Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

It was always the wind in L’Manberg. Dry and restless, always muttering secrets between the branches of the dogwood trees. Wilbur felt it the moment the car pulled up to the leaning house on Lehman Street—felt it in his teeth, in the knots of his stomach, in the way the air bent around his ears like it already knew his name.

Phil called it “a new start.” The kind of phrase said too cheerfully, too quickly, like if you said it fast enough it wouldn’t echo. He’d taken the new job at the hospital with the same stubborn smile he used when he patched Tommy’s scraped knees—bright, gentle, practiced.

“It’s a good move,” he said. “Proper hours. Better pay. Space for both of you to grow.”

Wilbur, seventeen and tired, said nothing.

He helped unload boxes with headphones in and his thoughts elsewhere, watching as Phil unlocked the front door with reverent hands like it might bite him if he turned the knob too hard. The house wasn’t anything special. Yellowed siding. Sloped porch. Floorboards that would probably scream at night.

Tommy, four and all fire, ran in circles around the living room like he owned it. He didn’t know the weight of moving. He didn’t know how long Wilbur had spent planning the escape.

Just a little more time. A job, a stash, a spring that came early. Then he’d take Tommy and go. Not in fury. Just in distance.

Phil wouldn’t notice until morning. That’s what Wilbur told himself.

But that was before the boots.

Before the sound of them—heavy, assured—on the porch, before the gravel-shift of a stranger settling into the corners of Wilbur’s house like smoke curling under a doorframe. Before Phil’s voice turned bright and weightless again, like it always did when he brought home a stray.

Wilbur didn’t wait to learn the name. He left.

The sun outside had dropped lower, slanting orange-gold across L’Manberg’s patchy streets, painting soft warmth over the crooked telephone poles and the old brick buildings that leaned slightly toward each other like gossiping neighbors. Wilbur walked with his hands in his hoodie pocket, backpack slung loose over one shoulder, the late summer air sticky against his skin.

The record store sat on the corner of Main and Milton—Ender’s Music & Media, named after the owner’s cat, not the sci-fi novel. Ender, the cat, was almost always asleep on the front counter, an ancient black-and-gray tabby who hissed only when he was awake enough to notice you.

The bell above the door gave a sleepy little jingle as Wilbur stepped inside. The scent hit him instantly—dust, cardboard, faded incense, and the warm, dry smell of vinyl. Somewhere in the back, an old stereo hummed out a jazz instrumental, the kind that made Wilbur’s bones slow down a little.

“Afternoon, Wil,” called the man behind the counter, not looking up. He was sorting through a milk crate of old VHS tapes like they were fossil bones.

“Hey, Rick,” Wilbur replied, soft. “Place looks the same.”

Rick gave a low chuckle. “I’d be worried if it didn’t.”

Wilbur nodded absently and slipped deeper into the aisles. Rows of music in every format imaginable—vinyl, cassette, CD, even a few dusty 8-tracks no one touched but Rick himself. He took his time drifting, letting his fingers skim over the plastic cases of old albums, half-searching, half-nostalgic. He found comfort in the routine of it: alphabetize, scan, flip. Repeat.

There was a corner tucked near the back where Rick kept the electronics—mostly busted speakers and questionable headphone sets—but sometimes, sometimes, a treasure would show up.

Wilbur crouched beside a cracked plastic bin marked “$5 or less (please don’t haggle)” and rifled through it with a practiced hand. DVDs, scratched and unloved. A tape rewinder shaped like a racecar. An old Tamagotchi that blinked at him with the deadest eyes he’d ever seen.

And then—

“Oh, holy shit,” Wilbur whispered, his voice barely above a breath as he plucked something from the bottom of the bin.

A Walkman. Actual, honest-to-Gods Sony Walkman. Black casing, silver trim, the buttons still intact. He turned it over, inspecting it like it might bite. The battery cover was there. The cassette door still clicked open and shut with satisfying resistance.

“Holy shit,” he said again, standing up straighter. “It’s actually in good condition. I might buy this.”

“That’s a good one,” said a voice just behind him.

Wilbur startled slightly, then turned. A girl stood a few feet away, arms crossed loosely, looking at him with an easy sort of curiosity. She wore layered shirts in mismatched colors, frayed denim shorts, and a pair of boots that had clearly lived a full life. Her hair was a soft brownish-pink, messy in a way that seemed intentional, and there was a soft dusting of freckles across her cheeks.

She smiled. “Hey. Are you planning on getting that? I was kind of eyeing it too.”

Wilbur blinked. “Uh. Maybe? I mean—I don’t know. I found it first, technically.”

She laughed, a warm, genuine sound. “Fair enough. I was just going to ask if it actually works. Most of Rick’s electronics don’t.”

“Guess I’ll find out,” Wilbur said, turning the Walkman in his hands again. “It feels… weirdly intact. Like, unreasonably intact.”

“You’re braver than me. I bought a Discman from here once and it melted a CD.” She grinned. “I’m Nikki, by the way.”

Wilbur gave a small smile back, a little crooked at the edges. “Wilbur. Nice to meet you.”

She shifted her weight and peered past him into the bin. “You go to Manberg High?”

“Unfortunately,” Wilbur said dryly. “You?”

“Starting this year. Junior. Just moved here a couple weeks ago. My mom runs the café next to the post office.”

“Oh, the one with the sunflowers in the window?”

“Yeah. That’s her. I’m still figuring out the place, but the record store helps.”

“Yeah,” Wilbur said softly, nodding. “Same.”

They stood there for a moment, comfortable in the quiet.

He glanced down at the Walkman in his hand and then back at Nikki. “Tell you what—if it works, I’ll let you borrow it. We can share custody or something.”

Nikki raised an eyebrow. “Like a divorced couple co-parenting music?”

“Exactly.”

She laughed again, shaking her head. “You’re weird. I like it.”

Rick called from the front, “Wil, you finding treasure back there or just flirting in the cassette section?”

Wilbur flushed. Nikki snorted.

“I should go,” she said, stepping back. “See you around, Wilbur?”

He nodded, still holding the Walkman like it was a secret. “Yeah. See you.”

And as the bell jingled behind her and Nikki stepped out into the afternoon light, Wilbur stayed a little longer—watching the sunlight hit the dust motes in the air, listening to the jazz fade into a slower song.

Three weeks until school.

And suddenly, L’Manberg didn’t feel quite as lonely.

—

Wilbur let the thought sit in his chest like a small ember. Warm. Fragile. Surprising.

He made his way back toward the front counter with the Walkman tucked protectively under his arm, a few cassette tapes nestled in his other hand—stuff he’d picked up on instinct. A few indie names he half-recognized, one with a cracked case and handwritten label that just said “JULY // mix.”

Rick didn’t look up from the crossword he was stabbing with a dull pencil. “So… did the dragon bite?”

Wilbur huffed a quiet laugh. “She was cool. Just talked music.”

“I meant Ender,” Rick said, tilting his chin toward the counter where the cat had reappeared like a ghost. “But glad to hear the youth are still functioning conversationally.”

“Oh. Right.” Wilbur reached out, fingers brushing the tabby’s head. “Hi, buddy—”

Ender immediately hissed and swatted at his hand with theatrical distaste before hopping off the counter and disappearing once more into the stacks like a furry poltergeist.

“Classic,” Rick muttered. “You’re blessed.”

