Chapter Text
Tommy doesn’t think he knows how to love.
It hits him when he’s standing at the counter at home, arms elbow-deep in warm soapy water, eyes staring blankly at the stained wall in front of him. The sink is dripping just slightly, and the sound is getting to him. Behind him, Dream’s pen scratches against paperwork as he works at the kitchen table. It’s a day off for him; never a day off for Dream, of course, but it’s a Friday night now and Tommy doesn’t have work and his teachers were kind enough to not give them a ton of homework for the weekend so he stands here, washes dishes, and contemplates the fact he doesn’t think he’s capable of loving.
He can remember watching the movies (Hallmark ones, the ones that roll out around Christmas and Valentine’s Day) with Dream on the couch. He’d always make a face when the couple got together and Dream would laugh at him– not in a mean way, just in a teasing way, especially since Tommy was younger. When things were better. Those movies had always drawn love out to be a powerful thing, the call of fate that you can’t ignore. Love in those movies sounded like echoey laughter and smelled like warm wood counters on a sunny day. It was open kitchen windows and sunflowers, it was red hearts and kissy faces and arms around shoulders. Tommy knew, in theory, what love was. He knew romance wasn’t everything– brothers loved brothers and sisters and fathers loved sons, usually with fists and belts. He knew friends loved each other, and he supposes he loves Niki and Jack and Sam and Ponk and Quackity– but did he? He thinks of aborted attempts of touch and distancing himself, because he knows what happens when you get too close.
Tommy thinks love is meaner than Hallmark wants it to be. Less sparks, more fire. Or at least, Tommy thinks he feels love wrong. He feels it like waves crashing against a ship’s boards, maybe like fireworks. Maybe like when you’re making pasta and you put your hand over the steam by accident and burn yourself.
Tommy thinks love is when you put a coffee down in front of someone and they turn it around and spill it on you, still hot, still steaming, burning.
Everyone he’s ever truly loved, he thinks, has left. His mother (unknown variable), his father (even more of an unknown variable, honestly). That one kid he’d bunked with in the group home when he was six– he can’t remember his name now, only that he’d had bright green eyes and a gap in his front teeth and that every night before Tommy went to sleep, the kid would punch his arm and leave a bruise. Then Dream came and took him. And whatever love Tommy thought he felt in the beginning had morphed and twisted into some sick rendition of itself, aching and utterly unfair.
He’s probably broken. Nobody else stands staring at walls and ponders over whether or not they’re a fuckin’ sociopath.
What was that one saying? If you have to ask about it or ponder it at all, it’s probably true? No, wait, that’s about being gay. Tommy scowls absently and scrubs harder at a spot on their pan, glaring at it like he can melt it off with the heat behind his eyes. Yeah, he’s definitely broken.
“I’m going to bed,” he tells Dream after he places the last dish in the drying rack, letting out the water and watching it swirl down. Dream merely hums as he goes and Tommy blesses it, because Dream’s love is a slap to the face and side eye, if he’s lucky. “Goodnight.”
“Goodnight, Tommy,” Dream mutters, and leans further over the table. Tommy escapes to his room without incident, so that’s a win in his book.
But the thoughts from earlier don’t leave his mind– he lays in bed and stares at the ceiling with tired eyes, burning from how heavy they are. Love. Tommy tries to scrounge up one moment in the past week when he’d felt love, and he finds only two separate occasions: one had been when Niki had calmed him down from the panic attack. Understandable. The second had been every single time Tommy had made Wilbur Watson-Soot laugh. And not just giggle– the real laugh that has him cackling, head thrown back and mouth open wide. That had felt like the kind of love from the movies– cinnamon and absinthe, real.
Wilbur Watson-Soot felt like love. Weird, Tommy thinks, rolling over to his side and wincing as he presses on one half-healed bruise by accident. He hadn’t thought it could be so nice.
He wants to keep it. Wilbur’s not allowed to leave. He’s Tommy’s. The only issue is the rest of his stupid family; Tommy scowls at the thought of them, Technoblade and Phil. Not because he hates them– just because they got to know Wilbur first. That’s not fair. Tommy deserves to know Wilbur like they do. He’ll make it happen. He will. Besides, he’s got Wilbur wrapped around his thumb. One look from Tommy has the guy going all gooey and pliable. He’d probably kill someone if Tommy asked.
Huh.
That warm feeling deep in his chest, the one that pops up whenever he thinks that: Wilbur would kill for me.
Yeah, that feels like love.
His next shift is two days later. And when a familiar car pulls into the lot, Tommy can’t help but feel a little bit of glee. Wilbur, here to joke and make his day at least a tiny bit better.
When the door jingles, though, it’s not Wilbur.
It’s all three of them, and while he feels a jump of happiness in his chest, he can’t help but be a bit peeved. He likes it when it’s just Wilbur. The banter comes easier, the jokes land harder. With Technoblade and Phil around, Tommy still feels like he’s on eggshells.
That doesn’t stop Wilbur, though.
“Hey, man,” he says as Tommy approaches their table. It’s a slow afternoon– there’s only two other tables currently seated right now, and a couple people at the counter. Tommy slips them all a menu. “What’s popping?”
“You sound old as fuck, Wil,” Tommy informs him. “Nobody says that.”
“Nobody but me,” Wilbur bites back, and Tommy smiles.
