Archive of Our Own ^beta

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Tommy always had one goal in mind when it came to living. Rather—dying. Tommy wanted to die a hero. Maybe that's the reason he acted as he did during the war.

"Careless." Wilbur would whisper in dark hallways in Pogtopia with Techno after Tommy didn't put on his chest plate before running into battle.

"Reckless." Tubbo would lecture after Tommy would nearly get himself killed by Dream, Sapnap, George, or whoever, on the battlefield. Tubbo would wrap his wounds a little too tight, a silent rebuke for scaring him.

"Stupid!" Techno would shout when they got off the battlefield, after he had to jump in front of Tommy when he nearly got himself killed against someone obviously stronger.

"We're worried." Philza would write in his letters after Wilbur or Techno complained about Tommy's actions, begging him to try and talk sense into the boy. Did it work? Hell no .

"Be safe." His mother would say to him in his dreams, holding him gently. She always came to him, reassuring him it wasn't his time to die quite yet. Tommy wasn't sure if it was truly her or some twisted monster of his grief and his slowly wilting will to live, haunting him. But that didn't change the near-guilt Tommy carried in his chest every day.

Tommy's mother had died shortly after he turned seven—eight days and fourteen hours, exactly. Her winged figure went limp in his father’s arms. The sound that came out of Philza is something Tommy will never forget; it will haunt him till the day he dies.

Her death left their father completely numb, a hollowed-out shell devoid of emotion. A man who would stare through walls, worlds, and his sons when forcefully pulled to the table by Tommy for dinners and conversations or when dragged outside by techno to get some fresh air while he trained. When Wilbur suggested taking Tommy with him after turning eighteen and moving out, it certainly didn't help. Philza snapped—not in a mean or harmful way. Tommy's dad was incapable of hurting someone, even something; a fact Tommy held close and true. He had always been a gentleman after having his children, despite a violent past he hid from his boys. No, Philza snapped in an insanity-laden way. He didn't speak for days, doing nothing more than screaming and sobbing until his throat produced a bloody mucus that made him vomit.

Techno was what helped him pull through, Tommy convinced himself. Techno made sure Philza ate and drank, gave him properly dosed medication, and locked the full bottles in a cabinet. He became a constant, a solid figure in Philza's grief-filled hallucinations, pushing sense into the man in his darkest days. He forced Philza out of the room he once shared with his wife. Some nights, Techno would just sit in the rocking chair where his mother had fed and read to him and his brothers, a book held firmly in his grasp. Most nights, though, he wasn't reading. Instead, he watched his father's rising and falling chest as he slept, scanning for any signs of unrest or night terrors.

The experience shaped the man Techno became. He was grateful he at least got to live with his father and mother until he turned sixteen, because the man his father turned into after his mother's death was not his father. Not the man who taught him how to shoot a bow and hold a sword. Not the man who held him while the voices were too loud to think. Not the man who braided his hair after giving him a bath. Not the man who read him Greek myths at night to help him sleep, well into his teenage years. Not the man who did the silly voices for Zeus and Athena. Not the man who once danced with his mother in the sky. Not the man who chased them around the house, pretending to be a monster to make him and his brothers giggle. Not the man who tried everything to nurse his wife—no, Techno’s mother—back to health. Not the man who saved him from the Nether. Not his father .

Tommy didn’t get that liberty. He got the shell of the man who once was his father, with only some of the memories his brothers held so dearly.

Wilbur, however, did snap in that mean way. He became short and upset with not only Philza's existence but Techno’s and Tommy’s especially. Wilbur became obsessed with the idea that Tommy was the reason for their mother's death—the reason Wilbur lost not only his mother but his father as well. Wilbur made sure Tommy knew this, reminding him every day. Techno and Wilbur fought about it often, especially after the bruises started to show on Tommy.

During one of these fights, after Wilbur had beaten Tommy especially badly, he felt a hand on his shoulder—warm and comforting, yet cold and unfamiliar. Tommy looked up to see the same eyes looking back down at him: his father. Not Philza, but his father . Philza took the boy into his arms, picking him up with ease and carrying him back into the master bedroom. It was completely unchanged since the day his mother died, apart from the thick blanket of dust. Philza hesitated, then set the young boy down onto his mother's side of the bed, which still smelled of her. Philza’s skinny, pale, yet strong figure disappeared for a brief moment before reappearing with a first aid kit. He took the small boy's arm in his hand and began to wrap his wounds, all while humming the lullaby his mother would sing him to sleep.

Tommy’s eyes became heavy, but he didn’t want to lose a second of this moment—this return of his father finally coming back to the surface. He watched the man with inquisitive eyes, trying to search for what triggered this. Why, all of a sudden, was his father pulled from his grief and back to life? Once his father was done cleaning and wrapping his wounds, he laid the boy down, pulling the comforter over his frame. Then, for the first time in months, he spoke. His voice was shaking but still soft and caring, exactly as he remembered:

"Sleep, please."

Tommy closed his eyes, almost involuntarily. He was drifting to sleep when he suddenly heard a soft sob, followed by a choked out, "I'm so sorry, I'm so sorry I didn't protect you." Philza then took the boy into his arms, slightly wetting his hair with his tears. This was the first night Tommy saw his mother in his dreams. They didn't speak apart from Tommy saying, "Mama?" when he saw her. She simply nodded slightly and began to tear up. Tommy ran into her arms. They stayed like that, Tommy sobbing and his mother softly hushing him and rubbing his back. Tommy hoped he could stay like that forever. Suddenly, he was dragged out of her arms by an unseen force.

