Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

Ever since Niki had texted Techno to come back home, Tommy’s leg couldn’t stop shaking. He didn’t know if there was a correlation between the two or if it was just a side-effect of resurrection, but either way, it was annoying. Everything else still hurt; his skin, bones, muscles at each movement.  

He leaned his back against the bathroom door, his eyes avoiding the mirror. He was scared to look into it, afraid that he wouldn’t recognise the person staring back at him. When he eventually did, his jaw clenched. Bruises painted the length of his neck, shades of purple and blue, colours that probably wouldn’t fade. The remains of Ariadne. He buried the insecurities riddling inside of him, the desperate need to hide the marks, to suppress the evidence of his death.  

A coldness crept down the back of his neck. Despite there being no thread wrapped around his throat, the sensation never left.  

He splashed water on his face, grasping harshly onto the sink, fighting off whimpers as it wet his skin. The sensitivity hadn’t dulled yet.  

Tommy walked out of the bathroom and back into the living room, where he left Tubbo.  

It seemed Tubbo noticed his anxiety with how a frown immediately came to his face. “You alright, boss man?” 

He bit on his cheek; he craved to lie and say it was all okay. But it wasn’t. Instead, he pointed at his neck, the cascading bruises permanently blemishing his throat, and sighed.  

Tubbo took one glance at his neck and rushed out of the room.  

Tommy stood in shock, not really knowing what to do. What was the appropriate response when your best friend, who you loved unconditionally and never would judge, ran away from you the second they noticed the bruises that fuelled his new fragility?  

He gulped, struggling to keep the newfound tears swelling in his eyes from falling, as silence furnished the empty room.  

But minutes later, Tubbo ran back with Ranboo trailing after him, a bright smile on his lips and items in his hands. 

“I am so fucking stupid,” Tommy muttered to himself as he realised what Tubbo had rushed to get.  

“Here.” Tubbo chucked at him the freshly washed green bandana and ‘My Beloved’ locket Ranboo had gifted him.  

“It’ll cover up your neck,” Ranboo said, gesturing to the bandana. 

Warmth charged through him, filling every crevasse that once felt abandoned and lost with fondness and adoration. He stroked the soft fabric and steel chain. He didn’t deserve them, he didn’t deserve the kindness from Tubbo’s heart and Ranboo’s selfless nature. With them, he felt complete, as if no insecurity or doubt could darken his head or poison his mood.  

He tied the bandana around his neck, in the similar fashion Phil had done for MCC and clasped the seal of the locket. Tommy exhaled, comforted by the touch of the fabric and crisp metal chain.  

“Thank you,” he whispered. 

“We’ll leave you when your brothers come back,” Tubbo stated, although it sounded like he didn’t want to. 

Ranboo rolled his eyes at him. “Yeah, you should have privacy with them,” he said, more directed to Tubbo than to Tommy. “We’ll just be in your room though. You won’t get rid of us that easily.” 

Tommy grinned and nodded, still fuzzy inside from the accessories around his neck.  

The rustling of keys came from outside the entrance door. Tommy froze. This was it, he would see them again. No longer would his final memories of his brothers be tarnished by him dying on the kitchen floor, their arms clinging onto his deceased body, desperate to not mourn a boy who had wormed his way into their hearts.  

The moment Wilbur stepped inside, stalling in his step at the sight of him, Tommy knew he wasn’t ready. He wasn’t ready to greet the people who held him as he begged for more time, for answers, as they begged for him to not leave. But he did. He did leave, and regardless of him coming back, that wasn’t just something you could get over. His death would leave a stain on their minds and he could do nothing to remove it. No amounts of reunions nor cradles to the chest could make his brothers forget him breathing his last ragged breath whilst in their arms.  

The pain spiked in his skin as Wilbur rushed forward, almost as if anticipated the next chain of events. Wilbur’s arms pulled him close, hugging him tightly. The ridges of his glasses dug into his head but he didn’t care. This was Wilbur, this was the person he trusted whole-heartedly and loved even more.  

Wilbur kept mumbling things under his breath, phrases adorned in affection and relief; words Tommy would treasure forever and recite in his head later when sleep wouldn’t come to him.  

He didn’t want to let go. And Wilbur wouldn’t let him.  

“I’ll give it a day until you’re calling me a gremlin again,” Tommy said with a wide smile on his wet face. He didn’t know when he started crying, but just like the ghost had declared, these were happy tears.  

Wilbur scoffed, “Shut up and hug me back, you arsehole.”  

Tommy chuckled and interlocked his hands around Wilbur’s back, smiling into his upper chest. If he could choose one moment to forever redo, it would be this. Tucked into Wilbur, surrounded by his scent and warmth, protected and safe.  

“Don’t do that again,” Wilbur whispered, his voice rough and strained. “Don’t leave me.”  

“I won’t,” he whispered back. And for the first time, he meant it. He could say those words without hesitating with remorse, knowing that a day would come on his sixteenth birthday where he’d be taken from this world and reborn into years later. But now… now he was here to stay.  

“Good.” Wilbur echoed his thoughts. “You mean the world to me, okay?”

He buried his face deeper into Wilbur’s sweater, the corners of his eyes watered. “I’m not leaving you alone again,” Tommy mumbled.

Steps resounded throughout the corridor. Tommy, with his arms still secured around Wilbur, turned his head. Techno stood to the side, leaning on the wall with an inkling of a smile on his lips. Wilbur released his grip. 

Tommy faced him, apprehensive all of a sudden. Techno’s eyes weren’t focused on his face, unlike Wilbur who wouldn’t stop staring at him. But instead, they focused on his right forearm—on the new tattoo that branded his wrist. The mark of Thanatos.  

“Lady Death?” Techno asked and Tommy nodded. 

Seemingly satisfied with his answer, Techno slowly walked towards them and sighed, almost waiting for something to happen. Tommy tilted his head, confused until Techno huffed and opened up his arms.  

A grin brightened up his face as he engulfed Techno into a hug.  

Disgruntled, Techno allowed the contact but eventually caved in to the touch and wrapped his arms around Tommy. “I’m glad you’re back,” Techno said. 

“Me too,” he responded, leaning into him as close as he could. “I found what I’m looking for,” he mumbled, referencing the note Techno left him in his notebook.  

“It’s us?” Techno asked softly in surprise.  

Tommy scoffed and tugged on his arms. “Of course it’s you guys.”

The tips of Techno’s ears reddened and Tommy laughed quietly. Despite the restless commotion around him and pain lingering everywhere, he welcomed it all. He was back with his family, in their arms with no gold blood staining his lips or death lodged in his heart.  

Freedom wasn’t the tattoo on his right wrist, displaying Death’s possession and exception, or the broken nature of his curse. Freedom was being in his brother’s grip, safe and secluded from harm—it was the love beating in his chest.  

Beside them, Wilbur hummed with content and ruffled Tommy’s hair. A gesture so informed and loving that it hurt. Though, Wilbur’s hand stopped and he frowned. Wilbur’s eyes were narrowed at his blonde locks. 

“Did you dye your hair?” Wilbur asked and Techno eased his hold to look at what Wilbur was referring to. 

“No, why?”  

Wilbur threaded out a section of Tommy’s hair, his brows furrowed. “You have a white streak.” 

The coldness encasing his heart, the part that Wilbur’s hand and Techno’s arms had heated, chilled to its core. An ache settled in his chest. 

Ranboo’s conversation with him from months ago, during that night after MCC, haunted him. The ship of Theseus paradox, whether or not an object that had all its components replaced was the same object as before. Was Tommy, with all these new doubts, guilt, tattoos and white streaks still Tommy?  

He didn’t feel the same. Everything felt sharper, more sensitive and daunting. Death had changed him and the changes were hidden in plain sight, silently waiting to be recognised and hated. It seemed as though Kristin hadn’t left him untouched—something was needed to remind him that the curse had been broken. Immortality and golden ichor no longer flourished in his blood.  

Even though he was free, he wasn’t completely safe. A common illness could kill him, a simple accident on the street could hospitalise and leave him in a critical state. He could die and when he eventually will, the afterlife would be there for him. No more voids, no more Gods of rebirth. Just peace.  

“Toms?” a voice faltered.  

Tommy blinked, his eyes heavy and fogged. Wilbur held his face in his hands, his thumb gently rubbing his cheekbone. 

His breathing evened.  

“You with us?” Wilbur continued, worry laced in his tone. 

“Yeah,” he exhaled, “yeah I am.” 

A shadow laced in upcoming doom burdened his shoulders, a sensation familiar to the omen that circled him every day the night bowed to midnight, announcing another day he wasted in blinded agony until his birthday commenced his death. But it shouldn’t be the same. The curse didn’t dictate his life anymore. Yet, the feeling remained—leaving him unsure as to whether it would ever depart. Whether he wanted it to depart. Although it was doused in pain and a reminder of an unfair death, it was, as he said, familiar.  

“I could dye it if you wanted,” Techno offered, derailing Tommy’s thoughts. “Bleach it back to blonde.”  

The patch of hair tinted to white weighted down against his head. Death wasn’t something quickly disregarded.   

He shook his head. “No, no she brought me back like this. It should stay.”  

“Who’s ‘she’?” Wilbur asked as his hands left Tommy’s face.  

He shared a look with Techno before answering, “I’ll explain it to you later with Phil.”  

His heart stopped.  

Phil.  

How could he forget about the man who he wished had raised him instead of the dark corners of orphanages and foster homes? The one who stood up for him in parent’s evening, believed him over the harsh words of teachers and did more for him than any father figure had. 

“Where is he?” he asked. 

“I told him to go to bed last time I saw him,” Techno said. 

Phil probably wasn’t asleep—sleep didn’t come easy to those mourning a son.  

“What if I dress up as a ghost and wake Phil up?” Tommy suggested, wanting this day to be more joyful, rather than teary hugs and emotionally exhausting reunions. But he knew the answer before it was spoken.  

“No.” 

“Why not?” he complained. As much as he wanted to treat his resurrection like the punchline to a joke, it couldn’t be like that. For them, Tommy’s death meant more than just a simple revival.  

“You’ve traumatised the man enough,” Techno said light-heartedly. Yet, there was a cruel reality to his words.  

“Fair point,” he shrugged off the conversation and made his way up the stairs. The sooner Phil knew he was alive, the better. The shaking in his hands and hammering of his heart could wait. 

He knocked on the door and regretted it the moment his knuckles touched the wood. He didn’t want to see Phil’s face, the red in his eyes and exhaustion in his spirit. He didn’t want to see what he did to Phil—how he destroyed the man. 

Tommy pushed the door open and a crumpled figure laid under the covers on the bed. The lights were off. 

“Phil?” he called out, his voice quivered.  

A noise came from the figure on the bed. The covers moved and a head came into view. Phil sat up quickly. 