“What’s wrong with being old?” Phil cuts in, and Tommy turns to look. He squints at the older man, who in reality is probably not that old (definitely not old enough to have two sons in their twenties, but Tommy’s not about to comment on that garbage fire, no way) but definitely old-er.
“Everything,” Tommy says. “Your back aches. You’re not caught up with the slang. You sit in the same old armchair for hours every day and watch the morning, daily, and evening news. You’re probably conservative.”
“Damn, Phil,” Technoblade says, “he just wrecked you.”
“You look like a strong wind could take you out,” Tommy tacks on for good measure, and that’s the comment that has Wilbur nearly on the floor laughing and Technoblade smirking. Phil merely just rests his head in his palm, staring forlornly at the table.
“I’m writing all three of you out of my will,” he says, in that sharp tone that’s still joking. Tommy grins.
“I was in your will?” He asks.
“Phil’s a philanthropist,” Wilbur says, composing himself in an instant in order to inform Tommy of this very important fact. Tommy waits a second, just the right amount of time for it to be really funny, and asks:
“What, like Socrates?”
That sends all three of them spiraling, Wilbur desperately trying to explain the difference between philosophy and philanthropy like Tommy doesn’t already know– after three separate wheezing fits, he finally just grins and slides into the booth next to Technoblade. That shuts at least Techno up, glancing over.
“Aren’t you on shift?” He asks.
“Yeah,” Tommy says, tapping his foot and feeling the seat get all stuck to his pants in the sticky way vinyl does. “Only got three tables though, and they’ll be fine for a couple minutes.”
“You know, Wilbur’s been talking about you a lot,” Phil says, which prompts Wilbur to lean over and elbow him in the ribs. Through the pain, Phil grits out: “It’s nice to know all the praises have been fairly accurate.”
“Phil,” Wilbur says, then honey-sweet: “ Dad . Shut up. Pretty please.”
“Of course Wil doesn’t shut up about me,” Tommy says, feeling his chest swell a little bit with pride. “I’m great.”
“And modest,” Technoblade says.
“Incredibly.” Tommy tips his head to look at him. “Do you want coffee?”
Technoblade regards him right back, body angled slightly away in order to keep space between them in the booth. “This feels weird.”
“Should I get up?”
“Yeah, probably.”
Tommy listens, sliding out of the booth and that’s probably a good thing because Skeppy is glaring at him from behind the counter. He sighs, brushing his hands off on his pants, and shakes his head.
“Well, boys,” he says, “I’ll put in your usuals, yeah?”
“Please and thanks,” Phil smiles at him. “And Tommy, if you ever need anything–”
“I don’t,” Tommy says gently. “But thanks.” Well, that had come out of nowhere. Phil is still smiling at him even as he turns to go, and he can feel Technoblade’s gaze on the back of his head. Creepy fucker. He’s got eyes like lasers, burning two holes into the back of Tommy’s skull as he putszes around in the kitchen. Whatever. He’d prefer if it was just Wilbur, yes, but maybe his family isn’t so bad.
Especially not when Phil tips him a crisp forty bucks. Fuck yeah.
The pattern continues: days will pass where only Wilbur comes into the diner. Tommy goes home, faces a monster, and then returns for his shifts because even Perseus must’ve had a day job or something. Once every couple days or so, the whole Watson-Soot clan shows up and Tommy entertains them. They always come when it’s slow– it lends itself to knowing them, to, perhaps, loving. There is a routine and then, there’s not.
The door jingles. It’s about time for Wilbur to come in, so Tommy turns towards the door and whips the towel down in his hand, a greetings, bitch boy! halfway out of his mouth before he takes in the person walking in.
Pink hair pulled up tight against his skull, wispy flyaways framing his face as the rest is pulled into a knotted bun. A white shirt and pants, dark black and high on his waist. A red belt. Technoblade looks fucking pretentious as hell. Tommy tells him as much when he goes over to greet him, sliding a menu in front of him and a glass of water.
“You look pretentious as shit,” he says jovially, ignoring how Technoblade looks up at him with a dead stare. They’ve never interacted one-on-one before. Tommy finds himself both utterly thrilled and nervous. Sue him– the dude seems cool. “Can I get you anything to start with?”
“Coffee,” Technoblade says. “That’s all, thanks.”
“Sounds good.” Tommy turns to go, but before he can, Technoblade reaches out and splays his hand against the table.
“Wait,” he says. “I’d like to ask you a question.”
Tommy lingers. “Okay…” he says, and then nods when Technoblade still doesn’t speak. The older man is silent, then looks away, breaking eye contact and shifting his gaze to the wall instead. Tommy squints at him.
“Do you enjoy Wilbur’s company?” He finally asks, slow and specific, like he’s picking his words out of a bin inside his head and making a careful decision over each one.
“Is… this some kind of shovel talk?” Tommy asks, and Technoblade blinks.
“No,” he says, and it seems genuine, but Tommy can’t read him as well as he can Wilbur. He stares at him, but Technoblade does not look him in the eyes again. “Wilbur can be a bit much, sometimes. If he’s bothering you–” well, he is, but not in a bad way, “–I can tell him to back off.”
“Yeah?” Tommy asks, throat dry. He licks his lips. Technoblade’s arm relaxes, and Tommy tilts his head. Interesting. “If I said he was annoying me, you’d make him stop? You’d all stop?”
“It’d be one hell of an argument, but yes, I would,” Technoblade says.
Tommy hums.