"Tommy?" Tubbo spoke, breaking him from his thoughts and forcefully dragging him back to reality.

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I blinked, Tubbo's words pulling me from my spiral into what was and never would be again.

"Yeah?" I responded, almost muttering, still stuck in my head.

"You're just zoned real bad, man," Tubbo said, slipping his legs through the railing of the fence to sit next to me on the ground, overlooking Pogtopia. He rested his head on my shoulder at an angle to avoid his horn jabbing me in the back.

"Just tired today," I lied. I wasn't about to dump my entire traumatic childhood on Tubbo. It was my trauma; I could handle it. Especially with Wil and Techno about to get back, I didn't want Wil to get pissed off that I'd told Tubbo about our childhoods.

"You not sleep good or something?" Tubbo asked, lifting his head to look at me better. I wished he wouldn't look at me. I hated it when people looked at me; it almost made me feel human. People who were the reason their mother died didn't deserve to feel human. I could almost feel Techno bap me on the back of the head at that thought, almost hear him lie to me and say that I didn't deserve that and that I wasn't the reason Mom died.

"Something like that," I responded, but Tubbo saw right through me, as usual, and began his questioning.

"Nightmares again?" Tubbo asked, with genuine concern, which was almost worse than my nightmares.

"No, just couldn't sleep." Another lie, though not entirely. After the first three nightmares, I gave up on sleeping and just turned on a disc, starting to draw instead. I kept the volume low enough not to wake up my brothers or Tubbo. I didn't like it when they worried. I didn't need someone to worry about me. I could handle myself.

"You should've come into my room; we could've hung out. I couldn't sleep last night either," Tubbo said, avoiding my eyes. That usually meant he was trying to hide something from me. I didn't know why either of us tried to lie to each other; we always saw right through each other.

"Your dad again?" I asked. His dad recently had been getting drunk out of his mind, then non-stop calling his phone. I always told him to just block the number; it wasn't like he was talking to him right now anyways. But he always refused, hoping Quackity would call off his dad's phone. He refused to give up on him, to just accept they weren't the people they used to be and they weren't coming back.

"Yeah-" Tubbo said, turning his head away from me, nearly taking my eye out with his horn.

"You need to block him, Tub," I repeated for what felt like the twentieth time this week.

"I can't, Tommy. What if Mama Q calls me? He's not allowed to have his own phone. What if he needs me to come and get him out and I have the number blocked!" Tubbo threw his arms up into the air before bringing them to his face and covering his eyes, leaving his nose and mouth exposed. My next thought was cut off by the crusty smell of cigarettes and body odor. Wil must be home.

"Whatcha two rugrats doing?" Wil said, taking off his long brown coat and hanging it on the hook near the entrance to our makeshift home.

"Nothing much!" Tubbo said as he scrambled to his feet to greet Wil. I stayed firmly seated where I was, resting my chin on the railing in front of me. I had no interest in talking to my brother at the moment. I mean, if it was Techno, I would at least turn—

"Nice greeting, kid," Techno said in a teasing way before he ruffled my hair. I started to turn and stand up to at least look him in the eye, maybe even hug him.

"Oh, I didn't hear you come in; I thought it was just Wil-"

"And I don't get a greeting?" Wil cut me off before I could finish. I swear to all things holy if he didn't cut that shit off. Maybe if he wasn't such an asshole, he'd get a greeting. Maybe if he didn't convince me that Mom died because of me, I'd even hug him.

"Hi, Wil," I said bluntly as I leaned in to give Techno one of those awkward side hugs. I would hug him all the way if Wilbur wasn't such an asshole. Tubbo had already hugged him anyway! Tubbo unlatched, then Wilbur grabbed my wrist hard, hard enough to make me wince, then forced me into a hug. A full hug. The kind of hugs I only gave Dad and maybe Techno on a rare occasion. I wanted him to let go. I wanted to run. I wanted to scream. He seemed to have no intention of stopping either before Techno grabbed his hand and loosened his grasp on me. Thank God. I escaped while I could.

"Oh, Tech, it wasn't like I was hurting him!" Wil complained.

"He didn't want to hug you," Techno said with that bluntness that made you feel almost stupid. The kind of bluntness that made everything feel like common sense. "You shouldn't hug people who don't want to be hugged." Techno said as he took off his thick winter cape, still damp from the rain and snow outside. He then gave me that look, verbally asking if I wanted to wear it. Techno had a way of reading my needs like I was some sort of sim and he had my needs menu open. I nodded, and he rested it gently on my shoulders, the same way that Dad would with his hat on my head as a kid. I lifted it to lay better on my shoulders. This was Techno’s version of my tight hugs. Techno wasn’t one for words or touch, instead showing his love and care through actions. Like when he’d brush my hair and try to braid it so it was out of my eyes because he knew it bugged me, or when he learned my favorite dinner when I was little so he could make it for me when Dad couldn’t, or when he would let me sleep in his bed when I was having especially bad nightmares.

"What's for dinner?" Tubbo asked, trying to break the tension. He hated it when people argued, and I couldn't say I exactly enjoyed it. I would say I did like it when Techno stood up for me so Wil was a little less of an asshole to me.

"Rabbit stew," Techno answered, holding up a bag of what I was guessing to be dead rabbits. I would say I was sick of rabbit stew, but Techno loved it and could eat it every day. If he was happy, I was happy, but my stomach would not be. Techno loved routine; knowing exactly what he was eating for dinner every night was how he kept that routine in our chaotic lives.

