Archive of Our Own ^beta

A hand reaches out to him. It calls him, but it’s far away. Very far away. The voice is calling, but he can’t hear the words. 

It takes almost everything in him to raise his trembling fingers. To try and reach back. He doesn’t, of course. Just twitches desperately, his muscles failing him once again. 

The voice calls again, searching, searching, but he knows they won’t find him. He’s hidden, sequestered, sheltered. Trapped. 

His bloody fingers fall to the ground. 

Tommy wakes up. Not slowly, not quickly. He just… wakes. It’s another day, another dawn, another piece of this life to swallow. To force down. 

He shifts, feeling the hardwood against his back. His knees are folded in front of him because there’s no room to stretch them out. His toes are squished against the other side of the closet. His leg twitches, and he must bite his lip to stop him from crying out in pain. 

He needs to float again. To detach. Half the time he can manage to make it happen, and his days pass much easier. The other half are… painful. Long. Tiring. Really tiring. Most days, he can’t wait to sleep. To try and reach out, find whatever is searching for him. 

That’s the strange bit about the dreams. That he remembers them. 

He never did before, but these dreams didn’t start until he turned fourteen. He remembers the day vividly. How could he not? It was the day everything turned to shit. That was just under two years ago now. Or was it two exactly? He hasn’t been counting the days, doesn’t know if it’s his birthday yet. It must be soon. Right? 

Footsteps come up the stairs, heavy and sure. Tommy lets them turn to fuzzy static. 

Good. He’s floating today. 

Dimly he knows the door opens. Something is said. Maybe he says something back. He blinks, once, twice, and he’s outside, and it’s raining. He stumbles, crashing into the rail on his front doorstep dully. Someone says something behind him, and his mouth moves of its own accord. 

“Yes, sir.” 

He straightens, aligns his vertebrae one by one, and tries to take a step, keeping one hand hovering over the railing. Just in case. It turns out to be a good decision; his left knee crumples and that entire side screams in the pain. Slowly he straightens again. Keeping his weight on his right foot, he shuffles forward.

Okay. He can manage. He can walk. 

He doesn’t remember a list, or anything other than his reply just then, so he assumes that today, he’s just not wanted. Well, he’s never wanted, but not wanted in the house. Someone must be coming over, or maybe he just wanted some quiet. Maybe he’s finally fed up with Tommy. It wouldn’t be the first time. It’s not going to be the last. 

Tommy sighs. He can’t remember, so he’ll return at sunset. See what happens. That is usually when they want him back, although disappointment racks his foster’s faces whenever he does return. 

Tommy knows they want him dead. 

He knows it would be easier for them. After all, they’re spending all this time and effort on him, a useless punching bag. Surely they have better things to do. 

Maybe Tommy will make their lives easier someday. Not today, of course, but someday. Soon? When he felt like it. Maybe. 

The houses blur past him as he walks. It’s raining still. He’s cold. It doesn’t matter though. It’s not like he’s spending the night out here. He hopes. The rain is just a nuisance. An annoyance. Something he can push through.

So, he shuffles on, heading to the park. 

He likes the park. It may be one of the only things he likes that he’s allowed to have. Sometimes. It’s green. When it’s dry, there are swings. When it’s wet, he walks under the trees. Sometimes, sometimes he can walk in the trees for a little too long. Sometimes, he thinks he’s walking in a forest instead, with miles and miles of trees around him. 

When he feels that, he turns around. 

Normally it takes him a few hours in the park to get that feeling. The roll of goosebumps, the prickle of his neck, the phantom of a hand around his wrist. 

Today, he walks into the park and stops. Someone is there. 

Now, this isn’t an unusual occurrence. People came to the park all the time. What makes Tommy stop was the fact that he didn’t recognise this person. He knew almost everyone around here, not that they knew him. It was a small town, a very small town. Everyone came through the park occasionally. 

But Tommy has never seen this person before. 

They have their back to Tommy, so all he can see is a long, dark coat, a shiny booted heel, and a brown head of hair. It shines in the rain but doesn’t seem wet. Somehow. They’re tall, too. Much taller than Tommy. 

He turns. He’ll just leave. The park will always be here to return to. Maybe by the time he’s shuffled to the other entrance, the person will be gone. 

“Hey.” 

Tommy freezes and turns around. He tries to disguise his limp as best as he can, but he has a feeling he’s unsuccessful. The stranger has turned to him, and now that he can see the man, Tommy wonders why he was so scared. 

Sure, the man’s tall, probably taller than his foster father, but he’s lanky. His coat is big and long and dark, but underneath is a bright yellow turtleneck that looks so soft. He’s wearing a necklace with an emerald pendant. Bad guys don’t wear necklaces, right? None of his fosters ever have. 

Tommy nods, although in hindsight the movement was probably too small for the man to see. He’s about to repeat it when the man nods back, digging a hand into the pocket of his dark, clean pants. 

“Can you help me?” 

The rain patters on Tommy’s hair, his shoulders, the ground. It touches the man but doesn’t seem to sink in. His clothes look no more than damp when they should be soaking. Tommy should know; his shirt is plastered to him. He wouldn’t be surprised if it was see-through. 

Tommy blinks. The man asked him a question. He nods again, not quite trusting his voice. The man seems nice, so Tommy takes a step forward. 

The man smiles. It… something is wrong, but Tommy can’t put his finger on it. “Thank you. I’m looking for someone.” The man tilts his head, and something gleams in his brown eyes. With the motion, a strand of wavy hair falls forward, but it all seems so perfect. The man is perfect. 

Tommy clears his throat, rather pathetically. “Who?” He rasps. His eyes study the man’s face. It’s oddly symmetrical, and rather… pretty. Tommy looks, but he can’t find any flaws. He keeps looking. 

The man smiles some more, and Tommy studies the angles of his lips. “Someone lost. Someone who needs to be found.” And he steps closer. Tommy doesn’t flinch, doesn’t back up as he should. He just watches flashing eyes. It’s mesmerising. 

“I don’t… what does that mean?” He whispers, and the noise is lost in the rain. He takes a step forward, opens his mouth, but the man beats him to it. 

With another tilt of the head, he comes even closer. If they held out their arms, their fingertips would brush. “It means someone who’s alone. Who needs help.” 