“It’s fine,” he says, after mulling over the idea of it. Wilbur is annoying, yes, but Tommy likes the attention and anyways, Wilbur is his now. Technoblade surely must know what that feels like, since they’re twins and all. Wilbur had let it slip a week ago, one of those late nights where he’d been prattling on about nothing and everything at all while thinking Tommy wasn’t paying attention. Tommy would kill to have a twin– someone who was yours, entirely and utterly, someone who would be at your side always. Even just a sibling would do. Wilbur’s on his way there, but… it’s different. He catches Technoblade in his gaze and then drops it, looking at his shoes and the dirty floor. “I don’t mind it.”
“You’re sure?”
“Yes, you ginormous garbage heap.” Tommy rolls his eyes. “Do you want anything to eat, or can I go?”
Technoblade glances down at the menu in front of him and then, after a second, slides it back towards Tommy.
“I’m good,” he says. “Just a coffee.”
“It’ll be right out,” Tommy promises, and then flees before he can lose any more of his nerves. Behind the counter is a safe space, somewhere only he can go and it makes him feel better just by stepping onto the tile instead of the carpet. If Wilbur is a snake, Technoblade is a mountain lion. Silent footsteps for a creature so large, a piercing gaze that will make you think something is watching, and a haunting howl that intimidates even the most seasoned of hunters. Tommy watches him from across the room, hiding behind the cash register and peeking up above it as he absently fiddles with the coffeemaker. Techno is just sitting there, hands in front of him. No phone out, just glancing around the room and taking it all in. Tommy watches as the man shifts in his seat and then blinks, turning his head slowly.
Tommy has enough time to move, but he doesn’t. He stays where he is and meets Techno’s eyes when the man looks over to find him staring. He thinks he should be frightened, but he isn’t. Not one bit. After a moment of staring, the coffee machine beeps, and Tommy is drawn back into work.
He leaves Technoblade’s coffee on the table in a rush, and doesn’t get back to him for an hour with the check. Not once does he complain– he just watches.
At the end of the hour, however, he finally has to stop by. Tommy has a small break in-between tables and skids to a stop in front of Techno’s table, placing down the receipt paper and check with ease. Techno scoops it up, card in hand (he’s always been good about having it ready even when the whole trio of them are here, honestly) and Tommy waits for him to set it down so he can take it. But there’s a slight issue– a pause, a hold. Someone takes a breath and does not let it go. Techno falters before he sets the check down, and Tommy waits, watching as the older man keeps his hand over the leather and tips his head.
“Did you get into a fight?” He asks. It’s the first words they’ve spoken in nearly an hour. Tommy blinks. What? Techno raises a brow and gestures to his upper arm, and Tommy turns to look and shit– his sleeve had ridden up, exposing the yellow-green nasty old bruise from when he’d talked back and Dream had thrown him to the ground so hard he’d had a mark on his bicep. It’s mostly faded now. Carefully, Tommy reaches up and shrugs his sleeve down so it covers it up again.
“Something like that,” Tommy says. Techno is staring at him, not his face, his arm, and Tommy shifts uneasily on his feet. After a moment, his fingers lift just enough from the check for Tommy to reach out and snatch it away. “Have a nice day.”
“You too,” Techno says, but his voice is on autopilot and Tommy knows it is but he forces himself away before anything else can stop him. Escape, through the booths and behind the counter to where it’s safe and where Niki pins him down in her gaze and asks him a silent question. He shrugs back, skidding to a stop at the register and tucking away the receipt with Techno’s–
Techno’s signature, and beside that, a scrawled note, handwriting loopy and pretentious and stupid. Tommy freezes, staring down at it and drinking the words in.
Don’t spend it all in one place.
Beside that is a phone number. And tucked in between the receipt and leather casing is a hundred dollar bill.
Over the course of an hour, he’d ordered one coffee. It had cost him $2.75. What the fuck.
“Tommy?” Niki asks, and Tommy plucks the bill from it’s spot and shoves it away before she can see. He can’t accept this. He has to give it back. They already tip stupidly high, and this is just– this is insulting, is what it is. Tommy can’t take this . He glances up, gaze scouring the room, but the Watson-Soot booth is already empty.
“I’m fine,” he says. After a moment, he tucks the reciept into his pocket too, the phone number burning a hole into the fabric of his pants. His chest is tight. He can’t breathe. He keeps the hundred dollars in his pocket, thumbing over it for hours until he makes his decision.
“What the fuck is this?” Tommy asks, slamming the crumpled receipt and hundred dollars on the counter in front of Techno. The man blinks.
“Paper,” he notes. “With ink on it.”
“Don’t play stupid,” Tommy snarls. He shoves it forward. “I can’t take this.”
Dream would kill him. Tommy can’t owe this man a debt, he doesn’t think. Not when he needs Wilbur like he does. Not when he needs all of them like he does. Techno blinks again, long and slow, and tips his head up to look at him with that stupid piercing gaze.
“Why not?” He asks.
“I–” Tommy stutters to a halt. He knows why he can’t. But admitting it out loud is… embarrassing. He cares what Techno thinks of him, he does. He wants the other to like him, and Tommy thinks… Tommy thinks Techno likes seeing him embarrassed. The way his eyes catch on Tommy’s ears, his cheeks, flushed red. An idea hits him, just then. “You can’t–”
“Yeah?” Techno asks, and he sounds amused. Tommy lets it rile him up. Maybe it’s what Techno wants.
“I don’t have a phone,” he admits, the admission bursting forth like a tidal wave. Techno’s expression doesn’t change.