The tension from Wilbur being—well, Wilbur—lingered through dinner, a silent companion to the rabbit stew. The meal was eaten quickly, everyone seemingly overly eager for it to be over. Tubbo helped Techno clear the table while I happily doodled in my notebook to avoid talking to Wil. I did love my brother. I had a lot of good memories with my brother from before Mom died, but it seemed that version of my brother died with her. Wil had never been quite the same. The meds his doctors put him on as a teenager definitely helped, but for some reason only God himself knows, Wil stopped taking them, throwing him back into the episode he'd been in for years now.

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I heard Wil slide his chair back and stand up. My instincts started screaming at me to run. Something was up. I knew something was up. I kept my head down in my notebook, but my pen stopped moving, focusing all my attention on what I could hear of Wil’s movements. I heard him walk towards me from his end of the table. I tried to slide my chair out to get up before he could get too close, but I wasn't fast enough. He rested his hand on my shoulder.

"Look at me, Tommy," Wil said in a deceivingly friendly tone. I knew this wasn't going to end well, especially since Wil had been smoking. I knew if I didn't raise my head, he'd make me, and things would be worse. But if I did, he'd view it as still having control over me. He had me in a stalemate, as Techno would say. Techno was just a room over in the kitchen; how bad could it be? I could defend myself, right? I stayed as I was, head in my notebook, but I tensed my muscles. Maybe if he couldn't raise my head, he'd just leave me be.

"I said look at me." Wil said as he roughly grabbed my face, forcing it up to make me look him in the eye. I hated looking people in the eye. I hated looking anyone in the eye, especially right before getting beat. I tried to speak, but the words got stuck in my throat. I tried to scream for Techno or yell for Tubbo. Anyone who could stop this from happening, or at least be able to witness it. To feel my fear. My anger.

"Why won't you look at me, hm? Are you scared?" Wil teased, but not in the way Techno did, not in the way a brother would. In the way a schoolyard bully would. He was squeezing my face so hard it hurt. I wanted to scream. I wanted to run. And honestly? If he was going to hurt me, I'd rather him kill me. Then at least my death would be a tragedy. I saw Wil lift his other hand and form a fist. I knew what was coming. I knew he was going to hit me, and I knew it was going to hurt. I closed my eyes and detensed my muscles. It was sad how I knew that if I was tense, it would hurt more. I didn't want to see him hit me. I wanted to be able to pretend he was still the brother I grew up with. I wanted that Wil back. The Wilbur I'd call Wilby growing up because I couldn't pronounce the R. I felt the fist connect with my face; I felt it shake my teeth. I wanted to cry. I wanted to feel safe for once in my life in my own home. Was that too much to ask for?

Why did he feel the need to hurt me? Techno never hurt me, not like this. I mean, when we would train together he would bruise me, or when I was being dumb he'd bap me on the back of the head, but never hit me. Not like how Wil hit me. Was I a bad kid? Did I deserve this? Did I really kill Mom? I'm sorry, I didn't mean to. I really didn't mean to.

Wil pulled me out of my chair, making it and me fall to the ground with a loud clatter. He sat on my chest and continued to punch me, both hands now. I felt like I couldn’t breathe. I tried to shield my face, but I couldn’t get my arms up. It hurt so bad. I started to cry, or sob? Scream, maybe? I wasn't sure. All I was sure of was that the man beating me was not my brother and never would be.

"I'm sorry!" I squeaked out in desperation. Anything to make it stop. I felt blood start to gush out of my mouth and my face. I suddenly felt the pressure lift, the pain stop. I opened my eyes as much as I could to see a familiar but blurred figure. I couldn’t make out any features, but I could make out large black wings. Dad! It had to be Dad. I felt a hand on my back. I tried to pull away, but I was too slow, and it grabbed me. I thrashed against it, not wanting to be hurt any more than I already was.

"Get off of me! Let me go!" I yelled out of fear. I swung my arms out wildly, thinking maybe I could hit him before he hit me again. Maybe I could get up and run away, but as I tried to get up, my knees gave out under me. I was stuck on the floor in the corner. I was scared. That's all I could think of. I was terrified. I couldn’t see, and I was cornered!

"Tommy, it's me, it's me!" Techno said, letting go of me, raising his hands just in front of his chest so I could see it with blurred vision. I cried, but it hurt. Something was wrong with my eyes. Something had to be wrong with my eyes. Why couldn't I see?

"It's me, kid, it's just me." Techno soothed as he slowly reached a hand for my cheek. I beat him to it and nearly jumped into his arms, sobbing. I could hear arguing, and I could hear Dad yelling. Techno covered my ears, making everything muffled. I felt so weak. I was so tired. Could I sleep?

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I left the room for barely fifteen minutes and came back to Wilbur beating Tommy. A red-hot rage grew in my stomach, the voices screaming at me to retaliate. I wanted nothing more than to kill the beast who claimed to be my brother, but I knew I needed to be there for Tommy. Dad could handle Wilbur; Tommy needed me. The younger boy, still draped in my cloak that nearly swallowed his small frame whole, weakly held onto me as if I might vanish if he let go. I needed to assess his injuries, see how bad he was bleeding, how bad he was hurt. God, I couldn’t think with the voices this loud.

I knew Dad and Wilbur were arguing. Rather, Dad was ripping Wilbur a new one, and Wilbur was trying to justify his horrible actions with some bullshit about how Tommy was "basically asking for it." What the hell did that even mean? Tommy started to loosen his grasp on me, seemingly losing the strength to hold on so tight. His heartbeat, while weak, was steady. His breathing was rapid but strong enough that I wasn’t worried he was going to die.

