Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Despite the glow of the stained glass windows, Tommy’s face is darkened by his brother’s shadow.

His hands are folded neatly before him, fingers interlaced between one another. Unvarnished wood digs into his knees. The harmonious voices of the assembly blend together, both the deep and the sharp, like a chorus of frogs at twilight. It hums through the church.

“Almighty and most merciful Father; we have erred and strayed from your ways like lost sheep. We have followed too much the devices and desires of our own hearts. We have offended against thy holy laws.”

Tommy’s hands tighten, the maroon sleeves of his jacket crumpling at his wrists. Regret rises to the surface of his mind; he squeezes his eyes shut and thinks of every little sin from the past week—getting upset at someone for bumping into him, lying to his school friends about being busy so he wouldn’t need to study with them. And then he goes through the usual failings, the things he’s been repenting for every week for years, the things that come with his own personality. Pride. Apathy. Selfishness. Self-Indulgence.

Like he said.

The usual.

He ties up this package with as much reverence and contrition as he can muster, and catches up with the prayer. 

“We have left undone those things which we ought to have done; and we have done those things which we ought not to have done; and there is no health in us.” The church seems, as a whole, to take a breath. “Oh Lord, have mercy upon us, miserable offenders. Spare thou them, Oh God, which confess their faults.”

On his left, his father’s voice fades out. Tommy jostles their shoulders together. Dad startles, and presses back softly, and his voice joins the others once more.

What does he confess? What does he regret? 

Does he regret forcing Wilbur to put his violin away after sundown, even though it never bothers anyone? Does he regret snapping at Tommy last Tuesday? Does he regret his plan to take away Tommy’s hope of college in favor of apprenticing him to some menial job? Does he regret separating from Tommy’s mother?

“Restore thou them that are penitent; according to thy promises declared unto mankind in Christ Jesu our Lord.” 

All respect to Christ Jesu our Lord, but maybe don’t restore Dad so quickly. Let him stew in his sin a little while longer, let him keep on repenting.

Tommy hurriedly apologizes for that brief bout of blasphemy. 

On his right, fabric rustles, and the wooden kneeler creaks loudly as his brother shifts his weight.

Tommy glances over, catching a flash of Wilbur’s eyes, blatantly and unceremoniously open, before his brother reaches up to fix his dark hair and dips his head in prayer once more. Blue light from the stained glass window flashes off his glasses.

“And grant, oh merciful Father, for his sake, that we may hereafter live a godly, righteous, and sober life . . .”

And what does Wilbur confess? 

Wilbur is kind. Funny. His laughter can be cruel rather than inviting, but they are brothers —w hat does Tommy expect? He may repent for impatience, perhaps. They are all guilty of that. Or morning grumpiness. Or a horrid habit of leaving dirty clothes on the floor where Tommy is likely to trip on them. 

“. . . to the glory of thy holy name, amen.”

Their heads all rise. Tommy crosses himself, and vaguely acknowledges Dad doing the same a second late. Wilbur doesn’t bother, easing back into their pew. There is a series of loud thumps, like a thunderstorm is right on top of them, but it’s only the banging of the kneelers being pushed up into their slots.

“The peace of the Lord be always with you!” The priest cries. Tommy can’t help but smile a bit as he stands and replies, “And with thy spirit!” It is a joy to bless.

Wilbur grabs Tommy’s hand and shakes it powerfully. “Peace be with you, Mr. Craft!” He says, grand and magnificent.

“Peace be with you,” Tommy agrees readily, shaking harder. “Mr. . . . uh, Finglesmont.”

Wilbur grins. “How’s your wife?”

“Oh, they’re—she’s, uh, well.”

“They?”

Tommy just goes with it. “Yup, all of them. All of my numerous wives.”

Wilbur’s laugh is bright like fire. “I see. And your dozen children.”

“All down with flu. Every one.” Tommy shakes his head sadly. “What about you? How’s your . . . how is your mother?” Wilbur pauses, but Tommy barrels on, bringing a hand to his mouth. “Oh. Didn’t she pass away a few weeks ago?”

Wilbur laughs again, but before they can continue, Dad pulls Tommy away and hands him to a lady one pew behind, looking to shake hands. Tommy pretends not to see his father’s disapproving wrinkled brow. 

“Peace.”

ↂ 𖠁 ↂ

It is Wilbur’s turn to cook dinner, which means Tommy is helping every step of the way. They all know that the meals Wilbur cooks unattended are barely edible; Tommy is the only one who really cares enough to step in and save their taste buds.

“Dad!” Tommy calls, standing on tip-toe on the third step and knocking on the ceiling. No answer. He bangs again.

“I’m coming, Tom, don’t do that!”

Tommy gallops back down the stairs and tries to turn into the kitchen before he blows past it. He ends up crashing into the doorway.

“You’re going to give him a heart attack someday,” Wilbur comments idly, lifting the soup pot off the cast iron stove. He ignores Tommy’s groans of pain. “Open the windows! It’s boiling in here.”

“Ow,” Tommy grumbles, rubbing his aching arm and retreating to the front room in a most destitute fashion. He throws open the windows with enough force that the frames bounce back against the outer walls. Summer means more daylight, and their house faces east and they won’t bake while they eat dinner. Summer also means longer days, and the clopping of horse hooves and snippets of conversation often drift in on the wind. 

Back in the kitchen, Wilbur is fanning himself with a sheaf of old, handwritten recipe cards as he waits for the stove to cool. 

“Did you wash the spoons last night?”

Wilbur pauses guiltily. “On the off chance that I forgot . . .”

Tommy groans melodramatically. “Will.”

“Just use teaspoons! This once! It’s not that much trouble.”

He scowls. “Fine, but you’re washing both sets after. It’s your fault we haven’t got tablespoons.”

“Oh, no, you can’t really expect me to make an awful deal like that,” Wilbur says with a self-indulgent smile. “I’m already making dinner. You ought to wash last night’s spoons in return.”

Tommy’s mouth drops open. “That is not fair. We both know I’ve done half of this cooking myself.”

Wilbur shrugs noncommittally, and goes back to fanning himself.

Whatever.

Tommy can fight with him about it later. He’s hungry. God knows they shouldn’t argue on empty stomachs, so he sets the table, and finishes just in time for Dad to sit down in his usual spot and for Wilbur to set the pot in the center of the table on a singed hot pad. 

“Will you pray, Dad?” Tommy asks, softening his voice. But Dad still sighs and brushes off the responsibility. 

“Will?”

“Yes.” Wilbur claps his hands together in prayer. “God, thank you for this food. Bless this upcoming week, and let it not be horrid if you please. Amen.” he throws a rakish smile to Tommy, who tries to return it. He can tell it comes off shaky, though—and really, he doesn’t try overhard to hide his dissatisfaction in Wilbur’s prayers.

“Amen,” Dad agrees, and ladles soup into his bowl. He looks, confused, at the teaspoon settled on his napkin. Tommy and Wilbur exchange a glance chock full of animosity. Dad wisely chooses to not mention it.

Tommy has only gotten a few bites in before the conversation turns in an unfortunate direction. 

“Techno’s looking for a helping hand at the tannery,” Dad says calmly. Too calmly. “You remember he took the company from his father?”

“Yes,” they both chorus. Tommy treads carefully.

“He’s overloaded with work over there. It’s a lot harder to get things done with half the city on strike, and he’s spending more time trying to keep his family’s company afloat than actually working. He could use a hand.”

Oh, Tommy can see where this is going. “I know the strikes are meant to improve people’s lives, but it just feels like they’re making everything worse,” he says, stuffing another teaspoon of soup into his mouth. The slice of zucchini that he wants keeps falling back into his bowl.

“Well . . . when you deep-clean, the house gets messier before it gets cleaner,” Wilbur puts in pensively.

Tommy wants to argue that sometimes deep-cleaning doesn’t feel worth the mess it created, but saying something like that would ruin his reputation as the neat one of the family. Well, neat est. Wilbur is satisfied with substandard living conditions, and Dad’s too scatterbrained to keep track of inconsequential things like tidying up. Tommy can be, and often is, a mess, but at least he knows where everything in his mess is.

“D’you think you could help Techno out, Tom?” Dad asks. “It would be a steady job. After all these years, I doubt Techno’s going to get married or have kids of his own. He would probably apprentice you.”

Tommy bites back the sharp reply. Leather tanning? Really? Surely Dad thinks better of Tommy’s above-average education. Leather tanning kills your brain, Tommy is sure. Based on Techno, at least.

“Wilbur.” Tommy changes the subject with incomparable elegance. “Do factory owners have apprentices?” Dad’s shoulders drop, and Tommy almost feels bad. Almost.

“They don’t really need them, do they? ‘S far as I’m aware, factory-keeping doesn’t take much skill. Or brains.”

Tommy’s slight doesn’t seem to affect Dad for long, if at all. He says, “They’re like fat bees, buzzing around looking busy. Absolutely useless.”

“Greedy,” Tommy says darkly, more to be a part of the conversation than out of real conviction. 

“Epicurean,” Wilbur comments.

“What’s that?”

Wilbur is about to answer—and longwindedly, too—when Dad interrupts. “Don’t worry about it. Really, Tommy, you should think about working for Techno. I know he’d be an honest boss, and you’d still have time to get into your usual trouble.”

“Will stopped having time once he started work,” Tommy argues, retreating into his chair like a turtle. 

“Not true! It just took me a while to get back into it. And don’t talk with your mouth full.” Wilbur pushes his bowl away, and the teaspoon spins once around the rim before clattering into the bottom. “Look, I started work at thirteen, and sure, I wasn’t great at handling it then, but I was the merest child. Naturally I got it wrong. It’s been nine years since then, and look at me now. I go to vaudeville shows, I’ve even gone to the movies a few times. And I’ve kept practicing violin; you need free time for that.”

Dad puts in, “And Tommy, you’re sixteen. It really is time—”

“Can I go with you to the movies some time? Please?” Tommy interrupts, to Wilbur. It’s another desperate attempt at a subject change. 

Wilbur smiles and nods. “You’d love them, Tom. It’s so real, like watching a play, but—but everything looks more solid, like you were watching it out of your own eyes. You don’t have to suspend your imagination. It’s just there. And they’re able to show so much with barely any dialogue at all. The music . . . you’d like that, too.”

“Imagine how stupid it would be without music. Just a bunch of strangers sitting silently in a dark theatre together.”

“The fancy theatres have a whole orchestra. The local one is just piano, but . . . I can imagine. Once, they had a pair of violinists, too.”

Tommy grins, tilting his chair onto its back legs. “Hey, Dad, maybe that’s what I’ll do. Play piano at the theater. I bet I’m good enough.”

“Absolutely,” Wilbur says fondly, and Dad laughs, and it is not mocking. For a moment, Tommy thinks about the possibility—playing music for a living—but he can’t imagine Dad agreeing, not long-term, anyways. 

“And Will, you could play violin with me. We’d be amazing.”

Wilbur shakes his head. “I’d get bored too easily. They never play anything interesting.”

“Just . . . make it up. Let the scriptwriters deal.” 

Dad laughs again. When he’s in a good mood, he laughs at everything, and Tommy can almost forget how often he says nothing at all and ignores them. “Yeah, Will. Just write the music yourself.”

Wilbur does not laugh, but he smiles—a small, pleased, secretive smile. When Tommy and Dad quiet down, he says softly, “I think I could do it.”

“What, write music?”

“Yeah. With a story, maybe. Like . . . like opera. That would be . . .”

“Like Gilbert and Sullivan?” Tommy asks, letting his chair fall onto four legs. He props his chin in his hand.

“Will . . .” Dad starts. “Mate, I don’t really see that . . .”

“Why not? I just have to come up with a story, and put it to music. It can’t be that hard. Melodies have always come easy to me. Just . . . imagine it. A whole orchestra, playing my notes. A dozen actors, singing my words. One of those big posters drawn in flowing lines with Wilbur Craft along the bottom.” He pauses to evaluate his audience. “I’ve written things for the violin and piano before. Tommy and I play the duets I’ve written all the time. I can write stories. Whatever skill I need to learn, I’ll learn! Come on, you know I could do it. If I really put my mind to it.”

“That would be amazing,” Tommy agrees, breathless with excitement.

“One opera won’t feed you,” Dad argues, fidgeting with the ends of his blond hair. “Five won’t, either.”

Wilbur rolls his eyes. “A full time job doesn’t feed us. At least this would be fulfilling. I’d be happier, and that’s what the money’s supposed to do, too, right?”

“You don’t know that it would make you happier. You can write as much as you want, but that doesn’t mean anyone will like it. Maybe you’ve only got one story in you; what happens after that’s written? What happens if your motivation dries up? Art is not always enjoyable.”

“Maybe not for you,” Wilbur snaps. “Just because you gave up on your dreams at the first sign of negative feedback doesn’t mean everyone does. It doesn’t mean I will.”

“Wilbur,” Dad warns. 

“What?” Wilbur looks between them hotly, and then his tense shoulders fall. His face eases, a little, and he takes off his glasses to wipe them on his shirt. “Nevermind. I—nevermind.” 

Dad blinks, frowns. He catches Tommy’s gaze meaningfully. They both know that this is about as close to an apology as Wilbur gets.

“I really want to do this, Dad. I really, really want to do this.”

“I can tell.”

There is tense silence for a moment. Tommy nearly opens his mouth to speak up in his brother’s defense, but Wilbur can defend himself.

“Don’t you think I could do it?” Wilbur tries again, his shoulders rounding. “If I tried . . . I know I wasn’t great in school, but this? I have a chance at this.” He’s pleading. Tommy has always been the book-smart one, but Wilbur wants praise, now.

“You could,” Tommy encourages. “You’d be amazing.”

“Thanks, Tom. Dad?” Wilbur brushes him off. He doesn’t need a brother’s support right now. Not in this.

Dad just looks at him. He’s torn, it’s obvious, but he’s hesitating, which is more than he might give on the usual. He looks at Wilbur and speaks, but it is resigned. “I think . . . it’s possible. You could do it. But possible is not probable. Art is a competitive business, sometimes more so than production. Don’t expect the moon.”

It’s not what Wilbur wants. He hides his disappointment, face clearing of emotion almost instantly. There’s no way Dad doesn’t notice.

And so Tommy steps in. “Do it, Will,” he says, putting on the voice that makes people listen to him. “And if it doesn’t work out, you have a world of other opportunities to choose from. Just because you choose it now doesn’t mean you have to choose it forever.” 

It doesn’t raise Wilbur’s spirits as much as he’d intended, but Wilbur does listen.

“What will you write about?” Tommy prompts.

“Oh, I don’t know. Maybe . . . maybe it’ll be a fairytale retelling, like Orpheus in the Underworld.”

Dad chuckles and sighs at the same time. “Really? That’s your inspiration?”

“It’s good,” Wilbur protests; they’ve had this argument before. “It has some . . . parts, but my operas won’t be like that.”

Dad stands and takes up his empty bowl. Wilbur keeps talking, going on and on about melodies and instruments and theme development, and dad crosses behind him. He touches Wilbur’s shoulder.. “Thanks for making dinner, Will.”

“‘Course, Dad.” He offers a smile up at their father.

Tonight will be quiet.

“Can I play piano in your opera?” Tommy asks, leaning over the table towards his brother. 

“Of course.”  Wilbur’s eyes are bright with excitement. “You can play in all of them, Tom. Promise. As long as you stay with me, you’ll be in them.”

Chapter Text

September 2nd, 1912 – about three months later

Later, Tommy will want to say that he knew it would be an important day, but this is not true. In fact, it starts out to be a dragging, tired sort of day, as many are, especially in September, when the summer warmth is beginning to fade. It is not coat season yet, but it is hanging over them. Tommy spends the morning of this dragging, tired day helping out the clerk at the train station, and by noon his head is so filled with numbers that reading a good book is a relief. He doesn’t even bother making himself a meal—just spreads out on the old brown couch with The Phantom of the Opera and speeds through the first few chapters. Then, he forces himself to get up and do the readings for his evening classes tomorrow. His mind isn’t in it—he retains almost nothing.

He’s dozing at the table when Wilbur gets home with a loud slam of the door and an emphatic call: “Tommy!” And suddenly he’s pulling Tommy up by the shoulders and the world is a blur of table-Wilbur-curtain-wall-table-again.

Wilbur is electric. “Were you asleep? Get up, we’ve got to meet with the scriptwriter today!”

“. . . that’s today?”

Wilbur groans, and it is a full-body movement. “Of course it’s today! You know this! And—and I’ve got to get all the pages in order and—”

Tommy cursed, shaking the last of sleep out of his head. “Oh, God, okay. I’ll—I’ll help you.”

They blow through their room in a blizzardous hurry, picking up the various pieces of sheet music scattered throughout the room—up on Will’s bed, on the dresser, tacked on the walls, under the nightstand. Tommy pulls a red sweater vest over his head, and is ready when Wilbur reaches blindly for his navy jacket. 

“Why didn’t you pack this up yesterday? Or even this morning?” Tommy asks, incredulous. 

Wilbur counts out pages furiously, sorting. It looks like he’s making an even bigger tangle of it. “I had to make edits!” 

“Did you even number these?”

“Uh . . . some of them?”

Eventually, and not without some hasty prayers, they find all the pages and wrap them up with twine. Tommy throws on his jacket while Wilbur loiters about, holding the opera score to his chest like it’s his newborn child. He bounces on the balls of his feet.

“Okay, let’s go!” Tommy prompts, as if he was the one waiting, and Wilbur immediately tells him off for it.

They bicker down their narrow street, along paths lined with both gardens and trashed concrete. But they are both smiling, and it is too exciting a time to really be angry with one another. Halfway there, Wilbur falls silent. His pace slows.

“What is it?” Tommy asks.

“What if they don’t like it?”

It is a hard question, and Tommy does not know what kind of answer his brother needs right now. He has never loved something in the way that Wilbur loves his music. He is not an artist. Does he tell Wilbur that he should try again? Try again how—write another opera, or ask a different operahouse? Dad said this might not work out—what if this is where they find out? If Wilbur does get rejected, maybe that means he ought to give up. Tommy doesn’t know.

“They will,” he says instead, putting on a confident grin. “There’s no reason for them not to.”

Wilbur smiles back, but it is shallow. He’s probably too nervous to be assured by anything Tommy says right now. And Tommy is too nervous to properly reassure him, anyway.

The operahouse looms over them, tall and magnificent as a wave. Its windows are cut into diamonds in their panes, and they all catch the light a little differently. They glitter like the various geometric protrusions of a geode. The half dome, up on the roof, just in sight, shines and preens in the setting sunlight, and it takes Tommy a second to realize the glass is coloured—a deep, rich blue that makes the peachy orange of the light even more striking.

It is beautiful.

Tommy feels unworthy, as they skirt around the side of the building. There is a small, nondescript door in the wall, looking forsaken, forgotten. When Tommy looks up, he can see the edge of the green-tiled roof, but with his eyes on the ground, it could be any other factory—albeit, a recently cleaned one.

Wilbur goes through the door first, dipping his head under the frame.

To Tommy’s surprise, it is relatively quiet inside. They enter into a hallway that leads off in two directions. One is lined with doors, the other quickly changes from blank walls to unfinished wood. Backstage, probably. The smell of wood shavings is heavy in the air, and while it is quiet, the quiet is busy—Tommy stands perfectly still and hears far away hammering, soft words, a vague rustling. The operahouse is asleep, but it still breathes.

It isn’t long before someone passes by and they can ask for directions. They go down the hall with the doors and Wilbur knocks softly on the fourth one to the right. It is too soft. No one inside heard, but he stands there anyway, waiting. He’s too scared to knock again, Tommy realizes, and reaches out to do it himself.

Of course, it is then that the door swings open. A man stands there, looking them over judgementally. His blond hair is sharp, his suit is sharp, his green-green eyes are sharp.

Tommy drops his hand. He feels very small and insignificant in his too-large, hand-me-down jacket and homesewn vest with the mismatched buttons. Or, rather, he feels incomprehensibly large, like there’s too much attention on him. Elephant in the room, that’s him.

But he looks over at his brother, and Wilbur has the starts of a smile on his face. His hardy, blue fishermen’s sweater and wrinkled cap don’t make him look poor—they make him look like an artist. His chin is up, his shoulders are relaxed. Optimistic.

He shakes the manager’s hand firmly. “Wilbur Craft. Pleasure to meet you.”

And thus, somehow, some way, they end up in the operahouse manager’s office. Wilbur takes the chair, and Tommy stands behind it. He’s able to see Will anxiously pull at his fingers as his opera is spread over the table. Tommy touches Wilbur’s shoulder to calm him down, and Wilbur tosses him an easy smile—he’s a better liar than Tommy will ever be—but he doesn’t stop fiddling.

The manager reads with a frown. He picks up his cigar several pages in, and blows smoke over Wilbur’s meticulously written notes. He hums noncommittally. Tips his head to the left.

He hasn’t even gotten through the second scene before he drops the rest of the papers on his desk.

Wilbur goes entirely still for the first time during the meeting.

“This is horrible.”

A silence.

Oh. 

So this is how it will go.

Wilbur is not saying anything. He’s probably in shock.

“The ranges don’t make any sense. This music is— maybe it’s singable, but it would sound horrible. The instrumental parts don’t make sense either. Have you ever—do you know how these instruments work?”

“A—a few of them?” Wilbur tries.

“Maybe watch them be played before you write music for them,” the manager snaps. Wilbur flinches.

“I didn’t exactly have access to—”

“And the writing is—the story doesn’t work. What genre is this supposed to be? How do these characters make friends so quickly? Why would they?”

“It’s supposed to be romantic,” Wilbur argues. Tommy grips Wilbur’s shoulders so tight his knuckles go pale. Wilbur’s cup is drained of anxiety. It begins to bubble up with ire instead.

“Well, it’s not. What do you think we are, boy, a whorehouse?”

Wilbur inhales. 

“Even Strauss barely gets away with stories like this, and your music isn’t near interesting enough to make up for it.”

“It’s not anything like that!” Wilbur returns, voice raised.

Tommy takes his hands off Wilbur’s shoulders.

They leave shortly after.

Wilbur is off like a shot. Tommy closes the door behind them—he’ll admit to halfway slamming it—and runs to catch up.

“Will!”

Wilbur doesn’t slow, even when Tommy is shoulder to shoulder with him.

“I’m sorry,” Tommy says. “He was wrong. Your writing is good, I promise.”

“Doesn’t matter.” Wilbur’s voice is totally devoid of emotion.

“He’s just one man. Famous authors get rejected all the time before they’re finally published. This is just one time. Come on, Will, slow down. Dad doesn’t lock us out at sunset or anything.”

“Oh,” he lets out a dry laugh, “we’re not going home.”

“Then . . . where?”

Wilbur smiles, grim. Pleased with himself. “If he thinks a whorehouse would take this, then that’s where we’ll go.”

He—

. . . well.

Sometimes, Tommy wishes he was a less attentive brother. “Don’t sell yourself short.” He’s more snappish than he ought to be, but God is Will being stupid. “This is ridiculous. Don’t—what are you doing?”

“I’ll take my opportunities where they come.”

“Have some decorum, Will.” Tommy shoves his hands in his pockets and curses under his breath. Just loud enough so Wilbur can hear and know it’s intentional.

But he follows, because he always does, and as the approaching night turns the sky from blue to dusty purple to black, they walk a little closer together. Lights flick on in the houses they pass, and under that inconstant light, Tommy asks, “What did the manager mean when he mentioned Strauss?”

Wilbur sighs, shifting the sheet music higher up against his side. “Ask me to explain Salome to you another time.”

Tommy doesn’t know how those two ideas connect, but he hums his agreement and carries on. They pass by a busy tavern, and the sound of laughter and voices and clinking glasses both draws Tommy in and warns him off. 

“Are you really going to do this?”

Wilbur’s circular glasses glint as he raises his chin. “If they’ll take me.”

“But—”

“Oh, shut up, Tom. I get it, you’re the smart one, you’re used to people being proud of you.”

“I’m proud of you,” Tommy protests.

Wilbur just gives him a look and keeps walking. And that’s how it is, isn’t it? Tommy’s approval has never mattered, because Tommy is younger and less experienced, and he will always be younger and less experienced. No matter what Tommy tries, he will be something different to Wilbur than Wilbur is to him. They love each other in completely different ways.

He grumbles wordlessly to himself and puts a space between them. “You’re really awful, sometimes, Will. Hope you know that.”

“Well, you’re really annoying sometimes, Tom,” Wilbur says sweetly.

Tommy stumbles over the cracked sidewalk just as he’s about to make a face at his brother. The roads in this part of town are more shattered than glass, but they match the rest of this sorry place. For how dirty and poor this area is, a lot of people are out. Mostly men, but a few women, too, walking in pairs or trios. Their voices are loud and bright. Energetic. Perhaps even a little bit threatening. Tommy is careful not to run into them, and they don’t spare him a second glance.

It’s obvious when they arrive at their destination. Women’s voices and laughter ring loud in the dark night. The street is not well-lit, and Tommy knows there are people in the shadows, but not where, or how many, or whether or not he should be afraid.

Wilbur presses on bravely, not a hint of hesitation on his face. Tommy follows. He’s not scared; he just would rather not be alone.

They pick an open door, seemingly at random, and step inside. It smells of cigar smoke and must. A girl tries to welcome them in, but Wilbur dissmisively asks to see whoever’s in charge of this place. She gives them directions, and Wilbur takes the steep, rickety stairs up to the second floor. Tommy offers her an apologetic smile when he passes, and from the way her cheeks curve as she smiles back, he can tell she’s no older than he is.

He swallows as he ascends the stairs, heart beating fast in his chest. He pulls at his hair, pushing it over his eyes. 

Wilbur doesn’t let him come in this time. Well—that’s a bit misleading. He sort of just . . . forgets Tommy is there, and shuts the door behind him once a voice on the other side calls for them to “come in!”

Tommy stands there, in the hall, hand outstretched towards the knob. He’s frozen, for a moment—why would Wilbur leave him by himself? Here?

Maybe he was angrier than Tommy thought.

He leans back, and puts his hand in his pockets again. It isn’t very long before something happens—someone arrives, downstairs, and there is a short buzz of conversation. Then, multiplicitous laughter, and the voices are coming towards him, up the stairs.

A woman comes up first, a man following after her. They pass Tommy by without a second look, and disappear into one of the doors along the hallway. Tommy shrinks into the wall.

Only a few seconds later, a group of women crowd into the hall. They are all very different. A few seem a bit tipsy, already, their laughter drawn out and excited, wavering like bubbles heading for the surface. Some look weary, faces drawn, wrinkles setting in. One lets out a sigh as she pulls pins from her hair. It curls about her neck like a snake. A pair near the back are having a peaceful argument, but from their wrinkled brows, they are discussing something serious.

They give him odd looks as they pass, but leave him be after a short hesitation. Probably because Tommy is pressed against the wall as if he can disappear into the shadows. 

He can’t stay here. Business is picking up and he—he cannot stay here.

Tommy considers knocking on the door and asking to stay with his brother, but Wilbur needs to look professional. Tommy can’t just go in and interrupt Wilbur’s chances. So, instead, he tentatively heads down the hall, back the way he came. 

The building is quiet and dim and Tommy steps as quietly as he can. He stops, at the top of the stairs, when he hears voices from below. The front room is no longer empty. Four or five men push their way in, not speaking. They keep their eyes on the floor, as if afraid to be acknowledged; as if their guilt will disappear as long as nobody says a thing. 

Even if Tommy gets past them, he’ll have to wait for Wilbur on the street, where . . . conditions may very well be worse. Wilbur won’t be able to find him if he gets lost out there. At least inside, he can stay alert to his surroundings. He should stay.

He turns about, looking for another way.

There—splitting off from the main hall, is a smaller, narrower passage. It’s almost hidden behind the curve of the wall, as if it isn’t meant to be seen by people coming up the stairs. It’s not quite a secret tunnel, but something like it.

Tommy hesitates at the entrance. He’s definitely not meant to go into a secret passage in a brothel, but . . . he’s not supposed to be here at all. 

He dips his head under the lower ceiling, and hurries down the passageway, trying to look like he knows where he’s going.

There’s barely any light, just the subtle glow from the hall he came from and a similar brightness from up ahead.. The wallpaper is faded, the floor scuffed and uneven. He steps around a couple unidentifiable objects left around—clothes, props. It gets very dark very quickly, and he finds himself running a hand along the wall so he doesn’t run into anything. Dust collects on his fingertips.

Not two hours ago, he was helping Wilbur collect all the pages of his opera. And now . . . and now. It’s surreal.

Ahead, more voices, feminine and lighthearted. Tommy slows, listening carefully.

“Niki, I think the stitches are falling out here.”

A rustling of fabric. “Again?” The woman sighs. “All right. I’ll fix it for you tomorrow, okay? But try not to give it any more hard wear. This fabric is hell to work with.”

“Okay, okay.”

“Is there anything else that needs mending? No—”

“Don’t you dare leave us to tidy up by ourselves.”

“I won’t, I’m just putting these in my room so I remember them.”

Tommy takes a step back, but it is too late. A woman comes around the corner, light turning her pale hair to fire, and sees him. 

He stumbles back, and she starts. A dress falls out of her arms. 

“Sorry, I didn’t—I was—”

“You—I think you’ve gone the wrong way,” she says, trying to recover herself. There is a German lilt to her accent that he hadn’t noticed before. “If you’re looking for someone, you should try downstairs.”

“No, it’s—” He should go. He should leave. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to intrude. I’ll just . . . yeah.” He turns around, but doesn’t take a step. Shapes move, far away in the main hall—disrupting the drip of light like the gentle flicker of branches behind the rose window in church. 

“Sir.”

“Sorry,” he mutters, eyes locked on the people walking through the hall. He can’t go back out there, but—

“. . . are you all right?”

He starts, looking back at her. “Yes, I, um—sorry for getting in your way, I’m . . .” what? He’s what?

Lost? Confused? Utterly terrified?

At that moment, another body appears next to the German girl, smaller and thinner. 

“Oh, it’s you.” It's the same young, darkhaired girl from earlier. “Where’s your friend?”

“You know him?” The first one interrogates.

“He came in earlier,” the girl says. “With another man, who asked to see madame? What’s that about, anyway.”

Finally, a question he can answer. “That’s my brother. He’s—he wants to work—he’s a musician. He writes . . . music.” Eloquently said.

The women just look at him, blank-faced.

“He wants to write for this . . . for the pleasure house. He wants to write music for you.”

“What?”

He glances between them helplessly. “That’s why we’re here.”

“Who is it, Niki?” A new voice drawls, dryer and older. Tommy jumps.

Niki rolls her eyes, leaning back to throw a look to whoever’s in the room behind her. “Can he come in? You can see him for yourself.”

A silence. 

Niki snatches up the dress she dropped and beckons him forward. “Come on, it’s fine.”

Tentatively, he steps out of the hall, thankful at least to be able to stand straight again. His back aches from the low-ceilinged passage.

The hall leads into a messy dressing room, overflowing boxes shoved onto shelves near the high ceilings. A few women move around, organizing or putting on make-up or tidying aimlessly. When Tommy enters, though, they all look up, curious. 

“Sorry to get in your way,” he says, trying his best to seem mature and confident. He can at least pretend he knows what he’s doing.

“Your brother’s a composer?” The darkhaired girl asks, questioning. 

“Yes, he . . .” He considers telling a lie to make Wilbur sound better, but . . . these women don’t really have a right to judge, do they? Besides, he’s not sure Wilbur deserves it. “He wants to write operas, but the operahouse won’t take him, so we came here instead.”

And Niki, the blond German woman, laughs. “What?”

The others begin to laugh as well. “He wants us to sing opera?”

“He’s a good writer!” Tommy protests. “He just doesn’t have a lot of experience yet!”

They ignore him. “Opera wouldn’t pull in a crowd. We’d lose money that way.”

Another shrugs. “I wouldn’t mind it. Singing is fun.”

“Doesn’t matter,” Niki sighs. “The madame would never agree.”

“Wilbur’s good,” Tommy says, but it is weak and he doesn’t think they even hear him.

The girls laugh amongst themselves, but eventually Niki takes pity on him and quiets everyone down. “I’m sure he’s good. It’s just not . . . an art that belongs here.”

Fair enough. He shrugs.

Niki just smiles. “What’s your brother’s name? What’s yours?”

“He’s Wilbur Craft. I’m Tommy.”

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Tommy.” She dips her head gracefully in greeting. “Niki. Forgive me, but I would be pleased not to see you here again.”

It startles a laugh out of him. “I can’t help but agree.”

Niki hesitates, and then she dares to ask, “How old are you?”

“. . . sixteen.”

Her lips thin. 

“It’s not that young,” Tommy protests, because sixteen is plenty old, in his opinion, and Wilbur thought Tommy responsible enough to leave him alone, didn’t he? He’s not a baby.

“Practically an infant,” an older woman mutters, folding brightly coloured costumes.

Tommy bristles, and so does the younger girl. “It’s not so young,” she argues.

“Oh, hush. You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

They bicker meaninglessly for another minute, but it’s gentle, familiar. He’s not sure why it surprises him to see such humanity in people so different to him, but it does. They have lives and families just like he does. They argue just like he and Wilbur do.

“What do you do?” The young one asks eventually. 

“I, uh, help out in a shop in the mornings. But in the afternoons, I go to school.”

She raises her eyebrows. “School.”

“A few university classes. Little things.” A smile betrays his nonchalance.

“Oh, so he’s a scholar,” the older woman calls. Niki smacks her arm.

“Not like that,” Tommy laughs. “I’m taking biology, physics, and French.” He tries not to preen too much, but what can he say? He knows it’s impressive. A working class boy going to college, even part-time? It wasn’t impossible by any means, but he’s never met anyone else like him; that’s the fairest way to put it.

“So your brother is a musician, you’ve got your books, and neither of you were smart enough to keep away from here?”

“No, it—well, I suppose—” And they’re all laughing again, and it toes the line of bullying until he laughs, too. “Besides, I wouldn’t say my brother’s music makes him very smart.”

They all laugh again, and Tommy smiles. As the sound disperses, he can hear a voice from no clear direction, calling his name.

“—ommy! Tom, where are you?” 

“Wilbur?” 

“Who?” Niki asks.

“My brother.”

“Tommy?”

Niki gets up, and sighs like wind through a tree. “Let’s see this musician brother of yours.” She leads Tommy through another narrow passage and pushes past a curtain. Suddenly, they’re on a stage—opening into a small, dinghy room with a few chairs by the wall, but empty for the most part. The floor is dirty and unswept. And there is Wilbur, standing forlornly in the center of the room. He is emptyhanded.

Tommy jumps down from the stage—the wood floor creaking beneath his weight—and scurries to Wilbur’s side. Wilbur makes a face at him.

“Wilbur Craft?” Niki asks grandly, her arms crossed again. This room is even dimmer than backstage, and her blonde hair catches what little light there is and frames her face like a halo.

“Yes, ma’am.” Wilbur understands her firm voice, apparently, because he responds in kind. It is not aggressive, nor threatening. Only . . . serious. Cautious. He isn’t yet sure what she wants from him. 

She picks up on it, adjusting her stance to hold a more relaxed sort of intimidation. “This isn’t the place to bring your little brother.”

Tommy purses his lips. “I was fine.”

She gives him a look. The adults are talking.

But Wilbur is the best brother anyone could ask for, so he says, “I don’t think I have anything to worry about. Tommy’s trustworthy.”

“It’s not that.” Niki drops down from the stage, smoothing her skirts around her legs when she lands. “There are people around here that will want things from him that he doesn’t want to give.”

The hair on Tommy’s neck prickles. Wilbur takes a step toward and slightly in front of him, half shielding Tommy from view.

“Oh?” He says softly, and that is a threat.

Niki folds her hands behind her back. She stares Wilbur down cooly, but Tommy clocks the hesitation in the way she shifts her weight. She isn’t as confident as she pretends to be.

“And that goes for you as well,” she says. “But you’re older and know better.”

“Yes, and I know that he’ll be fine.”

They watch each other for a few more tense seconds, and then the other three women duck through the curtain, already talking.

The young one immediately bursts out: “Are you going to write songs for us?”

Wilbur looks up, startled to be addressed. “I—I hope so.”

“Were you accepted?” Tommy nudges his brother out of the way so he can join the conversation—and hopefully make it a conversation, and not a staredown.

“She said she’d have to read my work first, but she seemed receptive.” Wilbur grins. “I may have gotten myself a job.”

Tommy smiles back, but it is an uncertain smile. Wilbur’s opera probably won’t be put on—not in its current form, at least. It’ll be shortened, sensationalized. It might lose the things that make it itself, and Tommy doesn’t think Wilbur would be able to handle that. Wilbur would give up long before it was changed a fraction. He loves it too much not to. 

But Wilbur is happy now, so he must be content with the way things have turned out. Even if they aren’t anything like what he thought they’d be. 

“It’ll be music just for us?” The older woman asks, sitting on the edge of the stage. “Never sung before?”

“Never sung before,” he assures.

“What’s it about?”

“The usual, no doubt,” Niki says dryly. “Love, sex, alcohol.”

“Not necessarily,” Wilbur counters, and Tommy expects them to all gang up on him like they did to Tommy backstage, but they don’t. Wilbur approaches his contender with a charming smile, as if to say good one, you got me there. Niki is not amused, but she is surprised, and backs off a little. “It can be about anything you’d like, really. Heroics, sorrow, longing, beauty—whatever your heart desires.”

The women laugh. Tommy screws up his face in disgust, which only makes them laugh harder.

Wilbur has completely and utterly won them over. It’s almost impressive, the way he’s managed to endear himself to them in only a few sentences.

They ask him more questions about music and himself and Tommy, who stays right by his side, joining in whenever there is a pause. Wilbur smiles; he smiles a lot. He’s more excited than he shows, so much so that he’s brimming up with it. All those nights he’d spent scribbling on empty staffs, every time he’d struggled through a melody on the stand-up piano or played the same tune on his violin over and over and over again until Dad begged him to stop. Every night spent humming to himself out of rhythm.

All of it paid off for this.

And it was all preparation, really. Now came the true art, the beauty Wilbur has so carefully been crafting. The first phase of anything is invention. Now, Wilbur delves into creation.

ↂ 𖠁 ↂ

Wilbur gets the job.

They do not tell their father, but they celebrate quietly in their room and smother giggles into their pillows. The next day, Tommy follows Wilbur to that run-down street again, and watches him listen to the girls sing and assign them voice types and parts. It will take a lot of work to get them into good enough shape to sing cohesively for an audience, but they are eager to learn and have experience on a stage. The only one who is fiercely not on board is Niki, but she has the prettiest voice out of all of them.

Oddly enough, Wilbur gives her a small part. Maybe it’s because he thinks she’d make a grumpy female lead. Maybe it’s because of the sigh of disappointment that she lets out when she sees Tommy in Wilbur’s shadow, back in the place she’d ordered him never to return to. 