I’m alone, Tommy thinks. But he isn’t, not really. He has his fosters. I need help, his mind whispers. But ‘help’ is never really help. Not in his experience. 

The man takes one more step, and Tommy can see his eyes lighting up the rain. “Little one. You’re hurt.” He says, and something changes with his voice. It sparkles, dances, twirls into the air. Tommy can’t stop looking at his eyes. 

“I know,” he says, swallowing. He doesn’t know why he admits it, but what use is there in lying? This man is nice. His eyes shine and his words dance. His clothes are dry, and it’s raining. Tommy’s finger twitches. Nothing makes sense.

The man’s eyes get bigger, and somehow Tommy can feel warmth radiating off them. He shivers. He’s really cold. “What happened?” asks the stranger, and Tommy knows he can’t answer this one. 

“Nothing,” is his reply. “Nothing at all.” His teeth are clacking. They have been this whole time. Gold light gets brighter, and goosebumps cover his arms at the new wave of gentle heat. It’s not enough to stop him from shivering, but it’s a taste. A morsel of something sweet, soft. He wants it. So badly. 

But there’s something stopping him, something out of his control. 

At his answer, the man reaches out but hesitates. “Nothing?” Finally, his fingers graze Tommy’s shoulder, and warmth erupts from the contact. “That’s a lot of nothing, little one.” 

The warmth cuts off as soon as the finger leaves the drenched fabric of Tommy’s shirt. Something else slides in, something cold and hard. It makes the man’s eyes hurt a little, instead of shine. It makes the lilting melody of his voice a little bit too high. Too sharp. 

Tommy winces, and the man stills. The finger brushes back over the same spot, but nothing happens, and Tommy could cry. That warmth was- so much, but not at all enough. He wants, needs more. But now he can’t get it. 

“It was nothing,” Tommy hears himself say. “I have to go back.” His finger twitches as he turns back around. 

“Tomorrow.” The man says, the high-sharp-dance of his voice still there. Despite its new abrasiveness, Tommy still wants to hear more. Despite himself, Tommy turns his head, but the man is gone. 

Tommy isn’t convinced he was real at all. 

His father is waiting in the doorway when he gets home. His eyes are dark, brows lowered. Things blur. 

He might be in the kitchen. Someone is yelling at him? There’s something shiny, metal. Things blur more than usual. He blinks, blinks, blinks. He’s in his bedroom this time. On the floor. The carpet scratches his face. It always has. 

He tries to push himself up but his arms don’t work. There’s a fresh explosion of pain, of rippling agony, and the world goes fuzzy again. Just enough that he stares at the wall until the hours slip by like water. It’s morning when he’s finally settled. He tries to move again, tries to roll over. He manages, somehow. He has to blink a few times to get rid of the pain, and he knows a few hours have passed. His foster must be out today, or else he would have gotten Tommy up by now. 

He sits up, and that takes a few blinks too. Finally, he looks at his arms. 

They’re covered in slashes and cuts, bloody marks that carve up his skin. There’s some on his legs too, and his torso. Blood drips into his eye, and he blinks it out. On his face, too, then. And they do look like marks. Some of them are even familiar, vaguely. Maybe they’re symbols? Maybe they mean something? Or maybe he just took a knife to him at random. Aside from asking, there’s really no way to tell. 

He lets himself drift off to sleep. There’s no point staying up. He’ll just float again. He closes his eyes and lets the dark colours swirl into nothingness. 

A hand, reaching out for him. It’s closer, but now there’s something in the way.

Tommy can't twitch. He wants to, he so desperately wants to stand up and run to the hand, but he can’t even blink. 

The voice, the voices, they call, and Tommy cries. He doesn't make a sound though. Something’s wrong. 

They can’t find him. Something’s wrong.

Tommy wakes. This time it is suddenly. The door slammed, which woke him up. He immediately tries to scramble to his feet, but nothing happens. His body just twitches before he has to force himself to relax lest he cries out with the pain.
 
Tommy waits. 

Nothing happens, which means that Tommy is alone in the house. He wants to go downstairs, to visit the park again. But that would mean moving, stuffing his bleeding body down the street. 

It’s worth it, he decides. 

It takes him hours to get to the front door, and he only knows because he catches the time on the clock in his bedroom, and once again on the oven clock, he can glimpse through the door. 

It’s worth it. 

He shuffles out the door and slowly manoeuvres himself down the shallow front steps. He leans heavily on the iron rail and eventually makes it to the street. And tiny step by tiny step, he makes his way towards the park. It must take him another few hours because he loses sections of the journey. 

He comes back to himself in time to pass through the iron gates of the park. In time to see the man, once again standing in the middle of the path, but this time with his back to the trees. 

“Little one,” the man says, eyes sharp as they land on his cuts and gashes, “Who did this?” As soon as his voice twirls into the air, Tommy relaxes. Not physically, because if he did that he’d fall over, but a small part of him mentally begins to unwind. To trust.

This was the nice man after all. The nice man with the gold eyes and the warm touch. 

The man walks forward, coming all the way up to Tommy, who stopped just inside the park’s gate. “Little one.” He croons, and Tommy gets swept up in his eyes. They’re so close, closer than last time. He can see the gold specks that flash, that glow. It’s not raining this time, so he can’t see the way they light up the droplets like sunshine. But he gets to see them closer. He can live with that trade. 

“Come on, little one. Who did this?” The man mutters softly, with words meant only for Tommy’s ears. His voice is so soothing, even with its biting edge. Tommy laments when it was softer, but he’ll take it anyway. 

Tommy sighs before he looks at his feet. The man is nice, but his cuts hurt. “No one.” He whispers, and he doesn’t have to look up to know the man doesn’t believe him. 

A hand hovers in the corner of his eye but doesn’t land on him as he wants it to. Instead, it falls to the man’s side, over his dark, long coat. Tommy’s finger twitches. “Sweetie. Can you look at me?” He says, and his voice is dancing.

Tommy looks up. 

The man smiles, just a little. “There. Now, how about we go for a walk?” He tilts his head, and his wavy hair bounces. It shines in the late afternoon sun, and Tommy almost says yes, but-

“It’s getting late. I have to go back.” Tommy looks back at his shoes. His cuts burn. 