He was still crying, but less out of terror and more out of pain. That, I could help. I lifted him off the ground, holding him as one would hold a baby. As I left the room, I finally got a good look at him. His lip was busted, accompanied by a missing tooth or two and several face bruises. While he was still bleeding, I was less worried about blood loss now that I knew what was wrong. I didn’t know why I worried so much; this kid had survived far too much for someone his age. If Tommy died, it would be from something big—big enough to kill a god. I managed to push open the door to my makeshift room with my shoulder, laying Tommy on my bed. He winced at the loss of contact but seemed too tired to protest.

I went to my sink and wet a small handkerchief my mother had given me as a gift on my first birthday. I still remembered the way it was wrapped, so perfectly, with a small bow made of twine she had carefully dyed the exact pink of my hair and fur. Embroidered along one side of the delicate cloth in the same pink were the words ‘Memento Mori’; along the parallel side, in a deep purple thread combined with a light green, the words ‘Memento Vivere’. Remember you must die, Remember you must live. Words Mother always said to me, the words we had etched into her headstone. I never went anywhere without it. I couldn’t explain my odd attachment to it, but it brought me comfort. Using it this way felt wrong—a cloth meant to show the love of our family, used to clean Tommy’s wounds caused by his older brother. It made my breath catch in my throat.

I sat on the side of my bed and brushed Tommy’s bloodied golden hair away from his face, taking the wet cloth and running it over his lip. He jumped at the contact and opened his eyes wide. I knew it hurt, but it would hurt worse if it got infected.

“That hurts,” Tommy muttered with all the strength left in his body, trying to pull away from the source of the pain. His words had an unfamiliar slur, either from pain or the lost teeth. Either way, it didn’t sound right to me. The change made my skin crawl.

“You need to let me clean it. It’ll hurt worse if I don’t,” I stated, trying to hide the worry and discomfort in my voice. Tommy leaned back towards me, and I finished cleaning the wounds on his face, much to his displeasure. Towards the end, while still exhausted, he seemed to be feeling better.

I stood and walked to my desk, grabbing a healing potion I was saving for a more dire moment. I uncorked the bottle as I walked back to Tommy. I helped him sit up, noticing how much he had bled on the white fur of my cloak, turning it a deep red. I swore silently—that was going to be a pain to get out. I guided the bottle to his lips and tipped it slightly to let some of the liquid fall into his mouth. Once the potion had taken effect, turning the fresh gashes on Tommy’s face into light pink scars, I pulled the potion away.

“Thank you—” Tommy whispered, seeming almost embarrassed by the situation, but I was just happy he was okay.

“Rest, I’ll get you something to drink,” I said in a hushed tone as Tommy was already closing his eyes and drifting off. Healing potions always made Tommy sleepy; it was odd to me as they did the opposite for Dad and me. I closed the door as softly as possible behind me.

I felt like I was entering an active battle zone. Dad and Wilbur were still arguing, and Dad looked like he wanted to stab his middle son. The noise hurt my ears.

“He’s just a brat!” Wilbur protested.

“No shit, Wil! The kid’s thirteen! You can’t beat him for nothing!” Philza argued back, trying to talk sense into his son. Dad had a point; Tommy was only thirteen, and he was about the sweetest thirteen-year-old I’d ever met. Wilbur and I were menaces when we were thirteen; Tommy was nothing compared to our shenanigans. I mean, we literally dyed Tommy’s hair purple when he was four.

“He won’t even look at me!” Wilbur complained. I couldn’t blame the kid for not wanting to look Wilbur in the eyes. I wouldn’t either, and that wasn’t just because I hated eye contact. Neither my brother nor my father had paid me any attention since I entered the room. I wondered if I should make my presence known or retreat back to check on Tommy, or—Tubbo. Dammit. We all completely forgot about Tubbo. Tubbo, who hated yelling, who flinched at any loud sounds. I needed these two to either stop fighting or fight somewhere else. It was getting late, and my boys needed sleep. It was hard to kick out Wilbur, especially in this state. He was off his meds and surely would do something stupid if he was left to his own devices, and Dad came all this way to see us. I wasn’t kicking Dad out, but someone needed to leave.

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Not the greeting I expected from my sons, I’ll say. I didn’t know what I did expect, but I had hoped they’d get along slightly better by now. It’s been years since Kristen—left. Wil needs to stop blaming his baby brother at some point. That was the whole idea of Tommy coming along on this ‘adventure,’ as Wil calls it. Maybe I can try to get him back in with the therapist he saw as a teenager; maybe that’ll help. Kristen would be disappointed in the disarray we’ve fallen into.

I’ll also say that when Wilbur wrote to me with his new ‘address,’ a cave was not what I expected. It seems I’m not getting the entire story, which doesn’t shock me. Even just comparing the letters I’ve gotten from Wilbur versus Tommy felt like two entirely different worlds, let alone the differences from Wilbur’s to Techno’s. Wilbur described the ‘house’ as ‘rustic.’ Techno said a cave, which is entirely true, but I thought he was being dramatic, if I’m honest.

Techno said that Tommy, while hurt, was going to be just fine, which pleased me. Techno, it seems, has become not only Tommy’s caregiver (which was supposed to be Wil’s job—once again, the whole reason I let Wil take Tommy) but this other boy’s as well.