But Tommy doesn’t like being ordered around, so he gives her a little wave when they make eye contact.

Chapter Text

September 16th, 1912 - two weeks later

He’s not sure why they thought Dad wouldn’t figure it out.

They aren’t even careful about it. Wilbur said he didn’t get the job at the operahouse, that he would give up the dream for now, but he keeps on writing every spare minute of the day, and he keeps on talking about nothing but opera. 

Tommy likes to think he’s a little more convincing. He still works in the mornings—odd jobs, but there’s always plenty to go around for a boy with a young face—and he still keeps up with his studies. He just takes his books to the park, some days. At least that’s what they tell Dad. 

To be honest, he never gets much reading done at the pleasure house, anyway, but it’s too much fun not to go. Most everyone there is nice to him, and he has to resist laughing when Wilbur tries to wrangle them into order.

The women are advancing quickly through the material Wilbur gives them. He amends one of the songs into something easier, something that can be sung by a group. He might be able to find a way to put on the whole opera, but it will have to wait. Nobody wants to memorize that much recitative for a few shows that no one will appreciate. But they can work up to it. For now, they practice shorter routines to mix in with the ones they already perform. Only about half the women have actually worked on a stage before. The performances are what set their establishment apart from the others disgracing the street; or at least, so he’s been told. He’s too loyal and too smart to leave Wilbur’s sight in this part of town.

All this to say, he’s been honestly enjoying his time there. 

The fun is ruined when Dad finally puts the pieces together.

They talk about it over dinner. Everything always happens over dinner. It’s the only time they’re all together to do so, but he wishes they could have arguments when he isn’t trying to enjoy a meal.

Unfortunately, it’s Tommy’s turn to cook, so he has to stay and finish the dishes while Dad and Wilbur argue tirelessly. 

“You know better than to get involved with a crowd like that!”

“It’s not forever, Dad! I’ll keep trying to get into the operahouse, but for now, these are the only people who’ll take me!”

Funny, Tommy doesn’t remember Wilbur even mentioning trying to get into the operahouse again.

“This doesn’t just fade away into the background. You can’t pretend it didn’t happen,” Dad says, horrible and loud. “The operahouses will never accept someone who wrote for prostitutes.”

“They won’t know.”

Dad just shakes his head, sitting heavily on the couch. “Alright, say they don’t. Why bring Tommy?”

Wilbur has the decency to look at least a little bit guilty. Tommy sees no problem being brought along, honestly—he’s already the more responsible of the two.

“We never go late at night.” Except the first time, but Wilbur doesn’t mention that. “Nothing’s open. I wouldn’t take him if they were open.”

“It doesn’t matter! The environment—the people—”

“They’re nice!” Tommy protests, dropping a cup into the flooded sink. 

“They can be as nice as Jesus and it still won’t change what they do. Or the fact that you’re too young to get into company like that.”

“There’s a girl there my age,” Tommy spits.

Dad’s face twists—something like anger, something like sorrow, a lot like weariness. “You must understand how little that comforts me.” He gives Wilbur a disappointed look, but Tommy’s brother is too proud to cave.

“You didn’t care where Tommy went before, why start now?”

“I do care! I care about both of you! That’s—you didn’t need leading, before. You were ready to get on with your own life, and Tommy . . .”

Tommy isn’t sure how he wants his father to finish that sentence. He was never like Wilbur, disposing entirely with Dad’s approval when he didn’t get it—Tommy still wants it, because he gets it, every so often. He gets his straight A’s and works hard and—and Dad rarely acknowdleges it, but the few times are enough. He is proud of Tommy, probably, but . . . only probably.

“. . . Tommy’s always been good at taking care of himself.”

He certainly didn’t want his dad to finish that way.

“No, he wasn’t,” Wilbur hisses, words laced with snake’s poison. “I was good at taking care of him. I was good at making sure he kept his grades up and paid his dues. Don’t claim to be the one that did that.”

“I’m right here,” Tommy curses, drying his hands on his trousers. “You don’t have to talk about me like I’m a group project.” 

“Sorry, Tom,” Wilbur says quickly, giving Tommy that little, apologetic half-smile. 

Tommy forgives him, because of course he does, but he still storms off to their room to stew and maybe cry. He hates this house, sometimes. 

“Come sit down, Tommy,” Dad says, his voice firm. 

Tommy most certainly does not sit down, but he does turn to face his father, arms crossed, feet apart. The way Niki stands.

Dad just looks wearier than ever, rubbing his forehead. “All right, then. If you’re able to go to Wilbur’s . . . place of work for several hours, four days out of seven, you’ve obviously got too much time on your hands. You’re sixteen; you have better ways to spend your time.”

“I still—”

But Dad continues, ignoring him. “I know you don’t want a full-time job—”

“Dad, please!”

“—and I’ve let you go your own way because I trusted you. To make good choices with the freedom I let you have, to make good use of your schooling.”

“I still want to learn!” It’s horribly, intensely true all of a sudden. Right when it’s being ripped away.

“Up till now, you’ve done well. Taken care of yourself, been responsible. But if this—” He gestures to Wilbur— “is the sort of thing you want to spend your time doing? I can’t let that happen.” Usually, Dad is cautious, and hesitant with his words, but now he refuses to stop. He sighs. “You have to start a job. You have—you have to start with Techno at the tannery.”

And Tommy knows his father means it this time. Tommy could’ve gone on the way he was rolling, could’ve kept going to classes and learning and having fun with his brother.

Tommy feels, then, that he has reached the end of something. That the way he lives now is memory. The future has tired of knocking endlessly on the door, lying in wait for a single mistake so it can burst through and vandalize the burrow the present has made.

“What about my classes?” Tommy asks, breath hitching.

Dad just shakes his head.

Tommy opens his mouth to argue, to scream, to fight for his old life back, but it is already gone. It is already too late.

If only he had stayed out of trouble—if only Wilbur had given up opera—if only, if only, if only. It does him no good to wish for something that will never come.

Tommy bursts into tears, and shuts himself into his room. Wilbur’s wall is papered with sheet music, and suddenly Tommy can’t bear to look at it.

He buries himself under the covers and sobs until it hurts to breathe.

ↂ 𖠁 ↂ

Techno is familiar.

He was around before Tommy’s mother, and therefore before Tommy, and was around when Tommy was very small and incapable of abstract thought. One of his earliest memories is of his mother doubled over with laughter when Techno tried baking for her birthday and the eggs somehow cooked inside the cake.

Tommy and Techno know each other. Could’ve been called family, once. But then Techno left, around the same time Tommy’s parents separated, so a lot of that space is empty in his memory. Techno came back serious—even more serious than before, and for the last few years, he’s stayed out of Tommy and Wilbur’s lives. He still saw Dad often, but he obviously feels no duty to Tommy and Wilbur. Techno has been both present and absent. 

Tommy stands straight, sizing him up.

Techno is tall and broad. He has dark, long hair, tied into a neat ponytail. His judgemental frown is as present as ever, fitting into his facial hair like he was born with it. Tommy cannot imagine Techno ever looking any different; he is firmly unchanging. The world could not move him.

The irony that Techno comes with the biggest change of Tommy’s life is not lost on him.

“Well?”

“What?” Tommy snaps, defensive.

“What are you waiting for? We have work to do.” And there’s the Techno he knows so well.

Tommy follows him inside, and is immediately hit with an onslaught of sounds and smells. The tannery is large, but so cramped with machinery and movement that it seems much smaller. Towering over the workers are huge, round tanning drums, turning slowly. They almost seem to be rolling towards the front door, inescapable. The machinery grinds and growls. 

Tommy steps back as cart wheels past him, carrying a load of heavy animal hides, still fresh and bloody and fetid. The cart heads toward an empty bit of floor, where several men crowd in like vultures jockeying for new meat. They start pulling the ropey, heavy skins out onto the ground. 

But Tommy is falling behind, and has lost sight of Techno’s head in all the carnage. He hurries to catch up, giving a wide berth to the piles of wet, stinking skins abandoned haphazardly around the room. Workers drag them out, seemingly at random, and lay them across wooden racks to scrape off the hair and bits of flesh that the chemicals didn’t kill. 

“Tommy! Come on!” Techno calls, his voice carrying easily over the racket.

Tommy’s face burns. A few people turn to stare at him. He trips around the waste-water leaking from the tanning drums, and finally comes back to Techno’s side, nose scrunched up. 

Wilbur works in a factory. He says it’s a waste of time, everyone trying to look busy while exerting as little effort as possible. Looking around this horrible place, Tommy can’t imagine his job will be any better. 

Maybe he’ll start a strike. Join the masses fighting for unions and liberation. He doesn’t even need a serious reason; people strike over anything.

Techno leads him to a little partitioned room. They can still hear the even thump-thump-kerthump of hides being turned over inside the tanning drums, right on the other side of the wall. A desk slouches by a foggy window, its drawers overflowing with old paperwork like a man with his pockets turned out. Atop it are three rows of cubby holes with more papers—though these are written in all manner of scripts and colours. 

Techno settles into a rustic chair with the grace of a bear preparing for hibernation. He rests his elbows on his knees, gesturing for Tommy to take the stool.

Tommy obeys, which really isn’t in line with his grand plans for a strike. But he’s still gathering evidence. Besides, he can’t start a strike without first making friends with his fellow strikers.

“So,” Techno rumbles, turning sharp blue eyes on Tommy. “Phil sent you to work for me.”

“Unfortunately.”

Techno smiles. “Yes, that’s about how I expected you to be. But Tommy, I need you to know something. Before I’m your boss, before I’m a leather tanner, I’m your father’s friend. Which means: I am primarily concerned with making sure you stay out of harm’s way and out of trouble.” He steeples his fingers, not once breaking Tommy’s gaze. “It also means I know quite a bit about you. I know about Wilbur and the prostitutes. I know about your schooling. I know you don’t want this job, but Tommy—I will not fire you. If Phil has decided that it is best for you to work here, so be it. I trust his judgement.”

Tommy presses his lips together. Dad picked Techno for a reason; he isn’t just making him work here because Techno is his friend. Tommy has to hand it to his father—this was a more calculated choice than he expected.

It doesn’t mean he won’t exploit his position though.

“You’ve worked in the market before,” Techno continues. It is not a question. “Since you’ve got experience, you can start there, selling the things we make.” He waits for Tommy to answer.

“Fine,” Tommy forces out.

“I won’t fire you if you act out. I’ll just move you in here.”

It’s . . . more gentle a sentence than Tommy expected, really.

“Oh, I’m so scared,” he bites out, sarcastic. 

“Good,” Techno says, completely void of emotion. “I like a man who knows well his own capabilities.” And though Techno is graceful enough not to be insulted, Tommy is positive the disrespect didn’t go over his head.

Techno rises, and extends a hand to Tommy. When he takes it, Techno pulls him to his feet rather than shaking on it. It’s frighteningly easy for him—as if he were picking up a grade-schooler rather than a lanky teenager.

Techno claps him on the shoulder, and despite his obvious strength, it is not painful. It’s friendly. Or trying to be.

And when he gives Tommy a vaguely positive nod and says, “I don’t think you’ll be too bad, kid,” Tommy holds in a sigh.

Chapter Text

November, 1912—the next month

Starting a strike is really more trouble than it’s worth. 

Sure, Tommy doesn’t enjoy sitting still in the November chill for hours at a time, or dealing with customers, or giving up his classes, but Techno is . . . 

Techno is.

It’s not that Tommy is afraid of him—of course not—but Techno is an intimidating guy. He’d probably find out about the strike before it happened and give everyone a stern talking to. There is another issue—everybody at the tannery likes Techno. He’s fair, and relatively honest, and nobody else has any reason to rebel.

Besides, Tommy doesn’t really want Dad to give him that disappointed look again. Techno, he can deal with, but . . . not Dad.

So Tommy runs the leather stall for almost all of the afternoon, and does his odd jobs in the mornings. He’s busy, constantly busy, and so is Wilbur and so is Dad.

All of adulthood better not be like this. 

Lucky for him, the world is determined to make his life interesting and chaotic, and it doesn’t take long for something to happen.

One sunny day, he’s reading a book under the counter as the market bustles around him. It’s slow—and maybe that’s because he’s not paying attention to customers, maybe not. He doesn’t claim to understand cause and effect.

He drops his book facedown on the ground when someone walks up to the counter. But the customer isn’t holding anything to buy. He just clutcehs the strap of his satchel like he’s afraid it’ll be stolen off him.

Tommy wonders, idly, if he’s got anything worth stealing.

“Do you need help finding something?”

“Uh . . .” The boy looks up aimlessly. “Sort of. Do you do custom orders?”

“Oh, yeah—” Tommy fumbles for the notepad and pen under the table. The tannery makes the bulk of their money off custom orders, though people usually know to ask Techno directly instead of the stall keeper. “What do you need?”

“Well . . . it’s—here.” The boy pulls a book from his bag, rips a page out, and hands it over. “That’s the sketch I made. I don’t . . . I don’t know if that’s all the information you’ll need, I’ve never really . . .”

“I can tell,” Tommy says drily, eyeing the sketch. It’s messy, but the handwriting is orderly and rounded. The thickness, width, length, and curve of the leather have all been detailed—lots of math Tommy might’ve wanted to puzzle out, on a better day. “What type of leather did you want?”

The boy just stares at him. 

Okay.

“Tell you what,” Tommy restarts. “My boss comes here on Tuesdays.” Also known as the only day of the week Tommy doesn’t get reading done. “Come back then and we’ll sort this out.”

Thankfully, the boy doesn’t put up a fuss. “Okay. Thank you. Will you—keep the sketch, please? I’ll lose it.”

“Sure thing. Name?” 

“Tubbo Underscore.”

Tommy scribbles it down and stuffs the sketch in with the rest of the custom orders, probably to be forgotten. He gives Tubbo a once over. He’s largely unremarkable, except for the deep green jacket, just a bit too big for him. A bee is messily embroidered onto the breast pocket. He has dark hair, like the rich wood of the piano, but it’s tangled and messy, spiking up like the fur of a spooked cat. No cap. His face is round and earnest, open. He fiddles with a ring—gold, simple—that rests on his middle finger, right hand.

And that’s the first time Tommy speaks to his soon-to-be best friend.

ↂ 𖠁 ↂ

Wilbur brings Niki to their house one Sunday after church.

Wilbur brings Niki to their house.

This is a strange choice for two reasons—one, Tommy wasn’t aware that Wilbur and Niki were friends, and two, Dad would be horrified to find a prostitute in the privacy of their home. 

But Dad isn’t home—he’s spending his free time with Techno, surprise surprise—and that’s probably the only reason Wilbur dares to try this.

Niki looks different, out of the pleasure house. Her skin is paler, her hair a little flat. She dresses more conservatively, of course, collar and sleeves buttoned neatly, a blue woolen walking skirt down to her ankles. She stands very straight, hovering uselessly in their living room. 

Tommy rolls off the couch, smoothing down his shirt. His knee cracks against the floor and he curses profusely at it.

Niki has the decency to pretend it didn’t happen, and Tommy likes her better for it.

“Hello—good afternoon, isn’t it?” He tries.

She smiles like she’s trying not to. “Hello, Tommy. Is that book really bad enough that you fall off the couch when someone comes in?”

“No!” Tommy splutters, flushing. “No, it’s—it’s for school.” Or, it was. When he still had school to go to.

“Well, it’s better that you’re spending your time on school than coming to visit me and the girls.” And then, softer: “Even if we do miss you.”

He shifts from foot to foot. Did Wilbur not mention that Tommy had been forced to start work? If Niki and her friends had missed him, surely they asked where he’d gone, or what he was up to. Had Wilbur just lied? That was unlike him.

“Oh, Tom, you’re home.” Wilbur blows into the room, dropping his bag on the dining table. It falls open, and a few messily bound scripts spill out. He doesn’t bother righting them.

“ ‘Course, it’s Sunday.” For God’s sake, Wilbur had been with him at church this morning. “What’s . . ?” He glances at Niki, who in turn looks to Wilbur to answer.

“Extra practice,” he says with an easy shrug. “And Niki works nights, obviously, so afternoons are better.”

“. . . oh.” He gives Wilbur a confused quirk of his chin. “Should I go?”

“It’s no matter,” Niki says, settling into a chair by the dining table. She grabs one of the libretti and starts flipping through it. “What song, Mr. Craft?”

“The waltz, I think.” He pulls out a chair for himself, but doesn’t sit. “Oh—hold on, I’ll accompany.” He races off to his and Tommy’s shared room.

In the few seconds he is gone, Niki sighs and rakes a hand over her fluffy hair. “Your brother’s a handful, you know that?”

“You should’ve seen him as a teenager,” Tommy says, remembering a younger, moodier Will slamming every door he went through. He also remembers Wilbur walking him to school every day, no matter how bad the weather was or how much sleep it cost. And he remembers Wilbur patiently re-explaining history lessons, and helping Tommy memorize scripture, and taking extra care of him when Dad disappeared. He realizes, a little shamefully, that he only spoke badly about Wilbur because he wanted Niki to smile at him. 

She does smile, but it is shallow. Tommy doesn’t think he’s ever seen her look really, truly joyful—she’s too guarded for that. 

Wilbur returns with his violin pinned under his chin, testing the strings.

“Tom, E please.”

Reluctantly, Tommy stretches over the arm of the couch, fumbling at the piano. He plays a low E, over, over, over again until Wilbur plays a chord. He’s ready. He turns to Niki, who rises from her chair and pulls in a full breath. He counts them off.

And . . . Niki and Wilbur practice, somehow without antagonizing each other. Not like friends, not anything like friends. Wilbur likes playing too much to let Niki get away with singing weakly, which she does almost every time.

He drops out, bow falling to his side. “C’mon, Niki, I’ve heard you sing better than that.”

She gives him a hard stare. “Tell me how to fix it, then.”

He rolls his eyes. “More open. Sing from your diaphragm, not your shoulders. And you’re not shy, I know that. You can be louder. Do the—” He plays a few, quick notes. Messes up, and tries it again. “That bit, do that all in head voice.”

They go again, and get farther, before Wilbur stops her with more critiques. It is slightly antagonistic—they are both impatient with themselves and each other, and Niki definitely does not want to be here.

Tommy hasn’t been able to read a word with the bickering in the background—he should’ve had practice from dealing with Dad and Will’s arguments, but he’s always tried to fix problems instead of letting them smooth out. He doesn’t know how to fix whatever Will and Niki are upset about, though, and he also doesn’t feel as justified shoving into their business.

Eventually, she gets fed up with Wilbur’s nitpicking and snaps, “Sorry I wasn’t trained as an opera singer, but I can’t do that, thanks.” Wilbur just stares at her, scowling. He cruelly lets her stew in the silence, but Niki just clears her throat. “May I have some water?”

Wilbur’s fiddle rings as he puts it on the table to get her a drink. He stomps a little on the way to the kitchen. When he comes back, he leans over her shoulder to place the glass of water before her. It sloshes, but doesn’t spill. “I know you can sing it,” he mutters quietly, forcing her to hold his eye contact. “I wrote the part for your range.”

“You overestimate my motivation,” she replies, over-sweet, and takes a delicate sip of water.

“Take a break, then,” Tommy recommends, head tipped against the back of the couch.

Niki and Will exchange a glance. He shrugs, backing off. “Fine.”

“Good idea, Tom.” She gets up and walks over to the couch. “May I?”

Tommy shoves himself into the corner to give her space. “Oh—yeah, of course.”

Across the room, Wilbur scoffs and tucks his fiddle under his chin again and begins to pace. 

Tommy eases slightly. If Wilbur needs a moment to depressurize, so be it. He can dramatically bluster about for as long as he wants; Tommy and Niki get on perfectly well without him. 

“When did you come to England?” He asks politely.

“It was late in 1907, so nearly . . . oh, five years now. I came for school, originally. My father wanted someone to inherit his business, and I have no brothers, so . . . I was meant to come back and help once I graduated. And eventually, take on after him, or my husband would, I suppose.”

His brows rise. “What kind of schooling does England have that Germany doesn’t?”

“It wasn’t just the schooling, but the industry,” she continues, finishing her water. “My father runs a factory, a chemical factory. He doesn’t do any actual science, just administration, but you’ve got some awfully well-run factories here.” Tommy makes a face, and she adds, “That was before all the strikes, of course. And they—those sort of turned my purpose here upside-down, didn’t they?”

“Why did you stay?”

Here, she pauses, considering. The sorrow shows through in her eyes, which are the colour of coffee with milk and honey. Sadness feels at home in dark eyes unlike any other shade. Wilbur goes quiet across the room, bow raised a few centimetres off the violin strings, no longer play-acting anger.

“I suppose . . .” She swallows. “I didn’t want to go back. Not at first. You see, there were—I never expected to take on my father’s business myself—that was for my future husband to worry about. But before I left, two engagements . . . broke off, and then Papa decided I’d better go to school and learn since he didn’t want to work much longer. But I didn’t want to. And going back meant doing that. I preferred living here, honestly. I was working at a bakery and, well, it just seemed too good to leave.”

“But you don’t work at a bakery anymore,” Wilbur says coarsely. His bow-hand drops to his side.

“Oh, I had no idea,” she says, sarcastic. “And then my father was fired and couldn’t send me money to live on anymore, so I had to find other work. Even if there were possibilities at home for me, it turns out to be quite expensive to travel all the way back to Prussia, so I’ve been stuck here ever since.”

She says it so matter-of-fact, like it is a boring story to tell. Nothing worth writing home about.

“. . . oh,” Tommy says, voice thin.

“And,” she tacks on, with a little more fervour. “I only agreed to be part of this stupid operetta because maybe, just maybe, it’ll help me earn enough to get back to my family. So forgive me if I’m not fully invested in your little project, Mr. Craft.”

Wilbur stares at her. His face is unreadable, but his silence isn’t. If Tommy didn’t know him better, he might’ve thought Wilbur felt bad. 

Will breaks eye contact and puts his violin down on the table, bow crossed over it. He sits heavily and stares into space.

The room is perfectly silent, so silent Tommy can hear Niki’s anxious breath.

“Call me Wilbur.”

Just like that, she goes still. “What?”

“No more Mr. Craft. That’s what they call my father. Wilbur is fine.”

They watch each other, wary, closed off. It is not an invitation to trust, but perhaps an invitation to be allies, at the very least. A temporary peace can be forged.

“All right, Wilbur.” Niki pushes herself to her feet. “Shall we try your waltz again?”

ↂ 𖠁 ↂ

Tubbo Underscore shows up at the leather booth, right when he promised to. Tommy introduces him to Techno, who carries out business twenty times smoother than Tommy could have. As it turns out, Tubbo works at the operahouse. The operahouse, the one Wilbur got rejected by. Tubbo builds the sets, and he needs a custom leather-based cord for a pulley system.

Because Tubbo Underscore is an engineer, or so he says—he seems more like a mad scientist, the way he talks about the giant moving . . . thing he’s building. Tommy doesn’t even try to understand as the boy rambles, and eventually Techno cuts him off.

“Alright, I think I can see what you’re needin.’ Should be simple enough. What’s the time frame?”

Poor Tubbo has clearly never bought anything like this before, and opens his mouth but doesn’t actually speak any words.

“Earlier than two weeks?” Tommy prompts.

“. . . if it’s possible.”

“Of course it’s possible,” Techno says gruffly. “That’s the very end of the spectrum, Tom.” He turns back to Tubbo, who shrinks back. “Come on Friday. It’ll be done by then.” The way he says it doesn’t give Tubbo much of a choice, and thus Tubbo, out of his depth, nods silently.

Tommy slips around the counter while Techno writes a receipt, close enough to Tubbo so Techno won’t hear. “You don’t need it earlier than that, do you?”

Tubbo shakes his head, pauses, and blurts out: “You—you look like Peter Pan.”

“Uh . . . what?”

The boy’s cheeks colour in embarrassment. “From—from the play. You—sorry, it’s just that I’ve been thinking about it since I saw you last—you look almost exactly like the actor who always plays him.”

“Thank you . . ? How many times have you gone to see Peter and Wendy?”

“Six.”

Tommy cursed before he could stop himself. “What?”

“It’s a good play!”

Tommy shook his head, disgusted. “That’s—it can’t be that good. Don’t you get tired of it?”

“Look, just because you don’t appreciate—”

“I do appreciate—”

“Tommy,” Techno intervenes, holding out Tubbo’s receipt. Tommy passes it over and ignores Techno’s gesture to return behind the counter.

“I do appreciate plays.” Tommy folds his arms over his chest proudly.

“Oh yeah? Which one did you see last?”

“Well—I don’t really have time to go see any. But I would appreciate them, if I did.” That isn’t quite true—if he had time, he’d go back to class.

Tubbo gives him a weary look. “I see how it is. Say, the operahouse is hosting a showing of Peter and Wendy this next week. If you come with me, it’s free. You don’t work evenings, do you?”

Not officially, but he stays late pretty often. Dad was only home half the time these days, and Wilbur is usually back after dark since the pleasure house has all its shows right around dinner time. Tommy sometimes just . . . stays at the tannery at the end of the day. At least there, he’s not isolating. He will read his book at Techno’s desk and help close up, and it’s so regular that he’s expected to stay in the evenings now.

So he glances back at Techno, who shrugs like he isn’t listening. “Up to you, kid.”

Tommy turns back to Tubbo. “Yeah, sure. I’m free.”

And after that, Tommy and Tubbo are practically inseparable.

Tubbo lives out of a boarding house, so Tommy invites him over most evenings after work. Phil meets him, and likes him—at least, Tommy thinks he does. Dad certainly doesn’t dislike him. He barely acknowledges Tubbo, but Tubbo seems most comfortable when adults aren’t paying attention to him, anyway.

Tommy pays attention to him, though. Tommy hasn’t had a friend good enough to have over in a long time, but Tubbo is the kind of person he’d hoped to find at his college classes—honest, enthusiastic, and smart enough to keep up with him in conversation. Tubbo didn’t have the money or time for classes, but he would’ve thrived in them. He had a mind for puzzles, for taking things apart and figuring out how they worked. Every once in a while, Tommy catches him staring at a passing carriage or a building under construction, studying the function of each visible cog and lever. 

He is creative in a way Tommy isn’t. He is also completely in control of his own life—no parents to force him into jobs he doesn’t want, no siblings to keep track of. No family to take care of. He is just . . . himself. 

Tommy feels guilty for the envy nesting in his chest, but how can he help it?

ↂ 𖠁 ↂ

One Monday, when neither Tommy nor Wilbur expect their father to show up for dinner, they invite Niki to stay after practicing. It takes a little begging, but she agrees.

Wilbur cooks, sleeves rolled up to his elbows. There is something about cooking that makes them all a little bit more casual, a little more willing to be friendly to one another. And to make sure Wilbur doesn’t burn the food, all three of them are squeezed into the kitchen, which probably makes cooking easier rather than harder. At Tommy’s prompting, Niki tells stories about her life in Prussia. She laughs more than she has before, throwing her head back with the force of it. Tommy perches on the counter—despite Wilbur’s protests—and tells stories of his own childhood. His mother teaching him piano, acting as a cow in the Christmas pageant when he was six, playing with Wilbur by the seaside on the sun-warmed stones.

They sit down for dinner, and Tommy pulls up the piano bench as usual, and it screeches against the floor. Niki snorts at the sound.

They don’t hear the front door open, and they don’t hear Dad’s sigh as he comes in, or the rustling of his coat when he takes it off.

But Wilbur sees him come in. His eyes go wide, and he half-rises from his chair. Niki does not turn, but she looks awfully pale. 

“Oh, Dad, you—you’re home.” 

Tommy twists around. Dad is staring at them, bewildered.

“Uh, this is—this is Niki,” Wilbur fumbles. “From . . . work. She came over to practice and . . . stayed for dinner.”

Another awkward silence, and Niki stands shakily. “I think . . . I think I’d best head home.”

Wilbur and Tommy, disastrously, say nothing.

But Dad takes a breath and smoothes his greasy blond hair back and says decisively. “No, you were invited, you ought to stay. Forgive my sons.” He motions her back into her seat. “Wilbur, get the desk chair from upstairs, please.”

Tommy can’t say he expected to sit down for dinner with his father and Niki, of all people, but here he was.

“Niki . . .” Dad prompts.

“Nihachu, sir,” she fills in, seeming at ease once more. She was nervous out of her mind just a second ago; Tommy has no idea how she calmed down so fast. Maybe she’s just good at hiding it.

“Miss Nihachu, it’s good to meet you.”

“Likewise. I’ve heard a lot about you.”

. . . not all good things, but she doesn’t say that. It’s impossible not to notice Phil’s absence in their home.

Wilbur crashes down the stairs with the chair, and they all rearrange, apologizing and banging into one another. Tommy sends up a quick prayer of thanks that the soup didn’t spill, and another beseeching God to let this dinner go well.

They don’t pray over dinner. There’s already enough anxiety in the air, and Tommy doesn’t know where Niki stands on religion.

They skirt around conversation topics like blind mice going around a corner. Dad doesn’t want to talk about Niki’s prostitution. Neither does she. However, it’s difficult for him to ask her polite questions without it coming up, and eventually Dad is forced to ask about the music she and Wilbur are working on.

This, Wilbur happily discusses—or, rants about. He barely lets the rest of them speak until Niki jumps in, gently interrupting, and Wilbur quiets and lets it happen. She is softer-spoken, with Dad. It suits her better than the defensiveness did, like it is more natural to her. She adds context to Wilbur’s monologue, explaining musical terms he thoughtlessly expects them to know.

Dad makes a subtle jab at Will. Niki counters with an embarrassing story about Wilbur being completely incapable of picking up innuendo when a woman says it, and Dad laughs from his chest and Tommy blushes and Wilbur buries his face in his hands.

By the end of dinner, Dad has practically adopted her, and is remarkably willing to forget her occupation, especially considering how hard he fought Wilbur about taking the position at the pleasure house writing music. He certainly doesn’t condone her choices, and knowing her background, Tommy can’t imagine she condones it herself. She’s mentioned her desire to go home too earnestly to like what she does. It sounds more like a trap than a choice.

Anyway, Dad likes her. And this obviously delights Niki, who probably isn’t well-recieved very often. She listens attentively to everything Dad says—well, to what all of them say, really. She’s a good listener.

After dinner, Dad makes tea as an excuse to talk a little longer, but Wilbur spills it all over himself because he tried to pour while holding his violin bow. Tommy hurriedly removes the violin from the mess, and Wilbur is forced to retire and change. There’s little reason to keep Niki any longer, and so Tommy volunteers to walk her home. Home, in the loosest sense of the word. Dad tries to step in, but Tommy is too old to be coddled and says so.

Niki gathers up libretti and pages and pages of music. She promises Wilbur, who is nursing a bad burn on his forearm, to remind everyone to practice. 

Dad invites her back, and Niki looks like she might cry. She and Tommy step out onto the moonlit road, and she puts her arm through his and sighs in contentment.

“Your father is lovely.” And then, quickly: “To me, at least. I know he has his failings, but . . .”

“He’s got good in him,” Tommy agrees.

“. . . he does.”

“He really likes you,” he adds, and it makes her smile and pull her shoulders up shyly. “I don’t think he’s laughed like that since my mother was still around.”

Niki quiets in respect. “When did she pass?”

“Oh, no, nothing like that. They separated when I was seven. Haven’t seen her since.”

Niki obviously doesn’t know what to do with that information, but Tommy laughs drily to lighten the mood. “We should have a competition to see who had a more messed up childhood.”

Niki nearly trips. She presses a hand to her mouth. “Tommy.” She shakes her head, and then grins. “I’d win.” 

She probably would. “You would’ve liked my mother,” he says instead. “She had hair like yours, ‘cept it was longer.”

“It is a bit short, isn’t it.” She pulls at the ends of her hair. “It’s easier to wash, though. Say, if both your parents are blonde, where’d Wilbur get his hair from?”

“Oh, we don’t have the same mother. At least my mother stuck around and married Dad. Will’s mom left as soon as she was able.”

“Your father seems to have very unfortunate luck with women.”

Tommy huffs a laugh. “I’ll tell him you said that.”

“Oh, Tom, don’t.” He doesn’t acknowledge her, walking a little faster. “Tommy, please don’t. He actually likes me, please.”

He pretends to think about it, rubbing his chin and looking at the sky. “I don’t know, Niki. That feels a little dishonest.”

But the game’s up—she can tell he’s teasing, now. She falls back into step with him, grumbling, “You’re different without Wilbur around. More—more troublesome. More energetic.”

Tommy would expect it to be the opposite; he always gets into more trouble when Wilbur’s egging him on. And he loves being around him—Wilbur’s the best person he knows—always eager to make a joke, always ready to comfort Tommy when he needs it. He’s more comfortable around Will than anyone else he’s ever known. He would’ve thought he was more placid alone. “Really?”

“Mhm. It makes sense, though—Wilbur can be awfully polarizing. He sort of . . . takes over.”

They pass out of Tommy’s cramped neighborhood onto a wider road. People pass by, eyes on the ground. It is quiet. 

“I suppose so.”

Wilbur does take over, but . . . he still lets Tommy be himself. Niki probably sees it differently because Will is in charge of her—or, at least, directs her for a few hours each day. Of course it would feel like he took over.

Wilbur wasn’t like that with his own family.

Tommy frowns to himself as he leads Niki across the street. He and Will are a team. Wilbur has always looked out for Tommy, and Tommy keeps him afloat. Wilbur makes sure Tommy goes to his lessons and Tommy comes home and reteaches him the French he learned that day. They work together. And, sure, sometimes it feels like Wilbur is stringing Tommy on behind him, but that’s okay because Wilbur has dreams and Tommy doesn’t. Wilbur is a natural leader, and Tommy isn’t.

That’s how it’s always been.

Blessedly, Niki breaks the silence. “You know, sometimes the girls at work say we look a bit like siblings. You and I.”

He glances down at her. The same straight nose as him, the same fluffy, curly blond hair. “Do you think the police would believe us if we said so?”

She laughs. “Oh, certainly. We could get away with all sorts of things.”

The first time they met, Niki had gone out of her way to move him somewhere safe. She always scolded him for coming to the pleasure house, even if that meant they’d never see each other again. That’s something a sister would do. She’s gentle and kind and determined, and she listens when he speaks. She never lets his questions get lost during a group conversation. That’s something he’d want in a sister. She doesn’t treat him like an adult, but she doesn’t treat him like a child, either. She treats him his age.

She makes sixteen a fun age to be. Like Peter Pan, Tommy doesn’t want to grow up.

And even though he hasn’t known Niki for very long, he can imagine, someday, calling her his sister.

Chapter Text

December 4th, 1912—a couple weeks later

There is music all over their walls. 

Wilbur has been to the stationary store twice already to buy more ink. He’s always got it on his fingertips. He writes every second he’s free, scribbling out notes and paragraphs and paragraphs of dialogue spread over stacks of unnumbered sheet music. He kept getting them mixed up and out of order, so he began to tack them up on the wall instead. 

It started with a few rows over Wilbur’s bed, just a few songs he was trying to finish. But then he was begging Tommy to pass him papers as he stood on the mattress, pinning them to wallpaper right under the ceiling. He’d stand in the center of the room and stare at all of it, tapping his pen against his lips in thought before suddenly jumping up to scratch out a measure of notes and rewrite them in a new colour. 

The paper crawls over to Tommy’s side of the room. It was a slow usurpation, first over the dresser, then some of Tommy’s pictures were mysteriously taken down to make room. Now, they hover over his bed, and are coming onward still. 

The music is distracting. He can’t read it from down on Wilbur’s bed, where he’s wrapped in his brother’s soft blue blanket, but it pulls his eyes anyway. His fingers ache to play what’s written up on those walls. He’s supposed to be reading his book, but . . . instead he just lays on his back and stares at Wilbur’s work.

Suddenly, the front door opens and slams. 

Tommy sits up to greet whoever’s come home, but—

Who would be home? Dad left around dawn, and Wilbur after breakfast, just a couple hours ago—nobody should be home till dinner.

An intruder?

He listens cautiously. If it is an intruder, they are not quiet. They put something down in the living room, and jostle about the house as if they belong to it. 

Tommy isn’t much surprised when Wilbur comes into view.  

Maybe Wilbur’s factory is on strike. That would be exciting. Wilbur and Tommy will be able to spend their mornings together, if not their afternoons. Tommy hasn’t worked mornings for a while, even though Techno and Dad keep telling him to extend his hours. But Tubbo is friends with a bookstore owner who lets them borrow all the volumes they want, and Tommy won’t spend his mornings working when he could be reading.

It would be nice to read while Wilbur writes, doing their own activities in the same space. They haven’t had the chance to do that for years. 

Wilbur steps into their room, shedding his long tan coat. “Dad’s at work?”

Tommy flops onto his back, staring at him upside down. “ ‘Course. You heard him leave. What are you doing back here?”

Wilbur gives him a small, secret smile. “Well . . . I quit.”

What.

“At . . . the pleasure house?” Tommy almost dares to hope.

“No, no. At the factory. No more stamping soap labels, not for me!” And he looks earnestly happy as he falls onto the bed beside Tommy—more on top of him than anything.

“Get off—what do you mean you quit? Why?”

Wilbur cheerfully does not get off. “Because I hated it, obviously. Now I’ll have time to write in the mornings before practice. I have so much to do, Tom, and so much to do well. Now I’ll have the time!” When Tommy just stares at him, Wilbur tips his head back dramatically, brown curls falling out of his face. “Oh, come on. Dad will be upset with me, I know that already. Coudn’t you be happy, at least?”

“Will . . .”

“You aren’t against me too, are you?”

Tommy sighs. “Of course not. I just . . . you know it’s unpleasant when you and Dad fight.”

Wilbur has the decency to soften and shift so Tommy isn’t pinned under his shoulder. “I’m sorry about that, but Tommy.” His voice is quiet with delight. “I finally quit!”

“. . . you did hate that job,” Tommy concedes. He can’t help but smile with Wilbur so happy. “How long were you working there?”

“Since—nine years!” He crows in disbelief. “Nine years, wasted! And now . . . and now.” He nudges Tommy’s side until he giggles amidst the usual protests. “Now I can do what I’m good at.”

It’s a lovely thought. Tommy hopes he can have that, some day, only he can’t think of anything he’s particularly good at. Studying? “God made you to compose,” he says. “I don’t think you could’ve lived without doing it eventually. I don’t think He would have made you live like that.”

Wilbur smiles, half-thoughtful, half-wry. “Hopefully He can ease Dad’s reaction tonight, yeah?”

“We could always pray,” Tommy offers, but he doubts Wilbur has believed in prayer for a long time, so his answer comes as no surprise.

“Oh no, Tom, it’s alright. I can handle myself.” He pushes himself up to lean back on his arms. “We should do something, to celebrate my freedom.”