The man’s eyes flash. “Already? We only just started talking.” He remarks, and while it sounds… playful, there’s something darker. Tommy knows it isn’t meant for him, but it makes a bite of cold skip down his spine nonetheless.

“I have to go back.” He whispers, ignoring the way the hairs on the back of his neck rise. He turns. 

“Tomorrow.” The man says, and Tommy knows he is gone. 

His foster isn’t there when he gets back, and Tommy breathes a sigh of relief. Yesterday had been bad. He climbs the stairs and collapses into his bed, wondering briefly if he was supposed to sleep in the closet. It was a bit too late now, though, so he let his eyes slide shut. 

There is a hand. It reaches blindly, searching, still searching, desperate and fierce. The voice sounds desperate, too. It yells, it calls, and Tommy yearns to call back. 

His finger twitches. He tries again because he must do something, and somehow his hand lifts off the ground. He’s shaking, there’s something dripping from his fingertips, but it’s lifted. 

There’s a flash of something, and the hand turns in his direction, but Tommy’s strength has been buried in pain. His hand falls to the floor as the runes clawed onto his skin hiss and spit. 

The voices cry out like they feel his pain. The hand is still reaching, and Tommy cries as his body trembles on the floor. Something is wrong. 

They can’t find him. 

He wakes up slowly. There’s sleep in the corner of his eyes, gunky and old. He lifts his head to rub it away and-

 There’s a dark silhouette above him. Tommy freezes, and he can feel his pupils contract at the pure fear that floods his body like venom. Nothing works, not even his eyes. The figure is dark, looming, tall, eyes burning red as his hand latches into Tommy’s hair- 

“HOW COULD YOU-“ 

That’s a hammer. He’s holding a hammer. 

“-then you disobey me. You go melding with beasts you don’t understand-“

The moon is pretty. He can see it through the window in the hall, through the crack in the closet door. 

The basement. He’s never been here before. 

Pain, pain, so much pain, make it stop, he’s sorry, make it stop, stop stop he’s sorry sorry sorrysorrysorrysorry

Oh. The man would be waiting in the park. 

“-you’re lucky. To have-“ 

He’s standing in the park. Somehow he’s made it here. His feet hurt, so he’d definitely walked. Well. Actually. Everything hurts really. The cuts from- he doesn’t know anymore, but they don’t hurt that much. But. His hand. 

He lets his head drop, lets his neck muscles tense and flare in pain as he looks at his hand, limp and useless at his side. It’s too big, swollen. His ring finger doesn’t hang right; the middle joint is- bent. Sideways. He swallows, glancing up to this wrist. His whole hand, wrist and forearm is covered in bruises so dark they may as well be black. 

It’s broken. Very badly. 

But it doesn’t matter. It’s not like he was using it for anything important anyway, and if his father broke it, he must have deserved it. He tries to remember what happened and only gets a flash of a hammer before his mind decides it’s had enough.

Okay. It was broken with a hammer. 

He takes a deep breath. At least his ribs don’t hurt. Small victories. He looks up at the park gate he’s standing in front of, and slowly steps inside. The man is probably disappointed with him. Angry. 

He takes half a step back. He shouldn’t have come. The man will be angry with him, and will just hurt him more. He looks at his bare feet, blinking at the mottled patchwork of purple, yellow and green that meet him. If he lets his mind drift, it almost looks like the night sky. 

There’s a soft inhale. “Oh, darling,” comes a familiar voice, and Tommy looks up. The man is over by the tree line, and someone is at his shoulder, but it doesn’t matter. Gold eyes flash and glow, and Tommy stumbles forward. He almost falls but catches himself. 

“Oh, little one, dearheart, come here.” The man is much closer than he was before, but he’s holding his arm out and Tommy can’t refuse, so he lets the man approach, lets the hand hover over his cheek. He finds familiar golden lights, dancing and warm, and he lets them take him. As much as he can, anyway. 

The man doesn’t drop his hand. “You poor thing. Darling. It’s been days. Who did this to you?” His whispered words make Tommy’s head spin, in a good way. It's dizzying, the emotion in his voice. Like- like he cares. 

Tommy shakes his head. He can’t lie, but he can’t tell the truth, either. 

The man sighs but doesn’t stop hovering. Slowly, a slender finger ghosts over his cheekbone. The man hisses under his breath, but Tommy is just happy he was touched. “Baby,” he whispers, “I need you to look at me, okay? Sweetie?” Tommy blinks. He didn’t realise he’d dropped his gaze, tracing the scars on his skin. 

Tommy looks up, but his head feels heavy. Really heavy. Like someone is pushing it down, like there’s a chillingly familiar hand on the back of his head, buried in his hair, forcing his head into the ground-

“Darling.” The man says, and Tommy looks into his eyes. They’re warm, safe, and they swim with gold leaf, flashing and sparkling. “Darling, my name is Wilbur.” 

The strange, archaic letters order themselves in Tommy’s mind. He can picture it, taste it on his tongue, but he wouldn’t be able to write it down. 

“Wilbur.” Tommy lets the word slip past his lips, like a butterfly. Delicate, soft. Wilbur smiles, and the pressure on Tommy’s head increases tenfold. He shouldn’t say that. Whatever that word was, he shouldn’t say it. 

Tommy gives his head a quick shake, to see if that will relieve him of the pressure. It doesn’t. He shouldn’t say it. 

The man- Wilbur, Wilbur, his name was Wilbur- straightens, and backs away a little. Tommy nearly whines, searching for that touch, but then he sees the other man. 

Instinct kicks in, and Tommy straightens as best he can, hiding his wrist behind his thigh, letting his eyes fall to the man’s shoes. 

They’re fancy shoes. The toe is pointed, black and gleams like a dark gemstone. There’s a heel, a few inches thick, as black as the toe. He sees wine-red laces, follows them up the man’s calf until the boot ends at his knee. Dark red pants are neatly tucked into them, held up by a belt. The buckle is gold, polished to perfection. The shirt is white, pristine, and it flows beautifully. It’s tucked in at the waist, and the sleeves flare out at the wrists. 

His skin seems to hum, the scars littering it perfect. Like they were inflicted with artistic intent. He follows the arm up to the shoulder, finds the pattern in the ruffles, then lifts his gaze just a little more to meet unfamiliar eyes. 

