… weak, maybe, is a word he can use. As it is, things are still too shaky for him to be anything but grateful.

“It’s fine,” Tommy repeats, ignoring the fact that Tubbo’s face is so consumed by guilt that it hurts his eyes to confront it. He knows that the guilt runs as deep as the abstract bruises tesselating his skin. “Tubbo, I don’t blame you— either of you— for hating heroes, or powers, or anything. After Ranboo—” And when the boy in question looks away, Tommy can’t help but divert course. “I was the one who lied.”

“Tommy,” Tubbo half-laughs, gritty and strained. “I don’t know what happened to you—” Tommy flinches; he can’t help it, but he can tell Ranboo feels it from where their hands are loosely interlocked. “—but whatever happened… at some point, I made you think I’d be happier with you being hurt or— or dying than telling me the truth. That’s— That’s— unforgivable.”

Tommy rejects that statement with his entire being.

“Please just let me forgive you,” Tommy whispers imploringly. That’s all he wants, he realizes. He thinks that’s all any of them wants. Each other back. “I don’t want to fight anymore. I don't want either of us to feel guilty, or— or anything of that bullshit.” Tubbo meets his eyes, and there’s a painful, fragile hope circling his dark irises. Tommy cracks a grin, faint like a distant star. “Can we do that?”

Tubbo swallows. Then—

“Okay,” he finally says, head bowed. But his eyes are turned up at Tommy, and they’re teary, but bright. “Let’s do that.”

“Good,” Tommy agrees.

And when he cracks a smile at Ranboo, who smiles back, and then turns it to Tubbo, who grins, that's when Tommy’s lungs remember the taste of oxygen. He exhales, and it’s like a cloak of weights is shrugged off of his skin. Everything feels real again.

“For the record,” Tubbo begins, as his lips stretch, his Tubbo-brand of mischief sparking in his eyes. “I still think you’re a little bitch.”

Tommy’s eyes flash, but it’s not sharp. It’s a spark of fire clashing playfully into another, and it’s a firework display they’re creating between them, not a detonation.

“What the fuck,” he breathes, disbelief ringing through him—

“He’s right,” Ranboo chimes in, and when Tommy’s gaze swings towards him, he grins, all mischief and brotherly banter and home. “I’m just saying Tommy, just because you’re the only good hero doesn’t mean—”

“Doesn’t mean you’re not a bitch,” Tubbo finishes, grinning sharply. “Sorry but as your best friend, it is my job to keep you humble.”

“Grounded,” Tommy suggests, cheeks beginning to ache.

“If you will,” Tubbo agrees, eyes shining.

“I don’t will,” Tommy counters petulantly, relishing in the confused brow-furrow it draws from Ranboo.

“Too bad,” Tubbo shoots back. “Fuck you.”

“I— Ranboo, tell him to stop bullying me. This is fucked up.”

Ranboo lifts his eyebrow, hands raised in mock surrender. “I don’t know, Tommy, seems justified to me.”

“You rat bastard,” Tommy breathes. “Way to kick a man while he’s down.”

“That’s what he gets for not picking up his phone and calling literally either of us this whole time,” Tubbo interjects, and though his voice is still light, there’s an edge of stress that rings through. “Don’t think you’re in the clear for making us think you were fucking dead. Once you’re on your feet, I’m beating your ass.”

Tommy recoils. “Now, Tubbo—”

Tubbo looks at him.

Tommy’s mouth clicks shut.

“I’ll allow that.”

“You don’t allow shit, bitch—”

Ranboo chokes on laughter. Tommy’s eyebrows shoot up towards his hairline.

“Tubbo—!”

“Say something I dare you,” Tubbo challenges, eyes glinting as he leans forward. “Tell me you don’t deserve it. Go on.”

Tommy stares at him for a moment. Finally, he turns his eyes to Ranboo, expression sage.

“Ranboo, can you get rid of this Tubbo guy? He’s short, but he can kind of scary when he’s—”

“Tommy—”

“Fine. You’re right. I should’ve called you. I’m sorry,” he remarks dully, but sincerely. It’s at least enough to have Tubbo lean back, satisfied for now. At least until— “Mother Tubbo.”

“I’m going to fuck you up—”

“Okay,” Tommy screeches, as best as his voice can allow anyway. “Okay, I give up. You win.”

“Good,” Tubbo replies shortly, and then everything is calm again.

At least until Tommy’s stomach begins to throb, along with entire body, really — the turmoil of the day catching up to him — and he can’t quite keep it off his face.

Ranboo, perpetually observant, frowns.

“So… can I ask…”

His eyes furrow just slightly as he grazes his fingertips over one of the many bandages wrapped around Tommy’s arms. The one his fingertips land on is a scrape that Tommy is pretty sure didn’t even need a whole bandage in the first place but, like a few of the others littering his body, Techno keeps insisting on redressing anyway.

“Who did this to you?” he asks, voice soft as he draws his hand away.

Tommy swallows, mind instantly flooding with a barrage of images that make his stomach weak. Another wave of pain rolls over him, flaring particularly around his throat, and in his gut, but he can’t be sure if it’s real or imagined.

“I’m not sure,” Tommy admits, cringing as more images assault his mind. Hard boot tips, black clothing, red-slashed masks. His brain tries to put the picture together in the same breath that it tries to block it all out. “We’re still trying to figure it out.”

He isn’t sure if he wants to tell them, even if he does know. It’s one thing for them to know he’s a vigilante, but to know the grim experiences behind the title is another. They shouldn’t be haunted by the bruises that his barely-legal occupation earns him.

But Tommy can’t bear keeping secrets anymore. He’s lucky he doesn’t really know what happened himself.

“It happened really fast,” he recalls hollowly. “One minute, I’m— y’know, fighting crime and shit. And the next, there’s like six guys, all surrounding me.”

That’s the bare bones. He’s sure they can piece the rest of it together. The bruises paint a gory picture by themselves.

“That’s dangerous,” Tubbo breathes, drawing Tommy’s eyes towards him. “You don’t even know why?” Tommy shakes his head silently. “What’s stopping them from coming back?”

Tommy flinches, not appreciating the image that paints behind his eyelids. Tubbo’s tendency to think in binaries, logically and nihilistically, always, is something he doesn’t need right now. Not when Tommy’s already contemplated all that himself.

He hasn’t worried about it too much. Not enough for it to morph into anything more than an anxious inkling, a thorn in his brain rather than a whole bush. It’s been hard to feel unsafe when Techno’s with him: hovering when he doesn’t think Tommy’s lucid enough to register it, and steady at a distance all the other times.

“Sorry,” Tubbo amends quickly, and he’s apologetic even though Tommy hadn’t meant him to be. “I’m not trying to— I’m just saying it’s dangerous. I’m worried about you jumping back into things if there’s still…”

If he says anything after that, Tommy doesn’t hear it. His brain is already too busy latching onto the worst possible meaning that could, and might, be lurking behind what Tubbo is saying.

“Are you asking me to stop?” Tommy asks slowly, something like hurt crawling into his voice before he can stop it. “I thought—”

“No— no!” Tubbo insists, eyes widening. “Not like that. Just… if there’s someone going after you, Tommy, someone who tried to kill you—” He exhales, grief buried deep in his eyes. “You’re just going to throw yourself into it, just like that? Right away?”

“For free?” Ranboo adds, cracking a lame grin that melts away the walls threatening to crawl over Tommy’s heart.

Tommy tries to match the grin and fails, so he scrubs an anxious hand through his hair instead. He can tell he’s jittering and can’t stop it.

“No,” he answers. “Not right away at all.” He huffs an empty laugh. “Techno’s already threatening to keep me inside by force if I try to patrol so. I’m kinda fucked.”

At the mention of Techno’s name, Tubbo’s frown returns, eyes taking on a distrusting glint. He doesn’t say anything, though. It’s Ranboo’s quiet curiosity that breaks the silence.

“Who is that guy, by the way?” he asks, a tad awkwardly, eyes flickering towards the door. “Where’d you find him?”

“Techno?” Tommy asks, as if there’s anybody else.

Ranboo nods.

“You two seem close,” he remarks. “I mean, you told him about Glare. So I’m guessing…”

He trails off, and Tommy panics, but he tries to conceal it behind a contemplative frown. Very frowny and not panicky at all.

Does he— can he tell them who Techno is? He never asked. Shit. He should’ve asked.

“I didn’t tell him,” Tommy says quickly, once the rest of Ranboo’s statement has caught up to him. “I— well. Funny story.”

Tubbo’s face takes on an expression of eternal grief. “Oh, God.”

Tommy grins sheepishly, a flush coloring his pale cheeks. “I— so, usually, when I’m coming back home from patrol, I tend to get in from, uh, the window. I crawl through the window into my room.” He coughs. “So, um, did you know that Techno’s flat is exactly one floor below ours?”

He laughs awkwardly. Ranboo and Tubbo don’t.

“You didn’t,” Tubbo breathes.

“Well, what do you know, there I am. Tommy Innit. Lover of ladies and hero of the people.”

“Sure, Tommy,” Ranboo agrees, like an instinct more than a contemplated thought.

“And— you know, nine floors is a lot to keep track of when you’re bleeding out—”

“Fucking pardon—!?”

“—so, really, it’s not my fault.”

Tubbo blinks, utterly incredulous at the same time that he’s painfully resigned.

“You didn’t,” he repeats, cringing.

“It was a mess,” Tommy admits. “I was concussed, you know, and being a fucking idiot, and I just. Well.” He wets his lips, laughing again. “I just sort of told him? My name and shit.” His eyes flick down as he mumbles, “Well, my entire identity, really, but who cares about that when—”

“What?” Tubbo interjects, and when Tommy looks up, he and Ranboo are wearing matching looks of horror. “Are you fucking with me?”

“...No.”

“How have you kept this a secret?” Ranboo breathes wondrously, eyeing him like he’s not sure if he’s real.

“Not because of anything he did, clearly,” Tubbo answers flatly, shaking his head.

Tommy puffs his chest, squinting at him. “Tubbo—”

“I don’t even— I don’t even want to hear it, Tommy. I don’t think I could handle that right now.”

“Now, really, it’s not as bad as it sounds.”

It’s worse, but Tubbo doesn’t need to know that.

“I’m ignoring you, now. Shut up.”

“...Shutting up.”

For a moment, all the three of them can do is look at each other. Then, Ranboo snorts, and Tommy snickers, and Tubbo breaks and the tension is dissolved by shared peals of quiet laughter, made funnier by the fact that they’re all together again and there’s laughter to be had. Questions to be answered and discussions to be continued, sure, but laughter all the same.

It’s nice. It’s golden. Tommy lives in it.

“So, I take it he didn’t kidnap you,” Tubbo says, when the laughter dies down into comfortable quiet. “That Techno guy.”

Tommy snorts. “He didn’t kidnap me, no. He couldn’t if he tried. I’m too massive.”

Ranboo eyes him dubiously. “He looks like he could bench press a mountain.”

“No, he doesn’t,” Tommy insists instantly. And if his voice pitches a little louder, loud enough that he knows, Techno can probably hear him in the other room if he’s listening, then that’s between him and the universe (and maybe Technoblade.) “No, Techno’s cool. He’s like my…d—doctor,” Tommy coughs. “He takes care of me. Knows how to do medicine and shit.”

Tubbo worries his lip, but his fingertips run calmly along Tommy’s bandaged right arm. “Did he do all this?”

Tommy nods. “Ever since I, you know,” and he cracks a stupid grin, “broke into this bitch, he’s been helping me out. He lets me pop in when I’m hurt and makes sure I’m safe when I’m on my patrols. Shit like that.”

It’s only after Tubbo’s expression flickers into something dim and sad, too slow for him to shutter it away without Tommy seeing, does Tommy realize his maybe-misstep.

“It’s not— I only told him because he was my only choice. Not because I didn’t trust you guys, that’s not—”

“But you trust him,” Tubbo points out.

Tommy can’t tell if the dullness in Tubbo’s voice is in his head or not, but he can’t deny what he’s asking because he does. He does trust Technoblade. With everything, he does.

“I wanted to tell you guys first,” he settles on, voice quiet. He’s hedging, unsure. Hoping. “I promise I did.”

“That’s not what I was—”

“But you need to know that,” Tommy insists. “You need to know that I wanted you guys in my corner, okay?”

Just like before, he almost says. Just like with Ranboo.

“I was scared,” Tommy continues. I was scared. But nothing anyone could do to me was worse than losing you guys. “And you know that now. And we’re all forgiven. So the rest of it doesn’t matter anymore but this does. Okay?”

Tubbo eyes him for a moment before laughing under his breath, lips twitching.

Tommy frowns. “What?”

“You’re just really soft, you know that?”

“...I’m going to kill you.”

“There’s the Tommy I know,” Tubbo cracks, and Tommy lifts a bandaged hand to punch at his shoulder.

Tubbo doesn’t even flinch. Tommy pouts.

“Is it too late?” Ranboo asks, startling them both. They turn to him in sync, with matching looks of confusion. A silent prompt to elaborate. “To be your guys in the corner? I mean, can we help, too?”

He asks it like it’s a question, like Tommy could ever deny it, when it’s all he wanted from the beginning.

He can’t say he’s regretful that he ended up where he is now — he has Techno, now, and that’s fucking sick and he doesn’t know if he’ll ever be able to let go of that, even if Techno tries — but he doesn’t treasure the months of secrets, of hidden bruises and nightly escapades.

But before Tommy can answer — a vehement yes, please building rapidly on his tongue — Tubbo interrupts.

“Oh, abso–fucking–lutely. We’re in the loop now. Tommy’s never getting rid of us.”

Tommy snorts. “I wasn’t even going to—”

“I don’t care,” Tubbo insists, shoving his shoulder against Tommy’s gently. Not even forceful enough to aggravate his injuries. “We’re on your team now. Fuck all the rest of the heroes, you’re the only good one.”

It’s so sudden and random that Tommy can’t help but grin. “I’m a vigilante, you know. Not a hero.”

“Same difference,” Tubbo dismisses him airily, waving a hand. “Either way, that means you gotta text us. None of this disappear for a week and make your best friends think you’re dead bullshit.”

“Mhm,” Ranboo hums. “Keep us updated.”

“—Especially,” Tubbo continues, rampaging onward, as if Tommy is wanting or even capable of disagreeing, “if you’re going to be making fucking grudges with bad people.”

Tommy squints, face scrunching like a ball of paper. “To be fair, I didn’t grudge those people. They grudged me—”

“I’m about to grudge you if you don’t—”

“Fine!” Tommy sputters, raising his bandaged fingers innocently. “I will! Jesus, Tubbo, you’re fuckin’ scary. Holy shit.”

“Good,” Tubbo insists. Then, pausing, as if to let the words sink firmly into Tommy’s brain, “Seriously though, if you’re— getting hurt bad or if you’re sick or if— whatever happens. No matter what. Tell us.”

“I will,” Tommy promises, quiet and genuine.

Tubbo’s eyes are two chips of flint. “And no patrolling on movie nights. That’s fucked up.”

Tommy exhales a laugh. “I won’t. I won’t.”

“Good.”

And then he’s slamming into his chest, dragging Ranboo into the hug too, and Tommy sighs as he sinks forward, syncing his breaths with theirs. He’s never letting this go, ever again.

He’s not sure how long they stay like that, only that when Tubbo and Ranboo lean away, Tommy’s eyes have fluttered close, a warm cotton swelling over his brain, and he groans as he tries to slump back into them.

“Don’t,” he mumbles, fingers groping blindly at the air.

Ranboo laughs, and then there’s a hand brushing lightly through Tommy’s scalp as he’s ushered back down onto the pillows.

“You should sleep,” Ranboo murmurs, as Tubbo shifts to drape Techno’s duvet properly over Tommy’s shoulders. “You look dead.”

“Thanks, Ranboob,” Tommy groans, letting his eyelids flutter shut anyway. “You always know how to make a guy feel special.”

“He’s right,” Tubbo chimes in, voice floating in from somewhere to Tommy’s right. “You do look dead. You should sleep.”

“Sleeping is all I’ve been doing,” Tommy complains near-incomprehensibly under his breath, too distracted with the gentle circles Ranboo is drawing over his scalp to get too upset though. “I don’t want to.”

I don’t want this to end so soon. Tired or not.

Tubbo snorts, flicking Tommy’s forehead. He snorts back, like a horse. If he had a horse tail, he’d be flicking it.

“Well, next time you wanna get yourself beat up, you should keep that in mind, idiot.”

Tommy cracks his eyes open drowsily. “Y’re right. I should’ve tried that. My bad.”

“Mhm,” Tubbo hums.

Sleep tugs insistently at Tommy’s eyelids, wanting to tug him down, but he hesitates. He can’t help it. He has to make sure.

“You guys gonna be here when I wake up?” Tommy asks, as everything starts to get too hazy for his mind to cling onto.

The fear is there, sharp and omnipresent. Shreds of terror that cling to his mind like an oil spill, sticking to even the deepest crevices in his brain.

“No,” Tubbo answers with a certain sense of finality — but before Tommy can even jolt, “Not just when you wake up. But every moment after that, and all the moments after that, too. And if you get sick of us, too bad. Because we’ll be here after that too.”

“Clingy,” Tommy murmurs. Then, “Me too.”

“We’ll be back later,” Ranboo murmurs, barely able to cut through the shroud consuming all of Tommy’s conscious thought. The warmth and pressure at his side lifts, but it’s too slow to stop Tommy from slipping further, even as some part of his brain instantly misses it. “I think I just got my appetite back for the first time in, like, a week.”

“Me too,” Tubbo agrees, voice sounding far away, even though Tommy is pretty sure he hears the footsteps sort-of close. “I think I still have frozen pizza in the fridge.”

Ranboo says something else, but this time, it’s completely lost to him — something that Tommy can barely register. There’s a final call of his name, that he thinks sounds something like, “Bye, Tommy, don’t die,” before everything is mostly too rosy and far gone for Tommy to latch onto.

Footsteps shuffle across the carpet, as slow as his heartbeat, pounding gently in his ears, lulling him further into sleep, before the door creaks open.

And as Tubbo and Ranboo bid him one last hushed goodbye, Tommy is distantly glad that they hadn’t seemed to notice, or make anything of, any of the dozen Bloodlust posters scattered along the walls.

⋆⋆⋆

“Did Tommy go back to sleep?” Techno asks quietly, when the door to his bedroom finally eases shut, and two pairs of footsteps pad softly down the short hallway.

Tommy’s roommates round the corner, looking less exhausted but no less distrusting. The short one meets his gaze steadfast, blinking slowly.

“If you do anything to him, I’ll kill you,” Tubbo tells him, utterly deadpan, before turning slowly and walking straight past the living room for the front door.

Ranboo hovers somewhere in the space between, shifting his weight uneasily between each foot.

“We’ll be back later, if that’s fine,” he adds, cordial — but not in a way that suggests he’s denouncing Tubbo’s statement.

Techno grunts noncommittally from the armchair. He doesn’t fancy his apartment turning into a gathering spot for children, but he supposes he’ll put up with it. For Tommy.

But only because he almost died. No other reason.

Ranboo nods once, decisively, before following his friend out the door.

Teenagers, Techno thinks woefully as the door snicks closed at the front of his apartment, which is barely hidden by the outcrop of the wall: offering about a foot worth of privacy between the front door, the front hallway, and the kitchen.

He hopes, as he gets up almost automatically to make sure the kid is actually intact, that they at least clean up the posters spilled outside his front door.

The day burns away, from afternoon to evening.

Techno’s mind is a buzzing mess, too messy to decipher, antsy like he’s forgetting something, so he distracts himself by aimlessly watching TV. The news is quiet, unsurprisingly, and he only lasts a few moments before switching to some Hallmark channel and letting it play aimlessly. The white noise melts into the chaos of the voices, soothing them like a balm.

All the while, Techno lets Tommy sleep, knowing that he needs it. He’s already resigned himself to giving up his bed until Tommy is capable of walking for more than short bursts of time — which, for both of their sakes, is hopefully soon.

He expects the kid to sleep through the night — he’d certainly seemed tired enough — but sometime around eight, the door creaks open again.

The voices stir out of their uneasy dormancy.

“Techno?” a quiet voice croaks from the hallway.

By the time he cranes his head to look, Tommy is already padding over, hair rumpled and mouth stretched into a yawn. He still looks sleepy, and Techno only has a short moment to wonder what he’d needed and couldn’t call for that required him to be on his feet when Tommy drifts over and drops silently down at Techno’s side.

He yawns again as Techno stills, voices dropping into quieter whispers, like soft waves lapping lazily at a softer shore, gentle and easy.

“Everything alright?” Techno asks lightly, raising an eyebrow when Tommy unabashedly drops his head against Techno’s shoulder.

Tommy hums an incoherent agreement, eyes fixed drowsily on the flickering television screen. Techno sighs and reaches over, dragging his own blanket over Tommy’s lap. Tommy’s lips twitch minutely and a content sigh slips out of them. The voices mimic Techno’s nearly imperceptible huff of laughter.

He finds himself skimming channels aimlessly, thumb clicking at the remote without any particular rhythm. Tommy seems content enough to watch along, and the weight pressed against Techno’s side gets heavier and heavier as his eyes, as Techno observes from his peripheral through fleeting glances, begin to droop, each blink longer and longer.

He expects him to fall back asleep, so when Tommy suddenly gasps, he almost jumps. But even as Techno automatically thinks of an intruder, Tommy is staring at the TV in horror.

Techno follows it and— oh. That's, well. That’s not ideal.

The grainy CCTV footage really does not do his Bloodlust uniform justice. Neither do the headlines accompanying it — though that part, at least, he’s used to.

Potential ‘Bloodlust’ Sighting in 9th District — Rumor Yet to Be Confirmed.

Followed by, Citizens advised to remain calm and indoors. Motives unknown.

Techno almost snorts. Part of him enjoys what the newsfolk have to say about him. It tends to be a contrasting mix of reactions. Telling people to stay indoors is almost amusing. It’d be more amusing if he’d meant to be seen.

It’s a short clip; he’d been careful. The camera catches him turning a street corner, pink braid swinging over his shoulder, mask-covered face melting into shadows as he ducks out of sight. Huh.

Admittedly, it’s not his best work. As if prompted, the voices churn and churn, piqued. The same ruthless haze from that moment blossoms behind his eyes, threatening to be amplified from restless whispers to thirsting cries. He shoves it down, face stony.

He doesn’t know how he expects Tommy to react, but the unchanging abject horror is getting concerning.

Swallowing hard, Tommy drags his eyes away from the screen as the anchor sinks his gnashing teeth into another topic to tear apart until it’s shredded pork.

Techno's eyes are only on the kid.

“Tommy—?”

“Did you do something?”

Techno blinks at him incredulously, not missing the obvious tremor in his voice. His breath is starting to pick up; Techno hears it as loud as a seashell pressed to his ear. Bathed in flickering television light, silhouetted sharply by inky black shadow as he curls into the couch, Tommy looks smaller than ever.

“What?” Techno asks, reaching out cautiously, and—

Tommy jerks away so quickly that he almost tumbles off the couch as he lurches to his feet. Alarm coursing through him, Techno is forced to stand with him. Tommy stumbles back towards the TV, eyes wide and frame haloed by blue-white-grey light. That doesn’t stop Techno from seeing the pure disbelief regarding him. Techno is hit with a rush of confusion at the same potency.

“Kid—”

“Did you do something?” Tommy repeats, face threatening to dip into a pout. “Is that real?”

“Tommy,” Techno starts lowly. His footsteps are cautious and deliberate, but they land against his floorboards with painful uncertainty. “I—"

“It is,” Tommy realizes, voice dull as he swallows hard. “You— why? Did you kill someone?”

Christ. “Kid—”

“You could’ve got in trouble!” Tommy bursts out, chest heaving, and Techno almost freezes. “Why would you do that?”

Have you seen yourself? Techno almost says before he can swallow it down. Instead, he just sighs as Tommy continues, words bleeding into each other in his panic.

“That’s not— you’re retired, Techno, are you fuckin’ crazy? Why would you risk— aren’t you worried that—”

Tommy’s mouth snaps shut as Techno takes two strides forward and all but drags Tommy into his arms. He holds him, chin flat against the top of his head, and his chest shudders with a heavy sigh.

It takes barely another second before Tommy’s arms wrap around him, squeezing tight, as if Techno’s going to disappear if he lets go. Techno huffs a tired laugh.

“I did it for you, kid,” is all he can say, voice murmured into the crown of Tommy’s head. With those words alone, he can feel the tension hemorrhage out of the kid in his arms, dissipating completely. “That’s why I did it.”

Tommy trembles, and the moments stretch long like taffy before Techno steps back.

“I didn’t take you for a hug person,” Tommy mutters through a watery smile, cheeks glistening.

Techno coughs. “I have no clue what that was.”

Tommy’s face twists, disbelief scribbled over it. Now, as Techno’s thoughts solidify, slipping out of that fuzzy, choral haze, he hesitates.

“What?”

Techno doesn’t answer. He doesn’t exactly do this. Hugs. People — vigilante or otherwise.

But, before he can say another word, Tommy does.

“Oh.”

Techno narrows his eyes at him. He doesn’t like the sound of that oh. He doesn’t like the sense of realization dawning over Tommy’s face any better.

“You were scared.”

Techno stills, face tilted to the side, towards the floorboards and deliberately away from Tommy’s eyes. The voices are silent, leaving him to confront Tommy’s surprised guess alone.

“That’s why you went out,” Tommy continues, taking on an incredulous note, light as a feather. “Isn’t it?” When Techno says nothing, Tommy steps forward. “You were… scared?”

“Very,” he finally admits, voice gruff.

He blames the admission on the fact that things still feel too fragile to deny it. How can he, when he’s standing over where Tommy had collapsed? Where Tommy’s blood had watered his floorboards, his hands, his memories.

As Tommy digests that information, Techno wants to backtrack. His thoughts, free of the chatter of his typical choir, threaten to reconsider how qualified he is to take a kid under his wing — how qualified he is to care about a kid when he’s built for breaking things, not cradling soft things.

“Look, think of it like an investment,” Techno starts, voices swirling in his skull. “All the time and resources put into you? It’d be wasted. It only makes sense to—”

Before he can utter another stilted word, Tommy collides with his chest, knocking a small grunt out of him as he wraps his arms around his torso and buries his face into Techno’s shoulder.

“Shut the fuck up,” Tommy mumbles into his shoulder, and Techno does. Then, “I’m glad you’re okay, too.”

The voices murmur. Techno takes a deep breath and exhales into Tommy’s curls.

He can’t bring himself to do anything but return the embrace. Residual fear that he didn’t even know was still clinging to him dissolves, and as it does, so then does his heart. Despite all odds, he’s been made into less than mush: heart cracked open like candy to reveal a soft, gooey core.

Techno should hate it. And he’ll go back to doing that. Just not yet. Not now.

Only for you, he thinks. Only this once.

(And forgotten beneath a first aid kit and a stack of bloody rags not-yet-washed, a phone screen begins to flash, and flash, and flash.)

Chapter Text

Techno is barely gone for fifteen minutes before sharp cries ring through his apartment: frantic, hoarse, and soaked with enough terror to make Techno flinch, all the way in his bedroom.

“Techno,” Tommy cries, sounding breathless and afraid and everything that makes Techno’s chest seize. “Help, please—”

There’s a whimper, and a thud like a body falling in the living room.

Techno’s cup is shattered on the floor before Tommy is finished yelling.

He hears it from his bedroom, and the voices surge into an anarchic roar as his mug hits the ground at his feet. He runs, and there is nothing that could stop him from making it to the other room. Space, time, nothing is a match for the fury of his frantic thoughts.

Tommy, the voices chant. Danger.

Not again, Techno thinks, and it merges with the humming cacophony roaring and roaring in his head, his lungs pressed tightly between his anger and his fear. He won’t be hurt again.

Every cell in Techno’s body bristles as he emerges into the living room.

There’s a man standing over Techno’s sofa, over Tommy, cloaked menacingly in shadow.

Fireworks burst across Techno’s brain: a bombardment of panic and anger and protectiveness that flash abstractly through his head. Tommy is on the floor, back towards the sofa with one arm raised to shield his face and the other pressed tightly against his stomach. Pain and terror strain his face in equal measure, matching the tension riddling his crumpled posture. He kicks his legs against the hardwood and tries to shuffle back—shuffle back, because the man is reaching for him.

The man is reaching for his kid: one long, black-sleeved arm extended out that Tommy attempts to shrink away from. And Techno has enough.

Techno doesn’t see a weapon, can’t even see the man’s face, but it doesn’t matter. He’s already snapping forward, crimson tinting his vision in a quick, all-consuming flood.

“Hey!” he grits out, wishing belatedly that he had a dagger to throw instead of just forceful words—

The man whips his head up, arm retracting with the same velocity as he stumbles back like he was stung. His face is blurred behind the red haze obscuring Techno’s vision, but Techno can distantly recognize that he seems startled as he faces Techno. Like he hadn’t expected Tommy to be alone, maybe.

Whatever the reason is, Techno doesn’t care. All he wants to do is put more of that shock on his face—after Tommy is safe.

But he doesn’t get the chance to take another step before the man’s attention slides onto Tommy, who tries to move back and only manages to let out another quiet whimper, fingers spasming where they’re pressed over his abdomen.

Snapping back into focus, Techno takes two more steps forward—and that’s when it happens.

Tommy’s hand, the one thrown up to protect his face, shoots to the side, bandaged fingers curling around a fallen pillow—a fallen pillow which he immediately throws.

It’s an attack motivated by what must be pure panic because it is so clumsy and feeble that Techno can’t even classify it as a Hail Mary, but—

But it works. Not because it hurts the intruder, no, but because it achieves something else.

Tommy launches the pillow forward. It slams into the man’s shadowed face and just like that he bursts into a flailing mass of wild feathers and glinting talons, the feathered mass launching into the air before the pillow is done falling.

And suddenly, as he hears Tommy’s strangled gasp and watches his oldest friend soar around his living room, Techno understands what he’s dealing with. Or rather, who.

Phil, he grits out internally, grinding his jaw. I’m going to kill you.

Unfortunately, Tommy is not as familiar with the now-falcon soaring over Techno’s sofa, because he scrambles for another pillow. Techno, still reeling, watches him wince and cry out as he twists to grab another fallen pillow to use as a projectile.

But before Techno’s worry can fall off his lips, Phil is swooping down: black-pearl eyes beady and as narrowed as a falcon’s eyes can be as a falcon’s eyes can be as he dives towards Tommy’s face.

“Wait,” Techno tries quickly, heart still galloping furiously in his chest, blood still roaring like a personal tide against Techno’s eardrums. “Phil, don’t—”

It’s too late.

Tommy swings his arm forward, and Phil squawks as another pillow flies at him like a cannonball. Techno hears a quiet, familiar whoosh as he shifts in mid-air, and suddenly, the falcon circling his apartment becomes a hawk.

That’s enough to snap something in Techno’s brain. Maybe it’s the fact that Tommy seems terrified and confused, or that Phil seems pissed and defensive, or maybe that Techno’s landlord probably wrote a subsection into the lease banning hawks from being in the apartment, but whatever it is, it’s enough to prompt Techno into motion.

He lunges forward to crouch at Tommy’s side, curling a protective arm over a shoulder that is so tense it feels cut from diamond. Against Techno, Tommy’s shoulders rise and fall too quickly, shallow and staccato. And just like that, any of the jagged scraps of heated emotion that Techno had swallowed is reignited.

His thoughts fuse down. Suddenly, it doesn’t matter that he’s facing off against his oldest friend because his kid is terrified and injured in his arms and the way Phil is circling in front of him is starting to feel awfully like an attack.

The voices flurry, murmuring relentlessly to protect, protect as Techno’s own side of his brain internally begs Phil not to make him do something he doesn’t want to do.

“Phil!” he yells, feeling more than seeing Tommy’s flinch. But he can’t tear his eyes away from the massive hawk orbiting them from above, lest Phil fail to realise that Tommy is not an enemy, is quite the opposite. “Calm down!”

“Techno,” Tommy breathes, and when Techno turns his head, Tommy’s eyes are wide and stunned, face even paler beneath the slivers of moonlight cascading over them. Techno feels Tommy’s hands fumble to grab onto the bottom of Techno’s shirt, tangling his fingers in it desperately. “Techno, what is—”

Phil squawks—it’s more of a screech than anything and damn it, Techno has neighbors. If he doesn’t fix this, he won’t be surprised if the next people through the door are Tommy’s roommates from all the upstairs—and that’s if he’s lucky.

“Phil!” Techno yells, pushing blades into his words. The voices bombard his skull, slamming and slamming like a battering ram, trying to let his rough instincts bleed into the forefront of his mind. Even the fact that it’s Phil in front of him is barely enough to assuage them. “He’s with me! He’s safe!”

His words must finally get through to Phil—damn birdbrain—because he slows.

His wings extend into an easy glide rather than a deliberate push. He can feel Phil skimming both of them over, and all Techno does is tighten his grip around Tommy’s shoulders, holding him close and securely.

Techno swallows, and he stares pointedly at the oversized bird that circles them. He tries not to remind himself that out of all the birds Phil could have chosen to morph into, the birds he picked were predators. He thinks it’d only stoke the choir in his skull from a messy furor into full-fledged anarchy.

He didn’t know, Techno latches onto. He still doesn’t.

“Phil,” Techno starts aloud, low and strained. The voices lash and lash, like frenzied panther tails, begging to act. “If you don’t calm down right now, I swear—”

He doesn’t finish, voice tapering off as the voices push particularly roughly behind his eyes, but Phil hears what he’s saying, and it sticks this time. It must, because he slows into almost a hover above their heads. There’s a caw, followed by another whoosh, and then a raven is shooting over to them.

Tommy winces, watching it, and Techno is forced to stand as Phil flits over to him. He feels Tommy’s hand yank away from where it had been holding his shirt, and a thin flood of regret washes over him.

He can’t focus on it for too long, because as soon as he’s upright, Phil is landing on his shoulder, talons digging into Techno’s shirt. His feathers, gleaming like an oil spill beneath the pale barely-there moonlight, are puffed up and anxious, and Techno sighs as he steps away from Tommy.

“Techno?” Tommy asks quietly, blinking as he slides a confused and apprehensive gaze between Techno and Phil.

His arms are curled protectively over his own stomach, and his shoulders are curling up towards his ears. He looks almost afraid, still slightly panicked, and Techno wishes he could stay to do something about it. Unfortunately, Phil calls. Or rather, caws.

“Stay here, kid,” Techno tells Tommy gently, losing the gruffness he’d given Phil before he’s aware of it. “I’ll take care of him, and then I’ll be right back.”

Tommy blinks, still painfully wary as his eyes flicker from Techno’s face down to the raven perched on Techno’s shoulder. The raven—who apparently does not appreciate being addressed as something to be taken care of, if the way he pecks at Techno’s ear is any indication.

“Phil,” Techno bites out harshly, too riled up for the probably playful attempt at chiding to come across as anything less than hostile.

Before Techno can finish chastising him, Phil takes off, flapping himself up into the air and shifting. When he floats down onto Techno’s other shoulder, it’s in the form of a pure white dove. Techno glowers at him—because if Phil thinks that shifting into a paragon of innocence abdicates him from breaking into Techno’s house and scaring Tommy, he’s wrong.

But he doesn’t try to peck Techno’s ear again, and so all Techno can do is cast one more cautious look at Tommy before moving.

Phil’s air of patience drops as they emerge into the hallway, shifting questioningly in place, but Techno doesn’t look at him as he enters his bedroom. Rather, he sighs, shaking Phil off of his arm and into the air like a wedding dove the second his door is open.

Phil coos accusingly, attempting to fly back at him, but Techno shakes his head.

“Don’t,” he grumbles, waving Phil back and watching him flutter down to hop around on Techno’s bed. “I’ll be back. I need to calm him down.”

He doesn't explain who “he” is to Phil, though he gets the feeling that Phil is hemorrhaging curiosity over it. He hardly casts him a glance at all as he turns towards the door.

The last thing he sees is Phil shifting into a black-and-grey sparrow, speckled with white, before he is turning on his heel to go check in on the kid.

Birds, he grumbles internally, as he goes. So protective.

Tommy hasn’t moved from the floor when Techno enters.

He’s sitting with his knees hugged against his chest, eyes fixed on the hallway. Silhouetted by the moonlight haloed around him, his posture is sharp and geometric with tension. Behind him, wind rushes through the paneless window, nudging the curtains into a willowy dance.

Ah. So that’s how Phil was able to enter without Techno seeing. Had he waited fifteen minutes, he might not have seen Tommy, alone, and assumed the worst. Then, none of this would’ve happened.

Techno really needs to fix that window.

When Tommy sees Techno enter, he straightens, then winces. The voices pique, hissing in displeasure. Techno takes another few steps forward and kneels in front of him, hands hovering unsurely over the kid.

“You alright?” he asks, anticipating the answer but giving Tommy the chance anyway.

Tommy glances between Techno and the hallway over his shoulder, teeth worrying his lip.

“What the fuck was that?” he half-gasps. “Was that— I mean—”

“That’s my friend,” Techno answers, and Tommy’s eyes widen. “Sorry if he scared you. I don’t think he expected anyone to be here.”

Now that Tommy is safe, and relatively unharmed, in front of him, the jaggedness of the voices is softened. Reason comes more easily to him, and he is grateful to be able to hold onto it. It’s not often that his mind offers him mercy.