“Free doesn’t mean happy,” Tommy chides carefully.

Wilbur ignores him. “There’s a music store near the operahouse. You want to go?”

Regretfully, Tommy finds he must shake his head no. “That’s the opposite direction from work, and I need to be there in . . .” Neither of them carry a watch consistently. “Well, at eleven.”

“We’ve got time.”

“You’ve got time. God, do you want me to be late? You know how Techno is.”

“Ugh, fine.” Wilbur is too happy for his forlornness to last, or be convincing.

Tommy is . .  he’s not proud of Wilbur, exactly, but he’s definitely happy for him. He hopes this doesn’t blow up in their faces. He hopes Dad won’t be too upset tonight, though he ought to know better. But he trusts WIlbur’s judgement—his choice may result in a nasty argument, but Wilbur will be better off for it. Music calls him. Who is he to resist?

Oh, how he loves his brother. He’s glad Wilbur is happy. God willing, it will last. 

Tommy moves his book out of the way and promptly pushes Wilbur off the bed.

He goes crashing down like a stack of boxes, banging on the floorboards in a tangle of long limbs and knees and elbows.

He curses loudly and squeezes his eyes shut, readjusting his back. “What was that for?!”

“Thought it would be funny,” Tommy drawls, stepping over Wilbur to his own bed. “If you’re going to go to the music store, go soon. I want to see what you come back with, if there’s time.”

Wilbur doesn’t bother getting up. “Come with me.”

“No.”

He groans wordlessly.

A little later, he does get up and does go to the music store, but Tommy has to leave before he returns, unfortunately. He waits around for a while, but Wilbur hsa never been good at keeping track of time, so Tommy just pulls one of Wilbur’s sweaters over his head and hurries off to the tannery. 

He probably shouldn’t be wearing Wilbur’s clothes there, because the smell will get in them, but they’re too comfortable to give up. Besides, he doesn’t have to work near any of the dead animal carcasses yet. He’s just begun working in the tannery itself. He’s only been there a few times before today, and he keeps accidentally taking the route to the market. 

He’ll miss it, but Techno is true to his word. Once he found out Tommy was reading on the job, he moved him straight to the main building the next day. 

And it is just as bad as Tommy expected. The smell is horrible, leaving a bad taste in his mouth even after he leaves. The chemicals in the air often force him to go straight to bed after his shift, hiding his head—and the migraine pouding within it—under the covers. He is officially apprenticed to Techno, not just working for him, and Techno takes that very seriously. Techno takes everything seriously. At first, Tommy was trusted only to clean up after the other workers, who were friendlier than others he’d worked with elsewhere. They ask about his family and only take advantage of his help every once in a while. Techno keeps them in check, and they like him enough to listen. 

Tommy watches, and learns. He studies the process of scraping the hair off the hides, soaking them in chemicals, stretching them out. Tommy didn’t know there were so many steps to tanning hides. He sort of thought one just . . . laid them out in the sun for a few days and they would dry out on their own.

But not so. Techno teaches him each step. Well—sometimes. He gets Tommy started mixing chemicals or brushing them down the flat side of a hide, and lets him struggle for a while before hovering over his shoulder judgementally. After watching Tommy like a man watching a misbehaving dog, he’d give Tommy a short tip in as few words as possible before walking off again.

It’s annoying. Tommy likes doing a good job, a correct job, and Techno won’t tell him how to do it. He just wants—he wants to get it right the first time, but he can’t because he doesn’t know how any of this even works, and Techno lets him get it wrong. It’s frustrating, and unpleasant, whether Tommy does it properly or not.

Clearly, Techno still doesn’t like him. Maybe Tommy won’t ever earn his respect, but he’ll make damn sure Techno has no good reason to go on disliking him. Spite isn’t so bad if it’s making you a better person, right? Tommy will be perfect. 

And he is, even though he’s been put in charge of scraping the skins and it makes his back hurt something awful, bending over and dragging the blade up over and over again. Tiny, coarse hairs cover his hands and forearms, skin red from whatever the hide was soaked in beforehand. Tommy doesn’t complain, only tries to breathe through his mouth and keep the blade at an even angle. When he’s finished, he knows he’s done a good job.

Techno acknowledges none of it.

Once the work day is over, he stays to help Techno close up and make sure everything is put away. He does so often, but today he draws it out more than usual.

Techno works alongside him, silent. Tommy makes sure all the lids are screwed tight onto the chemicals and the blades are not turned towards the walking path, and kicks at the piles of bones until they’re relatively concentrated in one spot, and checks and rechecks that no fires are burning in the lanterns. He goes from one workstation to the next, organizing and tidying the various tools people left out. He gets to the third to last when Techno interrupts.

“You can go home, Tommy.”

“Oh, it’s no trouble.” He squares a bristle brush with the edge of the table, but then something lands on his shoulder and the brush goes clattering to the ground. He hisses out a curse, spinning to face Techno, who takes his hand off Tommy’s shoulder and looks genuinely apologetic for scaring him. 

But Techno never actually apologizes. He just says, “Go home, kid. It’s gettin’ dark. Your brother will worry about you.”

Tommy grabs the brush and springs back up to put it on the edge of the table again. “Yeah, okay.”

Techno let him out, locking the door behind them. The keys jangle. Techno frowns, almost angrily, and then bites out, “Is something wrong with Phil?”

“. . . no? Has he been acting off?”

“You don’t want to go home,” Techno says simply, as if it is obvious to any outside watcher.

Tommy exhales, stepping out into the street. “Yeah, well . . . Wilbur’s . . . being Wilbur. Made some choices that Dad won’t be pleased with.”

“Ah.” Techno falters, seeming out of his depth. If only Tommy was brave enough to laugh at his fumbling. “I’d advise you to stay out of family spats, if possible.”

It’s not so easy when there’s only three of them. “I do, but . . . the house is small. If we’re gonna be yelling, I might as well join in.”

Techno wants to say something more, but he just sighs and bids Tommy goodnight. They leave in opposite directions. Tommy is home sooner than he likes.

The lights are on. He is enveloped in warmth as soon as he unlocks the front door, a wave of hot air bursting on his cheeks. It makes his nose run and his ears burn, but the smell of burning cinnamon in the fireplace seems all the sweeter for the stink of the tannery. There is a new sound he has not heard before—a gentle strum, like Wilbur dragging his nail over the strings of the violin.

Tommy sheds his layers and ruffles his hat-flattened hair. Dad isn’t home yet, obviously—it would be a lot louder in here if he was.

Wilbur sits on the piano bench, holding an instrument Tommy has never seen before. It’s shaped something like a medieval lute, with a neck and strings and a round body, unlike the skeletal curves of the violin. Wilbur plucks the strings one by one. 

“Tommy!” He stands grandly, grinning. “Look!”

“What is it?” Tommy drops his satchel on the table and peers at the thing cradled in Wilbur’s arms.

“A mandolin,” he announces with as much vigor as one might use to christen a baby. “Isn’t it fantastic?”

“Yes,” Tommy says blankly. “Is it . . . how do you play it?”

Wilbur beams, dropping back down onto the piano bench. “Come sit and I’ll show you what I’ve learnt.” Wilbur barely has time to arrange his hands before the front door opens again.

They both freeze. Caught redhanded.

Dad comes in, mussing his hair the exact same way Tommy does. He is weary, but eases as he enters his own home. Tommy bites back the urge to ask about work—distraction will do them no good here. The silence hangs in the air like the sword of Damocles, and when Dad finally notices, he looks up. At the room. At Wilbur and Tommy, squished side by side at the piano.

At the terrible, irresponsible mistake of a mandolin.

“What’s that?”

Wilbur, the idiot, tries for an easygoing tone. Or maybe he’s not trying. “A mandolin. I bought it today.”

Dad stares, completely speechless. “Why?”

Wilbur raises his chin, jaw set firm. His eyes are hard.

Don’t say it, don’t say it—

“To celebrate quitting my job at the soap process factory.”

Is it Tommy’s turn to make dinner? No, can’t be, he did it yesterday. Well, he’ll do a good deed and set everything out for Wilbur, whenever he decides to start. 

Tommy darts off to the kitchen, rifling through the cabinet for ingredients.

“What? Will, did you—why would you do that?”

“Wow, Dad, you really like to show off how unobservant you are, don’t you? I hate working there! I’ve always hated working there!”

“But that was . . . that job was reliable! There was no chance of losing it as long as you minded your head.”

“You’re not listening to me, Dad. I didn’t lose the job; I quit. I didn’t want to work there.”

A can of diced tomatoes, two of beans. That will be enough for the three of them, with the leftovers from earlier in the week.

“You think I  like my job, filing complaints all day? Deciding who gets a day off and who works Christmas Eve?”

“You aren’t exactly the picture of a happy, content man,” Wilbur spits. “I never said I wanted to be like you.”

A pause. Tommy doesn’t have to see his father’s injured expression to know it’s there: his brows curving like an empty bowl, his lips parting in surprise. And then he will become determined, steady. Dad has always been good about putting his emotions away when the situation calls for it.

“That’s . . . fine, Wilbur. I’m not surprised.”

“Then why yell at me for this? I’m making choices you didn’t. So what?”

“You’re making bad choices.”

They have sausage left over. It is boxed up on the counter with the onions. Can he handle cutting an onion right now? . . . maybe next time.

“Oh, and how do you know the difference?” A step. “Face it, old man, you’re too scared of doing anything of worth in your own life, so you live through me and Tommy instead. And now my less than perfect life isn’t going how you wanted—oh. So. Sad.”

Tommy’s hands shake as he scrapes out the can opener and tries to set it against the lip of the can of beans.

“Just give up! I’ve been a lost cause since I failed the scholarship test a decade ago! Success flew out the window when I was twelve years old. Now that I’m an adult, let me ruin my life on my own, why don’t you? Or let me find success another way.”

“Is this a conversation or a lecture?”

Tommy drops the can opener and stumbles back into the living room.

Wilbur looms over their father like a bookshelf ready to topple. He has never been hesitant to use his height to his advantage. “If a lecture is what it takes to get you to understand—”

“Wilbur.” Tommy starts.

“—then I’ll do what I have to.”

“You’ve made your point, Will, there’s no need to say it again. It’s just empty words at this point.”

This is the trouble with their arguments: Wilbur gets his cruelty and sharp tongue from Dad. He gets his impatience from somewhere else, though, and Dad’s control makes him even more upset.

“Don’t—” Tommy tries again.

“Maybe if you listened to what I’m saying, I’d only have to say it once!”

“Hush, Wilbur,” Dad says calmly. “You’ll upset the neighbors.”

And that—Wilbur can’t handle that. He curses, steps back, scratching a hand over his hair. “You really don’t want to hear me out that badly?”

“What, hear you try to justify the stupidest decision you’ve ever made for . . . what? For what? Indulgence? Fun that’ll last a year? No, I’m not particularly interested in hearing you out.”

“Dad, please—” Tommy begs, giving up on getting Wilbur to listen to him. He wipes at his face but it’s too late. Perhaps he should’ve cut the onion. At least then he’d have an excuse for the tears.

His father glances at him.

“Dad?”

And that could’ve been it, that could’ve been the end of it, but Wilbur always has the perfect morsel of poison for every occasion. “Yeah, Dad. There’s the kid you actually need to worry about, your golden child with good grades, working dutifully for your best friend. Good thing he’s got your eyes.” Wilbur smiles. “There’s no other way to know he came from you.”

The room is very quiet.

Tommy can feel his heart beat. He can feel the air coming in and out of his lungs. He looks at his father and sees, for a moment, horrible anger. He sees, for a moment, a whisper of violence yet to come. But then it is gone.

Then it is gone.

Wilbur, infernal, laughs.

Tommy doesn’t want to see what comes next. Wilbur has gone too far, this time—Tommy can’t persuade them to make-up and forget. Not after that.

If God has chosen not to give him any particular purpose here, at least He has shown Tommy he is no use.

He steps away from them, washed in his tears, and shuts himself in his room. He locks the door firmly even though there is a key somewhere in the house. 

He wraps his arms around himself and stifles a sob. He has perfected the method, by now.

He hates that he’s learnt to be silent. That he still forces himself to be easy to interact with, after all these years. He makes himself into something his father can swallow, because if he doesn’t, Dad will never bother loving him at all. 

Is it true?

Dad doesn’t fight with him, not like this, not like how he fights with Wilbur. Is it because Tommy isn’t a bother? Because he’s made himself too good to be justifiably hated? Is he only loved because he does what he’s told?

Tommy wants, suddenly, to break something. He doesn’t have to be quiet and small and shut away. 

Wilbur’s twin fountain pens rest side by side on the dresser.

Tommy crosses the room and picks one up. His vision is too blurred with tears to make out which one is which. He raises it up, squeezing it in a fist till he can feel the clip biting into the inside of his knuckles.

He can’t do it.

If he broke it, ink would spill all over the floor, and then someone would have to clean it up, and he doesn’t—

Tommy growls at the pen and puts it back down. This is useless.

God, this is useless.

Someone knocks on the door—he doesn’t even care which one of them it is—but someone else speaks softly, and the first steps away, and they leave him alone.

Would they come in if he cried louder? If he acted more upset, would they want to check on him?

Again, he can’t bear to do it. 

With his luck, Wilbur probably just wanted something from their room.

Tommy stomps over to his bed and buries himself under the coverlet. He still has his shoes on, and Wilbur’s blue fisherman’s sweater, but he’s too spiteful to take them off. He curls into a ball and presses the meat of his palms into his eye sockets until it hurts.

They are arguing again.

He can hear it through the walls—Wilbur’s taunting, Dad’s too-even responses. They go up the stairs to Dad’s room: “Oh, leaving again, are you? I suppose it’s become a comfortable habit by now.”

“Go away, Will. Go apologize to your brother.”

“I’m only speaking the truth—”

God, Tommy thinks, staring dead-eyed at Wilbur’s music papering the walls. Make them stop. If I’ve ever done anything worth your attention, make them stop.

“Let’s be honest, Will, you’ve got the same definition of truth as a politician.”

Please, it’s too loud. Make them stop, or show me how to help. How do I do it? Give me the words, give me the actions, to make it stop.

Tommy pulls the covers over his head. 

Make it better again, he prays. It wasn’t good before, but it was better than this.

They’re marching around upstairs, now, right over his head.

Put it back the way it used to be.

“Fine, you want to work at that filthy place with people who don’t care if you live or die, who don’t care if you show up the next day? Go ahead, Will. I’ll let you find out how that ends by experience, since you’re clearly unable to take advice.”

Please, God, please. Let me have it back.

One of them slams his foot down, and amidst the shouting, a single sheet of music flutters off the wall. It slips side to side in the air, back and forth and back. It lands on the lump under the blue blanket, the lump that is Tommy. He shudders as the paper slides off onto the floor.

Please, let me have it back.

December 25th, 1912—three weeks later

Tubbo shows up just after dawn, holding a package wrapped in brown paper and wearing a grin so bright they don’t even need the rising sun.

“Merry Christmas!” He crows, throwing himself bodily at Tommy.

“Whoa—merry Christmas?” Tommy stumbles back from the door, back into the warmth of the house. “Why are you here so early?”

“It’s Christmas, you idiot!” Tubbo pushes past, nudging the door closed with his hip. “It’s also freezing at the boarding house.” He avoids Tommy’s gaze, fidgeting with the twine around the package.

“Well, get in and get warm, then,” Tommy orders. “I’m glad you came.”

Tubbo flashes him a smile. His fingers untense, and Tommy deftly snatches the package and darts off with it into the house.

“Is this for me?”

“Give it back, you can’t open it yet!” Tubbo grabs at his arm, but Tommy is taller and holds it out of reach. Tubbo is not faint of heart and jumps, latching onto Tommy’s elbow and drawing him down. Tommy leans in the opposite direction to balance it out, but once Tubbo has torn the present from his hands, he goes sprawling onto the floor.

Pain flashss up his neck, and his shoulder blade bangs against the wood floor. He lets out a string of curses, specifically on Tubbo’s family line and future and dreams.

Once he has regained his dignity, he reaches for Tubbo’s ankle and latches on like quick-drying concrete. Tubbo goes down with an even louder crash, colliding with the side of the couch on the way. 

The present goes skidding across the room, but Tommy is laughing too much to care. His laughter turns abruptly to a shriek as Tubbo grabs him.

“Boys!” Dad calls from a room away, more grumpy than worried.

“He’s attacking me!” Tommy screams as Tubbo takes the upper hand and almost manages to pin him down. 

“He tried to open his present early, Mr. Craft!” Tubbo yells over Tommy’s pleas for help. 

“What is going on?”  The door to Tommy and Wilbur’s bedroom creaks open. “It’s before eight. For the love of God.” Wilbur appears, bleary-eyed, hair so mussed it looks like he’s been caught in a tornado. 

“Grab it!” Tubbo shrieks, nodding at the parcel. His hands are busy struggling to keep Tommy down.

Tommy gives up. “Will, don’t let him have it. It’s mine.” And who will Wilbur believe? His brother, or his brother’s malicious best friend?

Wilbur takes up the parcel and tucks it under his arm. “He’s really ticklish along his sides,” he says, voice scratchy and quiet from sleep. “There better be coffee.”

Betrayed. Wilbur walks off, taking the package with him, leaving Tommy to his fate.

“No, Tubbo, come on, we’re friends—” He doesn’t get very far before Tubbo is on him, relentlessly digging his fingers into Tommy’s ribs, and he can’t do anything but laugh. Tubbo thinks he’s won, but he hasn’t; Tommy wriggles out from under him and tumbles to his feet, tipping over himself.

He races to the kitchen, Tubbo on his heels, and shoves himself behind Dad, who starts complaining immediately. “Take your rough-housing somewhere else; I’m still waking up.” Dad’s unwillingness to participate is more helpful than his protection ever could’ve been, because Tubbo hesitates.

“Merry Christmas,” he tells Dad politely, but his eyes are still mischievous.

“Merry Christmas, Tubbo,” Tommy’s father replies, more courteously than Tubbo deserves.

“May I have some coffee?”

“Ask Will.”

And Wilbur gives Tubbo a mug of coffee, perfectly calm. Tommy feels abandoned. Replaced, really. He slides out from behind Dad and places himself in his brother’s way, but Wilbur refuses to even acknowledge him and starts a long conversation with Tubbo while simultaneously moving the brown paper parcel just barely out of Tommy’s reach. 

“Will. Will, stop,” Tommy whines, grabbing for it as Wilbur calmly moves it to his other hand.

“I thought that was odd, too,” Wilbur replies, nodding to Tubbo’s comment about the road work going on a few streets down. 

Eventually Dad wakes up enough to put a stop to it, but by that time Tommy is hunched over Wilbur’s shoulder singing a Christmas carol off-key and Tubbo is getting another cup of coffee.

It is an eventful morning. 

“Who’s it for?” Dad asks, inspecting the present.

“Tom, of course,” Tubbo says cheerfully. Wilbur nods as he drains his cup. “From both of us.”

They exchange a glance—not exactly excited, but satisfied. It is the look of a job well done.

“Let me have it, then,” Tommy prods, crossing his arms over the back of Wilbur’s shoulders and leaning his weight on him.

“. . . it is Christmas,” Wilbur says noncommittally. “No sense in waiting longer now, is there?”

“Consider: it’s funny,” Tubbo puts in.

But Tommy really is interested in what the present might be, so he tones down his reaction. “What are you waiting for?”

Tubbo and Wilbur look at each other again, deliberating.

Tubbo shrugs and pushes the parcel over. “Go on, then.”

Tommy didn’t actually expect that to work so well. He takes it, almost expecting them to try and grab it back. Now that he has a chance to really look at it, the package is unassuming. The paper is smooth and cool under his fingers, crisscrossed in rough twine. It unknots easily under his fingers, and the wrapping comes open. 

It’s a book.

It’s beautiful, bound in green bookcloth the colour of olives and dried herbs, with gilt engravings along the spine. A gold laurel of leaves lines the front cover, songbirds flitting around the top, candles glowing along the bottom. In the center is an illustration with a crocodile, two longhaired mermaids, and a boy sitting cockily on a rock with a set of panpipes. The figures surround an inscribed plate:

Peter and Wendy

1. M. Barrie

“Oh.” Tommy drops the paper and twine, and the book rests heavy and solid in his hands.

“I thought since we’d seen the play and you liked it so much . . .” Tubbo is suddenly sheepish.

“You like books,” Wilbur says, simple. He doesn’t look like he cares much, but his eyes crinkle at the sides and he pays close attention to Tommy’s reaction.

“It’s beautiful,” Tommy breathes. “Thank you. Thank you, this is—oh.”

It is certainly the most decorative book he owns. He ought to be wearing gloves before holding it, or at least wipe the oil from his hands, but he doesn’t want to put it down. 

Tommy opens it up instead. Past the endpaper is an illustration in black and white, where Peter descends into the Darlings’ nursery, lighter than air. The inquisitive tilt of his head is as graceful as an angel.

On the facing page is yet another picture, where a varied cast of characters crowd around the book’s title like they’re sitting for a family portrait.

Tommy looks up at Wilbur and Tubbo. “I don’t have anything for either of you, though.”

Wilbur just shrugs, but Tubbo says imperiously. “If you let me read it after, maybe I’ll forgive you.”

“We can read it together.”

“Yes, you two go to the couch and read,” Dad says tiredly, pushing them gently out of the kitchen. “I’ll cook some sausage for breakfast. We can’t live off coffee alone, unfortunately.”

As they go, Tubbo leans close and whispers, “Don’t worry, I’ve already forgiven you. There’s no way I can repay you for . . . this.” He gestures vaguely around.

“For what?”

Tubbo presses his lips together. “For . . . letting me come over all the time, and talking with me about things I like, and . . . having me here for Christmas even though I’m definitely not family—”

Tommy cuts him off with a laugh. “Don’t be silly, Tubbo. That’s just love.”

They jump onto the couch and curl up under the blanket laying over the back. Tommy opens to the first page and, just for fun, begins to read aloud.

“All children, except for one, grow up.”

What a lovely first line. 

Tommy and Tubbo pause to smile at each other, and then they dive in fully.

Wilbur wanders in at some point, and sits at the foot of the couch with his mandolin on his lap, plucking out a thoughtful, endless tune. Tommy reads and laughs and does voices. Tubbo is enchanted by Nana the dog-nurse, and Tommy swears he could get Mrs. Darling’s secret kiss. They finish the first chapter about the same time Dad brings breakfast in, and the three eat quickly while he reads the second chapter.

Dad doesn’t do voices, but he does interrupt himself with scathing comments whenever Mr. Darling does something he disagrees with, which is practically every other page.

Tubbo takes the book next—after washing his hands of sausage grease—and he and Tommy pile back onto the couch. Wilbur does the dishes, and Dad stokes up the fire with a hand shielding his face from the heat. He opens the curtains as wide as they can go, and cold sunlight drenches the room.

Tubbo does voices because Tommy does them, but he is not very good. In fact, he is horrible. They beg him to stop and he refuses. Wendy will say, “It is perfectly lovely the way you talk about girls, John just despises us,” and Tubbo will pitch his voice high and squeaky. The deep, American accent he uses for Tinkerbell makes her cursing even more ridiculous.

There is another illustration near the end of this chapter, of Mr. Darling, Mrs. Darling, and Nana, mourning their children’s absence. Mrs. Darling’s pale, flowing dress sweeps down from where she’s buried her face in the mattress. Nana’s body curves up towards the open window. Tommy can imagine the way she would howl.

Wilbur, the last one who hasn’t read, has to be forced to take the book. He protests, but it’s only fair, and Tommy promises to mend the tear in Will’s shirt while he listens, so it’s a trade, really.

Despite the annoyed monotone Wilbur starts reading with, it is difficult to read so conversational a text without energy, and after four pages he’s reading seriously. He doesn’t do voices, and paces as he reads, from the window to the mouth of the hall and back. It is soothing, and Wilbur’s reading voice sounds like childhood to Tommy. 

Peter Pan is absolutely awful. He’s selfish and cruel and cares for nothing but the thrill of the moment. When he plays with the Darling children, he seems to treat them like toy figurines, and never acknowledges that anything he’s done is wrong. He shines like a flickering electric light—annoying, useless, and difficult to fix. 

Tommy dislikes him immediately, and dislikes the way Tubbo nudges him and whispers, “You would do that,” every once in a while. Tubbo probably doesn’t believe it, but . . . only probably.

Tommy reads again, and Neverland is far more incredible in the hands of an author than those of the set designers who worked on the play he saw with Tubbo. Barrie makes the imaginary become real just as it does for the Darlings. 

The pirates raise everyone’s spirits. Wilbur makes up a tune for their song, and makes them all learn the words and sing along. Tommy can’t come up with voices for all of them, but Tubbo is there, offering his terrible impressions. Dad laughs so hard he chokes on his coffee.

Tubbo reads his chapter, doing the grating voice for Wendy. It goes relatively smoothly until the next to last line— “After a time he fell asleep, and some unsteady fairies had to climb over him on their way home from an orgy.”

Wilbur turns abruptly around. Dad chokes again, on air this time. Tubbo is too startled to finish.

“What?”  Wilbur gasps. “Since when are there fairy orgies in Neverland?”

“I don’t know! It came out of nowhere, I promise I didn’t put it in!”

“What’s an orgy?” Tommy asks, looking up from his vest. He’s finally replacing the bright blue button that didn’t match the rest.

More laughter, from everyone, now. Wilbur only gets halfway through explaining before Dad takes the book for his turn and interrupts them.

Tommy will just have to ask later.

And thus, Christmas passes. The four of them take turns reading while the others sip on the last of the good tea and the fire makes itself known with irregular spits and crackles. 

Tommy runs his fingers over each new illustration in the beautiful book. He still can’t believe it’s his. To keep. To own. He and Tubbo squeeze together on the couch, shoulder to shoulder, hip to hip. Wilbur sits on Tommy’s other side for an hour or so in the late afternoon, out of some desire to be close Tommy leans his head on his shoulder, but Wilbur shoves him off with a scoff. A quarter hour later, Tommy tries again, and this time Wilbur lets him.

It is good. It is very good.

Night begins to crawl up the sky, and Tommy lets his eyes fall shut.

Thank you. Thank you, thank you, thank you!

He opens them and smiles to himself and to God.

Amen.

They break for dinner. Halfway through the meal, Niki shows up. It’s Christmas; everyone is with their families, and she has no work. Wilbur invites her to share the evening with them instantly, and Tommy sees the moment when Dad realizes she has no one else to spend the holiday with. He ushers her in with his usual sorrow-tipped smile. 

They only have two chapters left, and once she hears of their goal to finish the whole book in a day, she will not rest until they let her read one. She perches on the back of the couch, one foot on the floor for balance, and reads while they eat. Her voice is soft and clear.

She reads of the miserable plight of Mr. and Mrs. Darling, alone without their children. And of course she giggles with the rest of them about Mr. Darling sleeping in the dog kennel, but she doesn’t have the humorous background of the rest of the story, so she reads the parents’ dialogue like she really is in pain.

“Don’t be silly; why do I matter? Do go back and keep an eye on the children” and “But at what a cost! By depriving the children of ten minutes of delight,” and “O Nana, I dreamt my dear ones had come back.”

Tommy, Tubbo, and Wilbur sit stone-faced.

Peter and the Lost Boys spend their whole story wishing for a mother. Even the pirates desire the same. And with such a mother as Mrs. Darling, he can’t blame them—Tommy doesn’t think he’s ever been loved so selflessly, so completely, as Mrs. Darling loves her children.

If only real mothers were like the ones in storybooks. 

Tommy props his chin on the heel of his hand, watching Niki read. She has his mother’s hair, and her shoulders curl the same way when she laughs. 

He hasn’t thought about his mother for a while.

Does she miss him? He can’t see how she wouldn’t—he’s her child, her flesh and blood, and those are the people you stick with. But even if she does miss him, it clearly is not enough—he hasn’t seen her since he was seven.

Oh.

He’s been without her for longer than he had her.

That—that can’t be. Surely, when he was fourteen he realized the divide was even—seven years with two parents, seven years with only the one. But he didn’t. He didn’t think about it, not that way, not then.

He shuffles his chair closer to his brother’s. Wilbur looks mournful, just as mournful as Tommy feels.

Wilbur never even knew his mother. Dad wasn’t married to her when Will was born, and she left as soon as she wasn’t needed to keep him alive. Dad doesn’t talk about her fondly—he says she was a singer, a lounge singer who went by Samantha Sung, which explains Wilbur’s unusual affection for music. Dad hadn’t known about Wilbur until a year or two after he was born, when Samantha decided she couldn’t take care of him anymore. It didn’t fit her image. Wilbur doesn’t profess to miss her either, but she was still his mother. Not the kind that Mrs. Darling is, but . . . a mother.

 Tubbo’s story also starts with an absent mother, but his father couldn’t be bothered to keep him either. He ended up at an orphanage, and then a workhouse, and would’ve been sentenced to that life forever if not for the help of some outside friends. He talks about the workhouse like a prison. The idea that his parents left him knowing he’d end up there . . . it’s not a pretty image.

At least Tommy knew his mother.

Niki . . . Niki is far from home. She has parents waiting for her, a family that misses her. Hopefully, she’ll be able to return from Neverland someday soon.

Wilbur takes the last chapter, his voice scratchy from so much reading.

Peter Pan never finds a home. He doesn’t stay with the Darlings. He carries on forever young, forever unchanged. He has no grasp of time or consequence; he lives second to second too much for practical things like that. He is too afraid of responsibility to be loved or love in return. 

“. . . thus it will go on, so long as children are gay and good and heartless,” Wilbur finishes. The book’s brand new binding pulls itself closed on its own.

Tommy doesn’t want to be heartless. He’s still scared of life and living, but if remaining a child makes him heartless, it can’t be worth it. He can’t imagine a life worse than one without people to love.

And so he doesn’t complain, or even joke, when Tubbo buries him in a hug and begins to rant about how much he liked the book. He leans up into his father’s arm wrapping around his shoulder, and the quiet kiss dropped atop his head.

“Goodnight, Tom. Merry Christmas.”

“Merry Christmas,” Tommy whispers, but it feels weak. How to express the anxious love boiling over in his chest? He’s glad, he’s glad he has a father, and he’s glad he’s still young enough to live with him. For now. “Thank you for reading. I love you.”

He may not have a mother, but he has one parent whose mouth quirks into a fond smile as he says, “Aw, mate. Love you too. Always have, always will.”

Chapter Text

January 12th, 1913 — about two weeks later

Of all the days to return to the pleasure house, Tommy didn’t expect it to be a Sunday.

Nevertheless, here he is, despite his protests.

“It’s the best one,” Wilbur insists. His shoulders are tense. “My favourite, at least.”

“Better than the first opera?” Tommy asks, struggling to force his mitten-clad hands into his pockets. Of course, Wilbur is already late, and they have no time to stop for Tommy to warm his icy fingers. The streetlights are already on above them, and the streets themselves are emptying of tired men and women heading home for the day.

Wilbur scoffs. His profile is made a shadow by the warm light behind him, leaking out of someone’s curtained windows. “Oh, Tom, that thing was awful. I have real experience now. This is mountains better.”

“ ‘Mountains better,’ ” Tommy mumbles to himself, giving up on the pockets and squeezing his fingertips inside his fists.

Thank God they enter the pleasure house through the back door this time.

It’s loud and busy, and Wilbur is immediately grabbed and reprimanded for being late. He makes his excuses—a good half of them are lies—and bursts into action, finding all his actors, making sure they’re warmed up and costumed, reviewing with the musicians who don’t seem all that well-prepared.

Again, it is Niki who pulls Tommy out of the chaos and skin and stows him away somewhere safe until the show starts. She’s not performing, so she can stick by him. Hopefully, nobody will bother them if they are already accompanied by one another. 

Tommy is isolated from the rest of the crowd—the “paying customers,” Niki calls them—and so he has nothing to do but people-watch. It would be an understatement to say he doesn’t like the look of the crowd. But it is the crowd a whorehouse pulls, so he isn’t really surprised.

The show is . . . good. It is good. Wilbur has outdone himself. The music is beautiful, a lilting, fluttering thing. It sounds like it’s running away, almost, flitting between major and minor like the terms don’t even exist.

The leading lady has a voice like the sea, deep and full, spreading across the room from wall to wall. She effortlessly entrances the entire audience, pulling them into silence. It feels wrong to look at her, with her dress slipping off one shoulder and her red hair tumbling unbound halfway down her back, but they can’t help but look. The character she plays is too sad to be horribly sexual. She is forced to give up her friends’ trust for their own good, forced to make them hate her so they will be safe. She’s tragic. 

A few minutes before the end of the sequence, Niki leans over and whispers, “Close your eyes.”

“But—”

“You’ll regret it if you don’t.”

He closes his eyes.

Seconds later, a round of laughter and cheering billows through the crowd. Tommy rocks on his heels.

“And . . . curtain closes,” Niki relates softly.

“I can look?”

“Yes, but we should probably—” 

The crowd begins to clap so loudly he can’t hear the rest of her sentence. He claps, too, glancing at her apologetically. 

Wilbur’s brown curls poke through the centre of the curtains. He takes a bow, and Tommy cheers louder than ever, and Wilbur sends him a wink before beckoning someone else forward, pulling the curtain aside.

The redhead, the lead, appears, her face flushed with embarrassment and stage fright, no doubt. She takes a weak curtsy, but the men in the crowd are talking to one another more than they are clapping, and don’t seem to care. Wilbur says something to her, smiles. She smiles faintly back, and takes his arm as they retreat to the safety of the curtains.

Tommy and Niki find their way to the cramped backstage area, where it is even louder than when Tommy first arrived. 

Niki disappears to go congratulate the redheaded woman, and Tommy grins at his brother over the chaos. Wilbur drops his notes immediately to come over.

“It was brilliant, Will. Absolutely brilliant.”

“Thank you.” And Wilbur just smiles, and Tommy can’t imagine how he ever existed without working in music. “Oh! I’ve got to introduce you to Sally.”

“Who?”

Wilbur grabs his hand and tugs him to the other side of the room. “The lead, remember? She’s good. She’s really good, a natural, really—”

This ‘Sally’ looks up with large, incredibly blue eyes when Wilbur calls her name. Her face is square and strong, but her eyes and loose hair give her a strange, out-of-place sense of innocence. 

“You were amazing,” Wilbur says, scooping her out of her chair to bury her in a hug. “If that was you with first-time nerves, you’ve got a world of talent at your fingertips.”

She laughs—her laugh is hearty, and from her chest; genuine. Tommy finds he trusts it to be real.

“Sally, meet my baby brother, the infamous Tommy Craft.”

“Infamous, sure,” Tommy reaches out to shake her hand. She hesitates before taking it. “Baby brother? Don’t kid yourself, Will.”

“You’re a kid, yourself,” his brother mutters, as if he realizes how stupid it is as he says it. His own brother. Tommy might need to convince Niki to take over the elder sibling position, because Wilbur obviously needs replacing.

Sally’s lips quirk.

“Don’t laugh at that,” Tommy begs. “He doesn’t deserve it.”

She shakes her head and exhales deliberately. “Not laughing.”

“See, Tom, she thinks I’m funny.”

“Yeah, you. Not your jokes.”

And that really makes Sally laugh. Tommy smirks at his brother, as antagonistically as possible.

“Sally Soot,” she says, and it takes him a moment to realize it’s an introduction.

“Nice to meet you. Is this the first performance Wilbur has roped you into?”

“Second.”

Tommy knows, logically, that he won’t be able to see all of Wilbur’s music performed, but the fact that he’s already missed some—and without even knowing it—hits him like a blow. When did Wilbur start doing things on his own?

Before he can ponder this further, hands land heavy on his shoulders and spin him around. “See, I said it was him!”

And then comes the obligatory greeting to all the women who work here, who remember when he used to come around all the time. “I really do think he’s gotten taller, Mary—” and “Three full meals? Everyday?” and “I thought I told you not to come back here!” and “Your brother didn’t bully you into coming, did he? God knows he bullies us.” So on and so forth. 

Niki is too good to let him stay long, and most of them need to go work, anyway, and so Wilbur and Tommy leave the same way they came in. Right as Tommy steps out into the cold street, though—hands firmly in his pockets this time—Wilbur stops.

“One second. I’ll be right out.” The door slams behind him, glass shivering in its frame.

Tommy shuffles. His breath puffs visibly in the air. There is a window in the door, and it’s not large, but Tommy’s eyes are perfectly level with it. He watches Wilbur hurry back down the hall, calling something Tommy can’t make out.

Sally appears, opening one of the doors. Her hair is still down.

Wilbur brightens when he sees her, and takes her hands in his and speaks again. And then, he kisses her, quick and easy, like he’s done it before.

Tommy, horrified, stands frozen still.

What?

Since when?

Wilbur heads back, somehow not noticing Tommy in the window. He waves goodbye to Sally on his way out, and closes the door more gently this time.

“C’mon, let’s hurry. It’ll only get colder.” He adjusts his coat.

“Will. Will.”

“Tom.”

“What was that?”

Wilbur just smiles. “What was what?” Tommy’s going to kill him.

“You . . . kissed her,” Tommy scowls, making like he’s going to throw up.

Wilbur huffs a laugh. “Yes, I did.”

“Why?” 

He sputters. “Why? You want to know why I kissed a girl?”

“But—you—you work with her! And she’s—she—”

“Oh, leave it alone, it’s not that big of a deal.”

“It is a big deal!” Tommy protests. “Are you courting her? Are you planning on marrying her?”

Wilbur flinches. “I cannot stress enough how much this isn’t a big deal.”

If Wilbur marries her, he’ll have to move out, and then Tommy won’t have his brother anymore. He won’t share a room with him, for sure.

“If you’re not going to marry her, why . . ?” When Wilbur doesn’t answer, Tommy pushes a little harder. “You’re just going to . . . stay for a while and leave?”

“No, Tom, I wouldn’t—you don’t really think I’d do that.”

“So you . . . you’re in love with her or something?”

“Tommy.” Wilbur hisses, shoving him hard in the empty road.

“You like her,” Tommy realizes. He remembers the way Wilbur hugged Sally after the show, the way he smiled at her before he left. “Oh, you like her!”

Wilbur groans.

“You like her! You like her!” Tommy crows, running back onto the sidewalk to ram their shoulders together.

“You’re horrible,” Wilbur grumbles, and pushes him away with one hand.

January–March, 1913—the following three months

It’s pleasantly familiar to see Techno outside of work, even if it’s been years. Dad and Techno have always been in touch, but sometimes it seems like Dad is trying to get Techno alone—never inviting him over, leaving Wilbur and Tommy at home when they meet up. Yet, Techno has always been family to all three of them, no matter how much time passes between visits.