“Hello.” The stranger’s voice is deeper than Wilbur’s, and there’s a rumble behind it that reminds him of a wolf growling, or a leopard purring in grim satisfaction. He feels older, too. Somehow.

Red flashes and Tommy drops his gaze. It’s not the same red, more like copper, like fire, like embers and fireworks and bronze and rust. He glances back up. No, it’s not the same at all. 

Wilbur’s eyes are locked on Tommy, and although Tommy isn’t looking, he can feel it. “This is my brother. Not like your kind of brother. Better.” Wilbur turns to face the new man, and Tommy realises he’s even taller. Somehow. 

Eyes flicker red again, and Tommy has to look somewhere else. It’s not the same, but from a distance, it’s very similar. The man has lots of piercings. They’re all gold, although an emerald dangles from one ear. Tommy wonders what it would be like to run his fingers along all the chains and cuffs and rings. 

His hair looks nice to touch too, all silky and gorgeous. It’s pink, a light shimmer that hints at something darker, but it reminds him of those trees. He’s only seen them in pictures, but the feeling of the wind and the cool air floods him suddenly. 

“He’s here to meet you. I told him a lot about you.” While that sentence should be threatening, the way Wilbur says it feels warm and a little sad, so Tommy doesn’t let the fear climb out of his throat like it wants to. 

Tommy glances back at the stranger’s eyes. They haven’t changed, still swirling and calm. “Hello.” He manages, his finger twitching. He wants to say more, he does, but he just doesn’t have it in him. 

The man tilts his head, just a little. A strand of pink floats over his eyes. “You didn’t answer his question, before. Who hurt you?” He asks, and Tommy can feel the vibrations of his voice in his ribs. 

Tommy shakes his head again. No lying. No telling the truth. 

Red eyes flash and narrow. “You can’t say?” He guesses, and while his voice contains none of the anger Tommy can see in the lines of his face, Tommy shrinks anyway. The man’s boots are shiny. He can see his reflection. He doesn’t look for very long. 

“It’s okay. Kid, it’s okay. I was just checking.” The rumble turns softer, and instead of rattling his bones, wraps around them, humming. Tentatively, Tommy lets his head lift again. The man’s eyes dart across his face, and something soft passes over his expression. 

Tommy’s finger twitches. There’s a spike of pain as he realises he moved his broken hand. “I- I can’t say. Sorry, I’m sorry-“

“It’s okay.” He’s cut off, but it doesn’t feel like the man is irritated. He almost sounds- Tommy would say concerned, but then the vibrations are back and he can’t think of anything else. 

“Come with us. For a walk, in the forest.” Wilbur offers, and Tommy nearly laughs. There isn’t a forest there, most of the time. But he supposes he could go for a walk. His hand hurts, but he doesn’t need his hand to walk. 

“Sure.” Tommy breathes and follows Wilbur’s back as the man slowly starts the lead them under the trees. The new man walks beside Tommy, and when he stumbles (he wasn’t looking at the ground, stupid mistake), the man catches him. 

It’s just a hand curled around his bicep, but Tommy could cry. Will cry, if the fingers stay there. They’re a little shorter than Wilbur’s fingers, but they’re heavier. If Tommy could feel warmth, they’d be warmer. Red flashes in the man’s eyes and Tommy almost thinks the grip will tighten, snap his bones (they’re very easy to snap these days), but if anything, his grip gets softer. 

Ahead of them, Wilbur has stopped, watching. The man keeps his hand on Tommy’s arm, and it’s so nice, so safe, and a tear slips past Tommy’s eyelid. The man is silent, his eyes storming as they slowly take Tommy in, bit by bit, injury by scar. 

Then he asks, “Who hurt you?” and Tommy nearly says it. Nearly says the man who’s supposed to be looking after me, his name is- But his mouth is seared shut just in time. His scars ache, the ones that have geometrical meaning, archaic symbolism, protest at the hand on his skin, at the thick trees around him, at the goosebumps covering his body. 

The flashing of red and gold (when had Wilbur gotten closer?) fades, further and further, and Tommy tries to reach out, but his fingers only twitch. 

“I have to go.” It’s his mouth that moves, his words that form on his tongue, but it isn’t him. He’s floating, or something like it, because he can feel his feet moving, knows at least one of his toes is broken but he isn’t limping. He’s letting his broken wrist swing freely, letting the joints and broken fragments of bone grate together. 

Silently, Wilbur and his brother walk him to the park gate, and silently they watch him leave. “Tomorrow.” The new man says like Wilbur always has, and although he wants to, he doesn’t turn around. 

He walks back to the house in a daze. The only thing that he can think about it the man’s hand wrapped firmly but gently around his arm. He can still feel those fingers, can still feel the safety it gave him, the way it steadied him. 

He glances down at that spot and freezes. There, on his forearm, are fingerprints. They look like they’re made in blood, but as Tommy turns his arm to get a better view, the liquid flashes a metallic silver, then gold, then bronze, tin, copper. He blinks, watching the colours dance. It’s… soothing. 

Somehow he knows it’s the man’s blood. He doesn’t question it. He doesn’t question the fact that it seems to be evaporating like the liquid is boiling on his skin. If it’s hot, he can’t feel it. He hasn’t been able to feel the heat in weeks. 

Part of him wants to wipe them off. Part of him needs to keep it there. Part of him knows, logically, he can’t show this to his father. Part of him desperately wants a reminder that the man was real, that he actually touched him. He dithers, turning the choice over in his head. He doesn’t realise he’s still walking until he’s at his doorstep, with his mind not made up, and the glimmering blood on his forearm still prominent, though slowly disappearing. 

The door is open. The lights are on. His father is waiting on the threshold. 

Tommy walks forward. 

It’s the closet this time. Not too bad. 

The hand continues its search. It won’t give up, it hasn’t for years. This new hurdle proves it’s getting closer. 

Tommy wants to cry back, wants to scream and feel the fingers in his. He wants it. He does. So badly. So why can’t he do it? 

It feels like there are thick bands of leather tying him down. Like someone’s locked all his joints and walked off with the key. He can’t move. He can’t breathe. 