“His name is Toby, but we call him Tubbo,” Techno explained. The boy stayed nearly cowering in Techno’s arm, hiding his face in my son's side. He seemed to be around Tommy’s age, if not younger. He had curly brown hair that covered his eyes and ram horns that curled down from the top of his head near his ears. From what I could see of the boy’s face and skin, it was adorned with scars and bruises. Another one of Wil’s victims?

“Hello, Tubbo,” I greeted him with a smile, in the warmest voice I could muster. I couldn’t help but think of a young Techno when I looked at him—the way he hid, the quietness, all things Techno would do when I first brought him home. I remembered for the first two months Techno stayed with Kristen, Wilbur, and me, he didn’t speak. Not once. He’d ask for things with his eyes or just take them when he could. That didn’t stop him, though, from slowly working his way into not only my heart, but Wil and Kristen’s especially.

When I told her I brought home another kid, Kristen was unsure, worrying about how Wilbur would react as he’d just started getting comfortable with us. I’d found Wilbur in a destroyed Avian nest, alone, likely abandoned as he couldn’t fly yet. I brought him home, and Kristen asked no questions; she simply stood up and readied our guest room that had sat vacant since we moved in.

Techno, however, was different for us. Neither of us was exactly sure how to care for a Piglin, but we knew we had to try. Kristen, I remembered vividly, would learn how to cook all these traditional Piglin dishes she found in cookbooks, then would give me the world’s weirdest grocery lists. I think she might have cooked me if I didn’t provide her with her requests, though. The way little Techno would gobble it all up then give me or Kristen that look asking for more. We had to get used to his insane appetite, but Kristen was always happy to make more, and Wil was always happy to give him his extras.

I remember the first words he spoke to this day. They weren’t to me, but Kristen. It was simply the word “Momma,” but Kristen spent the next three days on cloud nine because of it. Techno was trying to get her attention to open his juice, but Kristen and I both froze, thinking we were hearing things. Techno then repeated himself. Kristen squealed and started to jump around our kitchen. Techno looked at her like she was crazy. Wilbur looked betrayed that his brother called out to his mother before him. Shortly after, he called me “Pabba” (I had a similar reaction to Kristen), trying to get me to give him my sword, and Wilbur “That one,” pointing at him as Kristen held him, trying to coax him into saying Wilbur. Let's just say Wil wasn’t exactly pleased about it. But Techno learned how to say Wilbur, along with millions of other words. Words always came slow to him, though. We would tell him the word and ask him to say it multiple times before he actually said the word weeks later.

The one word he needed no help with, however, was Tommy’s name. When we found out Kristen was pregnant, we didn’t take long in telling the boys. Once Tommy was born, before we had named him, Techno took one look at him and said “Tommy.” No context, no prompting, simply pointed at him and declared him Tommy. I wondered if it was a similar situation with Tubbo.

Techno gave the boy a look—the same look I would give him when he was young, when I was trying to get him to greet someone. The boy then spoke a quiet “Hello.” Not weakly, or afraid; it just seemed as if he hadn’t spoken in a million years, almost as if the words were unnatural to him. I had to keep in mind I was a new person, and kids never liked new people. The boy was wearing a long, dusty coat. It was oddly familiar, but I knew I’d never seen it before. I decided not to comment on it; something told me not to.

“How old are you, Tubbo?” I asked, unsure of what else to say.

“I’m twelve, sir,” the boy said, pulling out of Techno’s side to make his face visible. The boy had this huge scar, spanning over half his face, primarily on the right side, crawling down onto his neck and chest before disappearing under the rest of his clothing. He appeared to be blind in his right eye, if he had an eye there at all. I knew that Techno knew how to heal wounds to be nearly invisible; it made me wonder how bad it was before, that this was where Techno stopped. I couldn’t imagine how he got that, nor could I imagine what my face did upon seeing it. I hoped I didn’t look too shocked. I had to stop myself from instinctively scanning the boy for any more signs of injury. Gods, old habits truly die hard, don’t they? I almost completely missed the fact he called me ‘sir.’ Do I look that old?

“Call me Phil,” I chuckled, trying to ease the tension I must have accidentally created. “Calling me sir makes me feel old.” This was when Techno’s ‘bedroom’ door opened and my youngest son came out, hair still bloody from his injuries from the night before. I realized I hadn’t seen my son in person since he left with his brother when he was just nine. I hadn’t agreed to let Wilbur leave with Tommy; I just woke up one morning—rather, afternoon, as Tommy didn’t drag me out of bed to try whatever he made for breakfast—to find not only his room empty, but Wilbur’s as well. I was devastated.

Techno knew nothing of their whereabouts; all I wanted to know was if they were safe. That was the first day in quite a while that I had left the house on my own accord. I dressed myself and immediately went into town to file a missing persons report for my sons. Nothing ever came of it, until one day, two years later, Techno got a letter in the mail. It was from Wilbur. Not asking how we were, telling us he was safe, telling us he was ready to come home, or saying sorry for kidnapping my son. No. None of that. It asked for money and for Techno to join him. I remembered after Techno told me, I ripped the letter out of his hands and threw it in the fireplace. I wasn’t about to lose my only family because Wilbur had all these big ideas of adventure. However, shortly after, I got a letter from Tommy. My Tommy. His handwriting was that of a boy’s still. The paper smelled oddly of gunpowder and a smell I couldn’t quite place. The letter contained (what I hoped were fictional) stories of what he was doing, how he and his brother were, and all the new friends he had made. I was simply happy to see he was okay. We spent a little under a year writing to each other before Techno asked me if he could go help them. He explained the situation that Wil said he was in and felt the need to protect them. While I hesitated, Techno had this look of worry mixed with desperation that I’ve never seen on his face before. My boy, no longer a boy, was twenty-one. I needed to let him go, even if I didn’t want him to.