Years and years ago, Techno was working in a coal mine and a tunnel collapsed on top of him. Two men died in the incident, and a few others, including Techno, were badly injured. Tommy knows this, only because he came home from school one day to an empty house and a note on the table that he was barely old enough to read. Apparently, Dad had left immediately upon hearing the news, leaving a fourteen-year-old Wilbur and an eight-year-old Tommy to take care of themselves for several days without warning. He came back with a bruised, quiet Techno, whose face was black like the coal he worked with. He looked a bit like a burnt tree, with an unkempt beard and knotted hair. 

He was terrifying to Tommy then, even though Techno had been around reliably for the first five or six years of Tommy’s life and Tommy knew him. But Techno came back different, or maybe Tommy was different. Either way, Tommy was cautious around him while he healed.

He remembers doing lessons at Techno’s bedside, slate hidden behind his knees. He kept very quiet, and probably wouldn’t have sat there at all if Wilbur hadn’t said that Techno needed company—and of course, Tommy did whatever Wilbur said. Techno would sleep, but sometimes he would wake with a jolt and ask Tommy to read haltingly to him. Tommy didn’t realize he was having nightmares for a long while.

Tommy remembers Techno being the one to urge him to keep playing piano. He declared the violin too mournful and too loud, but he liked the piano. Techno is the only reason Tommy kept it up. Back then, he couldn’t play without thinking of his mother. He’d never learned a song without her until Techno requested one.

Because of all this, and more, it shouldn’t have been surprising to see Techno with a cup of tea on their couch, reading silently while Dad sketched at the table. 

Suddenly Tommy is eight, and he can’t understand his math, and he will run inside and beg them all to help until someone gets annoyed and acquiesces, eventually.

He shakes the nostalgia off and adjusts the strap of his satchel on his shoulder. Inhales.

“I’m home!” he crashes into the living room, like a dog happily trampling a game of marbles.

Dad jumps in his seat. “Jesus Christ—”

Techno turns a page. “Hello, Tommy.”

He’ll get him someday.

Tommy kicks off his shoes and shucks off his gloves and coat. God, he hates winter. It takes so much work just to leave the house.

He grabs his book from his bag and considers his usual spot on the couch, but Techno will be next to him and that feels . . . wrong. It’s been a long time since he was helping a younger Tommy with math.

So he goes to sit by his father, who barely acknowledges him, even when Tommy steals a sip of his tea. There’s a comfort to the familiarity, but a coldness, too. 

Tommy drums his fingertips on the table and watches Dad trace out long even lines with a straightedge. A building is starting to take shape, something modern and organic with lots of flowing shapes and vine-like ornate details. With something that strange, Tommy’s surprised a straightedge comes into play at all. It’s a beautiful design. Tommy wishes he could see it recreated in real life.

Dad rarely draws, but it is always when Techno is around. Techno brings out the energy in him, the creativity. Tommy wonders if that was one of the reasons they became friends.

Dad lets Tommy pull his chair close and watch over his shoulder. Tommy makes quiet suggestions and Dad usually takes them with pleased little hums that make Tommy preen.

“Stop hoverin’, Tommy, give him some space,” Techno drawls, completely emotionless. “Come play the piano or somethin’.”

“I’m a little out of practice,” Tommy protests, already pushing his chair back. It’s not every day somebody asks him to play.

“As long as it’s an improvement from your playing at ten years old, I don’t care.”

“No promises,” Tommy mumbles, hands fitting to C Major the way they always do. He picks out an entire octave, black and white keys both.

He plays through a few more keys to warm up, then starts a piece, but his muscle memory won’t kick in. He hurriedly rifles through sheet music—none of it by Wilbur, unfortunately; he’s never written for piano alone.

Tommy finds a few old things and with a couple tries, he plays a melody from Orpheus in the Underworld. But his fingers won’t behave at the fast parts, skipping over notes and losing the rhythm.

Tommy curses quietly to himself and restarts a couple measures early. He still gets it wrong.

“Tommy. Let me see your hands.”

Tommy groans. “Come on, Techno, I’m just rusty. It’s no big deal—”

“Your hands.”

Reluctantly, he twists around and puts his hands out for inspection.

Look, he’s been working with chemicals at the tannery for a while now. Almost every day, he drags around animal skins drenched in the stuff. He’s getting used to the feel of when they’ve been fully soaked and when they need a few more minutes; he’s gaining experience. However, the chemicals are meant to stop organic material from rotting, and what do Tommy’s hands also happen to be made of? 

Organic material.

His skin is burned red now, dry skin peeling at the wrinkles of his knuckles and around his nails, which aren’t a healthy colour. They’re not the prettiest hands in the world, sure, but they’re his, so he doesn’t mind.

“Tommy . . .” Techno gives him a disappointed, fatherly look. “I gave you gloves.”

“I always forget to put them on! Besides, you’ll move me to a new department soon, and I’ll be far away from all the chemicals.”

“That’s not—that’s not how this works, Tommy. You’re supposed to be learning what safe working conditions look like. You’re gonna destroy your hands like this.”

Tommy scoffs. “No, I won’t. Too strong for it.”

Techno raises an eyebrow. He holds up one of his own hands at eye-level. It tremors ever so slightly. “You see that? That’s from working with chemicals. And I have a better sense of self-preservation than you, so this is with gloves.”

Tommy just shakes his head. “I’ll be fine.”

ↂ 𖠁 ↂ

Niki and Sally start coming over in the mornings to practice, usually together. Tommy, who is used to getting up before his brother, often wakes up to Wilbur tuning his fiddle or mandolin. He pulls the blanket over his head and sometimes throws a pillow at his brother—but that’s only when he’s slept badly.

The girls only show up after Dad has left for work. Wilbur isn’t hiding them, per se, just hiding the . . . consistency of their visits. Dad is cautious to make sure Wilbur remembers how much he dislikes Wilbur’s job, and so they all do their best not to remind him of it.

Until Wilbur tells Tommy to set the table for six, one evening.

“Who . . ?”

“Well, Tubbo’s here, that’s four. And I invited Sally and Niki.”

Tommy stops. “Does Dad know?”

“Of course, he had to know to make enough food for everybody, didn’t he?”

“But—about Sally and you—”

“Don’t worry about it, Tom. That’s my job.” 

You’re not very good at it, Tommy wants to say, but Wilbur has already waltzed off to carry the extra chair down from Dad’s room.

This is going to be a disaster.

The women arrive shortly, and Wilbur greets them at the door. Niki breezes in, tossing them all familiar nods. Wilbur’s got that same, stupid smile he did after the performance, but Sally just looks anxious. Her hair is pinned up delicately, the red shining burnished gold in the warm light of the fireplace. She starts when Wilbur touches her back. He whispers something to her, and it seems to help because she smiles, and her forehead relaxes, and she moves out of the entryway.

“Tommy.”

“Miss Soot,” he replies, because Dad thinks first names are impolite. At least for strangers, and definitely for women.

Dad comes into the room, wiping his hands on a rag. Sally is frozen in place. 

“Are we all here, then?” He asks, completely at ease. Tommy is getting a feeling he doesn’t know the nature of Wilbur and Sally’s relationship at all.  “It’s nice to meet you, by the way—I’m Mr. Craft.” 

“And this is Miss Soot.” Wilbur pushes her forward a step. She reluctantly shakes Dad’s hand.

Once Tubbo appears from the downstairs bedroom, he and Tommy crowd around the table to say grace before serving themselves, and then they are banished to the couch so the adults can have the table.

“Who’s she?” Tubbo whispers.

“Sally,” Tommy says with a grimace. “Wilbur’s . . . friend.”

“Friend.”

“Exactly.”

Tubbo looks at her for a long second. “Do we not like her?”

“No, she’s fine, it’s just . . .” Tommy likes Sally, really likes her. She’s quiet and shy and a little unapproachable at first, but once Wilbur started bringing her over more often, she brightened up quickly. She was funny, and bold, and a little brash. She keeps up with Wilbur easily, and tends to match his energy where Niki gently subdues it. She  never pays much attention to Tommy—he suspects she finds him annoying—but she doesn’t . . . she’s fine. They don’t dislike each other, they just aren’t friends. “She’s fine. But Wilbur hasn’t told Dad he’s with her.”

Tubbo hums. “And I’m guessing I should not tell him you said that—”

“Don’t.”

At the table, Niki and Dad are discussing politics. Wilbur has a hand on his chin, obviously waiting for a chance to jump in and monologue. Sally sits silently, chewing on her food as she listens, glancing over at Wilbur every once in a while. She’s quiet, but she’s listening. There’s a sharp quickness to her large eyes.

Wilbur finds an entrance and gives a speech about foreign policy and the French, and Sally rolls her eyes and interrupts with a counter-point—and a good one, too. 

“Why do they have to talk about boring things,” Tubbo complains, slouching. “We’ve got enough going on right in front of us, who cares about the rest of the world?”

Tommy shrugs. “They do.” He finishes his plate and sets it on the floor. “Do you think J. M. Barrie will write a sequel to Peter and Wendy?”

And so, they happily distract themselves, talking about this and that, everything and nothing, past and present, without distinction. They’re always able to talk so easily—even more than with Wilbur, which is a strange thought, because Tommy and Wilbur are, at least by half, the same person. And yet Tubbo and Tommy, dissimilar, unrelated, interact so smoothly. 

And as Tubbo listens patiently to Tommy explain different boiling and freezing points, Tommy thinks he knows what it is: an even playing field. They are the same age, a similar curiosity and desire to learn. There always has been, and always will be a hierarchy between Tommy and his brother. Protector and protected. Leader and follower. Elder and younger. It comes as naturally to them as smoke to flame.

Maybe that’s why Tommy notices when Wilbur gets up from the table. When he drops a hand on the back of Sally’s chair. “Anyone need anything?” Dad and Niki shake their heads. “More water, darling?” He asks Sally disastrously.

“No, thank you,” she says in a small voice.

Wilbur leaves to put his dishes in the sink while the energy in the living room begins to curdle. 

Tommy and Tubbo exchange a glance. What does Wilbur think he’s doing?

Wilbur comes back and sits like nothing has happened. He tries to pick up the conversation, but it’s stilted and awkward. Niki is glaring at him—when Dad isn’t looking—but she helps him cover, picking up the loose strings he’s tossing out. 

Tubbo and Tommy gradually start to talk amongst themselves again. The crisis is averted—or, at least, put off for a later date.

Tommy can’t help the anxiety curling in his gut. But he knows there will be an argument tonight and he’s dreading it. As soon as everyone leaves, Wilbur and Dad will be spitting insults at each other again, and Tommy will probably be trying to defuse the situation. It won’t work. It never works, but he’ll try.

“Tommy?” Tubbo nudges his leg. “You were staring off into space there.”

“Was I? Sorry.”

Tubbo frowns. “Tom.”

The exhales comes easy, like air rushing out of a balloon. “Just . . . thinking.” He looks up to smile at his friend, but he glances over and sees his horrible brother with an arm balanced on the top of Sally’s chair. He grits his teeth. “One second. Wilbur?”

“Yeah?”

“Help me sort out dessert.”

Wilbur tosses his head dramatically. “I’m busy—”

“Oh, come on, it’ll only take a minute or two.” And I need to talk to you, Tommy tries to communicate wordlessly.

Usually, Wilbur would argue, but some combination of Tommy’s glance and hosting company makes him get up with a grumble. He follows Tommy to the kitchen, looking for all the world like a grumpy teenager who’s been told off.

“What is it?” 

Tommy lifts the porcelain dessert platter out of the lower cabinet. “Why are you acting like this?”

“Like what?”

“Just—all the obvious signs you and Sally are . . . together,” Tommy hisses. He can hear Tubbo telling a loud story from the other room. “You’re acting all . . . I don’t know, but it’s bad.”

“Tom, I’m sorry you’ve never seen two people who are courting interact, but—”

“That’s not it and you know it. Besides, it’s making Sally more nervous than she already is.”

“. . . oh.”

“Yeah, oh.” Tommy curses. “Pass me the cookies.”

Wilbur obeys. He hovers silently at Tommy’s side, decidedly not helping.

“Why are you acting like this if you didn’t tell Dad already ? He’s figured it out.”

It takes him a second to answer. “I wasn’t sure how he’d react if I told him directly.”

“Or were you sure and just didn’t like the answer?”

Wilbur doesn’t respond at all this time.

“Ah, there it is.” Tommy stacks cookies on the platter, laying them out in three rows. “Stop being selfish and tell him. You’re just going to make him distrust you, and you’ve already made your own girlfriend anxious and ruined the evening. Don’t make me and Tubbo and Niki keep sitting through your awkwardness.”

Wilbur huffs out a breath. “Tom.”

“And carry this for me, you might as well pretend you helped a little.” He shoves the plate into Wilbur’s hands and leaves before he can argue. He settles back onto the couch next to Tubbo, who murmurs, “There’s dessert?”

They end up with a couple biscuits each, and it’s then that Wilbur sits up straighter in his chair, giving Sally a confirming glance.

“Dad, I, uh . . . I had something to tell you tonight. Actually.” He takes a deep breath. Tommy shoots him a determined nod. “Sally—uh, Miss Soot—and I have begun . . .”

“. . . courting,” Sally finishes quietly. Her eyes are glued to the table.

Dad’s expression is even. He sits back in his chair. “Oh. That’s . . . that’s lovely.” And it so obviously is not.

Wilbur deflates all of a sudden—not in disappointment, but relief. “Yes. It is, isn’t it.” And it’s such a stupid, pointless thing to say that Niki bursts out laughing.

Things are certainly not easy after that, but they are awkward in a more honest way. Dad keeps looking at Sally pensively, and Tommy can tell he’s not pleased by the news. He might not do anything about it, but he’s not happy.

Niki and Sally leave shortly. Tommy has a feeling Niki has just about had enough of Wilbur’s nonsense and is preparing a lecture for Sally about why he’s a horrible candidate for courting. Tommy . . . doesn’t disagree.

They bundle up in their coats and scarves and make their leave, calling goodbyes down the Crafts’ narrow, ravine-like street.

Tubbo is the next to go, but he pauses as he’s tugging his threadbare gloves on. “Are you all right?” He asks Tommy, brows curved in concern. “You sure you don’t want me to stay a little longer?”

From anyone else, the comment would’ve been rude and pushy, but it’s Tubbo. Tubbo is family.

Tommy shakes his head, trying to smile. “No. They’re getting ready to fight, and it’ll just be worse if they’ve got to bottle it up any longer. Better to just . . . get it over with, right?”

Tubbo sighs. “Okay. Don’t get too involved.”

“Yeah, yeah, I’ll try.” And fail. “Goodnight, Tubbo. See you soon.” 

The argument that night is a bad one.

ↂ 𖠁 ↂ

Quitting turns out to be quite beneficial for Wilbur’s career. He doesn’t spend his empty mornings sleeping in or eating or even reading penny novelettes. He writes.

Every morning, he’s up before Tommy, before Dad leaves for work, humming out a melody or scribbling down notes or playing his violin. Music consumes him.

The noise is comforting in its constancy. Tommy enjoys waking up to it, coming home to it. Even if it’s the same melody played over and over again until Wilbur gets the rhythm right. Tommy tries to help, but Wilbur never wants help, and as a result Tommy hasn’t been able to play the piano as often. Wilbur doesn’t do much interacting at all—he’s quieter in conversation, and rarely helps with dinner, even when it’s his turn. 

Tommy cooks a lot. Tubbo helps, when he’s over, but Tubbo in the kitchen is possibly even more dangerous than Wilbur in the kitchen, so it is an uncommon occurrence.

Niki sometimes joins Will in the mornings, brainstorming and forcing him to let her make some of the decisions. It takes a lot of pushing for him to give her even the slightest bit of leeway. 

“You’re not even thinking about your audience,” she’ll argue. “We do have to sell some of the seats.”

“Have I ever written something people don’t like?”

“Yes.”

And so it goes.

Wilbur works and writes. 

Things are busy: it seems like he tells them about a new performance every week. There are so many that he can’t ask the girls to memorize the quantity of music, but the pleasure house has been getting a lot of attention because of the shows, so he keeps writing anyway, building up a store of extra pieces to use if he ever runs out of ideas. In fact, the pleasure house is so successful that its competitors are starting to take notice. They want a piece of the profit, too. Wilbur starts selling them his unused music, with stage directions written in. Tommy can tell he wants to go and oversee the directing himself, but it simply isn’t possible. He doesn’t have the time—every spare second is already spent writing.

He does nothing else, forgetting to eat breakfast and lunch, missing sleep left and right. He gets home after dark, adjusts his music based on whatever he decided with the girls, and sometimes he eats. Then, he’ll usually get distracted and write a while longer—without the violin, because Dad will yell if he plays past bedtime. Yet, he writes all the same, singing quietly to himself at the dining table. Tommy doesn’t even wake up anymore when Wilbur finally stumbles to bed at an ungodly hour.

In the mornings Will wakes early and takes advantage of the daylight to practice whatever he wrote the night prior. 

Niki shows up an hour after breakfast, face still puffy with sleep, her curly hair frizzy. She works over half the night, usually, so there really is no good reason to ask her to show up this early in the morning. But she comes for Wilbur anyway, because he’s in an even worse state than she is. At least they can both joke about it.

And if Niki dozes off, curled up against the arm of the couch, Tommy will read at Wilbur’s side and glare if he goes to wake her up. Those days, Wilbur falls asleep at the table, too. 

Tommy really is the only responsible one. 

ↂ 𖠁 ↂ

“I think—hm. It’ll be easier if you can hear it. Uh . . . Tommy?”

He glances up from Peter and Wendy. He hasn’t even been reading, really, just holding it to do something with his hands. “What.”

Wilbur gestures vaguely to the piano, eyes meaningful. He knows Tommy has been listening. “Just the harmony, so Sally can match it.”

Tommy rolls his eyes and puts the book aside eagerly. Wilbur doesn’t say thank you, but that is normal. He finds the familiar grooves in the piano bench, worn from playing, and fits his fingers to the keys. “I can’t just play it by what you’re singing, give me the music,” he snaps. 

Wilbur mutters something and shoves too many sheets of paper onto the stand. They are curled up at the bottom, and immediately slip onto the keyboard, crackling like autumn leaves. Tommy pushes them back up and squints at the notes—Wilbur has scribbled so many in so tightly that it is hard to read.

“Start here,” Wilbur says imperiously, “Ready? Okay—”

“Give me a second,” Tommy curses. “God, Wil. It’s like you don’t want me to play.” But he does find the notes, eventually, and he remembers just how beautifully his brother writes. The melody spins like sugar in the air, winding around and around itself. It is delicate. It fills the room.

“Can you start from the first ending?” Sally asks, and Tommy obeys.

Two measures later, Sally begins her harmony. Niki hums the melody to herself somewhere behind Tommy—looking over his shoulder. She gives Sally a line to find her spot, and then joins in, voice strong. Tommy’s shoulders rise in concentration. He misses a few notes, and then he has to drop out of the left hand and just play the singing parts along with the girls. Once they get to the second ending, he’s playing both hands together again, and Wilbur interrupts the last few notes in his excitement.

“Oh, yes, just like that. That was perfect.” Wilbur breaks in. “Again, but Tommy . . .”

“I know I messed up, it wasn’t on purpose—”

“No, I liked it just the right hand. Do it here, and . . . right there, too. Up till the crescendo.”

“. . . oh.” Tommy frowns as Wilbur pulls away to give instructions to the girls. He doesn’t understand a word of it, but Niki and Sally nod along like Wilbur’s word is gold. 

They start up again, and whatever Wilbur told them works, because the harmonies come together even better this time around. A step sounds on the stairs, and when Tommy gets a chance to look, he sees his father creeping into the hall, an appreciative smile curling his lips. And then Tommy misses a note and he rushes to find his place again.

Octave in the left, and then the twinkly little thing in the right hand, cascading down to a clear, lovely F-sharp. Niki rises to an A-sharp a beat later, and they let the chord ring. Tommy adds a few quiet notes, filling up the little pause, and he is pleased with how they mesh with the rest of the song. He repeats the arrangement a few other times, throughout the page. Wilbur doesn’t tell him to stop, so he changes other things, too—adding another harmony in where there isn’t one, simplifying a series of eighth notes. He leaves the rhythm alone so the girls can sing along properly, but it’s . . . fun, playing around like this. He hasn’t had the energy to do much on the piano in months, but this is full and alive and sweet as honey. 

He continues on past the second ending, even as the girls drop out and Niki laughs with delight. 

Wilbur laughs, too, hand landing on Tommy’s shoulder. He doesn’t say it, but Tommy feels that he is proud of him, and that is enough.

Confidence burning in his chest, Tommy plays a little louder, a little fiercer, as they talk. This duet is already lighthearted, but he plays it like a romp in a field, cycling back through the first two sections. When he glances over, Sally is swaying a little to the piano while Niki verifies something in her music, Wilbur hovering over her shoulder. Dad leans in the archway, warming his hands around a mug. Tommy grins, and forces a discordant second out of the song. 

Wilbur visibly flinches, and Tommy cackles and resolves the musical stress, spilling notes down the keyboard. He misses half of them. He doesn’t care.

He ends up lower than he intended, but he can work with it, a repetitive wave of notes in the left hand giving his right a chance to pick out a simple rendition of the base melody. The daintiness of Wilbur’s song is back, but with more fire and drive. The rhythm is hard and fast, aggressively even. 

Sally’s laughter bubbles up behind him, Wilbur’s too, but Tommy has gotten far too involved with the piano to spare a glance over his shoulder. Wilbur says something from the bottom of his voice, and for once, Tommy doesn’t ask him to repeat it. He’s having too much fun. 

Still, he eases up on the left hand, playing every other note, and gets a half-second to look and see Sally trying to teach poor Wilbur a dance. 

Dad’s sharp laughter strikes the room alight. It has always sounded like a match scratching off a scrap of sandpaper. “Good luck, Sally, we’ve tried to teach him to dance a hundred times, and he’s never gotten it.”

“Dad,” Wilbur whines, sounding young. “It’s not my fault that—”

“I’ll give you as many lessons as it takes,” Sally says, sweet and daring all at once, and then she laughs again, which means Wilbur must’ve been startled speechless.

“So that’s how to get him to shut up,” Tommy snips. 

More laughter. Wilbur manages to swing him and Sally around so he’s close enough to smack the back of Tommy’s head. Tommy’s hands jump on the piano, and he curses, reaching for his brother.

“Don’t ruin the music,” Sally urges, only half complaining.

“Here,” Tommy offers up, testing out a few chords. When he starts again, the rhythm has a distinct swing feeling to it, back and forth and back and forth like the pendulum on a grandfather clock.

Wilbur groans. “No. No, you can’t do that to my piece, that’s not how it goes—”

Sally interrupts him with more dance instructions. Meanwhile, Niki pushes the table as far out of the way as possible; their house is too small to dance in as it is.

The table ends up right at Tommy’s back, but he doesn’t care. Niki checks anyway, setting her hands on his shoulders. 

“You’re very good, you know that?”

He shrugs, feeling his face heat up. “It’s just . . . it’s just piano. Wilbur’s the real musician in our family.”

She hums a no. “Don’t compare. He couldn’t do what you’re doing now.” She gives his shoulders a squeeze and drifts off. “Mr. Craft?” There is a smile in her voice.

“Oh . . . Niki—”

“Come on!”

And when Tommy finds another time to look back, Niki is peeling the mug out of Dad’s hands and pulling him into the space she cleared. 

Tommy keeps playing. He smiles as he does it, and he smiles when he changes the rhythm and Wilbur, who’d been surviving the dance pretty well, falls out of step and has to start all over again. He smiles as his father exchanges a few quiet words with Niki as he dances with her, and he grins when Wilbur sloshes down onto the piano bench next to him, mandolin in hand, and starts to play along. Wilbur is no good at improvising, but that makes it better, somehow.

At one point, Niki pulls Tommy away from the piano for a few minutes to teach him how to waltz, and that’s mortifying, and then Phil shows them a dance that definitely isn’t popular anymore and they all laugh and laugh and laugh.

It is a good night.

ↂ 𖠁 ↂ

It isn’t that night, but one a few weeks later that Tommy gives up trying to keep up with his brother and Sally talking late into the night. He heads to bed on his own, and falls asleep to the sound of their conversation in the next room.

When Tommy gets up, his brother’s bed is still empty. This is not unusual, and Tommy dresses and forces himself awake like he always does. But when he leaves the bedroom, the living room is lit only by the sunlight soaking through the curtains. The fire is dead in the hearth, ash decorating the brick like the fake snow rich people scatter about their homes. 

Wilbur and Dad are nowhere to be found.

Did he sleep in late or something?

Tommy rubs his eyes and steps farther into the room, bumping into the table.

Oh. Looks like the house isn’t empty after all. 

Will and Sally are passed out on the couch. A blanket is dragged haphazardly over them, but Wilbur is too long for the couch so his feet hang off one arm. Sally is tucked into his side, leaving a dark spot of drool on his sweater. Her hair is falling out of last night’s updo, pins poking out like spikes. Apart from her shift, which bunches around her shoulders, her clothes are stacked on the floor, corset rolled neatly on top.

Hm. All right.

Tommy turns on his heel and ascends the stairs to his father’s bedroom. He hesitates before knocking, but it’s not like there’s anywhere else in the house to hide. Going back to his bedroom means passing through the living room again, and he is not doing that. Besides, he really doesn’t want to be downstairs when Wilbur comes back to their room to make up a lie about why Sally is still here. 

So Tommy knocks. He’s not keeping Wilbur’s secret, not this time.

“Yeah?”

Thank God his father’s awake. “Can I come in?”

The pause is telling. “. . . yes.”

He lets himself in. The door clicks as he leans back, his weight pushing it closed.

Dad sits in bed, wrapped in a soft brown dressing gown. He still looks bleary with sleep, but a cup of coffee steams on the bedside table, so he must’ve gotten up at some point. Did he see Wilbur and Sally?

“Is something wrong, Tom?”

“No, not . . . I’m fine. Can I . . . can I sit up here with you?”

Tommy doesn’t really expect Dad to allow it. He’s always valued his personal space, even when Tommy was small, even when Mom was still around. Tommy hasn’t been up here for more than a few seconds in years. There’s never any reason to. Tommy and Dad don’t spend much time together now that they both work. He doesn’t seek out Dad’s comfort or praise, he doesn’t . . . exist with him. Wilbur has filled that role.

But Dad shrugs. “The living room has been commandeered, hasn’t it,” he says drily, and pats the bed. “C’mere.” 

Tommy smiles, tentative. “Thanks. You saw . . ?”

Dad’s face contorts into a complicated expression—something like a grimace, but sadder, or perhaps disappointed. “I saw,” he admits carefully.

And that’s all. Wilbur’s done what he’s done, and Tommy and Dad are just . . . looking on, now. It’s not like he’ll take their advice, or listen to their complaints. He can take the fall on his own.

Tommy falls onto his back beside his father. “What happens next?”

Dad shrugs, blowing steam out of his cup.  “Things go on. They’ve been courting for a while, haven’t they? This was . . . it was going to happen. Maybe if he was courting someone who cared more about propriety, things would’ve been different, but . . . he’s my son.”

And the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.

“I had hoped,” Dad goes on faintly, “that maybe he would learn from my mistakes, since I was so clear with him that they were mistakes. But he has Sally just like I had Samantha, so obviously it didn’t stick.”

“Surely not everything was bad about your relationship with Samantha.”

Dad’s brow scrunches. “No, it really . . . you have to understand, Tom, I was very young—Wilbur’s age, almost exactly—and she was a little older and definitely . . . well, I wouldn’t say she knew what she was doing but she was . . . older, that’s all. She was more mature than I was, and she knew it. But we were both irresponsible and Wilbur happened, and then I couldn’t really get married properly after that, because who wanted to marry a man who already had a child with another woman? Not a sensible girl, that’s for sure. And I had to stay home, and take care of Wilbur, and that influenced what kind of job I got, and . . .”

“It changed everything.”

“Yes. It changed everything.”

They are quiet a moment. 

“You got Wilbur out of it,” Tommy suggests. “There’s that.”

Birds chirp outside the window, swooping over the sky like particles of cinnamon swirled into warm milk. Smoke starts to flower out of chimneys as people build fires in their hearths.

“And it didn’t ruin all your chances of marrying, because Mom was with you for seven years, and you got me out of that.”

Dad sighs. “Let’s not talk about your mother.”

They never do.

Dad sips his coffee. “Look, Tommy, your brother is . . . repeating my mistakes. There’s nothing we can do about that anymore. But you— you can promise to do better.”

Tommy swallows. Before, he would’ve promised it without thinking. But lately, so many things are turning out different from how he thought they would be. He’s not sure what promises he can truthfully make.

“I will,” he says, because in most cases, promises are mere hopes. And then he asks a question he’s never thought to ask before. “Would you have married Samantha, if you had the chance?”

Dad thinks for nearly a full minute. “I . . . I don’t know. I’m different now than I was at twenty-two, obviously. I would now. I don’t think I would’ve then. I was—I was too concerned with excitement at twenty-two to settle down.”

The follow-up: “Do you think Wilbur is going to marry Sally?”

“I think he should,” Dad grumbles. “The way he treats that girl—I don’t know why she puts up with him.”

“. . . he’s nice to her.” He listens to her. He lets her teach him how to dance badly. Sure, he likes showing her off, and he tends to talk around her sometimes. Sure, he pressures her during singing practice, picking at her every mistake, but that’s no different than the way he pressures Niki. It would be wrong for him to treat Sally differently, right? 

He’s better to her than he’s been to any other woman.

Dad gives him a meaningful look. 

They sit quietly for several minutes. Dad sips his coffee. Tommy traces the zigzag lines of running stitches on the quilt. They look like little paths that ought to have treasure at the end, but he knows they lead nowhere but the bound hem of the coverlet.

“She thinks he can save her,” Tommy mutters, tangling his fingers tight in the blanket, leaving wrinkles. “At least—yeah. I don’t know if she really expects him to save her anymore, but . . . that’s how it started, I think. And now it’s lasted long enough that she trusts him to stick around. And she trusts him enough that she sticks around, too.

Tommy doesn’t particularly want Sally to stick around, and he doesn’t want Wilbur to marry her, either. Enough has already changed.

But that’s . . . selfish. Painfully so. Wilbur wouldn’t make a good husband, there’s no question about it, but Sally needs him. Despite all her determination, all her brains, she can’t get out of this on her own. If she marries Will and settles down—whatever that means for them—she’ll have a chance to build herself a better reputation. She could be normal, if that’s what she wants.

Tommy supposes he could try to be happy if they did marry. Or, at the very least, play-act it.

“He likes her,” Tommy says. “I don’t think he’s using her.”

Dad snorts. “Really.”

“Yes, really! You’ve heard them talk. They listen to each other. Wilbur doesn’t listen to many people, but he—”

“Sure, but she’s still a prostitute. Is there a way for him not to be using her?”

“He can still love her,” Tommy protests.

Dad hushes him. “I didn’t say he couldn’t, but let’s be honest, Tom. The odds? Not looking good.”

“But . . .”

“It’s obvious he cares about her. But when he has to make a sacrifice, when he has to choose? I don’t see him picking her happiness over his own success.”

Tommy is quiet a moment, mulling it over. He can imagine it, but . . . he’s imagining the way Wilbur used to be, not the way he is now. Now-Wilbur cannot be predicted. He sighs. “Maybe so,” he scoffs, half-joking, “but why should I be listening to the advice of a man who’s not in contact with either of the mothers of his children?”

“That’s two more relationships than you’ve been in.”

“I think it gives me a purer view,” Tommy says proudly.

Dad laughs. He almost spills his coffee, but Tommy reaches over to stabilize it. “What, you don’t think you’re biased?”

He shakes his head, hair rubbing against the quilt. Individual strands stick to his face from the friction.

“Okay, kid. Just know you might feel differently someday.”

“Nope, I never change my mind,” Tommy answers. “I simply discover truth. Always right the first time.” And maybe he’s acting a little childish so his dad will laugh, but it’s worth it. They get to share the early morning together, making fun of each other like friends. A friend—Tommy never thought Dad could be a friend as well as a father.

And maybe he isn’t a friend, most of the time, but right now there is more peace between them than war. They manage to leave an argument—about Will, no less—without insulting each other. At least not seriously.

Things aren’t going to go back to the way they were. In some ways, though, maybe they are changing for the better rather than worse.

ↂ 𖠁 ↂ

“Tommy!”

At first, Tommy barely recognizes his own name over the varied collection of noises filling the tannery.

“Tommy!

Techno is halfway across the room, arm raised. He gestures widely, beckoning. 

Tommy rolls his eyes and screws the lid onto a jar of paste that he’d been painting onto the fleshy side of raw hides. He tucks the paintbrush into his pocket and drops off his stool, dancing around machinery and worktables covered in scraps of flesh.

Techno has already turned his back, heading to the makeshift office.

“Are you moving me to the next job?” Tommy asks, leaning against the wall.

“Sort of.” Techno rifles through his desk, hunched over. The old scar from his mining accident peeks out of the collar of his shirt. “You’ve done all of them.”

“I’ve . . . what?”

“You’ve learned every part of the trade I can teach you, except maybe book-keeping. But you’re smart enough that I haven’t got to teach you that.”

“All of them?” Tommy leans back on his heels, letting his eyes slip over the tannery. Sure enough, there isn’t a worktable he hasn’t occupied, nor a machine he hasn’t run. He can name everything in the room, or close to it. He knows all the workers. “So. What next?”

“Well. You can move back to the market stall, if you’d like. You can stay here—there’s always more work to be done; I’m sure you know that by now. You could quit entirely, but I don’t think you should and I don’t want you to. Truly, though, it’s up to you. Your apprenticeship is complete.”

Tommy doesn’t know why he’s surprised. He started working with Techno back in September, so it’s been about half a year. Tommy doesn’t know how long apprenticeships usually last, but six months don’t feel long enough. He doesn’t feel prepared to do most of the things Techno assigns him, much less direct a dozen other men in the tannery. Whenever Techno retires, will it be Tommy taking up his job?

It’s a terrifying thought.

“I think . . . I’d like to stay here. At the tannery.” Where he can properly study the way Techno does his job.

Techno smiles—a rare thing. “Good. And now that you’re educated and all, you’ll get paid more.”

“Well, I won’t complain about that—”

“On one condition.” Techno makes a face, half-stern, half-fond. “For the love of God, wear your gloves.”

Tommy resists the laugh bubbling in his throat. “No promises.”

“I’m serious, Tommy. If you keep on like this, you won’t be able to write legibly or play the piano anymore.”

“Aw, don’t worry about me.” Tommy waves a hand dismissively. He barely has a chance to play, anyhow.

“I will, thank you.” Techno hesitates, gazing at Tommy for a brief, thoughtful moment. “I’m proud of you. You’ve made a lot of progress: since September, and since you were little. You—” He stammers over his words, eyes dropping. “Anyway. You should be proud of yourself, too.”

Tommy grins at Techno—boss, friend, family. “Thanks, Tech. I think I am.”

Chapter Text

April 6th, 1913—a week later

When they come home from church, humming the liturgy songs absently, Dad telling them about various political struggles Parliament is drowning in, their home is not vacant. On the front step, chin propped in her hand, sits Niki.

Her face immediately brightens when she sees them, and she jumps to her feet. “There you are! I knew you’d be home soon!”

“What’s going on?” Dad asks.

Niki barrels into Wilbur, nearling knocking him over with the force of her hug.

“Thank you,” she says, squeezing him tightly.

Wilbur freezes, arms raised in surprise. He gently peels away from her. “Uh . . . for what?”

“Thanks to your shows, your songs—” She smiles, breathless, and the sun catches blonde curls and turns them white with light. “I have enough money saved up to go back home! To Prussia!”

“Oh, Niki!” Tommy pulls her into a hug of his own, and they both laugh. “When are you going?”

“Next Thursday.”

“Have you written to your parents?” Dad asks, guiding them into their little townhouse.

Niki’s joy doesn’t dampen, but acquires an embarrassed lilt. “Yes, but—they don’t really know . . . what I’ve been doing here. I’ve kept up with them some, but . . .” She laughs, and it’s weak. “I don’t know—I’m scared of how they’ll respond.”

Dad touches her back, light, gentle. “As a father myself, I’d say it’s likely they’ll just be glad to have you home.” He steps up to unlock the door, not noticing Niki falter and take a shaky breath.

Tommy tries to exchange a worried glance with Will, but he is staring straight ahead, a harsh firmness to the set of his mouth. Tommy pauses, wanting to tug on Wilbur’s sleeve to check up, but also to assure Niki she’s going to be all right.

Wilbur can wait this time.

Tommy follows Niki up the steps. “Besides, even if they are upset, what are they gonna do? Pay to send you all the way back here?”

“They miss you,” Dad says, with finality. “They love you.”

Niki nods like she’s trying to convince herself. Her eyes are red and tired. “I miss them, too.”

“You don’t need to worry, Niki.” Dad closes the door after her. “You’ve been—you’re a good daughter, and a remarkable woman. I don’t know many parents who would be ashamed of a girl like you. You are more than the things you had to do.”

Niki sucks in a breath, hiccups.

A few lonely tears slip down her face and drop off her chin, and she tries to wipe them away, but by then there are too many. Dad pulls her into a hug, more thoughtful than either Tommy or Wilbur’s. He can take away her anxiety in a way they can’t.

“When was the last time you saw them?” Dad asks, rubbing her back. Her blonde hair is tucked against his, and he gives Wilbur and Tommy a long look. Tommy ducks out to get her a glass of water, but not before she says, “Six years. Nearly.”

He can’t imagine being so far from home for so long. He knows that someday, that might be the case—Dad doesn’t live in the same city as his parents. He barely ever sees them. But the difference is that Dad doesn’t want to—his parents weren’t interested in associating with him once he had Wilbur.

What if Niki’s parents are like that? What if she’s done so much that they don’t want her anymore? At what point do you have to tell someone, even family, that you can’t forgive them?

Tommy prays her family hasn’t gotten to that point yet.

When Tommy comes back into the living room, Niki has calmed down enough to apologize, and gratefully takes the water and handkerchief Tommy puts in her hands.

“Walk me through your trip home,” Tommy offers, because recounting something usually makes people pause and think enough that they can’t cry anymore.

“Well, I . . . take a ship across the channel, first . . .” she begins. Tommy listens, attentive, but Dad leaves after a few minutes to go to the market, muttering apologies. Wilbur becomes boneless on the couch, heaving a grumpy sigh, and stares at the ceiling.

Tommy is fully willing to ignore him, but Niki is always kinder.

“Wilbur?” She wipes at her eyes one last time before giving Tommy his handkerchief back. “Is something wrong?”

“Is something wrong.” Wilbur takes off his glasses and begins to rub them clean on his shirt cuff. “You’re leaving.”

She just stares at him. Every few breaths comes out like several short ones—the sobs are still working their way out of her body. “I know. That’s . . . good?”