“Tommy?” Phil croaked out in disbelief. The man rubbed his eyes, almost as if he didn’t believe Tommy stood there at the door. His breath hitched. “Are you—” his voice broke. “Are you really there?”  

Tears quickly returned to his eyes. “Yeah, I am,” Tommy whispered with a wistful smile. He dashed to the side of the bed and Phil grabbed his hands, squeezing them to make sure he was actually here. 

Phil clasped Tommy’s hands with his and his bottom lip trembled. “You’re back?” 

“I’m back,” Tommy reassured with teardrops falling onto the collar of his t-shirt. “I’m back for good, Dadza.”  

The next thing he knew, he was thrown into a hug, heavy arms muffled his sobs into Phil’s chest. Phil rubbed his back, not letting his hands leave Tommy, afraid that he would disappear the second he did.  

“You’ve already made me cry too many times in the last twenty-four hours, you have no right to pull this ‘Dadza’ shit,” Phil grunted, though Tommy could feel the smile on his skin. 

“Am I not allowed to say that to the man who called me his son?” he said, mischief in his grin and attachment glinting in his eyes. He may mock the words ingrained in his mind, from that letter in his notebook, but it meant the world to him.  

“Mate, I swear to God—” Phil’s eyes began to water and Tommy gave out a wet laugh. 

“I’m waiting for you to go through with that adoption I was promised, big man.” 

“If you open your mouth one more time as I’m processing you coming back to life, then you can bet I’m ripping up those papers,” Phil threatened, yet the softness in his face betrayed his glowering tone.  

“We do have a shredder in my shed,” Wilbur added. 

“Why the fuck is there a—?”  

Phil hushed them all. “Can you shut up and let me deal with this?” 

“Oh yeah, sorry Phil,” Techno said yet he didn’t sound apologetic in the slightest. “We forgot you need more time with this, y’know due to your age and all.” 

“Technoblade I will—” 

“You’ll what, old man?” Wilbur interjected, smirking. 

“Be glad my arms are currently out of use,” Phil warned as he firmed his grip on Tommy.  

“Beltza.” 

“Wilbur!”  

Tommy beamed as the conversation bloomed and thrived between them. This was what he wanted to return to, not to dreary eyes and stuffed noses, or urns filled with his ashes. He wanted his family back, their easy-going arguments and insults, their teasing and laughter—and that was what he got. 

❊❊❊

Out of all the birthdays Tommy has had over the years, this one was probably the best. It wasn’t because of how much money was spent or how many gifts he was ‘given’—like with the family vloggers in his last home—but having Wilbur be pissed off for the entire day because of his Marvel-themed cake was the funniest shit.  

For some reason, Wilbur absolutely detested the Marvel franchise and the uneaten Spider-Man cake currently sitting on the man’s plate made his hatred very apparent.  

“What did Spider-Man do to you?”  

“You better not go on another rant about the flaws of the Marvel Cinematic Universe,” Techno warned as he scraped the icing off his cupcake. 

Wilbur took another sip of his probably alcoholic drink, refusing to speak. Despite how the man was going to be entering his twenties later this year, he sure acted like a child—even more so than Tommy.  

It had been Wilbur to remind everyone that even though Tommy’s birthday had passed, he never got to celebrate it—and now he was sulking. The evening had started awkward, of Phil not sure how to commence a birthday that had been abruptly neglected due to the birthday boy’s death, but slowly, everyone eased into it. All it took was Wilbur putting on one of his Spotify playlists, Techno sticking the banners around the house in the most inconvenient and inappropriate places (like a toilet seat, for instance), and Niki preparing the cake—since no one trusted neither Ranboo nor Tubbo with knives.  

Now, everyone was scattered around the living room, mixed between the dining tables, sofas and floor.  

As yet another ‘Los Campesinos!’ song played through the speakers, Phil pushed a wrapped box in front of Tommy. He stared down at it. A part of him was still in disbelief that he had a family that didn’t profit off his birthday or Christmas. He would never get used to this feeling.  

“Open it,” Phil said, gesturing to the gift. 

He tore the wrapping off and opened the box. In his hands laid a pastel blue hoodie with red Minecraft hardcore hearts printed on the front. Philza Minecraft merch.  

“Phil, what you’ve essentially done is branded me,” Tommy said as he unfolded the sleeves.  

“No, don’t say that!” Phil proclaimed, gaping at his casual tone. 

“Why? You put your brand on me, you’ve forced me to become a walking advertisement for your merch,” he said. 

“Just put on the fucking hoodie,” Phil sighed, sounding irritated yet amused. Tommy slotted the hoodie over his head and fit his arms through the sleeves. He liked the colour—the fact that this was practically a brand deal could slide because of how soft it was. Yet, the hoodie being a gift from Phil majorly contributed to the comfortability of the clothing. It felt homely, reminding him of Phil’s side hugs and pats on his shoulder.  

“Jesus Christ, you’re so demanding,” Tommy teased as he rubbed out the creases. He paused and gasped, “Wait, am I technically Jesus Christ now?”  

“No, it didn’t take you three days to come back,” Techno inputted.  

“So that means I’m better than Jesus.”  

Phil pinched the bridge of his nose. “What? No—” 

“He took longer than me.” 

“That’s not how it works—”  

“You’re fighting a losing battle, Phil,” Techno said with a hint of a grin. “Just accept defeat.” 

“Will one of you shits give Tommy his present so he stops going on about Jesus?” Phil snapped with no heat. 

Wilbur took this as his cue to throw a small case at Tommy. After he flipped Wilbur off for hitting his face with the case, he zipped it open. A dark blue ukulele was inside. 

“I have no idea how to play this,” Tommy said quietly, anxious to pluck any of the strings in case it broke.  

Wilbur laughed and reached over to strum a chord. “I’ll teach you,” he promised, smiling. “Then next is the guitar.” 

His cheeks reddened. He ignored the part of him that internally screamed at this, the gift appeased that side of him that desperately wanted to follow in Wilbur’s footsteps and copy anything the older man did.  

“Does this mean I can become a member of your band?” 

“No,” Wilbur said immediately but paused at the exaggerated pout on Tommy’s face. “Well, maybe if you learn the trumpet.”  

“What kind of low-life learns the trumpet?” he grumbled. 

“Niki.”  

Tommy’s eyes widened. “Please do not tell her I called her a low-life.” 

Techno from beside them huffed loudly and placed an envelope in Tommy’s lap. “Open that before you deepen the hole you’re currently digging yourself into.”  

With his face flushed, Tommy ripped into the envelope, expecting something like a scratch card or customised Moonpig card probably taking the piss out of him (knowing Techno). But instead, it was a bunch of papers, similar to the ones Tommy gave Techno for Christmas about Steve the polar bear.  

He gawked at the text he read. Techno had sponsored a spider for Tommy.  

“His name is—”  

“Shroud,” Tommy interrupted, already renaming the creature. 

“Um, sure.” 

“You got him a fucking spider?” Wilbur said after he snatched the papers out of Tommy’s hands.  

“Less effort than having to teach him how to play an instrument,” Techno shrugged. 

Tommy didn’t know if he should be offended at that or not.  

Ranboo picked up the TV remote, and spoke with impatience, “Can we play Wii bowling now?”  

“Wait until I’m done with my presents, you dickheads. I literally died, give me some respect.” 

“You’re milking it at this point,” Tubbo said. 

“Shut the fuck up, I’m on my Jesus arc.” 

“Stop going on about Jesus, Tommy!” Phil reprehended, his hand rubbing the wrinkles on his forehead—creases he was sure that developed solely from having to deal with Tommy.  

Niki walked back into the room from the bathroom, frowning at the guilty look on Tommy’s face and glee practically written over Wilbur’s. 

“Wilbur if you fucking tell her what I said—”  

“Tommy said—”  

“Boys!” Phil shouted, stopping them both from threatening and snitching on each other.  

Sitting back down on the sofa, Niki shook her head, not interested in whatever the fuck was going on between the two of them. She reached into her bag and pulled out a package with Christmas wrapping on it. They had run out of birthday paper. 

“I don’t want to know what you’re talking about, so here.” She passed Tommy the package, still confused over how red Tommy’s face was.  

He scowled down at the item in his hands. A notebook. Yet it was different to the one that had followed him for centuries, the notebook that hadn’t come back to the living with him after his resurrection. It hurt when he realised the notebook wasn’t by his side, despite it serving as a cruel reminder of his curse, he had grown attached to the bookmarks, scribbles in the corners of the page and leather wrapping. Though, this notebook was more modern than his last, with how it was bright yellow and had a metal latch to keep it secure. His name was spelt on the front with those childish stickers you normally stick on their bedroom door.  

“I figured you’d need a new one,” Niki said softly. He turned it around and noticed that the price tag was still on it. “Ignore that,” she joked. 

His lips thinned, not sure how to react. This gift, something so insignificant in the grand means of things, meant everything. It established that this was a new start, that his curse of binding had been broken, with its replacement being a gift from someone he cared about.  

“Thank you,” he whispered as his fingers brushed along the stickers.  

“You’re welcome,” she replied with a small smile.  

The rounds of Wii bowling ended pretty nicely if Tommy was being honest. And by that, he wasn’t referring to how he accidentally threw the Wii remote at the TV screen, cracking the corner of it, because he refused to wear the wristband.  

But hey, he got into the hundred club on the leader board and Wilbur couldn’t continue his go before the last game ended, so that was a plus. (This was ignoring how Wilbur promptly smacked the shit out of Tommy with a pillow as soon as this happened—the bruise on his elbow took a week to fade).  

Nevertheless, as he fell asleep on the sofa in his new pastel blue hoodie with his head resting on Phil’s shoulder, he’d say his sixteenth birthday was a success. 

❊❊❊

He couldn’t move when he woke up. His eyes opened, seeping in nothing but shadows. His arms stuck by his side, his legs wouldn’t lift from the mattress.  

A whimper escaped the gap between his parched lips as his chest pounded, heaving up and down at an alarming beat.  

It was all black. The same shades of the void, of the place he shouldn’t be in.  

The curse had been broken, he no longer had a myth controlling his life and a guess he needed to make. But that didn’t stop the irrationality fuelling his panic, the part of his mind that disregarded the outlines of his closet in front of him and the fuzzy bedsheets against his exposed skin.  

What if this day had been a figment of his imagination, a cruel visualisation of his deepest desires? It scared him that these thoughts existed, that he feared whether he was really revived or that Kristin was the Goddess of Death. Dream could have let him die and be reborn, making him no longer Tommy Craft and not even Tommy Idelle. 

Just a Tommy from nowhere. 

Wetness travelled down his face, dripping down his cheeks, and he couldn’t even move his arm to wipe it. He was stuck and afraid—helpless to the force that wouldn’t let him scream out Phil’s name, to be saved and comforted from the shadows too similar to the void. 