“Okay,” he says.
“And I don’t need the money,” Tommy lies. Now Techno’s face shifts, a brow arching high.
“Bruh,” he says. “Yes you do. Your sneakers are falling apart.”
“I– excuse you– fuck– you!” Tommy sputters, and Techno cracks a grin, pulling his hands into his lap and Tommy just wants to punch him. “That was so fucking rude! I don’t need your handouts!”
“But you want them,” Techno says slyly, and Tommy stammers to a halt again, brain blue-screening. The urge to let his voice rise in pitch and screech at him is nearly unbearable. But there are other patrons, and Techno is just smiling like he knows .
“Fuck you,” Tommy says, anger burning through him like a flame. “I’m going to spit in your coffee.”
The worst part is, Tommy does want it. He wants the crisp bill, tucked so deeply into his jeans pocket only he can access it. He wants new shoes, he wants a phone to put the number into, he wants it all. He wants Techno to smile at him like that again, like Tommy is just some amusing little bug on the wall and he’s intrigued. The thing is, Tommy’s not sure when that interest will wane– and when it does (because it always does) he will be indebted.
Maybe he just needs to make sure the interest doesn’t wane.
He wonders if he can do that.
“Five stars on TripAdvisor. The wait staff are so charming,” Techno drawls, oblivious to Tommy’s most genius thought. What if he makes them want to stay? What if he plays into every little game, shies away, gives them what they want?
Techno wants a fight. Wilbur wants a game. Phil wants to dote.
He can let them do that, right? He can give them each what they want, and in turn they’ll never let him go. They’ll think they won, in the end, but no. In reality, Tommy will have won. He’ll have played their games and left them all in the dust. By the time he was done with them, they’d be wrapped around his pinky fuckin’ finger. Willingly or not.
And Techno wants a fight.
Tommy turns, grabbing a mug from the rack. He snags a coffee pot, fills it to the brim, and then turns. Makes eye contact with Techno as he gathers up spittle in his cheek like a chipmunk, and then spits. It floats on the top of the drink, a bubbly wad of saliva. He smiles, and then sets the mug down in front of Techno. He makes sure to place the drink right on top of the money and receipt with Techno’s phone number, leaving a stain as the coffee drips down the side. Customer-service voice, on.
“On the house,” he says, and Techno’s face is impassive, but Tommy can see underneath it. The older man is pissed, but in a good way. There’s a sick sort of approval there.
“Thanks,” Techno says, and he doesn’t touch the mug. Tommy flashes him a grin, and then turns to go make the rounds of his tables.
Techno leaves, at some point. The mug of coffee with spit in it is still there when Tommy goes to clean up, but the money and receipt are gone. Tommy won. He knows there will be backlash, a bid for revenge, but he played into Techno’s hand and won. It’s a thrill. He dumps the ruined coffee down the sink and feels giddy.
His shift is over, and Tommy heads home. Saturdays mean work and then home and hiding in his room until dinner, hiding until Dream tells him to come out and avoiding a fight if he can.
Today is a good day until it isn’t.
Dream never hits where Tommy can’t cover it. He’s learned over the years, learned that beating a black eye into Tommy means Tommy missing school and now work, and means people check in on them. Dream wants them to be left alone, so the bruises never creep any further past where his sleeves and pants can cover. Cuts and stinging slices across skin that can be hidden, and glass in his knees, not his palms.
By the time Sunday morning rolls around and Tommy can drag himself up at 3:30, forcing himself to be silent so he doesn’t wake up Dream, his whole body is fucking sore as hell.
It wasn’t even anything huge. Tommy thinks Dream could just sense he felt victorious and wanted to ruin it. He wouldn’t be surprised.
The diner is dark but he has the keys and the lights flicker on, pale fluorescent lining the tiles in the back. Tommy patches himself up here; caught in the moments between day and night, fifteen minutes before Jack shows up and starts warming the stovetops. At three fifty-six, the door bell jingles.
“Jack,” Tommy says without looking up from his spot behind the counter, the tiles cool against his bruised and beaten skin. He probably shouldn’t be lying on the floor– who the fuck knows what’s been on it? “We’re nearly out of milk, gonna have to make a run.”
There’s a hum. A voice that Tommy knows isn’t Jack Manifold, his good friend and coworker, so Tommy is immediately on edge. He shoots to his feet, tugging down his sleeves and glaring through the back to the front.
In front of the register stands Phil Watson-Soot.
“We’re not open,” Tommy says instantly. “Go away.”
“The customer service here is impeccable,” Phil says and what is with their family and saying that . His eyes crinkle when he smiles. Tommy swallows. “Don’t worry, I’m not here for long. I just wanted to catch you before anyone else.” He says the word catch like it’s part of the long con, part of the game. Phil looks like a measly old man on the outside, but Tommy can hear the thrumming. Like war drums underneath his skin– Phil is dangerous. Phil is deadly.
“Why?” Tommy asks, coming around from the kitchen to behind the counter. Phil is still smiling.
“Techno told me last night you don’t have a phone,” he says, and then there’s a package on the counter, plastic and cardboard. “I got you–”
“No.”
He can’t help himself. He knows there’s a game he’s playing here, a war to win, but this is too much. Too much, too soon. What had he been thinking earlier? Phil wanted to dote– this is doting, this is a gift, and Tommy would be indebted. It’s not even a cheap phone. It’s an IPhone, still wrapped in plastic and sealed. Brand new, one of the latest models.