“I woke up and he was just standing over me,” Tommy croaks, pulling his knees closer as his shoulders dip down. “I—he was reaching out and I thought it— I thought it was someone… else.”

Oh, Techno thinks, tension wiring his jaw shut as Tommy’s words settle over him.

Someone else—as in, the people who had painted Tommy with bruises and nearly killed him. If anything is enough to rekindle his anger, it’s that, but Tommy seems too fragile like this for Techno to risk affronting him with the loud force of emotions even he can hardly organize.

“Nobody will hurt you here,” Techno vows lowly, reaching out and laying a gentle hand on Tommy’s shoulder. Tommy swallows, looking up at him unsurely. Techno hopes he meets the kid’s worry with intensity too full of promise to deny. “Not while I’m here. I swear it.”

Tommy hesitates, but he must find some sort of solace in Techno’s surety, because his shoulders slump.

“Okay,” he whispers. Then, eyes flickering back towards the door, “Why is he here?” Then, blinking hard and shaking his head like he’s trying to dislodge something from it, “And why the fuck is he a bird?”

Techno almost, almost snorts. That last question, particularly, is almost ironic, for reasons that Tommy doesn’t know. Reasons that would cause Tommy to implode, if he wasn’t so shaken. Reasons like the fact that, unbeknownst to him, Tommy had met another one of his heroes.

“Shapeshifting powers,” Techno explains simply, to the last part. “And he’s here because…”

At that, Techno has to take a second, because the connection doesn’t make itself right away. Then, his eyes catch on one of Tommy’s many bruises, and it dawns on him.

What day is it? Thursday, maybe? He can’t remember. He can’t remember because he doesn’t have his phone and he doesn’t have his phone because Tommy got hurt and he forgot and that wasn’t the only thing he forgot, apparently, because he forgot that he was supposed to meet Phil. Like, a week ago.

“I was supposed to have a meetin’ with him, I think,” Techno answers. Then, almost bashfully, “Uh, last week.”

“What?

“We have them every week. This week I was a little…” Blood, bruises, splintering grief with no more space to exist. “...distracted.”

Tommy’s face falls. “Because of me.”

Techno blinks at him. “Is that a problem?”

“Is it?” Tommy counters, looking at him.

Not even the voices know which feeling to amplify stronger: confusion, or disbelief.

“Tommy,” Techno begins carefully, not caring that Phil is probably losing patience in the other room because the can of worms he thought he was dealing with is looking to be more like a barrel. “Have you forgotten that you were on death’s door a few days ago?”

Tommy looks down, mumbling smartly, “Technically I was on your door.”

“Very funny,” Techno responds dryly. “And it was my window.”

“Very funny,” Tommy mocks, but it’s not very biting considering he’s being so quiet.

“My point,” Techno stresses, “is that no, it’s not an issue. Taking care of you—” when you’re hurt, when you’re dying “—is something I would choose to do every time.”

And then some, Techno doesn’t say aloud.

“Oh,” Tommy grumbles instantly, chest puffing up a bit. “Well, I knew that. I was just making sure.”

“Right,” Techno says, suddenly pushed out of his element.

He has half a mind to just tell Phil to leave—they’ll figure it out tomorrow—but it’s been a week and Techno wouldn’t be surprised if Kristin is somewhere waiting to pounce.

Techno can deal with a lot of things. Phil in birdbrain-mode is one of them. Kristin in stage-three worry is not one of them.

So he has to deal with this now, probably, but that doesn’t mean he can’t make Phil wait a little longer.

“And besides,” he continues, lips poking up. “You know what they say about property value—”

Tommy rolls his eyes. “You and your damn property value—”

“—a teenager bleedin’ out on the hardwood is not good for the market,” Techno stresses.

It’s easier like this—easier to diminish whatever it is they have going on to property value and bloody floorboards, rather than risk confronting in its full fury. And Tommy seems to understand that just as well as him.

“Yeah, yeah,” Tommy interrupts. “I get it. You can’t let me die on the property.” He does it again: looks towards the bedroom and then back at Techno. “Go— talk to your weird bird friend, or whatever.”

Techno doesn’t move. He just sort of stares at him.

Tommy eventually realises that Techno hasn’t moved because he leans back, eyebrow shooting up. “What?”

Techno looks away, some faint amusement blossoming inside him. “Nothin’. Just…” Wondering how you haven’t put it together yet. “I have a question for you.” Something about his tone makes Tommy apprehensive, and Techno can’t do anything but magnify it when he adds, “It’s about Glare.”

Tommy curls back at that. His arms come up to hug his knees. Techno doesn’t know why the sight of Tommy leaning away from him fills him a small amount of disappointment. If he was any better, he’d reach over and pat Tommy’s arm, or something to be comforting.

Instead, he keeps his distance and lets Tommy hesitantly ask, “What is it?”

Techno nods his chin vaguely towards the bedroom door. “My friend may be able to help us get information about the attack.” It’s almost amusing—how just saying the attack can set the voices ablaze. “He would need to know about you.”

Techno can see, on Tommy’s face, that he’s not instantly enthusiastic about that idea. Distrust radiates off of him, and even in the near-dark Techno can see that. It’s a fair reaction—Techno has hardly had a chance to explain anything, and because the universe is out to get him, the mess he’d cleaned up has been replaced with a new sort of mess.

But Tommy seems more torn than anything—stuck between his trust in Techno and his uncertainty regarding Phil—so Techno presses on.

“I don’t have to,” Techno adds quietly. “And I never would unless you gave me permission. But I trust him with my life, and I think he could help us find out who hurt you.”

Tommy’s fingernails dig anxiously into his palm. “Does he know who you are?”

Tommy’s words almost place another secret smile on Techno’s face. Does he? he could answer. He’s like me. Instead, he just nods. Tommy will figure out the rest later, once the shock wears off or when Techno tells him. For now, Techno is content to keep him calm.

“He does.”

Tommy still looks hesitant, and Techno’s certainty begins to crumble. He doesn’t want the kid to give him permission if it’s not what he really wants. But he doesn’t have a chance to reaffirm that sentiment before Tommy is asking, words bursting out of him quiet and fragile—

“And he won’t tell anyone?”

Techno shakes his head. That, at least, he has a solid answer for.

“Never,” he swears. “He’s kept my secret for years. If knows you’re with me, he’ll treat yours the same. I’ll make sure of it.”

It sounds, perhaps, more like a threat than he intends for it to, but it succeeds in drawing the tension out of Tommy’s shoulders. He runs his tongue over teeth, soaking in Techno’s words.

Then, meeting Techno’s eyes, “Okay.”

He hears him—but he has to make sure. “Okay?”

“You can tell him,” Tommy whispers, glancing over to the hallway for the fourth or fifth time. “If— I mean, if you think it’ll help.”

They both wince at the same time. Techno distantly wonders if the images that flash behind his eyes are the same hue as the ones that must flash behind Tommy’s: red, black, and blue. He swallows harshly, knee beginning to ache where he’s knelt on the hardwood. Static from the TV light flickers over their faces, and Techno takes the time to observe Tommy once more before nodding.

“Alright,” he says, beginning to stand when—

“Wait,” Tommy blurts quickly, hand shooting out to tangle with the bottom of Techno’s shirt again. Techno stops, appraising him. Even in the near-darkness, Tommy looks nervous. “Is— this doesn’t really have to do with your friend, but—Ranboo and Tubbo.”

“...What about them?”

“Can they know?” Tommy asks, words tumbling clumsily off his tongue. “About you? I mean— I trust them too. With my life. I know it hasn’t exactly seemed that way, but I swear—”

“Uh, sure.”

“—that they’ll keep it a secret—”

“Okay.”

“—just like your— what?”

Tommy cuts himself off so fast that Techno can’t help but grin, faintly amused.

“Sure,” he repeats slowly, watching confusion contort every line of Tommy’s face. “Against all odds, I trust you kid.”

The voices rattle, both in agreement and disagreement.

Him yes, they seem to say. The others, no.

But he trusts me, Techno reminds them—reminds himself. Tommy trusts me.

“At the very least,” he continues, “I wouldn’t ask you to do somethin’ that I wouldn’t do myself.”

Tommy blinks at him, still visibly thrown off. “Right.” Then, tension vanished to the point that he seems weightless, “Thank you.”

Techno cracks a grin. “No need to thank me. We’re business associates, right?” Tommy nods slowly, brows still scrunched. Blue eyes follow him carefully as Techno leans down to grab the blanket he’d been using and throws it at him. “Put on a movie or somethin’. If you’re not passed out when I get back, I’ll watch it with you.”

Tommy nods, seeming slightly disoriented still, but the panic is gone. The fear is gone. The pain, for the most part, is gone.

Techno can take care of the rest.

Just… after he takes care of Phil.

“Be right back,” he tosses over his shoulder, and Tommy’s noncommittal hum of agreement follows him down the hall.

For Tommy’s sake, he hopes he’s right.

When Techno pushes open the door to his bedroom, there isn’t a bird to be found.

That is neither reassuring nor alarming. Rather, it just means that when he enters the room, Phil is in human form, reclined against Techno’s bed.

Distantly, before the music swells and the conversation he doesn’t want to have inevitably occurs, Techno wonders what it is about his bedroom that makes it a conducive environment for heart-to-hearts. Then, Phil is jerking to his feet, eyes narrowed.

“Techno,” he starts, “What the hell is going on, mate?”

“I can explain,” Techno answers immediately, easing the door shut behind him. “But keep it down would you? The kid is probably tryin’ to sleep.”

Phil blinks at him. Techno almost cringes. With Phil in front of him, all but forcing him to deposit even the softest parts of his thoughts by presence alone, he feels unusually pulled-apart.

The kid, he told him, casually. Perhaps if he were anyone else, anyone else without a ledger soaked with crimson, those words might not fit so awkwardly in his mouth.

But this is Techno, this is Bloodlust, this is Phil’s best friend—and Techno knows that Phil is experiencing the same shockwave that Techno had when he’d realised he’d kind of-sort of committed to harboring Tommy in his home.

(When he’d kind of-sort of began to enjoy it.)

“The kid?” Phil repeats, eyes flickering over to the door. He inhales slowly, exhales harshly. Techno can see him reaching for composure. “Techno, where did you get a kid?”

Techno snorts, crossing his arms. “Don’t say that like you’re expectin’ me to tell you he’s mine.”

He says it like a joke, because it sort of is. Tommy isn’t his. But Phil doesn’t laugh. Only continues to study him with pursed lips and narrowed features, arms crossed tightly over his chest, like he’s panning for the joke.

Techno’s amusement vanishes.

“Phil,” he begins bluntly, nearing on incredulous, “He’s not mine.”

Phil takes a moment to drink in his cautiously widened-eyes before he seems to settle for that. And by settling, he throws his crossed arms up, stepping back.

“Well, it’s not like I could’ve known that, Techno!”

“Couldn’t you?” Techno echoes, though his heart, despite himself, almost seizes. He shakes his head, extending a hand warily. The voices remain, helplessly, silent. “I— I don’t have a son, Phil.”

Features lasered sharply ahead as he assesses him, Techno is awed, not for the first time, by Phil’s ability to appear so birdlike even with long, awkward human limbs. If his trademark Crowfather wings were attached to him like a large black oil spill, Techno knows they’d be puffed up and anxious. 

His eyes are sharp and narrow, pupils nearly merging with irises that are a shade too dark. Perhaps he’s losing more of a grip on his shifting than Techno had anticipated. Worry always was Phil’s Achilles heel.

It takes a short eternity before Phil suddenly exhales, harsh and heavy. His shoulders slump, irises lightening. Techno is made very aware of that as he flicks his eyes at Techno, worry strained in the tremor of his mouth.

“You missed our meeting, mate.”

Techno winces. “I know.”

“I had no clue what was going on,” Phil continues, shoulders bristling once more. “All I knew is that you weren’t answering, it had been days since we talked, and then who do I see on the news?” He scoffs, though it’s dry of any real humor. “Bloodlust.”

“I can explain myself,” Techno begins lowly.

Phil tilts his head. “You will. But first—” And if Techno were a lesser man, or perhaps if he didn’t know his friend, he might have drawn in a short, frightened breath at the darkness consuming Phil’s face, as potent as a shadow. His oldest friend is deadly serious as he asks, low and dangerous, “Did you get caught?”

The sonant chaos dwelling at his nape hiss with scorn.

Have we ever? they seem to say. But Techno doesn’t mimic them, even as his eyes flash with the same scorn-tinted, crimson memories.

“No,” he answers plainly. “It was clean.”

The tension, the danger, ebbs. Phil’s face lightens, as if he hadn’t summoned a black hole across his features at all.

“Good,” he breathes, scrubbing an anxious hand through his hair. “That’s one less thing to be worried about, I suppose.”

A shard of guilt embeds itself into Techno, tearing up his lungs. He can’t say it’s new.

Here we go, he thinks, and it’s not the voices this time but his own conscience, prodding and prodding at him.

“I’m sorry I missed the meeting.” Phil raises an eyebrow, but Techno already recognizes his mistake. It’s not about the meeting. He exhales, tries again. “I didn’t mean to worry you. I didn’t have my phone.”

“Because you were too busy committing felonies? What happened to being in retirement, Techno?”

Techno raises an eyebrow, defensiveness crawling through him. “I didn’t do anythin’ to anyone who didn’t deserve it.”

Phil laughs. “That’s reassuring.”

Techno smiles, sharp as a blade. “It should be. I could’ve been… I don’t know. Destroying another government.”

Phil rolls his eyes, and Techno, joined by the voices, is vaguely pleased to see the tension start to seep out of him. The fury of his guilt lessons. Perhaps this conversation won’t be so unnavigable after all.

“Right,” Phil breathes, and, with an exasperated sort of resignation, “I’m sure the Guild will appreciate the difference when they hear about it, if they haven’t already.”

Techno doesn’t voice it, but he can’t find it in himself to care about what the Guild thinks of his retirement, at least not at the moment. Though, he hadn’t cared much when he’d done it either.

Where Techno expects his mouth to be able to produce something useful, nothing comes.

Rather, silence settles awkwardly over them. Techno can’t help but listen to it, splitting some of his focus past the walls of his bedroom, past the door, where a slow, relaxed heartbeat thumps and thumps. Faint television chatter washes over it. He can’t help but relax with it.

It must show on his face, or somewhere that Phil can recognize, after so many years, because he straightens, just a bit. Techno hardly has a chance to take notice of the pointed focus directed at him before—

“I see you’ve been preoccupied,” Phil remarks, so casual that it bypasses casual completely. Or perhaps that’s the curious shine in his eyes, barely dampened by wariness. “Your kid—”

“I don’t have a kid,” Techno repeats.

His heartbeat kicks, as if to disagree with that sentiment. Techno just doubles down, jaw clenched and eyes forward.

Phil’s lips curve. “But he’s yours. Or something like it.”

Techno tightens his crossed arms. “What?”

“You protected him,” Phil points out, as if that means something particularly grand. “From me.”

And it does mean something somewhat grand. That, at least, Techno finds he can’t shy away from acknowledging. “You scared him.”

It’s a truthful response, but a simple one. Tommy’s fear had torn away some of the composure of his thoughts. He hadn’t had time to properly react, lest something happen. And Techno couldn’t allow that, could he?

Phil brushes him off completely. “Is he the reason, then? That you haven’t answered?”

The answer he wants, expects, is simple. In the short pause that follows, it feels anything but.

“Yes,” Techno answers eventually.

Yes, as if he hadn’t felt the foundations of his mind shaking as he’d patched up the broken boy splayed across his floorboards.

Yes, as if the night hadn’t carved a wound into him, patching the scar it had made with too many messy emotions to hope, or care, to sift through.

Yes, as if that word is enough to explain anything. But it’s the answer he offers all the same.

“Well,” Phil begins, and Techno almost groans. There’s a horrible knowingness there, draping his voice, that Techno can do without. Phil seems to sense that, because he shifts into something softer. “I’m glad you’re alright. We were worried.”

“I’ve been fine.”

“I’ve noticed,” Phil replies, with that same knowing grin. “These past few weeks… was that him too?”

Well, you certainly seem healthier, Phil had said. And that had only been the beginning.

“Tommy,” Techno interjects without thinking. When Phil pauses, Techno clears his throat, jerking his head towards the door. “That’s his name. And… yeah.”

“Tommy,” Phil repeats, working slowly through the two syllables. “He seems nice.”

Techno’s brow twitches. It’s… a feeble compliment for sure. Phil had hardly seen him, and the glimpse he had was so not-Tommy that Techno doesn’t know if it even counts.

“Give me a chance to introduce you two properly,” he laughs gruffly. “Another day,” he tacks on, dragging the words out, before Phil’s eyebrows can shoot too far up.

He surprises even himself with how easy the offer comes. He’d offered to introduce Tommy to Phil without thinking. And now he’s left pondering when Tommy had become such a permanent fixture in his life. Permanent in that way, anyway.

He’s been a constant, sure, but not so intrinsically important.

Techno keeps talking to avoid pondering that further. The line had become too blurred to dissect without expending too much effort.

“He’s actually tolerable, most of the time. You'll probably like him,” Techno adds, almost snorting to himself. Then, smiling wryly and unable to resist, “He’ll like you, that’s for sure.”

Phil becomes impossibly frozen, eyes narrowed suspiciously. “What is that supposed to mean?”

“Tommy is a big fan of Crowfather,” Techno tells him, dry and amused, eyebrows arched up a fraction, only a touch of chastisement edging his words. “You’re lucky he didn’t put the pieces together when you were out there."

But Phil doesn’t share his amusement. He frowns, pulling his body in.

“He couldn’t have. Even the Guild doesn’t—”

“The Guild’s not Tommy,” Techno drawls. “He might not know that Crowfather’s abilities are more… expansive than the public knows, but if he’d seen enough, he could’ve guessed.”

He’d done it concussed, Techno laments internally. Though, it’s hardly a lamentation when hindsight colors it with a small burst of pride. And with less.

Phil squints at him. “I don’t like the way you’re saying that, mate.”

In a way, Techno knows that Phil knows what he’s about to say. He can tell by the way his features have gone sharp and flinty, like an arrowhead. Still, he does what is done best to band-aids.

He rips it off.

“He knows about Bloodlust.”

“What?”

Phil’s anger-riddled shock is almost a physical thing, flaring out around him. He steps forward, eyes flashing. Techno doesn’t step back, but Phil doesn’t give him an opportunity to speak.

“Techno, have you lost your fucking mind?” He casts an almost horrified glance towards the door that separates them and Tommy, and that Techno thinks is mildly overdramatic. Or perhaps he’s just grown too used to Tommy’s presence. “That’s dangerous.”

“Tommy’s harmless,” Techno counters, waving a dismissive hand.

That, perhaps, isn’t entirely candid. Tommy’s not helpless. But he’s harmless in all the ways that matter, and that’s enough.

Phil swipes a tongue over his lips, chest heaving. “Techno.”

Or… maybe not.

His voice wavers, shaking with disapproval. Something about it digs into Techno’s chest.

“Phil, I need you to trust me on this one. Tommy—”

“No!” Phil yells, voice pitching up with what sounds like delirium. “No, Techno, are you hearing yourself? It’s been a week, and—”

“It’s been longer,” Techno interjects instantly, not knowing or caring if that helps his case. He needs to cut down the inevitably messy storm of emotions with lightning bolts of logic. It’ll be easier for both of them. “I’m not an idiot.”

“You’re making me question that,” Phil bites out, and that makes Techno step back. “That’s irresponsible. Did you even stop to think about what that would mean if you told him?”

It’s then that Techno recognizes the prickling beneath his skin—irritation.

“I didn’t tell him. He figured it out.”

“And that’s much better?” Phil heaves, laughing bitterly.

It’s derived from worry, somewhere deep down Techno knows that, but it feels like accusation. For the second time that night, the voices sing a dangerous displeasure. Phil’s strained laugh hisses in his eardrums like a mockery.

Suddenly, the one thing that Techno had somewhat convinced himself he could have feels threatened, and he doesn’t like it.

But Phil launches right back into his rant, with all the grace of a bird lifting its wings and propelling itself back into the sky.

“Jesus fucking christ, Techno,” Phil hisses, looking half a second from charging out the door. Techno catches him digging his fingernails into his palms, no doubt staving off the instinctual development of talons. “This is serious, mate. You can’t—”

Techno raises an eyebrow, an iciness settling over him, sharp and swift. “I can’t?”

Phil’s mouth snaps shut. He steps back, perhaps surprised by the sudden hostility, but Techno can’t say he regrets it. The noise at his nape becomes a bombardment, a clashing riptide of whether to bristle with anger or try to explain himself.

Techno had never been good with words. Phil must notice his restraint slipping, because he falters in his momentum.

“Mate, that’s not—

“I need you to trust me when I say that he’s safe,” is all Techno can offer—short, somewhat sweet, and utterly unrelenting.

He needs Phil to listen more than he ever has before. He needs Phil to understand, even in the spaces that Techno still doesn’t.

Techno draws in a deep breath, only letting it out when he feels pressure edge around his lungs. It earns him a short amount of clarity that he lets envelop him.

“Tommy is good,” Techno exhales. “He’s not going to say anything he shouldn’t.”

He waits for the push, the pressure that he is only partially sure will come. Phil studies him, still painfully disbelieving. But there must be something important written in the firm, stone statue he has become because Phil only flicks one last glance towards the door before stepping back.

“You really do trust him,” he states softly.

It doesn’t feel like a question anymore.

“He’s like us,” Techno says, answering without answering, and Phil’s lips part, making room for shock to filter over his face. Techno gives him the mercy of explaining without making him wait. For all the talking they’ve done, there still feels like so much more to go. “Like we were.” Then, cradling Tommy’s biggest secret between them and releasing it, “He’s a vigilante.”

The rest of the tension electrifying the air recedes. In its place, confusion floods.

“...How?” Phil asks, pressing his hands together in front of himself absentmindedly. His brow pinches, worry scribbled there. “I mean, I only saw him for a moment but… he looked so young.”

Finally, it’s the first thing they seem to agree completely on all night. Techno laughs gruffly.

“He is, unfortunately,” he sighs. “It’s why I’ve been… looking after him, I guess.” And finally, the understanding that Techno had wanted dawns on Phil’s in full opacity. The headache he’d been developing at the voices’ noise shrinks back, and the pressure wrapping his lungs does too. “The kid would be dead without me. I keep him in check.”

He doesn’t wince when he says it—the kid would be dead without me—but he wants to. It’s a regretful truth. One that unsteadies him every time.

If Phil sees the shreds of that night play across him, he lets him dwell on it.

“This is why,” Phil begins instead, rubbing intently at his temple, “We don’t miss meetings.”

Techno snorts despite himself. Phil laughs under his breath, but it’s strained, like a note yanked off of a tightly-strung violin.

“I’m serious,” he stresses, meeting Techno’s eyes. The late hour becomes more apparent in the breath of silence that stretches out in front of them. “I— Techno, I thought he was a home intruder.”

That draws another laugh from the back of Techno’s throat. “Well, to be fair, he sort of was—”

Phil’s eyes snap to him, eyes dilating so wide that his pupils almost eclipse the mild blue. “Pardon?”

“It’s complicated.”

Phil’s chest heaves. “Techno, you can’t just say that shit without elaborating.”

“What do you want me to say, Phil?”

“Oh, for fuck’s— everything, Techno.” There’s a genuine edge of disbelief sharpening his words that erases any ounce of humor that Techno had tried to default to. Phil swallows hard, throat bobbing. “I want to trust you that you have… whatever this is handled but, mate. You’re not giving me a lot to work with.”

It’s the pleading look decorating Phil’s face that does it: makes everything feel real. Less like a fantasy, a funny story, and more like a solid weight in his palm, something heavy and tangible and no longer so simple.

Something cracks, and the uneasy stirring of the voices melts quickly into a dull pressure.

“It’s late,” is how he begins, holding Phil’s gaze carefully. “Can I give you the short version for now?”

Phil hesitates, skimming his face. He must find the honesty and mild openness that Techno hopes he’s projecting because he sighs, some of that sharp tension easing. Some of it, because his eyes remain intense where his shoulders sag.

“Only because it’s late,” Phil sighs, and relief rushes through him. “And because I’ll be making you explain this to Kristin all over again at our next talk.”

He stretches out that last word, letting it hang between them with a special weight as he waits for Techno’s agreement. It’s a silent threat, almost, a firm you’re not allowed to miss it again. Techno wouldn’t want to anyway.

Techno offers his agreement easily, a short nod.

Even then, Phil tacks on, no doubt out of lingering uncertainty, “Alright?”

“Alright,” Techno agrees out loud, a low but heavy promise.

And then he tells him everything.

Or, most of everything. The pieces that still fit awkwardly in his brain he keeps to himself. Tommy’s story he keeps brief and vague, only offering the barest pieces of information about Glare and waiting for Phil to fill in the pieces himself, if he can.

Even then, the “short” version stretches like taffy, and Techno’s head is beginning to ache. Still, when he finishes—skipping over last week completely and bringing them both to here, to now—the stilted laugh that topples out of Phil makes it worth it.

“Well,” he breathes, rubbing his hands together like he can’t tell whether to wring them or squeeze them. “That’s… certainly a story.”

And that, Techno thinks, is an understatement.

Of course, he doesn’t have a chance to voice that, because Phil laughs again.

“You know,” he starts, drawing Techno’s eyes to his. “When I said you should socialize more, this is not what I had in mind.”

Techno’s lips quirk up. “Yeah, well, it took me by surprise, too.”

Phil raises an eyebrow, a strange knowing glint in his eyes that Techno doesn’t even try to unravel.

“And this is what’s been keeping you busy these last few weeks?”

“Tommy is a handful. I think I’ve gone through about five first aid kits by now.”

“Hm,” Phil hums lightly, and that is too blatant for Techno to try to brush off.

He stifles a groan as he raises an eyebrow. “Just say what you’re goin’ to say, Phil.”

Innocence spreads across Phil’s face as he raises his hands. “I’m not saying anything, Techno.” But then, contrasting his words at the sharpness of Techno’s disbelieving face, he tucks a smile away. “It just reminds me a little of how we met, is all. Back before the League.”

And that, well, is not something he can exactly deny. It’s not like he hadn’t made that same connection himself, like he hadn’t traced the bruises on Tommy’s skin back to old scars on his own, or Tommy’s fears to pieces of himself he’s since tried to bury.

But Tommy had forced him to unearth those parts, and now his hands are covered in too much soil to completely wipe away.

It’s not surprising that these thoughts pull Techno under, a brief haze falling over him that Phil effortlessly draws him out of.

“I know retirement can be a lonely business,” Phil murmurs, and that’s enough to shake him back to reality.

Techno’s memories seep back down to the trenches of his brain where they belong, before they can take any real shape.

Phil sighs, and Techno blinks uncomfortably at the distinct emotion sharpening his silhouette: guilt, or something very close to it.

“I know I haven’t been the most… proactive in seeing you lately,” Phil regrets heavily.

Techno… does not appreciate seeing that on his friend’s expression at all, actually. He summons a breath of humor to his voice to try to soothe him.

(Perhaps, now that he’s had so much practice, it might just be a breath more effective than before. He’s always been better with actions, rather than words, but Tommy has made him want to learn. Or maybe it was pure necessity that made him practice more—he needs to know how to communicate with a kid who blossoms the most beneath casual praise.

Yes. That sounds right. It was a necessity.)

“We’ve had our talks,” Techno points out.

“Hardly,” Phil counters instantly, waving a hand. His eyes glimmer. “Someone has been neglecting them.”

Now it’s Techno’s turn to feel it, that guilt. “I know—”

But Phil interjects again. “I’m not angry at you, Techno.”

Techno blinks, mind flashing back to earlier. “You’re… not.”

Phil laughs, light and easy. “Maybe earlier,” he amends with a faint grin. “But that was before I knew how complicated things had gotten.”

His eyes take on a slightly far-off glaze before focusing once more, this time genuine and soft with worry.

“You said the voices had been getting loud. How are they now?”

“Quiet,” Techno answers. “Quiet, most of the time.”

Phil’s eyes scrunch. “That’s good. I’m happy for you, mate.”

Something in Techno’s chest freezes. He feels, suddenly, that he has to justify himself, and it’s not often that his emotions become solid enough for him to grasp with absolute certainty, but they do now. Standing beneath the tired gaze of his oldest friend, the years-old urge to prove himself buzzes through his veins.

This time, though, he doesn’t know exactly what he’s proving. That he’s able to cradle as easily as he is able to break, or something else. Whatever it is, it loosens his tongue but tightens his throat.

“He’s… a good kid.”

Phil nods, as if he knows how easy Tommy makes it to be so unsteady, when that couldn’t possibly be true. “He seems like it.”

“My apartment gets loud now,” he continues stiltedly. “I never thought I’d appreciate the noise, especially considering…”

Phil fills in what Techno can’t as easily as filling in cracks with plaster.

“But it’s different,” he offers, and Techno’s shoulders slump.

“Yeah.”

“Good different,” Phil further clarifies watching him.

“Yeah,” Techno repeats slowly. “Yeah, he’s… he’s good.”

“Good,” Phil finishes, right as Techno loses his ability to keep going. Not because he doesn’t want to but because… well, he doesn’t really know. He just can’t. “This place could do with a bit of noise, I think.”

Techno thinks he hums something, even dips his head lazily forward in agreement. He doesn’t realise that he’s sort of checked out of the conversation until Phil clears his throat.

“Well, if there’s anything you need—”

And it’s as if he had never zoned out at all.

“There is, actually,” Techno jumps in quickly, and the voices wake with him, swirling and swirling.

Phil straightens at the sudden seriousness of Techno’s expression. “Whatever you need.”

Techno’s lips twitch—not a smile, more of a mirthless grimace. It’s his best and only attempt at not letting the hungry danger spill out onto his face. He doesn’t want to lose himself that way again, not without someone deserving in front of him to bear it.

“Did you see them?” Techno asks gravely. “The bruises? On the kid?”

Phil frowns, eyes flickering over to the door. “I did. Or, well, I wasn’t sure if I had or not but… did something happen?”

Across the apartment, Techno listens for Tommy’s heartbeat. His enhanced senses strain until he catches it, steady and alive. Only then does Techno continue.

“A week ago, he was attacked.” Techno draws out the words deliberately, measured and controlled. “We don’t know who did it, or why, but I have passports.”

Phil had always been born from the same loyal danger as him. He doesn’t question the integrity of his statement, doesn’t utter a word about the timeline between the missed meeting and the Bloodlust sightings that Techno is sure he is putting together.

Instead, he asks, face dangerously blank, “How many?”

This time, Techno does let himself grin. The promise of justice always made for easy smiles.

And this, unmistakably, would be justice.

For all that his bravado made for swift and unrelenting headaches, what had happened to Tommy was more than just a fight gone wrong. It was cruelty. And Techno may be a lot of things, but he isn’t cruel.

“The kid says seven total, maybe more, maybe less. I have two passports.”

It’s a short distance between him and his nightstand, and that’s where Techno had stored them. He slides the drawer open, lifts the false bottom, and extends them to Phil.

Phil takes them wordlessly, studying them in his hands.

“Fakes,” he states, just barely tipping up towards a question, and Techno nods.

“Good ones. And that’s what worries me.”

If he hadn’t been in the business that he had been, Techno wouldn’t have recognized it at all. But studying them for hours over the last week had only made the tells more pronounced.

“I don’t like that whoever went after him was able to have these,” Techno mutters. “I don’t like that they wanted to run.”

And the voices shove forward, like they’re trying to pile onto his tongue, turn his words into blades.

He’d let them, if he didn’t need to focus. Focus on the fact that someone had gone after a vigilante, and neither him or Tommy could come up with a solid reason as to why.

There aren’t many, when it comes to vigilantes in the first place. There’s no good reason to go after them—not unless it was a villain with a debt to settle, but then Tommy had said he hadn’t interacted with any. And Tommy wouldn’t lie to him.

Unfortunately, that doesn’t leave Techno with many good options.

Not even the police were valid candidates, because they hardly bothered regulating vigilantes at all after the legislature rolled out by the Guild to protect them. The protection was thin, and they were granted hardly more respect than a squatter, but it was protection all the same.

Again—no good options, and with something like this… Techno gets the feeling that non-good answers mean bad options. Worse than bad.

And worse means difficult to track down, worse means Techno doesn’t know whether these people were after Tommy, or Glare, or just a bloodthirsty thrill. Worse means Techno doesn’t know which debt he needs to finish settling with red.

“You want me to look into this,” Phil guesses, flicking his eyes up.

Techno nods. “Please.” And then, hesitating, “I don’t normally ask for favors—”

And Phil does, which is probably why he raises a hand. “But this is important,” he finishes. He looks back down, knowing the answer without needing Techno’s affirmation. “Right. I’ll see what I can do.”

Techno’s lungs deflate, the building pressure he’d hardly noticed dissipating at once. “That’s all I ever ask of you.”

“I’ll look into it,” Phil promises, and Techno is more than relieved to see that his face has hardened, just like his own. “These are no doubt aliases but if I can find anything, I’ll let you know.”

“Thank you,” spills from Techno’s lips, nearly a mantra. “Thank you, Phil.”

Phil smiles, tight and contemplative. “There’s no need. You know I’d do anything for you or yours.”

You or yours, Techno almost repeats, just to test it, but he doesn’t. Instead he shoves all the messiness threatening to slip out of his head and into sound back where it’s comfortable—which is away from his tongue.

“Can I take these?” Phil asks, studying the passports once more. He thumbs over the leather, flicking at a spot of what might just be crimson. Whoops. “If they’re dead, Kristin may be able to get something off of them.”

“Of course,” Techno answers. “Just— make sure this stays under wraps. I promised the kid it would.”

Phil smiles, as if amused. Techno frowns, not finding anything remotely amusing.

“I know, Techno,” Phil chides, almost melodiously. “I’m not an amateur.”

Techno’s brows furrow. “I know—”

“But,” Phil interjects smoothly, tucking the passports into his coat pocket, “I am tired. And satisfied, now that I’ve tracked you down and made sure you weren’t, I don’t know, dead in a ditch.”

Techno snorts. “I’ll see you in a few days?”

“Oh, you better,” Phil half-chides, brushing past him—

Techno stops him in front of the bedroom door, eyebrow angled up pointedly.

“Leave through the front door,” Techno advises. “I don’t feel like dealin’ with any more near-heart attacks tonight.”

Now that he’s filled in, Phil offers him no argument, only meets his gaze with something like sadness. Not for him, Techno knows, but for the boy in the other room.

“Alright, mate,” he replies, studying him. “Take care yeah? And charge your phone. I don’t think I could hold Kristin off a second time.”

Techno huffs out a laugh and a promise at the same time. “I will.”

He steps away from the door, and Phil emerges into the hallway. Flickering light from the television spills over them, drawing their shadows harsh and their expressions harsher in the low lighting.

“I’m glad you’re okay,” Phil murmurs, soft.

And then he’s gone, tearing his eyes away and disappearing down the hallway. Techno waits, listening for the sound of the door to click gently shut before he finally turns to face the doorway to the living room.

“Everything okay?” Tommy whispers, half-asleep from the sofa as Techno settles into the armchair, eyes dully aimed at the TV.

Techno turns his head, meets his concern, and finds with a near-imperceptible twist in his chest that he needs to ease it.

“Everything’s fine,” he answers, honestly. “It was just a misunderstanding.”

“I know all about those,” Tommy mumbles, sinking back down.

Techno snorts, almost more to let Tommy know that things really are fine. It must work, because he sighs, curling further into the small mountain of Techno’s blankets wrapped around him until most of him is covered up.

Techno waits there, listening intently, glued to the armchair in a way that he doesn’t understand as he lets the peace stretch on and on and on and waits to make sure it lasts.

It’s only after Tommy is dead asleep, movie over and credits rolling, that his headache starts to ease.

He has half a mind to wake Tommy, tell him to go to Techno’s bed where it’s more comfortable (Techno had already resigned himself to giving it up for a couple of days, anyway.) But disturbing Tommy now, as he sleeps, no pain scribbled anywhere on his too-young face, feels illegal. He has to wait.

Which means probably sleeping out here, on the armchair, until the itch in his skull that he can’t put a name to goes away.

And as far as Techno is concerned, he has all the time in the world to do so. He’s in too deep to shatter the peace now, which means nothing can. He won’t allow it.

That, at least—protecting—might be the one thing besides hurting that he is made for.

⋆⋆⋆

Baby steps.

That’s what everyone had been telling him to take: everyone as in Techno, and Ranboo, and Tubbo, and the articles that he’d taken to looking up online whenever he grew particularly annoyed with the seemingly endless amount of weeks (okay, just days, but days that felt like weeks) he’d been confined to.

“Take it easy,” Techno advises him, hands hovering uncertainty over Tommy’s shoulders as they stand in the doorway. “You’re still—”

“Hurt,” Tommy finishes. “I know.”

Believe me, I feel it.

He doesn’t say that, though, because as much as Techno has been keeping his distance, Tommy knows that it wouldn’t take much for Techno to decide he was better off waiting an extra day before walking around. Or an extra extra day. Or an extra-times-three day.

“You have my number,” Techno reminds him, as Tommy eases open the front door. “If you need anything, or if you pass out on the way, call me or whatever.”