But then the smell hit him. Pancakes. Followed by the smoke alarm in the kitchen going off. Wilbur’s playlist blaring over the alarm, Phil shouting at him to open his windows and Techno laughing from afar.  

This wasn’t fake, this wasn’t a dream. He was real and alive.  

His hands tingled at the same rate as his heaving chest. With each piercing breathe, his limbs loosened from the force. Tears still slid across his face, wetting his pillows, but he could move.  

Bench trio:

Tommy: please tell me I’m alive 

Tubbo: ye, jesus bro 

Ranboo: You are alive and safe, Tommy. We just saw you yesterday and celebrated your birthday. It is 9:00am and your family are probably awake. Physical reassurance might be better for you.  

              You can call us if you need to! 

He exhaled sharply. He was okay, he was fine. That was just a nightmare, sleep paralysis or something. Something he could handle, he could do this.  

Tommy sat up and winced as his back hit his headboard. He rubbed his eyes and stilled at what he saw. Gold blood trickled from his fisted palms.  

No, no it wasn’t supposed to be gold. Gold meant he was still cursed. He was supposed to be free, human, no longer bound to the curse of immortality and myths— 

He blinked and the blood turned red.  

It was never gold.  

A sob wracked his chest. He couldn’t do this. He could handle living when cursed—very poorly, but still, he lived through it—but this… He didn’t know how to live when the tattoo on his left wrist, the stain of Zagreus, meant nothing. It was all he had, his identity and purpose. And now it was gone.  

Who even was he without Dream picking everything for him? Who was he underneath all the past names and lives he had lived? It scared him that he didn’t have an answer.  

Knocking came from the door and his sobbing worsened. He curled inwards. Each broken attempt to breathe rocked against his legs. 

The light entered the room with the push of the door. Tommy flinched and tucked further into himself. A part of him didn’t trust the light, as he was so used to the darkness and void, but he didn’t trust that either. He didn’t even trust himself.  

Hands so similar to the ghost of his dead brother’s brushed along his. Shaking, he untucked his head and recoiled at the sight of Wilbur. He had forgotten that the living version of that ghost lived in the same home as him.  

A calming hum echoed the room, a tune of one of the songs Tommy had previously begged to hear on boring days and sleepless nights. His breathing slowly fell in time to Wilbur’s, his legs still trembling.  

“You okay now?” Wilbur asked, hesitant and devoid of what made him the brother he loved. He sounded the same but behaved weirdly. 

He didn’t answer him. This entire thing had opened up another problem. Something else to keep him up at night.  

Even as Wilbur comforted him, Tommy noticed the differences in the man. Wilbur looked at him differently, eyes not as dark as his prior self but not as amber as they were on the first day he appeared on the Craft’s doorstep. A middle ground between the warped darkness and naïve light; a limbo of oak brown. Then there were the downcast movements on his face, how his lips twisted at the corners, almost with guilt, and the furrowing of his brows that were too wrenched to be just an expression.  

He thought it was because of the circumstances, of dying in the man’s arms. But something told him it was different. The change in Wilbur was because of fear, but not provoked fear from that, rather fear caused by himself.  

“What’s wrong?” Tommy asked.  

Wilbur bit his lip until it bled and fiddled with his hands.  

“It seems we suffer from the same problem now,” Wilbur said with a dry chuckle, deprived of humour and sense. He gazed down at Tommy; his eyes filled with dread. “I can’t look at you without seeing that little boy I hurt in the ravine.”  

Tommy flinched. W. Soot had Wilbur gripped tightly, like strings to a puppet, a pawn to a board. There must be so much pain inside his older brother’s head, a constant wager between himself and memories attached to who he used to be—from the lives he shared with Tommy and others he did not.   

“I wanted to be a better father to you than Dad was, and I…” Wilbur trailed off and sniffed. His eyes fluttered shut as he rested his forehead against Tommy’s. “I’m sorry.”  

He leaned closer and grasped onto Wilbur’s sleeve. “You’re not him,” Tommy whispered, meaning each word he said. “And even if you end up remembering every single memory, you are not him.”  

Wilbur hesitated. Tommy straightened his back and sighed, peering at the man that was everything to him. He didn’t care if the one who hurt him was hidden inside of Wilbur. He wasn’t that person; he wasn’t W. Soot. But it was just up to Wilbur to see that. 

He gnawed on his inner cheek. He needed to prove it to him. 

Before he could stop himself, Tommy grabbed Wilbur’s hands and forced them around his own throat. “Do it,” he hissed, squeezing Wilbur’s hands so they wouldn’t leave his neck. “Strangle me.” 

Wilbur made a noise of distress and fought against him. “Tommy, no, what—?”  

“Fucking do it,” he spat. “Don’t you remember the time you strangled me in that ravine just because I kept rearranging your stuff and messing around, like a child my age should?” Wilbur kept trying to take his hands away but to no avail. “You pinned me to a wall and watched my face turn blue. And you laughed. You laughed as I begged for you to let go, screamed that I couldn’t breathe, that I was going to die.”  

“Tommy stop!”  

Wilbur ripped his hands off him. The amber in his eyes returned, though it was soaked in a different type of fear. He was scared, scared of Tommy.  

He knew his actions were extreme, but it was necessary.  

“My brother, the man in that ravine and person he ended up becoming, wouldn’t have hesitated,” Tommy consoled, his throat strained. He stared at Wilbur. “You are and never will be him.”  

A tense silence troubled the room. Neither of the two was sure on what to do, on how to get past whatever had just happened.  

“You need to get help for this, Will.”  

“Only if you do too,” Wilbur quickly replied. It was oddly reminiscent of that night on the graveyard bench, an initial agreement for therapy at the other’s involuntary expense. But Tommy did need help.   

“You love pulling that card, don’t you?” he rolled his eyes but agreed, nonetheless. “Tell your therapist about the memories, no matter how much you fabricate or twist, tell him that you’re conflicted over your identity.”  

“What if I get put on meds?”  

“Then we’ll flush them together,” he reassured. “You just need his advice, Wilbur. I’m not letting you go through this alone.”  

“I could say the same to you,” Wilbur muttered, glaring down at Tommy’s hands, the hands that were just seconds ago used to strangle himself.  

“I know I’m not alone in this,” Tommy said, gently threading their fingers together. “My problem is being able to let others in on my problems to solve them.”  

“At least you’re self-aware,” Wilbur attempted to joke. He sighed and separated their hands. “Come on, Techno is making breakfast after my failed attempt at pancakes.” 

“That’s even worse, he’s gonna give us food in the form of potatoes,” Tommy whined airily, as if minutes ago he wasn’t shaking, tucked tightly hugging his knees whilst he sobbed. “Potato waffles or some shit.”  

“Don’t give him any ideas.” Wilbur got up and opened the bedroom door. “Just be glad you weren’t here when he went through his farming phase.” 

Contrary to Tommy’s concerns, Techno had made a full English breakfast for everyone—with help from mostly Phil and then Wilbur (the fucker was only trusted to make toast, which he thankfully didn’t burn this time). Though, there were still potatoes on Techno’s plate.  

As Tommy ate his bacon, he kept catching Techno staring at the Thanatos tattoo on his right wrist. He looked up and the two partook in a silent conversation mainly comprised of, ‘This is something we need to talk about’, and ‘Shut the fuck up and let me eat my food’. Two very valid arguments.  

He didn’t want to bring it up right now when the taste of death was too familiar on his tongue. It had only been a day.  

“Tommy wants to tell you guys something,” Techno blurted out, his voice still monotone and dead-panned despite his quick speech.  

Stabbing his fork violently into his bacon, Tommy glared at him, hating the curiosity and apprehension on Phil and Wilbur’s faces.  

“You are such a prick,” he cursed under his breath before clearing his throat. “Um, but yeah, I do.”  

Phil pushed his cutlery to the side whilst Wilbur took a sip of his coffee, both were obviously impatient and worried for whatever would come out of Tommy’s mouth and his stalling of this needed conversation didn’t help. 

He didn’t know how to start it. How do you tell a husband and son that their wife and mother wasn’t technically dead? That the woman you mourned and destroyed yourselves over wasn’t residing in that graveyard, surrounded by empty neighbouring graves, and instead was the Goddess of Death? It was impossible for this to go well. 

“I saw Kristin when I was dead,” was what Tommy went with. His heart pounded as silence filled the dining table. No more homely energy bounced off each family member. A tense stillness took its place. 

“…what?” Wilbur bit out, his face screwed up in uncertainty and wariness.  

“She was the one who brought me back to life,” he continued, wincing internally at every word. 

Phil opened his mouth to speak but whatever he was going to say died on his tongue. Tommy gulped, his hands shaking underneath the table. No person should have to tell the people they love this. It felt like he was responsible for every spec of pain that flashed over Wilbur and the distress settled in Phil’s throat. He brought this upon them, his words and revelations.  

There was bliss in ignorance, in being oblivious to the truth of the world and the reality of a family member’s ‘death’. But they deserved to know, he should finish off what Kristin started with her untimed departure. It didn’t stop it from hurting him with every rigid pause that followed.  

“Kristin kept something from you,” Techno added, glancing at Phil and Wilbur with guarded eyes. “She’s the Goddess of Death, taker of souls and reaper of life.”  

Something flickered across Phil’s face, maybe a gesture of realisation, a daunting recall of everything that just didn’t make sense with Kristin—her absent look on life, the ravens that never left her sight, the days she came back from ‘work’ appearing more drained than a human should be, her confusing words and chilling goodbye on the hospital bed. 

“So she’s alive?” Wilbur asked, quiet in his anger. There was an essence submerging him, a livid belief that he had been wronged by his mother.  

Techno arched his shoulders, discomfort expressed in his posture. “No,” he said shortly. “But she’s not dead either.” Techno paused for Wilbur to process his words, for his rage to distil before he continued. “She is Death, and death is everywhere. Always creeping over your shoulder, checking up on your every move, just waiting.”  

The ambiguity of Techno’s speech more confused Wilbur than angered him. All that he had believed had been flipped. His mother, the one who stroked his cheek and embraced him close, the woman who clapped the loudest whenever he performed those nursery rhymes on the piano and whose laughter radiated the most warmth, wasn’t dead. His entire adolescence had been moulded by this death, it had paved roads of self-destruction and sabotage, consisting of Wilbur pumping anything into his system just feel something other than the grief wrecking his spirit.  

And for nothing.  

She wasn’t dead, she wasn’t in that grave he visited daily during the first months of her death. She may have heard his cries for her to come back and done absolutely nothing to make it possible. What Goddess doesn’t have the power to send some sort of message to their grieving son?  

“Wilbur?” Tommy said, scared of his silence.  