“Take it,” Phil says. “You need a phone, Tommy.”
“I don’t need shit, bitch,” he snaps, and there’s a frantic flicker of worry behind Phil’s eyes for a moment and he inhales, then sighs.
“You need a phone,” he says. “Trust me. You do. For school. The way the world works these days, you really do.”
“No, no no no, no.” Tommy is firm.
“Tommy,” Phil says. “I’m just going to leave it here. You deserve one, it’s the least I can do.”
Tommy knows this game.
He’d googled it once. They called it love-bombing– Dream had been more open to the technique when Tommy was smaller, giving him gifts and hugging him and using nice words instead of cruel ones. He’d hit Tommy but then he’d pet through his hair and tell him sorry and say he would never do it again, as long as Tommy was good. Love bombing. A destructive force mixed in with the painful heartbeats in his chest. Tommy knows it when he sees it, and he is being so fucking good for Phil and Wil and Techno; there’s no way they don’t know what they’re doing. The only problem is, Tommy also knows. He’s supposed to be winning, flipping the script on it’s head and making them his and instead of letting them take him as theirs . Their methods shouldn’t be working, especially when he can spot the red flags a hundred miles away.
But Phil sounds so sincere, so simple. Like fact is fact, and the fact is that Phil knows better than Tommy does on this matter. He does need a phone.
“I can’t,” he says, because he’s losing whatever control he thought he had and is now grasping for it back. “My guardian–” Not going to call him dad, or brother, no time to explain their fucked up relationship to Phil, “–he doesn’t let me.”
“Why not?” Phil asks. Prying. Tone light to cover the curiosity.
“I’m not old enough,” Tommy lies. Dream just wants complete and utter control over Tommy’s life. Easier to lie now and beg for forgiveness later. “I gotta wait ‘til I’m 18.”
“How old are you?” Phil asks, looking utterly perplexed.
“17,” Tommy admits.
“Until when?”
“April.”
“Yeah, fuck that shit,” Phil says, and he puts the phone down on the counter in front of them both. “Your guardian’s an idiot.” Tommy gapes. “Take the phone. Hide it, if you have to. I’ll pay the bills until you turn 18 so you can keep it. Seriously, Tommy. Everyone needs a phone. What if you got into trouble?”
“I wouldn’t get into trouble,” Tommy says, inflicting the words with such utter exasperation that he’s sure Phil understands. The only trouble for him these days is unavoidable in the halls of his own home. “Seriously, Phil,” he mocks. “I’m not taking that.”
“You are,” Phil says gently. “I know you want it.”
“What is with you lot and thinking you know what I fucking want?” Tommy asks, throwing his hands in the air and turning around in a circle with a glare towards the ceiling. “I could want fuck-all and you wouldn’t know! I could want to hula hoop in a grass skirt and you’d be none the wiser! You–” He whips around, stabbing an accusing finger at Phil, “– have no idea what I want.”
Phil is silent. They stand there, staring at each other. Tommy’s chest is heaving.
Then Phil moves forward, and Tommy flinches back.
Again, both of them come to a dead stop. Phil’s face is sad, but it’s always sad, and so that means bull-fucking-shit. Tommy likes playing the mind games, he does, but it’s almost five in the fucking morning and he’s exhausted. His brain hurts. There are butterflies in his skull, colored pink and green and orange. Tommy’s having trouble sorting out any blue between them.
“Tommy,” Phil says after a second. “You know Wilbur cares about you.”
“Yeah,” Tommy says, and his hands are shaking minutely. Just enough that he can hide it, spreading them down his pants and wiping his palms roughly on the denim. “Yeah, I do.”
“So do I,” Phil says quietly. “So does Techno.”
“I’m your favorite waiter,” Tommy says, scoffing lightly.
“You’re our favorite friend,” Phil says. “And if you ever needed help– if you ever, ever needed anything– we would be here for you.” Yeah, Tommy’s heard that one before. Dream said it, back when he’d first adopted Tommy. He knows how this kind of love works– a fast-burning candle. Tommy is the unfortunate wick.
And yet. “Does that include a thousand dollar phone?” he asks, glancing down at the offending article of technology on the counter. The plastic wrap shines, unbroken and gleaming.
“Yeah,” Phil says. “It does. It’s got our numbers on it.”
Phil wants to dote. Phil wants to see a vulnerable piece of Tommy, and he wants to make it better .
Tommy reaches out and takes the phone.
Phil’s shoulders visibly relax. Hell, the man even takes a step back away from Tommy like he’s a wild animal, some kind of creature to be tamed and not a kid with a mind of his own. He holds back a satisfied scowl, because genuinely he is satisfied. Phil has seen an ugly part of him and reacted accordingly. Reacted right. Phil’s passed a test even if he has no idea about it. Good on him, Tommy thinks. Didn’t even have to study. He shoves the phone under the counter. He can deal with it later when he isn’t busy opening up the diner and waiting for an increasingly toeing-the-line on late Jack Manifold, and when Phil isn’t hovering like a mother bird over her nest. He shoves his hands in his pockets once it’s safe below, and runs his fingers over the receipt that had Techno’s number on it. Huh. Perfect.
“Can I get you a coffee for the road?” he asks.
“Tommy,” Wilbur says.
“Wilbur,” Tommy says.
“Tommy.”
“Wil-bah.”
“Tomathy.”