It’s strange—going through the front door instead of the (still broken) window. But it’s just as strange as the ache accompanying even the softest of his movements, so he bears it.

“Or whatever,” Tommy mocks, chuckling lowly. “Always so eloquently spoken, you are, Technoblade. And caring. It’s what I appreciate about you.”

Techno cracks a smile. It comes easier than normal, Tommy notices.

“That’s me,” he deadpans. Then, brushing his hand gently over Tommy’s shoulder, “Now, go. Give me the peace and quiet I deserve.”

Tommy doesn’t go, not if it means leaving that unanswered. “Don’t say that. I know you’ll miss me.”

Techno doesn’t grace him with an answer—which is maybe actually good. No answer means no rejection, which means Tommy won that one.

“Go,” Techno repeats. Then, the minute that Tommy actually steps through the door, “Be careful.”

It’s probably the closest thing he’ll go to a real Techno-affection, now that he’s on his feet anyways, so Tommy cherishes it.

“Bye, Technoblade. See you around, Technoblade.”

Another faint smile. “Bye, Tommy.”

And he really does it mean it that time, because he shuts the door. Tommy is starting to ache again, so he doesn’t waste time before heading towards the elevator so he can go home.

(It’s weird—that word, home. Somehow, Tommy gets the feeling that he’s walking towards it at the same time as he’s walking away from it.)

Or maybe he’s just being the c-word again, so he pushes it out of his mind until he’s upstairs.

Things felt easier on the way up, but standing in front of Tubbo’s apartment—in front of Tommy’s apartment—makes him hesitate.

He stands in place, shifting from foot to foot until his knees start to ache. The door almost blurs in front of him, like a taunt.

He should open the door, probably. Tubbo will probably go crazy if he waits out here for too long after telling him he was on his way. But… he can’t.

Something wraps around his joints, freezing them the minute he tries to even brush his fingertips across the doorknob. So Tommy doesn’t open the door.

Instead, he raises a hand and knocks.

Thud thud thud, go his bandaged knuckles, and Tommy is a marble statue as he waits for a response. After a few seconds, he hears footsteps drawing closer, and his heart starts to pound, like it wants to knock on the door too.

Thud thud thud thud thud thud, goes his pounding heart. Tommy’s teeth sink into tongue, bracing and bracing and not knowing why until—

The door whips open. Tubbo stares at him, mouth half-open around the amicable greeting he’d no doubt been about to draw up.

Tommy smiles sheepishly.

Tubbo frowns. “What the fuck are you doing?”

Tommy’s smile drops off his face, probably splatters somewhere by his feet.

“Uh,” he croaks, nails digging into his palms. “I wasn’t sure if—”

Tubbo hugs him. Hugs him.

Tommy blinks as he’s pulled quickly into his friend’s chest, arms snaking around him, squeezing once, and then receding just as fast. Tommy blinks again as Tubbo releases him, stepping back.

Normally, this is where Tubbo would shy away, embarrassed or something that Tommy would find stupid, but this time, he’s resolute. There’s only a dull flush to his face as he glares at Tommy in a way that isn’t meant to burn him, just to enlighten him.

“Don’t be an idiot,” Tubbo informs him bluntly. There’s only a small quiver to his voice, but it cuts Tommy open just the same. “This is your house too.”

Tommy tentatively grins. “Alright.”

Glad to be back, he thinks to himself, as his heart opens up and floods with warmth. The floorboards beneath his feet feel like they are a part of him. Even the sound of his shoes scuffing against it makes Tommy—in the lamest, sappiest, non-clingiest way—smile. So fucking glad to be back.

Tommy doesn’t see Ranboo until he’s being tugged into another set of arms, and these ones hold him close and don’t let him go.

Ranboo sighs as he hooks his chin onto Tommy’s head, eyes squeezed shut and face tilted down towards Tommy’s hair. The embrace ends, far sooner than Tommy would like, not that he’d ever admit it, and Ranboo’s eyes are strangely watery as Tommy shuffles back.

“Don’t cry on me, bitch,” Tommy rasps. “You already saw me earlier.”

There’s a stack of papers on the kitchen island, held down by one of Ranboo’s textbooks. Tommy knows what the posters display, and knows that that’s why Ranboo is smiling at him all weird. He’d do the same, if he weren’t so tired of being so undone.

“I know,” Ranboo eventually says. And then, eyes combing over Tommy’s face one last time, “I’m just happy you’re back.”

And, well. Tommy can’t just not give him that.

“Me, too,” Tommy admits quietly, and for once, they are standing in the same room and there is not an invisible barrier cutting through the space between them.

Glare belongs to three of them now. From here, the only secrets they have will be good ones. The kind that are shared, the kind that makes them exchange furtive glances above special grins. The kind that binds them together, not rips them apart.

“I’ve had an epiphany,” Tubbo announces suddenly, drawing both his and Ranboo’s attention.

“An epiphany?” Tommy echoes, frowning.

He glances at Ranboo, but Ranboo just shrugs.

“Yes,” Tubbo answers, and there’s a sharp glint to his eyes that doesn’t hurt but does make Tommy’s eyes widen. “If you are well enough to be walking, you are well enough for this.”

And he punches him.

Tommy gasps as Tubbo’s fist knocks into his shoulder, sending him just sideways enough to choke on a breath but not enough to fall. He whips his head up as he catches his footing.

“What the fuck—”

“Next time you’re dying,” Tubbo interjects, not even flinching beneath Tommy’s glare, “fucking call me.”

“Alright!” Tommy gasps, half-hunched over and rubbing his shoulder. “Alright!” Tubbo lowers his fist, a satisfied smile creeping across his face. Tommy glowers—then looks to the right. “Ranboo, stop fucking laughing.”

Ranboo coughs, face clearing. “I’m— I’m not.”

Stupid bastard.

Tommy rolls his eyes to let him know how much he doesn’t believe him before directing all of his fury at Tubbo again. “You’re a prick, you know that?”

Tubbo beams, cheeky and bright. “Love you, Tommy.”

Tommy scoffs, murmuring incoherently under his breath as he rubs at his shoulder until the pain goes away. But even then, he almost misses it—misses the reminder that the broken things they had become are slowly being mended.

“So,” Tubbo whispers, “Where exactly do we… go from here?”

It’s late. Late enough and soft enough for the confessions to fall easily out of all of them. Tommy stares at the ceiling, letting Tubbo’s question stir in his head.

“Wherever we want,” is the only good answer he can give.

Next to him, Tubbo shifts, bumping his shoulder, and Tommy is distantly reminded of how much they’ve grown. The bunk beds in the group home had always been more than big enough to accommodate at least two of them.

Now, their limbs threaten to tangle up if they roll over too much, but Tommy doesn’t mind it. Not for tonight.

“I won’t be patrolling for a little while,” Tommy continues lowly, and he feels Tubbo freeze against him.

“No shit,” Tubbo murmurs into the darkness, as if Tommy can’t feel that panic pressing into him. “No patrolling until you’re cleared. And,” he adds, before Tommy can offer anything to that, “I want that Techno guy to do it.”

Tommy laughs. Since he’s laying down, head tilted up to face the top bunk, it kind of pools in the bottom of his throat and gets stuck there, all quiet, but it shakes his shoulders.

“You can just call him Techno, you know,” Tommy informs him.

Even in the dark, he can sense Tubbo’s frown. “No, thank you.”

“What about Bloodlust?” Ranboo pipes in, from the top bunk.

“No,” Tubbo interjects quickly, lifting a hand to rub at his temple so quickly he almost slaps Tommy in the face. “I’m still coming to terms with how fucking insane that is, thank you.”

“It doesn’t get easier,” Tommy tells him helpfully.

Tubbo groans. “No shit.”

“He’s just a guy,” Ranboo breathes, the same way he’d done it when Tommy had first summoned the balls and told them. “Nothing crazy about it.”

Tubbo mumbles something unintelligibly under his breath that even Tommy, right beside him, can’t hope to make out. It sounds like another garbled string of curses, though, ringing with disagreement, and it makes Tommy grin, just to himself.

There is something crazy about it, is what he thinks. Something crazy about all of it. But it’s their crazy. Theirs. That’s all that really matters, innit?

Somehow, everything is almost-okay again.

⋆⋆⋆

Tommy’s first week back at work ends in a heavy rain, obscuring all the windows with sheets of dull grey. He watches the storm warily as it builds, until even the most stubborn of the cafe patrons are enticed home, before the downpour makes it too hard to travel anywhere.

Tommy expects to spend the rest of his shift in an easy solitude—just him and his thoughts and the humming of the espresso machines—but not long after it empties out, the door opens again.

A busker stumbles in, and Tommy grins at the messy of soaked limbs that track water across his floors. The guy just looks too pathetic for him to want to summon his usual complaint about the mess he’ll have to clean up.

“It’s pretty wet out there, huh?” he calls over the counter, leaning against the granite.

The busker looks up, and the glasses perched on his nose prove his point before the guy even opens his mouth. They’re all fogged up and covered in raindrops. Tommy can’t see his eyes.

“Yeah,” he breathes, scrubbing a hand through his wet hair and sighing as it stays plastered across his forehead. He tilts his head. “Mind if I sit here ‘till it clears up?”

Tommy shrugs, jutting his chin towards the counter. “Only if you keep me entertained.”

The busker grins, hefting his guitar case up. Tommy almost winces at the water that drips off it, forming a small puddle on the floor.

“Music, or talking?”

“Talking,” Tommy answers, even though he quite appreciates the pieces of melodies he occasionally hears slipping through the doors throughout his shifts.

“Excellent,” the man says, staggering forward and dropping onto the stool across from him. “I can do that.”

“Great,” Tommy remarks. “Because I’m bored.”

The main raises an eyebrow. “Bored? Is that your name?”

It’s a joke, or a lame attempt at one. Tommy lets him know just how lame with a scowl.

“That was awful,” he informs him dryly, and the man huffs. But, Tommy gestures to the name tag stuck to his shirt—upside down, because it’s funnier like that and Quackity doesn’t mind it, “I’m Tommy.”

The man sticks a damp hand out. Tommy raises an eyebrow, but he takes it. His grip is strong, silver rings cold against Tommy’s skin.

“I’m Wilbur,” the busker introduces, lips tilted up with a sarcastic sort of sharpness. “It’s nice to meet you.”

Chapter Text

Tommy meets Wilbur Soot on a random Monday morning in the rain.

Techno knows because — the minute that he does —Tommy never shut ups about it.

“He sings,” Tommy declares like it’s the greatest thing in the world. “That’s fuckin’ sick, innit?”

Two weeks it has been since Tommy met one Wilbur Soot. Two weeks, and Tommy never seems at a loss of information about him to ramble out. Techno has heard most of it before.

Techno lifts his eyes, skims over Tommy’s face just long enough to take in the unbridled admiration there. It’s a look Techno is familiar with, that same excited flush he takes on whenever he talks about – well, Bloodlust. Techno.

(Something about that comparison has the voices shrivelling, shrinking back like shedded spirals of snakeskin. Techno flexes his jaw and goes back to tending to Tommy’s scars.)

After a moment, Techno realizes that Tommy had left a pause between them for Techno to fill. But before Techno can blink back to the present, Tommy rambles on – like he’d never needed Techno to fill that space in the first place.

“And–”

Tommy drags out the word with an emphatic drawl, all coiled up like a spring, like whatever he’s about to say is so incredible he cannot contain it. Techno braces. He sets the roll of bandages on his thigh and tightens his fingers around them.

“–he plays guitar!”

“Guitar?” Techno echoes, finding his voice.

It’s not that impressive.

Techno pointedly avoids the faint, otherworldly glow beginning to shine beneath Tommy’s eyes, as if he is about to light up. Instead, he unrolls one more strip of bandages to finish off this twice-a-week checkup.

“Guitar,” Tommy agrees. “And– and he doesn’t even need to learn songs sometimes. Like, I asked him to play Megalovania and he fucking did it. Just like that.”

Techno shifts in his seat.

“I can play the violin,” he grumbles under his breath.

“–stupid Hipster hat– what was that?”

For the first time since Tommy had stumbled into his apartment earlier that day, Tommy finally looks at him. He cuts himself off, eyes swivelling to Techno as if Techno hasn’t been in front of him the whole time.

Techno finds that he suddenly does not want Tommy to be looking at him: crystal blue reaching into Techno’s chest, peering and prodding.

Techno lets his face go flat.

“Nothing,” he says.

Tommy hesitates. Techno feels it like it’s a tangible thing bleeding into the air. A sigh builds in his chest. He shouldn’t have said anything. That’s typically what he does, and it’s what works best for him. There’s no reason for those words to have pushed out of his mouth.

He blames the headache that is slowly forming between his temples.

“No, seriously,” Tommy presses, leaning close. Techno backs up, ruining his uniform bandage line. He’ll have to redo it once Tommy stops squirming around. “What’d you say?”

Techno sighs.

“I can play the violin,” he repeats slowly.

And despite how badly he wants to escape the awkwardness he’d created, Techno looks up. He needs, strangely, to gauge Tommy’s reaction. He can’t let himself miss it.

Tommy just blinks. “Oh, really?” he asks, tilting his head. Techno nods, face still blank, but Tommy doesn’t linger. He prattles on, mouth moving at the speed of light. “Maybe you and Wilbur can play sometime.”

Back to Wilbur, then.

Tommy has only known the guy for two weeks, and Techno is already becoming sick of the name.

I hope not, he thinks before he’s really conscious of it.

Techno’s fingers twitch, curling and uncurling. If patching Tommy up wasn’t so instinctual to him, he thinks he’d forget what he was doing – mind split in a total other direction. The voices churn shapelessly in his skull, but he can’t glean a shred of an emotion off of them which is unfortunate.

When they aren’t making his life immensely harder, the voices do make feeling things much clearer to him.

Techno doesn’t even hear what noncommittal sound he gets out, but he must say something, because Tommy launches back into his spiel. Techno sort of… slips past it. Tommy’s words float soundlessly around him like they used to do in the earlier days, and Techno doesn’t try to pull himself out of it.

He’s busy thinking.

At some point, though, Tommy asks him a question.

“Techno?” Tommy prompts.

Techno looks up. Confusion scribbles its way between Tommy’s furrowed brows, and the tiniest amount of guilt pricks at Techno’s lungs. He hadn’t been listening.

Instead of pretending he had, Techno deflects.

“Does that hurt?”

Tommy blinks. “What?”

He glances down, notices Techno’s fingertips pressing gently against his ribs. The bruises there have finally begun to fade into shadows. Techno doesn’t know if he’ll ever be satisfied until they are completely gone – no matter how much Tommy groans about it. (Especially since he knows the kid is always in more pain than he lets Techno try to fix.)

“Oh, no. It’s fine. I didn’t feel it.”

You did yesterday, Techno thinks. But Tommy hardly flinches as Techno checks the now-fading injuries marking him, and he hadn’t reacted at all even to some of the worst ones. Not today. Techno thinks he might get why.

Something about Wilbur Soot is a balm for him.

Techno vaguely hopes he never meets the guy.

“Good,” Techno grunts, because that’s the right thing to say. Deep down, he knows that indulging this slow-growing, messier, sensitive side of himself isn’t a good idea – hasn’t been one either. He swallows it down like jagged glass. “You’re gettin’ better.”

Tommy’s eyes light up. Something in Techno’s chest brightens with it.

But then, Tommy wilts. A nervousness overtakes him, and Techno sinks down with it. Right now, specifically, that nervousness is lethal. Techno doesn’t want to see it, doesn’t want Tommy to direct it at him.

Tommy drags his hands into his lap. He fiddles with his fingers, and Techno catches a glimpse of green beginning to sprout around his skin as he jitters.

“What?” he finds himself asking. “Spit it out, kid.”

Tommy jumps, glancing up like he hadn’t expected Techno to notice him curling up like a flower in the shade. As if Techno hasn’t spent the last few months of his life learning how to do that, how to notice these things about Tommy, how to care about them.

A relief spreads across Tommy’s face when Techno directly acknowledges it.

“I just– well. Does this mean I can go back to patrolling soon?”

Panic. That’s the only way to describe the way the quick wash of ice that splashes over Techno. Like walls slamming down, Techno tenses. His shapeless choir flurries with him, ripping away from their quiet. With that flurry comes a flood of images, all of that night.

Like he’s been doing for the last month, Techno does not let Tommy see any of that play across his face. Not of that night. The weight of Techno’s failure is his own to bear. Tommy doesn’t need to see the spiderweb cracks of Techno’s own incompetency cutting through him. That’s not fair.

Still, his first instinct is to shut Tommy down completely.

You’re still healing, he might say, but that’s what he’d said last time. So maybe, You’re still in danger. We have no clue if they will try to hurt you again.

It’s almost an instinct at this point. Though, over the last two weeks, the instinct has had a chance to dull. For his credit, this Wilbur-person has succeeded in keeping Tommy off of Techno’s back about patrolling.

Days that had previously been filled with hopeful questions and stoic shutdowns had tapered off into other things. Wilbur Soot-related things, but other things nonetheless.

It seems that Techno has run out of time – and excuses. He can’t keep indulging irrationality. He can’t keep Tommy holed up forever. Danger never ends for vigilantes. Something about an occupational hazard. They both know that.

And today, something is different. Something in Techno makes a splintering motion, and Techno bends to it.

It’s a foreign feeling, one that has always been reserved for pre-Bloodlust Techno. That insatiable urge to prove himself, to give any scrap of himself that hasn’t yet been given. Techno hates how much of a mess his mind has become; hates he cannot help but give in to it.

And he does give in. Techno can’t help but go against all of his own lingering caution.

“I think,” he starts carefully, watching as Tommy begins to bloom, “that if you keep restin’–” (Tommy’s eyes dip guiltily; Techno half-smiles with slack muscles) “–you might be able to get back out there by the end of the week.”

He taps the now-faded bruises mottling Tommy’s upper arm for emphasis.

Tommy’s lips part. A star is born inside of his eyes, all celestial wonder and nebulous joy.

“Really?” he breathes. Techno nods, stiff and loose at the same time. His lips try to tug up on one side. It’s not enough to confirm much, not really, but Tommy has been fighting for scraps of permission. This is an abundance. “That’s– fuck yeah.”

Techno huffs and nods: faintly amused, faintly sick. This allowance doesn’t feel entirely genuine, but he has already given it. He can’t bring himself to take it back.

And then Tommy makes it worth it. Easily, effortlessly, he does.

Tommy collides into Techno’s side, and Techno’s eyebrows shoot up. A hug. He almost forgot, in all the annoyance that had built throughout these last two weeks, that they do this now.

But his arms come up just as quickly, cradling Tommy there.

All of the messiness that he’d become unravels: a tsunami smoothing into still water. Clarity dawns over him, and Techno closes his eyes. This is peace, he thinks. He’s missed it.

“Thanks, Technoblade,” Tommy mumbles into his shoulder.

Techno sighs, and all the tension that had clinged to him rushes out of him.

“Of course, kid,” he rumbles. “I’m glad you’re gettin’ better.”

Tommy mumbles a drowsy agreement, and Techno laughs under his breath as he keeps his kid close to his side.

Like this, contained between the small of Techno’s apartment and the worn, sometimes bitter familiarity of Techno’s sofa, all of Techno’s concerns seem infinitesimally small.

Wilbur can keep his guitar. He can keep it and he can give Tommy all the folky serenades he wants, but he can’t give Tommy what Techno can: this. Maybe that’s all that matters.

⋆⋆⋆

For some reason, Techno expects to see Tommy more after that interaction.

And for some reason, he is disappointed when he is wrong.

Five days pass in total, endless peace. Quiet that Techno had chased for weeks curdles around him. It’s abrasive. Unprecedentedly abrasive. Techno’s head grows louder the longer it goes on.

Before this, Techno had been content to drift back into normal-territory. The lines marking what exactly was normal for them had blurred, sure, but the foundations lingered.

And then Wilbur entered the picture.

And suddenly, things aren’t so simple anymore.

Techno gives it those five days before something in him shifts.

“I hate this,” he complains to the ceiling, verging on petulant but uncaring for once. He’s… bored. For the first time in months, the quiet is too much for him. “I hate how much I hate this.”

Rationality tugs at him, a cold rag. Techno contemplates.

“He’s his own person,” he narrates to nothing. “He can do what he wants.”

Easier said than processed. Techno doesn’t know why.

“Honestly, it’s about time he gave me some peace and quiet.” The voices roll uncertainly. “I should be… appreciatin’ this before he’s back to annoyin’ me.”

It’s an attempt at rationalizing at least — not that there is anything to rationalize. This is just his usual brand of paranoia. Techno will get over it.

Still–

I think I miss him.

The voices chime a mournful agreement.

I don’t trust the other guy.

The voices chime another agreement, but there is no grief to be found there. Not this time.

This time, there is only the cold affirmation of a steel blade, a sharp sort of agreement that Techno lets himself stew, and stew, and stew in.

⋆⋆⋆

<Techno> we should train.

I want to make sure you are able to defend yourself before I clear you for patrol.

<The Kid> clear me?? u sound like my fukcng doctor Technoblade

<Techno> in this sense, I am

<The Kid> lol bloodlust is my doctor thats poggers

<Techno> Tommy, we go over this once a week.

<The Kid> i dotn care its cool

anyway when

<Techno> Tonight?

<The Kid> idk about tonight

Hanging with Wil rihgt now

Hes taking me shopping

<Techno> After?

<The Kid> isnt that kinda late

<Techno> I don’t sleep.

<The Kid> see u then Technoblad

e***

<Technoblade> E

See ya kid

Be safe

⋆⋆⋆

“Technoblade,” Tommy pants out, dramatic even in his abject breathlessness, “I’m going to fuck you up.”

Techno grins, the shape and sharpness of a crooked scythe. He can’t deny that he’s having something like fun right now. Training is good.

Part of Techno hadn’t expected it to go so well. Tommy had stumbled into his apartment so late that night had already begun to sink low over the horizon. But he’d seemed too… happy for Techno to really berate him for it.

(Techno may have committed a lot of morally-questionable actions in his day, but kicking puppies has never been one of them. He won’t start now.)

Not that Tommy made it easy. He hadn’t spared Techno the answer, either.

“Sorry,” he’d mumbled, shrugging off a distinctly not-Tommy brown jacket that Techno is sure isn’t his. “Got distracted with Wilbur. He’s funny, you know.”

“I know,” Techno had remarked dully, because that was better than saying, Again?

But then Tommy had spun around to face him, body already slipping into the stance that Techno had furiously been trying to carve into him. He’d beamed, wild and determined, and that had been the clarity Techno had needed.

What am I doing? he’d thought, in the seconds before the first round of sparring had begun. Why can’t I let this go?

The typical surge of distrust felt fainter, a weak response. More of an instinct than a contemplated anger.

(He may as well be distrusting a ghost at this point. For all of Tommy’s endless Wilbur-rambles, Techno has yet to meet the guy.)

And that’s what Techno had been thinking when Tommy had thrown the first punch. And landed it.

“Oh, shit,” Tommy exclaimed, eyes wide as he glanced between Techno’s reeling cheekbone and his wrapped hands. As if he hadn’t seen himself slam his fist forward. “I’m… cracked.”

Techno shook his head, and tried to shake out all those pesky strands of half-shapen feelings with it. He doesn’t need to fall victim to that. Not now or ever.

“I gave you that,” he was quick to grunt out. Tommy’s eyes flashed. “Do it again.”

From there, the fight was on.

From there, everything was good.

Of course, Techno had gone into this with an actual plan. He’d wanted to check whether or not Tommy is capable of defending himself should he be let loose onto the streets again. And he’d wanted to try to work some of Tommy’s abilities into his fighting style.

But the first spar only feels like banter in motion. Techno gets Tommy onto the mat easily enough, and Tommy is demanding a rematch before he’s even fully pinned. Techno indulges him with an amused huff. And then the fight restarts.

“Vines,” Techno instructs curtly as Tommy dodges a punch. Tommy spins, breathing hard, but when he whirls back around, he’s glowing. Other worldly light bleeds over his eyes, sun and star and flame and light. “Your powers are strong, Tommy. Use them.”

“I’m– trying,” Tommy grits out. “It’s hard to focus.”

Techno hums an acknowledgement, dipping out of the way of Tommy’s fist and catching his wrist. Tommy freezes, staring at him in disbelief. Techno meets his eyes with a cool mask even as he tries to push his own faith into the kid in front of him.

“Vines,” he repeats, and that does something.

Tommy frowns, and then squints, brows pulling together in concentration. At once, green ripples over the back of his hand, weaving out between his fingertips, sliding out from the wrist that Techno holds to trap Techno’s hand.

Techno grins. “Just like that.” And then he pulls away before Tommy can attempt to yank his hand off, reassuming a proper stance. “And Tommy?”

Tommy stops mid-counter, eyes whipping to meet his – ever-searching for what Techno has to say even when they are sparring. The admiration soothes a burn in Techno’s chest that makes his next words come softer.

“You don’t need to focus so much, kid.” Tommy falters. Techno pushes on. “If you’re at your best when you’re chaotic–” And Techno steps forward, putting himself into perfect range. A target; practice. He narrows his eyes, and Tommy’s eyebrows raise. “Then be chaotic.”

Comets streak through his eyes. The next few moments happen before Techno can even process anything more than whipping strands of green, a violent white glare, a mess of lanky just-healed limbs flying at him–

Technoblade slams down against the mat, hard. The blood on his tongue tastes like pride.

“Again,” Techno grunts out, as Tommy’s brilliance fades enough to let Techno see his face: shocked and triumphant all at once. “Again until you don’t have to think about it.”

Tommy nods. Excitement seems to flicker over him, stoking the white silhouette not yet faded from him. He extends a hand, and Techno takes it.

“Okay,” Tommy breathes. “Okay. I got this.”

Techno believes him.

They make it another few rounds – Techno mostly winning with Tommy managing to get the jump on him a few times – before Techno considers calling it a day. Or well, night.

When Tommy gets him down on the mat one last time, he thinks they’ve done enough. If Tommy can keep up with Techno – whether by pure skill or pure chaos – then he can handle himself enough to dip his toes back into his… unique hobby. Whether or not Techno thinks it’s too soon.

Techno is half-grinning as he rises to his feet, flexing his wrists and blinking sunspots out of his eyes. The voices hum pleasantly in his skull, happy that his kid isn’t completely helpless. Not anymore. Not ever again, if Techno can help it.

Tommy drags himself onto his feet, hopping manically around the padded floor. He wrings out his hands. Techno can imagine the hum of adrenaline still lingering, shocking his veins. Sweat shines on his forehead, his flushed cheeks. Despite that, Tommy seems at no loss for energy.

“How was that then?” Tommy demands before he’s even fully upright, bounding forward. “Was that sick or what?”

Techno shakes his head noncommittally, lips twitching. Tommy wiggles his eyebrows and flexes his arms. Techno snorts. Tommy’s face drops, and he shoves closer, putting himself right in Techno’s face. Or well, right below it. Tommy isn’t quite tall enough to meet his eyes just yet.

“Tell me I’m the shit, Technoblade,” he grins. Then, leaning close with no shortage of smugness, “I beat you, bitch.”

Techno turns away, eyes flickering down to his bandaged fists. His hands are a satisfying shade of scarlet, voices sated in a way that he’d always assumed needed to be fulfilled with blood.

Turned away, eyes downturned– he robs Tommy of every ounce of satisfaction he’d been wanting, and revels in it.

“Eh,” he hums. “I let you win.”

Tommy grins dangerously. It’s haloed in white light.

“You’re a fucking liar,” he laughs. “I fucked you up, man.”

You did good, Techno agrees. Not that he gives Tommy that.

“That was okay,” Techno deadpans, stripping the tape off of his bandaged fists with exaggerated precision. “Solidly mediocre.”

Tommy’s eyes narrow into playful slits. “Is that so, Technoblade?”

Not-so-subtly, the kid shifts back into his stance, exertion traded for something like exhilaration. Vines pop up between his fingers, wrapping around his wrists. Radiant light spills into his eyes.

Techno meets his challenge head on: a lion to a cub, head tilting with the promise of safe danger.

“Yeah, Tommy,” he answers simply. “It is.”

Techno doesn’t get another word out, and he doesn’t get a chance to be bothered by that. Not before his kid is lunging at him: all playful, no skill. This isn’t about training, it’s about them. And Techno only has a second to realize that, to file it away.

Because — with a feral grin that ignites something warm in Techno’s chest — Tommy shouts at the top of his lungs and tackles Technoblade to the floor.

⋆⋆⋆

Tommy hadn’t known he could miss the taste of danger so much until he’s being let right back into it.

The puff of his chest would be enough to invoke a scoff from Tubbo if he were here, but Tommy can’t help it. Despite… that night, despite everything, Tommy still has this. He’s Glare. He’s a fucking vigilante and he’s damn good at it.

And most of all, he missed it.

“Glare is back in business, baby!” he whoops, serenading Techno’s ceiling and not flinching beneath the unimpressed look that gains him. He proudly shoves his hands into the pockets of his tan cargo trousers and whips his head up with gusto, swivelling until his eyes lock on a smudge of pink. “And look, Technoblade. New pants.” He wiggles an eyebrow. “Wilbur picked ‘em out for me at the charity shop.”

“Incredible,” Techno drones, utterly deadpan.

Tommy only lets his heart drop for a moment before he scoops it back up. It’s just worry, is all. Techno’s a bigger worrier than he lets on. That’s why he’s been so… weird.

(The quick skip of his heart makes that feel like a lie. Tommy ignores it – he’s great at ignoring things. Especially if they are inconvenient. And this… whatever this is… would be inconvenient.)

Techno crosses his arms over his graphic Bloodlust T-shirt. Warm-brown eyes narrow as they scrape carefully over Tommy. Not in a cold way. Just a careful way. Like if he looks away for too long, Tommy will disappear.

Tommy shifts in place, wondering suddenly if Techno might change his verdict.

It’s– well, it’s not like Techno’s in charge of him or anything. But Tommy listens to him. Still, he doesn’t want Techno to change his mind.

What he gets is almost worse.

“Let’s go over this again,” Techno decides.

Tommy almost folds over right there.

“Again?” he groans, pasting humor over the exasperation, and maybe doing too good of a job, because Techno doesn’t even crack a grin. “Techno–”

“Your roommates know you’re leavin’, right?”

Tommy, very maturely, does not swear under his breath. But he wants to. Out of impatience alone, he wants to.

“Yes, Technoblade,” Tommy drawls. “Those fuckers know.” A laugh breaks out of him, only a little bit strained. “Tubbo has already threatened to implant a tracker into me or something if I miss a check-in.” Techno hums, and Tommy blinks at him, eyes drawing into a mildly-suspicious squint. “Techno, laugh please. That was a joke.”

He looks too much like he’s considering it. Tommy doesn’t like that.

“Tubbo barely let me out the door this morning, you know,” Tommy blurts out, defaulting to his usual move: keep talking. “But ever since he found out you were…” He lowers his voice, “You know.” Techno snorts. Tommy ignores it. “He’s been more chill.”

That seems to pierce the ice shell that has apparently descended over Technoblade. His face twists out of scrutiny and into pleasant curiosity.

“How was that?” he hedges.

Tommy almost shivers. “He thinks it’s fuckin’ crazy,” he admits, scrubbing a hand through his hair. “Him and Ranboo both.” When Techno’s eyebrows twitch, Tommy adds, “That’s a good thing. I think.”

Techno scoffs – and that’s probably the loudest reaction Tommy has gotten from him all day.

“You think?” he echoes. When Tommy can only give him a shrug, Techno shakes his head. “Well, warn me if he calls a government raid down on my house. I’m pretty attached to this place.”

Tommy laughs, and the part of him that doesn’t cringes. “Oh, he won’t. Tubbo hates the government. He thinks they’re all a bunch of–” He scrunches his face, the rant pooling on his tongue like breathing. Lord knows he’s heard it enough times. “–‘corrupt pieces of shit with no regard for anyone without satin pockets.’”

Techno blinks. “I think I like this kid more now.”

Tommy laughs. (He does not tell Techno that he doesn’t quite understand that last bit of Tubbo’s spiel.) And then Techno falls quiet, and Tommy does too, and it’s silent. Almost awkward.

Tommy sways back and forth on the balls of his feet.

“Well,” he eventually manages. “Can I like…” He waves awkwardly to the window behind him, to the promise of a thrill, of being back on his feet and doing good again. Even if it does scare him. “Go?”

If Tommy didn’t know better, he’d think Techno is stalling.

But he does, and he’s not completely delusional. Bloodlust wouldn’t ever stall.

He would, however, change his mind. Tommy is well-acquainted with Techno’s brand of paranoia, and these last two weeks have weirdly enunciated that even more: all those long, contemplative stares into nothing, those resting glowers that seem to take over his face in the middle of Tommy’s rambles, the helicoptering.

For a long, terrible moment, Tommy is sure that Techno is going to change his mind when he just… doesn’t say anything. But then he sighs, tension rippling over him as fast as it is discarded.

“I’ll keep my first-aid kit ready,” he gruffs.

It’s an answer and not-one all at the same time. It’s enough. Tommy beams.

Tommy nods emphatically. “Good idea.” When Techno’s eyebrow inches up, he backtracks, eyes widening. “Uh– I mean, now that I’m going to need it. I’m– I mean–”

Techno raises an acquiescing hand, and Tommy snaps his mouth shut. Heat pricks at his cheeks and he straightens his spine, clearing his throat. But Techno just gives him a sliver of an amused smile. He’s not mad or anything. That’s good. Not that Tommy had thought he’d been mad (okay, maybe a little considering… everything) but–

He’s missed Techno’s little smiles. Tommy feels like he’s gotten a lot less of those that week.

Right as the thought crosses his mind, the smile dies. It flickers like a flame in the rain, crumpling at the edges and trading for a stormy frown. Alarm shoves up through Tommy’s chest at the sudden somberness.

“Tommy,” Techno begins, and he braces. “If you see anythin’... strange, any shadows or tails or– anything–” And he scoops up Tommy’s gaze with his serious one, holding it there. The sun filtering in on his face from the window behind Tommy doesn’t make his expression any less grave. “I want you to come back.”

Tommy nods, slow and agreeing, but Techno presses on. There’s a sharpness to his jaw, like the words are pulling themselves out of his mouth and cutting his gums on the way out.

“I mean it,” he emphasizes, more of that caution. “I don’t care if you lead them straight to my apartment.” Tommy’s breath hitches. Techno’s words open up a void-like fear in his chest. But his eyes remain just as serious, glinting like garnets. “Come back. I’ll take care of it.”

Tommy doesn’t want to agree to this. He clenches his fingers at his sides. The fear he’s been suppressing these past two weeks surges upwards in a burst, ripping through all his duct tape barriers. He tries to swallow it down, and he thinks he feels himself nod.

“I will,” he promises quietly.

Flutter, flutter, flutter goes his heart in his chest. He thinks there’s a little panicked bird in there, bouncing off his ribs, little wings batting.

“Seriously, Tommy. Until we have more information, you need to be–”

“Careful,” he laughs out under his breath. Some of the panic strips away. He makes it go. “Yeah, I know, Techno. You’ve only told me a billion times.”

Tommy expects Techno to laugh. That’s what he does, what they do. Tommy does his best to pull scraps of affection out of Techno like he’s digging up fragile fossils, and Techno either obliges him with a huff or the whisper of a grin or an insult that isn’t really endearment but feels like it anyway.

Except Techno doesn’t laugh. Not this time. Not immediately. He just stares at Tommy with a chipped sort of expression, rippling with a grief that he keeps almost perfectly contained between his sharp posture and flattened lips. Almost.

It’s a reminder that feels like a wash of ice water over his skin. A grim reminder that it must have been different for Techno: that night. Putting Tommy back together like he did. Tending to Tommy when he was all messed up.

Tommy may have been the one all beaten down, but he thinks it’s much easier to fall apart than it’d be to have to put someone he cares about together. Just the thought of having to do that for Techno – or for Ranboo or Tubbo or Wilbur – sends a shiver through him.

He swipes his tongue over his dry lips. His mouth remains dry, but Tommy tries to soothe the lack of moisture with another joke. It’s what he’s good at.

“You’re worse than a mother hen,” he laments, drawing drama into him. Maybe he’ll make Techno laugh. He can’t patrol with a stormcloud over him. He can’t. Tommy tilts his head as another thought pops into his head. “Father hen.”

Techno raises an eyebrow, his typical silent, Say that again but slower. Except maybe a little softer than usual. Techno’s apartment always makes everything just a bit more tender than Tommy ever means it to be.

He doesn’t hate it. He does hate the glint of amusement that jumps into Techno’s eyes, swirling around like ghost lights.

Tommy narrows his eyes at him.

“That’s an insult by the way. Don’t think it’s not.”

Techno raises his hands, all sarcastic surrender. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

Tommy rolls his eyes, turning around and facing the window and feeling all the tension dissolve out of the room. “Sure you won’t, prick.” He gets his fingers under the window, heaves it up. Excitement takes root in his chest, drumming and drumming. “I’m leaving now.”

He hears Techno step away from him – not far. When Tommy turns, he’s closer to the sofa but still watching him, keeping a steady guard. Even in sweats and a faded BLOODLUST NEVER DIES graphic tee, pink hair braid hanging loosely over his shoulder, he’s probably the best guard there is.

“Don’t get yourself killed, kid,” Techno advises helpfully.

Tommy raises one hand up in a salute.

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” he echoes with a grin.