“What does that make me?” Wilbur asked, hurt tainting his voice. “If she’s a Goddess and my mother, then…” he trailed off, his head cowered. “Is that why I’m remembering?”  

Tommy froze in his seat. Dream had been surprised when he told him that Wilbur was remembering, said that it shouldn’t be happening. But Wilbur wasn’t human, or at least, fully human. Maybe only a child of Death could house a reincarnated soul with as much darkness and murder infused inside. Death herself existed before the first drops of water streamed into the Lethe, before the Underworld became what it was now.  

Remembering something that thrived on death and the spilt blood of innocents seemed inevitable.  

No one dared to answer to him. 

Wilbur scoffed, “This is all her fault then.”  

Phil leaned forward, breaking his silence with a disagreeing grunt. “Kristin loved us, Wilbur. She didn’t mean for any of this to happen to you and probably didn’t tell us for a reason,” he said. Though, there were splinters in his voice, almost as if he didn’t believe it himself.  

“She left us, Dad!” Wilbur exclaimed, his voice rising. “She doesn’t love us—”  

Tommy’s Thanatos tattoo stung, piercing his flesh and throbbing against his layers of skin. He gripped it tightly, wincing as it pulsed, only to hear her voice as he did. He recoiled back into his chair, shocked. 

“Come here,” Tommy ordered, interrupting them. He raised his arm over the table. “Both of you, touch it.” Neither of them moved. “Now,” he snapped. 

With another scoff, Wilbur leaned forward and pressed the palm of his hand over the tattoo; Phil quickly copied him.  

Tears sprung to both of their eyes as they listened to her voice, absorbed words Tommy himself could not hear, but felt. Phil’s chest relaxed, no longer on the brink of panic, a smile twinged in sadness and unforgotten love upturned his mouth.  

As Wilbur brought his hand back to his side, the anger in his eyes died. He sniffed and brushed against Phil, hesitating before throwing his arms around his father and crying into his shoulder. Phil hushed his son, whispering reassurances and affection he desperately clung to. 

Techno stood up and clasped Tommy’s shoulder, offering simple support that Tommy needed the most. He squeezed his shoulder. “We did the right thing,” Techno whispered. “They needed to know.”  

He nodded but it didn’t make the pit in his stomach any less heavy. 

“What did she say to you?” Techno asked, hovering over Tommy’s Thanatos tattoo. He had only seen Techno hesitate or show any measures of fear twice, the first being before his fencing tournament and the second with his late myth. But now, it was there—subtle but present. 

“She said thank you,” he replied, recalling Kristin’s sweet and remorseful tone, one that fluttered so lightly yet fell the hardest. “Thank you for doing something I could not,” he quoted, looking up at Techno with open eyes.  

He pushed his arm closer to Techno, nodding at him as Techno finally connected his hand to the tattoo. Rather than tears pricking in the corners of his eyes or sadness deepening the crestfallen creases around his mouth, Techno laughed. A hearty and light laugh, more high-pitched than Tommy expected. 

“An inside joke,” Techno explained, noticing Tommy’s confusion. He released his hand from Tommy’s wrist, satisfied.  

Tommy narrowed his eyes. “Oh, so I get the depressing stuff and you get a fucking joke?” he complained. “This is biased.” 

“It’s not my fault I’m Kristin’s favourite,” Techno said, smirking.  

Tommy rolled his eyes but resigned the insults flowing through his head. He looked over at Phil and Wilbur, heart-clenching at their tight hug, one that hadn’t loosened. “What do we do with them?” 

“Leave them,” Techno answered. “Let’s go on a walk or something.” 

He gestured to his plate of food as Techno walked towards the front door. “But my bacon will get cold—”  

“Tommy!” Techno called and he sighed, snatching a piece of bacon before joining him.  

❊❊❊

He still had a week until Easter break was over and he actually had to do his GCSEs, but with that in mind, he didn’t spend one minute of his break revising or God forbid, doing work. Instead of memorising mathematic equations or ways Charles Dickens used lists to emphasise fuck-all in one of his novellas, Tommy sat in the front seat of the car as Phil drove him and Wilbur to therapy. 

The session was very much needed, especially after the shit-fest that occurred because of Kristin’s revelation. Plus, Tommy missed Puffy.  

“So, have you decided what you’ll tell him?” Phil asked Wilbur as the three entered the building. Tommy had told Phil about his idea of Wilbur telling his therapist about having memories that didn’t belong to him, which Phil agreed with. 

“Nope,” Wilbur said, trying to remain careless but his nerves were obvious. “I’ll just wing it and if I get misdiagnosed with some type of hallucinogenic or personality disorder, I’m blaming Tommy.”  

He flipped Wilbur off before knocking on Puffy’s door and running inside as soon as it opened. 

Puffy chuckled at his keenness. She looked like she normally did, with her old-fashioned outfits oddly suggestive to a pirate. The only difference was the red lipstick on her lips, somehow completing the outdated outfit. He stopped the part of him that wanted to hug her or express his gratitude for her presence and help over the months in their sessions.  

He realised on the car ride there that if he wasn’t revived, he would have never been able to thank her at all. At least he had forever to do that now. 

“Captain Puffy, I have missed you,” Tommy paraded as he jumped to land on the red bean bag.  

“Tommy, I saw you last week.” 

“Well, I feel like I’ve died and come back to life in that time,” he said, grinning to himself. 

She gave him a look, an expression that appeared very frequently in their sessions—it was a mix of, ‘What the fuck is this child going on about?’ and ‘He’s very sweet’. He didn’t know if that was correct, but since he said it, now it was true. 

“Speaking of last week,” she began and his mood soured, “do you feel any better now?”  

The last time he was here, he barely remembered any of it. It phased through him—how he sat secluded in his head as Puffy questioned about the problems they previously discussed, with associating Wilbur with someone else, with W. Soot.  

He gulped, unsure if he was better. He had accepted that Wilbur wasn’t his first brother, that the man who hurt him at his lowest and hurt so many more people after his Prometheus death was someone else. Despite the memories that may be recalled, Wilbur was someone he trusted with his entire chest and loved even more so. They were separate entities.  

“I spoke to Wilbur about the problem I had,” he said, hesitant to speak. “We’re dealing with it.” 

Puffy opened her mini-fridge and passed him a can of coke, a familiar act that brought more comfort than it should have. “That doesn’t answer my question, Tommy.” 

He glared down at the red of the coke can and sighed.  

“I will get better,” he decided. “Someday I will heal and be able to look at certain things without thinking of Theseus.” Tommy paused and tried to stop the shaking in his leg. “I’ll be okay.”  

“And I’ll be here for that day,” Puffy said kindly with a smile only the sun could envy.  

“Yeah,” he agreed, relishing in her smile, “yeah, you will.”  

❊❊❊

On the final day of Easter break, Tommy managed to convince Tubbo and Ranboo to go out to town with him. It took a lot to convince Ranboo, who kept giving excuses like, ‘My entire future in higher education is dependent on this exam I have next week, Tommy’ and, ‘Please let me revise physics’. Bullshit excuses, if you ask him, but you really shouldn’t when he hadn’t picked up a textbook since his last history lesson before school ended at the beginning of April.  

However, with a simple conversation, both Tubbo and Ranboo were onboard with hanging out that day. Sure, it was emotionally manipulative and immoral, but it was for the greater good. 

The conversation started with good intentions, just Tommy bringing up the idea he had for them to experience the last day before exam season started together, having fun and oblivious to the future stress on their shoulders. Yet as soon as Ranboo seemed hesitant, he spiked up the persuasion level. His words still came from a place of truth, of love and fondness. That didn’t stop him from exaggerating the fuck out of it though.  

“This will be the only life I have left,” Tommy had begun as he laid on Tubbo’s bed, his eyes focused on the star constellations painted on his ceiling. The patterns detailing myths that he doesn’t need to worry about anymore. “I’ll finally be able to die,” he continued quietly. “I just want to record my teenage years with you guys and still be here to look back on it.”  

“And that means I have to sacrifice last minute revision for you?” Ranboo asked, hating the pout on Tommy’s lips and pleading in his eyes. If it was Tubbo that needed convincing, this wouldn’t have sold him—the pitying display Tommy always resorted to never worked on Tubbo. For Tubbo, just give him a skateboard and he’d happily go along with anything you suggested. With Ranboo, it was very easy.  

Tommy sat up, tilting his head at Ranboo. “I want to document it all,” he stated with confidence, gripping the phone in his hand. “I want to experience it all with you guys.”  

Ranboo sighed and closed his textbook, resignation appeared on his face. “Fine.” 

He jumped to his feet, grinning so widely that his cheeks ached, and tugged both of them out of the house. “Let’s vlog some shit, boys.”  

And now they stood in the town centre, Tubbo’s face red with embarrassment, Ranboo behind the camera and Tommy mildly harassing random people on the street. 

“Think about it, when your future kids ask what your youth was like, you can show them this video and they’ll finally respect the elderly,” Tommy said as the three quickly walked away from a group of teenagers that cussed them out.  

Ranboo groaned, glad his mask and glasses covered his flushed face. “Nothing says respect me more by bothering random people on the street with WikiHow instructions.” 

“Exactly!” he proclaimed cheerfully. “See Tubbo, Ranboo gets it.”  

“I get it, but I don’t want it,” Tubbo said, already wanting this trip to the town to end. But the grin on Tommy’s face made it worth it—but he swore to God if Tommy asked another pair of nans if they knew who Philza Minecraft was, he would walk home.  

“Come on, let’s try to sneak into a bar,” Tommy suggested. “Ranboo’s tall enough to pass for an eighteen-year-old.”  

Ranboo hid his masked face in his hands. “Oh God no, mercy please.” 

It was safe to say that their plan didn’t work out—but it did make an entertaining video.  

Ranboo eventually went home so he could go over his flashcards and notes for tomorrow, leaving Tommy and Tubbo sitting on a bench with sausage rolls from Greggs. The two talked for hours, ranging from varying topics about why CS:GO players deserved less (that was mostly Tommy ranting and Tubbo disagreeing with every word) to the politics in ‘Stardew Valley’. That was until Tubbo asked something different. 

“How’s the whole adoption thing going?” 

Tommy frowned. “How do you know about that?”  

“Phil brought it up with Ranboo and I ages ago, asking if we believed you’d actually want to be adopted by him,” Tubbo explained as he ate his sausage roll. “We told him it was a stupid question because the answer was obvious.” 

Tommy’s cheeks tinted red. 

He cleared his throat and took a sip of his drink, suddenly embarrassed. He didn’t think his… attachment to the Crafts was that obvious.  

“Phil told me they’re finally finished with the application form and it’s next to the whole law side of it,” he explained, recalling the stacks of papers that were scattered across Phil’s office desk. “It was a quick application since I don’t need my biological parent’s consent for the adoption.” 