“After everything, you’re just going to leave.”

“I . . . yes! Leaving has always been the point!”

“We have so much more to do,” Wilbur says, matter-of-fact. “Half the leads I’ve written have been for your voice, for your experience. You’ve got to finish the story we’ve been building with each performance! I’ve got the ending written, Niki; it’s fantastic, but only if you sing it. You’re going to stay.”

“No, I’m not!”

“Oh, come on.” Wilbur’s smile is disappointed, condescending. “I’m the reason you have the money to leave in the first place. The least you could do is help me get to where I need to be. In return.”

“And where is it that you need to get, Will? What’s your goal?”

“I don’t know yet, but—”

She scoffs, crossing her arms. “And you think I’m just going to wait around for you to decide?” 

“It’s a trade, so yes, I do expect you to hold up your end.”

“I never saw the contract for this trade. I thought we—I think we’re friends, Wilbur. Friends don’t do good acts expecting something in return.” Niki looks at him, simultaneously hopeful and resigned. “Please tell me we’re friends.”

“We are! Which is why I’m confused!” Wilbur climbs to his feet, and doesn’t seem to notice Niki’s careful step back. But Tommy does. “I didn’t think a friend would leave me like this.”

“I’m in the process of leaving the worst period of my life! You should be happy for me!”

“Don’t tell me what I should or shouldn’t do.” 

“She’s got a point, Will,” Tommy tries. “Look, this—we can talk about this later, okay? I’m sure you’re both overwhelmed, but this isn’t going—”

“Oh, Tommy, don’t pull your mothering on us.” Wilbur’s scowl is sharp as a knife’s edge. “We’re both older than you. Go somewhere . . . else.”

“Leave him alone, Will,” Niki chides, reaching silently for Tommy’s arm. “He just doesn’t like it when you get like this.”

Tommy moves away from her. He doesn’t want to take sides—especially not against his brother. “I’m just trying to . . . to bring the energy down, okay?”

Wilbur blows out a breath. He falls back onto the couch, and it squeaks against the wooden floor, sliding back a centimetre. There is a challenge in Wilbur’s eyes, but Tommy can’t tell what it is, or who it’s for.

“I’m perfectly calm,” Wilbur says reasonably. “Are you calm, Niki?” At her jerky nod, he smiles at Tommy. “See? No calming necessary.”

Tommy taks a step back, raising his hands. “Okay, fine, fine. Forget I said anything.”

“Thank you,” Wilbur says primly. He turns back to Niki. “You’re not leaving. Not yet.”

“I am.” She’s equally as authoritative.

Wilbur’s brow furrows. “Niki. Look, you don’t even know if your parents will accept you back or not. What happens if they don’t? You’ll have to resort to the same things in Germany that you did here, and you’ll have no money left. You’ll be starting from scratch.”

“They wouldn’t do that.”

Wilbur shrugs, nonchalant. “At least be realistic. My grandparents disowned Dad when he had me out of wedlock. That’s how the world works.”

“Wilbur, stop,” Tommy snaps.

“I’m sorry I want her to be prepared for the possibilities! And this is a very, very likely possibility . . .”

“No! No, Wilbur, you don’t know my parents. You don’t—you don’t know!” Niki is barely out of her episode from earlier. It’s easy for her to fall back into the tears. “I don’t—I’m not going to stay for you, or for—for whatever ideas you’re trying to put into my head. I miss home!” 

“You think everything will be just as you left it? People move on, people change—”

“It doesn’t have to be the same,” she cries. “It just has to be better than here.”

“Oh, and—”

“No, Will. You’ve said enough. Thank you for writing the opera for me. You’re right, I wouldn’t be able to leave if not for you. So thank you, for helping me get away.” She turns on her heel, and even manages to take a few swift steps toward the front door, before Tommy calls out to her.

“Wait, Niki—”

She stops, her back to him, shoulders rising and falling in shaky breaths. “Not you too.”

“. . . .will I see you before you go?” Will I see you again?

She hesitates. She hesitates, and he already knows the answer.

“I don’t know.”

He appreciates the lie. Even if it doesn’t make him feel any better.

“Leave, if you’re going to,” Wilbur snaps from the couch.

Niki ignores him. “My address is . . . oh, you won’t be able to spell it. Let me write it down for you.”

Tommy finds her a pen and a scrap of paper without pause, and purposefully doesn’t look at Wilbur so he won’t say anything stupid.

Niki scribbles her address down and presses it into Tommy’s hand. “My parents’ house. I’ll write you when I arrive.” And here, she glances meaningfully at Wilbur. Not you.

Tommy pretends he doesn’t see it. He memorizes Niki’s face—brown eyes, dark lashes, pale brows, strong nose, and frizzy hair, just as curly and blond as his own. The girl he jokingly—half-jokingly—called sister. “I’ll miss you,” he begins. I miss you already. He closes his mouth and keeps on staring, like a sunflower watching the sun set.

“Oh, Tommy.” She takes his hands and squeezes them tightly. “I’ll miss you, too. God, Tommy. I’ll miss you.”

He’s not going to cry; he’s better than that. He’s grown up.

He won’t cry. 

And he doesn’t, but Niki does, and Tommy fishes his handkerchief out of his pocket again.

“Keep it.”

She takes it.

She leaves.

Tommy watches her figure recede down the street, and then she turns a corner and is gone. He holds the picture of her in his mind, replays her voice: God, Tommy. I’ll miss you.

He goes back inside, and sits at the piano, but he doesn’t lift his hands to the keys. He doesn’t even open it.

He won’t ever see her again. She’s just a person he knew for a few months, really. Barely half a year. But he—but he cares, all the same. He won’t ever see her again, but it’s . . . better for her, this way. In a cruel turn of fate, it is better.

“I can’t believe her,” Wilbur grumbles behind him.

Tommy just breathes.

“I mean, really, does she have any sense of loyalty? She’s so selfish, leaving after—after everything I’ve given up for her. For them!”

“Yeah?”

“Yes, them.” There is a dreadful lividity in Wilbur’s voice. “She’s not the first one to leave, you know. Just the first who really mattered to us. Women come in and out of the brothel all the time, with no care at all for whether or not they’ve shown up for their roles. They don’t care about the music.”

He won’t see her again. She won’t be there to watch over him when he convinces Will to let him see shows at the pleasure house. She won’t be there to cross her arms and give Will the look that sometimes makes him back down. She won’t be here, in their house, coaxing Dad out of his shell and listening to Tommy practice and singing with Sally. She won’t laugh with them. She won’t roll her sleeves up and help Tommy with dishes after dinner. She’s . . . she’ll be in Germany. With her family, who hopefully still cares enough to love her again. She’ll be out of here, out of this place she hates, but—

But he won’t see her ever again.

“Are you listening to me?”

“Yes, Will, I’m listening.” Tommy turns to face him, pulling his legs over the piano bench.

Wilbur looks at him sharply. “Tom.”

“Yes.”

“. . . come here.”

Tommy sighs like he’s upset—and he is, but at the same time . . . at the same time he gets up and slots himself under the arm Wilbur holds open.

“I’m going to miss her, too,” Wilbur says quietly.

Tommy sniffs. “Then why did you—why were you so mean? And if you hate working at the brothels so much, just . . . stop!”

“I can’t do that. It’s my only source of income right now. And I can’t try the operahouse again because the manager knows me.”

“Go to the other operahouse, then.”

“It’s all the way across town. Besides, it’s for the rich people. They only play recognizable, tragic stuff. My work would never be accepted.”

“Oh.”

Wilbur’s fingers rub idly against Tommy’s shoulder. “You’re right, though. I should leave the pleasure houses. They’re—ugh. I just want my work to be taken seriously. I work so hard and it’s all dismissed because of where it’s being performed. If I had good musicians, if I had good singers . . .”

You would have the world.

“At least you’re helping the women there. If the performances were enough to let Niki be able to pay for the journey back—” He has to swallow before he goes on. “Imagine how many others you helped.”

Wilbur is quiet for a long moment. “I guess. I . . . I want more than that, though. I want to be successful, and—” He stops with a grumble. “Tom, you know I want more.”

Tommy presses into Wilbur’s side, thinking of Niki’s words from earlier, asking what Wilbur’s goals really are. They are all grand, large things, things that almost feel unattainable. Maybe Wilbur is attracted to impossibility.

ↂ 𖠁 ↂ

It is unspoken that they don’t tell Dad what happened. Niki went home, that’s all. No, she probably won’t come over. Yes, she’ll write. Et cetera, et cetera.

Tubbo comes over at some point in the afternoon, but Tommy is too depressed to go out. Tubbo improvises on their piano and lets Tommy just . . . sit. But Tommy hates just sitting. He doesn’t want to think about Niki or the argument or how his hands won’t cooperate when he tries to play the piano. And so Tommy gets up and asks Tubbo about work and life and anything else he can think of. 

Tubbo is easy to distract, and soon he’s pacing about the room, gesturing wildly.

“He’s just—he has ideas and we’re not allowed to mess with them. And his ideas are . . ? I can never predict what he is or isn’t going to like.”

“How’d he even get the job?” Tommy asks, lip curled in annoyance. 

“Last manager quit. And if Schlatt has anything, it’s money. Pretty sure he has a lot invested in the operahouse, so he didn’t want it going downhill. There wasn’t anyone who could take the position, so now . . . he’s here.”

“But . . . he isn’t qualified. It can’t be easy to do a job you’ve got no training for. Does he even enjoy it?”

“I don’t think so. He’s barely ever sober. At least that makes it easy to get things past him.”

Tommy laughs, incredulous, and Tubbo smiles wryly.

“Sure, that works too.”

Tubbo sobers a little as Wilbur enters the room, even though he’s not paying them any attention. “Yeah, it’s been . . . suffice it to say, things have changed a lot since Dream Taken left.”

Wilbur’s head snaps up. “Mr. Taken left?”

“Yeah, a few weeks ago.”

“Why?”

Tubbo shrugs. “They don’t exactly tell us carpenters the opera business. Something about moving to a better job? I just know everything has been everywhere since he left. New manager doesn’t know what he’s doing, a couple of the writers left, the singers have been antsier than ever. It might’ve been difficult as all hell to change anything with Mr. Taken around, but at least everybody answered to him. At least he kept things organized.”

“Do they need new writers?”

Oh. Oh.

Maybe Wilbur won’t have to work with the brothels anymore, after all.

“You could always ask,” Tubbo says noncommittally. None of them want to give Wilbur false hope. 

“I can reapply—”

“Oh, I guarantee Schlatt does not read the applications,” Tubbo snorts. “He barely responds to questions we ask him in person.” 

“But you need more writers. How else does he intend to get them?”

“I honestly don’t think he cares.”

“I don’t know, Will, you might not want to work with this guy,” Tommy puts in. Wilbur ignores him.

“Some other way, then . . .” Wilbur pauses, considering. Tommy can see his mind working, putting together schemes Tommy never could’ve dreamt of. It’s the face of a genius. Or a madman.

“It might take some rule breaking,” Wilbur begins, tentative yet enlivened, “but could we get one of my pieces into the new namanger’s hands?”

Tubbo hesitates. “What are you thinking?”

“You know, sneak it into his office, maybe. Figure out a way to play some of the music where he’d hear it. My strength is the music, not the libretto.”

Tubbo’s smile starts small, but it grows into something devious. “Yes. Yes, I think we could arrange that.”

April 16th, 1913—a week and a half later

The plan is simple. Ridiculously so.

Schlatt didn’t invest in the operahouse for no reason. He liked opera, but he said often that it was too serious. He liked drama, big arguments, bigger laughs. He wanted entertainment, and then he wanted to forget it all afterward.

More than that, he liked the music; specifically music that was different or experimental. Music that was unique. Ever since he took the job as manager, the music at the operahouse had gotten stranger and stranger.

Wilbur’s storylines aren’t easy to forget, but his music sure is experimental. It probably comes with being self-taught, but he plays with unusual rhythm and difficult vocal stretches. He has learned by listening, and playing the music booklets they could get cheap. 

So, the plan?

Tommy goes to the operahouse with Tubbo to help out. He brings some of Wilbur’s compositions with him—arranged for solo piano. When the musicians take a break, Tommy steals in to play something for Tubbo, and for Schlatt, who will hopefully listen in.

Maybe, just maybe, he’ll like it enough to take Wilbur on as a composer, and possibly a librettist in the future.

It’s up to Tommy to play it well. He’s learned the song by heart, even with the shudders in his hands. He barely even needs the music anymore; it’s all muscle memory at this point. His fingers settle into the starting notes whenever he sits at the piano.

Despite all the practicing, his body still buzzes with nerves as he follows Tubbo into the operahouse.

He’s only been back here three times since he came with Wilbur, always to pick up Tubbo from his shifts. He followed Tubbo in once, to receive a quick tour of the stage and the area behind. 

Needless to say, the stage and set in the operahouse puts the one in the pleasure house to shame—they’re both stages in the way that Tommy and Wilbur are both musicians. One can barely use the same word to describe them. 

As usual, the operahouse is filled with the quiet, busy sound of people working at their own separate jobs. Tubbo’s area is the busiest, with carpenters and engineers discussing plans and building structures. They call Tubbo over to a drawing table covered in sketches and strange metal rulers. Tommy is introduced as a friend and a pair of arms to help where he is needed.

The operahouse environment isn’t as friendly as the pleasure house was, and maybe that’s ironic, maybe not. These men eye him suspiciously and barely address him, while the brothel girls were always asking about his job and what he was reading. They were easy to make friends with.

Tommy is sort of just taking up space here, and this is one of the places where the plan has potential to fail. Tubbo’s colleagues would be perfectly justified in sending him home. Tommy doesn’t have Wilbur’s effortless charisma, but he is useful, and he catches on quick. He can earn his place. Tubbo gives him a job to do before he even starts working himself.

It’s a menial task. Tommy plays Wilbur’s music in his head, thinking through each note one by one. Meanwhile, he nails boards to one another, forming a strange, three-dimensional skeleton to Tubbo’s specifications.

The musicians aren’t here today, so the piano is empty and available. Now they just have to wait for Schlatt. He usually walks through the operahouse before lunch, lazy eagle eyes checking that everyone and everything is in its place, working smoothly. Usually. Not always. This is another place the plan could go wrong. 

The time ticks by agonizingly slow. Tommy hits his finger with the hammer once, he is so distracted. He doesn’t even stop to let it hurt; he’s under far too much scrutiny to take a breather. He just picks up another handful of nails and keeps hammering away. 

Nine o’clock.

Ten o’clock.

Three days ago, Tubbo left one of Wilbur’s operas on Schlatt’s desk under a few files, innocent. If he bothered to look through the papers, he’d find it. Maybe look it over. It would, at least, make Wilbur’s name familiar to him.

At last, eleven o’clock. The engineers and set designers and construction workers take their lunch hour. Tommy and Tubbo head to the pit where the orchestra usually sits. There are no instruments here today—at least, none besides the beautiful old piano. 

Tommy slides onto the bench.

“He probably won’t come through till a quarter to noon, y’know,” Tubbo says. “Come eat lunch.”

But Tommy just starts to run through the piece.

“Tommy.”

“I’m too nervous to eat.” His fingers fumble—his second finger on the right hand is hot and red from his recent injury. He shakes his hand out, but the feeling doesn’t recede. He starts again.

Tubbo sits crosslegged, his back against the piano. Paper crinkles and Tommy stops.

Tubbo bites into an apple. He notices Tommy’s gaze. “What?” He complains, mouth full. “I knew you’d want to stay and warm up, so I brought lunch.”

“Of course you did.” Tommy blows out a breath. Is he really that predictable?

“There’s some for you, too.”

He softens fractionally. “Maybe in a little while.” But there is always a point where playing any longer is only frustrating, and he makes more mistakes with each rendition. 

“Come eat, Tommy. You’ll be hungry and tired the rest of the day if you don’t. You are staying for the afternoon, right?”

“No, I’ve got to head to the tannery after this.”

Tubbo scoffs. “Then come eat now. I want to actually talk to you today.” He pats the floor beside him. “Come on. Come on.”

So Tommy slides off the piano bench and slouches against the wall by Tubbo. “You’re so pushy.”

“Am not.”

“Stubborn, too.”

“Am not!” He’s smiling, and rolls an apple to Tommy across the floor. Tommy shines it on his knee and takes a large bite—large enough for juice to drip down his chin. He gives Tubbo a toothy, apple-filled smile back.

Tubbo makes a face. “No mother and I still have better manners than you.”

“Hey—”

“Don’t speak with your mouth full.”

Tommy chews at Tubbo as aggressively as possible, spilling into a laugh when Tubbo scoots back. “Gross!”

They bat at each other weakly for a few minutes, and it almost could’ve been fun if not for the anxiety clouding up the air. They quiet down quickly, picking at their lunches. Tommy takes maybe two bites of the standwhich Tubbo had been kind enough to pack for him.

“What are you doing at the tannery today?”

“Just filing accounts and packing orders. Like I’ve been doing for the past two weeks.”

“Oh.”

They don’t try to talk much after that.

The pit feels small, even a little cramped, but one side of the ceiling opens up to the auditorium proper. The stage is above them, and the domed ceiling is imposing from all the way down here. It is decorated intricately with geometric carvings to enmphasize its depth, all painted with flowers and the occasional portrait. 

Tommy hopes Wilbur gets a job at this beautiful place. Maybe then Tommy will actually get to see some of the performances.

It’s a trade. Tommy gets him the job, Wilbur lets him come to the shows.

Footsteps clack evenly down the hall that leads backstage. Tommy and Tubbo exchange a glance, and Tommy jumps to his feet. The piano bench screeches against the floor when he sits down too fast, and he’s so startled he can’t remember how the song begins. They certainly have Schlatt’s attention now.

“A-flat,” Tubbo whispers.

And Tommy begins.

The rhythm is painfully regular, so regular that it’s difficult to keep time. The left hand is all runs, up and up and up, higher and higher, and Tommy sits up straighter with each one. Then the dance begins. It’s almost as if the left hand and the right are talking to one another, engaging in a playful, teasing exchange that routinely builds and calms. And then there are more runs—so like the first that they are difficult to differentiate. Difficult to play, too. Tommy’s lips are pursed in concentration. He repeats the exchange with a few variations, lower on the keyboard, and has just begun the B section when—

“Hey! Who’s down there!”

“Sorry,” Tubbo yells back, tentative. “We’re on break so we thought we’d play a little.”

“That doesn’t answer my question.” A gruff man thumps down the stairs and rounds the corner. He peers down at them. “Who the hell are you?”

“I—I work here, sir,” Tubbo stammers, standing behind Tommy, who keeps his mouth shut.

The man stares at them, brow furrowed. He’s got dark, greasy hair, a mustache, and the beginnings of a beard below his cheekbones. His face is not kind, not open, not honest. He looks like he’d kick children for being in the way. Tommy doesn’t . . . dislike him on sight, but he does understand why Tubbo is so scared of him.

“Hm,” the man grumbles. “Well, carry on, then.” He doesn’t move. Tubbo has to nudge Tommy’s shoulder to get him playing again.

He starts from the beginning of the B section. The rhythm is all off, but it comes out strangely nice, and Tommy keeps the odd rhythm instead of trying to change it. The manager is supposed to like experimental music, right?

Tommy goes back to the A section and finds the rhythm again. From there, he only has to get through the ending, and that part is pretty, so he’s practiced it enough that it is easy.

He lets the last note linger in the air. It reaches out for something, longing. Letting it go quiet is like letting it give up. The resonance fades. Tommy feels unbearably, artificially sad.

“What was that?” The man asks, after a moment. The aggression in his tone has been replaced by curiosity. 

“It’s . . . uh, the instrumental accompaniment to an aria. My brother wrote it.” Tommy takes his hands off the keys. He wipes the sweat of his palms on his trousers.

“Your brother.”

“Yes . . ?” Tommy curls into himself, hunching his shoulders. “He writes a lot of music.”

“His brother is Wilbur Craft,” Tubbo puts in. “He submitted an opera here a few months ago, when we were under . . . other management. Don’t think it got accepted.”

Schlatt—for it must be him—laughs weakly and rubs his jaw in thought. “Course it wasn’t. Dream always did have terrible taste.”

Oh. Well, then.

“If your brother’s still interested, have him come tomorrow, show me some of his work. The name sounds familiar.”

The word is out of Tommy’s mouth before he can stop it: “Really?” 

“Yeah, kid, really.”

Oh.

The plan had actually worked. It had worked! Schlatt liked the music, now it was just up to Wilbur to sell it. Tommy had done his part and he hadn’t fallen through and–

Wilbur might just be able to do this.

“I’ll—I’ll let him know!” Tommy tries to keep his excitement down, but he can’t help smiling.

Schlatt just gives him an exasperated look and walks back up the stairs. His footsteps cross the stage above them, and he is gone.

Tommy turns and grins at Tubbo, who laughs in delight and relief. He wraps his arms around Tommy’s shoulders in an awkward, impulsive hug.

“You did it!” He whisper-shouts.

“I did!”

Of course, it has to be then that the church bells ring noon.

“You did and you are late for work.” Tubbo pulls Tommy off the piano bench. He shoves the remains of Tommy’s lunch into his hands. “Eat on the way. Go!”

“I did it,” Tommy repeats giddily.

“I know, but Techno scares me!” Tubbo pushes him towards the stairs. “Go!”

So Tommy goes, still grinning, still breathless. Once he gets outside, he inhales deeply and bounces on the balls of his feet. He could climb a building. He could outrun a horse. 

Tommy sprints halfway to the tannery, just because he can.

ↂ 𖠁 ↂ

“So, did you get it? What did he say?”

“Stop crowding him, Tom,” Dad warns mildly, but he’s already closing the door behind Wilbur, his eyebrows high in expectation. He’s closer to Wilbur than Tommy is. “Well?”

“Goodness gracious, calm down,” Wilbur says, gesturing placatingly. But he is smiling. He is smiling.

“You got it!” Tommy screeches, tackling Wilbur in a hug. “I knew you would, I knew it!”

They go crashing into the door, and probably would’ve fallen out into the street if Wilbur hadn’t immediately toppled upon contact. They go down in a mess of limbs and shouts. “Are you okay?” Dad tries in vain to help them up.

Tommy ignores him, just laughing. Wilbur had the decency to cushion his fall.

“Let me up,” his brother gripes, shoving Tommy off. Dad helps him to his feet.

“You got the job?” Dad asks, cautious. He’s more subdued than Tommy, but that just means he cares about Wilbur’s answer.

“Yes. It’s only for a few pieces. They won’t take me on full-time until I quit at the pleasure houses—don’t want any bad connections, or something stupid like that. But I got it. I thought you might help me look through the contract.”

Dad smiles and sighs. “Sure, Will. I’d love to.”

Tommy climbs to his feet. “You guys are so boring. Let’s do something fun! We could go to the public gardens or the shipyards or . . .” He fades out. Dad is looking at Wilbur fondly. Proudly.

Wilbur looks back, his head held high. The slightest smile pulls at his lips. He’s proud of himself . All the work he’s done since last June, when the plan was first hatched: writing constantly, working somewhere disreputable and dishonest, quitting his reliable factory job, arguing with Dad day in and day out. It was for this. It has all been for this, and here they are.

The world lies open like a peeled orange. Which slice will Wilbur tear off for himself? What mark will he leave?

April 18th, 1913—the next day

Friday dinners are better than any other of the week. Sally has the evening off, so she’ll come home with Will and help Tommy with dinner. Dad makes an effort to be home. Fridays are filled with laughter and singing—the kind where they are all bad on purpose. The kind where Wilbur’s voice will crack and Sally and Tom will make fun of him till dinner’s on the table. The kind where cooking takes forever because they are too busy talking.

This Friday begins like all the others.

Wilbur and Sally come home from work, arm in arm. They start dinner and forget to finish chopping the vegetables, so Tommy comes in and does it, interjecting into the conversation every so often. 

“I told you I worked on the docks,” Sally says, hands on her hips. “Probably twice!”

“No, you didn’t,” Wilbur protests. “You said your father did, that’s all.”

She rolled her eyes. “Expected more of you, Will. No, I worked on the docks. You should’ve seen me—a tiny fourteen-year-old waiting for her growth spurt, telling all the grown men how to keep their accounts in order.”

“You did the accounts?” Tommy asks.

She shrugs, unwrapping the chicken they’d bought at the market on the way home. “Always had a knack for numbers. Came easy, even with the little schooling I was afforded.”

“Lucky,” Wilbur groans. “Maths was always my worst subject.”

“Guessed as much from your finance choices,” Sally says, so lightly it takes Wilbur a few seconds to realize she insulted him. It gives her time to skirt elegantly out of the way of his light smack.

“Whoa,” she teases. “Tommy, you’re not really going to let your brother hit me, are you?”

“I was not going to hit you!”

Tommy puts down the knife so he doesn’t cut himself laughing.

Dad’s out for dinner—at Techno’s flat or taking dinner with workmates or something. Tommy’s not really sure where Dad goes, but if he’s not home by six, he probably won’t be back till after dark. At least, that’s the rule Wilbur taught him when they were younger.

‘Course, it’s not like they would’ve had dinner ready by six, anyway—it’s pushing seven by the time they set the table. Tommy pulls up the piano bench and digs in—Sally always spices better than Wilbur does. 

“So,” Will begins. “I have . . . some news.”

He hadn’t told her yet?

“Shoot,” Sally mumbles with her mouth full. “Wait, where’s the pepper?”

Wilbur passes it to her. “Okay, I . . . you know how I originally wanted to work for the operahouse? Well . . . they went under new management a couple months ago. I thought I might reapply, and . . .” Wilbur trails off, smiling invitingly at Sally, but she is looking down at her plate.

She takes a breath. It doesn’t come easy. “They took you on.”

“Yes. I’m not under contract yet, but they’re planning on buying some of my music until then.”

“When . . . when do you think you’ll sign?” Her words are careful, tone void of emotion. 

“Soon as I can, probably.”

“I see.”

Tommy takes another bite before whatever is building in the air comes into motion. In his experience, dinner is always where arguments start. He sort of expected tonight to be safe, since Dad wasn’t here, but maybe it’s enough that Wilbur is home.

“That was . . . that was just yesterday. I’ve been pretty excited since then, obviously,” Wilbur divulges, trying to coax engagement out of Sally. 

But Sally isn’t one to avoid the elephant in the room. She won’t feign politeness for his peace of mind. She raises her chin proudly and meets Wilbur’s hopeful eyes. 

“Let me guess. You’ll be leaving the brothels behind?”

“That’s . . . no. I wasn’t planning on it,” Wilbur confesses seriously. He puts his fork down to begin polishing his glasses.

“Wilbur—” Tommy interjects. He lied. That was a lie—by contract, Wilbur couldn’t work at the operahouse and the brothel at the same time.

“But you will, eventually,” Sally says, one word at a time. “Don’t pretend you won’t. I know how these things go.”

“Sally.” Wilbur tips his head at her, almost teasing. He smiles. “Don’t relegate me to the same class as all the others who visit you there. I worked with you! I was there for the shows and after the shows. For God’s sake, you’re in my home. I don’t intend to just abandon you.” He takes her hand.

“Wilbur,” Tommy snaps. “Your contract.”

Sally glances between them. “Contract?”

“For the operahouse,” Wilbur dismisses. “It’s got some . . . terms I’ll have to work out.”

Tommy begins to wonder if Dad disapproved of Sally because he knew Wilbur would treat her like this. “One of the conditions of the job is that he has to quit working for you all. Effective immediately.”

“Tommy, please let me handle my own business,” Wilbur groans. He doesn’t even fight it when Sally pulls her fingers out of his. “I know the contract isn’t ideal. That’s why I haven’t signed it yet.”

“Yet,” she interrupts. “You will eventually, as soon as you can figure out how to get rid of us.”

“I’m trying to work it out with them! And, sure, maybe I won’t be able to write as much for the pleasure house, but I won’t stop altogether. I promise.”

“Wilbur, I . . .” she stops, shaking her head. “I just don’t understand why you’d leave us after . . . everything you’ve done. So much has changed since you came. I don’t want it to go back to the way it used to be.”

Wilbur’s brow furrows. “What do you mean?”

“Well . . . I used to run accounts, right? Before I got into this. When the other girls need help figuring out how to charge, how to pay their debts, whatever, I’m the one they go to.” She meets Wilbur’s eyes head on. “I know you weren’t pleased when Niki left. But she was the first of . . . probably six or seven who were able to go back to their normal lives because of your music. They’ve been able to go home. Nobody owns them anymore.”

Wilbur’s face is impassive.

“I guess I just thought there was some selfless part of you that came and helped us. But there wasn’t, was there? It was all just . . . it was all just for yourself.” She twists her hands in her pumpkin-coloured skirt.

“No. No, Sally, it wasn’t. I love being around all of you. It’s just . . . it’s the same situation, isn’t it? The other girls left for a better situation. I’m doing the same.”

She looks at him, halfway hopeful. But she is hopeful in the way that one hopes for something that is already lost. It is like she is mourning him already. “It’s . . . it feels different, though. It isn’t so bad for you as it is for us. You’re making lives better, and now you’re . . . putting that to the side. You’re not escaping, the way we are.”

Wilbur nods. “I know. It feels different, but it isn’t. And I’m not leaving entirely! I might not be able to come around so often, and maybe I’ll only write a few running stories, not the standalone performances. But, darling, we’ve got months of plans. You know I care too much about my art just to leave it in the dust.” He reaches for her hand, and she pulls away at first, but he’s more stubborn than she is, and eventually he grabs it and holds on tight. “Trust me, Sally. I’ve been responsible so far, right? I’ll be able to manage my time just fine.”

She wants to believe him. Her chest rises and falls with each breath, but otherwise, she is totally still. Does she believe him? Is she more likely to hold on to him because of her position? Because he can pull her out of it? 

And if she is staying for that, what would make her leave? How far can Wilbur go? Because Tommy knows his brother, and he knows that Wilbur will stretch people to their limits.

Her eyes close, shoulders relaxing infinitisemally. “Okay.”

“Okay.” Wilbur leans forward a little. “Trust me.”

“You make it so difficult, sometimes,” she whispers.

He huffs a laugh and kisses her quickly on the cheek before sitting back. “The food’ll get cold,” he says easily. “We’d better hurry up and finish, I’ve still got to take you home after.”

Tommy takes a breath and pushes his chair in a little farther. He forces himself to take another bite. The food doesn’t taste so good anymore.

“What . . . um, what are you working on?” Tommy asks awkwardly.

“We’re about halfway through a series about butterflies. There’s a few more weeks of it before we move on to something else,” Wilbur answers, glancing at Sally, who nods in agreement.

“Butterflies?”

“It follows their life cycle. A few recurring characters, lots of dancing,” Sally says, a little dismissive. 

“It’s about irreversible change,” Wilbur cuts in. “Especially in families. And how change impacts our relationships.”

They eat in silence.

“And what do we do after the butterfly story?” Sally’s question is like a dare. Wilbur looks a bit taken aback.

“Well, I’ll . . . write another for you. For you, this time; you can lead.”

It’s so obviously a ploy to earn her favour back. Sally takes it elegantly. “And what will it be about?”

Wilbur pushes his chair back onto two legs and stares at the ceiling. “What do you want it to be about?”

“That’s your job,” Sally counters sweetly.

Wilbur chuckles. “Fair. What about . . . what about a siren? She’s going out into the world and . . . learning about other people and how to live.”

“That could be fun,” Tommy puts in. “Would there be romance?” Because there usually is. Even if the only other actors are women.

Wilbur and Sally exchange a glance.

“No,” Sally says, with as much command as possible. It betrays her anxiety.

“No,” Wilbur assures her graciously. “No romance. We can make it however you want.”

It’s not like Will. It’s not the way he works—they both know Wilbur can’t work with other people’s ideas.

He must really be afraid of losing her.

Sally sighs and pushes her plate away. “Write me the siren story, then. For now, just take me home.”

At least Wilbur is smart enough to realize she’s tired out. Tommy wishes they had a spare room for Sally to stay in. The idea of her referring to the busy, loud pleasure house as home is more than a little tragic.

But that’s why she wants Wilbur to keep writing for her, isn’t it? So she can leave.

Ironic, that Wilbur has to work for them so they can stop working for him.

It’s pretty clear why Wilbur is frustrated.

Tommy washes the dishes while he waits for the rest of his family to get home. In the end, he falls asleep in an empty, silent house.

Chapter Text

April 20th, 1913—the next Sunday

Tommy gets to church early. He sits silent and alone in the pew, staring sightlessly at the rose window. The tree behind the building is silhouetted in the glass, branches waving somberly from side to side. Its twisting fingers scrape against the window. 

He sighs, and it is the only sound in the room.

The kneeler resists the pull of his fingers, but he manages to bring it to a rest on the floor without making too much of a thump. He slips down onto it, resting his forearms on the pew in front of him.

He folds his hands together.

Bows his head.

Closes his eyes.

And . . . doesn’t know what to say.

It will help him feel better in the end; praying. It will allow him to put down his troubles for a few minutes and give them up to someone who might actually be able to fix them.

It’s still hard to start, though.

Dear God, he begins, because that is always a good jumping off point, I am missing my mother again. I don’t really know why. I keep rereading Peter and Wendy, and wanting— wait, has God read Peter and Wendy? Well, there’s a really good mother in that book. Her children run away from her, all three of them, and all the time they’re gone, she faithfully hopes for their return. She keeps the windows unlocked so they can get back in. And they do get back, and she’s there to love them, even though they left. 

I wish my mother loved me like that.

If God has anything to say, he doesn’t communicate it in a way Tommy can understand. 

Does Tommy love like that? Maybe he’s Mrs. Darling, and maybe his own mother is the children. If she came back, if she was willing to love him again, would Tommy forgive her? 

He knows, immediately: yes. Yes, he would. He misses her too much not to.

She had reasons for leaving, Tommy knows this. Dad used to be worse, everything used to be worse, but he still wishes she didn’t. He doesn’t know if she made the right choice. But he also doesn’t know if he would’ve done something different in her position, and so he will forgive her. 

If God can forgive Tommy’s sins out of love, even when Tommy definitely doesn’t deserve it, he can forgive his mother when she doesn’t deserve it either. 

He wants her back. Even if it hurts, he wants her back.

What would she think of Dad and Wilbur and him now? Would she be happy with how their family turned out? If she left because things were bad, what would she think of the fact that they were different now?

Somehow, he has the inkling she wouldn’t be completely pleased with what she sees. Maybe they aren’t so different as when she left.

Tommy was only seven when they separated, so he was still too young to see the flaws in his parents. Wilbur doesn’t talk about that time, Dad doesn’t either. And for two years, two years, from ages seven to nine, Tommy was very, very lost. His mother was gone, his father ignored life, his brother went to work and forced Tommy to go to school and practice piano. He has a few notable memories of sitting alone at the table, colouring or scratching out words inside his school books, while the house was completely quiet. He has even more memories of Wilbur: impatiently teaching Tommy to use a knife, or brushing away tired tears while he helped Tommy wash, or coming home from work and crashing in Tommy’s bed, curled up around him. 

When Dad and Mom gave up, Wilbur loved him enough to try harder, and pick up the slack. 

Tommy does not miss those days. He is glad Wilbur doesn’t cry so much anymore. He didn’t like Wilbur crying, then, either, and tried to be as little of a bother as possible. He learned how to wash his own clothes—badly—and to sew and to pay attention in school so Wilbur wouldn’t have to struggle to explain the lessons to him at home. He became as efficient as an eight-year-old could.

And for two years, that was just the way things were.

But then Techno came back with injuries from a coal mining accident. Tommy remembers being frightened of him, unfamiliar with this new person who was so much more solemn than the old Techno that used to crack jokes with Mother. But Mother was gone, and Techno was different, and everything had changed. 

But Techno got better, and he was the one who encouraged Dad. He was the one that forced him out of bed to work, or do laundry, or cook. He was the one who scolded Dad for not taking them to church, even though he didn’t go himself. He understood that Wilbur and Tommy needed normalcy back, needed their father back, and he helped that happen. 

(It’s strange, to know that the person who has the key to Dad’s heart is not his wife, or his sons, but just . . . Techno. That no matter the kind of son Tommy is, he can never really influence his father the way Techno does.)

But Tommy still tried to be as little of a bother as possible, lest Dad become overwhelmed by responsibility and give up entirely. Tommy declared himself old enough to make dinner, and so he took a turn every third day. And slowly, things change again. Techno stops coming around so often, and Tommy realizes he was only there until Dad got back on his feet. Dad takes care of Tommy, and more than that, he’s proud of him—proud that he does so well in school, proud that he’s so responsible. Wilbur starts to let his iron-grip go, a little, making his own decisions and friends and letting Tommy find his own path. 

To be honest, Tommy never wanted his own path. He’s content in Wilbur’s shadow; it feels like security. Those two years after Mom died were the worst their lives had ever been, but he misses the way Wilbur loved him then.

Maybe that’s why he wanted so badly to stay in school—because Wilbur was the one who told him it was important. Wilbur didn’t do well in school, but Tommy did, and school was what made people successful, so Wilbur made sure Tommy did well. Tommy has always done whatever Wilbur told him to—because Wilbur was in charge, and Wilbur was usually right anyway, so why not?

Even though Tommy knew how to cook and sew and take care of himself by age eleven, he feels like he doesn’t know anything at all. He claims so often to be grown up, but he’s constantly out of his depth. Clinging onto school for so long, trailing after Wilbur like a thoughtless gosling, being spiteful to Techno for no reason at all. Maybe it was growing up so quickly that made him childish. Maybe it was the immaturity that made him want to be perceived as more responsible. Either way, it’s left him unprepared and completely purposeless.

That’s the problem, isn’t it? He’s so satisfied with Wilbur’s shadow that he’s never thought of having a goal of his own. He knows he doesn’t want to follow the same menial routine Dad does, but what other path is there? What chance does he have of anything else? He never finished his higher education. He’s not talented like Wilbur. He’s not passionate like Wilbur. 

Tommy reclasps his hands, brow furrowing. The dark wood of the pew blurs before his eyes.

If his mother had stayed—

Would it have been any better? Maybe then he would’ve had two parents, and maybe then he wouldn’t have had to grow up so fast. But Mom and Dad would’ve argued constantly, and the house would be just as filled with anger as it is now. Wilbur would still be consumed with his work or his music, unless Mom was somehow able to talk him out of it. Maybe Wilbur would be married by now, and gone, and they would see him twice a year. Tommy might still be in school, but maybe not. Maybe he would’ve never passed the scholarship test at all, without Wilbur to push him to try his best. 

There are a dozen possibilities of better lives, and a dozen more of worse ones. He remembers the arguments Mom and Dad would have, over responsibility and forgetting and negligence and paranoia, and those were worse than Dad and Wilbur’s are now, because at least now Dad argues like he cares. When he argued with Mom, it was like the thought of loving her had never entered his head.