And before he can lose himself to the panic attempting to drag him back inside, to the misplaced guilt telling him to take another day, to everything but the thrill of being back in business, as he’d said–

Tommy salutes, and throws himself backwards out the window.

(His first thought, one that flickers into his brain the second he’s off of Techno’s windowsill, is this:

I have got to go see Wilbur.)

⋆⋆⋆

“It’s one scrape, Techno. One.”

“I don’t care,” Techno drones. “Band-aid.”

Tommy scowls, but Techno reaches right past his exasperation to slap the plaster on the side of his chin. Tommy crosses his arms, and the scowl he keeps in place doesn’t bother Techno even a little bit. He’s done this all before.

At least this time, he has reason to be a little more cautious.

Tommy makes his disagreement clear, crossing his arms and huffing.

“Happy?” he demands.

The side of Techno’s mouth tilts up. “Yes.”

Tommy’s scowl cracks down the middle. He sighs, shaking his head, and his blonde hair flops into his eyes. Tommy brushes it out of his eyes. Techno tilts his head.

“You fight a lot of crime today, kid?”

Tommy nods, lightning jumping into his eyes. “So much crime, Technoblade.”

Techno’s chest opens up, breaths passing through his lungs unlabored. The voices flop down silently in his head like an old dog.

“Good,” he tells him, patting Tommy’s shoulder and not missing the way that Tommy softens, losing the rest of his faux-anger. And Techno can’t have that, can he? He retracts his hand. “Now go home and take a shower. You stink.”

Tommy’s jaw drops. “Oi–”

Techno turns away, a grin curling on his lips. The shout follows him into the kitchen. He appreciates it.

This is fine, he thinks as Tommy’s grumbling tapers off.

This is peace.

⋆⋆⋆

They get the closest back to normal that they’ve been for a while.

Somehow, miraculously, Tommy goes a whole week without needing dire medical attention. That soothes Techno more than any of his chipper attitude has. It also saves him money. His first-aid kit has never looked better.

Techno follows along with the news… just in case. Not even the fullness of his first-aid kit stops him from making Tommy check in with him once an hour on the first day, then every other on the second, only three times a patrol after that one.

Tommy indulges him with exasperation that never really stings. Techno imagines that Tommy’s excitement for being active again erases any real shard of irritation there. Whatever the reason, Tommy puts up with it.

Tommy isn’t the only one who revels in his return.

Not long after Tommy is back terrorizing the city, the media turns its greedy eyes to him, to Glare and his return. Barely two days in, and there’s a news segment on it.

(“Local vigilante “Glare” spotted in 11th – reason for brief absence unknown. Some citizens expressed a sense of relief at the vigilante’s return this week. It may have something to do with how vigilante activity has been at an unprecedented low.”)

It’s bittersweet.

On one hand, Tommy is overjoyed that he was missed. That his return was noticed. He reacts just like Techno had expected to when he sees it.

They’re both on the sofa, watching TV after a patrol that had left Tommy a bit more exhausted than usual.

(“I need to get used to running again,” he’d panted, flopping dramatically onto the couch. Techno had thrown a half-shapen barb at him at that, and then made a note to incorporate stamina rebuilding into their training workouts.)

And then the news had flashed to a clip of Glare hanging off the side of a building, ivy wrapped around him as he helped a trapped cat off of a fire escape.

“I told you I’m a fuckin’ star, Technoblade!” Tommy whoops, jumping up, the brightness of the TV reflecting off of the brightness of his eyes. “They missed me!”

Techno snorts, kicking at his calf to nudge him to the side when Tommy stands obnoxiously in front of the screen like a toddler, blocking his view. Even for all his personal reservations against the media’s treatment of vigilantes or heroes – both negative and positive treatment – the joy on Tommy’s is too bright to stomp on.

Mostly.

“Proud of you, kid,” he remarks. “One more near-death experience, and they might actually start likin’ you.”

(Techno dodges the pillow that comes flying at his face in retaliation. Tommy doesn’t dodge Techno’s.)

The laughter makes everything feel simple, but Techno knows it’s not. Not all the way.

On the other side of the media coin, Techno knows that the locals may not have been the only ones to notice Glare’s return. That a news segment is an accolade almost as much as it is a target.

You failed, hiss the pleasant captions to dangers Techno can’t put faces too. Not yet. He lived. Now, try again.

Techno doesn’t focus on that, and he doesn’t get Tommy to either. Not outright. Tommy doesn’t need Techno to explain the weight of this.

The new scars on his body, faded as they are becoming, warn Tommy better than Techno ever could. So he devotes his attention to more proactive ways of making sure that Tommy makes it through his window safely each night.

Check-ins, research, lectures that he’s sure are amplified by Tommy’s roommates.

Techno protects Tommy the only way he knows how. He maps out plans, failsafes, backup failsafes. He’s careful, and absolute.

That doesn’t mean he’s good at it. For all the time that has passed, Techno is still new to this.

And Techno is reminded of that quick enough.

He’s late.

Techno chalks it up to nothing at first. Tommy has never been one to follow the rules. There’s a million reasons why the sun has already plunged below the horizon and Tommy’s not back yet.

He found a wallet and had to return it. An old lady needed help crossing the road, so he stopped to help (damn vigilantes and their moral obligations.)

He fell asleep on a rooftop again. He’s just being plain slow, taking his sweet time. And if that’s the case, he’s probably relishing in nudging Techno towards an early grave.

He got shot, pipes in a voice made of knives from the back of his head. He was taken. They found him. He’s dead in an alley. They didn’t give him a chance to run.

Techno jolts to his feet. Shaking his head only makes his head spike with a slow-building migraine. The thoughts linger, sticking, and Techno sinks his teeth into the inside of his cheek.

Kids, Techno thinks, covering any emotion that wants to seep up with a pathetic veil of annoyance. More trouble than they’re worth.

Techno has to trust that Tommy would’ve found a way to call for help in case something happened. He has to trust that Tommy is okay.

But the sky bleeds from orange to purple to dark blue, and his window remains closed, and it gets harder to pack his thoughts into neat little boxes.

“I didn’t sign up to work overtime,” he grumbles – to himself, because the kid’s not here to complain to.

Techno casts a stormy glance out the window. The city twinkles mockingly behind the glass, buildings edged in purple night, lights glowing faintly in blurry yellow bulbs. Tommy’s out there, somehow. Techno wishes he’d throw up a ray of light, a flare, and let him know that. Or better yet–

Techno slides his phone out of his pocket, swipes it open with a thumbprint. He glances down at his phone screen and watches paranoia sharpen the edges of the line of text messages that stares back at him. The most recent start an hour ago.

<Tommy> just wrapping up

On my way back

dont miss me too much

(i’ve never missed you, Techno had sent back. He’d only earned silence in response which was fine until it wasn’t.

Thirty minutes later, Techno followed up. Tommy?

Forty-five minutes. Kid, check in.

Fifty. If you’re dead, I’ll kill you.

An hour. Tommy, where are you kid?)

Techno exhales harshly through his nose and taps out another message to join the cluster:

I’m worried. A brittle admission. If you went straight back to your apartment, let me know. I’ll keep waiting for you until then.

Delivered. His screen gives him nothing, only stretches time out into endless, mocking taffy. Techno slides it back into the pocket of his sweatpants.

“Come on, kid,” Techno exhales, drumming his fingers against his thigh. He stares at the hardwood floor between his feet, eyes tracing carefully over a scratch he’s sure Tommy put there at some point. “Don’t do this to me again.”

⋆⋆⋆

The funny thing about Wilbur is that he’s more fun to bother when he’s singing.

Tommy catches a glimpse of him at the end of his patrol: busking or whatever it’s called in front of Tommy’s cafe. Tommy still has no clue how he managed to get Quackity to let him sing out there – he’s always the only busker around – but he’s there as Tommy swings back toward Techno’s.

Guitar case open at his feet, hands wailing on the guitar, head bobbing and microphone dragged out in front of him to catch every rasp shred of emotion that dances off his tongue: Tommy would recognize him from a mile away.

He sees him enough out here, both in costume and out. And Tommy’s in costume now. But the conflict that races through him is short-lived. Wilbur didn’t recognize him last time he hung around, silent but definitely just as obnoxious. Glare and Wilbur have a sort of casual bond – like Wilbur’s and Tommy’s but way less close.

Dropping down onto the cafe rooftop in a clean roll – thanks, Techno – and then surging to his feet, Tommy adjusts his mask. The vines wrapping his arms flake away into nothing. Tommy steps over the ashes and presses his hands over his bandana, making sure it’s over where it needs to be and keeping it firmly in place. His hood is the next thing he pulls up. Tommy tucks his hair in and tugs the hood low. Just in case.

And then comes the light. It’s a combination of Techno’s help and the absence of having to hide from Tubbo and Ranboo, from being ashamed of his powers, that make this part much easier than it was a few weeks ago.

Radiant light spills over him. He feels it in his eyes first, warming his cheeks, but he lets it flicker over his silhouette. When he turns, it’s almost blurry. The light helps hide his face. Without it, there’s no way he could’ve hid from Wilbur so long. Not when Tommy’s been hanging out with him (as Tommy) nearly every day.

Tommy drops down to sit on the edge of the roof. He drops his legs over, swinging them and drawing tiny white flares of light in the air with the motion. Wilbur notices him in the corner of his eyes pretty much immediately.

Tommy says nothing, just waves. Wilbur throws a nod up to him, still singing. Tommy returns it, surveying the scene below.

A few stragglers hover around Wilbur – not really enough to formulate a crowd, but enough to fill the bottom of Wilbur’s guitar case with a few credits, some bills interspersed. That’s good. Maybe Wilbur can actually buy his next coffee instead of Tommy giving him a free one.

(Tommy indulges the idea as if he’d ever make him pay. Wilbur is the only one who tolerates his coffee-monstrosities – something about his sense of taste being shitty. Tommy can’t ruin that dynamic. And besides, him and Wilbur are friends or whatever.)

There’s a scattered burst of applause that draws Tommy’s attention back down to below him. The song tapers off, Wilbur’s voice going with it. A few people step forward, tossing notes into Wilbur’s case. Wilbur thanks them, and when they’ve settled back, he looks up.

“Glare,” Wilbur acknowledges when the song ends, casting him a scrunched-eyed smile. His fingers fiddle aimlessly with his guitar, tuning it. “What’s up, man?”

Tommy shrugs, light swirling around him, and Wilbur – who is well accustomed to the human candlestick that likes to hang around him sometimes – nods appreciatively.

“I’m just wrapping up,” he says.

Tommy nods, settling down to watch the last song.

(As he gets comfortable on the uncomfortable edge of the rooftop, something scratches at him. A niggling in his head that he forgets almost as soon as he takes notice of it. An itch that tells him he’s forgetting something. One he dismisses easily enough.)

He hangs back as Wilbur finishes, grinning when his presence seems to help draw in a bit of a larger crowd. Tommy mouths the song lyrics under his mask. Wilbur let him have all his music on Tommy’s half-broken cell phone. It’s not official or anything, but it’s the best music Tommy’s ever heard.

Wilbur wants to be a singer. That’s cool as shit.

When the crowd disperses, Tommy waits as Wilbur picks up his case and dissembles his microphone. Impatience pricks at him quickly. After a few moments, he grins, rolling on his stomach and hanging over the edge of the rooftop.

Tommy stretches out his arms. Ivy shoots past his fingers, dangling and crawling. He grins as it wriggles down, hanging right over Wilbur’s head–

Poke. The vine taps at the back of his head. Wilbur whips around, head shooting up. Tommy bursts into laughter that he has to choke into his arms lest Wilbur recognize it.

“Very funny,” Wilbur drones, kicking at the half-ashen shells of vines roped at his feet.

Tommy agrees.

An eternity later, Wilbur is done. He turns up towards the rooftop, squinting into the near-dusk at Tommy. Tommy sits up properly, extending a hand.

A horribly put-upon expression crosses over Wilbur’s face.

“I’m not coming up there,” Wilbur complains.

Tommy tilts his head, a silent, Really?

Wilbur sighs heavily. And though he still looks like he’d rather do anything else, he indulges Tommy’s antics. Of course he does.

So Tommy leans over the edge of the roof and throws a hand down like he’s done half a dozen times before. Wilbur sighs again. The noise wheezes out of him like an old dog standing up. He purses his lips together, clearly disapproving – he hates this – but he doesn’t move away when Tommy’s ivy crawls down to him. It wraps Wilbur’s wrist, then his arms, circles his waist–

And then Wilbur’s on the rooftop with a decidedly undignified yelp. Incredible. Tommy never fails.

(Except for that one time, but really that was Wilbur’s fault for freaking out when Tommy hoisted him up. The bruise he got on his tailbone was Wilbur’s fault too, even though Tommy graciously made it up to him by giving him a free coffee the next time they interacted as civilian and civilian.)

“Glare,” Wilbur greets, once he’s up and settled. “Don’t you have crime to be stopping?”

Tommy shrugs, watching Wilbur get adjusted with an amused grin.

Wilbur crawls away from the edge of the roof with a nauseous expression. Unlike Tommy, who enjoys the thrill of free-climbing buildings and jumping across rooftops, Wilbur apparently deplores heights. Something Tommy wishes desperately he could make fun of right now.

Another time, he assures himself.

When he’s far enough away from the ledge to unwind like a tense spring, Wilbur glances at him.

“You know, you can always come down to me instead of… gallivanting across rooftops all the time.”

Gallivanting? Tommy almost asks before catching himself. What the fuck does that mean?

He’s grateful that he can’t say that. Wilbur may not be as close to Glare as he is Tommy, but he still pokes fun at him the same way. It’s funny. And also annoying.

Tommy shakes his head firmly, hoping Wilbur gets his message. No way, man. Up here is more fun.

He must, because he huffs and leans back on his hands, legs kicked out in front of him. Tommy mimics his pose, careful not to get too close.

With light still flickering over him, making him look like a human sunspot, he doesn’t want to blind Wilbur or anything. Even if it would be funny.

They stay like that for a moment, just appreciating. Tommy lets himself wonder why Wilbur bothers hanging out with a random vigilante by doing absolutely nothing before discarding the train of thought. Wilbur’s a hipster. He likes the weird, tiny things. Likes to appreciate them and bask in them the same way he appreciates quirky guitar picks and knitted sweaters that look like they’ve gone through two generations before being donated into some charity shop and then picked up by Wilbur.

“Woah,” Wilbur says, sitting up quickly and bringing Tommy back down to Earth.

He’d begun to float away, tired after patrolling and being a general badass, but the concern lacing Wilbur’s woah steals his attention. When Tommy turns, he finds Wilbur looking at him. Or well, not at him. At his arms, where one of his hoodie sleeves has rode up exposing a patch of skin. And in that patch of skin, right above Tommy’s fingerless gloves, the whisper of a bruise peeks out.

Oh. That. Yeah, Techno is not going to like that.

Wilbur frowns, reaching over him and tugging at his arm. Tommy half-jerks his hand away before relenting. Wilbur won’t find anything out about him just by looking at his hand. Unless he has a secret aptitude for memorizing wrists. Which– maybe he does. Wilbur has all sorts of quirky hobbies.

Wilbur cradles Tommy’s hand in his own. Delicately, he pushes up Tommy’s hoodie sleeve. As he does, his eyes flicker up questioningly, checking for protest that doesn’t come. A tiny hiss of pain escapes Tommy’s mouth, prickles of heat skittering over his wrist. Wilbur’s grip becomes infinitely gentler without letting go.

Sympathy twists in his mouth. Tommy doesn’t really need it, but he appreciates it as Wilbur studies his wrist.

It’s not the prettiest sight. All blues and purples mixing together like paint on the palette of an artist who just got done painting the twilight.

Tommy had stopped an ATM robbery earlier, but he hadn’t been careful enough. The guy had swung at him, and Tommy had seen it too late to do anything but throw his hand up and catch the blow on his wrist (which was much better than his face.)

Wilbur’s brow creases and his lips tug up into a pout-ish frown that reminds Tommy vaguely of Technoblade. Wide, black coffee-eyes take in the purplish crawl of bruises up Tommy’s wrist. He brushes his thumb over some of the lighter bits with the same easy grace he has when he’s strumming away on his guitar.

Tommy doesn’t react, just watches. It’s just like watching Techno patch him up, except where Techno is clinical and understanding, Wilbur frowns like it’s the worst thing he’s ever seen. Tommy remembers, now, that Wilbur is so much further away from this than Techno is. And Wilbur must remember that too, because he seems very perturbed by Tommy’s lack of reaction.

“Doesn’t that hurt?” Wilbur asks, relinquishing Tommy’s wrist.

Tommy shrugs, pulling his hand back into his lap and pushing his sleeve back down. It does a little bit, he supposes. But he’s done this long enough, has been hurt worse enough, that little bruises don’t bother him as much. Especially since has someone to help him take care of them now. Hiding them under stolen drugstore makeup or ratty sweater sleeves were never the best methods. They’d always ached longer than they should’ve.

You should’ve seen me a few weeks ago. I was so much worse.

Even if Tommy could talk to Wilbur at this moment, he wouldn’t say that. Tommy likes how much… lighter things are with Wilbur. He doesn’t understand the grim, gritty parts of vigilantism. To him, Glare is just a silent companion.

(He doesn’t look at him like he’s dying. Like he needs to start grieving. Not the way Techno has been lately. Not the way Tubbo and Ranboo sometimes do.)

“Sorry,” Wilbur says after a moment. Tommy tilts his head at him. Wilbur huffs out a breath. “I mean for… prying or whatever. It’s just weird. I’ve never interacted with any of you heroes.”

Tommy frowns, holding up two fingers in a V shape.

“Vigilante,” Wilbur is quick to amend. “My bad.”

Tommy acquits him by turning away, scraping his eyes over the darkening sky. The sun looks like half of a blobby apricot hung up in the sky. It makes the few remaining streaks of orange look like fire.

There’s nothing to apologize for. He’s just being curious. Tommy probably would too, if he was in Wilbur’s place.

A thought pops into Tommy’s head when everything goes quiet again. Quiet except for the low buzz of the city, of pedestrians walking below them but never looking up to where the two of them have melted against the horizon line.

He glances at Wilbur, and mimics strumming a guitar across his chest.

Lights spark in Wilbur’s eyes.

“You want to hear a song?”

Tommy nods, and Wilbur’s expression breaks into light completely. It’s a contagious light. Tommy’s own light pulses just a shade brighter. There’s something special about Wilbur’s music, about how special it is to Wilbur. He plays like he doesn’t expect there to be ears for it to fall on. Tommy likes that.

“Sure,” Wilbur agrees, and he loses his fear of heights for a moment to approach the guitar case still laying at the edge where Tommy had dragged it up. Wilbur fiddles with getting out and getting the strap over the shoulder. Then, his eyes flick up, an eyebrow raising. “Any requests?”

Tommy shakes his head and settles down to listen.

Wilbur can play whatever he wants, and Tommy will enjoy the peace it brings all the same.

Sitting there, with the music washing over him, all of Tommy’s worries become miniscule. Trivial.

It’s a blessing and a curse.

Because while Wilbur’s music eases air freely through his lungs and strips away his concerns, Tommy’s phone burns a hole in his trouser pocket where it rests: untouched and silent but flaming in the intensity of the messages he forgets.

But Tommy is made of fire. He doesn’t feel it.

“Oh, shit,” Wilbur mutters under his breath sometime later, once he’s gone through most of his music and the day had finally turned completely over to night. “It’s late.”

He hadn’t played all of his music, though. A few songs he’d saved, songs he said were new. When Tommy attempted to silently question him, excitement taking root inside him, Wilbur had just smiled fondly.

(“Sorry,” he apologized guiltlessly. “I promised a good friend of mine that he’d be the first one to hear my new stuff.”

Oh. That’s Tommy then. The excitement slid to the back of his brain for later.)

Wilbur stands, shaking out his old bones and scrubbing a hand through his hair. He peers at the black sky with a look of contemplation Tommy can only barely make out.

“I’ve got to go.”

Tommy sits up, a yawn crawling out of him. It is pretty late. Much later than he’d meant for it to get.

(That scratch comes back. Itching and itching.)

(That scratch goes away. He’ll remember whatever it is later.)

Wilbur hefts his guitar case over his shoulder, and that’s Tommy’s cue to finally get onto his feet. He trots over to Wilbur’s side, and Wilbur faces him.

“Please get me off this bloody rooftop,” he pleads, and Tommy snorts and does.

Wilbur yelps as he is deposited very safely onto the concrete again. Not that he acts like it, what with the way he wobbles unsteadily on the solid ground. When Tommy drops down beside him, he shivers. He eyes Tommy’s vines balefully as Tommy holds in a laugh at the dizzy expression on his face.

“You’re a menace,” he gripes, shouldering his guitar case. “I have no clue how you fucking do that.”

I’m just cooler than you. Another barb he wishes he could throw.

Tommy settles with waving at him and stepping back. Wilbur returns the gesture with a tired smile.

“See you tomorrow?”

Tommy nods, then hesitates. He points at Wilbur, points at himself, and then mimes walking.

Wilbur shakes his head, somehow always understanding him even without words.

“I’m good,” he tells him. “I’ll make it home on my own.”

Tommy nods. This one says, If you’re sure. And Wilbur seems to be, because he starts off towards his flat, and Tommy starts off towards Techno’s.

Well– he tries. He makes it three steps after Wilbur’s silhouette vanishes around the corner before his stomach twists. Hunger pangs there, and Tommy doesn’t even stop to consider the ramifications of stopping for food as he sets course for the taco truck that always gives him a free taco whenever he buys food.

One more detour won’t hurt.

⋆⋆⋆

<Techno> (unread) tubbo says you never made it home

(unread) tommy kid I need you to answer me

(unread) please

⋆⋆⋆

Tommy knocks on Techno’s window carrying a brown paper bag with enough tacos for two, and jumps at how quickly the window is slammed open.

He hardly gets his free hand around the latch before Techno is jerking the window up from the inside. Tommy grins, wrestling his bandana down as he looks up–

At a walking headstone. That’s the only way Tommy can describe how Techno looks when he sees him: a horrible, breathing mix of terrible worry and incredible anger, like the stone font of an epigraph.

Fuck, Tommy thinks. A chill rolls over him, a stomach-deep dread that tells him, in no uncertain terms, that he has fucked up.

“Techno?” he breathes, hand frozen around the windowsill.

Wind whips angrily at Tommy from all sides, battering him against the side of the building. Tommy hardly feels it. He does feel, with a particular weight, exactly how late it is. The night surrounding him feels so much darker.

Like a star exploding, the scratch from before blossoms into a full-fledged realization, and then dims into ice-cold dread. Shit.

With new franticness, Tommy swallows and heaves himself up. He doesn’t make it far before something seems to snap in Techno. Strong, steady hands circle around Tommy’s upper arms, and he’s being helped inside.

He doesn’t really need help, but Tommy wouldn’t dare push Techno away when he looks so broken-open.

“I’ve got you,” Techno murmurs, a touch too hollow. It stings against Tommy’s eardrums. “Take it easy.”

“I’m okay,” Tommy whispers, as he makes it inside and onto his feet. “I didn’t get hurt.”

Techno must hear him, but he doesn’t let him go right away. Rather than loosing his grip on Tommy once he’s upright, Tommy is surprised when Techno pulls him closer. In an instant he is being held against Techno’s chest.

Silence wraps around them at the same time that Techno’s arms wrap around Tommy. He feels a pressure against his hair as Techno drops his chin on the top of Tommy’s head. He exhales deeply, breath shaking. Tommy stays completely still. Guilt ticks in his chest. Or maybe that’s his slow-rising heartbeat.

Tommy wonders – briefly, distantly – if Techno can feel it. If he’s listening to it. That must be why he holds him like a ghost, like something that will vanish if he lets go. That must be why he stops time, stops his anger and everything else, to hold him.

The silence doesn’t last forever, and neither does the reprieve.

“I thought something happened.”

Techno speaks low and careful. Brittle. It’s still enough to make Tommy’s heart seize.

“Techno…” Tommy repeats, quiet and hesitant.

Techno steps back, releasing Tommy. Tommy immediately misses the embrace, but he doesn’t chase it. Techno doesn’t want him to. Tommy doesn’t know why he’s so sure of that, but he is.

He is, and Techno proves it by swallowing deliberately and staying quiet. He creates a chasm between them as he steps back, small but endless, and takes a moment to sweep his eyes over Tommy, assessing.

But he doesn’t find a grave injury, or an injury at all, really, because Tommy is fine.

He’d just forgotten to tell Techno that.

The guilt worsens.

Techno looks… upset. His braid is unkempt, too many strands coming loose than Techno ever allows, and his clothes are rumpled. There’s a gauntness to his face that shouldn’t be there but is.

And the worst part is, Techno looks somewhat relieved. Even if he’s upset, he’s still relieved by the fact that Tommy is in front of him, and that makes Tommy feel worse.

“I called you,” Techno informs him quietly. Too quietly. Clinically. The lack of sound leaves so much space for guilt to sink into him. He jerks his head vaguely to Tommy. “And messaged you.”

Tommy’s mouth goes dry. “You did?”

Techno just nods. Tommy fumbles to get his phone out of his pocket with cold, unfeeling fingers. He unlocks it, and the endless stream of notifications glaring at him are enough to make him want to fold over even before he comes face to face with what can’t be anything other than Techno’s fear, captured neatly between tiny, digital letters.

The most recent string of messages came in five minutes ago.

<Techno> youre giving me a heart attack kid

It’s been three hours

Don’t make me have to come look for you

I trust you but I need to know if youre safe

“Fuck,” Tommy whispers. He can barely get it out around the guilt cramming his throat. “Techno, I’m–”

Sorry, he tries to say, but Techno doesn’t give him time to finish that.

He just shakes his head, and Tommy’s mind goes blank. His mouth falls shut. He can’t imagine a worse feeling in the world than disappointing his idol. Than worrying him. He writhes in it.

“You scared the shit out of me, Tommy,” Techno tells him.

Each word pierces Tommy, a new flavor of guilt. He tilts his head, eyes oddly cloudy. Tommy wonders if the voices are giving him hell right now. If they are, it’s because of him.

“I’m okay, Techno,” Tommy repeats softly. His hands shake. Tommy wraps them both around the folded top of the taco fast food bag still somehow in his hands. It feels heavy as an anchor. “I– I just lost track of time.”

When Techno says nothing, right away at least, Tommy panics. All the guilt explodes out of him into a messy ramble. He wants to fix this so bad he doesn’t even think.

“I– I texted you that I was coming home, right? But then I ran into Wilbur in front of the cafe, and– well, you know, we were hanging out and I guess I forgot to–”

“What?” Techno interjects. Tommy stops. He gets to watch, in perfect clarity, as all the restraint that Techno had apparently been maintaining shatters into something sharp. “You were with Wilbur?”

Wilbur’s name falls off Techno’s tongue like a curse. Tommy’s blinks, brows scrunching. He doesn’t like the way Techno says that.

“Yeah,” Tommy answers carefully. “I was.”

Techno’s face changes, a storm rolling across it. He scoffs, bitterness creeping into his voice.

“Of course you were,” Techno breathes. “Of course.”

Tommy straightens, confusion unfurling in his gut. It’s the first emotion that has made it past the guilt, but he doesn’t think it’ll be the only one.

“What’s wrong with that?” he asks. Maybe he’s a touch defensive, shoulders leveling. But he can’t help it. He doesn’t like Techno sounding like this. “What’s wrong with Wilbur?”

Techno sets his jaw, eyes flashing. Tommy’s heart begins to strum louder.

“What’s wrong,” Techno drawls, “is that I just spent three hours thinkin’ you were dead.” Tommy’s heart drops into his stomach. Techno keeps going. “What’s wrong is that instead of checkin’ in with me like you were supposed to, you decided to spend time with a stranger.”

The air is punched out of Tommy’s lungs. He balls his fists, taco bag crinkling in. There is so much wrong with this, and he can hardly find the words to address it all. He starts with what startles him the most.

“Wilbur’s not a stranger–” Tommy insists, stepping forward. “He’s my friend.”

Techno levels him with a flat look, like that doesn’t matter. “He’s a civilian. You can’t–”

Techno stops. He stops dead in his tracks, and his eyes flash sharper than ever. He stops and this should be where Tommy jumps in with a defense, but he wants to know why. (At least, he thinks he does. He’s wrong about that too.)

Techno is staring right at his chest. He stares like a spark about to catch. Stares at Tommy’s… clothes?

Oh, shit.

“Did you visit Wilbur as Glare?”

A sharp, stinging silence. Tommy swallows. Shit.

“He– he didn’t know it was me.”

The spark catches.

“You’ve gotta be kiddin’ me,” Techno mutters. He steps back, steps away from Tommy. And then he levels Tommy with a look that is both pleading and harsh. “Your first week back and you’re already riskin’ your identity?” Techno straightens his shoulders. Tommy wants to sink into the ground. “Do you have any clue how stupid that is?”

Stupid. Tommy flinches back. Techno only lets himself look regretful for a moment before closing his face back off with a shudder. His glare is sharp, demanding answers. Tommy tries to give them. Every syllable he utters feels like paper mache: weak and sloppy and clumsily glued together.

“It’s not like that,” Tommy tries. “He– He didn’t recognize me.”

Techno laughs, low and sarcastic. It sends nausea whirling through Tommy’s stomach.

Usually, he likes the laughs he’s able to draw out of Techno. The high, full ones that light them both up. He doesn’t like this one. This one burns.

“And how do you know that?” he asks, tilting his head. Tommy clamps his mouth shut. His limbs feel oddly detached from his body. “How do you know he’s not lyin’ to you right back?”

Tommy swallows hard. “Why would he lie?”

Techno doesn’t grace that with an answer. “

“This close, Tommy,” Techno heaves, working his jaw. The walls of Techno’s apartment close in, blurring in Tommy’s peripheral. The sharpness of Techno’s voice is the only thing able to cut through it. “I was this close to getting Phil to send the whole Hero’s Guild to go look for you–”

“He can do that?”

It’s the wrong thing to say. Techno stiffens, expression hardening. Shit.

“That’s not important,” Techno hisses. “What’s important is that there are people after my–” He looks startled even with himself at whatever he was about to say. He swallows, wets his lips, and continues on with the same broken sort of desperation that Tommy can hardly summon anger to match. “–people after you, people who will kill you if they find you, and you’re riskin’ your identity just to hang out with a busker you just met.”

There’s a million different ways that Techno’s words slice him up. Panic, fear, squashed down dread that he’s been trying not to think about — those are the first to get to him. But that’s not what Tommy latches onto.

He latches onto the last part – busker you just met – because that’s been the only constant all week, and he gets the feeling that Techno’s anger isn’t just because of this. This feels premeditated, a powder keg that had grown and grown until this. The fuse ran short. Now all there’s left to do is face the heat.

“Wait,” Tommy cuts in, heat spreading through him. He reels back, all incredulity and confusion. “Is– is this because I forgot to answer my phone or because I was with Wilbur?”

Techno’s jaw clicks. “Can’t it be both?”

Tommy blinks quickly. “Can it– no, it can’t.”

His heart pounds. Sweat gathers on his palms, and his throat feels tight. He doesn’t like fighting. And now he’s even more confused.

Techno grinds his jaw, unrelenting. “He’s a liability.”

“You don’t know that.”

“Don’t I?” Techno asks. “You went to him in costume, Tommy. That makes him–”

“A friend,” Tommy finishes, exhaling harshly through his nose. “I’m not an idiot, Techno. He didn’t know it was me!” Techno doesn’t seem convinced. But that’s nothing new, is it? “He was doing his busker shit– singing and all that, and I just hung out with him.” Techno opens his mouth – Tommy knows what he’s going to say and intercepts the concern-born criticism he’s sure is coming his way. “I barely spoke.”

Techno’s lips flatten. Tommy wishes the blankness didn’t cut him open so bad. But it does. And it leaves him tired. Tommy is sick of being tired.

“I– I need you to trust me, Techno,” Tommy finishes. In his head, it’s a declaration: resolute and unrelenting. But out loud, it’s just sort of a plea. Quiet and frail. “Trust that I’m not going to get myself killed. I’m– I’m better than that.”

Techno’s chest hiccups. His throat bobs. He doesn’t say a word at first, and Tommy thinks it’s probably for his sake. Gives him time to breathe.

“It’s not you I don’t trust,” Techno finally says.

Frustration rips into Tommy’s chest. Heat spreads in the grooves it carves. But before it can augment into something bigger, something terribly destructive, Techno holds up a hand.

“I’m not sayin’ I don’t trust Wilbur,” he clarifies. Tommy eyes him suspiciously – even if Techno’s not saying it outright, Tommy feels like he doesn’t. “I’m sayin’ that it doesn’t matter how good you are if you get attacked again. All that matters is what you do now. The risks you take and the ones you don’t.” Coldness blooms, ebbing away at the heat. Techno just looks tired now. Just as tired as Tommy. “I don’t want to see you get hurt again, Tommy. I won’t do it.”

You won’t have to, Tommy almost says – but he catches on his tongue. He doesn’t want to give Techno a promise he doesn’t know if he can keep. So he goes another route, one that doesn’t make his head spin to consider.

“Trust me,” Tommy repeats. Because that’s what it comes down to, doesn’t it? Whether Techno trusts him or not. “Trust that I’m not taking a risk.”

Silent falls over them. Tension fizzes in the air, holding them both hostage, freezing them in place. Part of Tommy wants to hold his breath until the argument dissolves, but he knows he can’t leave it like that: a gaping, inflamed wound that won’t ever close over properly unless they work it out.

And this is Techno. Scared as he may be, he’s still Techno. Tommy wants to work it out.

“Let it go,” he pleads quietly. He squeezes his hands around the bag in his hands – the tacos he’d got for both of them. He hopes they aren’t cold now. “Please.”

Time stretches the second of quiet into a millennia. All Tommy can do is brace and hope for anything but another collision.

And Techno gives him that. He may not want to, but he does.

“Okay,” he answers quietly. Tommy’s chest gives in. Relief weighs heavily on his limbs. It’s a good weight. Tommy could collapse right here. At least he’s sure that Techno would catch him. “I’m sorry for gettin’ upset.”

Guilt works its way onto Techno’s face; into his low, gruff voice. It’s one thing they have in common right now.

“I was just worried,” Techno adds. Then, he shakes his head, seeming frustrated with himself. “That’s– it’s not an excuse. But it’s a reason. It’s my reason.” He laughs, low and laced with self-deprecation. “Paranoia is hard to shake.”

Some of Tommy’s own guilt spills forward, unravelling in his chest. He understands too well. Maybe that’s him and Techno are clashing now: usually two halves of one whole. Now, scraping together, abrasive in the ways they are dealing with this.

(Half of Tommy’s passive thoughts lately have been around that night.)

“Me too. I– I should’ve answered my phone.”

Techno nods. He holds him in warm eyes that glitter in the half-lit room. Light spills in from the kitchen behind, illuminating all his tiredness in harsh shadows.

“I can’t have you goin’ silent on me,” he agrees, sounding far too grieved for Tommy’s comfort. “I wasn’t exaggeratin’ when I said it scared the hell out of me.”

Tommy nods, swallowing over the lump that hasn’t yet left his throat.

“I won’t,” he promises. This is something he can give Techno. He’s already kicked himself a thousand times for forgetting in the first place. “I’ll be better about it, I swear.” He cracks a weak grin. “I swear on Tubbo’s life.”

Techno snorts, scrubbing his hands over his face. “Tubbo’s life, hm?”

“Yeah,” Tommy answers. “That’s a big promise.”

“I know, kid. I know.”

The apartment is warm now. It’s not so shadowed anymore, just cozily lit. The lights in the kitchen are on, and so is the lamp in the living room, and it’s peace. When Tommy breathes, his lungs let him. No weight.

Techno sighs, rubbing at his temple. Tommy wouldn’t be surprised if a migraine was forming there. Especially if the voices are being all… voicy. He steps forward, prepared to… do nothing, actually, nothing but maybe comfort him– and that’s when he remembers the bag in his hands.

Tommy offers Techno’s a soft, hazy grin.

“I…” He lamely raises the brown paper bag. Techno looks at him. “I brought food.”

Techno’s eyebrow inches up. He accepts the olive branch of lightness that Tommy is extending. He crucifies the rest of the tension from the air.

“Tacos?” he asks, scanning the side of the bag.

Tommy nods. “From that place you like.” He hesitates. “Do you..?”

“Yes,” Techno answers, like there could be any other answer.

Tommy grins, hesitant– then all at once. Techno offers him a tiny one back.

It’s medicine in its own right. He passes a taco to Techno, and it feels like a truce.

⋆⋆⋆

<Tommy> holy shit Tubbo i totally forgot to tell you i made it back to Techno’s

<Tubbo> you’re a fucking idiot

<Tommy> im okay

<Tubbo> i know

Techno told me you fell asleep on his shoulder and that’s why you didn’t message right away

He said u drooled

<Tommy> I DID NOT FUSKCING DROOL ON HIM

he’s a liar

All heroes are liars

<Tubbo> ur a hero

Nvm that checks out

<Tommy> f uck u

bithc

<Tubbo> bithc

come back upstairs when you’re done

I need to beat the shit out of you for scaring me

<Tommy> ??

<Tubbo> i meant hug**

Autocorrect LUL

<Tommy> …

⋆⋆⋆

Phil eyes him curiously as Techno settles into the seat across from him, maneuvering limbs that don’t quite feel like his own.