“Why didn’t your biological parents say anything about the adoption then?” Tubbo asked. 

Tommy gave him a look, waiting for him to realise what he had said, but Tubbo just stared at him confused. 

“Tubbo, they left me on the side of the road next to an orphanage when I was six months old.” 

“Oh,” Tubbo exhaled quietly. “At least it’s better than being left in a box.” 

“What?” 

“Y’know,” Tubbo said, using his hands to make the shape of a square, “a box.” 

“Were you left in a box?” 

“No.” 

Tommy scowled at him, bewildered by this entire conversation. “Then why bring it up?” 

“Felt like it.”  

A silence followed until both of the boys burst out laughing. Their shoulders brushed together as they heaved forward. It wasn’t as funny as it should have been but just being next to each other made the moment more enjoyable. Tommy smiled, knowing that they’d be years of moments like this now, bizarre and intimate conversations with comfortable pauses and blaring laughter. He could one day move into a house with Tubbo and Ranboo, maybe by the sea and in the outskirts of a city. Be by Tubbo’s side as he eventually hacked into the American government’s databases and by Ranboo’s when he finally got over his fear of ordering food over the phone. For once, Tommy wanted time to move faster so he could get to that point.  

The wind picked up and Tommy pulled his coat closer around him, the movement tugged down his sleeves, covering up the Zagreus tattoo. He still needed to discuss that with Tubbo, about the whole Tobias thing and him being Timmy. But he couldn’t stomach it. How would you tell your best friend that their great-grandfather was his former best friend who both ran through flowers fields with him and exiled him from their dying country? It wasn’t something you could just randomly bring up. Well— 

“Tubbo, I’m Timmy,” he announced bluntly, channelling all impulsivity he had.  

“Huh?” Tubbo said as lettuce fell from his mouth. Perhaps he shouldn’t have blurted that out when Tubbo was mid-bite into his sandwich.  

He sighed and faced him. “Y’know in the L’Manberg history books how Timmy is W. Soot’s younger brother? I’m him. That was my first life, he was my Theseus.”  

Gusts of wind filled the awkward silence—of Tubbo processing his words and Tommy burying his trembling hands into his coat pockets. He bit his lip, anxious of Tubbo’s response. He couldn’t stop the thoughts that maybe Tubbo wouldn’t believe him, maybe this would be when his best friend finally has had enough of his shit, of his perceived lies and annoying endeavours. He didn’t want this to be true but the impassive expression on Tubbo’s face didn’t help.  

But what he didn’t expect to come out of Tubbo’s mouth was, “Holy fuck you are old.”  

He sat up, offended. “What the hell? No, I’m not!” 

“You were born in 1509, you are ancient, even older than Phil and that’s not something to be proud of.”  

Tommy smacked Tubbo’s arm, a grin creeping onto his lips as Tubbo laughed. He had nothing to worry about. 

Eventually, they calmed down and Tubbo stopped making fun of his age.  

“So is that why you hated history class?” Tubbo asked. 

He nodded. “It’s not fun learning about how historians hate me,” he said.  

Having to even read those articles was hell—how Timmy was the reason L’Manberg fell so soon, why war was inevitable and death came quickly to innocent lands. If it were years earlier or in another life where the Crafts didn’t foster him, that would have ruined him. Even with family and friends who didn’t treat him like shit, it hurt. He was a child back then, younger than he was now and more naïve and impulsive, susceptible to all types of manipulation and violence. He didn’t want wars to rip his family and country apart, to destroy any relationships he once held close to his heart and kill him.  

“You didn’t deserve it, by the way,” Tubbo said, placing his hand over Tommy’s arm, gripping the thick fleece of his coat. “Being exiled and killed… you didn’t deserve any of it.”  

“I know,” he whispered with a sad yet wistful smile.  

“Was my great-grandfather as much as a little bitch as my mum made him out to be?” he asked, more light-hearted than his other question.  

Tommy chuckled and shook his head. “He wasn’t that bad, Tubbo,” he answered. “He might have been a failing President and shitty friend at the end of his life when I was still there, but there was always kindness inside him. He knew that a country needed to be prioritised before a best friend, that tough choices were ahead of him, that there was still good in people.”  

“Eh, he would have been cooler if he made nukes,” Tubbo stated, shrugging.  

“Of course you’d say that.” 

A part of him saw Tobias in Tubbo, no matter how stupid it sounded. They differed in appearance but so similar in how they acted. Tubbo reminded him of who Tobias used to be—a carefree boy, so curious and unexpected, with times when you didn’t know what he was going on about but you soaked in every single word, whether it was about the intricacies of coding or redstone in Minecraft, you listened. Because you cared. He was so easy to care about, to love and cherish.  

He tugged on the green bandana around his neck and his lips twitched. Tobias and Tommy had shared cloths at one point in their childhood, before the conflict and terror, before morality and responsibility murdered them.  

Tommy glanced over at the unfinished sandwich sitting on the bench and back at Tubbo, who still had lettuce hanging from the corner of his mouth. He was glad this was the life the curse had been broken in. He could do this once more, not necessarily replacing his failed friendship with Tobias with Tubbo, but just simply… trying again.  

❊❊❊

The second after he wished Ranboo good luck for his first exam, left watching as he walked into the hall, a body slammed into him. It was Clementine.  

“Tommy!” she shouted, bits of her hair flying in her face. “Tommy, my saving grace, the only man ever to walk this Earth, the greatest—” 

“What do you want from me?” he interrupted, grinning. Clementine only did this when she needed something from him, he knew this because he did exactly the same thing to her.  

She paused to catch her breath and grabbed onto his arms. “I need you to be my model for my art exam.”  

“What?” 

“Basically, over Easter term, I had a revelation,” she said, eyes wide. “It makes more sense for my final piece to be based on a man since it’s about the overbearing nature of men in the field of STEM from a perspective of a woman.” He nodded. She had told him all about her coursework in English last term, it was something she had always been irritated about, especially because she wanted to become an engineer. “Vitalia was supposed to be my model but it doesn’t work anymore! So, I need you.” 

“What do I get out of it?” 

“My eternal gratitude and friendship?” 

“Hmm,” he contemplated, “nah, that’s not enough.” 

She flicked him on the forehead. “I won’t beat the shit out of you right now if you help me.” 

He laughed but instantly stifled it the moment she hit his chest. “Fine! Fine, I’ll be your model.” 

“Are you free right now? I need to take the pictures as soon as possible since the first painting session is at the end of the week.” 

He looked down at his exam timetable, pointedly ignoring the history exam that was tomorrow which he should revise for and shoved it back into his bag. “Yeah, I’m free.” 

“Great!”  

Even if he was bullied, ridiculed and harassed during the modelling session with Clementine, he did miss her. Though he didn’t miss being forced to sit in a chair for two-hours straight, violently shouted at every time he even moved a muscle and manipulated into putting on cat ears. Tommy didn’t know what cat ears had to do with the misogyny in STEM but with how Clementine kept taking more pictures on her phone and laughing at him the entire time, it was obviously a piss-take. He swore to God, if he checked her Instagram later to see any of those pictures on her page, someone’s house was going to have significantly less property worth than it would have had prior.  

Regardless, he hoped that after his GCSEs, he’d still stay friends with Clementine. It was normal to lose contact with people once the whole ‘I’m friends with you more because I’m in close-quarters with you every weekday’ no longer applied. But Clementine had sent him many pictures of the shrine she created over the moth plushie he had gotten her for her birthday, so that promised a long-lasting friendship.  

“What are you doing after secondary school?” she asked him, almost as if she read his thoughts. They had finished with the modelling session, but since neither of them had any exams today, she bought him some pizza from the canteen and the two stayed in the art room.  

He shrugged at her question, not sure. For a while, he thought he’d die before graduating secondary school, so any future career paths or plans in higher education weren’t a problem for him to ponder and have existential crises over. But now, it was crisis time.  

“I have no idea,” he mumbled.  

Clementine pushed her drawing aside and moved to sit closer to him. “Let me psychoanalyse you. I’ll decide your future.” 

He blinked at her, stumped. “Clem, what the fuck?” 

“Your first instinct was to swear at me so I don’t think you should work with children.” 

“Dude, what are you even—” 

“You’re questioning everything I say so you’ll do well in a male-dominated field.” 

“Clementine—” 

“What about film studies?” 

He stopped. Okay, maybe she had a point with that. If he ever directed a Marvel film, it would piss off Wilbur and be a cool experience, so there was no losing with that. Plus, he could put on his application about how in the Minos and Pasiphae foster home he was made to edit their vlogs on YouTube which accumulated millions of views and sponsors. Whether or not that was technically trauma-dumping, it did not matter.

“Ranboo is going sixth form I think, and Tubbo found a lower-level apprenticeship,” Tommy said, hoping she’d realise why he brought it up.  

Clementine frowned, her dark eyes warming. “You don’t want to be separated from them, don’t you?” 

He exhaled sharply, nodding. Even though he knew that going to different schools and doing different things wouldn’t break up his friendships with the two of them, there were still doubts he had. That maybe they’d befriend nicer people, guys who wouldn’t take advantage of their kindness, girls who wouldn’t annoy the fuck out of them with their boisterous laughter and immaturity. He didn’t want to be replaced.  

“Tommy, no offence but you’re dumb as fuck,” she said bluntly. “No, don’t give me that look, you’re being dumb. I don’t know Tubbo or Ranboo that well but you guys have something that isn’t easily broken. And you’re also clingy as fuck, so they won’t get away from you easily.” 

Ignoring the insults included in her words, he thought over them. Sure, he knew his concerns were unreasonable, especially because he loved them and they loved him back. He had shared things with them that he would tell no one else, he trusted them so much and could never replace either of them.

“Y’know, you’re a good friend,” he said, smiling at her. Despite how she had gotten him grounded because of her party—which was more his fault but he wasn’t one to take responsibility for his own actions—he appreciated her.

“I’m not a good friend,” she refuted with a giggle as she pulled out her phone. “I am literally going to publicly humiliate you later today because there is no way these pictures of you are staying private.”

She turned her phone to show him the image of him with cat ears on and clutched it to her chest when he attempted to snatch it out of her hands. “Clementine! You piece of shit!”

Clementine cackled loudly and pocketed her phone before it could be stolen. “But you said I’m a good friend.”

“I take it back, I hate you.”

Disregarding the mild cyberbullying he received from his friends after she posted those pictures, a piece of him liked how he was permanently on her Instagram page, as if it was a mark of their friendship.

❊❊❊

Now, maybe, just maybe, Tommy fucked up with not doing a single minute of revision before his final maths exam. However, he did do ten seconds, but that was just when he had to answer Tubbo about what time the exam would end. He still got the time wrong though.

“Can I borrow a pen?” he asked Ranboo.  