Wilbur rolled his eyes. “I’ll take my cursed relic and go, then.”

As he counted out his bills for the Walkman and tapes, Rick looked up, his expression a little softer. “You doing okay, Wil?”

Wilbur froze for half a second. Then he shrugged. “Still settling. New town, new school. Same old existential dread.”

“Ah,” Rick said. “High school. A blessing and a curse.” He slid the tapes into a thin paper bag and handed it to him like it was a sacred artifact. “You’ll be fine. You’ve got good taste and a face for brooding. The goth kids’ll adopt you by Tuesday.”

“Comforting,” Wilbur said dryly.

Rick raised a brow. “It’s L’Manberg, kid. Weirder things have happened.”

Rick rang up the Walkman with a satisfying clunk. The cassette tapes sat stacked beside it—Wilbur’s weird little impulse haul—and he held them like they were precious, even if most of them probably had busted reels or melted liners.

“You gonna open a museum with all that?” Rick asked, eyeing the mix of cassettes like they were ancient runes.

“Nah,” Wilbur said with a shrug. “I just… like old stuff. Feels honest.”

Rick raised an eyebrow. “You’ll learn real quick: honest’s not the same thing as kind.”

Wilbur smirked. “Yeah, well. Neither’s high school.”

Rick made a sound like a laugh but didn’t offer much else. Instead, he slid the Walkman across the counter like he was handing over a ticking bomb and nodded once. “Keep the weird stuff alive, kid.”

“Always,” Wilbur said, offering a crooked little wave.

The bell over the door jingled behind him as he stepped into the warm evening haze. The sidewalk outside glowed orange with dying sunlight, the kind of soft golden light that made even the most ordinary things look like memories.

He slid the first cassette into the Walkman—JULY // mix—and pressed play.

There was a click, a hiss, and then—

> “Okay. Um. Testing?”

Wilbur blinked.

> “I dunno if this is even gonna record. But if it is, hi. This is my mix tape. My first mix tape. Please be nice.”

The voice was younger than he expected. Much younger. A middle schooler, maybe. Barely thirteen, if that. A boy, nervous and nasal, with that half-pitched scratch in his voice like it hadn’t figured out if it was supposed to drop yet.

> “So... this is, uh, me trying to play Wonderwall. Sorry in advance.”

Wilbur let out a quiet snort as the guitar started. It was bad. So bad. Uneven strumming, tinny buzz, fingers missing frets by just enough to make your teeth itch. But the kid was trying. Singing, too—barely above a whisper, but there. Brave, in that stupidly honest way only a kid can be.

“Who the hell are you, you little gremlin?” Wilbur murmured, smiling despite himself.

He kept walking. A few blocks passed like that, soundtracked by off-key guitar and the occasional voice memo where the kid added commentary—

> “This one’s for the moon. Or, like… whatever’s out there.”

> “I wrote this next one after I got in trouble for climbing on the roof again. Sorry, Mom.”

And Wilbur started wondering: Why was this tape here? Who gives this up? Did it fall out of a moving box during a move? Did someone’s older sibling toss it out without thinking? Did this kid grow up and forget what it was like to be thirteen and trying?

He looked up at the streetlight flickering on at the corner. L’Manberg was quiet in that way only small towns could be—like everything around him had hit pause and forgot to start again.

And the silence made space for everything else.

His thoughts started circling.

School was starting in three weeks. Three weeks. He still hadn’t even seen the inside of Manberg High. He didn’t know anyone except for maybe Nikki now, and even that was fragile—new, sharp-edged, undefined. He kept imagining the classrooms, the lockers, the glances, the whispers: Who’s the tall emo kid with the notebooks and the dead eyes? Gods. Just thinking about it made his stomach twist.

And then there was Tommy.

Tommy, who was apparently cussing now.

Tommy, who made a kid cry last week by telling him that dinosaurs weren’t real and only idiots believed in museums.

Tommy, who’d gotten three gold stars from daycare in the last month and also a bright pink sticky note that read “has trouble with personal space.”

Wilbur sighed.

He loved that little menace. Gods, he loved him so much it scared him. He could see this personality starting to form in real time—loud, fierce, brilliantly weird—and it was beautiful. But also terrifying. What if he messed it up? What if Tommy turned into someone that Wilbur couldn’t recognize anymore?

What if he already was?

He stopped walking, suddenly overwhelmed by everything. The tape still played in his ears, some half-written ballad in the background with a humming kid voice whispering “I hope you’re okay out there.”

The sewer grate beside him was filled with leaves and crumpled soda cups and the skeleton of a Burger King bag. It was disgusting. So, naturally, Wilbur sat down on the curb next to it and just… existed.

He curled forward a little, arms resting on his knees, his shoulders rising and falling as he stared down at his shoes and the cracked sidewalk beneath them.

“I don’t know what I’m doing,” he said aloud.

The wind shifted. A wrapper rolled past. Somewhere, a dog barked.

He thought about leaving. He thought about staying. He thought about running away with Tommy, about the way Phil smiled like everything was always fine. He thought about school, and being seventeen, and what the hell it even meant to grow up.

“Am I really just stuck here?” he whispered.

He didn’t get an answer. The cassette kept playing. And he sat there a while—just long enough to let the stillness settle, to let the weight move through him like cold water. Then, finally, he stood. Dusted off his jeans. Adjusted the strap of his bag.

Kept walking.

His feet carried him forward before his brain could catch up. The tape clicked to the next song. And then—just like that—

He saw them again.

The boots.

Same spot as before. Staring at him like a dare. Thick-soled, well-worn, caked with dried dirt and attitude. Wilbur’s chest tightened.

Oh, for fuck’s sake, he thought.

And he climbed the steps, one at a time, the weight of the Walkman swinging gently at his hip. The guitar kid was still whispering something hopeful in his ears.

But Wilbur? Wilbur was bracing for war.

—

Not with fists, not with shouts—he was too tired for all that. It was the slow, inevitable kind of war. The quiet shifting of plates beneath your feet. The kind that starts the moment you walk through your own front door and realize, yet again, the world has been rearranged while you weren’t looking.

The sun hadn’t even finished setting. That sticky summer heat still clung to his shoulders, and his shirt felt like it was made of warm dishwater. Somewhere in the Walkman strapped to his belt, the cassette clicked as it hit the end of the side, the kid’s scratchy guitar cut off mid-chord like a sentence left unfinished.

Wilbur didn’t rewind it.

He just stood there for a moment on the front step—one hand on the banister, the other resting on the edge of the porch post—glaring at those boots.

Same place as earlier.

Still wet around the soles like they’d been through something rough. Still cocked slightly inward like their owner didn’t care how they looked. Not army-tidy. Not clean. Not apologetic.

They looked lived-in. Hard-lived-in.

And that’s when the ache in Wilbur’s stomach settled into something colder. Older. Familiar.

Phil had always done this.

Picked up people like broken birds—wings clipped, teeth bared, eyes wide with old hunger. He’d find them on benches outside the ER, slumped against vending machines at 2AM, or sometimes just standing in the hallway with eyes like sinkholes and silence like rust.

Wilbur used to think it was noble. Saintly, even. Back when he was a kid and still believed in unconditional kindness.

Now?

It just felt like a countdown.

