Chapter Text
—
It’s late at night. The rays of moonlight have long since stopped casting their soft light, still a good while before the sun peeks out.
Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock. The clock in Tommy’s bedroom taps a constant pattern, joined by the low buzz of the fan.
Outside of his room, it’s dead quiet.
Tommy wishes he could say something—maybe belt out that nasty cereal commercial that’s been stuck in his head all day—but that’d probably be dumb.
His brother’s asleep in the room right across his, and Tommy has better plans for the night than being dragged out of bed by a lyrical voice whispering sickly sweet words with murderous intent, thanks. (And right after Wilbur wakes up, when he’s still a little out of it Wilbur’s most likely to actually follow through on that. Tommy would know.)
Sat up on his bed and wrapped in a bundle of blankets, Tommy wiggles his leg impatiently, stifling a yawn. What time was it again?
He’s exhausted to the bone.
But Tommy can’t fall asleep.
"Go to bed already." Arms crossed, in floats Technoblade, passing through the opposite wall like it’s made of air. Even as a spectral figure, the crinkle in his brow is unmistakable.
Tommy relaxes, cracking a smile. "Hey, Techno."
The ghost of his brother snorts. "Hey yourself."
—
"Help! My brother’s ghost is in my bedroom and I don’t know what to do!"
Relatable, amirite?
For a good 10% of the population, yes, actually. Waking up from a normal night of sleep to discover you now had a ""fun"" blessing that granted you some mystical ability was just something non-inborn dealt with. ("It’s normal to not know what to do with your ability, don’t panic," had been hammered into Tommy’s head during the mandatory fifth grade physio classes. Shame they never taught them anything else, like how to control a newfound ability.)
And what was more, non-inborn abilities were fucking lame!!
Instead of being biology-based like inborn abilities that the other 90% of the population had, they were influenced by some mystical shit or something (Tommy hadn’t been listening in his physio class, sue him.) If they were magical, you’d expect cool world-breaking stuff. But noooope. Instead, it was the B-grade wet cereal version of the good stuff—and normally with way less control and way less flair.
Harold, a non-inborn and his 4th grade bully, had picked on Tommy and spat at him for being weak and useless even before his own blessing had manifested. Dick. After he’d transferred out, Tommy had heard Harold had developed a shite ability (minor dust bunny control-blessing) later that year, and had a good long laugh.
The range of other non-inborn abilities was similar. A supply teacher who could tell if students were lying (trying to sweet-talk her had landed him flat in detention) , the school guidance counsellor who couldn’t help but push a nauseatingly sweet sense of comfort, a magician who’d sucked himself into a portal during a stage trick gone wrong (real).
Non-inborn boons were still a heavily researched phenomenon, which meant there wasn’t much information on who developed what, or how they developed. After reading an article in history class about the walking jinx who had lived miserable and alone, dying impoverished in the 4th century, Tommy had crossed his fingers and just hoped he wouldn’t be like him.
(There had been one non-inborn ability he maybe wanted. Once. It was when he was eleven, and he still hadn’t manifested anything. By then the other kids had started whispering even more furiously, and Tommy couldn’t have been happier he’d be leaving to go to middle school the next year.
It was just on a whim. Walking up to the school librarian, who had a soft spot for him, and asking if she had any books on a specific branch of abilities. The beaten leather-bound book had practically burnt a hole in his backpack, and when he’d gotten home, he’d rushed it into his room in a hurried panic like he was smuggling something. Tommy hadn’t gotten more than a few faded pages in beyond the introduction reading about bones and ashes before he’d felt sick to the stomach and slammed the book shut, breathing heavy. Some terrible taste had crawled up his throat. Creepy. Creepy. Nope .)
Like, the best recorded non-inborn ability he’d come across had been on a grainy old VHS tape his dad kept, where on a talent show the crowd ooh ed and ahh ed at a man who could summon light and twist it into any shape, like a balloon artist on steroids. And that was still objectively mid as hell!