The hand still searches, and Tommy knows it’s getting closer. His scars burn, but his forearm is cool and tingles. 

He tries to reach back. His finger twitches. 

The voice calls, but his throat has been filled with cement. He’s trapped somewhere, he can’t reply. 

Something is wrong. 

He manages to go back to the park after only a day in the closet. Wilbur and the man are waiting just inside the gate this time like Wilbur did before the new man joined him. Something in both men relaxes when they see Tommy. He blinks because he must have imagined it, but he can’t deny the relief on Wilbur’s face. 

“Come on baby, let’s go have a chat.” Wilbur’s voice sings, and Tommy nods eagerly, finding it easy to ignore the pain with Wilbur at his side and the other man just behind him. They lead him not to the trees, but to a bench, big enough for all three of them. Wilbur sits Tommy in the middle, between them. Their legs aren’t touching, but Tommy is just happy they’re here. He cradles his broken hand in his lap and sighs at the lack of weight on his feet. 

“So, why don’t we ask each other some questions? To get to know each other better.” Wilbur suggests, a finger hovering over the shell of Tommy’s ear. Tommy nods and then snaps his head to look at the other man because he forgot to wait for both of their approval. 

But the man hums, and the tension drains from Tommy’s body. The vibrations carry through the wood of the bench and make his muscles relax, one by one. “I’ll start,” says the man, and Tommy sinks into the curve of the bench as he listens to the dark gravel of his voice. “What’s your favourite colour?” 

Tommy blinks. His favourite colour? He thinks for a bit. Red- he likes red, but red could mean a lot of things. It could mean fire or blood. Maybe orange? That couldn’t mean blood, but it could still mean fire. Sunsets. Orange the fruit. Not yellow. He’s been sick enough times not to choose yellow. Not green. Blue could work, but blue felt sad. So did purple, somehow. Pink? Pink wasn’t bad, but it wasn’t good either. White? Was that even a colour?

Tentatively, he says “Orange.” Maybe it’ll change one day, but that’s the best answer he has for now. The men seem to sense this, and they both nod, almost in time. 

“Mine’s yellow,” Wilbur says, and Tommy looks at his sunny turtleneck that Wilbur hasn’t changed since the day Tommy met him. That makes sense. 

The other man hesitates before he says “Green. A nice, forest green. Dark.” His eyes swirl, copper leaking into the bright vivid brown. 

There’s a pause. 

“Kid, you ask us something.” The man says, and Tommy lets his head fall back against the bench. 

What can he ask? Well, he knows their favourite colours now… and he knows Wilbur’s name…

He clears his throat, and before he can second guess himself, asks, “What’s your name?” He freezes as the man stares at him, frantically back-pedalling. “S-sorry, you don’t have to answer, I’ll just ask something else, sorry, sorry, sorry-“ 

“Kid. It’s okay. I’ll tell you.” A comforting shiver runs down his spine. The man places a heavy hand on his shoulder, on his shirt, and Tommy’s jaw eases shut. He leans down to whisper in Tommy’s ear, like it’s a secret like it’s something that no one can know, like when Wilbur told him his name. 

“My name is Technoblade, little one.” He whispers, and the word fills his mind. It takes longer for the symbols and letters to fall into place, it takes longer for the taste and the image to form in his mind. He lets it rest on the tip of his tongue, and it feels heavy. 

Technoblade is older, much older than Wilbur. Tommy can feel that now. Their names feel different. No less powerful, but Technoblade is older. 

He turns his head to whisper into Technoblade’s waiting ear. “Technoblade.” And this times it leaves his lips with a hiss of steel, like a sword ready to protect its charge. The hand is on the back of his head again, but this time it’s pushing harder, pushing him down, down, down. He shakes his head, but it doesn’t do anything. 

Technoblade smiles and straightens. “That’s it little one.” He murmurs, the words still reaching Tommy despite their volume. “It’s your turn for a question.” He tells Wilbur, whose face lights up. 

“Oh! Okay, um…” A slender finger taps Wilbur’s chin before his eyes widen. “I know! What’s your favourite animal?” 

Tommy tilts his head and lets his gaze drift across the park. “I think- those, um, the birds.” He struggles to find the words because he can’t remember what they’re called, but Wilbur and Technoblade just wait patiently. Wilbur smiles at him. “They’re- uh, they’re everywhere.”

Technoblade’s eyes narrow slightly. “A pigeon?” He asks, raising a perfect eyebrow. Tommy smiles and shakes his head. He knows that those are. 

“No, no, like- small. I see them here.” He gestures to the park, and both men fall silent for a moment. 

Then Technoblade turns his gaze to Tommy and guesses, “A sparrow?” Tommy lets the word sink in and nods slowly. He thinks that’s it. Technoblade smiles, just a small twitch of his lips. “Well then little sparrow, it’s your turn for a question.” 

Tommy ducks his head at the name. It feels… personal, in a good way. Like instead of using the information to hurt him, they’re using it to… not hurt him. Maybe. He still trusts both of them, for some reason, but there’s always that tiny piece of his brain that shows him every time he’s trusted someone older than him. Every time that’s gone wrong. 

He flounders for a good question, and eventually comes up with, “What’s your favourite kind of tree?” 

Technoblade says something Tommy doesn’t recognise. Wilbur points to a birch tree. Tommy doesn’t really know a lot of trees, so says that his is oak when they ask him. 

They continue like that for what must be hours. Tommy learns that Wilbur loves music. Technoblade loves reading books so old they fall apart if you aren’t careful. Wilbur and Technoblade live together, with someone else. Technoblade’s scars are from fights he won. He’s never lost a fight. Wilbur hates the rain. With a burning passion. 

And then the sky is turning pink and rosy, and dread lines Tommy’s stomach. He has to leave. When he says as much, the men’s faces don’t darken. They don’t scowl or get angry. They smile at him, thank him, and walk him to the gate. 

Tommy goes back to the house. 

Something about the hand feels closer. There’s still something in the way, something blocking it, but Tommy thinks it has almost found him. It’s hovering somewhere above him, searching methodically instead of blindly. 

Something’s changed. But something is still wrong. 

Tommy goes back to the park. 