Because Phil never just helped them. He brought them home. Wrapped them in old cardigans that still smelled like the attic. Let them sleep in the guest room like it was a halfway house. Fed them toast with too much butter and tea in mugs with fading floral prints and hairline cracks.

And Wilbur?

Wilbur was expected to make space. Soften. Bend.

To shift like floorboards groaning under too many footsteps.

That’s how Fundy had come to them.

He’d come in quiet. Small in a way that made Wilbur lower his voice without realizing it, the way you do with scared animals. Ten, maybe. Maybe younger. Phil had brought him home on a rainy Wednesday with a hospital bracelet still biting his wrist and a look in his eyes that said don’t you dare ask me anything.

And Wilbur had Gods, he’d tried.

Fifteen and fumbling, he'd brought him a fish-shaped flashlight the first night. Sat at the edge of the bed explaining which floorboards creaked and how to heat up leftovers without the microwave exploding. He drew dumb little cartoons on sticky notes and left them on the fridge: You matter (even on Tuesdays) and Don’t eat the mystery yogurt.

He hadn’t thought of Fundy as a brother.

He’d thought of him as his.

His reason.

To be good. To try.

They'd watched B-movies on low volume and ranked the best monster deaths. Fundy had this kettle laugh—soft, then sharp. Sudden, like a spark. Wilbur had kept it tucked in his chest like a lighter. Something to click when the world felt dark.

But something had happened.

Something always happened.

Wilbur never got the full picture. Just the fallout.

A phone call. Clothes missing from drawers. Phil with that careful, too-neutral look on his face. A police car parked crooked in the driveway, engine idling like a threat that never had to speak.

And then—just like that—

Fundy stopped coming back.

No note. No goodbye. Just a hollowed-out silence that spread like mold. Wilbur stopped drawing. Stopped writing notes.

Because whatever happened whatever went wrong Wilbur knew one thing for certain: he hadn’t been enough to stop it.

So when he opened the front door that night, still dusted in heat and sidewalk grit, cassette tape silent at his hip—

When Phil looked up from the kitchen with that too bright smile and said, “Will, come meet someone,”

Wilbur already knew.

Another stray.

Another kid with hollow eyes and callused hands.

Another ghost waiting to happen.

He stepped inside, dropped his bag by the door. The A/C was running too loud, and the smell of something microwaved hung in the air like regret.

Then, steps.

Heavy. Slow. Like someone who wasn’t used to being inside houses. Like someone who didn’t trust the floor not to disappear under them.

Wilbur looked up.

And there he was.

The guy who owned the boots.

Tall. Tired. Built like a mausoleum and dressed in hand-me-down shadows. His eyes were sharp but dull at the same time—like they’d seen too much and expected nothing.

Phil's voice was warm, clueless. “Wil, this is Techno. He’s staying with us for a while.”

Of course he was.

Wilbur nodded. Just once. No smile. No questions.

He wasn’t angry. Not really.

Just… exhausted.

Because this wasn’t some new chapter. This was a re-run.

And he already knew how it ended.

—

Phil always meant well. That was the problem.

Wilbur stepped further into the room, slow, like the air had thickened. He hadn’t even kicked off his shoes yet. The floor felt unstable beneath him, not because it shifted—but because he did. Internally. Like some old emotional fault line in his chest gave a low groan, a warning tremor. Something primal. Like a dog smelling smoke before the fire reaches the door.

And standing there by the kitchen table—dressed in a black hoodie too big for his frame, arms crossed like they were guarding a cage that might open without warning—was the fire itself.

Techno didn’t move when Wilbur entered.

Didn’t smile. Didn’t nod. Didn’t say a damn thing.

Just looked at him. Dead center. Unblinking. His eyes were pale and hard, like old bone bleached in the sun. Wilbur felt the weight of it immediately, like someone had thrown a rock into the still water of his chest.

Alarm bells.

Something twisted behind Techno’s eyes, something old and watchful. His jaw was locked so tightly it looked like it hurt to breathe. Every inch of him was still, but it wasn’t a restful stillness. It was the silence of a bowstring pulled tight. A silence that knew sound was a weapon.

Wilbur’s fingers clenched, knuckles white around the strap of his bag.

“I take it you’re the stray,” he said flatly.

Techno’s mouth curled—barely. Not quite a smile. Not even close to friendly. More like a warning.

“Guess that makes you the pet,” he said, voice low and rasped like gravel. “Congratulations.”

Wilbur’s stomach tightened.

Phil laughed, too quick. “Hey, come on—let’s keep it civil.”

Techno didn’t look away.

Neither did Wilbur.

There was nothing civil about the way the two of them were sizing each other up, like they were standing on opposite ends of a bridge made of matchsticks. Like they were both waiting to see who’d flick the lighter first.

“I’m Wilbur,” he said eventually, voice clipped, teeth behind every syllable. “You staying long?”

Techno shrugged. “Dunno. Until I’m not.”

Cool. Vague. Ominous.

Wilbur felt every inch of tension in his own body mirrored back at him in Techno’s posture. Stiff shoulders. Feet planted like he expected to fight his way out of the hallway. Hands twitching like they wanted to be fists.

Who was this guy?

How had Phil brought someone like him into their house?

Wilbur’s lip curled. Just slightly. Not enough to show teeth, but close.

This wasn’t going to work.

He already knew it. Just like he’d known it the last time. Just like every time.

Phil stepped forward, arms raised like he could still salvage the moment. “Whoa, hey—Techno. That’s Wilbur. Remember? I told you about him.”

That was all it took.

Techno’s whole body shifted—barely, but noticeably. Like someone had hit pause on the tension. His stance didn’t relax, not really, but the edge dulled by a fraction. He blinked once, long and slow, as if recalibrating.

Wilbur hated that.

Hated that Phil had to translate him.

Hated that Techno only backed down when he realized whose kid Wilbur was.

But worse than that—worse than the insult—was the flicker of something colder that passed over Techno’s face. Recognition. Not familiarity, but… wariness. Like Wilbur’s name was a file he’d already read. Like he’d expected something softer, smaller. Someone who wouldn’t look him in the eye.

Wilbur turned, dropped his bag harder than necessary by the coat rack. It thudded against the wall, loud in the quiet.

“Cool,” he said, voice hollow. “Can’t wait for dinner.”

He didn’t wait for an answer. Just stalked upstairs, two steps at a time, his Walkman swinging from his belt, the silence behind him filled with all the things Phil didn’t say.

And downstairs, Techno stood unmoving.

Eyes still fixed on the spot Wilbur had been.

Like the war hadn’t ended—just found new ground to grow in.

—

Wilbur slammed his bedroom door so hard the handle rattled. Posters on the wall fluttered, threatening to peel off at the corners. He barely noticed. His chest burned with something ugly, something hot—shame, fury, fear.

“Fucking hell!” he spat at the floor, at the cracked skirting board, at nothing and everything at once. His vision swam with tears he refused to let fall, throat raw from yelling before he’d even really started.

A pillow sailed across the room, smacked the dresser and slumped to the ground. Not enough. Another joined it—this time with a strangled noise caught between a shout and a sob.

“Wilbur! Wil!” Phil’s voice floated up the stairs, equal parts concern and warning.

“What?!” Wilbur roared back, voice cracking. “What, Phil? Gonna bring home another fucking charity case, yeah?! Gonna fix him up, see if he sings when you wind him tight enough?!”