For -borns, they’d never have to worry about a shock like that. Lucky bastards.
The simple reason for that was that they were fortunate enough to be born with abilities (what a flex) instead of having to sweat about what random curse-blessing-curse of a non-inborn blessing they’d be saddled with and have to spend the next dozen years unpacking. Pricks.
It wasn’t uncommon for Tommy to pass by a classmate who was running late swinging around lampposts and trees to take a shortcut, or see a businesswoman chattering intensely to a bird, or have motivational speakers drop by his school who could remember everything said to them with crisp 1080p detail. Having physiology warped beyond the laws of nature—if Tommy hadn’t already been convinced of the utter unfairness of the world, this would have made him reconsider.
In kindergarten there was a kid in Tommy’s class who could change his face to look like anyone else’s. The kid’s favourite hobby had been strolling up to people with their own faces on his, and giggling whenever they freaked. Tommy would never admit it, but he’d gotten reaaaal spooked, jumping so high that for the rest of the year his teacher was convinced his ability was leaping like a rabbit. Yeah, right.
Over the years, he’d looked at his -born family with awe and a tinge of jealousy more than once.
(His dad had huge black wings that, when flared with a flick and a whoosh, drew all eyes in a room. Tommy misses when he could snuggle up to and fall asleep with them curled around him, they’d made the best blanket.
His older brother had vocal chords that could mimic any sound—the quiet chirping of a mouse, the fake exaggerated laugh of the 22-years-and-running mayor, the giggle of Tommy’s crush over the phone. (fUCK you, Wilbur!)
His other older brother had skin and bones that could harden to steel and soften to a liquid consistency. "Very moldable," Tommy had once commented sagely, wanting to show off the new word he’d learned in grammar class. He’d poked at a flap of skin, and gotten a snort in response.)
There was no way he could ever live up to any of them.
It had gotten better and gotten worse after meeting Tubbo and Ranboo in middle school.
Better because, woah, he’d finally met other people who hadn’t manifested an ability yet! No more being the last one picked for gym teams, finally there was someone for him to properly complain about #justnoninbornthings to. ( It helped also that Tubbo was wickedly smart and equally funny and just a force of chaos to boot. Ranboo, though awkward and UNFAIRLY TALL (!!!), was sweet and so firmly loyal. The trouble they got into usually ended with someone in the hospital, a pile of TNT detonated, one very flustered Ranboo Beloved trying to explain the situation, and Tommy wheezing with laughter.)
Worse, because Ranboo had gotten his later that year ( force fields that’d he’d thrown up when a basketball had come close to him in gym class—Tommy wishes he’d been there to see, Tubbo wouldn’t shut up for weeks about how the basketball had bounced back and broken somebody’s nose, to Ranboo’s mortification) and then Tubbo had gotten his in 8th grade. ( Bastard had kept it hidden for months. Months!! And not even because he didn’t trust Tommy (famously reliable as he was), but just since Tubbo had bet they’d never guess. Smug fucker. It took Tommy noticing Tubbo just so happened to always get the good items in Mario kart for him to finally admit to being technomancy-blessed.)
So his friends both had, somehow, by sheer luck, gotten dope powers. And then they’d been whisked away to special programs for practicing late developed abilities, leaving Tommy to eat lunch by himself more and more often.
He was left behind again to play the waiting game, waiting with dread to see what he’d get stuck with.
No pressure.
Even though Tubbo was kept busy with training, barely finding time to meet up, he still found time to spam Tommy with quizzes for him to do, all titled things like “What your favourite breakfast food says about the ability you’ll manifest!”. (The result he’d gotten for that one had been electric manipulation. Prime, he would’ve settled for being able to generate tiny sparks or whatever at this point.)
He’d thought his non-inborn ability would just be a nothingburger.
Which meant, the day he’d woken up being able to see ghosts—the ghost of his brother?
Wild.
—
Tommy wakes up to something tickling his nose.
Huh.