They sit on the bench again, ask more questions. Tommy laughs once, and although the sound dies quickly on his tongue, Wilbur and Technoblade seem to eat it up. They don’t stop asking questions though, and Tommy finds himself waiting eagerly for his turn, ready to ask about Technoblade’s hair and Wilbur’s necklace and the flowers across the path and why the sky is blue and what would happen if he ate the grass. Each question is answered with a smile or a laugh, and Tommy never wants it to end. 

It does, of course, and Tommy has to trudge back to the house. 

Hand. 

He can’t move.

Something’s wrong.

Talking at the park becomes the highlight of Tommy’s life. Even when he’s floating, he thinks of the two men and the bench, or the trees as they’ve started walking him next to. Not in, not since the day Technoblade had caught him, but near. Around. They stop with the question game and just start talking. Technoblade rumbles about stars farther away than Tommy can fathom while Wilbur sings about countries and empires long gone. The days pass and Tommy even learns some things from them. Together, they teach him how to make flower crowns, and spend a lovely afternoon making them for each other. Tommy ends up with the most, but Wilbur and Technoblade have their fair share. Every time he has to go home his heart plummets, but he does so anyway.

There’s something in the way. That’s what’s wrong. 

Slowly, they take him deeper and deeper into the trees, until before he knows it, that’s all he can see. There’s still the path, and the sun shines uninhibited through the branches, so Tommy isn’t that worried. He’s safe with Technoblade after all, and Wilbur is nice. 

His hand heals, slowly and wholly incorrectly according to Technoblade, but there’s nothing he can do to fix it. It would require a splint, something his father would rip off him the second he saw it. But it’s okay, he’s healed from broken bones like this before, and the only thing that lingers is a stiffness in his joints, a lingering ache if he pushes too hard. 

Returning to the town feels like leaving his bed in the morning, sluggish and reluctant. Still, he leaves every time. 

The hand slows, running a finger down the thing between them. It doesn't budge, and Tommy can only hope. 

One day, after his father had kept him in the closet for three days, Tommy remembers. 

“I didn’t help you find that person.” He frowns, stopping in the middle of the fading path. He doesn't know why he suddenly remembers, or why he suddenly has to sit down, but Technoblade guides him (only touching his clothes, never his skin, and Tommy understands, really, but he can’t help but crave it) to a nearby log without him having to say a word. 

Wilbur tilts his head, standing while Techno sits beside him. “I was looking for someone lost, who needed to be found. Someone who was alone and needed help.” The shine in Wilbur’s eye turns to a sharp glow, that speaks of song and summer and laughter but it makes his scars itch and the hand on the back of his head push. 

Wilbur leans towards Tommy, an edge to his smile, too. “Can you help me?” 

Wilbur waits. Technoblade waits. 

Tommy breathes in. He shouldn’t. The hand on the back of his hand has its claws buried in his skin, and it’s pushing hard. He shouldn’t say anything. He can’t.

But then goosebumps are rolling over his skin, the shade of the trees is cool and familiar, Wilbur is smiling at him, eyes glowing, and Technoblade beside him is a heavy presence, and his scars sting, but his mouth is open and the words are flying out. 

“I’m alone.” He breathes, and the reaction is immediate. Technoblade straightens and suddenly feels looming, like he grew three times his size. But he feels safe like he could protect Tommy from the world. Like he would never harm Tommy like he would crush anyone who did. 

Wilbur leans even farther forward and grins. His smile grows impossibly wide, and in his face, Tommy can see a desperate feral hope that sharpens his canines and pulls his pupils into slits. He feels wild and free like he would drag Tommy through the woods and fill his heart with the dappled sunshine and the smell of moss. 

Softly, Wilbur whispers, “And?” The song beneath his words trembles, a renewed strength that makes Tommy’s skin prickle. 

Tommy swallows. The hand has moved to the back of his neck and now it’s squeezing, pushing, and Tommy is starting to feel like he can’t breathe. His scars are on fire, and for the first time, Tommy wonders what the symbols actually mean. What they’re doing. 

“I need-“ His voice breaks, but Technoblade hums, his ribs vibrate gently, and Tommy tries again. “I need help.” Every syllable has to be ripped out his throat and it hurts, it hurts so bad, but he says it and it’s done. 

The hand stops choking him, but there’s a looming sense of dread. Like he’s going to regret it very soon. He swallows. 

“That’s it, baby, you did so good,” Wilbur crouches in front of him, praises falling from his smiling lips like rain. “thank you, thank you for telling us dearheart, you did the right thing, you did such a good job-“ 

Technoblade sets a large, weighted palm in the centre of his back and hums, low, loud and comforting. Tommy melts, but Technoblade keeps him from falling. The hand keeps him upright, keeps him tethered. 

The dread only builds, even as Wilbur murmurs, his words sounding like water over the pebbles that line the path, even as Technoblade’s hand rubs up and down his back, each movement skittering down his spine. 

Eventually, Wilbur pulls back a little, just enough that Tommy knows he’s being serious, and says, “Sunshine, if you ever need us, ever, for any reason,” and his eyes flash gold, “all you need to do is say our names.” He looks Tommy right in the eye, and they wait until he’s nodded, hesitant. 

“We’ll hear you.” Technoblade adds, “And we’ll come find you. No matter what, where, or when.” Tommy nods again. Wilbur grins, Technoblade looms, and Tommy can’t stand the pressure of foreboding any longer. He has to leave, he has to get out of there. 

He says as much, and their eyes darken. They don’t comment though, just escort him back to the gates in silence, ignoring the way Tommy’s pace keeps picking up. The way his head bows lower and lower as they leave the shelter of the trees. When they finally reach the iron gateway, Wilbur and Technoblade stop. 

“Anytime, sparrow. We’ll find you.” Technoblade promises, and Wilbur’s eyes glow in agreement. 

Tommy can’t nod. He can’t move. His finger twitches as he turns on his heel, and leaves. 

It’s dark by the time he gets back to the house, and he knows he’s screwed. Especially when the door is open, yellow light spilling out onto the cobbled street as his father waits, arms crossed. 

Tommy drags his body up the steps and waits. 