He hardly remembers getting from his apartment to Phil’s place. But he’s here, and he knows why he’s here.

Techno has a job to do.

“It’s Friday, mate,” Phil tells him, as if Techno had forgotten. “Not that I don’t appreciate you coming to see me but…”

Techno laughs, hollow and strained. “Sorry to burst your bubble,” and he is. He makes a note to come see Phil more. A few weekly dinners hasn’t been cutting it lately. “But this isn’t a social call.”

Phil’s mouth twists up into a wry smile. “I figured.” He lowers his voice, a mask of stone sliding over his face. His eyes glitter intensely in his skull. “Did you find something?”

Techno shakes his head.

“No,” he admits – because that’s exactly what it is.

An admission of his own incompetence. They’ve found next to nothing on Tommy’s attackers. Nothing except dead ends and threads of information that turn into dead ends. Nothing but endless reminders that Techno hadn’t been able to stop the attack the first time, and reminders that he may not be good enough to stop it a second time.

And if Techno with a legacy so red-stained as his, if Techno who had toppled the Hero’s League nearly on his own, can’t protect the one good thing he’s managed to earn himself in a while… then Techno is failing. He’s failing just like he had that night.

Techno won’t make that mistake again.

“I need you to do something else for me.”

Phil leans forward over the desk, shadows circling his pupils. “Anything, mate. You know that.”

Techno exhales. He hadn’t expected Phil to deny him, but the confirmation still soothes him. It soothes the voices, at the very least. They sink down into pure silence, near-emptiness.

This is your decision, they seem to hiss. Make it or don’t. You’ll be the one doing it.

I’m okay with that, he shoves back.

“Good,” he breathes, laying his hands on the desk between them and drumming repeatedly against the wood. “Good, because I need…”

He stops. Hesitation flickers over him – one last attempt to pull him back off of this precipice. Techno ignores it. He has to. The doubt is hard to hear, anyway, through the sonant chaos swirling in his skull. They agree with him. Historically, that hasn’t always been a good thing.

But it is now. It has to be.

Techno squeezes his hands into fists. The pressure drags him down to rationality.

Inhale. If Tommy is right, he thinks, then nothing changes. This won’t matter.

Exhale. But if he’s wrong, he’ll need me to have done this.

Surely, that makes up for this.

(In the end, nothing would’ve been enough to break through Techno’s determination to see this through. Nothing except for maybe Tommy, standing in front of him. Techno would listen to Tommy. Which is exactly why he keeps this a secret.)

Inhale. Exhale. Break.

“I need you to get me any information you can find on someone named Wilbur. Wilbur Soot.”

Chapter Text

“I’m guessing you’re not going to explain why you wanted this.”

“Phil,” Techno says, accepting the thick manilla envelope into his hands, “You know me so well.”

Phil sighs, shaking his head with a whisper of a smile, one that says he’s seen this all before. He crosses his arms, leaning back against his office wall. Techno turns the folder over in his hands, running his thumb along the thick edge.

This is it. Every discretion and indiscretion of Wilbur Soot’s life rolled up in paper and ink, every success and failure, hope and dream, crime and punishment. Everything that he’s betraying Tommy’s trust for.

And everything that will make that worth it.

It’s not a betrayal, Techno reminds himself, if I’m right.

"This is everything I can find on him,” Phil tells him. He gives Techno a weighted look. “Whatever you’re looking for… it’ll be there.”

Techno hums appreciatively, fingers clenching around the folder. It’s heavy. Techno had expected nothing less; Phil has never failed him, has always given him the best. Even when he doesn’t understand him.

Buried inside could be anything: the concrete proof Techno needs to justify his paranoia– or nothing.

But something in Techno’s head rejects the idea of there being nothing. He can’t tell who it belongs to: himself, or the voices – those lesser, abstract scraps of his desires.

(The voices that aren’t always reliable. The ones that have led him wrong before. The voices that have brought about his most flaming of glories and his most violent of crusades–)

Techno doesn’t open it, not here. Not in Phil’s office, under Phil’s (poorly-concealed) curiosity. Not when there’s a strange weight to his fingers, making his muscles cramp when he tries.

“Thank you, Phil.”

Phil’s lips twitch into the whisper of a tense smile. Techno shifts in place, tempted to rock back onto his heels. Energy buzzes under his skin. He wants to get home: call a cab, slip ‘em a fifty to go faster, and crack open Pandora’s Box.

He takes one step towards the door.

“Techno.”

He looks up. Phil raises his eyebrows.

At Techno’s dead stare, he lets out a breathy laugh. Almost disbelieving.

“...you still not going to tell me who this guy is and why you had me run a full background check on him?”

“No.”

Phil stares at him.

For a fleeting moment, Techno wonders if he’s going to push him on this. If trust me isn’t enough after these last few months. But this is Phil he’s talking about, Phil who knows him and all his habits, who knows which battles to pick and which to let burn out. And Techno remembers that quick enough when his oldest friend just sighs, shoulders rolling.

“Alright, mate,” he says, and that’s that. “I’ll let you have this one.”

He scrubs a conceding hand through his hair. The city in the window behind him gleams, sun bouncing off the skyscrapers. Almost blinding over Phil’s shoulder. Tension seeps out of Techno’s spine.

He dips his head. “Thank you, Phil,” he repeats, because Phil needs to know that he means it.

Phil nods, turning away towards the window. Techno can’t deny the way the silence unnerves him. They’ve had missed meetings, and strings of absences, but they don’t ever have very many short ones. Phil is the only (besides Tommy, he supposes) who makes him want to talk idly and for ages.

Techno is briefly torn. Does he go? Take this opportunity as an excuse to get away (start reading–)

The door is so close to him. Techno vaguely feels like he has his hand in a cookie jar.

So it only makes sense when, the moment he edges towards the door again, Phil speaks.

“Techno.”

“Mm?”

A heavy sigh pulls out of him, one that sets Techno’s skin alight with tension.

“I don't…” Phil begins, still facing the window, hands fiddling with each other, “I don’t know what's up with you lately.” Techno freezes. He becomes startlingly aware of the silence in his head. “I trust you but... be careful for me, alright?”

He turns back around as he says it. Phil turns like there’s an explosion in his chest, whipping him around. Phil turns like he’s been thinking of these words for days.

“I… am," Techno agrees cautiously. He straightens his spine. "I always am."

Phil winces.

"Not the way I want you to be."

Techno’s lips part. All the air in his lungs rushes out.

He’s frozen, truly frozen, in the middle of an office that has only ever provided him warmth.

Phil smiles a little bit, nodding almost to himself. His hands are clasped delicately in front of him. Techno doesn’t miss the way his smile is cracked around the edges, broken glass.

Techno takes a moment to regain control over himself. It’s hard when the voices have suddenly abandoned him. He always thought he’d be relieved by their absence, if ever they were to finally stop bothering him.

He’s not now. Techno is missing a limb and unbalanced – that’s what it feels like.

“I… I don’t…” he tries, reaching a hand out.

“Tell Tommy I said hi,” Phil instructs, the barest flush of warmth blossoming over his skin. “For all the talking you do about him, you never get around to telling me how he’s doing.”

Techno clenches the folder. “Yeah. Yeah, Phil, I will.”

Phil smiles – he’s a man of comfort. Always smiling, always reaching out. Sometimes Techno wonders what those olds drama tabloids would think of him now. He’d been one of the city’s most feared heroes, and he’d been shoved into the same box of complacency as Techno in order to appease the city’s fears.

Except, rather than rearing against it like Techno did, Phil embraced it.

When the dust settled, Techno left.

Phil grew softer.

(Techno will always admire Phil for changing the city’s perspective of him from the inside: slowly, painfully. He admires him for doing what Techno could never bring himself to do.)

“Good,” Phil says, as he sweeps past him. He pats Techno’s shoulder as he goes, harsh enough with invisible expectation to nearly send Techno’s files tumbling to the ground. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I believe I can get started on date night a little early.”

Techno snorts. Date night: code for restaurant dinner, followed by competing to see who can apprehend more villains in an hour. Techno’s money is on Kristin. He lets Phil know, and Phil just shakes his head as he heads for the door.

He’s still reeling a little bit from being the last one to leave, usually he’s the first, but it’s easy enough to forget that in the face of Phil’s pure adoration of his girlfriend. Kristin isn’t even here and he’s swooning.

Literal lovebirds. They’re sickening.

Techno is much more dignified than him. He’ll go home and he’ll continue stalking Wilbur Soot and maybe if his kid shows up, Techno will tend to whatever mortal injury he'd earned himself and then they can spar.

Phil’s eyes gleam. For a moment, his irises disappear. The shadows behind him stretch out with feathery fingers.

Then, the illusion fades, and Phil turns the corner with it, and that’s how he leaves Techno.

Alone in the hallway, head too quiet, a storm rolling in his gut, a file in his hands –

And the churning sense that he has a decision to be making after all.

In the end, the Soot File folder finds a home in his nightstand drawer.

Techno decides to hold off on reading it. He’s a patient man. Impulsive, maybe, but patient. He can wait.

(For Tommy’s sake, he thinks, I can wait.

And if he gets even the barest inclination that Wilbur Soot steps out of line, even breathes wrong near Glare, near Tommy–

Well. He’ll take his time with that, too.)

The voices seem to float back into his skull after that: slowly, then all at once.

Techno doesn’t know whether to be bitter or satisfied that he’s earned their approval again. They’re supposed to be his, reflective of his desires. Having them rear against him is like if his arms suddenly developed consciousness and started swinging. It’s strange. He doesn’t like it.

(Doesn’t like wondering if they are acting on his emotions – just, ones he hasn’t realized himself yet.)

All he knows is that he appreciates the empty space less than the persistent nagging.

Techno settles.

(And when Tommy slams into his windowpane the minute he gets the nightstand drawer closed, rattling about ATM robbers and a car chase and blinding the fuck out of someone, Technoblade, it was insane–

He forgets what it means to be guilty. Tommy rambles away his night, coats everything in perfect noise before he retreats back up to his own flat to sleep, and he is content.

Techno doesn’t think about the folder again.)

⋆⋆⋆

Tommy remembers it in bits and pieces.

He remembers the alleyway folding around them, two walls of shadow and the woman in the middle of it. He remembers the robber’s jacketed arm around her neck, squeezing her into submission.

He remembers the sting of impact skittering up his ankles when he’d dropped down in front of them, eyes blazing. He hardly goes a night without a robbery of some sort. This one wasn’t supposed to be anything special.

“Stay calm,” he said, and he’d remember the shake of his voice later, that rattle of uncertainty when the robbery had become a hostage situation. “Don’t– don’t fucking move.”

“Glare?” the woman had whispered in awed recognition, one hand stretching out towards him like she wanted to touch the flames. “You’re here.”

And the relief on her face — Tommy would never forget that either. Like there wasn’t a dangerous man holding her, like Tommy was safety, like his light would melt all the shadows away and keep them away.

The robber bristled, but the dark of his eyes visible through the holes of his ski mask flickered around the alleyway with a malicious glint. The robber stumbled back. He kept the woman against him, and she yelped. Tommy tensed, hands alight with gold-tipped white flames, as he watched the robber stagger back, woman in tow, into a chain-link fence.

And that stood out too. Because that was the moment the robber realized what Tommy had already noticed: There is nowhere else to go.

“We don’t have to have any problems,” Tommy tried slowly. He raised his hands, let the light dim. Surrender. “Just let her go.”

And this is where the bits start to become pieces, shreds, scraps in his memory.

He remembers the woman’s smeared lipstick as she whispered out some sort of prayer under her breath, trembling and trembling and trembling.

He remembers the scuff of the robber’s boots against a loose pebble as he shifted in place like a bomb about to explode, eyes burning into Tommy like twin sparks of a fuse.

He remembers looking at that man and thinking, Something is wrong here. Something feels so bad about him.

But Tommy doesn’t remember seeing the gun. He doesn’t remember seeing man creep his gloved hand towards his hip, doesn’t see the flap of the jacket come up, the glint of light.

Tommy doesn’t remember seeing the gun.

Not until all there was left to do was scream–

And fall.

⋆⋆⋆

Techno senses it long before Tommy makes it to the window:

Blood.

Enough of it to drown in, enough to send Techno’s instincts whipping into a spiral, enough to have him staggering. And Techno knows. He knows even before he’s even fully aware, knows before Tommy’s inside, knows because he is blood and blood is him– that it’s only enough blood to kill.

But–

It’s not Tommy’s. Not all of it.

That hardly soothes him.

Techno rears down the hallway, fighting not to lose himself in the swarm of the voices.

He stops short in the doorway.

Tommy stands stock-still in front of the window. He’s staring vacantly at his hands, his mask squeezed in one fist.

He’s covered in blood.

The war raging in his skull goes dormant.

“...kid?”

Tommy jerks his head up. He’s ruined – eyes red, tears streaking down through the dirt and blood on his face. Meeting his gaze is like looking in a shattered mirror: pain and heartbreak and guilt magnified around the fractures.

When he sees Techno, it’s like the last spiderweb crack gives in. Something breaks, and Techno thinks it might be Tommy.

“Techno,” Tommy sobs, already falling forward. “Techno.”

Techno is hardly aware as he steps forward. Tommy crashes into his chest, and Techno catches him. And Tommy doesn’t just fall, he shatters.

“Techno–”

Techno closes his arms around him, eyes wide as he holds him together.

He only takes a heartbeat to get over his shock. He crushes Tommy in his arms. He’s still unsure, still confused, but his heart is racing in his ears now, and his skin is prickling, and he doesn’t know what happened to his kid but he knows, dimly, belatedly, that he’s going to destroy it.

“I’ve got you,” he murmurs. “I’ve got you.”

Tommy shakes his head, fists tangling into the back of Techno’s sweater. “Techno, I– I tried–”

His knees give in. Techno swallows and guides them down to the floor, still holding him, never letting go.

“Breathe, kid. Take your time.”

A frustrated keen breaks out of Tommy’s throat, interrupting the choke of sobs. “I tried– I couldn’t–”

He chokes again. It sounds like he’s dying. Techno’s head spins.

“Tommy, breathe, please.”

Tommy cuts off, but Techno can feel the hitched swell of his chest against him as he tries to pull in air. This close, the scent of drying blood is verging on suffocating. Techno’s mind is screaming at him, trying to figure out why Tommy’s covered in it. The only idea he has…

Techno’s blood goes cold.

Tommy hiccups, inhaling, and he lifts his head up like the world is bearing down on it.

“I couldn’t save her.”

Shit.

Tommy’s eyes glaze. He trembles, rocking. “I tried,” he rasps, fists tangling into Techno’s sleeve. Techno’s ears begin to ring. “She begged me to save her, and I– I tried, I promise–”

“I know you did,” Techno murmurs quickly. His head spins. “I know.”

He squeezes Tommy tighter, because Tommy is trembling so bad Techno is sure he’s going to come apart. He already has, in a way. All his unraveled strands spill out of Techno’s arms.

“He had a gun,” Tommy seizes, panting now, “I wasn’t– I should’ve been faster, I should’ve–”

He goes in for another breath, and Techno feels the way his lungs don’t respond. Tommy collapses. Techno braces for it. It’s not hard. His body reacts like it was always meant to hold him.

And so does his mouth, words spilling out, instinctively trying to balm, to soothe, to fix, because he knows this. He knows failure as much as he knows glory.

Heroism isn’t flashy costumes and blinding smiles and a gasp of relief as the danger is avoided.

Heroism is this: is a broken boy curling into Techno’s arms, blood coating both of them. Heroism is the people left behind, the gaps that were never closed, is a bandaid over a bullet hole that never stops weeping. Heroism is dirty and rotten and it kills.

(Heroism ends with a hero’s death, after it’s killed all the good out of them.)

“You couldn’t have known, Tommy.” Tommy tenses. Techno meets that invisible resistance with more force. “That’s not– you can’t blame yourself for this.”

But you can, a voice whispers, and it’s not A Voice, it’s Techno. You did. Every day under the League.

Techno clenches his teeth, smoothing a hand over Tommy’s hair.

You drowned in the guilt. It hollowed you out until you rotted. And only once you were a decaying pulp, riddled with your own failure, did you finally leave.

Techno blocks that voice out. There’s no time to rehash battles with his demons. Tommy needs him.

“How?” Tommy croaks, and the shattered glass in his voice kills Techno right there. His eyes bore into Techno’s face, so horribly pleading. “How do I do that?”

I don’t know, Techno almost says, and it scares him how easily he nearly displays that injustice to Tommy. I’m still learning.

“It’s my fault,” Tommy rattles, barely a sound. Every next word rings like old steel, dull. “She recognized me. She– she was so relieved, Techno. She was so relieved and I let her die.”

He shakes harder. Techno’s skull caves in. Being useless has never hurt more.

“You didn’t let her die,” Techno says. Tommy swallows a disbelieving whine. Techno sets his chin on top of Tommy’s head, guiding his face into the crook of Techno’s shoulder so he can hold him better. “You did so good, kid, I know you did.”

Tommy squeezes him just as tightly. Techno gets the feeling that if either of them let go, Tommy will unravel. He has no plans to ever do that.

“I– I stayed with her.”

Tommy sniffles. Techno rubs his back in time with the violent waves of tremors wracking through him. Breathe for me, kid. Breathe.

“The whole time. And I– I talked to her. The- the ambulance workers had to– had to pull me off.” His voice grows very, very quiet. Just a kid. “She wasn’t alone.”

“You did good,” Techno repeats. He closes his eyes, pressing a kiss into the top of Tommy’s skull. “You did so good.”

Tommy quiets.

He might’ve relaxed, just a whisper. From shattered glass to cracked. His next breath isn’t so violently strained. He’s awake but quiet. Techno lets him sit in the quiet. He’ll stay here, hunched over him and all, as long as it takes.

An eternity, if that’s what Tommy wants. The calm quiet of the apartment holds them back. The ringing in Techno’s ears fades to buzzing, then narrows to just the sound of Tommy’s fast breathing against his collarbone.

He wonders, after a long, long time, if Tommy did fall asleep. Because his breaths stay shallow, hitched, but they grow softer – the ruination becomes a rhythm.

And Techno would wait for Tommy to wake up, knees aching and back sore, just to make sure he slept peacefully. It’s not even the tip of the iceberg in terms of what Techno would bear for the kid.

Anything. He’d take anything.

But it’s optimistic to hope that Tommy could fall asleep like this.

“That’s all I want,” Tommy rasps brokenly after that while has drifted by. If Techno were not right next to him, he wouldn’t hear it. “To be good,” he finishes. “...I just want to be good.”

“...you are,” Techno rumbles. He means it like he’s never meant anything else. “You’re perfect, Tommy.”

That seems to finally get through to him. Tommy’s grip, holding onto his hoodie, relaxes. Techno takes his full weight, and it’s the easiest thing he’s ever done.

And then Tommy’s breath hitches. It rattles.

Tommy jolts backward, thrashing to get out of his arms. Techno lets him go immediately, and Tommy falls harshly onto the floor with a strangled yelp, kicking to get away. Techno looks around, searching for some sort of threat – another bird through his window, something that would’ve set Tommy off, broken the peace–

And he finds it, reflected in the horror burning off of Tommy’s eyes, coating the hands that Tommy throws himself backward to raise in front of him, shaking–

Techno’s heart skips.

He stands as Tommy reels away, staring wide-eyed at the red painting his skin.

“Come on,” he says, anchoring a hand on Tommy’s arm before he can tip into the spiral he’s hovering on the edge of. “C’mon, kid, let’s clean you up.”

Tommy’s pupils are blown into eclipses, lips parted around a never-ending string of hitched breaths, and Techno makes the executive decision to tug Tommy to his feet. Tommy’s gaze is on his hands, but at the same time, it’s not in Techno’s apartment at all.

It’s somewhere else, he’s somewhere else, and Techno can’t let him destroy himself like that. He can’t.

“Just like that, there you go,” he rumbles. “Lean on me, you’re okay.”

He puppets Tommy onto his feet, and Tommy goes. He just goes, and the shaking is back, and damn it, Techno has never felt more useless. He swallows that wave of self-hatred down. Whether or not he’s qualified for this, he’s all that Tommy has right now. He has to be enough – there’s no matter of want. Not when it comes to the kid.

This next part, at least, will be more natural. Robotic, even. Washing blood off his hands is second nature to him. God knows he's done it enough times.

They stumble towards the bathroom, Techno leading and Tommy… trying. He becomes aware of his own skin again enough to stagger with more grace once they make it past the living room, which is good.

Tommy comes to life when they make it into the bathroom.

Maybe too alive. It’s a jerky, unstable sort of resurrection. Techno tries to lead him towards the sink, tries to be gentle, but the minute Techno has the tap running in the sink, Tommy’s limbs seize up.

His eyes, already puffy and red, widen. A fierce, unhealthy determination carves itself into his face. He throws his hands under the stream, nearly throwing himself out of Techno’s grip with it. Techno keeps him steady. Tommy doesn’t even seem to realize he almost fell.

There is nothing to him except his hands and the sink and the water that is running red.

“I need it off,” he wheezes, jaw tense as a diamond. The words barely have room to get out of his mouth through his clenched teeth. “I need it– off–”

Techno straightens. “Easy,” he tries–

Tommy cages a strangled sound of frustration between his teeth. His chest heaves – too fast. His lungs are going to fly out of his ribcage if he’s not careful, and it makes every nerve in Techno’s body light up with tension.

Tommy scrubs at his hands.

“Tommy, slow down.”

He scrubs, and the red gives away to pink, irritated skin.

“Tommy, kid–”

He scrubs with a manic fury, scrubs like he’s trying to scrub his skin off to, and Techno–

Techno grabs his wrist. He has to.

Tommy flails, head whipping over to Techno. There’s a manic glint haunting his gaze, and with it, betrayal, like he can’t fathom why Techno grabbed him.

“Please,” Tommy begs, looking right through him, “Techno, please.”

“I’m not stoppin’ you,” Techno tells him. “But you gotta slow down, kid. I won’t let you hurt yourself.”

Tommy’s expression wavers. He starts and loses a war in his head – Techno sees it play out across his face like a movie.

“Okay,” he whispers, relenting if only to get back to the sink. “I will. I swear I will.”

He feels too much like he’s begging, needing for Techno’s permission, and it makes him sick. He lets go of Tommy’s wrists. And then he lays his hands over Tommy’s.

Tommy’s lips part, a question bubbling on his tongue–

Techno doesn’t look at him. Instead, he begins gently thumbing away at the marred skin. The water runs over both of their hands, and Techno guides it over Tommy’s skin.

“There,” he says. Pink floods over his hand. Techno feels the tremble in Tommy’s hands ease, just a bit, once they’re held in Techno’s bigger ones. “It’s on me, too.”

Tommy’s breath hitches.

When Techno risks a glance to the mirror, gauging the kid’s face, Tommy is looking at him too. There’s the faintest touch of wonder buried there, like he’s seeing Techno for the first time. His head drops down once the moment passes. Back to scrubbing.

Once Tommy realizes he has Techno’s support, he leans into it completely. Techno sandwiches him between the sink to keep him upright as he tries to erase as much of this night off of Tommy’s hands as possible.

It’s as he gets soap on their hands that Techno starts to see it.

The red goes away, it won’t ever be as permanent as the rest of this night was. But under it, where Techno expects to find clean skin–

Purple. Blue. Pink.

Bruises flower over Tommy’s knuckles.

They’re fresh enough only to be a tint, now, but the cuts aren’t: tiny, angry scrapes that slash over his knuckles. Techno recognizes the peculiar pattern. He can’t help but have his hands go still, only the tip of his thumbnail edging at one of the knicks.

“I didn’t kill him.”

Tommy won’t look at him. But he says these words, head hung low, and it’s more than Techno would ever ask him to do, but he appreciates it.

“Okay,” Techno says.

Tommy clenches his hands into fists. Techno holds those too.

“I stopped. Before I went too far.”

“Okay.”

“I was–” He leans over the sink, shoulders flexing. “I was so mad. But I couldn’t… I didn’t kill him.”

“Tommy,” Techno interrupts.

Tommy looks up. He presses his lips together. It doesn’t disguise the way they tremble. He looks terrified, so terrified that it slashes Techno to ribbons. But he doesn’t shy away from whatever horrible retribution he expects Techno to deal to him. As if Techno could ever, as if his ledger is not soaked in a hundred times this much blood.

“It’s okay.”

Techno leans his head forward, presses their foreheads together. Just a brush, just a makeshift anchor. I’m real. You’re real. You’re fine.

Tommy releases a shuddering breath. Melting forward. For once, Techno is grateful for Tommy’s absolute belief in him. Because when Techno says it’s okay, Tommy seems to believe him.

Which is good. Techno is telling the truth.

His eyelashes flutter. Techno can see the drowsiness slam into him.

But, as much as he wants the rest of this night to waste away, he can’t let Tommy sleep just yet.

He draws their hands out of the sink bowl, and shuts the water off. Tommy startles, looking down. Techno shakes his head.

“They’re clean,” he says. “I promise you.”

Tommy’s shoulders rise and fall quickly. Techno meets his half-shapen doubt with nothing short of conviction.

He gives Tommy all the time he needs to skim his face for any sign of deception. He could search forever and find nothing. And either he does find nothing, or he’s too tired to try, or maybe it’s more of that immortal trust, but he relents.

Tommy nods, blinks a few times to himself. He lets his hands fall anxiously at his side. When his eyelashes part again, his eyes are hazy. Not good.

Techno kicks the toilet seat cover down, leading Tommy down onto it to sit.

“Stay here,” he tells him, gently, and Tommy just nods, still dazed.

He sits down like a stringless puppet. Blades slice through Techno’s chest. Shove it down. Techno distracts himself by reaching for his shower, turning the water on. Tommy flinches at the sound of the showerhead bursting to life–

And then wilts again. Techno turns the temperature up and heads towards the door while it gets warm.

“I’ll be right back,” he adds, because he knows Tommy likes to know these things, and because if panic is the thing to break this daze, that would be worse than Tommy falling into it at all. “Just stay here.”

He steps back. Half of him waits for Tommy to tilt over and collapse once Techno’s stabilizing grip is gone, but Tommy doesn’t even move. His gaze is stuck on the tile. Techno swallows down a flood of nausea and then walks into his bedroom.

Clean clothes for Tommy, clean clothes for Techno, one towel. He’s quick about grabbing these things, fear puppeting his movements. Fear that something is irrevocably fragmented about his kid, fear that it’s not something Techno will ever be able to just fix.

But bloody clothes? Techno can fix that. He can fix that.

The sound of heaving floats in from the bathroom. Techno winces, the voices screech in alarm, and then he’s turning on his heel.

Tommy has moved. That’s half a relief. Because at least he’s aware enough to do that. But it’s barely a reassurance when Techno makes it to the bathroom to find Tommy sobbing over the toilet, stomach heaving as he throws up.

Techno splits open.

He drops the clothes on the countertop, then drops to his knees.

He doesn’t get too close, not right away, but he’s there. If that’s all Techno can do, he’s there. He lays a hand over the hunched curve of Tommy’s spine, which shakes and shakes. When Techno touches him, Tommy sobs harder. It’s death. To Techno, it’s death.

“I’m sorry, kid,” he murmurs. “I’m so sorry.”

Tommy nods half-coherently, not looking at him.

Techno waits quietly beside him until he’s able to pull himself away. Tommy comes up, shakes but doesn’t make to heave again. He wipes his mouth, and for a moment, he seems totally lucid. Then, he sags against Techno’s shoulder. Techno cradles him. He’ll never tire of this.

They sit like that on the tile, silently, for a moment.

“Do you want to sit for a while?” Techno asks carefully.

Tommy shifts. He’s silent for long enough to send a bolt of fear through Techno. Then, he shakes his head minutely.

“No,” he whispers. “I wanna shower.”

Techno nods, but he doesn’t ease his grip. Similarly, Tommy doesn't move until a few long minutes have gone by. Techno holds him until Tommy summons strength of his own to start getting to his feet.

Then, he unwinds, helping him up. Tommy flashes him the barest edge of a grateful smile. It wobbles at the end, then disappears as quick as a comet, but it’s there. His kid is still in there.

“I’ll be right outside the door,” he tells him. Techno curls and uncurls his hands in and out of anxious fists. “Yell if you need anything, alright? Even if it’s just to talk.” He hesitates. “And don’t do anything stupid, like collapse. Just– yeah. Take as long as you need.”

Tommy nods. It’s a whisper of himself. Techno feels like he’s glimpsed a specter. There’s no I can handle myself, Tech-no-blade (that Tommy-special drawl of his name), no It’s just a shower, Tech-no-blade, I’m not a bitch. Just a tiny nod.

Techno doesn’t let himself display the devastation that tries to run through him. It’s just not his character, and anyway, he won’t put that burden on Tommy. This belongs to just him, just like every other wayward emotion he’s dealt with in the last week.

“Hey,” he says, as Tommy shuffles towards the wall of steam.

Tommy turns, raising eye-lidded eyes up to him. His shoulders curl defensively up towards his ears, but he waits. He trusts, expectant. He trusts in a way Techno doesn’t think he’ll ever deserve. But he tries. Right now, he tries.

“I’m proud of you, kid.”

Tommy’s face crumples. Techno gives him half a smile – something to latch onto.

“You make me prouder everyday, you know that?” Tommy’s nose twitches, lips threatening to wobble. “Because I need you to know that.” He huffs a laugh. “I… am so, so grateful that you broke through my window that night.”

Tommy smiles. A tear slides down his face; he catches it with the side of his hand. There’s something startling broken and healed about his face right now, and he turns his shining eyes on Techno without filtering any of it.

“I love you, Techno,” Tommy says.

Techno stills.

Warm pops in his chest, fizzles over his skin. This kid, he thinks, belatedly. His mind blue-screens, and he thinks Tommy knows that, because one side of his mouth quirks up.

And then Tommy is turning, limping towards the shower, and the moment is broken, but Techno’s head is still a messy choir of this kid, this kid, this kid on loop.

Techno leaves the bathroom on stilted limbs. He sinks down against the wall, feeling oddly-dizzy. So he tips his head back, closes his eyes shut, focuses on the steady heartbeat behind the other wall, and waits.

He waits and he can feel each individual thread of the universe closing in around him. Each fragile strand on a loom, coming together to be something of his, wrapped in the four walls of his apartment. It’s so broken, but so whole around them, and Techno would destroy it all to keep this pocket of peace.

For now, though, he thinks he’ll settle with just protecting it.

⋆⋆⋆

<Tubbo?> hey man is Tommy with you?

<Tubbo?> oh fuck

<Tubbo?> oh jesus

<Tubbo?> keep him safe please

<Tubbo?> i feel like we ask that alot but please this time

<Techno> I’ve got him. He’s safe.

<Tubbo?> is he okay?

<Techno> deleted a message

<Techno> He’s safe.

⋆⋆⋆

Tommy looks smaller than ever when he makes it out of the shower.

Bundled in Techno’s biggest Bloodlust hoodie – the one he never lets Tommy wear, but the only that felt right to give him – swallows him whole. Tommy looks like he wants it to. His hair sticks to his forehead, and he’s not crying anymore, but his eyes are red.

Dark purple already smudges beneath them. Techno imagines it’ll look worse tomorrow. It makes the voices let out a pitiful croon, like a wolf howling.

“Hey,” Techno says, and Tommy startles.

His wandering eyes find his, and they widen a bit, like he hadn’t expected Techno to keep his word. But he had, of course he’d stayed, except for a brief intermission to go clean up the blood that had made it to the living room.

“Hi, Techno.”

Tommy makes a valiant effort at keeping himself together. He goes for a smile; fracture marks race up his face the minute his lips try to curve.

All Techno has to do is stand, and Tommy’s composure cracks down the middle.

Techno pulls him into his arms. Tommy folds against him, burying his face into Techno’s clean hoodie. Techno lets out a heavy sigh, dropping his chin against Tommy’s head. Tommy mimics him, and the voices calm at hearing the kid inhale and exhale a full breath.

Techno feels horribly guilty at having to break it.

"Are your roommates going to worry if I send you up like this?"

The voices hiss. It’s disapproval if he’s ever seen it. And they’re not alone in that.

Tommy stiffens. His hands curl, breath hitching.

“Can I stay here?”

His head quiets. Techno almost snorts – can he call the voices in his idiots?

“Of course,” he says. “God, of course. I was– well, I was hopin’ you’d say that, honestly.”

Tommy calms, shaking out his hands. Techno resists the urge to reach over and hold them, calm the anxious wringing. The last thing he wants to do is treat Tommy like glass. Even if he resembles it.

“C’mon,” Techno murmurs. “Let’s lay down.”

Tommy nods, stepping back reluctantly. He hesitates when his eyes land on the living room doorway. He drifts forward–

But then, there’s a strong hand on his shoulder, steering him away.

Tommy looks up at Techno, brow furrowed.

Techno pats his shoulder, hooking a thumb towards his room. “This way, kid.” His eyes squint, the approximation of humor. “You get to sleep good tonight.”

Clarity dawns over his face. Tommy works hard to use his mouth.

“The Techno bed?”

“The Techno bed,” Techno agrees.

Tommy’s eyes scrunch up. It’s probably the closest glimpse of sunlight Techno will get for a while. He’s okay with that. He’ll wait out the storm as long as he needs.

Techno had made his bed as comfortable as possible. It pays off now as he helps Tommy into it. Tommy all but collapses, wiggling to get under the blankets, trying to hide away. Techno feels oddly paternal, perhaps a little ridiculous, as he pulls the covers up over Tommy’s shoulder.

Tommy turns his face towards the pillow almost immediately. As much as he internally rejects the idea, Techno takes that as a sign that he wants to be alone. So he stretches out the next few minutes of prodding and prissing, making sure Tommy is bundled up, the windows are locked, everything is safe. Until he can’t find a pillow to fluff or an excuse to hold onto.

Tommy hardly stirs the whole time, eyes shut.

When he’s as comfortable as can be, that’s when Techno tries to turn away.

He’s wrong. The minute he goes to step away from the bed, a hand shoots out.

No– not a hand. Vines.

Green ones curl around his wrist like a frog tongue snapping out, holding him in place. Techno looks down. He’s half-surprised to find Tommy staring at him. Vines sprout out from underneath the sleeves of Techno’s hoodie. Techno has to wonder if he meant to summon them, or if it had happened on instinct.

Then, he’s too busy being gutted by the fearful look in the kid’s eyes, so he loses the wonder.

“Kid?”

“Stay?” He wets his lips, chin trembling. “...please?”

The worst of the tension clinging to Techno vanishes in an instant. His shoulders sag; the voices stretch out to sleep.

As if Tommy had to ask. As if Techno would say no.

Techno looks down at Tommy’s hands. The mottled purple looks worse now that his body has had a crack at healing them.

“I might need to wrap those,” he says, and he doesn’t know why he waited until now, but it feels important. He shouldn’t have let himself forget.

Tommy shifts on the bed. “Tomorrow,” he says. Pleads. He looks down, wiggles his fingers. “They don’t hurt.”

It’s a distinct Tommy-ism to lie about this kind of stuff. But Techno doesn’t think he’s lying now. It’s all that Techno needs to let himself give in too.

“Okay,” he concedes. He lays down, angles himself carefully by Tommy’s side. Nothing could get past him to the hurt kid. Nothing. “Whatever you need, kid.”

Techno realizes Tommy’s plan too late.

The minute he’s on the bed, he’s being teddy-beared.

“Technopillow,” Tommy mumbles, flipping over to drop his head on Techno’s shoulder. He rubs his cheek against Techno like an imprinting cat. “Mm.”

Techno snorts. A sunrise opens up in his chest. He shoves his arm under Tommy to at least hold the kid properly. He’s done this enough times to know how to hold him without cutting off his circulation.

Tommy sighs. It’s pure relief, probably the purest Techno has gotten from him all night.

“You comfy?”

Tommy mumbles incoherently. Techno snorts again, and then goes quiet. Luckily, pillows don’t have to talk. He can sit here like this, forever, if that’s what Tommy wants. Techno tucks his chin against the crown of Tommy’s head, holding him like a baby and closes his eyes.

Techno’s not tired. He doubts he’ll fall asleep for a few hours. But he’ll stay. As long as Tommy allows him to, he’ll stay.

He’ll stay here, utterly open to anything Tommy might need from him. He’ll slay what demons he can, wish hell on the ones he can’t. And if any real demons try to bother him, Techno will slay those too.

“I love you, too, kid,” Techno whispers into Tommy’s hair, as sleep wraps around them and cradles. “I love you, too.”

⋆⋆⋆

Tommy goes home, eventually.

It takes a while to convince Techno he’s not going to collapse the minute he’s on his own, but Tommy manages. He wakes up feeling so wrung-out that there may not be much to collapse anyway.

(He tries to thank Techno for helping him before he departs, needing – viscerally – to see his best friends. But Techno just hugs him, hugs him, easily, automatically, and rumbles out a, “That’s what I’m here for, kid,” that makes Tommy feel even more pulled-apart, in a good way.

Techno sends him a pig meme on the way out. It puts a small smile on his face that gives Tommy the energy to get upstairs.)

And, oh. The minute he’s home, he feels just a little bit more whole.

“Tommy,” Tubbo gasps, when he sees him.