“That’s enough!” Phil’s voice was sharp now. Tired. Like he’d heard every version of this from Wilbur before.

Wilbur’s hand found a mug on his desk—one of Tommy’s, bright blue with a half-chipped handle. He hesitated. The idea of it smashing, shattering into pieces like his chest felt, was almost sweet.

“Don’t you dare, Wilbur!” Phil shouted, as though he could see right through the walls.

“Fuck off!” Wilbur screamed back, voice ragged. He placed the mug down, rough enough it rattled but didn’t break.

Silence bloomed for half a second. His breath thundered in his ears.

Then Phil again, softer, worn: “Wil… it’s just for a while. Just until he’s back on his feet.”

“Oh, right, like Fundy?” Wilbur shot back, spitting the words. “You gonna give him my bed too? Or just my fucking life?!”

“Wilbur, enough!” Phil’s voice cracked under the weight of it. “He’s been through—”

“—We’ve all been through shit, Phil!” Wilbur’s chest heaved, eyes stinging. “I’m done being the warm welcome committee, alright? I’m done!”

He turned, threw himself onto the bed, and dug his fingers into the sheets until they hurt. The room felt too tight, the walls breathing down his neck. His heart pounded like it wanted to claw its way out.

I need out. Out, out, out—

He shoved himself off the bed, grabbed his guitar by the neck, nearly knocking over the laundry basket. The strings twanged wildly, discordant and sharp. He jammed open the window, the evening air rushing in, smelling of cut grass and asphalt and late summer heat.

The trellis shivered under his weight as he clambered out. He nearly slipped—the sweat on his palms slicking the wood—but he caught himself. The shingles of the roof scratched his palms as he crawled over to his usual spot, breath ragged.

The world outside was softer: the sky bruised purple, chimney pots silhouetted against dying light. But inside him, everything still howled.

He sat, guitar braced against his knee, fingers trembling. Tried a chord. Off-key. Tried again. Still off. His hand slammed against the strings in frustration, producing a sharp, ugly noise that startled a few sparrows from the gutter.

“Fucking thing,” he muttered. “C’mon, work. Work, you piece of shit.”

He fumbled with the tuning pegs, twisting, plucking, twisting again—searching for that one, elusive note. The right sound, the thing that would let him breathe again.

Down below, the porch light flicked on. The door opened, a slow, heavy creak.

Wilbur barely noticed at first.

Techno stepped out, boots thudding on the boards. Wilbur could hear them even up here: each step measured, deliberate, like someone trying to look casual and failing.

He didn’t look up immediately. Instead, Techno walked in slow circles, head ducked, rummaging around the flowerbeds, the porch railing, the gravel by the steps. Muttering under his breath, almost like counting.

Wilbur’s thoughts tangled around themselves as his fingers worked the strings. Another project kid, Phil? Another lost cause to feed? To fix? You’re just going to shove him into our lives, see if he takes root?

He pressed harder on the frets, the pain sharp and grounding. And what about Tommy, huh? He’s cussing now. Being bossy as hell, fighting with other kids, and it’s brilliant, well maybe not brilliant but it's proof he’s alive—but it terrifies me. Because who’s gonna catch him if I can’t?

The words spilled out of him in a half-sung, half-growled ramble no chorus, no name. Just frustration set to melody. His voice cracked on the high notes, low and gravelly on the rest. His heart bled onto the strings.

Am I really stuck here? Just another cracked brick in Phil’s cathedral of broken things?

Techno, down below, picked something up, turned it over, tossed it aside. Kept looking. Wilbur watched, half-mesmerized by the dogged precision.

He’s not even grateful, Wilbur thought bitterly. Doesn’t even look relieved to have a bed tonight. Just looks like he’d fight the walls if they breathed wrong.

Finally, Techno stood still, stone in hand, testing the weight like a pitcher eyeing the plate.

Wilbur didn’t register what was happening until—

THWACK.

A sharp, metallic screech as the rock collided with the guitar body, rattling through wood and strings. The sound was so jarring it felt like it snapped something in Wilbur’s chest.

“What the fuck?” Wilbur barked, voice ragged, as the second stone followed—crack—and this one caught his shoulder.

Pain flared, white and immediate.

“The audacity of this prick—” Wilbur spat through his teeth, leaning over the edge of the roof to glare. “Are you fucking kidding me?!”

Techno didn’t flinch. Didn’t even bother to look apologetic. Just stood there, face unreadable under the porch light, like someone who’d been forced to endure the noise and decided to end it the old-fashioned way.

Wilbur’s heart thundered. The strings of his guitar still vibrated with the aftershock, dissonant and ugly.

Somewhere inside, he almost laughed.

So this is the newest stray, Wilbur thought, pulse racing. Phil’s latest savior. And he throws rocks at people on roofs. Wonder-fucking-full.

His breathing ragged, the bruised sky above him, the bruised shoulder beneath his shirt—and Techno below, looking every bit the ghost of a fight Wilbur hadn’t even known he’d started.

And as the sun slid lower behind the houses, the street empty except for them…

Wilbur glared down from the roof, chest still heaving from the sting in his shoulder and the hateful echo of strings rattling where the rock had struck. The sky was bruised orange and purple, and the shingles radiated back the day’s leftover heat. Sweat prickled under his collar. His pulse drummed hot and fast in his temples.

“You’ve got some fucking nerve,” Wilbur spat, voice ragged, words spilling out like acid through clenched teeth. His knuckles were white on the guitar’s neck, fingers cramped, aching. “What the fuck is wrong with you?!”

Techno stood there, boots planted like stone in the dust, arms folded across his chest, shoulders squared. The porch light threw shadows that made the hollows of his eyes look darker, older. His face didn’t twitch, didn’t crack. “You were off-key,” he said, voice low, steady—like someone naming the day of the week. “It was getting annoying.”

“Fuck you!” Wilbur barked, the words coming raw from his throat. Heat rose up his neck, tightening behind his ears. “Fuck you, you fucking stone-faced piece of shit—you’ve been here, what, two hours? You think you can start throwing rocks at me?! Who the fuck do you think you are?!”

“I said,” Techno repeated, unmoved, his voice a dull iron weight, “you were off-key.”

Wilbur let out a laugh that wasn’t really a laugh—sharp, ugly, bubbling out of him like bile. “Oh, brilliant! Phil’s new fucking charity case, music critic edition!” His voice cracked at the edges. “What are you, huh? The discount brother? The new project?!”

Techno’s jaw shifted just barely, a flicker of something tight and annoyed but his voice stayed like gravel in winter. “I didn’t ask to be here,” he said, still flat, still too calm. “I don’t want to be your brother. I don’t want to be anything to you.”

“Oh, don’t worry,” Wilbur snapped, his words hot and trembling. His chest heaved, and sweat dampened the collar of his shirt. “You won’t be. I wouldn’t fucking claim you if you came gift-wrapped with a bow!”

Silence stretched, heavy as wet rope between them. They locked eyes across the falling light—Wilbur, hair wild, breath ragged, the guitar trembling against his leg; Techno, unmoved, boots rooted to the porch, gaze cold and old as granite.

“You got something else to throw, big man?” Wilbur sneered, voice shaking with barely leashed fury. “Go on, fucking do it! Hit me again! Hit me till I fall, see if I give a shit!”