“Wilbster.”
“That’s a new one.” Wilbur’s laugh is infectious, the man himself a regular old Typhoid Mary of delirious joy. Tommy loves him. Loves him, loves him, loves him. “Timmy?”
“Absolutely not,” Tommy bites back, and nevermind, he does not love Wilbur. “My name is Tommy , thank you very much. I’ll revoke your pie privileges, bitch.”
“Not my pie privilege,” Wilbur laments. “Whatever shall I do? Beg our beloved Niki herself for a slice of heaven?”
“Don’t bring me into this,” Niki warns from behind the counter, and Tommy grins. The diner is empty– it is nearing closing on a slow Tuesday night, and Wilbur currently occupies the Watson-Soot booth. He’s got sheets of music strewn about him, and across from him sits Technoblade with various history books and research papers intermixed with Wilbur’s. (Phil is absent. Busy with work, Wil had said.) They’d chatted about college for a bit, but now the man is leaning heavily on the table with four empty mugs and a laptop in front of him, typing slowly but surely away. Tommy has taken to leaning against Wilbur, his back pressed to Wil’s shoulder, and annoying him. Most of his work is done anyways– there’s nothing to do but indulge.
“Oh Niki,” Wilbur hums, “our darling Niki, how sweet, the sound.”
“That’s Amazing Grace ,” Tommy says. “You’re a shit singer.”
“That’s not what you said when I sent you the demo of Vienna,” Wilbur shoots back, and Tommy curls his knees to his chest. His brand new IPhone is on the table, screen facing down, although now it’s not all that new. It’s been a few weeks, actually, since Phil had given it to him. And he’s amassed a good few numbers on it. Three contacts to four, to five to six, eventually to nine. Tommy hadn’t even thought nine people had cared about him, let alone enough to get his number and promise not to call him too late at night. He’d been hiding it from Dream fairly easily– it’s a small, slick machine, easy to tuck into pockets and sleeves. Silent is a must when he’s home, but he takes time out of his day to go for a walk and listen to anything Wilbur sends him. TikToks, music demos, YouTube videos. Holy shit, Tommy loves YouTube. How the fuck was he living without it before?
How had he been living without Wilbur before? Tommy’s life has been separated into two, now: the Before and After. Before had been dull and empty, but now in the After Tommy is finally fucking happy. Genuinely. He feels like one of those Hallmark movie stars now– his type of love is good, but this is so much better. His plan had worked. The Watson-Soots are fully and utterly enamored with him, one of them coming around for every one of his shifts now. They only really hang out at the diner, but Tommy plans to change that soon enough. It’s only a matter of time, honestly. He leans against Wilbur and thinks of Vienna, a song Wilbur had sent to him crooning of foreign cities and bandaids on cheeks and trench coats with pockets so deep you can fit oceans into them. It really had been good; it’s why now, Tommy just sputters at Wilbur’s retort.
“Fuck you,” he says. Wilbur just laughs.
“That the best you can come up with?” he asks, and Tommy turns and cranes his neck in order to stick his tongue out at him.
“I’ll ask Jack to piss in your soup,” Tommy says cheerfully. “And he’s the type of bloke to do it, too.”
“Duly noted,” Wilbur says, chuckling lightly to himself and marking something down on the music sheet below him. Tommy smiles. Headlights from passing cars outside shine on the wall as they pass, the dim yellow glow of streetlights shining through the windows. He leans his head back until it bumps against Wilbur’s, but the other doesn’t say a word.
Tommy is happy.
And there’s only a little ways left to go.
He gets home that night late, because Niki had insisted they all stay after and have Wilbur play a song for them. He’d pulled a guitar out of their fancy-ass car and strummed it, and the concert had been lovely, but now Tommy is late coming home. It’s usually no issue– he can make excuses and say shit to get out of it, but the minute he steps in the front door something is off in the house. The air is colder. The hairs on his neck rise. Tommy creeps through the dark front hall, down past the dim kitchen and through the quiet house. No one has caught him yet. He’s so close, so close to relative safety of his bedroom when:
“Tommy,” Dream says, and Tommy freezes.
“Yeah?” He asks, turning, mouth going dry. He’s caught on the precipice of the doorway, between the safety of his room and the hallway. Dream stands at the end of the hall, and then something clicks and he’s outlined by the sudden flash of kitchen light, warm and yellow. It halos around his head, golden hair glimmering in the light. Darker than Tommy’s own, but similar enough.
“How was work?” Dream asks. Tommy blinks. Dream never asks that. He never asks anything, really, which is why Tommy is allowed to get away with shit outside all the time. He feels the heaviness of his new phone in his pocket, hidden by his hoodie. The new sneakers hidden in the garage, the trinkets, the money– he has to know. The thought paralyzes Tommy.
“Fine,” he manages to say. “Long. Had to stay after.”
Dream hums. Tommy can’t make out the expression on his face in the dark. Then, after an eternity: “Send in your two weeks notice tomorrow.”
“What?”
“You heard me.” Dream steps out of the kitchen and into the shadows, face coming into focus and darkening. Tommy steps back. “Send in your two weeks tomorrow. You’re working too much.”
“I need the money, Dream,” Tommy says after a second of shock. He can’t lose this job. It’s the only thing keeping him afloat now; that, and the Watson-Soots. “I– I need the– I mean, can’t I just cut down on hours maybe? I can switch shifts with, uhm, with Niki–”
“You’re quitting,” Dream says quietly. Tommy’s mouth snaps shut. “I want you to focus on school this semester. Bring your grades up.”