Two looks of devastation greet him when he turns his head. Tommy doesn’t even want to know how Tubbo and Ranboo… found out. He thinks that’ll send him back to last night. As far as he’s concerned, the media doesn’t exist. Nothing exists except him, and this flat, and his roommates, and the way they stare at him like he’s broken and how badly he knows he can’t prove them wrong.

“Hey, man,” Ranboo says, and then Tommy’s being crushed by long arms.

Tubbo slams into his back, nearly sending them both falling down. Tommy appreciates the fuck out of him.

“I…” he tries, some sort of explanation trying to crochet itself into existence on his tongue. He hadn’t been able to look at his phone all morning. “I…”

Tubbo butts his head into his back. “Don’t.”

Then Tommy’s being pulled into the living room. Down onto the sofa. He’s… okay with that. The puppeting and the warm cushions of the sofa. If he could stop existing, if he could never have to make a decision again, that would be great.

“I love you,” Ranboo says, throwing a blanket over him. Tommy catches it. He just woke up, but now he wants a nap. “I love you, and you’re good.”

“The best,” Tubbo agrees, squeezing the life out of his hand. “The fucking best, you hear me?”

His head shoots up, gaze lasered intently on Tommy.

And Tommy is… tired. So tired. He’ll believe his friends for a nap.

“The best,” he agrees.

Tubbo grins – wicked and fierce. (Tommy doesn’t mention the fear lingering obviously under the surface of the smile. He’s tired of trying to play at the strong one. He lets Tubbo do it.)

“I’m glad you’re a hero, Tommy,” Ranboo whispers as he lets his eyes fall shut. Indistinct chatter from the TV falls over him, washing everything out. “I think you’re the best there ever was.”

Tommy doesn’t know why that’s the last thing he needs to let go again.

But it is. This is peace. His best friends are peace.

Tommy falls. He’s so warm that all he can do is let himself, and hope his dreams will go easy on him.

He’s tired of the world dropping out from under his feet.

Just this once, Tommy wants to rest. He’s grateful with everything he is that his best friends make it easy.

Chapter Text

haven’t seen you around the cafe for a while

I don’t say it enough, but if you need anything, I’m here.

Tommy?

Tommy wishes it wasn’t so easy to ignore him.

Wilbur.

But he’d be lying if he pretended that he feels anything as he switches his phone off and lets blackness consume the screen — taking Wilbur’s pleading words with it. Another message ignored, but what’s another thing to add to Tommy's list of failures? What’s another message ignored after the other seven this week?

Any emotion he might feel slams into the adamant wall in his mind, drowned out by the pervading numbness that snuck into him after that night and hasn’t left.

Sorry, Wilbur, he thinks, swallowing hard, but that’s a lie too. He’s too numb to be truly sorry. Too tired. The hands that silence his phone and slip it into his pocket hardly feel like his own.

“You ready, kid?”

Techno wraps black tape around his knuckles on a chair across the room. He makes a valiant effort at pretending that he’s not watching Tommy, but the studious flicker of his gaze — like he’s constantly reminding himself that Tommy is in front of him — betrays his feigned ignorance.

Tommy swallows. “Yeah. Yeah, coming.”

He pushes all thoughts of Wilbur out of his mind.

I’ll text him later, he convinces himself. I’ll respond to all his memes and even the growing spools of concern. I will.

He won’t. And maybe the reason Techno is watching him like a bug under a scope is because they both know it.

Techno rises to his feet as Tommy approaches. He passes Tommy the tape, but not before combing over him again with that careful scrutiny. Bug meet scope.

“We’re usin’ powers today,” Techno tells him.

His voice grounds Tommy back into the present. Tommy frowns as he starts to unspool some of the tape.

“No powers today.”

Techno arches one challenging brow. “Yes, powers.”

Tommy’s heart hiccups. Just a stumble in a steady rhythm. A million protests rise and die on his tongue. Maybe… maybe training with his powers will be a good thing. Maybe Techno can make his hands less useless.

His thoughts flicker to Wilbur against his will, followed by a quick flash of, Maybe I can protect him. It vanishes as soon as it comes, but not before it’s rendered his veins cold. He doesn’t ever want to be the last line of defense between Wilbur and something bad.

Techno doesn’t seem to mind training this distracted version of Tommy, not outwardly anyway, but Tommy tries his best to stay out of his own head anyway. He wants to improve himself— needs to.

Techno makes it easy. He’s gentle and firm at the same time, coaxing Tommy’s powers out, dodging a whip of Tommy’s ivy and huffing in approval when Tommy blinds him. Tommy is totally lucid after fifteen minutes.

“C’mon,” Techno jeers, slamming a punch toward him. Tommy catches it with a wrap of vines. “You call this fightin’?”

“Fuck you,” Tommy pants, stepping forward—

He sends a beam of light hurtling towards Techno’s face. At the same time, his ivy shoots out, catching Techno’s ankle. What happens next is the most glorious moment of Tommy’s life.

Techno trips. Tommy trips him, slamming him down into the mat hard enough that Tommy’s teeth rattle. The shock on Techno’s face? Tommy wants that tattooed on him. He doesn’t ever want to forget it.

Techno takes a second to catch his breath. Tommy climbs to his feet, breathing just as hard. His firelight fades, and his ivy shrivels. Warmth clings to his face. He waits for Techno’s reaction.

It doesn’t come quickly.

“Did I break your back old man?”

Techno’s eyes flash. “You’re insufferable,” he groans, peeling himself on the mat. It’s as close to a yes, Tommy, you’re the best hero in the entire city, Tommy, that he thinks he’ll get.

Tommy reaches a hand down. Techno accepts it, and he pulls him to his feet.

“Good job, kid,” Techno pats his shoulder, injecting serotonin straight through his skin. Respect — maybe even pride — gleams in his expression. “Now, do that again.”

Tommy finally lets himself grin. It’s nice, sometimes: knowing that Techno wouldn’t lie to him. He doesn’t always offer Tommy such free affirmations, especially when Tommy’s not in mortal danger, but that just means that the ones Techno gives are honest. It lets him believe that maybe he can teach his hands to be capable after all.

“If you say so.”

Fire consumes him: his grin, his eyes, his hands. Techno braces—

And the fight is back on.

⋆⋆⋆

Tommy stumbles back into his apartment, exhausted in a delicious way. Exhausted enough that overthinking takes more effort than he can be bothered to spend.

His body craves the shower almost as much as it craves the same sleep that repulses it. At least the shower is achievable. He hooks toward the bathroom immediately. So immediately, in fact, that he nearly misses Ranboo sitting stoically at the kitchen table.

And the floating apple hovering just in front of him.

Tommy grinds to halt. They jerk to face each other at the same time. The apple falls like it was never suspended at all. Ranboo flinches as it hits the table, rolling right off the side. He makes no move to catch it or— or to levitate it again. Shock has replaced the look of concentration once consuming his pallid features.

Tommy blinks at him, frozen all the way to his tongue. Which means that Ranboo beats him to speaking.

“Have you been sleeping?” Ranboo blurts, jerking to his feet.

Tommy breaks out of his stupor. It’s a diversion. A well-meaning one, perhaps, but a diversion

nonetheless. Tommy’s brow narrows. The apple thuds as it hits a table leg and stops. Tommy stares at it.

After a few long seconds of letting the silence marinate, he opens his mouth. Accusation unravels on his tongue—

“You first,” Ranboo interjects. “Answer mine first.”

It takes too long, but Tommy manages to break his gaze. In front of him, Ranboo is just as red as the now-bruised apple skin. He looks too close to fear. Tommy lets him win this one.

Have you been sleeping?

Even Techno had taken longer to ask him that. Tommy shrugs with one shoulder. He drops his backpack by the door and moves into the kitchen. The strange violet light still hasn’t faded from Ranboo’s eyes as he tracks Tommy’s movements.

Have you been sleeping?

Earlier, the answer was written in the dark circles under his eyes, and he and Techno both knew it – knew it because their guilt was a mirror shared silently between them. Knew it because Tommy had practically begged Techno to let him sleep over once, twice, three days in a row, anything to keep that night from creeping into his head when he was at his most vulnerable.

The good thing about Techno is that he knows when to back off. He hates talking about emotions — particularly: messy ones — more than Tommy does. He knows when to push, and when to surrender. And when Tommy preferred to hash out his emotions in a more… hand-to-hand format, Techno obliged.

Even he must’ve realized that, poor coping techniques aside, sleeping is significantly easier after you’ve worn yourself out. And Tommy wanted to make himself crash.

Ranboo is different. The question is different coming off his lips.

Not because Ranboo would ever ask him to spill his guts like the skin of a sacrificial lamb, no. But because there’s a Ranboo-shaped hole in his chest that never came back when Ranboo was rescued. One that says, I owe you. One that begs Tommy to surrender every part of himself that Ranboo could ever ask for.

He’d made the mistake of keeping things from them once. Tommy won’t do it again.

Ranboo would probably hate that, if Tommy ever told him.

Have you been sleeping?

Does he even have to ask? The first thing out of Tommy’s mouth is almost sarcasm. Then that void between his ribs aches.

“It’s… hard.”

His hands, ever so slightly, prickle at the fingertips. Tommy curls them into fists at his side where he can’t see them. He’s terrified that he’ll look down and see blood. Blood from the alley, blood glimmering like spilt rubies. So Tommy does that. Avoids even his own skin.

…He’s been avoiding a lot of things lately. Tommy’s fingers ghost the weight in his pocket. He pulls them away just as fast.

Ranboo tracks the motion. Stupid observant tall prick.

“Have you talked to—”

“No.”

Tommy braces himself against the counter, tense as a brick. He stares very deliberately at the countertop in front of him. In his hazy peripheral, Ranboo crosses his arms in a way that feels an awful lot like an accusation. His blood burns. Tommy removes his hands from the counter before he can scorch a handprint into them. He doesn’t know if he could, but he doesn’t want to try. He’s better at hurting things than he thought.

“Tommy.”

“It’s fine, Ranboo. Leave it.”

Ranboo steps closer. Tommy’s mouth wobbles.

“I thought you were going to hang out with Wilbur today,” Ranboo says.

The phone in his pocket burns. “I cancelled.”

haven’t seen you around the cafe for a while

Ranboo frowns. Tommy’s spine locks, fists squeezing. Don’t think about it, he urges himself, but the alleyway comes rushing into his head anyway.

It always does.

This time, it comes with enough fury to break him.

“I can’t look at him.” Tommy hangs his head. His confession rots the air. It leaves him with almost too much guilt to bear. This is why he’s been avoiding him. “I… I feel like I’m putting him in danger just by existing.” Don’t let me die. Please, Glare, I’m scared. “He’s a civilian, you know?”

Tommy looks at him imploringly. His eyes are redder than he wants them to be. Ranboo nods carefully. Tommy releases a rattling breath.

“And civilians are so…”

“...breakable?” Ranboo guesses.

Am I going to die, Glare? (No. No, I’ve got you. Just– hold on.)

“Yeah,” Tommy agrees hoarsely. He swallows. It doesn’t rid the glass from his throat. “Breakable.”

Wilbur’s got to be the most breakable civilian he knows. All scrawny limbs and easy smiles, so passionate that it bleeds out of every part of him, in his music, his laughter, his unfounded affection for Tommy.

Tommy sometimes wonders if he would’ve ended up like that, if he’d never got his powers. If Ranboo never got taken. If heroism was still a dream to him, something far away and wistful and unachieveable.

Everything that makes Wilbur Wilbur could be gone in an instant. If not killed, then scared out of him. Broken. Nausea spins his gut.

“Tommy,” Ranboo says quietly, and a long arm wraps around his shaking shoulder. “Tommy… you’re not much less breakable.”

Tommy sort of laughs. He leans his head on Ranboo’s shoulder. “Aren’t I? Isn’t that what I’m supposed to be?”

The woman had been so relieved to see him. And then she died in his arms.

“I wasn’t,” Ranboo murmurs. “You don’t have to be.”

Tommy swallows, blinking as his chest contracts. He doesn’t know when he’d adopted Ranboo’s disappearance as his own personal failure, but the weight lies heavy with the rest of the failures burdening his shoulders. At least this one, he thinks, Tubbo would fight him for custody of.

But Tubbo never got superpowers. He never had to be faster.

Tommy fiddles with the pulse point on Ranboo’s wrist. Ranboo lets him, not even flinching when Tommy scrapes a fingernail over the scars embedded there. Cuff marks that Tommy could probably stencil out in his sleep. Tiny white circles, the imprint of where prongs had been, stifling Ranboo’s powers.

Ranboo’s heart beating steadily under his skin makes the scars seem smaller.

“Your turn.”

“Hm?”

Tommy raises his chin, easing himself away. He’s too tired to let himself spiral as far as he wants to fall. Or rather, he’s too tired to climb back up if he really lets himself go.

Tommy nudges the apple on the floor. “Explain.”

Ranboo blinks, then offers him the sliver of a bashful smile. It’s a long way from the shock, or from fear. His gaze flickers uneasily around the apartment, but Tommy knows that Tubbo is somewhere else, working on electrical stuff.

Child exploitation, Techno’s voice says in his ear.

More money, Tubbo answers. Tommy can practically see his maintenance uniform in the frame of his mind. It almost makes him smile.

“Well…” Ranboo starts, scratching his neck. “I figured, with Glare, and all that… well, maybe it’s not the worst thing ever to start practicing again.”

Tommy’s lips curve sadly. “Does that mean they’re back? Your powers?”

Ranboo sighs. “Honestly, Tommy, I think they’ve been back for a while.” Tommy stills. “I think… I think I was the one who wasn’t ready.” His eyes crinkle. “But you made me brave again. You made me want to try.”

There’s a good five seconds where Ranboo’s words knock the wind out of him. He’s silent.

Then, Tommy punches him. Ranboo squawks out a laugh as he doubles over.

“Fuck you, man,” Tommy hisses. “You can’t just– say sappy shit without warning.”

“It’s– fun,” Ranboo chokes. “I don’t say it enough.”

“Stop. Stop. I’m leaving. I’m showering.”

“No, no, come back.” Ranboo’s hand tugs his arm, and well. Tommy was never really going to protest. “I’m sorry. I won’t say sappy things anymore.” Tommy raises an eyebrow. Ranboo squints. “You’re… not my best friend in the whole world and I am not severely thankful that you came back to us, and I hate you. How’s that?”

Thin ice. Ranboo is on thin fucking ice.

The ice warms him up, though.

Tommy grins. “Much better.”

He feels more awake than he has in days. There’s a pleasant flush dusting his cheeks — life. He has the sudden urge to summon vines to his palms and go swinging through the city.

Tommy sighs, moving a hand through his hair. He needs to shower, his body feels like a bruise, but—

“I’m happy for you, man,” Tommy says. “Genuinely.” It’s Ranboo’s turn to writhe awkwardly under the soft words. Good. Maybe it’s time they all get a little better at saying them. “And, you know, if you need any help mastering them and shit– if I can help you…”

It fills him with a distant sense of melancholy that Tommy is the one who’s had the most time to bask in his powers, to love them. And sure, a lot of that love had by himself until he met Techno but…

It should’ve been Ranboo. He should’ve been the one giving Tommy pointers.

Ranboo dips his head. “Sure,” Ranboo says quietly. “I think I’d like that.”

Like that, Tommy’s meter for sappiness expires. It’s a good way. It leaves him startlingly content. There’s no need to rush; for once, they have all the time in the world.

“Cool.” He scoops his backpack up from by the door. “I do actually have to shower now.”

Ranboo nods noncommittally, gaze unfocused on the table. His fingers trace anxiously over one of his scarred wrists. Tommy reminds himself, for the millionth time, that the Hero’s League is dead and gone, just to sate the urge to go destroy it all over again.

He heads for the shower, energy dying.

“Tommy.”

“Hm?”

“Get some sleep,” Ranboo says. He’s looking at him now, bicolored eyes unreadable. Though Tommy can practically feel the concern bleeding into his skin, and it makes his limbs feel lighter. “You look like a wreck.”

Tommy snorts. He fiddles with the string of his bag, eyeing the couch. His room would be too claustrophobic, he thinks. Too dark.

“Will you chill in here?” Tommy asks without thinking. Embarrassment instantly sears his throat. “Just— how you were doing, y’know, studying or practicing, or whatever—”

He cuts himself off. The neediness practically tears out of him. He just really, really doesn’t want to be alone with himself.

Ranboo’s throat bobs. “Yeah,” he finally says. “Yeah I’ll stay.”

Tommy’s shoulders slump. A silent thank you that he knows Ranboo hears.

When he pulls himself out of the shower, after twenty minutes of forcing his mind to be as blank as possible, he’s crashing hard before he even drags a blanket over himself. Ranboo is studying at the kitchen table, and all the apples are intact in the fruit bowl.

Tommy falls asleep to the sound of pages turning and a pencil skritching.

And just like when he steals Techno’s couch, the alleyway doesn’t find him in his dreams.

⋆⋆⋆

Wilbur Soot is infuriatingly good.

The evidence is scattered over Techno’s lap in a swarm of documents: everything from talent show awards to high school transcripts to volunteer hours. Every ripple, every imprint that Wilbur Soot has ever made is in front of him.

And if there’s any misgivings, anything resembling suspicious… it’ll be here too. Buried, maybe, under medical records and music reviews. But it’ll be here. It has to be. There’s no going back.

Techno broke open the dragon’s hoard. And now he’s praying the gold isn’t fake.

His fingers drum restlessly against his side. His reading glasses perch on his nose, begging the truth to reveal itself to him. The voices stir passively at the cape of his neck, like devils hunched over his shoulder, looking in.

Techno hadn’t wanted to open the folder. For almost a week, he let himself believe it didn’t matter anymore. Tommy asked for his trust, and Techno gave it to him. If his paranoia took a bruising, he would let it.

But then Tommy deteriorated.

Nightmares that never give the kid a break. Dark circles that never leave his undereyes. A clinginess that surpasses even his normal hero worship of Techno. Before, Techno was able to sleep easy when he kicked Tommy out to his actual house. Now, Techno can’t utter the words without fearing that Tommy’ll crack down the middle if he so much as tries.

But the final nail, the one that had Techno finally dipping his fingers into the hoard, came the day after they trained:

Tommy was stealing his sofa again. It wasn’t usually an abnormal habit, but the recency and the frequency with which Tommy appeared at Techno’s window — injury-less, scarred only inside — made it one.

“It’s nice here,” Tommy said as argument, shifting in place in front of his window, like Techno would kick him out. “You have a… nice couch.”

Techno’s couch is decidedly mediocre. That was nail one.

Techno never called him out on the frailty of the argument. He just tossed the kid a blanket and found an excuse to lounge in the armchair until Tommy drifted off. Whatever it was about his presence that somehow comforted the kid into falling asleep… well, Techno wouldn’t look a gift horse in the mouth. No matter how much Tommy worshipped his legacy, the novelty of Bloodlust managing domesticity would never wear off. Not to Techno.

And then, that same night, when the apartment was cloaked in peaceful darkness—

Techno woke up to sobbing. Guttural, heartbreaking sobbing, filling every inch of his head that the voices didn’t occupy, stabbing right down into his heart. He whipped out of bed, making it to the living room in a second—

It was barely a relief that nobody had broken into his apartment. It was barely a relief that the only threat causing the sobbing was Tommy’s own mind. It was barely a relief that something had gotten to Tommy so thoroughly, something Techno couldn’t stop, because how could any amount of suffering be a relief?

But at least he was alive. At least Techno was able to nudge him awake and calm the kid while he panickedly blinked Techno’s apartment back into existence.

“You’re okay,” Techno rumbled, voice still hoarse from waking up. “You’re in my apartment. You’re safe. Nobody’s hurt. Count with me.”

Tommy shakily obeyed, but his hand slipped out to squeeze the life out of Techno’s. Techno eased closer, helping him through each breath.

“One… two… just like that, kid, keep going, three…”

Delirium turned Tommy’s skin clammy and shiny. The muss of his blonde curls pronounced the feral edge to his panic, even in the half-dark. While Tommy fought to rid the death rattle out of his heaving breaths, Techno reached over and turned on the table lamp. He knew the shadows made it too hard for Tommy to tell where he was.

All there was left to do was sit and wait and hope that his presence was enough to bring Tommy down. Techno isn’t a religious man, but in these moments, for Tommy— he reaches the closest he’s ever been to prayer.

“I’m sorry,” Tommy croaked, when the worst of his panic faded.

He sagged, exhausted against Techno’s sofa. Face tipped up at the ceiling, moonlight pooling in his glazed eyes. Hand fidgeting where Techno held it, pulse thumping so violently that Techno might’ve been able to hear if he had normal hearing too.

Techno handed him a bottle of water. “Don’t be.”

Tommy took it, gulping the water down rapidly. His lashes drooped when he got his fill. He shifted on his side, blankets drawn over him, gaze somewhere Techno would never be able to reach.

“It was a good dream,” Tommy murmured quietly.

Sleep was already crawling after its escaped quarry. His face was smoothing, muscles growing slack. Tension riddled Techno so thoroughly it was an effort not to snap in half.

“...Was it?” he asked uneasily. “You were—”

Falling apart. Again. A freefall I can’t stop. A spiral I can only place bets on.

“It was a good dream,” Tommy repeated, blinks slowing and slowing. “I got shot this time.”

Time stilled.

“...What?”

Tommy’s lashes touched, eyes slipping closed. Techno’s spine flattened straighter. His head screamed. He was sitting down, yet he was dizzy.

“Tommy,” Techno bit out, ears thundering. “Hey, elaborate on that.”

Tommy groaned, face tipping down. Techno shook him. He didn’t care if that was the best thing to do. He wasn’t letting Tommy say that and then fall asleep.

“Wake up, kid. Don’t think we’re not talkin’ about that.”

The kid’s face twisted up, as if Techno was a mere annoyance. As if Techno wasn’t unraveling at his wretched seams.

“Tommy—” he strained, jostling his shoulder—

“I could’ve taken it,” Tommy mumbled irritably. “If it were me. I could’ve…”

He trailed off in a wistful sigh, heavy in a way that was far beyond his years. Techno’s head pounded.

“Kid,” he wavered. “You don’t know that. Kid. Tommy.” He shook him. “Listen to me, damn it.”

Tommy was already too far gone. Techno rattled. It wasn’t like he was shaking. He wasn’t shaking. He was just… rattling. Like an engine about to come apart.

He swept to his feet before he could, sending the room pitching to the side. Tommy’s words blistered through him, searing the inside of his mind, a brand. He hadn’t even been fully conscious.

Techno paced through his apartment. It took several minutes of trying to escape the rush of noise pounding in his eardrums for him to realize the noise was in his head. He couldn’t outrun it.

Techno stopped pacing once he’d whirlwinded into his bedroom again. His desk lamp was on, casting a skeptical puddle of gold over his nightstand.

His nightstand.

The noise pulled back. The mess in his parted, creating a perfect channel that narrowed a spotlight down on the innocent drawer just in front of him. The sonnant chaos in his head fought for the best seats as Techno’s face went very, very blank.

It was a good dream.

His fingers edged toward the drawer. His enhanced hearing searched for any sound of movement from the other room. There wasn’t any: just the typical restless shifting of blankets and shallow breaths, even and sleepy. Tommy was still out.

I got shot this time.

There was nobody to stop him.

I could’ve taken it.

His skin brushed the cold metal of the nimble handle. One pull, and Techno would be edging into gray territory. One pull, and he would straddle the line between breaking Tommy’s trust and soothing the paranoid monster consuming him.

It was a precautionary measure, Techno assured himself. Tommy would understand. He waited for the voices to pile in, echo his thoughts. Not the hint of a whisper nor the imprint of shout sounded. Techno understood then, as the shadows tracked his movements with bated breath, that this decision was only his.

It was a good dream.

It was a good dream.

And that’s when Techno remembered there are some decisions that kids — especially stupidly noble, optimistic, naive ones — don’t need to make.

Techno has borne many burdens in his life. He has borne hatred shaped a hundred different ways. And for it all, he’d been right.

This was nothing different.

The decision was made to be acted on the next day: once he was alone, once he’d shuffled Tommy out of his apartment, sending him along with one of Techno’s hoodies and a sense of urgency he hoped wasn’t visible.

Because Techno doesn’t think Tommy remembers any of that:

The nightmares. The confession. The graceless collapse of Techno’s unbending will. The fall of a dam long decayed.

Techno is never going to be able to forget it.

And now he’s here, mind spinning like a cotton candy machine as he dissects every sliver of information there is to read on Wilbur Soot. And now he’s here, panic beginning to trickle down his spine, when each sheet of paper reveals something even more mundane — or worse, positive — than the last.

Techno converts the trembles of panic swiftly to irritation, or ignores it altogether. Until he can’t. Until each small time award or community accolade has his spine hunching and his breaths growing heavier with frustration and his self-assurances dimming.

Until eventually, there is no excuse for him to stand behind.

Techno works his way through the folder, and the only thing he has to show for it is a singular high school demerit that Soot earned for badmouthing a teacher. Techno had done that to an entire president.

But maybe it’s enough, he tries half-heartedly. Maybe it’s enough that Soot is safe. Maybe his paranoia can rest.

It’s not convincing, even to himself.

“Stupid,” Techno murmurs to himself, will growing weary. He’s tired, he realizes. Retirement has made him so… tired. “Ridiculous… paranoia…”

He sighs, closing the Soot folder. Techno rubs one hand across his face, willing sensation into his skin. The voices clamor in a muted show of pity, but Techno can hear an echo of his own self-derision bleeding through, the backing track to a depressing melody.

All for nothing. All for nothing. All for nothing.

Noise. There’s been so much noise in his head lately. Too much for even Tommy to sate. He’s never been more aware of his voices, and he’s never hated them more. Techno doesn’t know how to soothe them with this domestic version of himself.

“Quiet,” he finally snaps, when the clamor becomes too much. “Quiet, all of you.”

Unexpectedly, the voices listen. Techno’s frown deepens. He wonders if he’s even allowed to miss the reminder that he’s not alone.

Techno tosses the folder onto his nightstand. It’s either that, or chuck it across the room, and even Techno doesn’t see a point in succumbing to such childish—

A paper flutters to the floor.

Stuck to the back of the folder, it comes free as Techno throws it. Techno’s irritation dies. A flicker of color is attached to it—a sticky note. Techno’s hands don’t quite feel connected to his body when he reaches down, a suppressed sort of anticipation buzzing through them, disconnecting the muscles from his mind.

Thought you might be interested in this, reads Phil’s handwriting.

Techno flips the paper over. And every sensation his nerves are experiencing quadruples in intensity at once.

It’s a familiar paper. One he’s fought to burn. A paper he’s seen a thousand times, but one he’s still not sure he’s seeing until his eyes skim to the top of the paper, where Soot’s name is neatly scrawled.

And above his name, igniting a long-culled anger in Techno, primal and visceral and all-consuming—

The Hero’s League insignia stares back at him.

⋆⋆⋆

Tommy’s not on the clock when he slumps down at the counter, rickety leather stool shaking beneath him.

“Hey,” he says, and Wilbur startles.

So intensely, in fact, that he nearly displaces the guitar case resting by his stool, head swivelling around. Wilbur’s surprise fades quickly into golden delight, a sunrise glowing through his skin.

“Tommy!” he beams, slinging an arm over Tommy’s shoulder. “Long time no see, man.”

Tommy manages the flicker of a smile for himself. Even with the added wait over his shoulder, he feels lighter.

“Yeah,” he croaks. “Took a vacation. It was epic. I had so much fun.”

Tommy flexes his hands, balling and unballing them. No blood. There’s no blood, no weight. Just hands. And fire, if he wanted.

“Mhm.” Wilbur raises an eyebrow. His mouth twitches down, concern bleeding through. So human, Wilbur is. So normal. “You okay?”

Tommy leans against him and doesn’t worry about falling. “Yeah.” He tries to imagine it’s Techno saying this, because if it’s Techno, it’s true. “I’m doing better.”

Wilbur nods. He accepts that, fiddling idly with his guitar pick. He doesn’t push. And Tommy—for all that the jokes about being brothers are just jokes— finds, quite suddenly, that he loves Wilbur so much for it renders him restless.

Wilbur sees him.

He sees Tommy without seeing him. He sees the best parts, not the guilty canyons carving through him, not the burdens. He’s never Glare with Wilbur unless he wants to be. Tommy feels guilty for enjoying that so much.

He loves Glare. Glare is what saved him from breaking like Tubbo did after Ranboo. Glare is what led him to Techno. (And danger. So much danger, but Techno.) Sometimes, Glare is Tommy’s favorite part of himself.

But Wilbur doesn’t know Glare. Not for anything other than the mute vigilante who sometimes bothers him from rooftops, identity concealed behind an eternal flame and walls that Tommy doesn’t know how to take down.

When he sees Tommy’s hands, Wilbur knows them as the hands that make his free coffees and sock his shoulder when he’s being particularly annoying. Not covered in blood and failure.

That—for all it mystifies Techno—is why he doesn’t think he can stay away, risks be damned.

“Good,” Wilbur says, ruffling his hair. “Don’t tell anyone, but I missed you.”

And that’s as difficult as it ever has to be.

⋆⋆⋆

“Techno?” Tommy’s voice filters in, muted, from the window. “Techno, I’m home.”

Techno opens the window and walks away.

“I have so much to tell you,” Tommy rambles, clambering in. Even the soft sound of Tommy’s sneakers hitting the hardwood makes him flinch, the sound amplified in his eardrums. “Have you seen the news? I think I’m—” He cuts off, voice quieting. “Techno?”

Techno doesn’t turn around. He squeezes his eyes shut, hanging his head. His fingers curl into the kitchen table he’s braced against. It’s too much. Everything is too much. The light. The light from Tommy’s window. Bleeding in. Even the barest bits of it—too much.

“Why are all the blinds drawn?”

The whisper of a hiss escapes Techno. His shoulders curl, the table straining under his grip. Ringing. His ears are ringing, and why won’t they stop? Why won’t everything?

“Woah,” Tommy’s voice grows a million times softer. “That kind of day, huh?” He creeps closer. His words drop to a whisper. “Is it… them?”

Harsh breath. Release. He’d laugh at the breathless way Tommy addresses the voices, like they’re some horrible legend. Maybe they are. It fits Techno. Too well.

Techno nods, short and clipped. An ache sears the back of his neck: whiplash, though he’d barely moved.

Phil. The unshakeable urge to call him reverberates through him like another physical ache. But he’d have to find his phone, dial the number, listen to the screech of the dial tone—

“Tubbo gets migraines, too. I know he doesn’t like to be bothered.” The creak of the floorboards as Tommy shifts his weight is unbearable. Even that. “Do you want me to—”

“No,” Techno hisses quickly, head spinning. God, if the idea of Tommy leaving doesn’t send them into a flurry. “Stay kid,” he grits. “They’re… quieter. With you.”

He almost groans at the effort that takes. His hands curl around his head, his silhouette the perfect replication of a sinner praying. In a way, maybe he is. Everything from earlier only confirmed that. It only confirmed what Techno should’ve already known about himself.

“Oh,” Tommy says. “What, uh, what can I do?”

He’s walking on eggshells, Techno can tell, and it’s killing him that he can’t be Bloodlust right now. He can’t be what Tommy wants. He’s not good at being soft and he’s not good at being passive, and damn it, he’s not good at being a mentor. He never should’ve played at it.

Techno’s hair hangs messy and unbraided around his shoulders. It tumbles down his back in blush waves, and just the sensation of it brushing against his neck nearly pushes him over the edge. His shoulders jerk.

Tommy inhales sharply, as if somehow sensing that Techno is one more bad sensation from being set off.

“Your hair,” the kid says. “Can I braid it for you?”

The voices still. Techno lifts his head.

Five minutes later, he’s sitting on the floor of his bedroom, back pressed against his bed frame. Tommy sits on his bed above him, jittering restlessly. The voices, somehow, only register that as white noise.

Whereas the sound of a car alarm eight stories below is bordering on grating to Techno, but the walking melody of noise that is Tommy only seems to soothe the worst of sensations.

Techno exhales.

“Tell me about your day, kid,” he says roughly.

Everything is too loud when it’s so quiet.

Tommy’s hands, deftly skimming over Techno’s scalp, pause for only a second. Techno braces, but the uncertain movements start just as quick as they’d finished. And Tommy obliges.

It’s bound to be the messiest braid Techno has ever had the displeasure of wearing, but he’s too far away from his body to care about that. Tommy’s chatter washes over him, and the pressure furling through Techno’s spine gradually releases.

It’s only as Tommy finishes tying off his braid that the noise assaults him once more.

“I went and saw Wilbur, too,” says Tommy, and Techno’s gone.

It’s either more shapeless noise or the results of earlier coming back to haunt him. It’s either overstimulation or pure conflict. Whatever it is has Techno ripping away from Tommy’s innocent hands and curling over his knees, muscles locking.

“Techno,” Tommy breathes, hand patting over his shoulder and hastily retracting when Techno stiffens. “Fuck, shit, sorry, I didn’t—”

“Ibuprofen,” Techno snaps—at himself, only himself. “Give— I need—”

“Where?”

The question only distantly registers. The voices screech like war drums. His skull shakes, brain fusing down into sound, sound, so much sound, he wants— he wants his mask, he wants to leave he wants Phil he wants to leave he wants his mask he wants to leave, leave the apartment, take to the streets, fill the urge shaking down his hands, so thirsty, so—

“Drawer.”

Tommy wastes no time. Techno can feel him practically scrambling to get to the other side of the bed, nearly knocking into Techno. He wastes no time, but the pain doubles anyway, stretching to fill each unimportant millisecond.

Techno is both uber-aware of it and not aware of anything at all.

“I don’t see it,” Tommy is a train tunnel away, he must be. The sound of him rifling through the drawer nearly breaks Techno. “Where, Techno? I don’t—”

Tommy’s breath hitches. And he goes silent.

The silence rings the loudest in the cacophony, sticks out like an air raid siren over the bustle of a city.

Like a canary’s song going horribly quiet.

Techno raises his head. Cotton swells over the noise. An anchor weighs down his stomach. The sinking sensation draws him out of the pits of the hell that is his own head, but the reality it brings him too instead… head slowly turning…

The thing about Tommy is that the kid doesn’t know a single thing about being emotionless.

He’s always feeling something, one way or another, and Techno has been able to read it even since the first day they met. Whether it was rage, or happiness, or sadness, or even the most particular emotional cocktails like, My roommates think I’m doing drugs, he’d always showed it on his face.

But now…

Tommy’s face is blank.

And Tommy is holding the folder.

It’s not a relief when the noise subsides. It only makes room for more horror to continue swelling like a shell of ice over Techno’s skin. His mouth goes dry, tongue prickling. He can’t even speak.

Tommy’s knuckles are white around the folder.

“So much for letting it go, huh?”

He doesn’t look at Techno when he speaks. His voice is the dull scrape of an unfeeling steel blade. Not loud, not a shout. It undoes Techno completely, all the same.

“Tommy…”

Tommy squeezes his eyes shut, a tremor running over this. “Don’t tell me it’s not what it looks like, Techno.”

Techno swallows hard. Dizzy. The folder is a blob in his vision. “I wasn’t… I wasn’t going to.”

I can’t.

If Techno thought the numbness was bad, then the sight of Tommy turning to him with tears in his eyes is nightmarish. He’s crying. The kid shakes in place, mouth wobbling, a fault line about to give in. And he’s crying.

“You promised,” Tommy whispers hoarsely. “You promised you would let it go.”

Techno rises to his feet. Tommy’s breath catches, and he shoots up, scrambling back. Techno freezes.

He’s not… Tommy’s not afraid of him, is he?

Techno’s worst fear slams down around him, the pressure merciless.

Techno balls his fists. “Kid,” he pleads quietly, “Kid, please.”

Tommy steps back toward the opposite wall. He holds the folder in front of his chest like a shield. Nausea sends oil up Techno’s throat.

He doesn’t dare take another step forward. Not when it would probably send the room swirling. Not when it opens up the possibility for Tommy to flinch away from him.

“What even—” Tommy gasps, turning the folder over in his hands. “What even is all this?”

He flips through it, and Techno can’t stop him. His eyes sort of… glaze as he takes in the trainwreck in motion. Tommy pulls out a sheaf of paper. It’s all a haze.

“Report cards? Job applications? Wha– music school essays?” Tommy stares at him helplessly, begging an answer. “Techno.”

“It was just a precaution, Tommy. I wanted to make sure—”

“You had no right!” Even his anger is fragile. It bowls Techno over nonetheless. “You said you trusted me! I asked– I begged you to trust me. Trust me that Wilbur is good, and you–” His face heats, tongue tripping over his own disbelief. “You lied.”

It would mean something more dangerous if his breaths weren’t coming so quick, so shallow, lungs seizing up, and it’s not Techno’s place to reach out, Breathe, kid, because he’d done what he’d done to every good thing he’s ever had:

Ruined it.

Techno tastes blood bursting across his tongue. “You weren’t bein’ smart, Tommy. Goin’ out in uniform, riskin’ your identity—”

Techno tries to rationalize it. He tries, but at the end of the day, it wasn’t rational. It was him avoiding emotions for so long that when they finally caught up to him, he didn’t know what to do with it. It was paranoia and concern and helplessness building up since the day he held a bleeding kid in his hands and almost couldn’t put him back together.

It was fear. Techno was afraid.

And now he’s paying for it.