So, maybe . . . maybe it is better this way after all.

Is there no happy ending? Tommy prays. Did you plan all of this so I would be unhappy? He likes to think he trusts God more than that, but some days . . . 

I know you can make good come of bad circumstances. Make something good of me. Of this terrible mixture of inexperience and responsibility. His head dips with more than prayer. I don’t know what lesson this is supposed to teach me. I don’t know what the right thing to do is, not anymore. I don’t know . . . I don’t know. I don’t know if I can do what you want of me, whatever that is.

The kneeler bites into his shins from praying so long. Tommy heaves himself back into the pew as the organist starts her practice. The bellows of the pipes echo his amen up to the rafters.

Chapter Text

May 1st, 1913—a week and a half later

Tommy can’t exactly call what Wilbur is doing writing.

Every morning, he sits in their room humming in frustration, chin propped against his palm. He’ll stare at the page, write a few notes, and cross them out again. He’ll try to work on the libretto, but that goes much the same. Tommy can’t even read in the same room as him because every single time, Wilbur starts complaining about how hard it is to be a musician.

Tommy really only goes into their room to sleep anymore. He is trying to nap, really, but Wilbur won’t leave. He’s just grumbling to himself across the room, pen scratching against the paper.

Tommy buries himself under the blanket, even though it’s beginning to get too warm for that.

Wilbur curses softly. A piece of paper crumples.

Tommy presses his eyes shut and forces himself to remain calm. Can’t a man get rest in his own home? In his own room?

A knock.

“Come in,” Wilbur calls absently.

Oh. My God.

“Hey, Will. Still writing?” Dad’s voice. 

“As usual.”

“You need anything from the market?”

“Nothing you could be convinced to get me.” The whispering wounds of an old argument linger in that, but Dad either doesn’t notice or doesn’t care and laughs it off. “Where’s Tommy?”

“Asleep.”

“No, I’m not,” Tommy interjects wearily. He stays buried in the blankets.

“You want anything?” It’s a rare offer. Dad doesn’t usually care enough to ask. Unfortunately, Tommy can’t think of anything he needs or wants, not in this odd half-doze. 

“Go and sell Will. He won’t let me sleep,” Tommy grumbles, curling up tighter.

“I’m just sitting here—!”

“You keep talking about how awful writing is, or—complaining about your job. You do it to yourself even when I’m not listening!” It’s meant to be a playful jab, but enough truth wiggles its way in that the room is silent after he speaks.

“Come out into the living room, Will,” Dad says, gently.

Wilbur groans like a petulant child. “I didn’t know it bothered him. Sorry.” He does not sound sorry. Tommy is about to open his mouth and say so, but Wilbur barges onward. “I’ve just—I’ve really been struggling with this. You two can afford to give me some slack. I’m just not in the mood for this piece! I don’t . . . ugh.”

“You know, when you work at the operahouse, you’ll have to compromise much more than you’re having to now. You can’t let compromise put you off, or you’ll never get anything done.”

“That’s not true,” Wilbur argues. “I’ve written short pieces for the operahouse and let them interpret them on their own.”

“Guys—” Tommy says, pulling the blankets off his face.

“What about bigger projects, though?” Dad goes on. He’s leaning against the door frame, arms crossed. A few strands of blonde hair poke out of his bun, glowing white in the sunlight from the other room. “I remember how particular you were when you practiced with Niki and Sally at home. You always had to have it just so, in just the right way. Real opera singers won’t let you do that. They have an art of their own.”

“I let Niki and Sally take liberties.”

“With much grumbling, sure. You always made them . . .” Dad slows. “Whatever. Just know that you might struggle when they take you on fulltime at the operahouse. Your dreams may have been simmering for a long time, but that doesn’t make it any more likely for them to come out well.”

Wilbur caps his pen. Tommy squeezes his eyes shut and slams his hand into the pillow.

“Dad, it’s my job to direct. I write, and I direct. As long as I do my job, and the actors and musicians and whoever else do theirs, things will work out perfectly fine. It’s their job to listen to what I say, yes? If they get frustrated, that’s their fault.”

“Guys.”

They ignore him.

“Wilbur, there’s doing your job, and then there’s doing it badly. What you’re describing to me is doing it badly.”

This is going to be another big one, Tommy can tell already. He pushes the covers back and rubs at his eyes.

“What do you want me to do, Dad? Not write? Not direct them?”

“Let them make some of their own decisions! They’re making art just as much as you are! And besides that, you’re acting as if you won’t have a boss of your own. The manager can tell you what he does and doesn’t want you to write. And if you don’t obey, well . . . you won’t work there anymore.”

Wilbur rolls his eyes. “Good thing Schlatt likes my writing. Besides, acting . . . it’s different from writing. It’s not creative, just interpretive. And—”

“And you won’t let them interpret!” Dad interjects. 

Tommy gets up and starts putting on his socks and vest. Dad spares him a glance, but no words.

“Not even going to let me speak?” Wilbur taunts. “Come on, Dad, you’re better than that.”

“Well,” Tommy puts in loudly, tugging on his boots. “Have fun with your argument. Hope you get a kick out of making each other upset, because you sure do it a lot. Maybe you’ll make a new record—your current time is three hours; keep that in mind!”

And he leaves, throwing the door closed behind him. It slams. Good.

Tommy storms down the street, hands shoved in his pockets. He hopes his family will come out, and call his name, and ask him to “please come back in, we’ll let you sleep now.” But the door stays closed. He stops at the end of the street for five breaths, six—

The door stays closed. Of course it does. Tommy trudges on.

His hands are sweaty. He wipes them on his trousers. 

Why is his family like this? Every time they have a little bit of peace, one of them antagonizes the other until they’re yelling again. It’s like they’re trying to upset each other. It used to be that Dad was more patient than Wilbur and knew how to calm him down, but he’s been worse, lately. Or, maybe, Wilbur has gotten crueler, and less worth the patience. Dad tends to shut down the argument instead of escalating it, but Wilbur will not be shut down. And then Dad’s comments become biting and sharp.

Tommy has his arguments, sure, but they’re never like Dad and Wilbur’s. Maybe he loses his energy too fast to keep up a fight. Besides, he’s played the peacemaker too often to get really, truly mean.

It is only when it starts to rain that Tommy realizes where he’s going—the operahouse, because Tubbo is there.

He dashes between awnings the rest of the way there.

As usual, he slips through the back door. He knows a few people now, but they don’t actually say hello to him—small nods, at most. He gives them quick waves, anyway, and ducks into the area backstage where he knows Tubbo will be procrastinating getting lunch.

“Tommy? What’s up?” Tubbo grins, sliding off the railing he was perched on.

“Let’s grab lunch.”

“Sure, but . . .” Tubbo bounces on his heels, a curious look washing over his face. “Are you all right? You seem a little . . . tired.”

Tommy blows out a breath. “Family’s fighting again.”

“Ah.” Tubbo falls into step with him. “You know, sometimes your family makes me wish I hadn’t been an orphan, and sometimes they make me glad for it.”

Tommy snorts, leaning forward with the force of his laugh.

Tubbo pulls him vertical by the shoulder. “Hey, I know you’re hungry, but it’s raining. You wanna go play the orchestra piano and wait and see if it stops?”

Oh, he hasn’t played in ages. Not for a few weeks, at least—the last thing was Wilbur’s piece, the one he used to convince Schlatt to take his brother on. Since then, nothing.

“Yes. Yes, I’d love to.” He adores the piano here; it is always in tune.

And so Tubbo leads him to the stage and they tumble down the stairs to the empty orchestra pit. Tommy sits at the bench and Tubbo hovers over his shoulder. It is familiar. Comfortable.

Tommy is too mad at Wilbur to play his songs, but he can’t remember how to start anything else. He plays a cascading series of notes from a classical piece he learned ages ago, but he finishes it wrong. Again; he makes a mistake in the same spot.

“Guess I haven’t practiced in a while,” he says with a laugh. He shakes out his hands, but they feel just as stiff as before. They’re . . . shaking, ever so slightly. He feels fine, why—

Techno’s hands shake a little like this. But his are from years of chemical burns, and Tommy’s not been working in leather tanning for long. His hands can’t be ruined already.

He tries an E minor scale. It used to be his favourite, when he was younger.

He misses the F-sharp. Fine, that’s a normal error. On the second round, his finger jitters and he plays the C twice.

It is another mistake.

It is a mistake; everyone makes mistakes. 

It’s not just the shuddering in his hands; it’s a simple mistake.

“Tommy?”

He breathes, pressing hard on the keys so his hands will still. They let out an awful, discordant weeping.

He can’t lose piano. He can’t.

It’s one of the only things he has of his mother—piano and the same blonde curls. That was all. He played when she was there, and then he kept playing and it kept him alive when Dad fell apart and Wilbur was too responsible for his age and Tommy was lonely. Even when Tommy had to quit school, he still had piano.

It’s one of the reasons he and Will are friends. They could be as angry as ever, but Wilbur would still join in on the violin when Tommy started up a tune. 

He can’t imagine a life without playing. It’s what he does when he’s upset, when he’s happy, when he’s sad. It’s a release of any and all emotions. So many of his favourite memories include the piano. His mother’s clever fingers showing him each chord, stretching his little hands to hit every key. Playing for Techno softly when he was still recovering from the mining accident. Composing with Wilbur. Putting new spins on Wilbur’s songs while Sally and Niki dance turns around each other in the cramped living room. 

“I can’t play,” he cries, lifting his hands off the keys. “I can’t play anymore.”

May 16th, 1913—two weeks later

“I’m done,” Wilbur declares, throwing a sheaf of paper on the dining table. He looks between Tommy and Dad, daring them to fight him on it.

“With The Siren?” Tommy leans over the table to read the title, and sure enough, Siren is written at the top in Wilbur’s harried script. “Really? I thought you were stuck at the end of the first act!” 

“No—no, I’m not finished,” Wilbur restates. “I’m done. I’m not going to slave over it anymore. Enough is enough, and this hasn’t been working. It’s never worked at all, I don’t think.”

The room is, for a moment, silent. And then Dad says, “You’re giving it up?”

“. . . I am.”

“But . . . you promised Sally.” Tommy rifles through the pages. Each is littered with blotted notes and shaky accidentals. It wouldn’t even look like music without the staff lines.

Wilbur releases a breath. “I know I did. It seems to me, though, that it will be better to write her nothing at all rather than something this bad.”

He’s giving up. He’s actually giving up—Wilbur has always been too stubborn to let something go unfinished, but he’s had enough. After a month of frustrating work, he’s had enough. Why did it have to be something for someone else? 

“Look, this is the best course of action. Trust me. For my art, it’s the best.”

It’s not like they can do much to stop him. If Wilbur has decided this is best . . . well. He’s the musician. It’s his music, for better or worse.

“When are you going to tell Sally?” Dad asks, steepling his fingers. “She’s coming over tonight as usual, right?”

“I’ll tell her. I’ll—I’ll tell her when I go pick her up. You won’t have to deal with seeing it.” He looks regretful, even though he hasn’t even betrayed her yet. He shakes it off and, to hide it, snips: “I saw enough of your arguments with Mom to know outsiders don’t like being around that.”

Dad doesn’t bother responding, which Tommy is grateful for. Wilbur leaves eventually with a tired sigh, and Tommy and his father sit at the kitchen table among the neglected bones of Wilbur’s sheet music and his love life.

Tommy rests his chin on folded arms, watching the paper flutter with his breath. “He won’t marry her.”

“No,” Dad scoffs. “It is too selfless an act.” He reaches over and ruffles Tommy’s hair a little too roughly. More like a primary school bully than a father. “But, so what. We’ve still got you to carry on the Craft name.”

“. . . yeah.” He hasn’t thought that far ahead yet. He doesn’t even particularly want to get married—from all the examples he’s seen, it doesn’t look much like happiness. What if he loves someone and, after a time, comes to hate what they become? What will he do then? Is there any way to ensure love lasts forever?

“When you were my age,” Tommy asks, “how did you think your life would go?”

Dad considers. His lips part audibly. “Not like this, that’s for sure.” He laughs, but Tommy stays quiet to keep his question serious. “Well, honestly . . . I didn’t really know. I assumed I’d get a job independent of my family, get married, have children. And I suppose I have done all those things, but it was a rocky road.” He chuckles. “Thinking about it now, though . . . everyone’s life is a little rocky. Techno’s certainly was. My parents. Your mother, Will’s mother. I don’t think it’s easy for anyone. And if everything outside of us is going fine, something instead starts to break.”

Tommy closes his eyes. “I don’t want life to be a rocky road. I don’t . . .” He has a dozen ways to end the sentence. I don’t even know where my destination is. I don’t think I’m strong enough. I don’t see how we’re all okay with the world hurting us all the time.

“It’s not so bad. Things are easier when you’re in the middle of them. I sure was afraid of life when I began. And I’m . . . still scared, a lot of the time. But I’m okay with where I am right now.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Well . . . think about your life, Tom. You’re working now. When you were still in school, work was unimaginable. I had to really push you to get here. But now, it’s not so bad. You . . . you’re looking out of your life, not into it. That’s what it is. Objectively, I’m a middle-aged man with a failed marriage, a boring but steady job, and a firstborn who seems set on destroying his life. But, subjectively, I wake up and hear Wilbur playing his instruments. I make jokes with friends at work. I get to see my best friend all the time. Obviously, I get frustrated and I’m not always happy. No one is. But I’m just living day to day. Things aren’t so overwhelming when you’re looking at short term goals.”

It doesn’t make Tommy feel any better, but he nods along anyway. He hopes his father is right, but Dad is too often unhappy for Tommy to believe him.

Later that evening, Wilbur goes to pick up Sally for dinner. Dad cooks for four, but Wilbur comes back alone. He tells them Sally is busy, and tired, but the frustration and melancholy hiding in the furrows of his brow are more truthful than the words of his mouth. 

They pray at the table, but quickly disperse throughout the house—Dad to his room upstairs, Wilbur to the front step, smoking as the sunset flickers out.

Tommy sits by himself, picking at his food. There’s space for him to sit in one of the proper chairs, but he sits on the piano bench anyway. Wilbur’s spot is empty. Dad’s spot is empty. Sally’s spot is empty. Her plate and cutlery are still laid out—he put them there himself. 

Tommy presses the heels of his hands into his eyes until it feels like they’re going to pop.

May 28th, 1913—another two weeks later

Tommy hangs around the tannery after work again. He and Techno are quiet as they clean up the factory, making sure all the jars are fully screwed closed and the chrome brushes are rinsed. They take inventory, update the logs on the process of individual hides. They take turns washing up in the sink in the back.

He lingers as Techno locks up. 

Instead of parting ways with minor nods, Techno sits on the step and gestures for Tommy to join him.

A silent minute passes. 

“What’s goin’ on, Tommy?” He speaks too softly for the question to be casual.

He shrugs. “Just . . . life.”

Techno hums, propping his bearded chin on his palm. “Care to elaborate?”

Where is he supposed to start? Techno probably already knows the majority of it from Dad, but that’s only the Phil Craft version.

Tommy loves his father, but he also knows they won’t tell the story the same way.

“Home is . . . not good,” he begins, looking out at the street. Not looking at Techno’s attentive, deep-set blue eyes. “It feels . . . it feels like everyone’s on a different team, but I don’t know the rules or even what game we’re playing. Wilbur’s . . . you know about his deal with the operahouse?” Techno shakes his head. “Oh, well. The, uh, the manager likes his music, but he wouldn’t hire him if Will kept working for the . . . pleasure houses.”

“Heard about that part.”

“Issue is, Wilbur’s been working with the brothels for a while now. His work makes them a lot of money, enough that a few of the girls were able to get on their feet and take regular jobs. 

The sun burns the horizon orange and purple. “So they felt betrayed when Wilbur just quit for his own ends.”

“. . . yeah.” Tommy glances at his . . . friend? mentor? Uncle, almost? “Do you think that was wrong of him? He always wanted to go to the operahouse; it’s not as if he hid it from them. But it feels wrong. Was it?”

Techno considers for a long moment. “Everyone thinks of good a little differently. Right and wrong are fluid, as unfortunate as that is. Based on my interpretation of events, I wouldn’t call Wilbur’s actions wrong. But I wouldn’t call them right, either, or honorable. It would’ve been selfless, to stay for the brothel girls, but Wilbur does not owe them selflessness.”

It is not exactly an answer, not the kind Tommy wants, at least.

“He was courting one of them,” he says suddenly, another piece of evidence to pile onto an already towering heap. “Sally Soot. She would have dinner with us every Friday. She . . . seemed like she was really in love with him. I thought he loved her, but she hasn’t come over since he really, truly quit.” He buries a hand in his hair, digging his nails deep into his scalp. It doesn’t hurt. “Does that make it wrong?”

“Worse, perhaps. But not wrong. He broke no promises.”

Tommy huffs a breath, prepared to say more, but Techno interjects.

“Do you miss Sally coming over?”

Not like he misses Niki. “. . . yes. Well, I guess not her, exactly. I miss how we all interacted when she was there. We were—we were a lot more friendly to each other when an outsider was in the middle.” He huffs a breath. “I don’t know, maybe we were less of ourselves because of that. But I liked that version better.”

Techno hums his agreement, rubbing his jaw.

Sally’s absence isn’t the only thing that’s bothering him, but he can’t tell Techno about the shaking in his hands, not when Techno warned him so explicitly. Even if the desire for music aches at his bones so much that it hurts, the pain has to stay his. The piano in their house has laid untouched for so long that the keys are dull with dust. 

Techno would be disappointed in him. He has always encouraged Tommy to play, even when Wilbur is so clearly the better musician.

So he doesn’t say anything, crossing his arms over his knees.

“What about your father?” Techno asks.

“What about him?”

“Don’t pretend, Tommy, I know he has his faults. I was there before you were born, and I was there after your mother left. Trust me, I know he has his failings.”

Yet, Tommy still hesitates. Dad and Techno have the strongest friendship he’s ever seen; he doesn’t want to be what breaks that.

“Tommy,” Techno says, more authoritative.

“Sorry. Dad is . . . he’s not bad. He argues with Wilbur a lot, but he just wants what’s best for him and they don’t agree on what that is. And Wilbur’s awfully stubborn, which doesn’t help things.”

“What about you? How does Phil interact with you?”

He doesn’t, much. “We’re not usually home at the same time,” Tommy says weakly.

“When you go home tonight, will he be there?”

“Uh . . .” Tommy considers; whose turn is it to cook tonight? “Maybe. Half-and-half.” Wilbur probably won’t be home either, even though it’s his turn.

Another pause, and then Techno climbs to his feet and holds out a hand to pull Tommy up. “Well, if no one will miss you, come to class with me at the college. You still like learning, don’t you?”

Oh, is it tempting. Tommy has missed evening classes—they used to be his favourite part of the week.

So Tommy takes his hand. “What’s the class on?”

“History of Mechanics.”

“Ooh.”

ↂ 𖠁 ↂ

Tommy shoves himself onto the bench next to Techno, heart thrumming with excitement. 

A few other students mill about, finding their seats. Tommy hopes they don’t notice that he’s never been here before.

“I didn’t know you took these,” he whispers. 

“The classes?” Techno shrugs. “I can afford them. I’ve got the time. Spending every evening at the pub gets boring after a while.”

Tommy’s father wouldn’t agree. 

“Besides,” Techno adds on. “Knowledge gets you places. I didn’t get much of an education when I was a kid, so I’m making up for it now. Anybody who changes the state of things is educated.”

“But you’re not on your way to being a politician.” It’s half a question.

“No. But I know enough to keep my workers from striking. It comes in handy.”

Tommy can’t think of a time he really used his education practically—maybe the French, but most of his secondary schooling focused on science. He likes science—not as much as other subjects, but he appreciates it. Nevertheless, he has a menial job working in a tannery. He plays—used to play piano. There isn’t much science in that.

At the head of the classroom, a particularly round man with a greying beard and a spring green shirt dropped a notebook on the podium and started flipping through it. The professor.

Tommy really, really hopes nobody notices he snuck in. He’s good enough at talking to strangers but being addressed by a professor in front of a room full of them? Not an ideal situation.

So he makes himself small as the class is called to order. At his side, Techno unfolds a pair of gold-rimmed spectacles and pulls a pen out of his shirt pocket. He lightly smacks Tommy’s back without even looking over. With a scowl, Tommy fixes his posture.

“I know I said we’d be covering Renaissance architecture today, but . . . I don’t want to do that,” the teacher begins fumblingly. Despite his aimlessness, he still spoke loud enough for them to hear, even at the back of the room. “I don’t usually cover watchmaking in this class, but I decided that a treatment of automata is necessary.”

Techno snorts, scribbling something at the top of the page.

“What are automata?” Tommy asks, nearly inaudible.

Techno just looks up at the board.

“First, what are automata?” The teacher begins. Tommy rolls his eyes when Techno nudges him and murmurs, “patience.”

“We can define them as clockwork machines that follow a predetermined course of action,” the professor goes on. “You’ve seen them before—little wind-up dancers, or even a jack-in-the-box could count as automata. They get much, much more detailed, though, around the Enlightenment period. In France, especially, there were a few incredible inventions.”

Tommy props his chin on his hand idly as he listens. He’s seen toys like these before. He had one, when he was small—a little bird that rose half a centimetre out of a copper nest and chirped. He’d smashed it in an effort to figure out how it worked. He was never able to put it back together again. Wilbur had been very angry.

Tommy wonders if Wilbur would enjoy this class. Maybe. Wilbur doesn’t care much for learning in particular, but he always encouraged Tommy to do it. He would probably groan at having to go back to school, even if he had enjoyed it. No, Wilbur was a musician, a composer. He wrote, he didn’t listen.

“But while a jack-in-the-box only shoots up once, a twirling ballet dancer twirls however much you’ve wound her up for. That’s the beauty of automata—their function is cyclical. And that is because of cams.” The professor sketches a circle on the blackboard. The sound of the chalk is scratchy like a violin. “Cams are circular, turning pieces.” He goes on to explain the mechanics of how they work, and Tommy tries to pay attention, but it isn’t an easy concept to grasp. Even Techno asks questions. The professor reexplains a few different ways. 

His excitement about the subject is infectious. Tommy finds himself leaning in, spellbound. There is something beautiful about the cycles. The professor continues about the shapes of cams, and possible combinations, so on and so forth. There are a lot of terms Tommy doesn’t understand—but that’s what happens when you go into a class with no context. 

Tommy thinks of the clockwork bird in its little nest, chirping forever in the same rhythm. It is infinite, or it was until Tommy broke it. In a way, its infinitude is lovely, but in another, it is . . . limited. It can only ever fly up and twitter and open its mouth for food that will never come. It’s almost sad. Forever stuck in an endless loop, succeeding in nothing but that one singular function. But there is no end to the function—it’s end is only to continue.

Is that truly a meaning to life?

“There are a few famous examples of automata—the Romans made some, big ones—but the French made beauty of them in the eighteenth century. They made animals, toys, spectacles for the rich. And they made people.”

What a lackluster life, for such a person.

“The most famous is probably a series called the Jaquet-Droz automata. Three dolls, each acting with lifelike precision. The first—an artist, the draughtsman. He can draw four separate images. The second—the musician, a noblewoman playing a small organ. There’s no music box—the keyboard is actually functional! And the last—the writing boy.”

An automated writer.
“He can write any set of letters, in any order, provided the text does not exceed forty characters. While the draughtsman can only draw a few pictures, the writing boy can write anything! He even dips his feather in ink all on his own! His eyes follow his hand as he writes, almost as if he were alive.”

Tommy is not sure whether to be delighted or unsettled. It is incredible that life could be so magnificently replicated, and to such a degree of detail, but . . . he is tempted to believe the automaton has a soul inside its clockwork body. What a constrained life—sure, forty customizable letters is incredible, but . . . only forty letters. How tragic. And to only be able to write . . . the writing boy cannot sing, or run, or laugh. He only writes.

But perhaps the boy wants to write. Perhaps he dismisses every other activity in favor of the one, obsessive. Perhaps writing is the only thing he knows, or the only thing he has ever truly enjoyed doing. 

No matter how Tommy tries to give the writing boy agency, it doesn’t result in a very healthy character.

But the boy does not have a brain in his little head, nor a soul roosting in his heart. He is gears and screws and cams, and if Tommy cannot delight in the overall result, he can at least appreciate the mechanics. Tommy listens as well as he can to the rest of the lecture, understanding maybe half of it. Despite how much confuses him, he admires the organization of it all, and the professor’s enthusiasm is almost like a caricature in its intensity. It makes Tommy want to understand.

Time is provided for questions, and though Tommy has many, he keeps quiet. If there is one thing he and Will share, it is pride. Techno doesn’t ask many questions, either. He takes few notes—fewer than Tommy would have—but they are concise and well-organized. Everything about Techno is well-organized, from his hair to his administration. 

Tommy is so used to thinking of Techno as a worker or a tradesman and little else, but here Techno is, setting aside time for learning even when he doesn’t need it. Tommy has always known Techno is wise, but he has never thought of him as smart. Maybe he should have.

He even stays after class—to Tommy’s chagrin—to catch up with the professor and thank him for the lesson. He introduces Tommy, and the professor doesn’t even seem to care that Tommy showed up out of nowhere. He even offers to let Tommy sit in on the class some other time in the semester, if he wants.

Tommy doesn’t say no.

He leaves with new possibilities in his step, but he can think about the class later. There are more urgent matters to attend to.

“I’m starving.” Tommy stretches his arms over his head as they step out onto the dark street.

“Probably because you haven’t had dinner,” Techno muses.

“No, I think it’s cause it rained yesterday,” Tommy snarks. “Obviously.” He considers. Dad and Wilbur probably haven’t even bothered to start dinner yet. If either of them are home. “You can have dinner with us, if you like. I . . . I miss having you ‘round more often.”  For some reason, Tommy finds he has to force himself to say it. But it’s true nonetheless.

“Sure, I’ll come. What are we having?”

“Dunno. Something boring, probably.”

“You’re not very good at making this sound appealing, I’ll be hoenst.”

Tommy laughs. “I’m sure it’ll be good, just not . . . unique. None of us are particularly exceptional cooks.”

“Don’t remind me,” Techno groans. “At least Phil’s gotten better. When I met him . . . I don’t know how he kept Wilbur alive on his own.”

“I don’t think he would have if you didn’t step in.” Tommy walks backward down the sidewalk so he can talk better. “And then Mom was there.”

“And then your mother was there,” Techno agrees, and he doesn’t say it like it’s tragic. He smiles, remembering, and it makes Tommy smile too. Talking about Mom is never like this with Wilbur and Dad—they treated her disappearance like she’d died. Like it was wrong to speak about her.

But Techno just treats her like a happy memory, and that feels good. 

Tommy spins back around to face the direction he’s walking after Techno has to warn him a third time to move out of the way. They don’t talk much, but it is a comfortable silence.

It’s strange; being with Techno sometimes feels easier than being with his own family. Techno is not argumentative by nature. He listens more than he speaks. His expectations are clear and his forgiveness immediate. He’s reliable.

And he was kind enough to take Tommy to class with him.

Tommy’s family still fights, and his piano skills are dust rotting in a grave, but . . . maybe it will be all right.

He loves music, but he doesn’t need it. There is more to life than that. He doesn’t need a perfect family to be happy. Sure, it would help, but a hard-made happiness is still happiness. 

When they finally arrive at Tommy’s house far past dinner time, there is no food on the table. Dad isn’t home. Wilbur is writing for the operahouse, his fiddle tucked under his arm as he scribbles down a few notes. He startles when they come in.

“Oh, hey, Technoblade.”

Techno simply dips his head in acknowledgement.

“Will, it was . . . your turn to make dinner,” Tommy says, almost like he’s the one apologizing.

Wilbur curses, dropping his pen. “Sorry, Tom, I guess I lost track of time.” He tries for a smile, but gives up before it can stick. “I’ll go start now.” And to Techno: “You joining?”

“If there’s room.”

“We’ll make some.” Wilbur scurries off, leaving his fiddle and bow on the table, which is already carpeted with half-written sheet music. Writing is all Wilbur does anymore. It’s as if he doesn’t know how to do anything else.

Techno collapses onto the couch in a rare moment of complete ease. “I see why you weren’t concerned about getting home on time.”

Tommy settles on the piano bench—facing the room, not the keyboard, but it is his place all the same. He taps his fingers against the wood. “Not much to get home for, is there.” 

Their writing boy only knows how to write. Maybe, once, he knew how to be a brother and a son . . . but not anymore.

Chapter Text

June 6th, 1913—a week later

June arrives in a flowering of sun.

Tommy and Tubbo spend hours outside in their shirtsleeves, freckles spotting their cheeks and the backs of their hands. Even though the days of endless summers are over, the old freedom still threads into their everyday lives. They have work now, and responsibilities, but a decade of anarchic summers breeds habit, and the daisies growing up between the pavement remind Tommy of being a wild thing. He holds on to it like leaves lost to the wind, but even the sun cannot burn away his anxieties, only temporarily blind him to them.

Thus, he and Tubbo sit on the front steps of the operahouse, enjoying the warmth of the sun on their faces. Silence reigns for a while.

And then Tommy asks, “What’s Wilbur like when he’s working?”

“Not like when he’s at home,” Tubbo replies, eyes still shut to the sun. “Or . . . I don’t know. He’s a lot more . . . commanding, at the operahouse. Which is because he’s in charge, of course, but you really feel like you’ve got to listen to him. You don’t have a choice but to do as he says.”

Tommy scoffs. “Surely not. You know him, Tubs, he’s just . . . Will.”

Tubbo shakes his head. “No. At the operahouse he’s Wilbur Craft, Mr. Craft, to most of us.”

“Even you?”

“I don’t want to be the odd one out!” Tubbo fiddles with his shirt cuffs. “Besides, I call your dad Mr. Craft. You don’t get upset about that.”

“That is clearly different. Dad has always been Mr. Craft.” But even to Tommy’s lips, it feels wrong. “Wilbur’s . . . whatever. He’s authoritative, got it. What else?”

“Well . . . he’ll teach the singers with the violin, sometimes, or play accompaniment with them. He . . . he plays like it’s possessed him. Like the music is moving his fingers and playing the notes. If you pay attention, you can see him breathe on tempo. It’s . . . I’ve never seen anything like it, and I’ve heard a lot of musicians.”

Tommy wonders if he ever played like that.

“And the music! I haven’t got an ear for it like your family, but even I can tell he’s a brilliant composer. I couldn’t tell you why, it’s just more . . . interesting? It’s like every piece is something completely new, and they’re all alive. It’s like they’re each different animals, living on their own, carrying on in their own lives.”

Well, it’s good to know Wilbur’s hours upon hours of hunching over sheet music mean something. His forever ink-stained fingertips go towards making beautiful things, at least. It’s all Wilbur talks about—getting an opera accepted, hopefully soon. Just last night—

“Wait,” Tommy interrupts. “I didn’t know any of his music had been accepted yet.”

“Well, no, but he’s got to show Schlatt what he’s come up with somehow, and Schlatt can’t read music . . .”

“The owner of an operahouse can’t read music,” Tommy deadpans.

Tubbo sighs, dragging his hand down his face. “We all know he’s just doing it as a hobby. He just likes to listen, that’s all, but he’s rich, and the rich do what they like. It’s annoying, and the musicians get proper frustrated, but the rest of us get to hear your brother’s music, so that’s not so bad. Only . . .”

“Only?”

“Wilbur’s very . . . particular about it.”

Oh, Tommy knows. When Wilbur was younger, he’d write duets for them, and always nitpick at Tommy’s interpretation and bemoan the fact that Tommy’s little ten-year-old hands couldn’t reach an octave.

“He stops them a lot,” Tubbo went on, almost apologetically. Like he wishes he didn’t have to tell him this. “And shows them what they’re doing wrong and makes them do it again. He’s not even mean about it, he just . . . he acts like a teacher imparting wisdom upon his students. And he’s not, he’s just the composer—they’re good musicians! They’re allowed to put themselves into it.” Tubbo blows out a breath. “And all that for something they won’t even perform. I understand why they get upset with him.”

“. . . oh.” Tommy’s eyes drop to the ground. “I’m sorry he’s like that.”

“ ‘S not your fault, is it?” Tubbo shoves their shoulders together.

“If Schlatt likes Will’s music so much, why doesn’t he have the operahouse actually . . . perform it?”

“As far as I know, Wilbur hasn’t finished the opera yet. He’s been working on one—”

“Day in and day out,” Tommy grumbles. “It’s about . . . revolution, or something like that.”

“I just know it has a lot of big, triumphant chords. But the music’s good, so . . .” he trails off as a figure appears around the corner, violin case in hand.

“Speak of the devil,” Tommy mutters, climbing to his feet. “Hey, Will!”

Wilbur still smiles when he sees him. “Thanks for waiting up for me.” 

“Nah, I was here for Tubbo, not you,” Tommy snarks, ducking Wilbur’s hand coming for his head. He turns back to Tubbo. “You coming to dinner?”

Regretfully, Tubbo shakes his head. “I’ve got homework. And I never get anything done with you around.”

“He’s like that,” Wilbur puts in breezily. “See you tomorrow, then!” It’s like a dismissal.

“See you . . . Wilbur,” Tubbo replies, picking himself up off the steps and heading in the opposite direction.

“How was work?” Tommy chirps. They start off at a quick pace.

“Ugh, exhausting. As always. It’s hard to get people to listen to me. I know I’m young but that doesn’t mean I haven’t got some authority.”

Tommy knows the feeling, so he leaves space for Wilbur to continue.

“It’s . . .” Wilbur huffs a breath. “Look, I give them music, their job is to play the music, right? But they don’t play what I give them. They tweak the rhythm, or the volume, and generally try to—to make it something else!”

“They’re only human, Will. I doubt they’re trying to make simple mistakes. Everyone makes those.”

He shakes his head obstinately. “No. If they were only mistakes, they wouldn’t make the same ones every time, or get upset when I correct them. And I end up having to correct them a lot.”

He acts like a teacher imparting wisdom on his students. Tommy is beginning to understand what Tubbo meant by that. 

They walk in silence for a block and a half. Tommy waits for the courteous, and how was your day, Tom? but it does not come.

“Just my luck,” Will grumbles. “I finally get a job at a proper operahouse and all the musicians are lazy.”

“It’s better than the pleasure house, at least.”

“True. These musicians know what a double sharp is.”

Tommy chuckles. Wilbur smiles at him, and that is good. And then he goes back to complaining about his coworkers, and that is not so good. Tommy stops interjecting on their behalf, somewhere along the line, because it just makes Wilbur frustrated with him. 

The sky is still bright when they get home—the long days of summer have begun—but the temperature is dropping with the sun, and Tommy roots through his dresser for something warmer than the light cotton shirt he has on. He passes over Wilbur’s sweaters in favour of his own red and white striped flannel. Newly changed, he follows the sounds of voices to the kitchen, where Dad is leaning too close to the lit stove as Wilbur gives him the exact same story he just recounted to Tommy. Dad doesn’t really look like he’s listening.

“Leftovers for dinner?” Tommy butts in, sliding past Wilbur. Sure enough, the dish over the fire is filled with the black bean and bacon stew Tommy had concocted last night. 

Wilbur just talks louder so Dad doesn’t have the chance to answer. Tommy sends him a dirty look, and picks up a wooden spoon to keep the beans from burning. 

“Alright, Will, that’s—sounds like a bad day,” Dad says, with zero emotion in his voice.

“I mean, it could be worse,” Will deflates a little. “Same as any other day.”

Dad only hums, peering at the stew. There is dismal silence for a few seconds, and then Will blows out a breath, defeated.

“Well. I’m going to go write. Call me when dinner’s ready.” And he darts off.

Tommy leans back against the counter, buttoning his sleeves properly. He slides out of the way when Dad gestures, and watches his father pull down the kettle and a pair of mugs.

“Can I have the red one?”

“No,” Dad snips good-naturedly, taking the brown one for himself. He fills the kettle and balances it precariously behind the pot of beans. Tommy cringes internally. “God, Tom, do you ever wash your hair?”

Tommy grumbles, but he inclines his head so dad can pick the lint out of his bangs. Dad runs a hand over Tommy’s hair, evaluating it for dirt or bugs or whatever else parents look for. And then he tugs at it, hard enough that Tommy squawks out a curse.

“You need a haircut.”

“You could’ve just told me!” Tommy rubs at his scalp. “Ow.”

Dad’s laugh is easy and light and feels like chasing friends down the hallway. “Sorry, mate. Mabe if it wasn’t so long I wouldn’t have to pull on it.” He ignores Tommy’s scowl in favour of stretching his arms over his head, making a few bones pop. “I can cut it for you this weekend.”

“Too busy to do it on a weekday evening?”

Dad groans, leaning against the wall opposite Tommy. “Unfortunately, yes. I have to stay after work most days, cause we’ve just come under new management and everything’s . . . well, it’s not totally in shambles, but it would be if I wasn’t helping out. They’re very—sorry. I’m starting to sound like Will.”

“I don’t mind,” Tommy murmurs. He minds when his brother does it, but Dad . . . Dad is too down to earth to complain for no reason. “Really, I don’t.”

“All right then.” Dad smiles absently, tucking his hair back behind his ears. “The new management is just that—new. They’re still very disorganized, and I know they’re trying their best but it wouldn’t hurt to listen to our advice sometimes. It almost feels like we’re fighting a war with ourselves, these days.”

And Tommy knows—Tommy knows Dad is talking about work, but he’s thinking about family, too. There’s only three of them, but somehow battle still breaks out every other night. There’s only three of them, but they still manage to isolate each other. There’s only three of them, and maybe that’s the problem.

Tommy misses his mother.

“How long will it take to go back to normal?”

A grimace. “Things don’t go back to normal. They change and you’re just left to mourn what was. But they should go back to manageable within the month. At least I hope they will.” The kettle begins to whistle, and he hurriedly grabs a rag and lifts it off the stove. Tommy pulls a bag of tea down from the cabinet. “Anyway. How’s work with Techno?”

“Not bad. Same old, same old, ‘cept the tannery smells a lot worse in the summer heat. But I know most everybody now, and only a couple of them are wrong’uns.”

Dad doesn’t respond, but it’s not an invitation for Tommy to continue. His lips are pursed; he’s turning something over in his mind. 

“I know . . . you were upset. That I made you take the job. It wasn’t an easy choice on my part, but I felt you needed it, and—I guess I want to know . . . if you think I did the right thing.”

No.

The answer pulls at Tommy’s bones, screaming selfishly, no, no, no! You ruined me! Leather tanning is so completely outside his interests, it’s like a foreign country. He doesn’t enjoy it, and he doesn’t think he ever will. It’s dirty and smelly and menial and it took away his music. How could he ever forgive a crime like that?