He left at dawn the next morning. That was around a year ago. I’m just happy they finally invited me to come see them, after four long years without my youngest two sons and one long year without my eldest son.

I felt my wings fluff up out of nervousness. He’s my son; why am I so nervous about seeing my son?

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Once Tommy emerged fully from behind Techno and into my view, I took a good look at him for the first time in what felt like a million years. He was taller now, almost as tall as me, but absurdly skinny. I could see every bone in his wrists and cheeks, which surprised me. Wilbur looked well-fed, at least enough not to show his bones. Tommy’s eyes looked tired, as if he hadn’t slept since the night he left, yet still enchantingly blue—almost more intense than they were the day he left. They used to be a pale blue, almost matching mine, but it seemed they had grown in intensity. His face was swollen from his injuries the night before but still held the familiar traces of boyhood. His face and arms were adorned with scars, similar to those on what I presumed to be his friend Tubbo’s arms. Apart from one on his face, a large, deep scar spanned from the corner of his chin to the bridge of his nose, looking almost painful. His hair had lost the almost-glow it had when he was small.

I wanted to hug him, to hold him. To hold my baby boy and comfort him for all he’d been through. To take him into my arms and run far, far away from here. This was when I realized he didn’t have any wings. I thought maybe Techno’s cloak was hiding them, or some other worldly excuse, but my Tommy didn’t have any wings. I didn’t understand. His mother and I both had wings. After he was born, we would stay up late and talk about what color we thought his wings would be. She wanted him to have brown sparrow wings like his brother. I wanted him to have the same deep black, almost purple in the light, wings that I had. I felt my eyes swell with tears. He looked like his mother; his face was nothing more than his mother with my coloring. I wondered if he had her mannerisms, even if he did grow up without her.

I watched him quicken his walk, diving into my chest, nearly knocking us both off our feet. I instinctively wrapped both my arms and wings around him. A father never forgets the shape of his child.

“Oh, mate,” I whispered to the boy in my arms, starting to rub his back in circles. I had dreamed of this moment since the day he left. I wanted nothing more than to hold him in my arms, and I finally was. I felt Tommy settle his entire weight into me, which I happily took.

“I missed you so much,” I could barely hear him say, his voice hoarse. It pained me to hear him like that. I had to do something. I had to get him out of here. It wasn’t good for him. I didn’t care what Wilbur thought or said; he was coming home with me. He was just thirteen, dammit. He shouldn’t be scarred or beaten. He should be dyeing his siblings' hair purple or reading Greek myths. Not fighting in a 'not a real war,' apparently! I just wanted him to be safe. To be okay. Was that too much to ask for? He was my baby. No matter how much he grew.

As I rubbed his back, I noticed two small bumps; about five inches apart, resting just between his scapulas. Wing bumps? It had to be. That’s exactly where mine lay, but Tommy was more than old enough to have them emerge. Mine came out at ten, Kristen’s when she was around nine, and Wilbur, a late bloomer, came out at fourteen. Maybe Tommy would be the same. Not that any of that mattered. Tommy didn’t need wings to be my son. I was more than happy with him as is, words being unable to describe how proud of him I was. He was my flesh and blood, wings or not.

I pulled my head out of the golden blonde hair below me and noticed my eldest son. He had a look on his face I’d never seen, at least not directed towards Tommy or me. It was a look of bitterness and jealousy, a stare that looked as natural on him as green hair and neon yellow clothing would. That’s a look that didn’t have any words attached, at least none I could translate. I gave him a questioning look, something that wasn’t uncommon between the two of us. Instead of an answer, he simply turned away from me and redirected his attention elsewhere before speaking up.

“I’m going hunting,” he said coldly. It wasn’t a tone I was used to either, not one I was unfamiliar with, just not common from him. We had gotten into fights after Wilbur had left, more so him not knowing how to communicate his needs and emotions, all coming out in one big burst. Mostly him begging me to try more.

I remembered after the first time we had gotten into one of our fights, he came into my bedroom and sat on my bed. I didn’t pay much mind, thinking he was just looking for someone to talk to or wanting to be in the same room as someone; that was before I heard sniffling. A sound I had never heard out of him before. I immediately shot up, rushing to check on him. I thought he was hurt, and he was; just not in the way I anticipated. He shouted at me before I could get a hand on his shoulder to comfort him and ask what was wrong. He asked me why I didn’t care about him or his brothers. I think he intended for it to sound rude or mean; instead, it came out as desperate, which I’m sure is how he felt. He had a look on his face—sadness twisted with anger and desperation. I looked him in the eye, and he broke. He started sobbing, and when I offered him a hug, he dived into my chest, similarly to how Tommy did. The two were more similar than I think they realized.

“Are you alright, Tech?” I asked out of worry. This isn’t like him. Did I do something wrong or something to upset him? I loosened my grip on Tommy, which he didn’t seem pleased about.

“Fine,” Techno said before turning and retreating into his bedroom. What the hell was wrong with my son? I thought he was happy to see me? At least he was last night.

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Am I alright? Clearly not! I spent all this time raising his damn son, being the only support that boy had, and he comes along, gets to play dad, and Tommy already likes him more than me! I went to grab my cloak, then remembered Tommy bled all over it and left it behind. I slung my hunting pack over my shoulder before shoving the door open.