“Calm down,” Techno said, almost bored. The words fell heavy into the dust between them. “You’re making a fool of yourself.”

“Fuck you! FUCK you!” Wilbur’s voice split, hoarse, cracking, echoing down the empty street. “At least I feel something! At least I fucking try! What do you do, huh? Stand there like a fucking gargoyle, judging everybody?!”

Techno tilted his head slightly, chin lifting, eyes glinting just faintly under the porch light. His face barely moved, but the quiet that followed felt like a pulled blade. “At least I don’t whine on a roof,” he murmured, voice quiet as frost, “pretending it’s a stage.”

For a breath, everything in Wilbur locked up. The words stabbed between his ribs, knocking the air out of his chest. His heart tripped, stumbled. His pulse roared louder.

“I swear to Gods,” Wilbur growled, voice shaking so hard it almost wasn’t a voice anymore, “I’d rather be anything than be you.”

Techno stepped forward, boots grinding softly against the porch planks. “And I’d rather be anything than be you,” he echoed, softer still—but sharp as broken glass. “A spotlight without an audience.”

Wilbur’s breath caught. For a moment, the hurt threatened to swallow him whole.

“FUCK—” Wilbur snarled, rage swallowing the hurt, legs driving him upright so fast the guitar scraped across the shingles—

“Boys!” Phil’s voice boomed from somewhere below, sudden, thunderous, cracking the twilight like lightning. “Knock it off, NOW!”

Wilbur froze. His heart stopped mid-beat. He’d been sure Phil was asleep.

The shock of Phil’s voice, heavy with warning and disappointment, slammed into him. His foot shifted—gravel, dust, sweat-slick shingles under his sneakers.

His heel skidded. His breath punched out of him, eyes flying wide.

For half a second, time crawled: the horizon tilting, the guitar neck jerking in his sweaty grip, Techno’s pale face flickering in the porch light, the edge of the roof sliding out from under him.

Then gravity took hold.

The guitar twisted, strings shrieking. The porch light flared in his vision.

And Wilbur fell, air sucked out of his chest and into the drop below.

It wasn’t far—not really, just the span between the sloped shingles and the sun-warmed concrete below. But in that moment, it felt infinite. Like the earth itself had dropped away, like gravity had forgotten how to be gentle.

The world rushed past in a single breath: the hiss of wind tugging at his clothes, the rattle of his guitar strap slipping off his shoulder, a string snapping sharp and metallic in his ear. The porch light blurred and smeared across his vision, smearing gold and white like paint dragged by shaking hands. His chest cinched tight, lungs locked and useless. For a heartbeat—maybe less, maybe more—there was only weightlessness. The sick, gut-wrenching certainty that there was nothing under him.

His mind tried to claw for a thought, a prayer, anything—but all that came was static. White, roaring, empty static.
And then—
Nothing.

No thoughts, no fear, no memory.
No sound but the thud of his pulse fading into silence.
No light, no color.
Just nothing.
A cold, soundless hush, like being buried in snow or sunk to the bottom of a black lake. Weightless, thoughtless, gone.

And then—

Something.

Screaming—sharp and ragged, not quite his own voice but somehow inside his skull. Shouting, deeper, older, rough with panic—“Wilbur! Wil!”
Hands grabbing at his shoulders, warm and frantic. Blinding, buzzing lights overhead searing through the black. Shapes leaning over him—Phil’s face split with terror, mouth moving too fast for Wilbur’s ears to catch the words. Another shape, taller, broader, pale hair catching the porch light, mouth tight with something that looked too close to guilt.

Pain bloomed—sharp, searing along his forearm, throbbing heat on his temple. His heart thundered back into his ribs like a fist against a locked door. Breath ripped back into his lungs with a wet, choking gasp.

Everything blurred and swam: the ceiling light burning his eyes, the coarse scrape of concrete under his palms, the smell of warm dust and spilled sweat.

He tasted copper.

Phil’s voice cracked as it pushed through the haze: “Stay with me, Wil! Stay awake, c’mon, look at me—”

His vision pulsed, tunneled, widened again, the edges bruised with black. Another voice—lower, unfamiliar, gruff with panic—“Fuck, you’re bleeding. Phil—here—he’s gonna need stitches, that’s deep—”

Wilbur’s eyes flickered down, catching only glimpses: blood bright against the pale inside of his arm, blooming through the ripped sleeve; the ragged edge of skin peeled back in an ugly red seam.

Someone pressed something rough and wet to the wound. Heat and pain exploded, white-hot and searing, drawing a broken sound from his throat—a sob or a curse, even he couldn’t tell.

The porch light above blurred into a comet’s tail, his ears roaring with static and Phil’s shaking voice: “You’re alright, Wil. You’re alright. Just hold on. Just breathe.”

And Wilbur tried.
Gods, he tried.

But the pain was pulling him down again, the black creeping back in at the edges, thicker, heavier.

Somewhere, before it swallowed him, he heard Phil’s voice, cracking, raw:
“Stay with me, Wilbur. Please—stay—”

Then—

Once again, nothing.

Chapter Text

And then—pain.
Pain, dull and deep and everywhere, pulsing like a second heartbeat.

He surfaced into it slowly, dragged back into his own skin like being pulled through brambles. The first thing he heard—before he could even name it—was the relentless, mechanical beep... beep... beep... steady as a drumbeat. It felt too alive.

His clothes clung to him, stiff with sweat and something else—something tacky, dried into the fabric, pulling at his skin when he shifted. He swallowed, and the taste of copper clung stubbornly to his tongue, bitter and metallic.

The air was sharp with antiseptic, that chemical tang that burned in the back of his throat, too clean to be comforting. It smelled like bleach, and latex gloves, and the faint, sour edge of dried blood.

The pain was the only thing he felt.
A pounding ache at his temple, rhythmic and angry; shoulders locked so tight they felt fused to the bed. But worse were his hands—his hands trembled in a small, frantic shiver he couldn’t stop, muscles twitching with a mind of their own. The tremor made something coil in his chest, hot and sour: fear. Anxiety. Some ancient instinct telling him something was wrong.

Slowly—painfully slow—he forced his eyes to open. His lashes sticking together until they finally gave way.

Light hit him like a punch. Harsh, fluorescent, too white. It made the shadows in the corners seem deeper, the sterile walls more suffocating. His gaze dragged across the ceiling tiles, cracked in places, discolored around the vents.

It took effort—more than it should—to move his head. Muscles protested, pulling at something he couldn’t yet see. His eyes tracked down, sluggish and unsure, and the room came into focus in jagged pieces.

The linoleum floor scuffed with black marks from years of dragging beds.
A cheap plastic chair in the corner, the seat cracked along the edge.
A coat thrown over its back, big and heavy, smelling faintly of smoke and wet wool.
An IV pole beside him, its metal gleaming cold under the too-bright light.
His arm—wrapped, bandaged, dotted with dried blood that had seeped through the gauze. The skin around it was swollen and angry.

Breath caught in his chest, and he had to swallow, slow and careful, fighting the dryness in his throat. Each movement sent a fresh spike of pain through his skull, his shoulders, his ribs.

He let his eyes wander further—drawn out, unfocused at the edges—until they landed on the shape near the window.

Techno.