But he can’t tell his father this. And to reduce his job to only its worst qualities would not only be negative and reductive but untrue. Because of his job, Tommy has Techno and Tubbo, two loyal, good friends he can count on. They care about him. He cares about them. But even without the new friends, the job has changed Tommy himself. He is more cautious now, less willing to let his impulses control him. He’s better at learning, at problem-solving, and he hasn’t acquired patience yet but Techno will beat it into him some day.

For all this, Tommy puts his anger and spite to the side. He’s too tired to let them out. He tells his father, “You made the right choice,” and his father’s relief is tangible.

Dad’s blue eyes are warm as he squeezes Tommy’s shoulder. “That’s—that’s good to hear. I didn’t think I’d ever hear you say it, ha!” A light laugh. His hand falls away.

He carefully pours their tea. The paper bags filled with spices float to the top.

“Go get your brother for dinner.”

June 18th, 1913—about two weeks later

“This opera is a disaster,” Wilbur moans, tossing his satchel on the table. A sheaf of paper splays out, absolutely drowning in penciled notes. 

Tommy scrubs at his face, yawning. “Oh?”

“They’re ruining it,” Wilbur seethes. How he has so much anger this early in the morning is a mystery for the books. “Do you know how hard I worked on that composition, Tommy? Every day, every free moment of time—I wrote. I didn’t talk to my friends or go out. I worked. And now. Now they want to take all my work and mutate it into some Frankenstein’s monster.”

“I don’t—” It’s way too early for this. The birds are still chirping good morning. “What do you mean? How are they changing it?”

“Well.” Wilbur cascades into the other chair like rain thundering down from a stormcloud. “First of all, the casting. I don’t know what they were thinking, but I obviously understand voice types better than they do because those choices are . . . unique. All the parts that need strong singers have been given precise ones, and vice versa. Nothing matches up!”

“Can they sing the notes?” Tommy asks, feeling a little stupid.

“There’s a lot more to opera than pitch,” Wilbur says, like it’s obvious. “God, Tom, it’s like you’ve never been to one before.”

“I have too! I just don’t know the words for things; I’m not a complete idiot.”

“Not completely,” Wilbur mutters, rushing on before Tommy can object. “If the casting wasn’t enough, next the choreographer got his hands on it and was complaining about the timing and scene changes and costume changes and dances. He talks like I haven’t even thought about it, even though I have, and I think it works fine. It’s his job to figure out how to pull it off, not mine.” Wilbur pauses for breath. “And don’t get me started on the musicians.”

“Look, it’s not great, but they’re putting on your opera, aren’t they? That in itself, is pretty incredible,” Tommy tries, because getting Wilbur started on the musicians is, truly, a prison sentence. 

“Not if they butcher it.” Wilbur sighs, burying his face in his hands. “Maybe I should never have written it at all.”

“Will,” he snaps, leaning over the table to grab his brother’s arm. “Don’t. Just because the one showing sucks doesn’t mean all of them will. Besides, you have more operas to write. A single piece does not define the whole.”

“Read that in a book, did you.” It’s sharp. Wilbur pulls away from Tommy’s touch. “Look, I know you’re trying to help, Tom. But you just . . . can’t. That’s all there is to it.” Wilbur shrugs, something cruel and truthful in the set of his mouth. Tommy genuinely cannot tell whether he means what he’s saying or not.

It hurts all the same.

Wilbur watches his face. Tommy sees when he catches on. “It’s not your fault. You’re just younger. I’m the older one, I can comfort you, but not the other way around. It’s not—you just don’t have the experience to know what you’re talking about.” He says it with such sincere gentleness that Tommy wants to be unhurt by it, but the anger wells up in his cheest anyway.

“I have plenty of experience,” he counters.

“Not in creating. Not in art.” Wilbur tilts his head. He looks at Tommy like a kitten falling over its own feet on the way to a bowl of milk. “Sweetheart. It’s fine that you don’t understand. You’re just not going to be capable of doing the things that a more experienced person would be.”

Tommy curves his shoulders in, frowning. “But—that’s not fair.”

“And objects fall when you drop them,” Wilbur says, sarcastic. He sighs, and it is almost fond. 

The fondness feels . . . wrong. As if it is sticky on Tommy’s skin. As if the simpering way Wilbur looks at him is something that must be washed off. But Tommy can’t even say that Wilbur is being unusually unkind—no, Tommy can recall a dozen times something like this has happened, but he’s never felt this dirty afterward. He’s never felt this horrible and small.

It is him that has changed.

What is different? And when did it replace what used to be? Tommy has always wanted to be helpful to his brother, but he didn’t mind when Wilbur took the lead. He didn’t mind being a follower because he didn’t want the responsibility that came with leading.

But now, it bothers him, and he still doesn’t want the responsibility, so why is he upset? Is it irrational? Is it his fault, not Wilbur’s? Is anyone at fault? 

Tommy is so wrapped up in these unexpected existential questions that he doesn’t process Wilbur getting up, not until he drops a hand onto Tommy’s head. He ruffles his hair with a little too much force, just like he would when Tommy was small and could do nothing but whine about it.

“Sorry, bud. Didn’t mean to bring you down.”

But Tommy is seventeen, not ten, and he hasn’t been called sweetheart or bud for ages.

ↂ 𖠁 ↂ

Maybe things would’ve ended up okay if Wilbur’s opera had never been accepted.

Every day, Wilbur comes home frustrated, irritable, tired. If he talked about the brothel like a disloyal fiancée, he talks about the operahouse like a nagging wife. He acts as if his coworkers don’t even want the opera to succeed, as if they are bothering him on purpose.

But Tommy hears the other side of the story from Tubbo—Wilbur spends all his time fighting meaninglessly with everyone who’s involved with the opera, forbidding them from changing a word, a measure, lest his project is ruined. Even when they aren’t changing things, just doing their jobs, he’ll stop them because he wants to be in charge of that too.

It’s a disaster. The whole thing is a disaster and they’re just waiting to see what happens when it stops rolling.

“Why doesn’t Schlatt fire Wilbur, then?” Tommy asks one night, in between going over mathematical properties with Tubbo.

Tubbo frowns, dropping his forehead onto the table. “Music is too good. The writing’s too good. Wilbur might be a prick but he’s a talented prick. And Schlatt has trouble empathizing with people different from himself. That too.”

And that’s the heart of it, isn’t it? Wilbur can write. He can write beautiful melodies and heart-breaking antagonists and humour so sharp it cuts the singers’ tongues. He’s a composer. He writes and writes and writes.

But these last few weeks, Wilbur hasn’t been writing. He’s been revising, and directing, and teaching—but he isn’t so good at those things. He’s decent, he’s worse-than-average, but Wilbur wants to be the best. He can only ever stand being the best.

Wilbur is trying to be everything, but he is only the composer. And composers aren’t usually hands on in the actual process of organizing a production. Not even their own works. Strauss and Lehar don’t feel the need to quality-check every interpretation of their work across Europe.

Wilbur can’t design the set himself. He cannot build it. He does not know the rules that make structuring sound. He cannot handsew the costumes. He cannot choreograph every dance—he can barely dance at all. He doesn’t know how to play every instrument—he barely knows two. Despite his high-brow taste, he hasn’t been to every opera, nor does he understand the storytelling techniques that better educated composers might use. Perhaps the most ironic of all—Wilbur cannot sing opera for the life of him.

Wilbur wants to be everything, but he is only the writer. He plants the saplings that the rest of the art grows out of.  But Wilbur keeps trying to plant trees instead of saplings, and he doesn’t understand why they won’t take root.

Maybe, things would’ve ended better if Wilbur locked himself up to write his operas, sent them to a publisher, and was done with them. Never saw the final product; never had the opportunity to be disappointed. Maybe all he can do is write.

Wilbur should’ve had the life of the writing boy, the automaton—sentenced forever to one singular task. But one singular task he has the skills to do well.

June 23rd, 1913—a few days later

“Oh, Tom,” Tubbo remarks over dinner. “This is actually good.”

“What do you mean, actually good? I have always been a fabulous cook.”

Everyone exchanges weary looks, and then they all laugh. Dad eats quickly and disappears upstairs, as usual, where he can’t be disturbed. The table hasn’t even been cleared before Tubbo is spreading his homework over it, nibbling on a wooden pencil. Tommy does not want to clean the table—he cooked, after all—so he drops onto the couch to wait for someone else to do it.

For a moment, he thinks Wilbur is going to, but he just stacks the dishes up on the edge of the table to make room for his own work. The plates literally look like they’re about to fall, but neither Wilbur or Tubbo seem to care.

Well. Good to know how’d they’d live if they were on their own.

Tommy really, really doesn’t want to clean up. If he gets off the couch at all, he ought to go bathe—being diffused by chemicals in the hot tannery every day doesn’t make for very appealing body odour. But bathing takes so much preparation, and the sun has already set, and Tommy’s had a long day, okay? He deserves a little rest.

So he settles deeper into the couch, hiding his socked feet in between the cushions and crossing his arms over his belly. He could fall asleep right here, honestly.

Tommy remembers jumping on the same couch when he was younger. He’d pounce on his father’s back while he tended the stove, and Dad would wobble back and forth dangerously and pretend he was about to drop Tommy into the fire. Wilbur would get very upset and drag them back until Dad fell on the carpet, and Tommy went sprawling, a mess of giggles.

You can’t drop Tom into the fire! Will would shout, and Dad would snatch Tommy up and threaten to boil him in the oven. It seems a bit unsettling, now, but that makes the memory even fonder, really—Tommy was too little to care about how much being boiled alive would hurt. He was too young to be scared of heat at all.

Across the room, Wilbur snorts. His pen scratches. 

“What?” That’s Tubbo—Tommy almost doesn’t recognize his voice, speaking so softly.

“Oh, just . . . script drama. Actress doesn’t like her lines so I’m cutting as many of them as possible. See if she likes that a little better.”

“You can do that?”

“With enough spite.”

Tubbo laughs, more incredulous than actually amused. “That’s . . . one way of handling it.” He is not friends with Wilbur, but they see each other often enough to have something, and Wilbur is charismatic, and can pull people to his side when he wants to. Case in point:

“Well . . .” There is a smile in Wilbur’s voice. “Sometimes I have to show them I actually have power, y’know? You’ve seen how they treat me. It’s like everything I say is a suggestion.”

“I don’t treat you like that.”

“You build sets, Tubbo. Has there even been one occasion when I’ve had the jurisdiction to tell you to do something?”

“You tell me to do things anyway.”

“Fair enough.”

Tubbo scratches out another homework problem. Tommy almost dozes off again.

“No, I like the construction crew,” Wilbur comments idly. “They’re all very down to earth. Take their jobs seriously.”

“They do. Can be a little unfriendly, and . . . unimaginative.” 

“Explain.” 

Tubbo hesitates—he doesn’t like complaining, except to Tommy. He can trust Tommy to take what he says and treat it as a joke. Sometimes Tubbo gets worked up and blurts things he doesn’t mean, and Tommy understands. But Wilbur probably won’t, and so when Tubbo starts off stilted, Tommy isn’t surprised.

“Mechanics has a long, long history. A lot of them have a set way of doing things, and they’re . . . unwilling to try anything new. Why would they? They know what works.”

“But . . ?” Wilbur coaxes, identifying the frustration in Tubbo’s voice. He can tell Tubbo is holding back.

“But I want to try new things. The only way engineering  got this far was by trying new things, why stop now?”

Wilbur chuckles. “I think you’re in the wrong field of engineering for invention, my friend.”

“Hopefully a degree will help with that,” Tubbo says, rueful. His pencil taps against the table. “I love being able to work so close to home, and . . . with people I know—” Why did he hesitate? Would he call the Crafts family? Friends? “—but I won’t miss this construction crew. Or the opera drama.”

Wilbur laughs softly. Tommy can tell from that alone that he believes opera drama means other people. Who wants to believe they’re in the wrong, after all?

“Sorry about that. I try to keep order as best as I can.”

“Do you?” Tubbo’s fragile mask of positivity is nearly translucent—the anxious caution is shining through. 

“Of course.” Wilbur sounds so genuine that Tommy wonders if he’s convinced himself of the lie. “I know we’re a mess sometimes, but that’s art, isn’t it? Art always has an ugly stage before it starts looking appealing. We’re just at the ugly stage, is all. The end product will be good.” He pauses. “If they listen to me, at least.”

“Don’t you feel like you ask a lot of them?”

“I only ask as much as the opera deserves.” He really does believe it. Oh, God, he believes it. “I do wonder, though.”

“Wonder what?”

Papers shuffle. Wilbur screws his pen closed. “Whether I’ve already sacrificed too much. Even if I win every battle from here on out, it’ll still be so different from how it should be. The pacing is ruined. The actors keep changing the characters so much that their actions don’t make sense. And the music . . . the music is half the strength it should be. Nobody wants to pay attention to a goddamn pianissimo when it counts, and they can’t even keep the tempo if I’m not conducting it every single measure. It just keeps getting worse and worse. If I enjoyed the process, maybe it would be worth something.” Tubbo might be careful about complaining too much, but Wilbur is not.

“But it’s not enjoyable,” Tubbo finishes.

A sigh. “Exactly.” Wilbur has found common ground.

Tommy shifts, on the couch. He feels a little nauseous. Maybe his cooking is worse than he thought. 

“I know everyone tells me I’m being too picky, that I’m controlling, but really. It’s my opera. Of course I’m disappointed when it isn’t given the respect it deserves. Of course I’m angry when everyone seems dead-set on mangling it. I’m a creator, not a machine. Isn’t it right to love the things I make?”

Tubbo does not answer.

Wilbur takes it as dissent and backtracks. He’s trying to earn Tubbo’s favour, for whatever purpose. “Sorry, that’s . . . a lot. You’re a better listener than most people I talk to.”

“No, it’s . . . I get what you’re saying,” Tubbo concedes. “Like I mentioned earlier. I tend to try more ambitious approaches than my coworkers. I know what it’s like to make painful sacrifices regarding things you really care about.”

“And do you think there’s a point where you’ve given up so much that it’s barely yours anymore? That it’s not worth continuing?”

Tubbo considers. “In engineering, sometimes you have to give up interesting mechanics for more functional ones. You can be on a mission to use one style, but if it creates more problems, it’s better to just . . . start over. Overcomplication is never the place you want to be in.”

Wilbur hums. “Sometimes it’s better to just start over,” he repeats, thinking it over.

“But you can’t exactly do that with an entire opera, so . . . that’s probably not the best solution.”

It takes Will a second too long to laugh it off. “No, I suppose not. Say, Tubbo, could you do me a favour?” 

And who knows what that might be, so Tommy makes a show of waking up, stretching until he nearly falls off the couch. Wilbur cuts himself off, which is both worrying and exactly what Tommy was betting on. 

“What are you guys doing?” Tommy asks blearily, rolling to his feet and looking over Tubbo’s shoulder. Sheet music and schedules cover one half of the table, math equations and sketches the other.

“Work,” Tubbo and Wilbur chorus.

Tommy smiles lazily. “Boring.”

“Oh, shut up, Tom,” Wilbur counters, half-joking. “You’re just lucky you don’t have to bring work home.”

“And you don’t have college on top of everything else,” Tubbo chimes in. Some envious part of Tommy doesn’t like that his best friend is taking Wilbur’s side. 

“Can’t you do your homework later?” Tommy whines. He knows it’s childish, but Wilbur is . . . he’s in a mood. Or on the edge of one. He was talking fine with Tubbo, so maybe Tommy’s misreading it, but . . . his gut says something is up. He knows better than to ignore it.

But Tubbo gives him a dry look. “I’m turning it in tomorrow, so no, I can’t just do it later.”

“Then take a break. Come on, we oculd play cards? Or—”

“No. Go read Peter and Wendy or something.”

Tommy falters. Wilbur is starting to look annoyed. He’s got maybe a fifty-fifty chance this works. 

“I wanna do something with somebody,” Tommy grumps, resting an arm on Tubbo’s head. “Please?” 

“Shove off, Tom,” Wilbur says. “You were literally asleep just now, where’d all the energy come from?”

“I was rejuvenated,” Tommy says primly. Tubbo tries to push him away but Tommy is simply too strong for that. “Tubbo, come on. If you do something with me now, I’ll read your textbook chapter out loud to you so it goes faster.”

Tubbo sighs. “What, you couldn’t comprehend doing something nice out of the goodness of your heart? It had to be for personal gain?”

“Yup.”

“Tommy, go away—” Wilbur tries, but Tommy speaks over him.

“You’re always doing homework, Tubbo, it’s like you don’t even care—”

Wilbur slams his hands on the table. Tommy jumps, and Tubbo physically recoils, pushing his chair back. 

The sound leaves an anxious silence behind.

Wilbur blows out a breath. “Really, Tommy, we already know you’re a child. You don’t have to convince us.” He swears, shoving his chair away. It squeaks against the floorboards as he stomps to the front door, muttering something about a smoke.

He slams it on his way out.

Tubbo flinches again. He exhales.

“Sorry,” Tommy tries weakly.

“You did that on purpose.”

“He was freaking me out. He’s been tense all night.”

Tubbo runs a hand through his hair anxiously, tugging out a few strands. “No, he wasn’t. We were having a very peaceful interaction before you woke up.”

Tommy opens his mouth to argue that Wilbur was only pulling Tubbo into his orbit, but he can’t just tell Tubbo he was spying on their conversation. Besides, maybe Wilbur’s intentions aren’t as bad as Tommy feels. Hopefully.

“Sorry,” Tommy repeats. “I’ll read the textbook to you. You don’t have to do anything for it. If you’d like.” It’s a weak attempt at making up, but Tubbo is too forgiving for it to take much.

“That’d be a big help, honestly,” Tubbo sighs wearily. “I’m sick of equations, can we do that now?”

“Yes, we can do that now.” Apology accepted.

They retreat to the bedroom so Tubbo can rest while he listens and Tommy can read without disturbing the rest of the house. He barely knows what he’s reading, honestly—Tubbo corrects his pronunciation every three sentences and they’re all words Tommy’s never heard before.

Wilbur comes back in. He does not check on them. 

Sure enough, he has a fight with Dad later that night.

Chapter Text

July 9th, 1913—two weeks later

Tommy shouldn’t have tried to use the pen in the first place. He should’ve left it on the dresser with Will’s stacks of sheet music, in its studious little paradise, but no. He needed to write something down, and the fountain pen was within reach, and . . .

Now he has ink all over his hands.

He is only trying to recap it, but he must’ve twisted the wrong end, or screwed something on incorrectly, because the pen falls apart in his hands. One end falls to the floor, splattering the floor in black. He’s left holding the other half, the piece with the pretty silver nib, which looks more like obsidian now.

Wilbur’s violin sings mournfully from the next room.

Please, please, please, he prays, let it not be broken.

“Will!” He yells, holding the pen away from his clothes. No response. “Will!”

A pause. Tommy can imagine his brother’s long-suffering sigh. “I’m busy!”

“I need help!”

“See, when I say I’m busy, that means I can’t help you.”

Tommy huffs out a breath. He steps toward the door, but he can’t exactly touch the doorknob without horribly staining it. “It’s kind of an emergency!”

He actually can hear Wilbur sigh, this time. The fiddle rings discordantly as it is put down; Wilbur’s footsteps draw nearer. 

He shoves open the door, already upset.

And then he sees Tommy, holding the broken pen, ink on his hands and shirt and spotting the floor. And he sees that it is his pen.

“What did you do.”

“Nothing, I swear, I was just writing something down for—for the class I go to with Techno sometimes, and this happened.”

“This doesn’t just happen.” Wilbur stalks forward, getting a good look at the remnants of a pen in Tommy’s hand. “Wha—where’s the body?”

Tommy points guiltily to the mess on the floor. “Rolled somewhere down there,” he mumbles.

Wilbur curses in disbelief. “Pick it up.”

“What? No! I’m trying to get less ink on me, not more!”

“Well, if I grab it, we'll both be covered,” Wilbur points out, already crouching down to look for the pen. “There—go on, Tom, you’re fine.”

Gingerly, Tommy bends down to retrieve the body of the pen. It is slick with ink, and nearly slides right out of his fingers, but he clutches it tight. There’s a new stain on his pants—and these are the nice ones, too.

He doesn’t dare complain with Wilbur looking on murderously.

“Kitchen, let’s go,” Will prompts, mouth a thin line. “How’d you manage to take the pen entirely apart?”

“I was just trying to put the cap back on . . .”

“Of course. Really, Tommy, I thought you were smarter than this.”

“It was an accident!” Tommy calls over his shoulder. Wilbur presses him onward to the sink.

“I’m not always going to be here to clean up after you. I can’t spend my whole life watching over you like a mother bird.” Tommy opens his mouth to object, but Wilbur soldiers on. “I’ve got my own life to lead. Places to go. Opera to write.”

“I know,” Tommy mumbles, watching Wilbur run the sink. It slowly starts to fill, water creeping up the sides of the metal basin like an empire taking over a map. “It’s just a pen, Will. Not some huge issue.”

“Huge issues are made up of small offenses.” Wilbur lathers bar soap into his palms and holds one out. Tommy places both halves of the pen into it and submerges his own hands in the water. Black plumes through the water in great billowing clouds. “It’s just a pen,” Wilbur continues, “But it’s not just a pen. It’s me walking you to school till you were fifteen. It’s me staying home most nights so you won’t be alone in the house. Do you know how much I missed because of that? It’s—it’s me writing piano parts because I promised you, only for you to never play them.”

“Will, I told you, I can’t—!”

“It’s me making sure you took your education seriously so you’d actually have a decent chance at life, because we both know you haven’t got the stamina to push through without proper credentials.”

Tommy closes his mouth.

“You’re like Dad that way, y’know? Haven’t got any aspirations. Wouldn’t do anything unless it came to you first. I mean, look at you. You’re doing absolutely nothing with your education,” Wilbur finishes cruelly. “Wash your hands. Or do you need me to do that for you too?”

Tommy reaches under his arm to snatch the bar of soap. “For someone who writes opera, I thought you’d be a little better with your words.”

“Just because you don’t want to hear it doesn’t mean it’s wrong.”

He starts to scrub at his hands. The black doesn’t come out. “You . . . you’re a horrible brother, Wilbur.”

“Mm, good to know how you feel. ‘S nothing I haven’t heard before.”

“Really, Will, stop. I didn’t mean to spill your ink, and—and I can’t help leaning on you. You’re my older brother, what else was I supposed to do? Lean on Dad?”

The claim is so preposterous that Wilbur allows himself a breath of laughter before he goes on being upset. “No. Just—just—”

“I was a kid. You can’t fault me for that.” Tommy levels a glare at him.

“I’m not talking about when you were younger.” Wilbur raises his pen to the light flowing in from the window. He screws the pieces together; they slide past each other smoothly with a barely, barely audible grinding sound. “I’m talking about when you refused to grow up.”

Tommy presses his lips together. “That’s—is this about me not having ajob until last year? I thought you wanted me to go to school.”

“Of course I did, but that doesn't mean you get to stay irresponsible like a child.”

“I was plenty responsible! I could cook and sew when neither you nor Dad could. You can cook now, but who was it that mended your jacket when the shoulder seam split? Who helped you tailor your clothes before an interview? Who—”

“That’s enough, Tom, I get it. Doesn’t change the fact that you protested helping and demanded favours in return every single time. Also doesn’t change the fact that you never taught any of us to sew after Mom taught you. I guess you were just too immature to share a skill. What, scared we’d do it better?”

“You already stole piano from me! It’s not my fault you’re better at—at everything!”

Wilbur scoffs. “Airing out the insecurities today, are we?”

“Shut up! You had the fiddle already, you had no right to barge in and take the only instrument I had from Mom!”

“Oh, hush, it’s not like I forbid you from playing.”

He might as well have. Tommy can’t play anymore because of chemical burns, because of the tannery, and he never would have been forced to work at the tannery if Dad hadn’t found out about his trips to the pleasure house with Wilbur. If Wilbur hadn’t pulled him along, none of this would have happened. None of it.

It’s all Wilbur’s fault. Everything that’s happened—all these horrible months—are because of Wilbur. Tommy can’t name a single facet of his life that is untouched. Wilbur is friends with Tubbo, he works with Tubbo. He pushed Tommy to keep up with school, he kept an eye on his grade, and they struggled through French together. Wilbur is the cause for Tommy’s job, his mentorship with Techno. When their father gave up and their mother left—because she had been a mother to both of them, even though only Tommy shared her golden hair—it was Will that stepped in to care for him. 

It’s all Wilbur’s fault. The joyous days and those filled with malice and malcontent. Running through the park in the dappled sunshine, sucking on penny candy and playing King Arthur’s court. All this, because of Wilbur. Harsh, whispered insults and tears falling off cheeks like robin’s eggs tipped out of a nest. All this, because of Wilbur. Possibilities abandoned. Promises fulfilled twice over. All this, because of Wilbur. A lifetime of hiding under the covers, waiting out the screaming matches. Having his hair brushed until he cried because the knots hurt and Wilbur never truly learned to be gentle. Blowing bubbles into the air, soapsuds clouding up his hands like fuzzy spores. Singing together. Duets on the piano and violin, every evening. Laughing in their beds far past lights-out because of some stupid joke. Or, forced away from one another, biting remarks fizzling out under the force of sleep and weariness and reflexive love. They have always shared a room. 

All this, because of Wilbur.

Tommy’s hands are still black with Wilbur’s ink, and anger still boils under his skin, but he so hates to fight. And he’s fought with his brother a hundred times, a thousand times, even, but Wilbur is a more vindictive person than he used to be and this argument feels different. 

“That’s . . . true,” he forces out, barely aware of what he’s agreeing to. Outside, the sky is covered with clouds. The sun is somewhere, but he couldn’t point in its direction. “I shouldn’t have said that. It’s not totally true, I—you’re better at music than me.”

“Damn right I am.” A pause. “. . . sorry.”

They both just stand there, side by side. Tommy isn’t sure whether to laugh or cry. 

“Can we be done, please?” He asks. “With fighting?”

“If not now, then soon. I have work to do.”

Tommy’s shoulders drop. “That’s not really what I meant. You’re always busy, can we—”

“Tommy, the opera shows in two weeks! I’d be furiously busy even if it wasn’t a train wreck.”

“But—”

“And as it is, the whole thing is falling to pieces. I need to either fix it, or . . . stop them from putting it on.” Wilbur tries at a laugh, but he’s not really joking. “Sometimes things are just too far gone to save.”

Maybe so, but Tommy is stubborn. “Artists are always the most critical of their art, right? Maybe you’re just not seeing the good in it.”

“Thanks, Tommy, but I doubt it. If it was any good, the actors would memorize their lines.”

“They still don’t have them memorized?”

“No.” Wilbur huffs a breath. “If the singers can’t even keep time with the music, what’s the point? I can’t—don’t you ever feel like something isn’t worth putting into the world?”

Tommy has never made anything that would impact anyone. “Not really . . . but please, Will, lots of people are working on the opera—”

“That’s the problem! They all want to do different things. It’s like they’re insistent on ruining my vision. God, humans weren’t made to create in such large groups.” He pulls away from the sink and Tommy hurriedly follows, drying his hands on his trousers. “Or I wasn’t. I shouldn’t—ugh, I never should’ve begun this opera in the first place!”

“Wilbur! You love to write, you love this opera. What are you talking about?”

“I haven’t loved it in a long time. I don’t love it now, I won’t love it when it’s done—what’s the point?” Wilbur throws himself onto the couch, ripping a hand through his hair. “I’ve had enough. I’m done, I—”

“Wilbur, calm down.”

“I’m calm,” Wilbur curses, clearly not calm.

Tommy is too frustrated to be gentle with him. “Why does every conversation end with you complaining about your stupid opera? We used to be able to talk about anything, but now it’s just tempo and set design and unsatisfying teamwork.” 

“Probably because I’m in the middle of directing it!”

“Well, what happens after this, huh? You write another, get lost in that one, too? Argue about it for months and repeat? Where’s the end? When does this ever become enjoyable?”

“See, you hate the opera, too! It should just be done with! I should just . . . call it off.” 

And they’re back to the same, dead topic. “They’ll probably just finish it independent of you.”

“So I ruin it. Make it unusable.”

“I miss the way we used to be,” Tommy pleads. “We’re still brothers, but are we friends, anymore? We barely spend time together, we don’t talk without getting into arguments like this. When was the last time we did something together? Just to . . . be together?”

“If you want to do something together, you can help me put an end to this whole—” He gestures vaguely— “ordeal. This opera.”

Tommy breathes out slowly. “Sure, Will, I’ll help you sabotage the project you’ve been working on for months.”

Wilbur sends him a dirty look from under his arm. 

But he lets the offer stand.

He’s serious.

. . . the opera has made everything worse. It has taken Wilbur away from them, it has made Tubbo grumpy, it has been the only thing they’ve spoken about for months. And here Wilbur is, offering to be done with it. To give it up, and spend time with Tommy in the process.

It will be the wrong thing to do. But Tommy misses his brother.

He sighs, and pushes Wilbur over to perch on the armrest. “And how do you plan to sabotage it?”

Wilbur’s arm drops from his face. He looks at Tommy for a long moment, lips pressed together. His eyes flicker over Tommy’s face, testing him for truth, and when he’s satisfied that Tommy is asking honestly, a grim smile begins to form.

ↂ 𖠁 ↂ

He gets out of work early, anxious and thrumming with energy. Techno eyes him curiously but does not ask questions, which is a relief because Tommy can’t bear the thought of Techno being disappointed in him. And Techno would be disappointed, if he knew.

The walk to the operahouse passes too quickly. Tommy’s hands are sweaty with guilt.

When he stands out front, he stares up at the glorious, columned building with its rows of steps and beautiful blue glass dome, peeking out from behind the top. The sky is cloudy today, so it shines grey-blue like a cold winter morning through a window.

This . . . will go fine. They’re not even doing anything today, just scoping out the scene. It will go fine and he will get his brother back.

At the back entrance, Tubbo waits. He’s sitting on a first floor window ledge, kicking his feet, but when Tommy arrives, he jumps down, smiling.

Tommy had expected—wished?—for Tubbo to object to Wilbur’s plan, but Tubbo and Wilbur share a certain mischief that Tommy lacks. Wilbur was able to coerce him to their side easily enough. And Tubbo was the one who figured out how to put the plan into action.  

Tommy smiles back, and even laughs when Tubbo shoves into his shoulder. “Stop,” he hisses, and pushes back harder—hard enough to make Tubbo stumble.

“Go on, try me,” Tubbo taunts, but he trails off. They have a job to do. “Well. Try me later. But don’t think this is over.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it.”

Tommy knows the operahouse’s twisting halls better than most, by this time, but today they are going somewhere he’s never been before. Today, they are going up into the rafters.

“Did you design this one?” Tommy asks, hoisting himself up a ladder behind Tubbo, who scurries up like a squirrel.

“I wish. Helped build it, though. Honestly, it . . . could be safer. I mean, flying an actor around the stage on ropes is already dangerous, so not much to be done there, but this thing goes fast. The singers are a little scared of it, to be honest.”

They reach the top level, which is little more than narrow boards criss-crossing over the stage and others working there. A trio of women in costume begin a quiet harmony, lilting through the giant room. People walk down the stairs to the orchestra pit, others bustle around like bees with a mission. Up in the attic, there are no lanterns, but blue light filters in from above. 

Tommy looks up and gasps.

Above them, the blue glass dome curves in a glorious semisphere. It is like they are inside an astronomer’s globe, cradled within the stars. The panes of glass are even bigger up close, stretching wider than Tommy can reach his arms. The curve of the dome seems to fall away at this distance, and it feels more like an angular object. Wooden support beams line the iron connecting the glass, worn and unvarnished. Dust and greenish rust smokes up the glass, to the point that Tommy can’t tell whether the shadows on the surface are grime or distant clouds. 

“We’re under the dome?”

Tubbo grins at his delight. “Yup. Come on, over here.” He gestures Tommy over to a platform, stepping gingerly over the gaps in the floor—if it could even be called a floor. Tommy follows slowly. The wood creaks under his feet.

“How often are people up here?” How much weight do these planks hold?

Tubbo shrugs, moving on quickly. “This is the crane.” He points at . . . something. Tommy wouldn’t even have identified it as a contraption without Tubbo’s help. It just looks like an arrangement of wood and steel nailed together shoddily. A few ropes loop their way though, with no clear purpose.

“How does it . . . work?”

Tubbo grimaces. “Well, it doesn’t, right now—it takes a lot of setting up, and we have to move a bunch of the boards we’re standing on right now—actually, be really careful, sometimes they don’t nail them in all the way.”

“Right.” Tommy exhales, gripping Tubbo’s shoulder. Far, far below, a woman twirls across the stage, skirt pluming like a burst of fire. She spins and spins and spins. Tommy forces his gaze up. “We could just fall to our deaths at any moment.”

Tubbo just laughs. “We come up here almost every day, Tom. I could say the same about you and those tanning chemicals.” Fair enough. “And as to how the crane works . . .” He side-eyes Tommy doubtfully.

“Yeah, I probably wouldn’t understand. How do we dismantle this thing?”

Tubbo stares at the mess of machinery, thinking. “If we cut the ropes, they’ll just replace them.”

“They can replace anything we break,” Tommy replies, lowering his voice as the stage below grows quiet. Scene change.

“. . . not everything.” Tubbo leaves the platform, crossing nimbly to the largest concentration of machinery. He crouches, peering into the mechanism. “Over here, look. This lever helps control the direction the crane moves. It pulls the people forward and back, yeah? There’s a gear, here—” He points at a dark iron wheel with blocky teeth, deep in the heart of the machine. It’s almost completely encased by a wooden sheath. “—to move the arm of the crane. We had to order it specially to get the size and width right. If it broke, it would take us a while to fix. Maybe too long. The show is less than two weeks away, I don’t think . . . it would put us really behind.”

“Too far behind?” 

Tubbo hesitates. “. . . too far, yeah.” 

Tommy wants 100% certainty.

“How are we meant to break that? It’s really . . . far in there; how would we even get it out?”

Tubbo shakes his head. “Oh, we wouldn’t take it out; that would mean disassembling the whole machine. Anything we do has to be basically invisible. We can’t make it look like it was sabotaged.” He twists to see behind the covering over the gear, pushes his fingers in. “There’s not much space in here. Honestly, they probably wouldn’t be able to see anyway.” And certainly not in this dim blue light—it’s all shadow, when Tommy peers over Tubbo’s shoulder.

“Get a small wedge in there and you’d be golden.”

Tubbo hums. “Yeah . . . something small. Twist it into the machine so it’s not noticeable.”

“We should test and make sure we can turn it—the gear.” He starts to pull at his fingers, one by one, until the joints pop. It hurts.

“Okay . . .” Tubbo points to a weight bundled in a net. It hangs below their feet. “We can’t turn it if that thing’s hanging, though. It . . . it balances the machine so it doesn’t go swinging all over the place while we use it, but if we want to test the machine from up here, we’ll need it disengaged so we can actually . . . move it.” 

His stomach hurts, like it does when he’s had a migraine for three hours. “I don’t understand, but okay.”

Tubbo laughs softly, cracking a smile. He doesn’t seem to be affected by the guilty anxiety that has completely taken over Tommy’s brain. Maybe it’s just the height—Tommy has never been scared of heights before, but maybe . . . maybe that’s what this feeling is. 

Surely.

He follows Tubbo over to the hanging weight, and helps him lift it hand over hand, until it rests on a place where the wooden boards cross. They creak despite their gentleness, and Tommy winces.

Tubbo makes his way back over to the machine. He touches the gear, but it’s too heavy to move from that angle, so he tries a heavy rope, instead. It runs all the way down to the ground floor, where it can be pulled to move the crane. 

He tugs on it. Nothing happens.

He yanks. Again, nothing.

Tubbo blows out a breath, readjusts his grip, and throws his weight against the thick rope, forcing it down.

A grinding sound rings through the attic, bouncing off the glass ceiling. The arm of the crane moves, drifting outward by a metre, two—

But Tommy barely notices that, because across the room, Tubbo slips. He shrieks as his weight is suddenly shifted, and Tommy can barely breath as his friend’s head falls down to half the height it should be at. 

He moves before he can think about it, pushing off the board he’s standing on to half-leap to the platform built around the crane. 

He makes the jump; he lands in a crouch.

And then everything happens at once. 

A scream of metal on metal, a whoosh of air, and a huge, fantastic crash. 

Glass shatters. Glass falls— falls on Tommy’s hair and shoulders and everywhere around him. It crushes into his sleeves. Sharp stinging sparks on the insides of his forearms.

Light bursts from the sky, burning into his eyes, and for a moment he wonders if the building is on fire. 

There is sound and light and glass and Tommy covers his head with his arms. 

It is like a gunshot.

And like a gunshot, everything seems so horribly quiet after. His ears ring. His blood is alive and flowing. 

Oh. Oh, oh, what have they done?

Slowly, he lifts his arms, picks his head up. Glass falls off his head, dropping all the way down to the stage, twinkling and jingling like Christmas ornaments. It glitters on the stage floor, caught in the lights, trapped in the slats of storage crates. His breath shakes. 

Below, people are screaming, yelling. 

The crane arm of the machine is cradled by the bent iron supports threading together the glass panels of the dome. The glass glints in the burst of sunlight, webbed with cracks or completely shattered. Fragments remain in the frame like the ridged, spiked back of a wild creature. 

And—and right where Tommy had been standing just a second ago, the wooden boards are gone—they were displaced when he jumped off. And with them, went the weight that moved the crane.

Tubbo had fallen.

Tommy had jumped to save him.

He had pushed the boards out of place.

They had fallen. The weight had fallen.

It snapped the crane arm back the way it went, slamming it into the blue-glass dome, which promptly . . . 

Splintered.

On the other side of the platform, Tubbo manages to pull himself back to his feet, breathing hard. There is no glass around him, thankfully, but as he scrambles away from the edge on all fours, Tommy sees his hands land on the shards.

“Tubbo?” His own voice comes out weak and gasping.

What have they done?

“I’m—I’m okay.” 

“Me—me too, I think?” Spots of blood show up on his shirtsleeves.

Tubbo unfolds, lifting his hands from the glass—no red stains his palms, thank God. His eyes are wide. 

And then:

“Who’s up there?”

It’s Schlatt’s voice, terrible and deadly. He doesn’t just yell, he roars, and it booms through the auditorium all the way up to the attic. Tommy and Tubbo cringe.

“Get down here!”

Tubbo starts shuffling towards the ladder, his brows low in fear and obligation, a tremor making a home in his tense shoulders. 

“Tubbo, no, it’s—it’s my fault. You can’t go down. Hide, please—”

“If he sees you, he’ll know I’m somehow involved,” Tubbo hisses. “You stay. I’ll cover for you.”

“But—”

“Stay, Tom!”