“Mate, hold on,” my dad said, releasing the boy I’d put so much into protecting for the last year, letting him go to follow me up the stairs. I paid him no mind. No point; why bother? I trudged angrily up the stairs, hoping if I walked fast enough he’d just leave me be. But alas, he didn’t. So that’s where both Wil and Tommy got their persistence—no, rather stubbornness—from. Makes sense; they were always close to him. God, I wish Mom was alive. I needed someone to complain about her husband to, but everyone in my life right now wasn’t good enough.

I pushed the door to what we were calling our home open, only to be greeted by pouring rain. Great! Just what I needed. This was going to be so goddamn cold. I pushed forward, then felt a firm grasp on my wrist.

“Techno, hold on,” Philza stated, looking more desperate now. I didn’t want to talk to him. If he wanted to talk to someone so badly, he should go talk to Tommy. Maybe Tommy would spend years being patient with him while he healed. Maybe Tommy would watch his breathing for nightmares. Maybe Tommy would do everything I did at sixteen! The voices were starting to get loud again. Some saying I was overreacting, some saying I should do much worse. I needed out of this goddamn hole in the ground.

“Let go of me,” I scowled. I wasn’t that twelve-year-old boy anymore that he could stop simply by grabbing ahold of me. I’d grown. I was strong now, especially compared to the withering figure of my father. I stood nearly two feet above his head; if I needed to, I could push him away like one of the feathers on his wings.

“You’re going to freeze out there,” he said with that bluntness that made you feel almost stupid. The bluntness I feared I’d inherited from him. It made me pause. He did have a point, as much as I hated it. I was without a coat, in the middle of winter, in a rainstorm. If I went outside, I’d be stuck next to a fireplace for the next week, completely out of commission. As much as I wanted to do that, just to spite him, I knew I couldn’t. My boys needed me, especially Tubbo; he was still getting used to having no vision in his right eye. He was falling down the stairs constantly; he couldn’t get around on his own, and I didn’t trust either of my brothers to help him while I recovered.

“If you still need air later, after the rain’s gone, we’ll go together, alright?” My dad said with that familiar tone he used to get with Wilbur when he was going manic over something stupid. Trying to validate his feelings while keeping him safe. I’d never been on this side of it, though. I’d always been on the other side or just a spectator, never the receiver. I couldn’t even remember what I was upset about at this point. My head hurt from all the voices screaming at me. I couldn’t make any of them out. I didn’t even feel my bag slip off my shoulder and fall onto the ground. The loud THUNK was what made me realize I was no longer holding it. I think Dad saw the oh-so-familiar look in my eyes.

“Let’s just go back into the kitchen. I’ll put some water on the stove, and we’ll have tea. How does that sound?” God, he was so old sometimes, but I couldn’t deny tea, especially because standing next to the open door was making me shiver.

“Can I have some?” I heard Tubbo call up the stairs. While he couldn’t see, that kid had amazing hearing. Insanely good hearing for having three fireworks go off in his face not even two months ago.

“I don’t see why not!” Dad said through stifled laughter, the kind that made your shoulders shake slightly. Why was I upset? Because Tommy loved his dad? Wow, big jealousblade moment there, as Tommy would say. The voices were quieter now. I wasn’t sure if it was Tubbo’s voice that helped, or maybe it was me realizing how stupid I was being. I went to pull the door shut but flinched at the heavy rain.

“I got it, mate,” he said, pushing his way to the door and pulling it shut. I thanked him with my eyes; he nodded. I think if we lived in the 1800s, we’d both be burned at the stake for being witches because we could ‘read each other’s minds’ or something. I’m glad Tubbo was starting to warm up to Phil, though. It made me feel a little more at ease knowing Tubbo was feeling more comfortable.

I walked down the stairs, Dad walking in front of me. I watched carefully, making sure he didn't stumble and fall. These stairs weren’t very even, and I even had trouble on them sometimes. As much as we all didn’t like to admit it, Dad was getting old. There were just certain things we had to make sure he was being careful doing. Making sure he didn’t fall was one of them. Maybe that was a habit I picked up from caring for Tubbo, but all I knew was that it was applicable here as well.

When we landed at the bottom of the stairs, Tommy swiftly walked back to Dad’s side, while Tubbo paid Phil little to no mind and walked to mine. I instinctively wrapped my arm around his shoulder, giving him something to balance on if he needed. I saw Dad do something similar for Tommy; instead, his hand landed on Tommy’s side, as he appeared to be taking some of Tommy’s weight.

I knew for a fact that we would not be going into the dining room today, or ever again. Instead, I had Dad help me lift the dining table and carry it into the kitchen. That way, if I ever needed to clean up dishes from dinner and Tommy and Wilbur decided to stay at the table, nothing bad could happen to Tommy. I wished I’d been able to see that leaving him alone with Tommy was a bad idea, no matter how close we were. I just wanted to sneak Dad in and surprise the two of them. Instead, Dad got to see how unfortunately unbonded we were, on Wilbur’s so-called ‘bonding trip.’ I was so lost in my thoughts about how I could protect Tommy I didn’t even hear the kettle start to whistle. Dad rested the pot on the table and started to pour us all glasses. Tubbo, at this point, had become quite the chatterbug with Phil, which I was one hundred and ten percent sure that he enjoyed.