“That wasn’t your call to make,” Tommy seethes. “You invaded his privacy, Techno. That’s– that’s– that’s Hero’s League shit.”

Techno flinches back. Hero’s League. The words knock the wind out of him. Even the voices are laid flat, dissolving back to the deepest, darkest recesses of his brain.

Techno tastes ash on his tongue. Tastes smoke and rubble. Tastes blood. Tastes a building falling and vindication swirling and a thousand voices turning on him in an instant, the world sending knives shooting through his back, from hero to villain in an instant.

“That’s not fair.”

Tommy shakes his head, eyes cloudy. He wrings his hands, tripping backward in his panic. “You– that’s exactly what they did to him. They– they took his records and they locked him up– locked him away and they–”

They? Him? It doesn’t make sense to Techno. Not now, not in this all-consuming haze.

“You were deteriorating,” Techno doesn’t yell, but he nearly shouts back now. Breaks, really. “You were fallin’ apart in front of me, and I didn’t know what to do.” The voices try to meld through his skull. Claw up his throat. “I couldn’t— I couldn’t risk something else happening, I couldn’t.”

It’s painted in front of him in high definition. The dark circles, the mussed hair, the paleness. Techno doesn’t understand how Tommy can look at himself and not see it.

The tears finally make it past Tommy’s waterline. Just a single strand of pearl, slipping past. That’s when Techno notices his eyes are glowing. Otherworldly white light pulses behind his eyes, making his tears—as rare as they are—glow.

“Well,” Tommy drops his anger. Drops everything, back to a hollow shell. He swipes angrily at his cheekbone. He seems to snap into himself, pulling away from whatever memory he’d slipped into. “What’s your verdict, Techno?” When Techno is silent, Tommy’s eyes glare—the barest flash of an emotion. “Is he evil, Techno? Is Wilbur the bad guy you wanted?”

Techno sets his jaw. Shame weighs his brow.

“No.”

Tommy’s eyebrows shoot up—mock surprise that doesn’t work on his features. “Oh, really?”

“He’s clean,” Techno admits, the confession blistering against his tongue. “The only thing I found was—” A jagged, humorless laugh tears out of him. “—a failed power registration test from before the repeals.”

Techno shoves a hand in his pocket, where the paper he thought was his smoking gun lay cold and crumpled. Instead, all he got was more concrete proof that Wilbur Soot is not anything more than remarkably average.

Wilbur Soot doesn’t even have powers. Tommy could probably lay him out on the street without thinking about it.

Tommy closes his eyes, twisting his head. “I don’t– I don’t want to read that.”

Techno numbly crumples it in his hands. Defeat weighs so heavily on his shoulders that he can hardly think. His body is sculpted out of shame, held in place by derision. The voices are a laughing choir, and he lets them.

Tommy backs towards the door, scooping his backpack off the floor as he goes. He remembers the folder and scowls as he throws it on the ground. His movements are far too stilted and wild to shield the panic consuming him.

Panic that Techno put there. Memories that Techno dragged to the surface.

This is Hero’s League shit.

Tommy, the world builds on his tongue, but there’s no strength to say it. Please.

Tommy jerkily slings his bag over his shoulder, stumbling for the door. Techno’s pinkie twitches, an aborted movement to reach for him. But what could he even say?

“You lied, Techno,” comes Tommy’s final whisper. Shadows drown his face in darkness. “...You lied.”

He disappears through the door. Techno winces at the sound of the window being jerked open across the apartment, and the dull thud that sounds when it slams closed.

Then Tommy’s gone, taking every ounce of light and warmth with him.

And in the dark of Techno’s apartment, with that window sealing the chasm between them, and leaving a splintered echo of Techno left behind—

The silence had never screamed so loud.

Chapter Text

Wilbur Soot isn’t poor.

He’s just… making it. Even if that means scraping by.

There’s character in the sagging, stain-choked lobby ceiling of his new apartment and the faded mugs piled in his chipped-paint cupboards. That’s what he tells himself, anyway, the day he moves back to the city.

But hey— they don’t call him a starving artist for no reason.

Belongings piled at his aching feet, Wilbur can almost hear their voices again, embedded in him as permanently as the cracks in his new walls.

Sally, all sweet and raspy, her laugh a fading whisper in his memory. She’d have already lit a candle— moth-bitten tablecloth aside — or opened the drab curtains to let the light in. She’d have made this place feel warm.

Schlatt, gruff and sardonic, his rolled eyes erasing any shred of self-depreciation lingering in Wilbur’s bones. He’d have already lit a cigarette— No Smoking Policy aside — and made the mildewed walls just a little yellower. At least there’d be more color.

Wilbur hasn’t seen his old roommates since the fall of the Hero’s League. He hopes they ended up somewhere safe. He hopes the ghost of his memory doesn’t haunt them the way theirs will never stop haunting him.

“Fresh start,” Wilbur murmurs under his breath, wishing he could make himself believe it.

Romanticization is always the first stage of grief.

⋆⋆⋆

It doesn’t take too long to get into the rhythm of things. At least he still has that going for him.

That first month, Wilbur wastes his mornings perusing charity shops with barely-contained nausea. It’s always his lucky day. Most charity shops in the city are full to bursting with excess furniture, mountains of clothing, trinkets to fill the ever-present void in his chest. Most workers can be talked down by dollars, eager to clear the endless heaps of memorabilia and shattered futures.

Remnants of all the people who disappeared under the Registration Act and never quite made it back to reclaim their old lives. Some days, Wilbur can’t help but be frozen in time along with the city, always holding his breath, wondering if all those missing people will one day wander back.

He usually nukes those thoughts at the bud. Once Wilbur starts picking at old scars, he’s never able to get himself to stop. There’s a reason he’s been through four cities in two years.

From afternoon to the evenings, Wilbur props his guitar case open in front of the least-sketchy cafe he can find in the district and lets his emotions loose over chords and choruses.

The manager doesn’t put up much of a fight against his loitering. For the first few months, the cafe is near-vacant, anyway. The Hero’s League, however defeated, still casts a dark shadow over the city.

It takes weeks before cash begins to replace the dirty coins and cigarette butts piling up in his guitar case.

It takes weeks before, finally, Wilbur’s life changes.

⋆⋆⋆

Sometimes, he dreams and he’s back in the lifeless registration office.

“Next,” calls the woman from behind her sterile, frosted-glass window. Her narrow, boredom-glazed eyes convey the indifference that the white medical mask over her face fails to get across. “Please step forward.”

The line shuffles along. Shoulders hike up, breaths are caught in nervous lungs — Wilbur’s included. Men and women of various ages fill the room. Wilbur imagines it’s not long before the Hero’s League requires kids to be here too. For now, he supposes they’re lucky.

And he, decisively, isn’t.

The transition from Waiting Room to Examination Room is quick in his nightmares, far from the torturous crawl it was in real life. Seconds became spirals he fell into, minutes into vortexes. Not in his dreams. Wilbur blinks, and it’s his turn. One step, and he’s in a shoddier version of a dentist’s chair.

“Last name?” the assistant demands, his clipboard casting a menacing shadow over his chin.

Wilbur swallows. “Soot.”

This part is always painfully accurate, down to his sweaty palms and wobbly voice. He never knew it was possible to induce migraines in a dream, but the too-bright lights and incessant, grating pen scribbling manage a decent imitation. Tension strums and knots behind his eyes.

“Are you aware that, for the purposes of this examination, you are required to tell the truth?”

“Yes.”

“Are you aware that knowingly withholding information counts as withholding truth, which is punishable by fines or imprisonment under the Registration Act?”

Too aware. “Yes.”

“Are you aware that we will be conducting blood tests to confirm the presence or absence of genetic anomalies, as defined under the Registration Act?”

“Yes.”

The assistant lowers the clipboard, leveling Wilbur with a tense grin. Wilbur can almost see his own face reflected in the man’s too-white teeth.

“And are you aware, Wilbur, for your own sake, that this test will prove beyond doubt whether you are, in fact, superpowered?”

He knows. He saw what happened to the sobbing woman in front of him, escorted (dragged) out of the Registration Room and away from her partner’s arms, into a room labeled, plainly, QUARANTINE.

The man lets out an unsatisfied, hmph, before scribbling something down. Wilbur inclines his chin up, suddenly desperate to know what is being written about him. It’s an effort as hopeless as getting out of this room.

“Final questions,” the man hums. “Have you ever exhibited erratic behavior, unknown phenomena or otherwise inexplicable conduct that might indicate the presence of enhanced abilities, otherwise known as ‘superpowers?’”

Science salad, Wilbur thinks. “No.”

“Are you aware that the Hero’s League offers promising initiatives for superpowered or enhanced people, and that being enhanced isn’t necessarily a bad thing?”

Two questions in one. “Yes.”

The man tilts his head, briefly catching the dull reflection of white light in his dark eyes. “Do you believe yourself to have enhanced abilities, Wilbur Soot?”

Wilbur can’t tell if he’s reading from his clipboard, or if he’s merely curious. Either way, magma threatens to erupt in his veins. A mild heat flush of irritation wars against the cold sweat clinging to his skin.

“No, I don't.”

His memories, as these nightmares typically do, blur here.

He’s always been a bit squeamish, so the sight of the clear, coiled tube and the long, hollow needle makes his brain spin. He can hardly think through the blood rush, the blooming sting in his arm that the numbing cream fails to shield—the fluttering drop of his stomach as the man marches away with his result, robotic and unresponsive to Wilbur’s panicked calls at his back.

But Wilbur remembers, in clarity, the disappointed glaze of the assistant’s eyes when he returned with Wilbur’s test result. Reality and nightmare merge — it had been a nightmare long before Wilbur started having dreams.

The terror isn’t that he failed. For once, failure is a good thing. Failure means he’s safe, perfectly normal. Unpowered. Failure extinguishes the excited glint from the eyes of everyone in the building. Failure is the sound of agonized screams that ring from behind him, as the next person to enter the room doesn’t.

The terror is that Wilbur failed, but Schlatt and Sally didn’t. Wilbur is alone.

The terror is, Wilbur is still alone when he wakes up.

⋆⋆⋆

He meets Glare, and suddenly, things aren’t too bad.

They certainly aren’t boring whenever the ragtag vigilante decides to linger above Wilbur’s usual busking perch, his passive flames casting a pleasant (perhaps spotlight-esque) glow around Wilbur’s setup.

Sure, his… fiery demeanor and liberal expletives tend to scare away Wilbur’s scattered spectators, sure, but Wilbur never minds.

The good company eases the faint pinch of regret.

Glare is funny: loud and explosive where Wilbur’s life has been relentlessly plagued by endless quiet. Even if sometimes, he cracks a joke that sounds painfully like something Schlatt would’ve hurled at him. Even if the fire wrapping his shielded face glints like Sally’s fiery mane of coils. Even if, sometimes, he’s a scathing reminder of what his roommates could’ve been if the Hero’s League never spiraled out of control.

Glare stifles most of those thoughts, though. If anything, he’s a reminder that Wilbur truly has reached a fresh start. Albeit, a strange one.

“Hey, hipster!” shouts a familiar voice one day. Smoky, raspy, muffled by wreaths of white fire. Five feet away, he still sounds like he’s coming through a long, murky train tunnel. “Heads up!”

Wilbur’s fingers spasm over his strings. Glare laughs, raucous and loud, as he swings over Wilbur’s head on a long vine of all things. White flames obscure his features, besides the barest shadows of his nose, his teeth, his flaming eyes. Ivy tangles around his fists. Beneath his white knuckles, celestial light glows. Even his fingernails, poking from his fingerless gloves, burn red-giant orange.

Superpowers always were a blind grab bag — part of the reason the Hero’s League wanted to control them so bad.

Glare throws something. Wilbur flinches on instinct.

Glare wouldn’t hurt him, he doesn’t think. The guy’s just… well, clumsy and a bit accident-prone, sometimes—

A small wad of cash and a coffee shop stamp card land in his (pitifully empty) guitar case. Wilbur blinks. He lowers his guitar entirely, not that anybody is around to hear him play.

“What’s that for, then?” he calls up.

Glare’s flaming grin is, frankly, scary sometimes. “Got that from a kidnapper! Figured you could use it!”

“You what?”

“He tried to steal a kid, so I stopped him!”

A set of illuminated teeth gleam with pride, erasing Wilbur’s fears that maybe he’d misheard him somehow. Glare is difficult to understand on a good day, flames and all.

Wilbur gapes. “So you stole his wallet?”

“Only most of it!” Glare hangs impishly over the side of the building, flames only glowing brighter. “Fair’s fair, innit?”

Wilbur has to squint to even talk to him. The upside-downness doesn’t help. “I— I guess?”

His cupboards have been a little too bare lately for him to hurl another question, so Wilbur closes his mouth. He raises his guitar again and rubs his guitar pick between his thumb and forefinger. He might be an idiot for hanging around a vigilante as spontaneous as Glare, but he’s not that dumb.

Wilbur won’t look a gift horse in the mouth. Or, well, a vigilante in the flaming face?

“You’re welcome!” Glare shouts, climbing back up to crouch on the low rooftop. “Maybe tip a barista, or something, if you’re bothered about it!”

He seems to revel in Wilbur’s faux-reluctance. Or maybe his mischievous smile is just like that because that’s what Glare does: causes mischief (at least, so far as the newscasters seem to think).

“You gonna be around later?” Wilbur asks.

Glare tilts his head, flames dizzyingly going with it. Even from a distance, Wilbur’s face becomes flushed and dry. He can literally see heat waves shimmering above Glare’s head. He’s forced to avert his eyes.

“Maybe. Probably. Or probably not! Yeah, probably not.”

With a hazy attempt at shooting Wilbur with finger guns, Glare lets out one last, loud laugh and flips off the building. In the next breath, he’s hurtling upward on a miraculously unburnt strand of ivy and into the horizon like a meteor.

Wilbur shakes his head, letting out a small laugh of his own. He brushes his newly sweat-dampened curls off his forehead. He blinks the barely-there afterimage of Glare’s face out of his eyes. After a few long moments, the white dots swarming his retina fade away. The lingering burn of smoke doesn’t go so gently. He blindly fumbles in his pockets for eye drops.

That pretty much sums up all of his interactions with Glare:

Loud, confusing, bright — but always leaving Wilbur a little warmer than he was before.

⋆⋆⋆

If Glare is the smoldering warmth of a languid summer day, then Tommy is the hopeful blaze of a winter bonfire, inviting cold travellers to warm their frigid hands.

The cafe often attracts an assortment of eccentric characters. Part of that, likely, has to do with Tommy’s affinity for inviting in strays and giving away coffees to anyone he deems any amount of wounded. Thus, the cafe’s usual suspects. Wilbur isn’t egotistical enough to believe he doesn't belong among their strangeness.

“It looks good to the boss,” Tommy told him one time, as he slung a damp rag onto his shoulder. “Having this many patrons hanging around and all.”

Wilbur had raised an eyebrow. “And what about the profits you’re losing with all these free drinks?”

Tommy tilted his head, casting Wilbur a grin that, briefly, felt familiar. “Haven’t you ever heard of giving back to the people? Sticking it to the man?” When Wilbur shrugged, Tommy whipped him with the washrag, lightning quick. “I don’t see you complaining.”

Wilbur protectively brought his steaming cappuccino closer to his chest—the sweet, non-black kind of coffee, which is all Wilbur can typically afford. “It must be your beaming personality.”

Tommy had laughed under his breath. Though he was already turning to address a (paying) customer, Wilbur could’ve sworn he heard Tommy murmur, “You have no idea.”

Of course, Tommy’s personality wasn’t truly as fierce as Wilbur’s early impressions told him.

The guy was only snarky on his best days. For the most part, he appeared reserved, constantly walking a line Wilbur couldn’t see. He’d play along with Wilbur’s banter one day, and offer him mere half-smiles the next. Wilbur hadn’t managed to pull a real, full laugh out of him yet.

He didn’t know enough about Tommy to figure out what made him tick, though he couldn’t deny the burning curiosity that made him want to try.

It was the pure inconsistency of it all that got to Wilbur. What could possibly cause Tommy to go from all smiles to strained laughs in a heartbeat? When he wanted to feed into Wilbur’s antics, Tommy could be sharper than a whip — as cheerfully sarcastic as the day they’d met.

When he wasn’t interested in playing along, it seemed to infect the cafe itself. Tommy became as frosty as the dark side of the moon.

Like today, as Tommy answers Wilbur’s (frankly, obvious and pathetic) attempts to make conversation with tight, one-word responses. As if just yesterday, Tommy hadn’t gotten so caught up in banter, he’d nearly shot espresso out of his nose.

What could’ve possibly happened overnight? Like usual, Wilbur can’t think of a single good option, and in an unreasonable way, it infuriates him. Over the course of a few weeks, he’s tactically pulled enough information from Tommy to rule out the obvious.

Child abuse? It would explain the amount of band-aids stickering him at all times. But Wilbur rules that out quickly. Tommy lives with two roommates his own age—his best friends. Wilbur has seen them a few times, religiously occupying the same booth in the far corner during slow times.

At first, it was mainly the taller one who came to visit Tommy during work, but within a few weeks of knowing Tommy, the shorter one started tagging along. Neither seem capable of afflicting any harm onto Tommy, and in fact, seem to treat him with the same APPROACH WITH CAUTION gloves Wilbur tends to gravitate toward as well.

Drugs? Wilbur couldn’t find any substantial signs. He can’t imagine an emancipated teenager working a minimum-wage barista job has enough expendable income to support an extensive drug habit, anyway.

Health issue, then? It seems the most likely. Many days, Tommy appears far too pale and shaky to excuse with just “exhaustion.” When he thinks Wilbur isn’t looking, Tommy takes frequent breaks to catch his breath, or to lean against a wall with his eyes squeezed shut as if experiencing some great amount of pain, and not just on his bad days. On the rare occasions Wilbur asks about it (mostly when Wilbur’s concern hits its upper limit), Tommy brushes it off.

Wilbur can’t probe, though, without evoking clear paranoia from the guy—usually followed by strings of expletives and deflections shaped like bad jokes. And who is Wilbur to probe about the few things Tommy keeps private?

Friends or not, Wilbur doesn’t know if he could handle Tommy asking too many questions about Schlatt or Sally. Wilbur knows what it feels like to have old scars ripped open. He knows what it feels like to have wounds that may never close.

So he settles with what he’s doing now… Clinging to his barstool and attempting to coax Tommy into opening up on his own accord.

“How was your morning, then?”

“Fine.”

“Bit of a rush?”

“Not really.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah.”

Tommy’s almost drowning in his uniform today, a midnight-black turtleneck with long sleeves replacing the typical dark undershirt under his apron. His eyes seem greyer—more flint than sea glass—and the sunken half-moons underneath tell of a restless night. But he attempts a smile as he slides Wilbur a black coffee in a white mug. Sweet, aromatic steam curls from the top.

His fingertips graze the ceramic—

“Fuck!”

Heat scalds his fingers. Wilbur flings the mug sideways in his shock, sending coffee flooding across the wood. He curls his hand, attempting to wring out the burn through harsh breaths. Bright red patches mottle his skin, but there aren’t any immediate blisters.

“Sorry,” he manages, lifting his head. “That was fucking— well, don’t pick that up!”

Tommy’s eyes widen, but he’s already setting the mug upright. Bare-handed. Wilbur snaps for his wrist. Tommy appears too frozen to do anything but let Wilbur inspect his hand. At least until his gaze traces the room, catching on the few scattered patrons watching with piqued interests.

“It’s fine,” he insists, drawing his hand back. He clears his throat, raising his voice a little, as if to overpower the slight flush of his cheeks. “It wasn’t that hot. See?”

He mimics Wilbur’s movements, flapping his hands and curling-uncurling his fingers. Wilbur has no choice but to believe him, since he can’t see even the faintest imprint of irritation on Tommy’s skin. It makes him reconsider the fierce ache pulsing down his fingers.

The burn is already fading. The shock and worry must’ve kicked his reactions into overdrive.

“Christ, child,” he sighs, scrubbing a hand through his hair. The relief is heady as it recedes from his system, untangling the knots his nerves became. “Out to kill me today, are you?”

Tommy’s lips quirk. “I’m actually not a child of Christ, but thanks, Wilbur.”

Wilbur rolls his eyes. His next breath is still slightly weighted. “You might as well be, for the miracle you just performed.” He whistles under his breath. “That drink was hot.”

Tommy’s smile drops. For a split second, Wilbur swears there’s a storm raging in those steel-gray eyes. The illusion transforms his entire face. Then, the strange pallor vanishes when Tommy turns to dump a pile of fresh rags onto the steaming puddle.

Wilbur’s eyebrows knit. He should be careful—

“Maybe you’re just becoming brittle in your old age,” Tommy suggests.

There goes Wilbur’s pity.

⋆⋆⋆

It appears he should’ve clung onto it, because Tommy gives him the cold shoulder for the next couple of days.

Actually, for the next couple of days, he doesn’t see Tommy at all.

⋆⋆⋆

Wilbur makes a deliberate effort not to make Tommy’s return a big deal.

It’s difficult when Tommy's sudden disappearance propelled him to the last day he spoke to his roommates. He hadn’t even known it was the last day—only that Sally would be performing her citizen obligation to attend a mandated appointment in the early morning, and Schlatt would do the same in the afternoon. Wilbur’s was scheduled for the following week.

But that day, he’d woken up with a killer hangover just in time to lazily wave Schlatt out the door, a grumpy “Bye, Schlatt” muffled by the milk he was drinking straight from the jug.

Short, insignificant. Final.

And Sally… Wilbur likes to think he said goodnight to her that last, infinite night. As she’d gone off to bed, leaving him with the rest of the wine and not a lingering care in the world. But he’ll never know for sure. If his last words meant anything.

Now, he treats every goodbye like a promise.

So when Wilbur saunters into the cafe the morning Tommy returns, he shuts down the explosive cocktail of surprise-relief-fear that threatens to overtake him when Tommy drops on a stool beside him. He pretends he hasn’t been nursing a spiral of panic into an all-consuming black hole—hasn’t been replaying his last goodbye to Tommy in his head, wondering if it was good enough to be permanent.

He greets Tommy with a pleasant grace reserved for greeting old friends, just like Tommy had given him the day they met—as if they were already bonded, waiting for the right moment to reunite.

“Don’t tell anyone,” he says conspiratorially, “but I missed you.”

And when Tommy sighs in visible relief over Wilbur sidestepping the iceberg in the room, his heart is already fuller. It’s like no time has passed at all.

It’s only later, when Tommy’s shift starts, and he sets a latte down in front of Wilbur with overly-slow, cautious movements that Wilbur asks, “Was all this because of the coffee I spilled?”

It was a joke. Or supposed to be. But apparently the incident was more on his mind than Wilbur thought, because a dissonant undertone of seriousness slips in.

One that has Tommy whipping his head up. “What? Of course not. That’s stupid. It was an accident.”

Wilbur feels idiotic the second the question leaves his mouth, and Tommy’s answer only triples the hysteria. Who cares about a cup of spilled coffee? Plus, Wilbur’s 99% sure that’s real confusion in Tommy’s scrunched nose.

Tommy rears back suddenly, crossing his arms. “And what do you mean, this? There is no this. I’m fine. I thought we already discussed that, idiot.”

He goes back to scrubbing a stain from the wooden countertop with a little too much vigor.

“As I was saying,” Tommy continues with a pointed look. “Techno’s birthday is coming up. What do you get a guy who doesn’t like gifts? Or… most things, really.”

Wilbur smiles, and hums a response, and he really does think about it, and he banishes the incident from his mind consciously this time.

But like the stain that Tommy’s valiant efforts won’t wash out, he can’t help but replay that day in his head over again—trying to figure out, once more, how things had broken and healed so quickly.

⋆⋆⋆

“Do you think I’m reading too much into it?” he asks Glare later, laid out flat on an isolated rooftop soaked in the dying rays of the setting sun. Glare perches beside him, a shimmering gold-white moon in his periphery. “I mean, if it’s not about the coffee, then obviously I did something wrong.”

He ignored me for days. He looks at me like I’m a ghost.

Glare’s mask of fire is particularly shrewd today. “I think you’re reading too much into it,” he declares flatly.

Quickly, even? When Wilbur props himself up on one arm in gaping disbelief, his flames dance.

“Oh, shit, I mean—” His smoke-bitten voice pitches up. “Yes, Wilbur! I’m sure that barista has so little going on in his personal life that one coffee sent him over the edge. Maybe you should call him right now and make sure he’s okay—”

Moment over.

“Yeah, yeah,” Wilbur interjects. He lies back on the concrete, staring up at the cloudless sherbet sky. “I get it. You’re right. I’m projecting or… something. No need to get all snippy.”

He fiddles with his guitar pick, squinting to acknowledge Glare at his side. Glare’s head tilts. Staring into his face typically produces a disorientingly empty emotion, but somehow, the pity is palpable now.

“Snippy is my brand. But it’s okay. I forgive you just this once for dumping your personal problems on me.”

“Okay, that’s enough out of you!” He flicks his guitar pick at him without thinking about it.

Wilbur winces when Glare hands him back a melted lump of plastic. Damn.

Wilbur runs his tongue over his teeth. “You’re insufferable, you know that?” He flashes his teeth at him. “Nevermind. You don’t know what that means.”

There’s a voice in his head that chimes, Tommy would’ve appreciated that joke. And by appreciated, he would’ve whipped Wilbur with a rag, which is kind of the same thing.

A notification pops up on his phone before Glare can launch out an argument, and Wilbur forgets his train of thought, grinning. “Hey, man! You made the news!” He shines his phone toward Glare as he reads, “Local bodega owner expresses gratitude toward flaming vigilante who stopped midnight robbery.” Wilbur’s smile broadens. “Hey, they didn’t call you annoying this time.”

Glare peers over so fast, he nearly ignites Wilbur’s hair. “What? Gimme it!”

“Oy! Watch the hair!” When Glare scoffs and snags the phone out of Wilbur’s surrendering hands, he frowns. “And you better not burn it. That’s my second screen protector this month.”

And third guitar pick.

He tries to force authority into his tone as he wriggles upright. But it’s difficult to maintain your dignity when you’re patting smoke out of your hair.

⋆⋆⋆

Wilbur stumbles into Tommy before he’s even cracked his guitar case open that morning, and his heart sinks to the deepest trenches of his stomach.

“Tommy?”

Wilbur glances around, searching for proof that the scene in front of him isn’t a twisted figment of his imagination. But the streets are bare, the sun hasn’t quite crested above the crooked skyline of buildings. The air stings with a biting cold—and for months, Tommy has been the only person on earth not featured in Wilbur’s nightmares.

Which means that really is Tommy in front of him: slumped over one of the cafe’s metal patio tables, face buried in his sleeveless arms, fast asleep. Wilbur drops his guitar case—ignoring the precarious thunk it makes against the concrete—and shakes Tommy’s shoulder with rapidly-numbing hands.

“Tommy, hey, look at me. Wake up.”

Tommy jolts the minute Wilbur grazes his skin, jerking upright with a force that nearly overturns his patio chair. Wilbur narrowly avoids the suckerpunch that hurtles his way. Tommy’s eyes, panicked and wide, sweep around the empty street before his focus lands on Wilbur.

Tommy blinks slowly, lowering his fisted hands. “Wilbur?”

“Tommy,” Wilbur repeats, voice strangled. He takes a step back, distantly grateful that Tommy lacks the fighting ability to bruise his knuckles against Wilbur’s jaw. “What are you doing? How long have you been here?” It’s impossible. “Surely you didn’t— did you sleep here?”

There’s a tense moment where Wilbur is sure Tommy won’t answer him. His mouth opens and closes, then his tongue slides over his teeth, as if fighting against something bitter. Finally, his expression clears.

“I– I guess.” He glances down at the metal table like he’s never seen it before. His hands tremble. “I don’t know what I was thinking. I’m sorry.”

In a quick, disjointed way, Wilbur is grateful that the cafe opens late on the weekends. But the relief is swallowed up by the realization that Tommy has been here for hours. Anything could've happened to him. Sleeping, alone, vulnerable.

It’s a response that sprouts more questions than it answers—and did he just apologize? But Wilbur shoves his morbid curiosity into a mental cage and begins shedding his brown leather jacket as quickly as he can manage.

“You must be freezing. Here, take this.”

Tommy doesn’t seem to hear him until Wilbur is throwing the jacket around his shoulders. Tommy stumbles back all over again, eyes taking on the wild glint that had nearly seen Wilbur suckerpunched.

Wilbur raises his hands placatingly, but he can’t help the way his gaze cradles Tommy with nothing short of deep, unbridled concern.

If Wilbur has seen Tommy on his bad days, then this must be his worst. Violet smudges ring his eyes. His lips are torn and worried raw. His hair is a mess, tousled and tangled like he’s been running his hands through it all night. Or— like he slept on a metal table without so much as a sweater. His cheeks are flushed and streaky—Wilbur’s first instinct is hypothermia, until he notices the glossiness of Tommy’s eyes.

Wilbur’s heart twists. He’s seen Tommy at least twice a week for months, but he’s never seen him cry. Wilbur exhales shakily. The sound seems to wake Tommy up, because his shoulders slump.

“I’m sorry,” he repeats, testing the word. His voice is a crackle. “Thanks for the jacket.”

Wilbur nods. For once, he’s not sure what to say. A million questions and comforts war on his tongue, but Tommy… He looks like a shattered ice lake. One wrong word could send him under.

Think, Wilbur, the rational part of him demands. He’s the adult here, and for the first time, Wilbur knows one thing about Tommy for certain—he needs someone right now. He might even need Wilbur.

“Look, you don’t have to tell me why you were out here, but let me walk you back.”

Wherever that is. Wilbur realizes he’s never actually been told where Tommy lives. Tommy’s lips tremble.

Okay, Wilbur’s not as strong-willed as he wants to be. Tommy looks… hollow. Empty in a way he has never been or should ever be. It ignites the fiercest of Wilbur’s fears. Worst of all, he’s barely said a word.

And he tried to punch Wilbur in the face. Maybe Wilbur really is dreaming, after all.

“Are you… fighting with your roommates?” he hedges. “Have you talked to Techno?” Wilbur knows… frighteningly little, actually, about Tommy’s day-to-day life, but he knows about Techno. “Maybe you could—”

“No,” Tommy snaps, nearly snarling. His glare radiates even beneath the cloudy-day shadow. “No, I haven’t…” An agony so striking flashes across his face, Wilbur would almost prefer to be punched. “I’m not talking to him.”

Oh, shit.

“Okay. That’s…” Big, he wants to say. Calamitous. But Wilbur can’t find the words.

In the few million possibilities that ran through his head, not once did he consider that Tommy could fight with Techno. Though Wilbur has never met the man, he sort of imagined Techno to be some lesser, wayward god, with the reverent way Tommy always spoke about him. Mythic and unyielding, an ancient rock in Tommy’s corner.

It makes perfect, terrible sense.

Swallowing, he attempts to lay a gentle hand across Tommy’s shoulder. Thankfully, Tommy doesn’t try to attack him. His eyelids flutter, and tension seeps out of him. He even leans into Wilbur’s hand, and Wilbur could swear his next breaths come a little easier.

Eyes still closed, Tommy’s lips barely move. “I really don’t want to talk about it,” he whispers, voice cracking.

How could Wilbur argue with that?

“What do you want to do?”

Nevermind his still-abandoned guitar, nevermind his plans, nevermind anything.

“Walk?”

He speaks like he’s sure Wilbur’s going to say no—as if he could—and it sends another fracture through Wilbur’s heart. “Then, we’ll walk.”

The frail smile Tommy gives him erases any doubt in Wilbur’s mind.

They linger long enough to lock Wilbur’s guitar case in the cafe when it opens—because Tommy was too stubborn to let Wilbur leave it—and then they walk. They walk until the sun cuts through the clouds, and they keep walking. They walk until Tommy’s breaths even out, and the tears dry from his face, and they keep walking.

Eventually, lunch comes and goes, and though Tommy doesn’t eat (citing a lack of appetite), Wilbur makes sure he gets dinner. Some hours later, he helps him text his roommates something moderately less concerning about his absence, and Wilbur tries not to stew. He never brings up Techno, terrified to break this fragile peace between them.

Wilbur wants Tommy to trust him.

So he fills the gaps where he can. He talks about anything, everything.

It’s not too unlike being around Tommy on his “bad days,” but somehow, it feels worse. To have Tommy at his side as a silent summer shadow leaves him damn near speechless in a way he’s never been… because whatever the right words are, Wilbur doesn’t have them.

Wilbur doesn’t think he’s taken a full breath since stumbling into this distortion of reality.

When he runs out of things to say, and Tommy’s still worrying his lip raw, Wilbur turns to his last resort.

“Have I ever told you about my roommates? Like, really told you?” He raises his eyebrow with certainty, ignoring the faint prick of grief that threatens to disrupt his illusion of confidence.

Tommy perks up. Wilbur… breathes.

Talking about Schlatt and Sally never gets any less painful, but Wilbur plucks a good memory out to recall. Something before the Hero’s League was a blink in someone’s eyes. Something that requires a Do Not Attempt disclaimer, because he thinks it’ll make Tommy laugh—

And when it does, Wilbur could swear even the temperature adjusts to be warmer.

“I think you would’ve really liked Schlatt,” Wilbur admits, and this isn’t painful, because he’s known this for some time. “He was a riot. You have— would’ve had the same humor.”

His next swallow feels like glass.

Tommy lets out a small breath. “Yeah, I think so, too.” He chews the inside of his cheek, fiddling with the end of his jacket. “What, uh… what happened to him?”

Papers. Too-bright lights. Cold metal chair. Failure or success. Both mean the same thing. Empty apartment. Empty everything.

“He had powers. Or— ‘genetic anomalies.’ Something small, probably.” Wilbur kicks at a loose pebble, sending it careening off the sidewalk. “Didn’t matter that he didn’t know about ‘em. He passed a screening that confirmed it.” Wilbur grinds his teeth until it hurts. “I never saw him after that. Sally, either.”

And Wilbur checked. When the League fell, and the columns came out denoting the status of every missing person, Wilbur read every name, studied every picture. He called every hotline, demanded answers from anyone who would listen. But he got nothing. His best friends were gone.

Not dead. Not alive. Missing. Some in-between space. With nothing to grieve, there was nothing to heal from. Just an endless cycle of unknowing. A torture of itself. Purgatory.

Lost in his head, Wilbur doesn’t notice that Tommy’s lagged behind for several feet. When he turns, Tommy’s levelling him with a pained stare that seems to go right through him. He shoves his hands into the pockets of his borrowed jacket.

“You know Ranboo?” Tommy smiles bitterly. “He, uh— him too.”

Wilbur inhales sharply, letting that information needle into him. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay. We found each other. I’m sorry about your friends.”

Before Wilbur can work up the energy to move his leaden tongue, Tommy pulls him into a nearby alleyway. Wilbur protests, but Tommy doesn’t seem to hear. Clean slate turns into rough, stained concrete. The buildings close in. With the oncoming night, the shadows seem to absorb them. The wind whistles sharply as they trudge deeper, until the street is a hazy smudge behind them. Tommy’s back is to him now.

“...Tommy?”

Tommy lets out a harsh breath. “Can I trust you, Wilbur?”

Wilbur stills. “What?”

Tommy turns. His harsh stare pins him in place.

“Can I trust you?” he repeats, then begins to pace. Wilbur can only watch as he runs his hand through his hair, over and over. “I… I want to tell you something. Something that will explain a lot.”

His hands start to shake, and Wilbur resists… doing something. Anything. But he can’t find it in himself to interrupt. Tommy scrubs his face, and when he lowers his hands, his eyes are a shade wilder than before.

“Look, I just— I need to know that if I’m honest with you, that— that you can be honest too. That you’ve been honest.”

He’s the picture of a pleading saint.

“I’ve… I’ve always been honest with you, Tommy.”

He ignores the tiny voice whittling into his head, whispering venomously, Have you?

Tommy studies him. A second passes, bleeds into a minute. Whatever Tommy’s looking for, he must find it. Because he steps forward, inhales deeply, as if it so speak—

And then his head whips to the side. Confusion replaces the unnerving, stony expression from before. “Did you hear that?”

“What?”

A shaded figure appears around the corner. A man stalks toward them, far too fast to be a good thing. Wilbur wheels back, casting an unsure glance toward Tommy. Tommy who… freezes, lips parted around quick, frantic inhales. His fists, balled at his sides, are white-knuckled. Wilbur has had enough panic attacks to recognize one when he sees one. Tommy’s glazed eyes, locked distantly on the brick walls, can’t mean anything else.

Immediately, every muscle in Wilbur’s body locks. He steps in front of Tommy without thinking.

The man starts to run.

“Tommy, go,” Wilbur whispers. He blindly grips Tommy’s jacket, shoving him backward. Tommy barely moves. “I think he has a gun.”

Tommy jolts, seeming to snap out of his stasis. Wilbur’s skin prickles, the alleyway suddenly suffocating. Hot. His hands sweat as he tries to get a hold on Tommy’s jacket. Tommy looks down, covering Wilbur’s hand with his own.

Wilbur frantically cranes his neck behind him. They can’t have much time now—his thoughts are splitting apart, trying to piece together what to do, and Tommy won’t fucking move, can’t be pushed—

The next thing Wilbur knows, he’s being tossed to the side.

At first, Wilbur thinks it’s the mystery assailant. He’s never been in a fight before, never even been hit, but when he slams into something hard and solid—brick—he imagines this is what it feels like to get jabbed in the spine.