Tommy doesn’t bite back the instinctive response, “I’m second in my class.”
“And that’s not good enough!” Dream’s voice raises, then settles. “Tommy. You’re quitting. And if you don’t hand it in tomorrow, I’ll lock you in and call them myself. Understand?”
He’s gotten lazy. Slacking, lately. Being around Wilbur especially has made Tommy let his guard down.
“Fuck off,” he says instinctively, and in less than a second he’s realized his mistake. “Wait, no, no no no, I didn’t mean– Dream, I’m sorry–”
“See what I fucking mean?” Dream snaps, storming down the hall as Tommy stumbles backwards into his room. A hand lashes out, grips his wrist, bruisingly hard. “Don’t you think I notice shit, Tommy? Don’t you think I pay attention?” Fuck, fuck, fuck– Tommy twists, but Dream’s grip is like a vice. “You’ve been hiding things from me, and working every day for hours. You’re avoiding me.” His voice gets slimy, and Tommy inhales, then exhales. “Me. Poor old me, who has to sit in the dark at home and wait for you to get back. I miss you, Tommy.”
That’s a lie. It’s a lie, but Tommy can’t talk back, but he is anyway. “You’re a liar,” he spits, fear lacing his voice. “Stop it! Dream! You’re hurting me–”
He hears it before he realizes what happens. A sharp noise, like the crack of a whip, and then Tommy is staring to the side at his wall and Dream’s hand hangs in the air in the corner of his vision. His cheek burns– the pain comes secondary to the fire, to the shock coursing through his system. His face aches.
“I’m losing you,” Dream whispers a second later, and in the dark of his bedroom his eyes almost glint when Tommy looks up at him. “I’m losing you, aren’t I?”
“No,” Tommy says, trying to damage control. What does he like to hear? “No, I’m with you, I’m– Dream, we’re in this together.”
“You ruined my life,” Dream says quietly, louder than a whisper but still soft. Tommy’s cheek stings as though it’s been dragged through a thousand nettles. His wrist aches. “You ruined my life, and now I’m losing you. Can you even imagine everything I gave up for you?” Tommy shakes his head, trying to stagger backwards. Dream’s gaze is like a lazar, locking him in place and making his fingers tremble. “Everything I did was for you and now you just want to leave?”
“I’m not leaving,” Tommy whispers hoarsely, though he wishes for nothing except to launch himself out the nearest window. “Dream, I’m sorry, I’ll quit, I’ll quit if it makes you happy, I’m sorry.”
“ You don’t make me happy,” Dream snaps, and then Tommy’s wrist is free and he staggers all the way back until the backs of his knees hit his bed. Dream scowls, and then something shifts in his pocket and slips and clatters to the floor. Both of them look down– Tommy a second later, just late enough to see how Dream’s face goes slack and cold.
His phone lies on the ground, still without a case, face down. Distantly, Tommy thinks: I hope it didn’t crack.
“Where,” Dream says, voice level and dangerous, “the fuck did you get that?”
“Dream,” Tommy pleads. He doesn’t have any time.
“Where the fuck did you get that?” Dream repeats. Tommy is so fucked.
“I bought it,” he lies. “With– with paychecks. Money. My money.”
“Liar,” Dream says smoothly, whipping his head to pin him in his gaze. A butterfly to board, Tommy’s wings are spread and he’s caught, he’s pinned, he’s so fucking dead.
He wants Wilbur.
He wants Wilbur to come and wrap him up under one arm, to laugh and tell him it’ll be okay. He wants what he’s claimed as his , but he can’t even try and quietly call him because his phone is on the floor and Dream is– Dream is taking a step forward and he looks so angry that Tommy doesn’t think. He just panics and runs, feet moving before he can stop himself. He feints to the left and then goes right when Dream tries to catch him, ducking under his elbow and chucking his body through the doorway. It’s like he’s above himself, watching his body as he moves through the house and stumbles through the hallway towards the front door. Away from Dream, the golden light of the kitchen catching him in it’s light as he passes. Dream is shouting behind him, angry threats and insults, but Tommy is out the door before he can grab him.
He’s running. Bare feet against concrete and gravel, the tiny rocks digging into his heels and stinging. He can barely feel it– adrenaline pumps through his veins as he sprints down the street, passing underneath street lamp after street lamp with the wind whipping through his ears, filling his ears until he can’t hear anything else. He can’t hear anything else.
Dream’s shouting has stopped by the time he dares to stop running, on a distant street corner. He chokes on his own breath, leaning over with his hands on his knees and breath coming fast and shaky, desperate. He can’t hear Dream shouting anymore.
He’s so tired.
He can’t go back. Going back is a death sentence, but he left his phone and his shoes and his emergency cash there– he’s barefoot in the middle of the road in the dark, without even his keys. He still can’t go back. Dream will kill him. Guess it’s time to move up the schedule a bit.
He goes to the only place he can think of: the diner.
It’s closed now– in fact, Tommy was the one who locked the doors. But he’s been working there for two years and he knows all the secrets. Every single one, including the loose window in the back that leads into the kitchen, just above the sink. All it takes is a little bit of prying and the screen pops off, and then Tommy just has to jimmy the lock until the window slides upwards. He clambers in, landing on the nasty tile with his bare feet and ignoring the chill. Through the dark kitchen, out to the counter. Only a few hours ago he was sitting in the booth in the back, happy and content. Now, everything is different. He’s moving on autopilot and without thinking, disarms the alarm on the front door. Then picks up the phone and stares down at it.