Sitting rigid in a molded plastic chair, elbows braced on his knees. His posture coiled, like a spring half-unwound but ready to snap back in an instant. His head was bowed slightly, but when Wilbur moved—just a twitch—Techno’s gaze snapped up, meeting his.

Cold, unreadable eyes under the shadow of messy, too-long hair. His face was a mask: tension along the jaw, mouth a thin, flat line. Shoulders stiff under Phil’s too-big jacket.

Wilbur’s heart stuttered in his chest, the beeping beside him betraying it, skipping into a quicker rhythm.

The silence between them felt thick. Heavy. Charged with something neither of them wanted to name.

Wilbur’s hands trembled harder. He curled them into fists against the sheets, trying to steady them—but they kept shaking, small and stubborn, as if his body knew something his mind couldn’t yet put words to.

The taste of copper lingered on his tongue, a phantom reminder of the fall. His head throbbed in time with the monitor’s beep. And for a breath—a long, raw, painful breath—he just looked at Techno.

The room smelled too clean. His body hurt. His mind felt raw and cracked.

But he was awake.

…and he wasn’t sure if it was a relief, or a punishment.

Wilbur swallowed, throat dry and raw, the copper taste stubborn on his tongue. He opened his mouth—just a crack, lips parting on a shaky breath—to say something. Anything.
But the words lodged in his throat, sharp as glass.
They burned, caught between ribs and tongue, turning into a ragged cough that made pain blossom hot and immediate along his side and up into his skull.

His vision fuzzed at the edges. For a moment, everything felt too loud—the beeping, the fluorescent hum overhead, the drum of blood in his ears.

Across the room, Techno shifted. The chair creaked under his weight as he rose, moving with a stiffness that spoke of long hours keeping still. His expression didn’t soften, but there was something deliberate in the way he stepped closer.
Without a word, he reached over Wilbur’s bed, thumb pressing the call button fixed to the wall. The small orange light lit up, blinking in quiet rhythm.

Wilbur hated how that made relief coil in his chest.
Hated the way it felt like surrender.

A minute—maybe less, maybe more—then the door opened, flooding the room with footsteps and voices.

Phil came in first, shoulders hunched under his old jacket, worry written into every line of his face. Behind him, a nurse followed, shoes squeaking faintly against the floor. And then—Tommy.
All wild blond curls and too-big hoodie sleeves, his eyes round with something between fear and stubborn defiance.

Phil exhaled, the sound rougher than Wilbur expected, like someone letting go of a breath they’d been holding too long.
“Wil, Jesus, I’ve told you how I felt about you being on the roof,” Phil said, voice low but sharp, the edge of frustration wrapped around relief. “How many times have we had this conversation, mate?”

Wilbur winced, a tiny movement that tugged at the stitches. The pain made the nurse hover closer, hands already half-lifted as if to steady him.

Phil turned his gaze to Techno next—different words, different weight. “And you—bloody hell, Techno. Throwing rocks? What were you thinking?”

Techno didn’t flinch, but his shoulders stiffened. “He wouldn’t shut up,” he muttered, voice gravel low, eyes fixed somewhere near the foot of Wilbur’s bed.

Wilbur might’ve answered back—something scathing, something raw and spiteful—but the words still burned too hot in his throat.
Instead, he watched as Tommy, small and determined, crept closer to the side of the bed.

“Wilby,” Tommy whispered, voice catching like a secret.

And before Phil—or even the nurse—could stop him, Tommy clambered up, knee first onto the mattress, fingers scrabbling against Wilbur’s bandaged arm. The movement jostled Wilbur, a sharp spike of pain that drew a hiss between his teeth, but he didn’t push Tommy away.

Wilbur lifted his trembling hand, the one that wouldn’t quite hold still, and helped steady Tommy, tugging him gently by the hem of his hoodie until the kid settled half-curled against his side.

“Careful, champ,” Phil said, voice softer now, worry fraying the edges.

But Tommy didn’t let go. He pressed his small, stubborn head against Wilbur’s chest, tiny fingers brushing the lines of the bandages.

Wilbur exhaled—slow, shaky—and for a moment, the pain receded just enough to let him feel something else.
Something that hurt in its own way: love, heavy and fierce and aching.

The nurse hovered, checking the machines, murmuring something about vitals and observation.
Phil scrubbed a hand over his face, relief mixing with exhaustion in the set of his shoulders.
And Techno—he stood back, arms crossed tight over his chest, jaw clenched. His eyes never quite met Wilbur’s, but didn’t leave him either.

The monitors kept their steady beep, reminding them all that Wilbur was still here.
Still breathing.

Wilbur let his head sink back into the pillow, every muscle aching, eyes fluttering half-shut.
Tommy’s breath tickled at the stitches near his collarbone.

And even through the rawness, through the anger still coiled like a snake under his ribs—Wilbur curled his fingers, just barely, into the soft fabric of Tommy’s hoodie.
Holding on.

Because for now, that’s all he could do.

The moment stretched, thin and trembling, like the space between breaths.
Tommy stayed tucked into him, small hands fisting gently in the wrinkled hospital gown, face pressed against Wilbur’s chest as if trying to disappear there, to hide in the familiar beat of Wilbur’s heart.

Phil had gone silent, one hand resting at the edge of the bed, thumb running absently over the frayed hospital blanket. Techno stood off to the side, arms folded, shoulders hunched against something heavy and unseen. The nurse, sensing something delicate settling over the room, busied herself quietly by the monitors, her presence fading into the background hum of machinery.

Wilbur lay still for another breath—two, three—before swallowing around the ache in his throat.
Pain blossomed hot and sharp at the base of his tongue as he forced his voice up past the raw scrape of panic and pain.

He shifted his head slightly, enough that his chin brushed the mop of blond curls at his chest. And when he spoke, it came out in that quiet, worn-smooth voice he only ever had for Tommy—gentle as a lullaby, softer than the bruise-colored light slanting through the blinds.

“Hey… hey, bug,” he rasped, voice gravelly and low. “You okay?”

For a second, Tommy didn’t move. His breath hitched once, twice, like a stalled engine. And then, all at once, the dam inside him cracked open.

Tommy’s small shoulders trembled, the sob tearing out of his chest raw and jagged.
“Wilby,” he gasped, the nickname catching in his throat. “Wilby—”

Wilbur felt Tommy’s little hands clutch at him, desperate and terrified.

“Wilby, I thought—” Tommy choked, breath coming in wet, broken hiccups. “I thought you left me. Like Mama did.”

The words fell heavy into the room, sharper than glass, landing with a hush that swallowed every other sound. Even the fluorescent hum seemed to fade, leaving only the steady, mechanical beeping of the heart monitor, patient and indifferent.

Phil froze mid-breath, the lines around his eyes deepening.
Techno’s gaze jerked up, just for a second, before dropping again to the floor, jaw tight.

Wilbur blinked, the sting behind his eyes sharp and sudden.
His chest ached in ways he couldn’t explain, and he swallowed hard against the guilt clawing at the back of his throat.

“Oh, Tommy,” he whispered, voice thin but steady, each word pulling at something deep and raw. His trembling hand lifted—clumsy, slow, every muscle protesting—and settled gently against the back of Tommy’s head. “No, love. I’m still here. I’m right here. You hear me?”

Tommy only sobbed harder, pressing himself closer into Wilbur’s ribs, as if trying to fold himself into the spaces where Wilbur had been broken. The bed shook faintly with each breathless, gasping sob.