“Tommy, we are walking into the exam hall as we speak and you don’t even have a pen,” Ranboo said, exasperated. Despite him having his mask on, Tommy could just tell he was being glared at.  

“I don’t have a calculator either but be glad I’m not asking you for that.” 

Ranboo face-palmed. “I can’t with you right now,” he muttered as he walked faster to get away from Tommy. 

With how his exam went, it would be appropriate to say he won’t be qualifying for maths at A Level (yet he would never do that anyway, he valued his mental health—what little he had left of it). But at least he knew how to rationalise fractions and shade in bar charts. Everything else... not so much.  

It was only because his history paper would be exactly after this. Why the fuck did his last ever GCSE exam have to be history of all the subjects?

He spent many hours lying in bed dreading the entire thing. If he dreamt about exile again last night and woke up in a cold sweat with a scream on the tip of his tongue, then no one would ever know if it. He needed to keep this to himself, it was his problem to deal with.  

He sighed and rubbed his eyes, fighting the sleep in his eyes.  

“You alright, man?” Ranboo asked, noticing Tommy’s leg bouncing under the table. They were waiting in the canteen for their seat rows to be called so they could go into the hall for their history exam.  

Tommy pushed his leg with his hand. “Yep, totally fine,” he said with gritted teeth.  

“Look, it’s only two essays and three smaller questions, you can do this,” Ranboo said.  

He rolled his eyes. “Yes, and those questions so happen to be about my first life, where I had to go through too many wars and battles than I should have, lost every person I once loved and got fucking killed by the last person I trusted. So maybe Ranboo this is not something I can just do,” he snapped, his lips curled into a snarl.  

Ranboo shifted in his seat, his head lowered. Tommy bit his cheek as he regretted his words. His friends didn’t deserve this, having to deal with him when he was like this.  

“Sorry,” he uttered. “I shouldn’t take this out on you.” 

“It’s fine,” Ranboo said.  

“No, no it’s not,” he argued, his voice faltered. “You’re trying to help me and I just...” 

Ranboo placed a hand on his arm. “It’s fine, Tommy,” he repeated. “Really, it’s fine.” 

The people sat next to them got up as a teacher called their row.  

“You’re not alone with this, okay?” Ranboo said, gently whilst they followed the others. “As soon as this is over, we’re going straight to Niki’s café, ordering the most expensive hot chocolate and fries we can get, and forgetting Miss Allingham ever existed.” 

He unclenched his fist and leaned more into Ranboo’s side as he walked. “Yep, I can do that.” 

Yet, this comfort that Ranboo brought to him died as soon as Tommy flicked to the first page of his history exam and read the words ‘exile’ and ‘Dream’. He thought his teacher told him that the debate over if Dream was a hallucination in his exile wouldn’t come up as a separate essay, that there wasn’t enough content to discuss for it to be that long of an answer. 

His breathing shortened, matching the thundering in his chest and shaking of his hands. He really didn’t want to do this, to have to debate that whilst his Lycomedes with the green of Dream’s eyes and callouses of his hands as he pushed Tommy off that cliff were still engrained in his mind.  

A loud cough from his right caught his attention. Ranboo, as soon as he noticed he had Tommy’s focus, flipped him off. The shock that disrupted his halting breath, from being flipped off by the one who never swore, the angel of the group (Tubbo’s nickname for Ranboo, not his) eased the heaving in his chest just a bit.  

He bit his lip and picked up his pen. If he was going to have to write about this, he would tear Dream to shreds, correct all the inaccurate information in his textbooks and become the biggest Timmy defender and apologist there ever was.

Despite Tommy’s foster father being the literal main developer of Minecraft, therefore making the man loaded with Tory money and reduced taxes, Ranboo still persisted that he paid for their meals in the café. Ranboo ignored every attempt Tommy made to pay for their food, including how when he forced the money into the waitresses hand behind the till, Ranboo smacked it away.

The two sat in the corner, slowing eating away at their chips and nachos. As they enjoyed their lunch in peace, Tommy found himself pondering back to that conversation he had with Clementine last month, about his apparent ‘stupid and dumb energy’ fears about whether school ending would interfere with his friendships with Tubbo and Ranboo.

“Ranboo,” he started and instantly regretted speaking. Ranboo perked up and urged him to continue. “Um, well, okay so I have a question,” he said, stuttering over his words. “Do you think we’ll still be… y’know, friends after school ends?”

A quiet pause rendered between them. Ranboo’s lips twitched and he put down his cutlery.

“Where’s this coming from?”

“Exams are almost over, at least they’re over for me and…” he trailed off, fighting over what to say. He knew what he wanted to say, he wanted to tell him that he didn’t want this dynamic to change, for their close bond to break because they don’t speak as often because they would go to different schools. He didn’t want to let go of him, of either of them. His years living had ingrained many things into him and one of them was that he hated change.

“Do you think we’re friends just because we share a couple of classes?” Ranboo asked, his voice tender and low.

“Well no—”

“Do you think I only talk to you when it’s about school work?”

“No but—”

“Then why would I stop being friend with you when school ends?” Ranboo said.

Tommy paused and fiddled with his hands under the table. He didn’t know—something common with his thoughts and beliefs. They were often fried and irrational, but firm.

“I don’t know,” he confessed, more upset with himself than anything. He should feel relief that his fears were nothing to be scared about, but this was a common thing, for him to get himself worked up about something and in the end, it was irrelevant.

“When you’re in college for film, expect me to be waiting outside of your classroom window at some point,” Ranboo said with a grin. “You, me and Tubbo, nothing will get in between us, okay?”

He exhaled lightly, resigning every small disagreement he had irking in his head. He believed him. The future, now that it mattered, was scary, but at least this part of it, the ascension of childhood friendships, was sorted.

“Don’t you have your final exam after this weekend?” Tommy asked as he sprinkled more salt onto the chips. Ranboo nodded and Tommy scowled at him. “Then why are you here with me? You should be revising or some shit.”

Ranboo sighed and took off his glasses, his face bare and expressing everything that flowed through him. “Right now, you’re more important to me than any exam.”

He shrunk deeper into his chair, his cheeks suddenly warm and ears burning. “Shut up,” he grumbled into his hands.

“Would you prefer me to list every detail I dislike about you then?”

“Yes!” he exclaimed, his face still burning.

“Okay, first of all, you act like an only child but you’re not even an only child and that makes it even worse—”

“What the fuck is that supposed to mean?” he demanded.

“Case and point,” Ranboo stated and laughed when Tommy shoved his arm. “You’re only giving me more evidence.”

“I literally hate you.”

Ranboo grinned at him. “What happened to all those hugs you gave me, Tommy?”

He didn’t think it was possible for his face to get redder, but it did. With a glare, Tommy stuffed more chips into his mouth and threw a salt packet at Ranboo.

“Are you feeling okay now?” Ranboo asked him.

Tommy’s lips thinned. He should feel worse from having to write about his first life and every traumatic detail for an hour and forty-five minutes, but with Ranboo sitting opposite him with a salt packet laying on his shoulder and eyes creased in open understanding, it wasn’t that bad.

“Yeah, I am,” he muttered, an inkling of a smile on his lips. “Though I would feel better if Tubbo were here instead of you—”

“Oh my God, this is only child behaviour,” Ranboo complained.

Tommy giggled and shook his head, in denial of such behaviour. He leaned forward and brushed their knuckles together, a small yet meaningful act, a thank you without words.

Ranboo huffed and reciprocated the movement, dropping his light-hearted glare and scowl. “You get away with too much stuff,” he grumbled.

“And you just let me,” Tommy smirked at Ranboo’s resign. It was true, after all. “Come on, I know you have geography flashcards in your bag. Give them to me, I can help.”

“Do you really want to learn about Brazil and their rocks?” Ranboo asked, sceptical.

“Nope but you have to know this shit, so we’re doing it.”

And with that afternoon, Tommy’s knowledge on Brazil’s roofing strategies and plastic houses grew, and so did the gratitude each of them felt for the other. (It also meant that if Ranboo got a high grade on his geography exam, Tommy would take full credit, but that was a fair exchange).

❊❊❊

When Tommy returned home from the café, his room was pitch-black. With the curtains pulled shut and night lamps switched off, the room was nothing but a pit of darkness, devoid of light. A void, you could say. At least that was what Tommy’s head said.

Every day that passed since his revival hardened his fear of the dark. He couldn’t stop the reminding thoughts labelling every black space as the void, as the home of Dream and waiting room with Kristin. It meant that as he rested in his bed at night, a racing heart accompanied him.

His hands trembled as he reached over to switch on the light. Despite how the light had returned, the tightness in his shoulders and cold spikes pinching his skin did not cease. The only thing that could shake him from this reaction was Wilbur’s voice. So whenever this happened, he buried himself in his bed covers, put on his earphones and blasted one of Wilbur’s songs, loud enough so no other voices besides the soft vocals and acoustic guitar could be heard. Normally when he resorted to this, no nightmares came, no sleepless nights followed and peaceful nothingness carried on until the morning.

It didn’t work this time.

A mask fractured in every sense stared at him. The painted eyes had cracked through the centre, bleeding in pale green. Half of Dream’s face laid exposed; his jaw, left cheek, scarred eyebrow and eyes. No humanity emerged from this exposure. Instead, a sinister gleam, one full of hatred and betrayal settled behind that shattered mask.

Tommy remembered the punishment he had told Kristin. But this was not it.

“Dream?” he called out, unstable and hesitant.

The void swallowed him and a masked smile itched closer. Black tears poured down the eye sockets, blood flowed from the cracks. A hand wretched forward, grasping onto Tommy’s arm, pulling him closer.

He shrieked, his body shuddering in fear. The grip around him harshened, twisting into a deathly grasp. But that wasn’t the worst of it. As Dream’s hand squeezed tighter, he felt everything. Not just the hand bruising his flesh, but every death since the first. The cliff scraping against his back as Theseus fell, the burns Icarus endured all alone, the piercing guilt Orpheus wallowed in and the weight of his mother’s body, as heavy as Sisyphus’ boulder. Dream’s force propelled him through it all—even being ripped from life only to be put back, the pieces muddled up and stitches out of place.

It was all too much, the pain, the green eyes reminding him of times where that gaze brought comfort and then rounds of torture. He collapsed to the ground until the touch left.

The screams wrecking his throat woke him up before his body did. He clawed at his arms, at where he swore he could still feel Dream’s rough grip bruising him. His legs thrashed against his covers, he couldn’t escape it. Even when his curse had been broken, Dream was still here. He would never leave.

The door burst open and Techno flew to his bedside. As whimpers left him a shaking mess, Techno gently approached him, his hair flowing past his shoulders and night-gown untucked. He touched Tommy’s hands and another scream left his throat. He flinched away and scurried backwards until the wall wouldn’t let him anymore. He couldn’t control it—he couldn’t control anything. His body moved without command, his breathing increased despite his chest begging him to calm down.