With one trembling hand, he presses in the only number he can seem to remember.
The phone rings. And rings. And rings.
Finally, someone picks up.
“‘ullo?” The voice on the other end sounds groggy, as though he’s just woken up. Tommy can’t bring himself to feel bad about it. He forces as much upset into his voice as he can manage, which, considering everything isn’t very difficult.
“Techno,” he sobs.
They get there faster than Tommy thought humanly possible. He sits in the dark of the diner and waits, the sticky plastic of the booth beneath his hands and feet and leans his head against the window until he sees the headlights coming, pulling into the parking lot and not even bothering to find a spot. They just pull up to the front and Tommy pushes himself out of the booth, but he barely gets two steps towards the door before Wilbur is throwing it open. He’s in his pajamas– they all are, Phil, Techno, and him. Sweatpants and a too-big shirt that’s got the faded logo of some band on it. He’s wearing slippers. Techno isn’t wearing his glasses. Phil’s hair is loose.
Wilbur scoops him up into a hug before he can say a thing, arms warm around him and caging him in like a bird. He lets him– he lets him hold him, and stays quiet as the door shuts with a jingle.
“Techno, turn on the light,” Wilbur instructs, his voice muffled by Tommy’s hair. After a second and some footsteps, the lights flick on. Tommy blinks furiously as it floods his eyes and Wilbur pulls away just for a moment, eyes scanning him and catching on his face. He worries his bottom lip between his teeth, one hand coming up hesitantly.
Tommy nods.
“Will it bruise?” He asks as Wilbur ghosts his fingers over his still-sore cheek.
“Are those fucking fingerprints?” Phil says sharply from behind Wilbur and Tommy stiffens. Wilbur is quiet, his eyes still on Tommy’s face as he inspects, fingers tracing down his neck and then stopping there.
“Where are your shoes?” Techno asks, voice low. Tommy shakes his head.
“I didn’t take anything,” he says, throat clogged. “I just– went.”
“It’s not your fault, mate,” Phil says gently, and Tommy shuts his eyes. He wants to weep.
Because this is it. He’s won .
He gambled for them, gambled the danger for their protection and look at them. They came when he called even though it’s– it’s nearly midnight. He woke Techno up, dragged all three of them out of bed and they came. They dropped everything for him. It’s what he wanted down to the T, and the T is Tommy because Tommy fucking won.
A laugh rips it’s way out of his throat before he can stop it, and all three sets of concerned eyes grow even more concerned. He wants to sob. He wants to laugh.
“Tommy?” Wilbur asks, and Tommy just shakes his head.
“I’m done,” he says. It’s the truth. He’s won– there’s nothing left to be done. He’s finished. “I want to go home.”
“I’m not letting you go back there,” Wilbur hisses and Tommy chokes out another sob-laugh, because he’s misunderstanding. He shakes his head. His home isn’t with Dream and it hasn’t been for a while– they just needed to catch up.
“With you,” he mutters, and he can pinpoint the moment when Wilbur realizes, eyes snapping open and then going impossibly soft.
“Oh,” he says, then, “yes, yes, of course. Techno, the car–”
“Pretty sure Phil left it running,” Techno drawls, and Tommy laughs because holy shit, he did that. He made those worried faces. He’s the reason their fancy ass Tesla is out front with the engine still running. They ran to him .
It’s heady, a powerful rush of victory. Tommy buries his head into Wilbur’s shoulder and laughs so hard he sobs. He will make it so they never stop running to him.
They take him home.
He wins.
“I think he passed out,” Techno says an undetermined amount of time later. Tommy is leaning against the window, eyes shut, mouth half-open as his forehead leans against the cold glass and is pillowed just slightly by his seatbelt. Wilbur is in the back with him– hasn’t let go of his hand, really.
“Yeah?” Wilbur asks, voice low but snarky. “You think?”
Even from the passenger seat, Techno can see the dried tear tracks on Tommy’s face.
“He’s had a bad day,” Phil says absently, glancing into the rearview. “Poor thing.”
“You got what you wanted, Wil,” Techno says casually. “He came. Right to us.”
“Of course he did,” Wilbur says, and Tommy shifts just minisculely, and all of them shut up. But then he sighs, and settles, and Phil heaves a sigh of his own. “We’ve been getting him to trust us for ages. I’d be concerned if he didn’t.”
“All that work,” Phil says, slightly amused. Techno hums.
“I can’t wait for him to see his room,” Wilbur muses. “The paint smell is almost gone by now. I hope we got the shade right.”
“I’m sure he’ll like it,” Phil says, glancing back again. As nonchalant as he’s being, Techno knows he’s just as ecstatic. They all are. “It’s from us, after all. And once he’s settled, we can handle the… other problem.”
Tommy’s poor excuse for a guardian.
Yeah, even just thinking about him makes Techno want to snarl.
“Cut the ties,” Wilbur hums. “Snap the… cords. A fresh start for all of us, maybe.” He reaches up, tucks a curl of Tommy’s behind his ear. “I’m so pleased he’s working out.”
“Just like we wanted,” Techno murmurs, and fixes his eyes on the road ahead of them. Almost home.
In the darkness of the car, no one sees the way Tommy’s lips curl up, just a bit. Just enough.