His father grabs him by the hair and drags him inside, slamming the door closed with his other hand. Tommy whimpers, but his father doesn’t make any sign that he heard him, instead leading him to the lounge. The sofas and the rug have been pushed aside, leaving a space on the hardwood floor that’s clear. The hand throws him into that spot, and Tommy lets himself fall. 

He lays limp as he lets his father gather his things. His eyes lose focus, staring dully out the window, but he doesn’t float. Not this time. He curses his luck, trying to make out the stars. At least the curtains haven’t been closed.

Footsteps signal his father’s return, and Tommy looks up to see something silver and familiar in his hand. The hammer. His mind drags Tommy back to the sight of his blackened and swollen hand. Tommy swallows. 

His father smiles. “We can’t have you wandering around, can we?” He coos and Tommy grimaces instinctively before he musters the awareness to nod. His father’s smile grows, and Tommy stops breathing. “No. That’s right.” 

He kneels beside Tommy and that’s all the warning he gets before he’s smashing his hand down.

The world is white. 

And then he’s screaming, pain, so much pain, stop, stop stop sorry he’s sorrysorrysorrysorrysorrymakeitstopsorry-

“Sshh, sh,” His father frowns mockingly. “It’ll be better soon. I promise. But there’s more because you’ve been very bad, haven’t you? Hanging out with strangers? With those-“ His eyes burn red for the briefest of moments “-degenerates, haven’t you?” 

And Tommy, remembering his training, nods in jerky pain-filled movements. He tries to breathe, to do anything to make the pain in his ankle less, but it’s not working. 

His father raises his arm again, and Tommy closes his eyes. 

When he comes to, what must be moments later, his father is examining the blood on the end of the hammer almost curiously. His other ankle is twisted the wrong way. Tommy doesn’t know what it means that he can’t feel it yet. Maybe he’s reached the maximum amount of pain his body can feel. He wouldn’t be surprised. 

Little black spots twirl in the corners of his eyes, and he knows that’s a bad sign. He’s alone, he’s lost, he needs help, he really badly needs help, oh gods, he might die if he doesn’t get help, he’s bleeding, the pain is so bad, and he isn’t thinking straight right now.

His father is watching the tears run down his face. He taps the hammer against his jaw thoughtfully. “Have you been punished enough? Have you Tommy? You’ve done a lot of bad things.” 

Tommy wants this to stop. He wants Wilbur. Technoblade. The forest. He doesn’t want to be here. He’s in so much pain. Can someone, anyone, end it please? Or did he not deserve that either? 

His mouth opens. He doesn’t know what he’s going to say. 

His father’s head snaps up. 

Tommy’s throat burns suddenly like it’s on fire like it’s unravelling into bloody strings, but it doesn’t hurt worse than the rest of him, so he chokes out the first syllable. “Wil-“ He coughs, and his throat screams at him, the scars on his body feel like someone’s opening them again with a chainsaw. 

“Tommy-“ His father snarls, but Tommy ignores him. He can’t stop now. 

“Wilbur.” He rasps, and a rush of something flood his body. It’s warm, it tingles, it makes his ankles hurt a little less and his scars hurt a lot more. He wants to say Technoblade’s name, but he doesn’t know if he has it in him. That’s longer and older, and it’s so much heavier on his tongue. He doesn’t know if he could make it. 

“HOW DARE YOU!” His father roars, teeth sharp and eyes a searing red that makes Tommy wince and flinch and makes him want to claw his own eyes out. “HOW DARE YOU SAY HIS NAME, HOW DARE YOU SUMMON THAT FUCKING FILTH-“ And then his attention snaps to the door, and he’s gone, looking through the windows and spitting curses at Tommy the whole time. 

And then Tommy hears it.

Furious hissing. Whispers that speak of blood, blades, the fires of revenge. Ancient words that shake the house, that make the lighting flicker. Tommy shrinks, although some part of him knows it’s not aimed at him. They could never hurt him. 

He looks out the window, and catches a flash of copper, of pink and white, of glowing eyes and flashing- tusks? Are those tusks? Skin that looked like bristled leather, a snarling maw. He’s huge, two, three, four times the size he was normally, and all of it is furious.

Technoblade, his mind tells him. That is Technoblade. Here to save him. 

He paces out of view, and then Tommy watches as Wilbur takes his place, flashing flags the length of Tommy’s forearm, pointed ears and fish-like spines across his face, neck and arms. His eyes are burning bright in the darkness, the slits of his pupils thin as a wire. 

Neither of them are coming inside though, rather pacing and throwing themselves at some invisible barrier. Every time they hit it, the floor rattles, and his father stumbles. 

“Dream,” The voices whispers, howling through the cracks in the walls. “Traitor. Exiled. Unworthy.”

His father is shaking in rage, and he turns to Tommy. “This is all YOUR FAULT!” He yells, pacing across to the kitchen. When he turns back around he is holding a kitchen knife, the blade gleaming in the flickering light.

He forces Tommy onto his stomach, ripping his shirt off his back. “This is your fault, so the least you can do is fix it.” His father hisses, and Tommy falls utterly still as the knife tip traces something on his bare skin, preparing.

“DON’T TOUCH HIM!” The voices bellow, and one of the windows shatters. A gust of wind howls over Tommy, but pushes Dream off him, sends him into the bookshelf. He hits it with a grunt, and Tommy can hear a couple of books falling onto the floor. 

Dream gets off the floor with a curse and then pushes Tommy to the side. He whimpers again, and this time a rumble that feels more like an earthquake answers him.

“Yeah, yeah,” Dream scoffs, dipping his fingers in the blood that was splattered across the floor. “Let’s see how you like this, you fuckers.” He growls before he starts to paint. 

More of those sharp symbols that litter his skin in raised pink scars appear on the wooden floor, clear and dark in Tommy’s blood. With every rune finished, the rattling gets softer and the voices get quieter.

When Dream finishes, he sits up, wiping his fingers on his jumper absentmindedly. “There. That should hold them, at least until they grow bored of you.” 

A growl, powerful enough to rattle the floorboards, even with the new… symbols. Dream rolls his eyes, but the sharp smile is back, and Tommy swallows. He knows what that means.

“Now that your friends are here why don’t we…” He trails off, and Tommy waits in confusion before he realises.  It’s silent.