As his blurred vision narrowed, Techno sat on the side of his bed, at a distance so no part of his body touched Tommy’s. He could hear mutters under the ringing of his ears, parts of speech, Techno’s deep yet stabling voice. Techno continued with his short one-sided conversations, his ramblings of how his day at work in the library went, random facts about fencing and the history of each blade, his secret recipe for potato salad. When the ringing in his ears eventually fled, these conversations kept the voices, the reminders of that nightmare, of Dream’s grip and all it entailed, at bay. Without meaning to, he copied Techno’s breathing as the other spoke slowly.

“Sorry,” Tommy stammered, still shaking. The panic had left his system yet everything else stayed. The fear, the memories, the bleak souvenirs from Dream. It all remained.

Techno rolled his eyes and edged closer to him. “Both you and Wilbur do that,” he began, “you apologise for the most annoying stuff.” Tommy lifted his back from the wall. “It’s a shame I didn’t work out the two of you are technically related just from that.”

“What’s Wilbur apologising for this time?” he asked, hoping to distract himself with something that didn’t centre around him.

Thankfully, Techno picked up on his want for a subject change. “Wilbur’s having nightmares as well.”

“About what?”

“His past lives,” Techno supplied and his face furrowed. Tommy leaned closer. “If I said the name Estella, would that mean anything to you?”

Tommy froze. His shoulder brushed along Techno’s and he recoiled backwards. His breathing began to hasten until Techno calmed him again. Estella. That child in the apartment of Wilbur’s life in 1950s America, when he became the terrorist named Willow’s Siren, costing the lives of two-hundred and seventy people. He could still remember Estella’s cries as the building fell on them.

“Is he remembering that?” he croaked, sick to his stomach.

Techno nodded gravely, the same sickness on his face.

“But he has reason to have nightmares, he’s experiencing that,” Tommy spat, disgusted at himself. “Mine is just Dream, I—”

“Shut up,” Techno gritted out. “Tommy, you’ve been through so much and you’ve just come back to life. It’s bound to have consequences.”

“Is being afraid of the dark an acceptable one? Or am I just being a fucking pussy, scared of everything?” he retorted, his jaw clenched. He hated this, he hated voicing his feelings only to be met with argument. He knew his head messed everything up, that his own thoughts were hypocritical and insensitive to himself. But having to deal with a confrontation over it pissed him off further.

“Who said death was easy, Tommy?” Techno asked, quiet all of a sudden. “Who said you would be completely fine after having to experience death five times, and your fifth time being the most traumatic because you came back. You spoke to Death, you heard her words and were revived by her hand. Everything you feel is justified, it’s allowed. All of it is allowed, Tommy.”

Tears swelled in his eyes. He lowered his head and laid his hand on the bed, his palm facing upwards. Techno’s gaze flickered between Tommy’s hand and face, and eventually, he placed his own hand in his. A chill jumped at Tommy’s spine but that didn’t stop him from closing his palm shut, with Techno’s intertwined.

“Can you sleep in the chair again tonight?” he whispered, almost embarrassed of his own request. Every shadow in his room nudged at his doubts that maybe Dream wasn’t gone, maybe he was still here to torment him in the void. He didn’t want to be alone right now.

Techno nodded and retrieved his armchair. He tucked Tommy in his own bed and got comfortable in the chair. “You better do my chores for a month after this,” he beckoned. “This chair is hell to sleep on.”

Tommy knew he was exaggerating it and attempted to smile. “I’ll do the washing up and that is it. You still need to do your own bin.”

Ignoring the loud huff that came from Techno, Tommy nestled his head against his pillow and stared at the outline of Techno’s pink hair in the pale darkness.

“Go to sleep, Tommy,” Techno whispered. “I won’t leave.”

“Promise?”

Techno groaned half-heartedly, making Tommy chuckle. “Yes, I promise now shut up and let me sleep.”

Knowing Techno would fight off anything to keep him safe, sleep came easy to him.

In the morning, Tommy did not expect to walk downstairs to see some weird man in a suit sitting beside the dining table in his seat. Even though the man had a kind face, it did not mean shit—the fucker needed to move.

“Who’s this bitch?” Tommy grumbled, stealing Techno’s coffee when he wasn’t looking and instantly regretting it (he underestimated how many expresso shots Techno put in his morning drink).

Phil bit down his amusement and sighed. Ah, he was in ‘adult mode’, something Tommy only saw when professional adults were in the room. So this seat-stealer was someone important.

“Tommy, this is Sam, our assigned officer from CAFCASS.”

His eyes widened. Oh shit. Okay, maybe he shouldn’t have called one of the key people involved for his adoption to be accepted a ‘bitch’. He didn’t expect a CAFCASS employee to have green highlights in his hair; after all, his teachers kept grilling Clementine that dyed hair was ‘unprofessional’ and an ‘unemployable’ factor. Obviously not the case for Sam.

“Ayup,” Tommy greeted, as awkward as ever.

Sam gave him an as equally as awkward nod and an immediate bond was formed—at least in Tommy’s opinion.

The rest of the morning was filled with Tommy trying to both impress and test the man’s boundaries. He was, after all, the person who was supposed to help them present the case to the court about Tommy’s adoption so he might as well show his true colours to the man. Though, Sam didn’t appreciate the jokes Tommy and Wilbur made about Phil and belting. You’d think a guy trained in advisory support for adoption from foster care cases would appreciate dark humour. Nonetheless, Sam was cool, but apparently not that cool.

Either way, his visit meant that Tommy’s adoption would be finalised soon—and that made him happier than he’d ever admit to anyone.

❊❊❊

Just as Tommy was about to enter the shower, someone just happened to knock on the front door, not only once (which was very easy to ignore), but five times. Then they decided to bring hell on his doorbell. After stomping down each stair to show his frustration, he opened the door, expecting to see some underpaid Amazon deliverer or another Urban Outfitters package—Wilbur hadn’t stopped ordering clothes for him from that site for the past month.

But instead, a baby laid at his doorstep.

No, no this wasn’t some child acquisition moment. Tommy swore against it. No found family would come from this shit.

He glared down at this baby and its audacity to disturb his afternoon. Sighing, he picked them up, cursing himself for even thinking that the way the baby’s nose wrinkled at the sudden movement was cute.

Though, all lightness around this entire situation dropped as soon as he noticed something hanging from the baby’s neck. From his neck.

The amulet that used to drape around Dream’s neck.

He loosened the blankets and untucked the baby’s arm. His heart hammered as it confirmed his fears. A tattoo of Zagreus inked the baby’s tiny wrist. Green eyes, too rounded and light to not be familiar, gazed up at him.

Dream stared at him.

“Kristin you fucking—” he hissed under his breath. This was not what he meant by making Dream go through what all the cursed had. He just thought Kristin would make Dream human, an adult human, with the curse. Forced to experience the same pain and guessing they all had to for years.

But rebirthing Dream as a fucking baby?

Nope, he couldn’t deal with this. Baby Dream was another nightmare itself, with how his hand itched towards Tommy’s and gripped onto his fingers, only to immediately bring them to his mouth.

Dream, the once-powerful God who killed him in his first life, now was a baby cradled to his chest with Tommy’s fingers stuffed into his mouth.

There was only one thing he could do here: make this baby someone else’s problem. So, with that in mind, he called up the one person he wholeheartedly believed would deal with this in the best sense and appropriate manner.

“Linda!” he shouted in an amplified manner over the phone. “How are you doing on this fine evening?”

A predictable silence followed by an old and grouchy woman squawking came from the phone, Linda Smith, the only person over the age of sixty who did not deserve a free Oyster card on all buses, was obviously confused and irritated by this call.

“What do you want, Tommy?” she demanded, voice as vinegary and dead as he remembered. He pictured her in one of her many hot pink lounge chairs wearing a shitty floral dress that substitute teachers who hated their job wore weekly, maybe a cup of black coffee in her bony grip, yellowing her already unsavable teeth even more. “Is this about the adoption application? Because you can’t cancel that now unless—”

“What?” he interrupted, his face furrowed in disgust at even the idea of cancelling it. “No, I’m happy here, I don’t…” he paused and rocked the baby in his arms. “I don’t want to cancel the adoption anyway.”

“Good,” she said, surprising him. He thought the woman would thrive off his misery and happily recycle him into another foster home.

He shook off the thoughts and returned his attention back to Dream, the fucking baby. “But Linda, just because I’m not your problem anymore doesn’t mean you’re off scot-free,” he began with a grin. “I have something for you, a particular case straight up your alley.”

“I swear, Tommy if this is another prank call like in the first home—”

“I have a baby for you! Orphaned and all!” he proclaimed as he bopped Dream on his nose. “He has the same ‘gang’ tattoo as me so having problem children and pathological liars will be your speciality,” he added, trying to keep the bitterness out of his voice.

He wondered for a moment what myth Kristin gave Dream. Even though the fucker was a baby now, technically innocent of all crimes and immorality until he gained consciousness at speaking age, this was still Dream. His punishment was so Dream understood what he put everyone through. With Niki’s cycle of loneliness on Calypso’s island, his brother’s chained consequences, Tobias’ set up for failure, Fundy’s insanity, his father’s unfulfillment and his own abandonment in all lives. Dream should know what it all was like, every stab of pain and throb of hurt, every wet tear and panicked breath. All of it.

Maybe Odysseus would do. Something about having to survive constant obstacles delaying your desperate mission to return to your family, the people who cared about you, only for them to have changed and not recognise you when you eventually reunite, seemed… fitting. If that was the case then Dream would know what Tommy felt over and over again, wanting for a family in foster care and fighting to keep them when he found the Crafts.

Though Odysseus had a happy ending, when his wife believed who he said he was, and their love survived. Tommy bit on his lip. Did Dream deserve a myth with a happy ending? Or did he deserve a gruelling tragedy, fuelled with heartbreak, death, betrayal and abandonment?

That was for Kristin to decide.

“Tommy? Are you there?” Linda’s voice broke off his thoughts.

“I’m here and ready for a baby transaction,” he bit back, scowling at Dream. He hated the part of him that wished for Dream to have a nice home, for him to have a nice childhood and people to help him through the torture of the curse. Dream didn’t earn this easy way of life, but right now this wasn’t Dream—this wasn’t Zagreus, God of rebirth and hunting. And he never would be again.

As he negotiated the details for Linda to pick up Dream, the guilt as heavy as the child in his arms, weighted down inside of him.

But just as Dream forced a cycle of pain onto him, he would, in spite, continue its legacy.

❊❊❊

It was finally happening.