Wilbur kept his hand there, fingers threading through the tangled curls, and shut his eyes against the burn that threatened to spill over.
His voice dropped even softer, rough as gravel but warm as an old song.

“I’m not going anywhere, bug,” he murmured, thumb brushing through Tommy’s hair in slow, gentle circles. “Not ever.”

The words were barely above a whisper, but they seemed to anchor Tommy, each syllable sinking into the cracks left behind by fear.

And for a moment—just a single, fragile moment—it felt like the world outside the hospital walls didn’t matter.
Not Phil’s silence, not Techno’s sharp-edged stare, not the memory of the fall or the bruise-black ache beneath Wilbur’s skin.

Just the hush of shared breath, the tremble of small shoulders pressed into his chest, and the beeping that kept quiet time with his heartbeat.

Wilbur let his head fall back against the pillow, eyelids heavy, throat raw, hand still tangled in Tommy’s hair.
And in that hush, he held on.
Held on for Tommy.
Held on, because that was the one promise he could keep.

For a moment, there was only the hush of the room: the quiet mechanical beeping, the faint rattle of air vents overhead, the weight of everyone’s eyes and no one’s words.
Tommy shifted against Wilbur’s side, curls tickling under Wilbur’s chin, his breath still shuddering in fits and starts. Then, in that fragile, broken-laced voice of his, thick with leftover tears, he spoke again.

“Promise…” Tommy whispered, so soft it almost got swallowed by the hum of the machines. “Promise me you won’t leave me, Wilby. I’ll… I’ll miss you too much, so stop being stupid, asshole.”

It came out raw and honest and sharp at the edges, like only Tommy could make it—part plea, part scolding, the words crashing together in the same breath.

At that, Phil sucked in a quiet breath, ready to step in. “Tommy, watch your language—”

But Wilbur just let out a short, breathless laugh. Dry and hoarse, it still echoed through the too-white room like a dropped stone, softening the tension that had stretched tight between them all.
His hand slipped from Tommy’s hair to rest gently on the back of his head, palm warm and steady.

“Ok, ok,” Wilbur rasped, voice worn ragged at the edges but still carrying that soft promise only Tommy ever got to hear. “I promise. I promise you I’ll stay. I swear to the gods, I’ll stay by your side forever.”

His thumb brushed lightly through tangled blond curls as he spoke, anchoring the vow in touch as much as words.

Tommy made a little sound—half sigh, half sniffle—and turned his face further into Wilbur’s chest, pressing so close it felt like he was trying to merge their bones together.
Then, as the weight of exhaustion caught up to him, Tommy yawned, long and wide, his small shoulders shaking with it.

“Deal, fucker,” he mumbled sleepily, the curse so casual it sounded almost sweet from him.

Phil’s voice cut in again, caught between stern and weary, “Tommy! Language, for heaven’s sake—”

But Wilbur lifted his free hand, the IV tugging lightly at his arm, and waved Phil off with a tired but genuine softness.
“It’s fine, Dad,” he murmured, his voice so low it felt almost like a lullaby. “Just for tonight. He’s had to deal with a lot today.”

Phil’s mouth pressed into a thin, reluctant line, the lecture fading before it ever really began.
And in the hush that followed, Tommy’s breathing slowly evened out, the heat of his little brother’s weight sinking warm and heavy into Wilbur’s ribs.

Wilbur leaned his head back against the too-flat pillow, eyelids drooping under the glare of white hospital lights, the antiseptic sting biting faintly at the back of his throat.
His chest still hurt, stitches tugging painfully every time he shifted, and his head throbbed with a dull ache—but under it all was something softer.

And for tonight, that had to be enough.

But the night never really sleeps in a hospital.
It just hums—a low, electric hush under the fluorescent lights that never quite shut off. Somewhere, a door thuds, too loud. Rubber soles squeak against linoleum. Machines keep breathing their cold, mechanical breaths, measuring life in slow, stubborn beeps.

Wilbur drifted awake into that half-light, eyelids gummy and stuck, lashes scratching dry against skin. His mouth tasted stale, a little like metal, like he’d been chewing old pennies.
Pain was the first thing to greet him, sharp and wide: his head felt packed with glass wool, shoulders tight and knotted, and worst of all—his hands. They shook, restless and uncertain, like they didn’t quite belong to him anymore.

His gaze moved, slow as syrup, over the pale room.
Tommy was still there, a stubborn warmth pressed against Wilbur’s ribs. Little snores catching in the back of his throat. One sock half off, heel peeking out. Wilbur felt something like relief, and something like guilt that relief was the first thing.

Phil was there too—slumped awkwardly in the visitor chair, elbows on his knees, head tipped forward so his hair fell into his face. Even asleep, Phil looked tired, like the weight never really left.

And then, at the doorway, half in shadow and half in the blue spill of corridor light—
Techno.

Arms folded across his chest, shoulders squared so sharp it almost hurt to look at. His face blank, unreadable as carved stone. But his eyes weren’t blank—they were watching, still and cautious, like a stray animal deciding if it was worth the risk to step closer.

For a few breaths, Wilbur stared back.
Didn’t blink. Didn’t speak.
The tension sat between them like wet rope—heavy, frayed, soaked through with something sour neither dared name.

Then the door nudged open with a tired squeak.
A nurse stepped in—older man, thick forearms, uniform washed so many times the blue had faded at the seams. Clipboard in hand, voice sanded down by too many late shifts.

“All right, let’s see how we’re doing,” he said, and started unwinding the blood pressure cuff.

The sound made Tommy twitch awake, blinking blearily, curls sticking to his forehead. His eyes found the man’s hand near Wilbur, and something ugly sparked behind them.

“Fuck off!” Tommy barked, voice still sticky with sleep but all bite. “Don’t touch him!”

The man paused, surprised, but didn’t flinch.
Wilbur felt his mouth twitch at the edges—pride, panic, and something that almost wanted to laugh.
“It’s okay, Tom,” Wilbur rasped, but the words scraped raw against his throat, burning like they’d been waiting too long to come out.

The nurse—David, according to the stitched name tag—just shook his head lightly. “Kid’s got spirit,” he muttered, almost to himself. “I’m just checking him over, lad.”

Wilbur forced himself to sit up straighter, every muscle groaning. Tommy shifted, pressing closer, like he could anchor Wilbur to the bed by weight alone.

Through the doorway, Techno was still there—staring, unmoved, but Wilbur caught something almost human flicker across his face when Tommy cursed. Regret? Recognition? Hard to tell. Techno blinked, jaw twitching, and then looked away, as if ashamed to be caught feeling anything.

Phil stirred then, pulling himself up from the chair, rubbing his eyes until the tiredness looked worse, not better. His gaze swept from Tommy to Wilbur to Techno, and something old and worried settled around his shoulders.

“Tech, come on,” Phil said, voice low. “Let’s talk outside for a minute.”
Techno hesitated—barely—but then pushed off the doorframe and followed, silent footsteps heavier than they looked.

Wilbur watched them go.
Through the glass, he saw Phil rest a hand on Techno’s shoulder—gentle, steady, the kind of touch that says you’re allowed to be here.