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While we drank our tea—actually, several pots of tea—I got to know the man who raised some of my favorite people in life. I found little things each of them picked up from him. Like Techno and his blunt tones and the way he spoke in general; or Tommy with his smile and the way he laughed; or even Wilbur with the look he’d get when you said something especially weird or concerning. It was almost like Philza split into three and his sons each took a piece. I thought meeting this man, I would feel like an outsider, but I think this is one of the first times in my life I’ve felt at home.

I couldn’t help but talk to him; he was so interesting. He had so many stories he was happy to tell, and so did I. We spent hours talking, only interrupted by the occasional need for new pots of tea and Wilbur coming in to announce he was heading out for a bit.

“I’m going to go check on something. Don’t do anything stupid, you four,” Wilbur said with a certain vindication that made me feel like a criminal. Wilbur had never hurt me outright; unfortunately, he was actually nicer to me than he was to Tommy. Of course, he’d had his outbursts and smacked me or shoved me, but that wasn’t anything I wasn’t used to.

“Be safe, mate,” Philza said, warmly. Philza seemed to be a good father, from what I’d seen, so why did Wil always talk about him so poorly? I mean, from what Techno’s said, the man’s definitely stumbled, but he’s definitely not abusive. (Trust me, I’d know.) I heard Wilbur slam the door on his way out. An obvious sign that he was upset for some reason.

“What’s his issue?” I heard Tommy mumble. He’d been doing that a lot recently, I’d noticed. It wasn’t like him at all. He was usually really loud, in a good way, even if it did hurt my ears. Maybe Wilbur’s words were finally getting to him.

“BPD, probably,” Techno joked, which wasn’t like him either, but in a good way! Techno seemed more relaxed today, after his—fit? His shoulders seemed to sit lower, and his jaw was hanging a little more; it was nice to see, honestly. Philza laughed, then caught himself.

“Mate, you can’t make fun of your brother’s mental health!” he lectured. Techno rolled his eyes, then pushed his chair back to stand. I heard Tommy’s breath catch. I turned my head to see him better, just checking to see if he was okay. He looked tense. I went to put my hand on his or his shoulder, but Philza beat me to it. He was sitting close enough to Tommy that he could put his arm around Tommy’s shoulders. Tommy turned his head to look at him, then rested his head on his shoulder. It was a sweet sight, honestly.

“Yeah, yeah, how does lunch sound?” Techno asked. I realized that apart from tea, none of us had eaten anything all day. It was hard to tell time down here, since we couldn’t see the sun and none of us could afford a watch. It had to be midday at this point.

“I’ll make something, you sit with the boys. Relax for a little, let me take care of you three,” Philza said, standing up rapidly. It was almost scary how fast he stood. I wanted to laugh, but it didn’t seem like anyone else would.

“I don’t mind, I like cooking,” Techno insisted. He didn’t enjoy being taken care of; in all the time I’d known him, he’d never let anyone take care of him. Philza, however, seemed insistent.

“You remind me of your mother in that way. Just let me cook lunch, then we’ll make dinner together, okay?” Philza said. Not once had I ever heard Techno talk about his mom. Tommy would some nights, when neither of us could sleep. He’d talk about dreaming about her. Techno, on the other hand, never did. It was almost as if he never had a mother, but judging by the way he froze, he did, and he seemed almost sad at the mention of her.

“Are you sure?” Techno asked, seeming almost weak.

“One thousand percent,” Philza said, once again with that warm tone. I think I saw a smile break out on his face. I didn’t remember the last time I saw a genuine smile from just a normal conversation before Philza got here. Techno slowly sat back down, sitting next to me now. I turned to look at him. I gave him a smile, he gave me a sad grin.

“Are you okay?” I leaned in and whispered. I didn’t know if he wanted the whole room to know there was something wrong. I mean, I wouldn’t if someone brought up my dead mom.

“I’m fine, kiddo,” Techno muttered, almost like how Tommy did when he was hiding something. Those two were too similar as of recent; it was funny to me. I mean, Techno did spend the most time with us; it made sense that we picked up his mannerisms. Since I had to leave my family, Techno and Tommy were the closest thing I’d had to one. It was both sweet and sad to me at the same time. But if Techno said he was fine, he was fine. I leaned my head on his shoulder, being careful not to poke him with my horns in the process. I felt Techno wrap his arm around me, almost awkwardly.

“Are you okay?” Techno said, putting emphasis on the ‘you.’ He said it almost teasingly. I knew he meant it sweetly, though. Techno didn’t exactly tease, at least not in a mean way, more so in a way an older brother or a dad would. I never had a close relationship with my dad; he was always working. He was a single parent most of my childhood, so I would spend a lot of time with my aunt Puffy. She was like the mother I never had. Some of my best childhood memories were at her house. Not to say my dad didn’t try. On days Aunt Puffy couldn’t watch me, he would take me to work with him. He was a mechanic most of my childhood. I remember he’d let me sit on his chair at his station while he worked on cars. It spun and was blue. That was the first thing he ever taught me how to fix, too: one of the wheels was loose, and he taught me how to use the screwdriver to tighten it.

“Mhm, I’m okay, just tired,” I said. My dad had kept me up all night again. He just wouldn’t stop calling. I almost picked up last night just to see what his issue was, but I remembered Wilbur telling me not to, ever. Apparently, he could track my phone if I did. The phone was so far underground the clock didn’t work, but apparently he could track it? It didn’t make any sense to me, but I’d seen what he did to Tommy when he asked questions that Wilbur deemed stupid, and I didn’t want what he did to Tommy to happen to me.