It’s…fluffy? He scrunches his nose, tilting his head slightly, and the thing on his nose slides off to rest on his cheek. Long and wispy. Kind of coarse. Strands?
Hair?
Hair?
Rolling over, Tommy blearily rubs the sleep out of his eyes, instantly freezing when he sees what’s directly in front of him.
Staring at him from inches away is a pair of familiar red eyes.
One moment. Two.
Tommy’s stomach lurches.
“Hey,” his dead brother says from where he’s floating across from Tommy. He flips upside down in one fluid motion, sending pink hair rippling. “’Morning.”
Tommy bolts up and screams.
—
Yesterday was Tommy Craft’s 14th birthday.
How are those supposed to go again?
You’d think it’d be special.
But it’s a quiet affair, no matter how many jokes he makes to Tubbo and Ranboo about all the girls in town he’s inviting—just him, Tubbo, Ranboo, and Wilbur. (Dad’s out of town for work that day, but he gets a smiley message wishing him a happy birthday.)
With Tubbo taunting him over one shoulder and Wilbur burst into laughter over the other, Tommy had flipped them both off and blown out the candle on the cake. Ranboo had been his only ally, dashing back over after offering to set up the timer on the camera and barely making it back into frame.
It’s cozy. Really, what else could he ask for?
It’s the next morning when his world spins itself upside down.
—
Still sitting, he rubs his eyes once, and then rubs them again.
Techno is still there.
Tommy pinches his shoulder. “Ow.”
Techno is still there.
Hovering patiently over his desk, in fact, like he has nothing better to do than watch Tommy gape at him. His brother’s face is a near picture of calm, the slight raise of an eyebrow and off-beat rap of a finger the only thing giving him away.
Tommy goes to pinch his other shoulder, when the figure in front of him finally speaks.
“Tommy. Hey.”
Tommy staunchly says nothing, crossing his arms. (Because seriously? No way Techno is actually a ghost standing before him. The odds of a prank or a nightmare or even someone hacking into his mind are like a billion times higher.)
Techno huffs. "Tommy. Did some guy clone you but like, take out your lungs or something while I was gone?”
"…This isn’t real."
The look of exasperation Tommy receives is one he’s seen time and time before. "C’mon."
"You’re not real."
"Yeah, doesn’t seem like it," Techno comments dryly. He raises one hand, makes a funny swirling motion with the other, then plunges it into the first hand. It glides through easily, creating a shimmering path that takes a second to reform back into a hand. "See? Not real."
Tommy shakes his head in disbelief, fingers gripping his bedsheets tight. "What the fuck is going on."
"You tell me."
Hesitating just a moment, Tommy says, "You’re dead."
"Am I?" A beat. "I am," his brother confirms.
Crossing his legs, Tommy leans back. “You’re not a zombie. You’re not a human. So you’re a ghost?”
“Uh. I mean techhhnically I could have a sudden craving for brains but like. Until then. Sure.”
“Sure?”
“Sure, I’m a ghost. I mean. I dunno man, it’s my first time being dead, go easy.” And his voice sounds genuinely pained, and it’s achingly familiar. “Haven’t been around long.”
That gives Tommy pause. “But you died like years ago.”
“And I only remember being being like today.”
“…You don’t remember anything? Do you know how long it’s been since you’ve been gone?”
“Uh. A year or two?”
“Five.”
“Ah.”
“…Yeah.”
Techno’s eyes flicker but he says nothing, his only action to fold one leg over the other in rest, and then a silence builds like the beat of rain.
Tommy, as for him…really really does not know what to say.