The voices, the hissing, the ancient words, the faint shaking of the house, it’s all stopped. There’s no movement out of the windows, nothing to say that Wilbur and Technoblade are even there. Tommy knows they are, deep down, but they’re still. Quiet.

Dream waits. He eyes the wall nervously, whatever he was about to say forgotten. He shifts on his haunches, a faint red glow leaking from his eyes. He seems wary. “What the fuck are they planning,” He hisses to himself, glancing back at his bloody handiwork. “What could they possibly-“ 

He’s interrupted again when the hissing starts up again, but it feels different this time. It comes and goes in waves, shuddering and growing in volume. It’s only when Dream goes pale and starts yelling through the windows again that Tommy realises what it is.

They’re laughing. 

They’re laughing at Dream, mocking him, lording the fact that they know something that Dream doesn’t over his head. And it’s working, Dream is infuriated, cursing and trying desperately to see through the curtains. 

Then Dream freezes. All the colour drains from his face. 

Tommy is nervous. The hissing falls silent, almost smug, and then-

Something shatters. Something around the house, powerful and old and not of this world, just breaks into pieces around them. Dream falls to his knees, and Tommy begins to hope.  Maybe, maybe he’ll be saved. Maybe he won’t be alone, or helpless, or lost anymore.

Maybe he’ll have a family. 

And then Tommy feels him. 

He is beyond ancient, older than this town, than the country than the world. His power fills the house, Tommy’s lungs, his bones, the wood beneath him, the sky, the whole world. He could wave his hand and Tommy would no longer exist. He could blink and cleave the night sky in two. 

And he’s here for Tommy. 

The door opens, that presence gets closer, and Dream vomits.

Tommy can’t raise his head, can’t look beyond what his burred, tired eyes can see, so he can only wait as he turns the corner of the living room, can only stare at neat boots and dark green pants.

“Banished one.” The newcomer speaks, and though his words are soft, they hold the power of an empire. “Your time in this form has run out.” 

Tommy blinks, and Dream disappears. The only thing that’s left is a shimmering metallic imprint of where his body met the floor. Tommy shudders weakly. 

The man kneels, and despite himself, Tommy curls up tighter. Up close this man is so much, too much, and Tommy is scared. He knows, he knows he won’t bring him harm, but he can’t help himself.

“Hey. It’s alright, mate.” Soft words float around him, and fingers curl through his mattered hair. Tommy sobs.

Warmth, real tangible warmth blooms on his scalp, runs down his neck, and curls lovingly along his spine. He wants more. He wants it so badly. It’s like returning home, it’s like his dream.  He can’t move, and the hand is reaching out, but this time, this time it’s found him. It’s touching him, he’s made it. 

Two sets of footsteps bring Tommy back and he looks up in time to see Technoblade and Wilbur walk into the room, back to normal. They smile, happy, delighted to see Tommy with their Lord. Safe. Cared for.

Tommy shifts his gaze to the man. 

His eyes are silver, pure silver. They’re not pretending to be anything else, unlike Wilbur and Technoblade. They still move and flash and swirl, but there’s not a hint of anything human. His blond hair also flashes, bright and shiny, and Tommy wants to touch it, wants to braid it. 

On the man’s back are wings almost the size of the room. They’re covered in thick black feathers that look more and more like stars and galaxies and universes the longer Tommy looks into them. On his forehead are strong, branching horns, dripping with gold. They sit proudly like the crown they are, and Tommy has the sudden urge to tie something to them.

The man gently scoops him into his arms, and Tommy melts into every touch, every burst of heat and relief because wherever that warmth reaches the pain fades away. By the time he’s tucked against the man’s chest, all his muscles are like soup, and his eyes drift shut.

The man smiles, Tommy can feel it, and presses a light kiss to his forehead. “You can call me Phil, my son.” He murmurs, voice full of love and affection that makes the stars look pale. 

Someone starts crooning, noises that his brain can’t translate right now but are comforting nonetheless. There’s a rumbling purr too, that scratches an itch he didn’t know needed scratching.

And in the warmth, the safety, the kindness and the love, he gives the word, the most important word of them all, to his new family. “Tommy.”

Phil cradles him closer, presses another kiss to his hairline. Wilbur strokes his cheek, and Tommy bursts into fresh tears as finally, finally Wilbur can touch him. His scars, the runes, they don’t hurt anymore. They don’t have power, and they can touch him now.

Wilbur doesn’t stop stroking his cheek, the bridge of his nose, the line of his eyebrow, the shell of his ear, and with each pass, Tommy feels his heart lift. Technoblade settles for holding his hand, the one Dream broke, and Tommy can feel his strong, steady heartbeat. 

Phil smiles again, and says, “Tommy.” It feels like a claim like he just offered them his life, but Tommy can’t bring himself to care. This is everything he’s ever dreamt of, the warmth, the love he can feel rolling off all of them. 

“I- I’m sorry, that I couldn’t-‘ Tommy begins, trying desperately to apologise for his general ineptitude at helping, or telling them earlier, or trying harder, but Phil shushes him. 

“Not at all, son, you did wonderfully.” He whispers, and Tommy believes him. A new tear rolls down his cheek, and Wilbur brushes it away as Technoblade squeezes his hand. 

“Sleep, Tommy.” Phil asks, and Tommy lets his eyelids drop. He’s so tired, the day has been so long, and he just wants to rest. “I’ve got you, son. Don’t worry, you’re safe with us.” 

And Tommy slips away.

There’s a hand wrapped around his. It’s warm, safe, and it’ll guide him. If he ever gets lost again it’ll never stop searching for him, never stop looking. 

It’s got him now. It’s never letting go. 

Tommy is safe, finally, with his destined family. The hand is warm, it’s wrapped around his own, and Tommy can pull it closer, hold it to his heart. 

Everything is right. 

He wakes up slowly, with warmth in his limbs and not a trace of pain to be seen. Even his left knee, which was always a little stiff after waking up, is perfectly fine. He still feels a little tired, but he’s safe and he’s warm. 

He’s curled up on someone’s- Phil’s, stomach. Wilbur’s arms are thrown around him, and Technoblade is pressed up against his back. There’s sunlight streaming through a window, and it splashes over his family, over him, and Tommy knows this is where he belongs. 

Forever and ever, he is theirs, and they are his.