It’s only after his back hits the wall—he slides down, head bouncing off it, breath punched out of him—that he blinks and realizes it was… Tommy.

Tommy, who crouches over him with an expression that can only be described as apologetic. “Stay down,” he hisses. “It’ll— it’ll all be okay.”

Wilbur doesn’t know who he’s trying to convince, but it doesn’t matter. He can’t let this happen.

“No, Tommy, listen to me, please, ru—”

“Just stay down. And please— please don’t look.”

Wilbur wants to shout. Who is Tommy to tell him this? He should be calling for help. He should be doing something other than reeling from being tossed into a fucking wall.

“Please.”

Tommy’s whisper, choked with pain, is the last thing he can register. And then he can’t see past—can’t think past—the terrifying silhouette, dressed in dark clothing, except for a red-slashed mask, who raises something black, shiny, deadly—

Wilbur thinks he screams.

He can’t hear anything over the gunshot. There’s a white flash against his eyes, and he slams his hands over his ears as they ring and ring and ring. When he opens his eyes, it’s as if someone has taken a dull blade to all of Wilbur’s insides, gutting him.

His vision comes back in scattered patches. But he knows what he’s going to see when he opens his eyes.

Tommy—brilliant, fragile, young Tommy—split open by an unforgivable wound. And for what? An alleyway mugging? Wilbur hadn’t even had a chance to speak, to bargain. He would’ve given his wallet, the clothes off his back, his life.

Jesus, Wilbur can’t watch. He can’t let this be real.

It takes too long for the sound of scuffling, harsh breaths, grunts and punches, to trickle past his pulverized hearing. Wilbur uncurls from the mess he’d become. There’s a tugging force in his chest that overpowers the primal fear, the undoing of his brain.

What are you doing? GET UP.

Wilbur breaks. Watching will hurt less than standing by. He couldn’t save Schlatt, he couldn’t save Sally, but Wilbur’s not useless.

He takes a deep breath and slams to his feet. The scene in front of him wars with every ounce of logic inside him. It’s almost impossible to discern who is who from the tangle of grappling bodies. Tommy and the assailant are brawling.

Strangest of all… Tommy isn’t losing.

They exchange punches in quick, sharp bursts. Tommy nails the guy across the face, nearly knocking his mask loose. The assailant kicks at Tommy’s knee, eliciting from him a sharp cry that steals Wilbur’s breath. Within milliseconds, Tommy’s face contorts in rage. He barrels into the man’s midsection. Twisting, Tommy slams them both sideways, into the opposite wall.

The man crawls away for his gun as Tommy lurches back onto his feet.

Tommy lets out a half-laugh, half-snarl and flips the man over, stomping on his wrist. Spitting blood from his mouth, Tommy seizes the man’s collar with one hand. The man curses, thrashing and kicking, but Tommy only shifts his weight and bears it. The man’s other hand finally reaches the gun.

He shoves it up between their chests, finger tightening on the trigger in a way that sends ice flooding down Wilbur’s spine. Tommy grunts, squeezing the man harder as he grabs the barrel of the gun with his other hand—

Which erupts in flame.

The words Wilbur prepared die on his tongue. White, gold-tipped flames that Wilbur has seen a hundred times engulf Tommy’s fingertips, swallowing his hand in an instant, sheathing his wrist, crawling up to his elbow.

A thousand images assault Wilbur’s mind at once.

Light. Flame. Bruise. Heat.

Wilbur’s good days, music and Glare. Tommy’s bad days, pain and secrets.

No, the word begs to slip out.

Yes, screams Wilbur’s soul, as two realities collide into one painstakingly comprehensible one.

“Glare?”

It’s barely a whisper. It’s an instant regret. Tommy tears his attention away from the man choking beneath him. Time slows, trapping every detail in perfect clarity. The jagged slash of shadows warring against the bruised-orange glow of infernal light. Blood freckling the underside of his chin, his jaw, his neck. There’s a bullet graze slicing above his ear, shearing his hair in a perfect streak.

Tommy expels an audible breath, head hanging low, though his devastated gaze is inescapable. A fallen angel. Tommy opens his mouth as if to speak. The hellfire wreathing him falters, dims. And though time stops, the man doesn’t.

Not looking, he’s not looking, he doesn’t see it—

Wilbur tries to shout, but it’s absorbed by a deafening BANG.

The gun fires through Tommy’s hand. The bullet wedges in his shoulder, and he lurches like a splitting tree branch. Tommy’s throat convulses. When he wrenches his head down, Tommy’s eyes glow stardust white.

Wilbur is going to be sick.

A broken shout tears from Tommy’s mouth as he rips the gun out of the man’s hands with halted motions. It clatters somewhere on the concrete—out of reach. Flames trail weakly from his fingers. The movement seems to leech all the strength from him, because Tommy lilts to the side. The lights fade, and his eyes roll up.

“Get away!” Wilbur screams. Terror punches the words straight out of him. He staggers forward on leaden legs. “Get off him!”

The man rolls, tossing Tommy to the side like he’s nothing. His mask shifts between the gun and Wilbur—it’s closer to Wilbur, Wilbur can get it—and lets out a muffled swear. He breaks for the mouth of the alley, abandoning Wilbur to the delirium.

Wilbur makes it a few uncertain strides after him, before a groan splits the night. Shit.

“Tommy— Glare—” He turns, clenches his teeth and kneels over him. Whoever he is, he's Wilbur's friend. “Tommy, hang in there.”

Tommy’s eyes strain to capture Wilbur’s gaze, chest seizing. “Wilbur,” he pants, blinking hard. He clutches his hand over his ribs. “I didn’t—” He swears, hand spasming. “I didn’t want you to find out like– like this. I promise.”

Wilbur puts pressure on the horrible, sunken wound in Tommy’s shoulder. He can’t look at the hole in his palm without his stomach heaving. Tommy yelps, good hand flying up to crush Wilbur’s wrist. He looks a cross between too-lucid and terribly out of it. His pupils are blown olives.

“Ah– prick, easy. It’s not that bad.”

Wilbur’s veins bulge. “Do not,” he bites out. “Woah, hey. Hey. Look at me.”

Tommy lazily drags his head up. He grits his teeth as he cranes his neck up, and then his skin shudders impossibly paler. Should his pupils look like that?

“Holy fuck,” Tommy laughs, blood and drool dripping down his chin. “That’s a lot– a lot of blood.” He swallows. “Don’t be scared when I pass out.”

“Tommy, where should I go?”

Wilbur feels like he’s tearing at the seams. Panic turns everything hazy around the edges. Bile stings his tongue. He can’t look at Tommy without his eyes threatening to cross. Everything is cold.

“No hospitals,” Tommy slurs. “I don’t have… hah, health insurance.”

A delirious laugh breaks out of Wilbur. “Are you telling a joke right now?” Tommy’s eyes glaze. Wilbur shakes him, heart pounding. “Look, I need an address. Where do you live, man?” Wilbur grabs his chin, patting his face. “Tommy, please.”

Tommy’s fingers curl around Wilbur’s sleeve. “Techno,” he whispers. “Techno.”

“An address,” Wilbur all but screams. It’s a whisper caught in the tide of the blood rushing past his ears, drowning everything out. “Give me his address.”

Crumpled beneath him, Tommy’s lips move in hitches and tiny gasps. He goes horrifyingly limp. But Wilbur gets the address. Wilbur repeats it under his breath like a prayer. He can’t forget. He won’t.

This time, he’ll save someone.

Wilbur doesn’t think as the starless sky bears down upon him. He hefts Tommy into his arms and runs.

Chapter Text

Techno takes one look at Tommy, hanging from a stranger’s arms, and thinks with a choking sort of horror that he never should’ve let him leave.

“He needs help,” the stranger pleads, as if Techno can’t see that. “He– he told me to go to you.”

Techno’s mind works a mile a minute. He pieces the stranger’s identity together in stilted flashes of ink, documents and regret. Microphone feedback shrieks in his head, drowning out the voices in a heartbeat.

Of course. Of everyone in the world to show up at his door, it’s him.

“Please,” Wilbur adds, breath shaky. “Please, help us. Help him.”

The world narrows to Tommy — sallow, lifeless, blood-drenched Tommy — and the decision is made for him. It was made the minute Techno opened his door. No canyon in his chest or fights left unfinished would stop Techno from saving his kid.

He wrenches the door open robotically. All at once, the world rushes back.

“Inside,” he barks, stepping back in nearly a stagger. A cursory sweep down the hallway reveals they’re—thankfully—alone. Who knows if Wilbur was careful? Logic seeps back into him as the voices surge into an insatiable chaos. “Not so fast— give him to me.”

“I’m his friend,” Wilbur breathes. “I didn’t do this to him. I’m—”

“Wilbur Soot,” Techno grunts. “I know.”

Wilbur’s lips part. “How?”

Techno grits his teeth so hard it hurts. The scent of blood soaking the air is nearly enough to bowl him over. The memories it ignites makes everything blurred around the edges.

“Doesn’t matter. Give him to me.”

“I– I can’t.”

Techno’s patience falters, and he opens his mouth to do something about it, until he sees Wilbur’s arm. Viny tendrils snake around Wilbur’s lower arm and wrist. Spiky leaves embed his sweater, the yarn beginning to tear. Tommy’s ivy has him in a chokehold. He’d done it in his sleep.

Dragging Wilbur inside by his shoulder, Techno slams the door behind them. “This way. Try to put him on the couch.”

Wilbur obeys, darting past him with unsteady feet. Techno sweeps the evidence of his previous misery off the sofa in one fell swoop: twisted blankets, untouched food plate, discarded ibuprofen containers, all of it. Wilbur takes the cue, lowering Tommy down as much as he can.

A small moan escapes his mouth. The quick fluttering of his lashes tells Techno he’s in pain. Wilbur grunts as the ivy wraps tighter.

“Nice one, kid,” Techno mutters. To Wilbur, he snipes, “Relax a second.”

Wilbur’s eyes widen when Techno pulls a small switchblade from under the cushion. He makes quick work of snipping through the ivy. The sweater doesn’t make it through, fabric too intertwined with ivy. Wilbur gets paler by the second, fingertips turning blueish. When he’s free, he exhales fully, shaking his arm out.

Red, whiplike marks curl down his wrist, inflamed and angry. But Tommy didn’t draw any blood, which is enough for Techno. Techno bunches up the shreds of Wilbur’s sweater.

“You’ll live. Now hold this to his shoulder.”

Wilbur snaps to listen. The pressure compressing Techno’s chest loosens slightly. He strides to the kitchen, drizzling soap over his hands and shoving them under the faucet. The lukewarm water is a breath of relief from his scattered brain. Suddenly, Techno is real again.

Tommy might be hurt, and Wilbur Soot might currently be plaguing his living room, but things could be a lot, lot worse.

Techno takes his solid fifteen seconds to coax his mind into order. In the brief quiet, he can think. The voices flurry—ever the mess when Tommy’s injured—but when Techno returns to inspect him, it’s not as bad as it looks. At first.

His shoulder bleeds sluggishly, and most of the blood on him is rusty and dried. His advanced healing has already pushed some of the bullet fragments out. His pulse is strong. Thumping reverberates through Techno’s eardrums. It gives him something to focus on besides the damage control waiting for him.

Though any injury is usually enough to make Techno’s head spin when it comes to the kid, there’s a particularly violent wash of nausea when he sees the hole in Tommy’s hand. The grisly, half-closed wound gives the appearance that someone has speared Tommy’s palm.

“Christ,” he whispers.

How had the kid managed to get himself in so much trouble in less than twenty-four hours? The voices chir. Right—stupid question. Tommy is Tommy, and it doesn’t matter how. All that matters is it wouldn’t have happened if not for Techno.

Guilt later.

Techno wastes no more time unravelling bandages and readying his suture kit. He kneels by Tommy’s side. Painfully aware of the spectator in his periphery, Techno smooths the kid’s sweat-dampened hair out of his face. He might be imagining it, but he could swear the pain clouding Tommy’s expression clears slightly before he draws his hand away.

Techno gets to work like he’s done a thousand times before.

Fist pressed to his mouth, Wilbur watches Tommy with a gentleness that contrasts everything Techno thought he knew.

It’s an odd perversion of reality to reconcile Wilbur being in his living room. Until now, he’d only been a Serif font and the source of Techno’s biggest mistake. But if Wilbur brought Tommy here, from who knows where… if he had any part in saving him… Techno might be in his debt after all.

He breathes through his nose and prepares to stitch. The voices sink to the back of his neck as if to give him room to focus. He’s about to sink the needle in when an aborted, choking noise sounds from behind him.

A younger, jaded Techno would’ve snarled. This time, he takes mercy.

“Don’t look if you can’t handle it.”

Wilbur clears his throat. “Mhm. I— okay. No, I’m cool.”

Techno raises an eyebrow. Wilbur looks about as cool as Phil when someone touches his wings. His quick, sharp breaths verge on a panic attack. And it’s distracting.

“Soot, I can either sing you a lullaby, or I can stitch Tommy back together. I can’t do both. Choose quickly.”

Wilbur nods and quiets. He sags against the wall, sliding down to bury his head in his hands. Perfectly punishing and out of Techno’s way.

Techno doesn’t hear another sound from him until he’s tying off his last stitch. By then, Tommy is fast asleep. He hadn’t woken up throughout, except to whisper Techno’s name once—which was great, because he doubts Wilbur could’ve kept it together if Techno made him hold Tommy down.

After it’s done, Techno is so spent he can barely summon the urge to toss the used supplies, bullet fragments, and shrivelled ivy away. He’d already stayed up half the night, surrendered to his own personal choir of penance. But above the exhaustion, rises a needle of heat.

Something has been digging at him since the moment he let Wilbur inside. A thread left unravelled, a nagging that festered even when he was bandaging Tommy up. He clears his throat.

“Why don’t you follow me into the other room?”

Wilbur looks up. Whatever he sees on Techno’s face has the guy unfolding his limbs and standing. Techno doesn’t wait for him to keep up. When Wilbur makes it to his bedroom, Techno nudges the door shut with his foot and faces him.

Techno would hate for this conversation to wake Tommy up.

Wilbur glances around, hands fiddling nervously. His gaze combs the wall, soaking in the room.

The posters littering the walls: retro-style Bloodlust and Crowfather designs. The items on his desk: Advil, a hairbrush, a scattered pile of files that he hopes Wilbur can’t read. The few pictures Techno has framed on his nightstand: one of Phil and Kristin, one with the three of them, and one with Techno and Tommy.

He didn’t frame that one—Tommy gave it to him against his will, but it earned a place on his nightstand nonetheless. A nerve twitches in his jaw—he doesn’t like having a stranger absorbing the pieces of his life. The silence stretches and Techno observes with crossed arms until Wilbur breaks.

Wilbur coughs. “You a big Bloodlust fan?”

“You could say that.”

Wilbur stiffens, taking a few broad steps back. “Shit.”

Techno’s lips curl. There’s a delicious heat curling underneath his skin, a prickling in his fingertips that demands fulfillment. He doesn’t need a mirror to know his eyes glint a little more red than usual.

Techno reigns his voices back, though. The last thing he needs right now is to lose control. He hadn’t had the chance to promise Tommy, but his time spent stewing carved a new vow into him.

Techno won’t compromise Tommy’s trust again—even if there’s a hungry choir in his head that really, really wants him to.

“Are you going to kill me?” Wilbur licks his lips. “I— I wasn’t going to tell anyone about Tommy. I told you he’s my friend.”

Techno laughs outright. “No, Wilbur, I’m not goin’ to kill you.”

He’s eighty-percent sure that would count as violating Tommy’s trust. Plus, he’d saved Tommy. Maybe. That means something—that means a lot.

Techno leans against the door. He can tell the exact moment Wilbur notices his only exit is blocked from the frantic bobbing of his throat.

“...Okay. I’m going to pretend that you mean that.” Wilbur holds his hands up, shoulders lowering—

“Don’t sit on my bed.”

“Right, okay. Sorry.” He scratches the back of his neck. “So then, what is this?” His voice turns shrill before he coughs. “Some kind of shovel talk?”

He’s noticed the picture of Techno and Tommy, now. Techno appraises him. Despite his misgivings, it’s difficult to justify the guy as a threat. Techno hasn’t even taken a step toward him, and he’s shaking like a leaf.

“Maybe. I’m still on the fence on that.” He pushes off the wall, inspecting Wilbur from his nervous jaw to the lint on his jeans. “Tommy talks about you.” A lot. “I know you’ve grown close.”

Wilbur nods slowly, tracking Techno’s movements with dilated pupils. “Yeah. We have. He’s like my little brother.”

Techno runs his tongue over his teeth. “So he’s said.”

“He said that about me?” Wilbur blurts, choked.

Forgetting his role as interrogatee. Techno ignores him, though the voices hiss—a cross between a laugh and a snarl. They’re not making it easy on him to stay diplomatic. But as much as he could sit here and play with Wilbur until Tommy’s awake, business must come first.

“I want to get to know you, Wilbur. Starting with how you were able to walk into my house.”

Wilbur stiffens. Techno can almost hear the click of his spine locking. The voices buzz.

“...You let me in.”

Is he asking, or telling? His chorus murmurs.

“I did,” Techno agrees. “And I would have, even if you didn’t do whatever trick you did on me. So, I’ll ask again.” His voice lowers to the scrape of gravel as he puts them chest to chest. “What was it?”

Wilbur sets his jaw. Techno can feel his blood rushing, and it verges on euphoric. Sensations bombard his head—half his own, half derision from the voices—and it’s a fight to choose logic over gratification.

“I didn’t notice at first, I’ll give you that.” Techno watches sweat drip down Wilbur’s brow. “I was focused on the kid. But I felt it wear off.”

He pauses, giving Wilbur a chance to weigh the consequences of lying to him. All it would take is one heart murmur for Techno to know, and if Wilbur knows anything about his legacy, it’s what he would do to him for trying.

He should also know that Techno doesn’t like being told what to do.

“What is it, Wilbur? Influence? Emotional manipulation? Compulsion?”

As the last word leaves his mouth, Wibur’s fists clench. The cracking of his stony demeanor tells Techno the answer. His chest soars, and the voices shriek. Techno tastes copper on his tongue. He can’t tell if he’s imagining it or if he’d bitten his cheek hard enough to draw blood.

“Compulsion, then. That checks out.”

It was subtle. The tiny thread of obedience would’ve been buried under layers of desperation, fear, shock. Techno meant it when he said he would’ve let Wilbur inside, risks be damned. Nothing would’ve been worth compromising Tommy’s safety.

Anyone else wouldn’t have noticed. But the voices went quiet. Wilbur spoke, and the voices obeyed. The voices don’t listen to anyone… except one person. And that person was unconscious when Techno’s will was seized by two words.

Help him.

Wilbur squeezes his eyes shut, swaying slightly. “Please, it’s not… I didn’t want this.”

“Life’s tough like that, isn’t it?” He almost feels bad for the way Wilbur’s heartbeat stutters. Almost. “I have your records.”

Wilbur’s head snaps up. “Why do you have my records?”

“Doesn’t matter.” There’s an almost imperceptible squeeze in his chest. But Techno doesn’t owe Wilbur the truth. “You took a power registration test a few years before the Registration Act was repealed. Yet it came back clean.” He tilts his head. “How is that possible?”

Wilbur’s mouth pinches. “I didn’t—”

“Even if you told them to input your result differently, your blood would’ve… Oh.”

Wilbur’s shoulders sag. “The test administrator… I told him to use his own blood and forget it ever happened.” His cheeks flush scarlet, enunciating the grief in his expression. “I made a gamble that they wouldn’t notice it wasn’t mine, and they didn’t.”

Smart, Techno can’t help but think. Even the voices hum appreciatively.

“Is that what you want to hear? That I protected myself? That I got to be free, while others didn’t?”

“Lower your voice.” Techno presses his lips together, but when he doesn’t hear Tommy’s heartbeat stir, he sighs. “I just want the truth.”

“I was eighteen!” Wilbur rushes out feverishly. “You of all people know what they did to people for having powers.” He stumbles over that word, powers, like it hurts. “And mine? They would’ve torn me apart.”

“You’re right.”

Wilbur blinks, lips parting slightly. “I’m… right?”

Techno shrugs. “Frankly, I don’t care if the government knows.” He’d leveled that facade of a league to the ground for a reason. “I care if Tommy knows. Does he?” He steps closer. “Have you ever used them against him?”

Wilbur flinches. “No. No, I well— technically, yes. Today.” Before Techno can open his mouth, Wilbur levels him with a glare. “Because I needed your address. He was dying, and I didn’t know where to go.”

Techno, who much prefers Tommy alive, can’t exactly fault him for that. So he reverts. “He deserves to know.”

Wilbur throws his arms out. “I can’t tell him that! He’ll never look at me the same.”

“Wrong. You can, and you will.”

And Techno can only hope that last part is true. Maybe once the kid finds out Wilbur is minutely more formidable, he’ll stop diving in front of bullets. Maybe he’ll lose the shadows he wears like clothes.

“You know who Tommy is,” Techno adds. His stomach twists. “Don’t think he’s going to be okay with that, either.”

Devastated. His choir voices the words he doesn’t want to say. We’ll be ready for it. For him.

“It’s different,” Wilbur tugs at his hair. “I’m different. Just let me—”

“No, it’s not.” His temper gives. “And the longer you lie to him—”

“Shut up and don’t move.”

It’s like slipping into a vacuum.

The command drowns out all sensation, all logic, all will. Techno’s muscles lock, mouth snapping closed, skin tensing and freezing over. The voices go out like a light, without so much as a whimper—no, they vanish, severed from him like a limb. Leaving him empty, vacant.

Obedient.

Even the molecules in the room seem to be swept up in the command. The air chills. The dust catches in the air.

Wilbur lets out a deep breath. Techno shakes in a cage he cannot break. He can’t even hear Tommy’s heartbeat anymore, a realization that would render him undone if his mind belonged to him anymore.

“Try to talk,” Wilbur whispers. “Try to break it.” Gold swirls faintly around his irises. “Can you? Even you?”

The only living thing in the world besides Wilbur is the heat in Techno’s chest, slowly tempering.

“What if I tell you to stop breathing?” Wilbur circles him languidly. His shoulder stirs the air by Techno’s ear. “What if you tell you to pull out a knife and walk into that room? What if I tell you to hurt him?”

Horror and rage squeeze viciously at Techno’s chest. He breathes through his nose, thoughts whorling into chaos like an unfurling ribbon. Wilbur disappears behind his periphery. Spots dance over Techno’s vision. He waits for the scuff of a footstep, the click of the door, even the slip of a command, for Techno to enact his worst fear—

And then Wilbur’s back in front of him. If he could command so much as his lungs, they might’ve relaxed, just a little.

“You wouldn’t be able to do anything about it. Even as you…” His throat bobs, and he might just save his own life by not daring to speak that into existence. “Even if what I tell you is against your very nature, you’d have to obey.”

Veins begin to darken under Wilbur’s eyes and around the edges of his mouth. Nerve-like gold tendrils threaten to consume his entire iris. Blood rushes in Techno’s ears, daring Wilbur’s focus to waver even for a split second.

Let him test Wilbur’s control, see how impenetrable it really is— because Bloodlust has never found something he couldn’t break—

“To have absolute control of a human's free will… it’s not natural,” Wilbur finishes, hanging his head. When he lifts his gaze to Techno’s, his pupils are ringed in brilliant, blinding gold. “You can go back to normal.”

Techno drops to his knees.

Vertigo wars with nausea, sensation with disassociation. His nerves prickle, muscles contracting. The voices rush back too many, too fast in a deafening bombardment. His fingers dig into the floor, nails bending, skin bleaching.

Blood rushes in his ears as he blinks reality back into existence fragment by fragment.

The second Techno feels again, he’s seizing Wilbur by the scruff of his collar and slamming him into the wall.

Wilbur grunts, clawing at Techno’s arms—then sagging when Techno delivers a swift punch to his mouth once, twice. His blood sears, and the want to paint the floors red is mouth-wateringly irresistible.

It’d be too easy to make him try to talk through a mouthful of broken teeth.

But Tommy.

Clarity washes over him in a spidery flood of ice.

When his fingers itch to close around Wilbur’s throat, he instead squeezes his collar. Wilbur gapes, blood dripping from his mouth. Techno holds him there, legs weakly kicking, until the gold fades completely from his retina.

“Try that on me again,” he grits, “and see what happens.”

He can hardly catch his breath. The echo of his words multiplies, the voices nearly conquering him. He swallows. Wilbur holds his hands up, face so pale it’s papery.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” he rasps. “I shouldn’t have done that. I won’t—”

“You shouldn’t have,” Techno snarls, silencing him. Pain sears his lungs. “Next time, I won’t stop myself.”

Every syllable Wilbur wheezes out only pushes him closer to mania. But he’d never be able to explain this to Tommy. As if his mind wants to punish him more, an image of Tommy’s pain-contorted face flashes in his mind.

Tommy had probably gotten hurt for Wilbur, and yet here Wilbur is, playing games with his life. The vision is replaced by an even sharper agony— the look on Tommy’s face when he’d found the folder.

Before he can convince himself that he doesn’t care if Tommy is afraid of him, Techno releases Wilbur. Wilbur slides down the wall and then goes as still as the statue he’d made of Techno.

“Don’t you see?” Wilbur croaks. There’s a wild glint in his eye that asks Techno to bruise him. “Why I can’t tell him?”

Techno turns his head, breathing intentionally.

Not worth it, he forces himself to think. This idiot’s not worth it.

Not worth Tommy, the voices agree.

“That’s even more reason to tell him. He has to know you can do that.”

“I’d never—”

“If that’s true, he shouldn’t have to worry about it.”

After a few moments of tense silence, Techno’s double vision fades. Control is a heady relief, grounding him in the presence. Feeling returns to his limbs. His mind will probably be rattled for the next century, but at least he was able to pull himself out of a headfirst spiral.

Last time, he didn’t—and he not only killed two of Tommy’s attackers, but he’d ended up on the news. The time before, he’d toppled a government.

For Wilbur’s sake, Techno buries the fact that both of those entities deserved what they got.

“Okay,” Wilbur says softly. “Yeah, okay.”

As if he has another choice.

The voices mimic a scoff. Techno allows Wilbur to pick himself up. The fool lets out a tiny ah sound as he blots his split lip with the side of his thumb. His jaw is a little swollen, lip more than a little, but he’ll live.

“It doesn’t have to be now.” Techno faces him, moderately consoled when his mind doesn’t split immediately. “In fact, maybe wait until he’s recovered and clear-minded. But you’re tellin’ him.”

“I know—”

“Then let me make it clearer. You might have your silver tongue, but I have powers of my own. I'll find a way to make you pay for it." Techno tilts his head. “Clear?

Wilbur’s eyes dart to the posters, and he nods. His grimace is blood-flecked. “Clear.” When Techno doesn’t immediately attack, he gestures lamely toward the door. “Can I go now?”

“No.” Wilbur flinches. Techno kicks his rolling desk chair in Wilbur’s direction. “Now, you tell me everything that happened.”

⋆⋆⋆

“I thought he was gonna kill the guy,” Wilbur finishes sometime later, nursing his split lip with an ice pack.

Techno gave it to him halfway between Wilbur tentatively speaking around their fight and the arrival of the mystery assailant. He didn’t need blood staining his floor, or his chair—Tommy was good enough at that.

After grilling him for twenty minutes about the assailant’s appearance, potential motives, threats he’d made and anything else, Techno also rewarded Wilbur with a glass of water and a napkin.

Despite that, Wilbur still pales when Techno raises an eyebrow.

“I mean, I think he would’ve deserved it!” He half babbles, half begs. “It was just… weird, seeing him like that.”

He sips his glass, expression swirling into a contained storm. Wilbur’s fingers robotically dance across the padded armrest.

For once, Techno takes pity on him. He recognizes that look. Shock—or something like it. He can imagine this idiot running through every scrape he's seen or heard of Tommy earning, trying to reconcile his idea of Tommy with his idea of Glare. It's not productive.

“It’s only because you were there.”

“Me?”

He looks vaguely sick. Techno rolls his eyes.

“No, I’m not sayin’ it’s your fault. I’m sayin’ Tommy’s an idiot with a bleeding heart.” That yesterday, Techno had torn open. While the last few hours felt like a decade ago, the wounds are still fresh. “He’s scared of you gettin’ hurt.”

Even if Wilbur was probably the reason Tommy got distracted, it won’t help things to tell him that. Tommy’s been better after Techno’s training—one gunman with a death wish shouldn’t have been enough to take him down. Unless he was distracted.

…Or unless Tommy wanted it to happen. Tommy’s words float back to him, a taunting lullaby that might never leave him.

It was a good dream. I got shot this time.

Even now, they make Techno’s gut lurch.

I could’ve taken it. If it was me.

Knowing that Tommy got his wish… Techno exhales. He’s going to have to amp up his next lecture. This is why we don’t hang out with civilians on patrol.

Eventually, they move back into the living room. As much as he itched to prolong this discussion in private, he couldn’t allow himself to be in the other room if Tommy woke up. The last thing he needs is Tommy waking up to Wilbur “gone.”

And it’ll probably be good for Techno to be nearby. On the off chance Tommy wants to see him.

Techno checks on Tommy’s bandages, makes sure he’s comfortable, and then takes the armchair to give the kid space. Wilbur drags a kitchen chair over and fiddles relentlessly with threads in his jeans. Blood still spatters his knees, but his undershirt is moderately clean.

They fall into a mild quiet. Techno turns the TV on low volume, hoping some white noise will let Tommy’s dreams go easier on him.

The kid’s breaths grow stronger with every minute. He could almost be taking a nap instead of sleeping off two gunshot wounds.

Techno leans his head back, wondering if he could steal a wink of sleep. His head isn’t so loud anymore, and the steady beating of Tommy’s heart is a comforting rhythm. But with Wilbur so close, he can’t quite nod off.

Techno shoots a quick text to Phil, updating him that Tommy’s back, and then to Tubbo, who responds, Dibs on shooting him next. Ranboo follows that up with a mild, He’s probably kidding that makes Techno snort.

At least he’ll be in good hands when he wakes up.

Wilbur doesn’t attempt to entertain himself.

He doesn’t look up when Techno switches to a bland nature documentary about polar bears. Instead, Wilbur’s gaze traces every bruise and scratch marring Tommy’s face until Techno is sure he’s memorized them.

One particularly maroon bruise by his jaw yellows around the edges, like a rose closing up. Wilbur’s breath catches as new skin creeps over old. His hand catches mid-air.

He shakes his head before his fingers graze Tommy’s cheek. “How do you do it?”

Techno cracks one eye open. “Do what?”

“How do you not like… completely lose it, seeing him like this.” Wilbur takes Techno’s silence as confusion. “Injured.”

The last of the blueish-yellow vanishes. Tommy sighs, turning over and burying his face into a pillow.

Techno doesn’t want to tell Wilbur that he knows what it’s like on the other side: patching up injuries with whatever he could find, floating from alley to alley with no true place to rest, trading his friends to protect his identity. Techno didn’t understand how alone he was until he met Phil.

He didn’t understand that the solitude was slowly killing him.

But with Phil, suddenly, scrapes and gashes and near-death experiences meant something. It meant something to have someone looking out for him. Even if Phil wasn’t like him, nothing would’ve been able to stop Techno from throwing himself into fight after fight.

Just like Tommy. And that’s his answer—it’s better to know than to stew. Better to see, to help, to feel, than to feel nothing at all. Tommy might always get hurt, but at least this way, he’ll always be able to go back to Techno.

“It gets easier.”

At Wilbur’s disbelieving expression, Techno clarifies. “It’s scary because it’s new to you. Healin’ makes him tired, so that’s why he’s still knocked out, but it’s not as bad as it could be.”

Wilbur blanches. “It’s been worse than this?”

Techno inhales slowly. Exhales. “It’s… been tough.”

He curls and uncurls his fists until sensation rushes back into his fingers—then tenses when he recognizes that Wilbur is staring at him with something akin to pity. Nope.

“Fatal isn’t always fatal for him. You’ll get used to it.” Lips turning upward, Techno adds, “That kid’s more durable than a cockroach.”

Except when he’s not.

“Sure. I mean… yeah. I guess that makes sense.” Wilbur tests his scabbing lip with his tongue. “If I can still hang around him, that is.”

Techno lifts his chin. “I’m not his keeper.”

Wilbur eyes him dubiously. The voices titter—and Techno does not appreciate when they turn against him.

An hour ago, you wanted me to kill him.

The voices don’t dignify his reason with a response.

“...I’m not in charge of his decisions,” Techno enunciates. Not anymore. “If he wants to keep bad company, who am I to stop him?”

He attempts to approximate a smile. It seems to put Wilbur more on edge, even though he means what he’s saying. Policing Tommy’s decisions… he won’t go down that road again.

Surprise abilities aside, Techno saw what he saw. Wilbur seemed truly scared when he cradled Tommy in his doorway—the type of desperate and terrified that can’t be faked. It’s the only reason Wilbur’s still here, alive and well.

Techno forces himself to face Wilbur—it’ll be over quickly. “I distrusted you because I didn’t know you,” he says, only a little uncomfortably. “That was a misjudgement on my part.”

“That’s… I mean, you should apologize to Tommy about that. That didn’t really affect me.”

“I know.”

And he will. Techno’s already apologized to Tommy a thousand times in his mirror, waiting for the kid to pick up his phone so he could do it in person. Now he understands why Phil gets his feathers in a twist whenever Techno declines to answer his texts.

“What I’m sayin’ is…” Techno would really prefer to watch the polar bears, but he persists. “You protected him. I don’t exactly distrust you now.” His eyes narrow. “Unless you give me a reason to.”

Wilbur shakes his head. “He protected me first.”

The voices croon. Techno scowls.

“Stop doin’ that. I know he didn’t walk off those injuries. You carried him here instead of leavin’ him or turnin’ him in. I don’t take favors like that lightly.”

“It wasn’t a favor—”

“Just answer me,” Techno leans forward. “Would you protect him again? If it came down to it?”

Wilbur’s face sharpens. “Of course. I’d do more than I did today. I’d… I’d do worse?”

Wilbur blinks, staring down at his hands like he’s never seen them before. Techno chuffs a laugh, actually relishing when the voices pur appreciatively.

Perhaps they could get along after all.

“…Techno?” A small murmur interrupts their vigil.

Tommy rolls over, blankes twisting. Techno jolts upright, faltering before he does anything. Is he trying to sit up? Would Tommy want him to touch him right now? Is he asking for him, or cursing him? Is he even awake?

A tiny wince escapes him. Tommy flails weakly. Though his eyes never open, his movements are quick and feverish—panicked. “I need…”

Techno aborts another attempt to step forward, unsure what to do—which leaves him standing lamely in the blue TV light, more useless than before. Tommy’s bad arm breaks free, dropping over the side of the sofa. Weak tendrils of ivy slither from his fingertips. They crawl down the floor, inching… toward Techno.

They don’t get far, as the strength seems to leave Tommy in a rush. He flops back down, features smoothing out. Techno would be concerned if the next thing out of his mouth wasn’t a gentle snore.

Wilbur lets out a small, “Huh.”

“What?” Techno gruffs.

“Tommy talks about you all the time.” Wilbur eases back into his seat. “He’s hard to figure out, but I always swore you were his hero. I just didn’t think you were, like, actually…”

“His hero?” Techno doesn’t know if he’s asking or telling.

“Yeah,” Wilbur laughs under his breath. He rolls his eyes, dragging a hand over his face. “Man, today has been weird.”

Well, maybe I’m not. But saying it out loud sounds deprecating and lame and would require far more emotional bandwidth than Techno cares to expend in front of strangers. In front of most people, really.

Saying it out loud might even make it real.

“I just don’t understand what the guy wanted,” Wilbur continues while Techno continues to stare vaguely at the floor. “I mean, he just pulled out a gun and fired. Does that usually happen?”

“To Glare?” Techno snorts, lips hardly moving. He tries not to think about that night, though it’s what his mind always goes back to. “That kid has made enemies with half the city. I’m never retirin’ at this rate.”

“To Tommy,” Wilbur clarifies. “Does that usually happen to Tommy?”

Techno goes cold. Everything he’d been blocking out sharpens to painful clarity.

“I thought you said you were out with Glare when this happened.”

Wilbur frowns. “I mean, I was. Tommy is Glare, right?”

His head begins to spin, the apartment suddenly too small, too unsafe. Techno doesn’t remember crossing the room, but the next time he blinks, his hands are gripping Wilbur’s shoulders.

“Was his uniform on? Was he patrolling?”

Wilbur stammers. “No. No, it was just Tommy.”

Just Tommy.

He releases him, falling away with haggard steps. He needs Phil. Right now. If he thought things were bad before…

Techno slams the number into his phone with numb fingers. In his periphery, Wilbur jumps to his feet. And damn it, Techno’s a goddamn fool for not clarifying sooner.

“What’s wrong? Techno? Is that a bad thing?”

Wilbur holds his hands out like Techno’s some wild animal. Techno almost laughs. But there’s a viper constricting his rib cage, and he doesn’t have enough air to even if he wanted.

Meanwhile, Tommy sleeps.

“His identity,” Techno rasps, lifting the phone to his ear. “Someone knows who he is.”

Tommy’s in more danger than any of them thought.