Because 1.) what. did he seriously manifest a blessing and immediately be tested by it? cannot believe. 2.) Is his brother actually here? (His chest squeezes, painful but real .) It is slowly dawning on him that he is awake, in his own universe (do not ask about portal blessings) if his bedroom posters and sheets have anything to say about it , and…this is Techno Craft in front of him. Exactly how he remembers, from the distinctive natural pink hair to the casual dry humour. Which 3.) How is he supposed to talk to his brother?? He has so many questions and so many things he wants to say, but it’s a lot to dump on the guy. Besides, it might be insensitive or something? He could make small talk, but… Yeah, no. Another option would just be to blab about everything Techno’s missed, but would it be weird for him to tl;dr everything? And is he supposed to talk about the grief when he was gone , the way their dad shut like castle gates and only recently opened a crack, the way Wilbur is always too tense and too eager, trying to be two people, the way Tommy himself—
No.
Frustrated beyond words, Tommy rubs his eyes with his palms, hard. Then he emphatically sinks himself into the bed and pillows in the hope something comfortable will help solve his problems.
“You—you’re—“ He sputters for a bit, before shutting up and closing his eyes. Deep breaths. OK. OK. Be normal. (He’s so normal.) There’s an easy way to lighten any situation—
Tommy shoots himself off the bed, moving to a stand. He searches for something to quip about, and—! He has to tilt his head back as he shoots Techno, rotating above him a defiant glare. “You’re literally dead and you’re still towering over me. What the fuck.”
The dry answer Techno shoots back with is, “Seems like a you problem.” Then he moves to an upright position and floats an extra inch higher because he’s a hater.
“I am literally six feet. What did Dad feed you, babies?!”
“Lol lmao.”
“Okay important stuff! Aren’t old people bones supposed to shrink? You’re like, old. 19? Ohmygod Techno you are OLD old. Let’s get you to the retirement home before you crumble.”
“You don’t even know how old I am. And I feel like I shouldn’t have to keep reminding you I’m dead already. Died. Can’t die again.”
“BUT WHO KNOWS!” Whoa, look at that, new fear unlocked. Whatever. Back on topic. “Let’s talk about the real elephant in the room.” He sits, crosses his legs, and beckons Techno over with the same gravity of calling a conference.
Techno raises an eyebrow but trails down, and even sinks onto/into the carpet floor in obedience.
“I. FINALLY. Got my blessing!” And there’s genuine thrill in his voice that lets him tone down his gusto.
Techno blinks. Then he goes soft as he gets, and smiles. “Oh yeah. I remember you were always talking about it, crossing your fingers for something flashy like the guys on TV. Happy for you.”
“Thanks.” His brother looking warmly at him, congratulating him over achieving his childhood dream, is making Tommy a little emotional. He coughs to recover. “It’s weird getting used to it though. Techno, you’re so lucky you never had to get used to anything. Born with your bones all fucky…” He makes a show of grumbling. “Like imagine if one day you woke up and Wilbur was floating right in front of you, and that was how you found out you weren’t defective. Yo.”
At that, Techno goes stiff. His smile curls down to a frown. “Wait, you woke up and the first sign of your ability was me? You haven’t seen any ghosts before? Today was when you got your boon?”
“Um, yeah. I guess I mean, well, did you think if I got it earlier I’d be surprised seeing ghosts?”
Techno stares incredulously. Voice growing more solemn each time Tommy nods, his brother says, “So you got your blessing just today. Death-blessed and sight-blessed. With enough power to talk to the ghosts you can see?! AND I’m the first dead person you run into? The odds of that are like a billion to one. Bruuuuuuh." Techno throws up his hands and his exasperation echoes around the bedroom.
Tommy can’t help but bark out a short laugh, the way his brother is treating the whole thing like some dumb luck rare drop is pretty funny. But Techno’s always known how to wield humour like a limb. Not one to be outdone, he shoots back, “Yeah Techno I bribed Prime to rig it and told ‘em I’d give all my big man tips.”
(Wow, joke of the year.)
Somehow a smile crawls over Techno’s face. He catches Tommy’s eye and in a flash there they are again, the merry duo running circles around everyone else.
A snigger.
A chuckle.
And then Techno’s full on laughing, and Tommy’s joining him, hunched over and breathless (Techno looks like he would be too if he still had breath), and something just clicks back into place.
It’s so nice.
He can’t put into words how much he’s missed this.