He says it with enough force that Tommy stops, wood creaking beneath his shifting weight. Tubbo rushes down the ladder, looking like he’s about to slip the entire time.

“Get down!” Schlatt yells again, like a dragon whose hoard has been tampered with. Tommy holds his breath. “Tubbo?”

“Sir, it was an accident—” Tubbo rambles helplessly. Tommy can just barely see the top of his head from so high up. He is looking down.

“What did you do?”

“I was working on the flying machine and—and I must’ve done something wrong—I barely knew what was going on before it went into the roof. I swear it was an accident, I swear—”

“I don’t care if it was an accident! You think that’s going to impact the amount of money this costs me? No!”

“I’m sorry—”

“Again, I couldn’t. Care. Less.”

Another body wanders over to Schlatt and Tubbo. Tommy would recognize his brother’s steady, commanding gait in a crowd of thousands. 

“The flying machine?” Wilbur questions.

“Kid smashed the glass roof with it.”

“What.” Wilbur’s voice is dangerous, angry. He helped formulate this plan, but the anger seems real.

“You know what it’ll cost us to fix that? How long it will take? That dome was built in the 50s, Underscore! You better hope they still make glass like that.”

“Forget the roof; I’m more worried about the flying machine!” Wilbur’s voice grows louder. He’s almost yelling, now. It doesn’t fill the space the way it does in their small home, but it echoes off the walls like it surrounds them. “Tubbo, you didn’t break it, did you?”

Tubbo’s silence is telling.

And then it’s not just Tubbo’s silence; it’s Schlatt, and Tommy’s, and all the singers’ and the musicians’ and technicians’. It is Wilbur’s silence.

Until he breaks it.

“Irreparably?”

Again, silence.

“Tubbo, the show is in two weeks!”

Only after Tommy flinches at the volume does he realize it was his brother’s voice. 

“You of all people know how long it took to build. What were you even doing up there?”

“Just checking on it—”

“Set design is on break; you had no reason to be doing any checking!”

“I’ve checked on it a hundred times,” Tubbo reasons desperately. “There was no reason to worry anything would go wrong!” There is as much confusion in his voice as fear. Out of all the people here, why is Wilbur igetting upset? This goes beyond acting; Wilbur is really, truly angry and it doesn’t make any sense why. Maybe . . . maybe he’s just startled that destruction is happening today, when it wasn’t supposed to happen until the end of the week? 

“But something did go wrong,” Schlatt comments.

“It was an accident!”

“It still happened!” Both Schlatt and Wilbur yell at once.

Tommy has heard Wilbur shout many times, whether it was a temper tantrum at nine or a school fight at twelve or any of the numerous screaming matches with Dad that have persisted since Mom left. Tommy is used to it. It’s uncomfortable and he hates it, but it is familiar. 

To Tubbo, it isn’t.

Tommy knows Tubbo’s been yelled at before—he grew up in a workhouse, for God’s sake—but despite that, Tommy has been careful to make his house feel safe. Tubbo isn’t around for the fighting and screaming. Dad tries not to let things spiral out of control when Tubbo is around, and even Wilbur is usually more amicable. No one has ever yelled at Tubbo in their home. No one will, if Tommy can help it.

He shoves himself down the ladder, not even bothering to be quiet.

“It wasn’t him!” Tommy shouts, spilling onto the floor, stumbling forward. “I asked him to show me!”

The whole room is staring at him, and Tommy realizes he’s standing in the front of the stage. He knows there’s no audience, but the lights are on and he can imagine the multitude of hungry, leering faces hiding in the dark. Maybe he’s ended up in one of Wilbur’s operas after all, with his hands extended like the tragic hero at the end of his rope. 

“Tommy?” Wilbur’s brows lift gently in perfectly curated disbelief. “What are you doing here?” 

“It isnt’ Tubbo’s fault, sir,” Tommy says, addressing Schlatt. “It was mine.”

“Both of ours,” Tubbo corrected.

“What, you think you can just give your friend a tour around incredibly expensive machinery? For fun?” It wouldn’t be the first time they’d done it, to be completely honest. “I hired you because you were responsible for your age, Underscore. Responsible and smart. But this is the complete opposite of either of those things.”

They could all see where this was going. Tommy stepped in too late.

“Get out.”

“. . . what?” Tubbo’s voice is small. Tommy stands at his side.

“You heard me. Get out,” Schlatt roars, face red and puffy with anger. He looks like a volcano on the verge of eruption.

Tubbo’s shoudlers rise with a breath. He hesitates, and then, he lets it out.

His shoulders fall.

He turns to face Tommy—his eyes wide in an almost childlike fashion, lips parted—and gives him a weary, overwhelmed look. This is how things turn out, I suppose.

Tommy stops him with a hand on his shoulder. He levels his gaze at Schlatt. “It wasn’t his fault.”

“Tommy—”

“Kid, you don’t work here. If he let you in, and you mess something up, it is his fault. Now get out of here, the both of you! I don’t want to see either of your faces here again. Go on, out!”

“That’s not fair,” Tommy growls, but Tubbo wrenches out of his grip, whispering, “yes, it is.”

Even if Tommy wanted to keep arguing, Schlatt has already moved on, directing technicians to go investigate the damages and janitors to clean up the glass.

It crunches under their feet as they leave. Each step comes down on the wooden floors, heavy and dull and final, until there are no more steps to take inside that building, and Tubbo hovers before the door.

Eventually, Tommy opens it for him. A gust of wind tries to blow them back inside, but they are not wanted and are forced to join it out on the street.

The door swings closed. The empty alley feels like a dusty arena.

Tommy looks at his friend, wanting to comfort or console him. Before he can reach out, the breeze steals his cap and he’s forced to go running for it.

An inopportune wind sems far too commonplace for such an emotional moment as this.  But then, the sun always rises.

When he trots back Tubbo is staring at the ground, arms wrapped around himself.

Tubbo refuses to hold eye contact.

“Tubbo—”

“Can we go home?” He interrupts solidly.

“. . . sure.” They fall into step, heading towards Tommy’s, not the boarding house where Tubbo technically stays. He’s probably with the Crafts’ more often than he is there.

Tubbo won’t come around so often, not after this. Tommy doesn’t even blame him—he’d probably drift away from a friend who caused him to be fired, too. And Wilbur yelled at him. Tommy can’t see Tubbo coming over much in the future. 

If only they’d let Wilbur deal with the operahouse on his own. There was no reason for Tubbo and Tommy to get involved, and in such a drastic way. Breaking property, and on purpose.

How did Wilbur convince them to do this in the first place? Sure, they were close—they were brothers— but this . . . Tommy doesn’t want to do it anymore. He’s said it before, but enough is enough. Wilbur shouldn’t be the reason Tommy loses his best friend. He shouldn’t cause that friend to lose his job—and for what? So Wilbur doesn’t have to work on his opera anymore? Because he can’t bear the pain of compromise?

No.

No.

When Wilbur hurts himself, it’s one thing. Hell, when Wilbur hurts nameless coworkers, it’s one thing.

But now Wilbur’s hurting Tommy, and he’s hurting Tubbo more. The love and loyalty in Tommy’s chest lingers because fires do not just burn out, but it feels dishonest to harbor it. He’s not sure if Wilbur is worthy of that love anymore. 

At his side, Tubbo sniffles and swipes at his nose with a bunched up sleeve.

No, he knows Wilbur isn’t worthy.

“Just a few more blocks,” he says weakly, side-eyeing his friend for a reaction.

Tubbo nods. To Tommy’s surprise, Tubbo links their arms together for the rest of the walk. 

Every time Tubbo wipes the tears off his face, Tommy wants more and more to soak into the stones never to be seen again. He has no right to feel this way—it’s Tubbo who’s just lost his job. So he forces himself to hold strong and not cry, even if it’s what his whole body wants to do. Tubbo needs him.

When they finally get home, Tubbo barges in first. The sink runs while Tommy closes the door and hangs up his coat. He takes a second to breathe—it’s okay, it’s fine. If this is the last time Tubbo steps into this house, then by God is Tommy going to savour it.

“Tubbo, are you . . . do you want tea?” He peeks into the kitchen. Tubbo is just standing before the sink, hands braced on the counter. His knuckles are white, and his shoulders jump erratically. He does not answer. 

Tommy slowly advances, like he would toward an easily startled animal. He reaches the sink.

Tubbo’s face is wet with tapwater and salty tears. His blue eyes are red and wide, his lashes clumped together. He purses his lips.

“It’ll be fine,” he chokes up, mostly to himself. “I’ve lost jobs before. It’ll—it’ll be okay.”

“It . . . will,” Tommy responds, cautious. “You’ll find another job. I’m sure there are loads of people that want you.”

“After that, definitely,” he says, sarcastic. It’s simultaneously a laugh and a sob.

“Tubbo, trust me,” Tommy grips his shoulder, forcing Tubbo to meet his eyes. “You’re one of the smartest people I know. You—you’re in college.” Abruptly, Tubbo’s face falls. “Listen, rich people with expensive educations don’t get into college. But you made it in as an orphan. You’ve gotta be smart to do that!”

Tubbo pulls away, taking a shaky breath. “No, no! Tommy, how am I going to pay for those college classes without a job?”

“You’ll get another one!”

“It’s not that easy! College is expensive, I can’t take just any job—it has to be a decently good one, and even then—”

“It’s okay, we’ll help you figure it out. It’s okay, Tubbo.”

“No, it’s not!’

Tommy stops, hovering on the balls of his feet. Tubbo freezes too, startled by his own outburst.

One heavy tick of the kitchen clock: tock!

Tock! 

Tock!

Tubbo bursts into tears.

Tommy ushers him into the living room, blustering through meaningless assurances so he can at least pretend he’s being a helping hand, and not the main cause of the issue. Tubbo is too stressed to sit down despite Tommy’s pleas, and blows his nose on his handkerchief while standing, his shoulders hunched horribly.

“I’m sorry,” Tommy confesses. “I’m sorry, none of this would’ve happened if not for me.”

Tubbo glares at him, messy-faced. “Shut up. It was both of our faults.”

“I’m still sorry. That you lost your job over it, at the very least.” That now Tubbo probably won’t finish college or get the job he wants and, God, are their lives completely charged because of this one mistake?

Tubbo sighs. “Well. I forgive you.”

Tommy gives his friend a weak smile, because . . . this was Wilbur’s scheme. If not for their family, Tubbo would’ve never been brought into this. Sure, he was part of the plan, but he didn’t come up with it; he didn’t have the vindictiveness to try something so terrible. Why does he have to bear the punishment, when he is the least guilty of all of them?

Tommy can’t do this. He can’t break down the few relationships he has. He watched Wilbur first drive Niki away, then Sally. He messed with their lives the same way Tommy is messing with Tubbo’s, except Tommy is worse because he’s actually taking away Tubbo’s chances. Wilbur meddles; Tommy breaks.

He can’t be like his brother; he won’t be. Maybe Tubbo is kind enough to stay, but Tommy is testing him. He won’t stay always. Niki and Sally were driven away by less.

He can’t drive his people away. He can’t be like his brother.

He sits with Tubbo on the couch.

Tubbo goes through half a box of tissues. Tommy tries to still his shaking hands and shaking heart.

Dad comes home to a silent house and a fresh snow of balled-up tissues clustered around the couch. 

Chapter Text

July 14th, 1913—five days later

Tommy doesn’t drink. Not habitually, at least. His dad let him drink from age eight and up, and maybe part of that was negligence, but it never did Tommy any harm. When he got past ten, Techno would let him have the last two sips of a glass of wine, and by age fourteen it was normal for Tommy to have a drink with the rest of the family, on the rare occasion they had any alcohol in the house. 

They don’t drink together anymore, mostly because they don’t do much of anything together. He’s almost forgotten the vaguely rotten taste of alcohol. A few days after the destruction of the flying machine, though, he finds himself curious enough to go rediscover it.

When Wilbur asks to meet with him—outside of the house—Tommy suggests a small, friendly-looking pub somewhere between home and the operahouse. Wilbur agrees without hesitation, which Tommy takes as permission to drink without family around.

He waits around for a while before Wilbur gets off work, reacquainting himself with the taste of beer. It’s worse than he remembers. 

When Wilbur finally shows up, he’s grinning, and it’s a wild, terrible look.

“Something to celebrate?” Tommy asks, propping his cheek on his hand.

Wilbur slides into the chair opposite him. “Absolutely, there is. Tom. Tommy. I’ve done it.”

“Done what?”

Wilbur’s eyes glimmer like Peter Pan’s fairy dust. He leans forward, whispering secretively:

“The opera’s cancelled.”

. . . oh.

Somehow, somewhere, Tommy didn’t really expect it to ever be cancelled at all. Sure, Wilbur was a terrible director, but Schlatt was stubborn, and he’d decided to put it on. Wilbur would fuss and struggle but the opera would eventually be performed and that would be that. Schlatt was too greedy to give up on something he’d spent so much money on. The whole operahouse was working towards the performance.

And yet, it all came crashing down because of one man.

And yet . . . Wilbur won.

“I could not have done it without you,” Wilbur says grandly. “That stunt with the flying machine was perfect—and I know breaking the glass dome was an accident, but God, was it perfect. I wouldn’t have been bold enough to do that.”

They’ve already spoken twice about how guilty Tommy feels about the incident.

“Honestly, if you had only broken the machine, I don’t think they would’ve cancelled. The glass was really what did it. We couldn’t even use the stage until it was all cleaned up, and all the actors and musicians got fed up with waiting around. And then people had to come in to cover the hole in the ceiling before it rained on us, and then the incident was in the paper because the broken glass isn’t really hidden up there on the roof, you know.”

Yes, Tommy did know. He had to come home from work early yesterday because he was too torn up with anxiety to properly organize records.

Wilbur laughs easily, leaning back in his seat. “I can’t give you all the credit, though—the leading actress taking a fall a couple days ago helped a good bit.”

Tommy raises his eyebrows. “She fell? How?”

“Accident on the stairs behind the stage. It was bound to happen, really, with how cramped they are, but it’s awfully fortunate for me that she fell before the opening show.” 

Tommy doesn’t trust his brother’s grin any longer. “Fortunate.”

“Yes.” Wilbur shrugs delicately. “Fortunate.”

Tommy gapes at him. “You pushed her?”

“Whoa, Tommy, really? You think so badly of me?”

“I don’t know what to think!”

“I didn’t push her. She was carrying something heavy and the seamstresses haven’t had a chance to hem her costume yet, and there may have been a few others on the stairs at the same time . . . it was an unfortunate series of events.”

That Wilbur doubtless organized. “Is she okay?”

“She will be. In a month or two. Tom, you’re focusing on the wrong thing. Yes, she’s hurt. It means the opera won’t be performed.”

“What about the understudy?” Tommy knows he’s grasping at straws, but he can’t help it—there’s no way Wilbur actually pulled this off.

Wilbur rolls his eyes. “She’s fine. Never memorizes her cues, but she’s unharmed.” He hurries on, waving a hand through the air as if purposefully injuring a coworker can be blown away like smoke. “Maybe all those changes and edits I had to make were worth it, because they definitely contributed to the cancellation. I think the performers almost hated them as much as I did, having to learn new cues and music all the time. As well as . . . working with me. They hated that as well.” He grimaces. “Which, fine; I hated them too. I sure didn’t make it easy for them, but they weren’t fond of real work being expected of them, I suppose.”

Tommy has heard this monologue enough times to know that Wilbur was horrible to them, that he relentlessly bothered and nitpicked and argued. Nobody likes Wilbur at the operahouse. He’s not sure when that became a given, or why he was willing to forgive it, but . . . here we are. 

“Of course, it’s okay if they don’t like me. So be it. I’m the director, they have to deal with it. But upsetting the manager is a different story.”

Nevermind, there was never a chance of the operahouse winning. There never was. Not with a lunatic like Wilbur fighting them.

“Listen, Schlatt’s got a quick temper. This makes a lot of people scared of him, but it also makes him easy to exploit.” Wilbur steeples his fingers thoughtfully. “He only got angry with me a few times—even though I know the rest of the production was telling him to get rid of me. Still, a few arguments was enough for our good friend Mr. Schlatt to have enough.”

“You got fired.”

“Well, I wouldn’t call it fired, since I wanted it to happen. Maybe I quit indirectly, but I certainly wasn’t fired.”

“. . . sure.” Wilbur looks notably unworried about his lack of a job. He could even be described as pleased. Tommy dares to ask: “Where are you going to work now?”

“Oh, I don’t know. Don’t worry, Tom, we’ll cross that bridge when we come to it.” He slides Tommy’s half empty glass over and takes a large swallow. “Who cares about that! I did it. I won. I saved it.”

Saved? Is that what he’s calling this?

“The opera remains pure. I kept a clean version, you know? Without all the stupid edits they forced me to make. The true version survives, while their bastardization is less than rubble. Isn’t that poetic?”

“It’s . . . yes,” Tommy agrees. Wilbur is horribly, grossly excited, like he’s gone through three drinks already.

Tommy can imagine laughing along, can imagine congratulating Will and celebrating with him. Tommy didn’t complain when Wilbur started working with the pleasure house, even though that seems obviously wrong now. He even fought Dad on it and got in massive trouble because of Wilbur’s choices. Wilbur quit the pleasure house, leaving his girlfriend behind, and Tommy disagreed but he let Wilbur make his own choices. Wilbur was horrible to everyone at the operahouse, and Tommy just tried to ignore it. He sabotaged his own show and Tommy helped, at the expense of his best friends’ job.

At least Dad argued with Wilbur when he started making bad decisions. It didn’t do much, but he tried. He actually thought about what Wilbur was doing instead of cheerfully accepting it.

“I can’t believe they thought they could win,” Wilbur laughs. “That if they just kept pushing, just a little while longer, they’d be able to take the opera away from me. I told them that the changes they wanted were ridiculous. I told them I wouldn’t agree. And here we are. Maybe they should’ve taken me more seriously. He laughs again, finishing off Tommy’s drink. “God. I’m here! I made it! I almost can’t believe it—I’ve been suffering through their hell of a production for so long.”

Tommy doesn’t know whether to play along or tell Wilbur how wrong he is. He doesn’t even know how to go about saying such a thing to his brother—he never wants to fight, but that’s definitely what’ll end up happening if he challenges Wilbur’s excitement.

Dad will know how to handle this. Or, maybe, not know how, but he’s better equipped; he has a better chance of winning. He’s more used to arguing with Wilbur than Tommy is.

“Let’s head home, Will. It’s getting late.”

Wilbur rises with Tommy, scurrying after him. “Have you even been listening to me?”

“Yes.” Tommy pays, giving the waitress a nod. He slips out the door quickly, leaving Wilbur to follow.

“You’ve barely said a word.” 

Tommy deflects. “Haven’t had much to say.”

“Oh, come on,” Wilbur scoffs. “I’ve just told you the biggest news of my life. You have something to say about it.”

“I guess I’m just . . . processing. It’s a lot to think about.”

Wilbur seems to accept this. “. . . haven’t quite processed it myself.” He snorts. His shoes tap merrily on the paving stone, like a man on the way to his wedding. “It’s . . . wow. What a feat, eh? You know,” he begins. “I don’t think my work could ever be performed by that operahouse. And do you want to know why?”

“Why?” Tommy asks obediently.

“Because of Schlatt. Sure, he was the one who hired me, and sure, he was the one who liked the music I wrote, but he’s a businessman. He’s greedy. He only ever wanted money and quick, short happiness—he wouldn’t sit through a four-hour masterpiece, no matter how good it was. He didn’t care about art, just beauty. And I’m an artist, Tommy, I can’t be constrained by silly things like other people’s desires. If I’m going to make something truly good, I have to work alone. I cannot let the art be diluted, and that was what the operahouse tried to do to it. Did you know that they made me take out a full third of what I’d written? A full third of the story, gone. I had to rework the musical themes to keep them consistent at the right times. I had to—well, I could go on for hours. I had to change everything, I mean to say.” He slings an arm over Tommy’s shoulders as if they were co-conspirators in the whole mess. “You can see why I feel they ruined it.

Tommy is only half listening. Mostly, he’s panicking over how readily he would’ve agreed with Wilbur, just a few months ago. He wouldn’t have questioned anything. Even now, instinct begs to play along. They’ve always been a team; they’re brothers. They’re brothers. 

He barely takes in a word of Wilbur’s speechifying all the way home.

Hopefully Dad doesn’t react too harshly. If Tommy stays in the room, maybe he and his father will level each other out. Tommy won’t be too soft, Dad won’t be too harsh. And Wilbur . . . hopefully he’ll respond well.

All Tommy’s hopes of that happening jump out the window when his brother opens the front door. 

“Dad!” Wilbur’s grin remains, but takes on a stubborn, contrary quality. “Big news!” 

Tommy slams the door shut behind him. The steps creak one by one as Dad comes wearily down the stairs. “What?”

“The opera . . .” Wilbur spreads his arms wide. “. . . is cancelled!”

Dad stares at him, frozen in the mouth of the hallway. “What?”

“Unfortunately, the machine Tommy broke last week really was impossible to fix, and that, along with everything else in production going wrong some way or another . . . well, it added up, I suppose.”

Oh, Wilbur isn’t going to try and pin the blame on Tommy, is he?

“That’s not how you told it earlier,” Tommy says mildly, sitting on the couch to unlace his boots. If Wilbur glares at him, he doesn’t see it. 

“The show’s cancelled,” Wilbur states easily.

“But—you’ve been working on it for months! And it was showing next week!”

“Everyone hated it anyway. Hated working on it, hated performing it, hated who they were working with . . . it was inevitable.”

Dad just stares at him. He glances at Tommy, then back to Wilbur. “You seem . . . unconcerned.”

“Like I said. Inevitable.”

But Dad has always been smarter than Wilbur gives him credit for. “Oh, Wilbur.” The confusion falls away, sorrow replacing it. “You planned for Tommy to break the flying machine, didn’t you.”

Wilbur’s face hardens.

“Of course you planned it. Really, there’s no way Tommy did that himself—he’s not clumsy. Wilbur.”

“They were ruining it!” Wilbur snaps defensively, shying away from their father’s pity and accusation.

“Who?”

“The operahouse! They kept making me change things. It wasn’t even my opera anymore—it was like a changeling twin.”

“So you . . . what? Sabotaged your own work?” Dad looks just as distraught as Tommy feels.

“I was saving it, Dad. Imagine if it was performed. Either the audience would hate it—and rightfully so, it’s practically been completely ruined—or they love it and I’m nver able to have it properly performed! Every option is bad! I had to keep it out of their hands. It’s mine— my work, my time and effort and passion, my art— and I won't let it be taken away from me!”

“Will!” Tommy shouts. “Please, calm down.”

Wilbur crosses his arms, subduing, at least a little. “I’m calm.”

Yeah, right.

“So it was perfectionism,” Dad says softly, matching Wilbur’s pose. “You did it for perfectionism.”

“Is it so bad for a man to want to do good work?”

“When it causes him to be a terrible person to everyone around him—a terrible director, a terrible son, a terrible brother—then yes! It is!”

“What have I done to either of you to be called terrible? Tommy, have I been a terrible brother to you?”

Tommy opens his mouth. Nothing comes out. Maybe Wilbur was a good brother once, but he certainly isn’t now. “I told you I wanted to spend time with you and you made me help sabotage your opera.”

Wilbur’s glare turns fiery. “First of all, I didn’t make you do anything. You could’ve said no. Second, we do things together all the time. We share a room, for God’s sake!”

“You’re almost never home to be in it! You never remember when it’s your turn to make dinner, you never stick around to talk, you always come home late. When you are home, you’re working. If we do talk, it’s about how much you hate your job!”

“That isn’t true.”

“Well, that’s what it feels like!” And it is true. It is true, and Tommy’s been soaking in it for months. “Good thing you don’t have a job to complain about anymore.”

“What?” Dad’s gaze snaps to Wilbur.

“Schlatt fired me. Pissed him off one too many times.” 

“And let me guess: that was intentional, too?”

“You think I intended to get fired,” Wilbur deadpans.

Dad raises an eyebrow.

Wilbur huffs a breath through a little smile, glancing off to the side. “It would’ve been easy to try another opera there, but the same problems would’ve arisen. There was no point in continuing. It wasn’t an environment for art.”

Dad’s shock starts to coalesce into something harder. Resignation, and . . . disappointment.

“You— Will. You weren’t the only one relying on that money, you know that, right? All of us have jobs to support each other. You don’t exist in a little snowglobe all by yourself—your actions matter!”

“It’s not like the operahouse paid much. We’ll be alright for a few weeks until I find another job.”

“No!” Phil slams a hand on the table. Both his sons jump. “No, you don’t get to brush this off so easily! You can’t keep behaving like this. Ruining the opera like that—you know how many people were working on it, and I know, too, because you complained about them every day.”

“I did not—”

“Yes, you did.” Tommy jumps in. It feels so wrong to side against Wilbur, and part of him wants to throw morality away and let Wilbur take the lead, but he can’t do that. Doing that led to Tubbo losing a job. It led to Tommy breaking the gorgeous blue roof.

Still, he loves his brother. He carries a loyalty to him, as misplaced as it is turning out to be. He never could fight Wilbur without giving up in a fit of tears. 

“And all the people who were hired for your opera are going to suffer because of what you’ve done.”

“If not for me, they wouldn’t have had the job in the first place,” Wilbur says with a shrug.

“Surely you hear yourself, Will. It’s people like you that cause workers to strike! You just—God! The people you work with matter! Your family matters!”

“My art matters!”

“More than us?” Tommy asks softly. 

Wilbur rolls his eyes. “Sometimes, yes.”

“Wilbur.” They both speak at the same time, but Dad says it like a reprimand. And Tommy pleads. 

“Think about it for a second and you’ll understand! What do my coworkers, and my family, and me— what do any of us matter in comparison to posterity? If I can’t be remembered, what’s the point? If I can’t make something good enough to be remembered, what does any of it matter? I won’t let us be overlooked. People strike because they want to be heard, Dad. You don’t condemn them. I want to be heard. That’s all.” Wilbur glances between Tommy and their father, eyes beseeching. “And they’ll hear me. Trust me, please. I will make them hear me. I will make them remember me.”

“What’s the point in being remembered if it’s for bad reasons?” Tommy shoots back, blinking furiously. “Do you really want to be remembered for being a person like . . . like this?”

“What’s the point in being remembered if you’re unhappy?” Dad tacks on. “Forget posterity, forget your art. You’re not happy, Will.”

“I will be,” Wilbur snaps. “It’ll pay off, just you wait. Just a little more work—I’ll find someone to put on my opera properly—I’ll write more! Dad, I have so much still to write! God gave me this music and I don’t intend to waste that gift.” 

“I can guarantee God doesn’t like what you’re doing,” Tommy interrupts.

“Oh, shut up, Tom. You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“But—”

“Look, it’s already done!” Wilbur raises his hands in innocence, smiling humorlessly. “I’ve already been fired, the opera is already cancelled, it’s all finished. You two can scream and cry about it all you want, but we can’t change what’s been done.” 

“But you’re not sorry for it!” Tommy yells—actually yells at his brother. “We can’t let it go because it seems awfully likely you’ll pull something like this again, and I—I don’t—” He scrapes the tears off his face. “I don’t want a brother like that. I can’t just walk around knowing you’d sacrifice us—or our wellbeing—for something that only exists in your own head.”

Wilbur’s lips thin. The smile is gone.

“You see how that would be hard to live with. Please, you must see.”

Wilbur looks at him. He sighs and for a moment Tommy hopes . . . but then he says, “I could forgive me.”

“. . . what?”

“If you had a dream, Tommy, I’d help you follow it. Even if it hurt, I’d help you. I would respect it at the very least.”

His heart drops. Would he? If Tommy had something he really, truly wanted to pursue, would Wilbur let him follow it? 

No. No, he wouldn’t. Because Tommy had loved his college education. Loved his classes, his teachers, the material, the learning itself. And for a long time, Wilbur protected that, making sure Tommy didn’t have to work and that he had the time and peace to study. But then Wilbur had started writing music. He started working for the pleasure houses. If not for that, Tommy never would have gotten in trouble and he would still be in school. If not for Wilbur, Tommy would still have something to pursue. 

Wilbur only cares about Tommy when he doesn’t have something else that matters more.

“No, you wouldn’t,” Tommy sobs, retreating a step.

“Oh, like you know me better than I know myself.”

“You wouldn’t.” 

Wilbur opens his mouth to scream back, but Dad jumps in first.

“Tommy’s right. You’re unreliable, Will. I don’t want to live in a house with someone I can’t trust.”

“And? Who cares what you want? What are you going to do about it?” Wilbur taunts. “You can be as upset as you want, but it’s not like it’ll change anything. Go ahead. You don’t want to live with me?” He clicks his tongue. “Tell me to leave.”

Tommy has always known them better than they know each other. Wilbur hasn’t thought of Dad as an authority for a long time. Wilbur forgets that part of fatherhood is discipline.

Tommy does not. “Dad—”

But it is too late.

“Alright,” Dad says, and his voice is mild despite the sharp coldness of his eyes. “Leave.”

Tommy sucks in a breath.

Wilbur stands stock-still, at a loss for words, for the first time in his life. There is a moment where he cannot conceal the anger and betrayal and pure, honest pain—all the things that make him real. For just a moment, he looks as if he might be sad.

The gates slam shut just as quickly as they opened. Wilbur is solemn once more. He exhales. “Fine. Maybe it’s better this way.”

Maybe it’s better this way.

Wilbur picks up his satchel and walks towards their room.

Maybe it’s better this way.

Through the doorway, Tommy sees his brother wrench open a drawer and begin dragging his clothes out.

“No!” Tommy scrabbles to his brother’s side, nearly tripping in his haste. “No, Wilbur, please. This is—Dad, let Wilbur stay! You didn’t mean it, right? Not like this—” He grabs on to Wilbur’s sleeve, but Wilbur just ignores him.

“Oh, he meant it,” Wilbur puts in dryly.

“No, he didn’t. Dad, please.” The words grind out of Tommy’s throat so harshly, so raw, that he’s forced to stop and cough.

And still, their father says nothing. He looks on, silent, sorrow at home on his face.

Tommy turns back to his brother. “Wilbur. Will. Stop ignoring me, I’m right here!”

Wilbur pulls his arm out of Tommy’s grip and moves on to his nightstand, clearing off all the memories that usually adorn the tiny shelves.

“Stop packing!”

He pulls out the old, dusty traveling case they shared as children.

“Stop this!  Stop, you’re being ridiculous!”

Wilbur’s clothes go into the case.

“This isn’t—this can’t—Will, stop—”

Next follow his books and pens and keepsakes. The pendant Mother gave him. An old drawstring bag of marbles. The small collection of shells lined up on the windowsill.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean what I said, I want you here, Wilbur, I love you—”

Wilbur stands on his bed and takes down every page of music he pasted up there, dropping them into the suitcase one by one. They spill over the sides, covering up every other piece of Wilbur’s life stashed away underneath.

“Stop. You’re my brother, I can’t—I need you, please. Please . . .”

The trunk slams shut. Wilbur dons his coat, adjusts his glasses. He heaves the bag up off the bed and carries it to the door.

Tommy trails behind, still begging.

“You said—you said I could play in one of your operas! What about that? If—if you leave I can’t—”

“You can’t play piano anymore, Tom,” Wilbur says gently.

“I’ll relearn.”

Wilbur shakes his head, smiling faintly. “No. I’ll see you around, okay?”

“No—no, not okay! Don’t do this, Will.” He latches onto him again—grabbing the handle of the violin case. Wilbur wouldn’t leave his music, would he?

“Let him go,” Dad calls. “It’s what he needs to do, Tom. Let him go.”

“No!” Tommy cries, holding on tighter. “You can’t leave, Will—I won’t let you!”

“You don’t get to make that choice,” Wilbur says, still soft. He has to peel Tommy’s fingers off the brass handle.

He opens the door. Exchanges a nod with their father. Takes a last, long look at the house, drinking in every memory of home and love and nostalgia they ever had.

He turns and walks away, leaving Tommy sobbing by the front door.

Chapter Text

November 30th, 1913—three and a half months later

It is winter again.

Tommy rises early and dresses in the dark. He identifies the fabrics by touch and barely has to think about doing up the buttons. Muscle memory does it all for him, even if his fingers fumble more than they used to.

He creeps into the kitchen, piling all the dishes into the sink. In the living room, Dad is asleep on the couch again, blond hair tangled and messy around his head like a cluttered halo. There are newspapers strewn about the floor, all different publications, even a few from out of town. Tommy peers at the one on top. It’s turned to a few pages in, and it’s pretty obvious what Dad was looking at:

“B-House Opera ‘Empty Traincars’ Receives Mixed Reviews, Not For the Whole Family, Some Say”

Tommy sighs. For a man so eager to be rid of his son, he’s awfully preoccupied with keeping track of him. Tommy can’t really fault him, though.

“Dad,” he whispers, nudging his father’s shoulder.  “Are you going to get up for church?”

Dad jerks at the touch, grumbling sleepily. He sees that it is Tommy and promptly turns back over, closing his eyes. “Uh . . . no. Go on.”

“. . . okay.” Tommy can’t say he’s surprised, but it’s still disappointing. Maybe someday he’ll get used to it, but he hopes he won’t have to.

He leaves Dad on the couch and manages to unlock the front door without the light. He steps out onto the street, closing the door behind him. Dawn is breaking in the east, whitewashing the sky in a colour that seems more bright than actually blue. The sky is so thick with clouds that it almost looks like there are no clouds at all.

Tommy hates going to church without his father.

He pauses, checks his watch. Maybe he has time to pick up an extra person.

He starts off at a quick pace, hands tucked into his pockets. It is colder out than he expected. He wishes he’d thought to pull on a coat before he left, but it’s too late now.

It doesn’t take long to reach the tannery, where Techno leans against the wall, one ankle crossed over another, idly smoking a pipe.

He falls into step with Tommy without a word. Tommy smiles at him, knowing that Techno won’t notice. He likes that they have a routine that is so well-worn that they don’t even have to speak about it. Techno only started joining them for church when he noticed that Tommy stopped going after Wilbur left, and Tommy was a little under the weather.

Well. Maybe under the weather is the wrong way to describe it, but whatever words you want to use—Tommy quit going to church, and Techno was the one who brought him back to it. Techno didn’t even go to church before this, but he knew it was important to Tommy, and that was enough.

“Let’s go pick up Tubbo,” Tommy says, and Techno nods and follows Tommy’s lead.

They reach Tubbo’s boarding house, and Tommy goes in to ask for him. It only takes a couple minutes for Tubbo to come down, which is honestly shocking—usually Tubbo sleeps well into the morning on Sundays.

“You’re up.”

Tubbo shrugs. “Forgot to read for class. Thought I’d get it done with.”

Tommy nods. “Could you take a break to come to church with me and Tech?”

“. . . I’m not religious.”

“I know.” 

Tubbo ends up coming along, provided he doesn’t have to completely change clothes first.

They talk a lot more than when it was just Tommy and Techno. Tubbo always has lots to tell, and today he has a full rant to share about his professor that assigned the reading. According to Tubbo’s information, he is insidious.

Because they stopped by Tubbo’s house, they have to take a different route to church. Tommy looks up—and there is the blue glass of the operahouse roof, fixed now. It gleams just as blue as before, as if everything didn’t happen. From the outside, it seems as if Wilbur was never there.

But . . . no. Tommy squints at the poster hanging out front. In bold, heavy letters, The Siren.

But Wilbur never finished that opera. And besides, how is it . . . here? Willbur’s in another city, writing about trains, apparently. He’s gone.

Oh—the opera contract. Tommy remembers Wilbur and Dad spending ages poring over it, and one of the details that contested Wilbur’s work at the pleasure houses was that the operahouse would own every word and every melody he wrote while he worked there. He couldn’t sell the sheet music, and he certainly couldn’t work for someone else at the same time.

So naturally they had the remnants of the Siren. It seems as if they’ve taken Wilbur’s unfinished symphony and stuck their own ending on it with shoddy glue.

The opera was supposed to be for Sally. Tommy wonders who they cast for her part. They’re probably better—or have more experience, at least.

Tommy starts to fall behind his friends, and runs to catch up.

Sally . . . he hasn’t thought about her in a while.

Dad’s pretty sure Wilbur took her back—or rather, Sally took him back. Dad tracked Wilbur by publications and newspaper articles, since he hasn’t bothered to post a single letter. For the first month, there wasn’t a word anywhere, and then came a review in the paper that Tommy picked up on a day trip to the seaside, and Dad’s been on the paper trail ever since. 

He thinks Sally’s with Wilbur, because Wilbur has begun wearing her last name—Soot. It suits him in an odd, stranger-like way. Tommy can’t believe Will was so intent on leaving his old life behind that he would take his wife’s last name. He can’t believe that Wilbur is actually married in the first place. Or that Sally would ever forgive him. But Sally doesn’t work at the pleasure houses anymore, so he can assume she’s with his brother.

They get to church on time. Well—they file in after the choir, but that’s close enough.

It is a good service. Tubbo seems intrigued, if not repentant, and that’s good enough. Techno is stoic, as usual.

They all stand for the Prayers of the People. Tommy clasps his hands and closes his eyes.

The reader begins, “Father we pray for your holy Catholic Church,” and they all say: 

“That we all may be one.”

It is a small comfort, to know that maybe, somewhere, Wilbur is in church, saying the same prayer. They are not here together, but they can be one in the way the church is one. They can be one and yet hold each other at a safe distance. 

“Grant that every member of your Church may truly and humbly serve you . . .”

“. . . That your Name may be glorified by all people,” Tommy choruses with the rest.

“We pray for all bishops, priests, deacons . . .”

“. . . That they may be faithful ministers of your Word and Sacraments.”

“We pray for all who govern and hold authority in the nations of the world . . .”

“. . . . That there may be justice and peace on the earth.” Tommy presses his lips together. He misses Wilbur. Badly. Dad knows where he is; they could probably go find him, if they really wanted. But Wilbur has not come to them. He has not even let them know he is alive. And that tells Tommy that even if they were to find Wilbur, he would be just as bad as when he left. 

“Give us grace to do your will in all that we undertake . . .”

“. . . That our works may find favor in your sight.” And Tommy did bad things for Wilbur, who encouraged them. If Wilbur was back . . . well, Tommy likes to think his personal sense of morality would hold up, but . . . who knows. Experience says the opposite.

“Have compassion on those who suffer from any grief or trouble . . .”

“. . . that they may be delivered from their distress.” Tommy prays for Niki, and Sally, and fpr his mother. And Wilbur, too.

“Give to the departed eternal rest . . .”

“. . . Let light perpetual shine upon them.”

“We praise you for your saints who have entered into joy . . .”

“. . . May we also come to share in your heavenly kingdom.”

Tommy prays he will not be like his brother.

“Let us pray for our own needs and those of others.”