Exam season had just ended for everyone, meaning Tommy could do fuck all for the rest of the summer, and it was time. Time for the final court hearing of his adoption. Everything else had been sorted, they’d been to court a couple of times now, just to go through documents and finalise the paperwork. But now, it was the last process. The final time he’d ever have the last name Idelle, the last time he’d be legally attached to the Kinoko Foster System and have to deal with Linda Smith.

Yet, his excitement faded as he stared into his wardrobe mirror. He had to wear a suit for this and he could not for the life of him tie a tie. Tubbo had sent him tutorials on their group chat whilst Ranboo just sent many ‘lmao’ messages, laughing at his pain. It wasn’t his fault he had never worn a suit before.

It was only when Phil entered his room that he was saved from this hell. The man wore a similar suit, his tie already done (of course it was green and white striped—Tommy would bully him for it another time).

“Philza, help me,” he whined, tugging at his tie. At first, he was against wearing a tie, especially since it meant his bruised neck would be on display, but Niki had come round earlier and used whatever ‘foundation’ and ‘concealer’ was to cover it up.

Phil stifled his hilarity at the situation and approached him. “Be glad I’m the one doing this because Wilbur would just laugh at you and Techno would tie it too tight.”

He rolled his eyes and shoved the tie in Phil’s hands.

Swiftly, Phil wove the tie around Tommy’s neck and did it for him, tugging on it slightly as he finished. A smile curled in something Tommy couldn’t detect adorned Phil’s lips—maybe endearment or pride. Regardless, it was a soft expression.

“Are you nervous for today?” Phil asked as he brushed lint off Tommy’s shoulders and straightened his blazer.

“Kinda,” he answered. It was a big day, an event he had always wished for, the conformation of a family that legally couldn’t leave him at the side of the road—not that the Craft’s would do that anyway (well, maybe Wilbur but as a joke).

“Well,” Phil said, the smile returning in full brightness, “whatever happens in that courtroom, I don’t care because either way, you are exiting that building as my son.”

His words wormed softness deep into Tommy’s heart, warming him all over and showering him in everything he never had when growing up for the first time back in his first life. Every splinter in his soul caused by his first father’s neglect and disapproval dissolved at the simple tone of Phil.

“I would hug you but I’d crease our suits,” he replied, struggling to keep the waver out of his voice. He had never felt such a burst of emotions before.

Phil chuckled. “We’ll save it for after our hearing.”

He thought the hearing would go like the last one did, where he could say jokes under his breath to Wilbur and kick Techno’s chair. The judge knew he was doing this and just let it slide. But not this time. It was different, more serious and urgent.

 The moment he called onto the stand and had to swear that he wouldn’t lie, it was lucky for everyone in that room that he didn’t end up shitting himself. Wilbur kept nodding at him with that slanted smile of his, reassuring him that it was all okay with a single look.

When asked about his confirmation of wanting to be adopted by the Craft’s, the words came out of his mouth quicker than they formed in his head. Of course he wanted to be adopted by them, why the fuck would he not? They were perfect, they knew what to do when he got upset, when it all got too much, when he lashed out; they just all understood each other, their faults and problems, their quirks and likes. It was a family he never wanted to leave.

As soon as the judge signed off the papers officially awarding legal custody, the weight on his shoulders, the burden that followed him restlessly since his first death, disappeared. No longer thought about nor pondered in the silence gaps between conversations. It was done, he finally got what he had wanted for centuries.

Phil stuck to his word and hugged him. Neither cared about their suits creasing anymore or even about the tears wetting the silk—all they cared about was that the other was in their arms and they were a family. Officially, a family.

More bodies joined their hug. Wilbur towered over them whilst Techno went in for the width, encasing his arms around them all in the middle, surprising them since Techno was the last one to initiate in this much contact.

He breathed in, relief filling him whole. “Thank you,” he whispered.

Tommy could stay in their grip for hours, but eventually, they departed. He rubbed his stuffy nose and eyes, a permanent smile on his mouth. He could already tell that by the end of today, the creases of his mouth and cheeks would hurt but he was happy.

He turned to Phil. “Does this mean I don’t have to sleep in the dog’s pen anymore?” he joked.

Sam looked at them, horrified.

“Another joke! That was a joke, Sam, please he’s joking—” Phil scrambled to say.

“We don’t even have a dog,” Wilbur added, though it didn’t calm the man of anything.

“Can we get a dog?” Techno asked.

Phil buried his face into his hands.

Tommy nodded at Techno. “I’ll guilt-trip him into getting us a dog.”

“Floof,” Techno agreed.

“Also,” he said, causing Phil to groan because he could tell by just Tommy’s tone that what he planned to say was going to be a shit-fest. “Now that I’m officially adopted, can you get rid of the suicide prevention windows in my room?” he asked, smirking. “I’d like to not get heatstroke during the summer.”

“Cope,” Wilbur whispered to him, narrowly avoiding a smack to the arm as Phil stopped Tommy from hitting him.

“Yes, Jesus Christ, I’ll get them removed,” Phil said, exasperated. “Any other demands?” All three of them went to open their mouths. “Nevermind, just get in the fucking car.”

And just as Phil had hoped for, he left that building not as Tommy Idelle, but as Tommy Craft. One of them.

❊❊❊

For some reason, he let Wilbur drag him into an undisclosed location at midnight. It was a weird request from the other, but this was the same guy who once started a petition for the eradication of an animal species and somehow gained three thousand votes (it was anteaters, by the way). So, Tommy wasn’t too freaked out.

When they stopped in front of a familiar building, it made sense. Wilbur had taken him to his rehearsal room, where he usually performed and produced songs with his band. Now that his A-Level piece had finished, Wilbur had all the time in the world to finally make another album, one that wasn’t hampered with stages of grief and heartbreak; an album more upbeat—still about that one ex-girlfriend though—and with plenty of trumpets.

Wilbur dragged him up the stairs and sat him down on one of the chairs as he got his acoustic guitar out of the case and set up the mic.

“I promised you that you would be one of the first people to hear my finished album,” Wilbur said, sheepish in his speech, “Well, I think I’m ready to show you ’Your City Gave Me Asthma’.”

Tommy fidgeted in his seat. He knew how much this meant to Wilbur, that each lyric he would sing and every chord of the guitar came from his heart, from a place of mourning and self-hatred. But that place had been changed, Wilbur no longer smoked in his shed, sobbing into his sleeves as memories of his mother wrecked him with a puff of smoke, he no longer shouted at Phil just to feel something or kept everything to himself. He was better—not fully okay or healed, but better.

“Are you sure?” Tommy asked, eyes flickering to the tremors in Wilbur’s hands.

“I’m sure,” he reassured, forcing those shaking hands onto the neck of the guitar.

Tommy never noticed how Wilbur’s eyes squinted shut as he sang, how the crow’s feet around his eyes creased and his eyebrows furrowed in a downcast motion. His face matched the emotion of the songs, ranging from anger and despair, to self-loathing and criticism, and acceptance of loss. Wilbur continued through the album, enduring it all even with how his voice broke and cracked at certain parts, the wound still not sealed but healing.

Tears brimmed as the final song echoed the rehearsal room and with the final lyric, Wilbur’s eyes opened.

Tommy didn’t even let him place the guitar down before he threw his arms around him. Wilbur had done it. The same man who fretted over the album for years, had buried each emotion and thought deep inside of him and only let it out when he wanted to hate himself even more than he already did, had done it.

“I’m so proud of you,” Tommy professed into his shoulder, clinging to him as Wilbur shook. “I’m so fucking proud.” He repeated it until Wilbur held him too tightly for the words to continue.

“It’s because of you,” Wilbur whispered, love saturating his voice. “All of this is because of you.”

He looked down at Tommy as if the world meant nothing compared to him—and it couldn’t be truer. The two stayed there for a while, encased in each other’s grip, soaking in the comfort they needed. It was like that night on the graveyard bench but more. A moment of solidarity and warmth.

“Now that the depressing shit is out of the way, do you want to hear what my band is working on now?” Wilbur asked, his words muffled by Tommy’s hair.

Tommy let go of him and beamed. “Fuck yes. Wait, please play ‘Soft Boy’ first, please, please—”

Wilbur ruffled his hair. “Shut up! And yes, I can play that.” He grabbed the microphone and smirked before handing Tommy the spare mic. “Come on then, let’s give a performance.”

It was only after that Tommy realised that the microphone Wilbur had handed him wasn’t even plugged in. But it was more the moments that he cared out—where they both screamed questionable lyrics about hoodies and cat ears into the mics and jumped around the rehearsal room, careless of the surrounding world and thriving in their shared rejoice. That was what mattered most to him.

❊❊❊

On the first day of July, Tommy walked into the local café, knowing Niki was on shift and darted straight into the backroom.

Customers spared a glance at him and Niki excused herself from a table. She made her way over to him with a frown. “Tommy, the café isn’t closed yet, you can’t be in there.”

“Oh I know,” he said as he grabbed an apron from the draw. “I work here now.”

Niki blinked at him, stumped. She shifted in her step and shared a look to her boss, who sat by the tills. Her boss nodded at the two of them and Tommy gave them a thumbs up.

“What in the…” she shook her head. “Does this mean I have to train him?”

Their boss nodded again and Niki groaned whilst Tommy’s grin widened. It was almost as if she knew that Tommy would try to make training him the hardest task to ever do.

He laughed at how startled she was by all of this. Techno was the one who suggested that Tommy get a summer job at the café since it was local and now that he was sixteen, he had a national insurance number and could legally work. Plus, it would mean he could annoy Niki and also get paid. A win-win situation.

During the break Niki awarded him after he correctly worked the coffee machine without getting the powder everywhere for once, he turned on his phone to see text messages from the family group chat.

His heart stopped at the title of the chat.

4/4: Family Chat.

Without notice, tears quickly pricked his eyes. Holy fuck. The name of the chat had changed. It was ‘4/3’ before, meaning Tommy was the outsider. It was a joke, sure, but now it was ‘4/4’.

Why did such a small and innocent change do this to him? He sat in the back of the storage room, biting back tears, as he read the messages.

4/4: Family Chat

Phil: Good luck today at work!! Please don’t explode anything

Technoblade: Bring back coffee.

Wilbur: ^^ what he said, also Niki hides sweets under the sink. steal them for me

                oh and good luck

Technoblade: Yeah, that too.

He was included. It didn’t matter that he was already a Craft with the adoption. You could be a member of someone’s family and still be an outcast, an outsider to the family dynamics. But this… this meant everything. He was one of them, he was—

Tommy would be there for everything. For when Techno inevitably dominated the fencing section of the Olympics, when Wilbur’s concert tickets would sell out in seconds, when Phil would finally remember to put four plates instead of five for Christmas dinner, accepting it all.

He couldn’t stop the smile from spreading across his lips. A smile that would stay—just like him.