Something hot coiled in Wilbur’s chest.
Why him?
Why did Phil always have that softness for the strays, the broken birds, but never for his own damn son?
All Wilbur got was “Wil, stop making trouble,” or “Wil, can’t you just let things be?”

The nurse droned on about blood pressure, pain meds, his stitches. Wilbur barely heard. His pulse thudded so loud it almost drowned out the words.
Tommy shifted again, cheek rubbing against Wilbur’s side, still half asleep.

“I’m gonna get up,” Wilbur mumbled, voice rough, to no one in particular.
The nurse frowned. “Not yet, mate. You took a knock—”

But Wilbur ignored him, testing the weight of his legs, hands gripping the sheets so tight his knuckles paled. His ribs barked pain, stitches pulling fire through skin.

Couldn’t. Not yet.
Fine. Then he’d wait.

As soon as the nurse left, he’d get dressed, pull on stiff clothes over fresh bandages, and leave.
Even if it was just to walk until the night felt like it belonged to him again.

Tommy mumbled something again, not even words this time—just soft, broken sounds of sleep and worry. Wilbur let his hand fall, fingers threading gently through Tommy’s hair, feeling the small tremors in his own hand against the warmth of Tommy’s scalp.

Through the glass, Phil and Techno were still talking.
Wilbur couldn’t hear the words—but he could see Phil’s thumb rub a slow, soothing circle into Techno’s jacket sleeve.
And it was stupid how much that burned.

The hospital lights buzzed overhead.
Wilbur’s jaw clenched, eyes hot.
He couldn’t go yet—but the plan coiled tight in his chest, patient and waiting.

Just a few more minutes.
Then he’d leave, even if it killed him.

But every second felt sharp-edged and itchy, crawling under his skin. The hospital air tasted of antiseptic and something tired and stale, like breath left sitting too long in a room with no open windows. His stitches pulled every time he shifted. His fingers drummed restless, twitching against the sheets. God, if David didn’t fuck off soon—

Wilbur caught himself glaring holes into the nurse’s back as David adjusted wires and clicked buttons, writing something on the chart like it mattered. Wilbur bit the inside of his cheek so hard it almost bled, jaw locked so tight it hurt. He just needed space. To breathe. To move. Anything.

Finally—finally—David gave a short, stiff nod, muttered something about coming back to check on vitals, and walked out. The door shut with a soft, traitorous click.

Wilbur exhaled, breath shaking in his chest like something trapped.
He turned to Tommy—still curled against him, half in dream, little fist clutching Wilbur’s gown like it might dissolve if he let go.

“Hey, c’mon, gremlin,” Wilbur murmured, voice softer than it felt in his ribs. “Up for a bit. I gotta stretch my legs, yeah?”

Tommy grumbled a sound, rubbed his eyes, and blinked blearily. “’M tired,” he mumbled, voice cracking with sleep.

“I know,” Wilbur soothed, thumb brushing messy curls from Tommy’s forehead. “Just… come with me. Don’t want you waking up and panicking when I’m not here, yeah?”

Tommy muttered something about prick, but his small arms went around Wilbur’s neck anyway. Wilbur grit his teeth as pain bit into his ribs, muscles tight and raw under fresh stitches. He swung his legs over the side of the bed, grunting at the weight of Tommy and the sudden throb of everything protesting.

Standing felt like fighting gravity itself.
He almost didn’t win.

The corridor outside smelled worse—bleach and wax and worry. Floor tiles glossy under ugly fluorescent light. Tommy nestled heavier against him, cheek pressed into Wilbur’s collarbone, half-awake mumbling nonsense curses that made Wilbur’s mouth twitch with tired affection.

Just a walk, Wilbur told himself.
Maybe outside, if he was lucky. The hospital had a tiny garden, some pitiful roses that probably bloomed out of sheer spite. Just enough fresh air to stop his skin feeling too tight.

His mind fogged by pain and restless anger, Wilbur wasn’t really looking where he was going—and slammed chest-first into something solid. Hard enough that Tommy let out a startled squeak, and Wilbur’s stitches screamed fire up his side.

“Shit!” Wilbur gasped, stumbling back. His arm tightened around Tommy, breath catching ragged in his throat.

It was Techno.
Of course it was fucking Techno.

Techno’s face flickered—annoyance, something unreadable, and then—
A hand. Reaching out, grabbing Wilbur’s good shoulder. Not rough. Not quite gentle either. Just steady.

Wilbur froze, breath rattling between his teeth, heart knocking so loud it almost deafened him. For one long, stupid second, they just stood there—Wilbur’s chest heaving, Tommy blinking sleepily, and Techno’s fingers curled around fabric and bone, warm and real and unwelcome.

Wilbur’s mind spat sparks of resentment, hot and prickling. Don’t touch me. Don’t act like you fucking care.
“I’m fine,” Wilbur snapped, sharper than he meant, voice cutting raw through the air. “Let go.”

But Techno didn’t.
Didn’t squeeze tighter—didn’t loosen either. Just held, stubborn as a stone in a river. His gaze steady, cold as morning frost but… tired. Almost sad, maybe.

Wilbur’s eyes narrowed, teeth bared around words that tasted like iron. “The fuck are you doing?” he hissed. “Move. You don’t get to play at being my keeper.”

Tommy shifted, awake enough now to sense the tension, little fingers curling tighter against Wilbur’s shirt.

And still—Techno didn’t let go.

Just stood there, silent, unmoved, a wall in a corridor that already felt too narrow.
And Wilbur’s chest burned with the sour truth of it: he didn’t want Techno’s kindness. Didn’t want Phil’s projects. Didn’t want another stray to share the scraps of space Phil made for them.

His jaw clenched so hard it hurt.
He doesn’t get to be kind. Not to me. Not now.

And still—
Techno didn’t move.

Wilbur, breathing hard through the ache and anger, had nowhere else to go.
Nowhere except the cold, unyielding shape of Techno in front of him, who still hadn’t fucking moved.

“Move,” Wilbur snarled, the word dragging raw across his throat.
Techno didn’t blink. “You’re bleeding,” he said, voice flat but edged—like a blade dulled by long use.

“Fuck off, I’m fine,” Wilbur shot back, sharper than he meant, breath hitching under Tommy’s weight. His vision wavered, just for a blink, but he forced it back into focus. His hands felt damp—he didn’t look to see why.

Techno’s eyes flicked, cutting down to Wilbur’s side, catching the slow bloom of red against the pale fabric of the hospital gown. His mouth twitched, a barely-there tic of irritation—or worry, but Wilbur refused to name it that.

“I said you’re bleeding,” Techno repeated, slower this time.
“And I said,” Wilbur spat, “mind your fucking business.”

Tommy, blinking blearily, turned his head between them, sensing the crackle in the air like dry grass before a spark. “Wilby?” he mumbled, voice still clogged with sleep.

“‘S nothing, gremlin,” Wilbur forced out, swallowing around the pounding in his skull, the way his pulse seemed to hammer under the stitches, each beat sharper than the last. “Just… dropped something earlier.”

Techno’s jaw shifted—grind of teeth under skin. “You look like shit,” he said, too blunt, too calm.

Wilbur opened his mouth for another retort—something cutting, something mean—but the words scattered like startled birds. His vision smudged at the edges, colors swimming lazily in and out, turning the sterile white of the hall into shifting pools of gray and blue. His knees wobbled, Tommy’s weight suddenly heavier, impossible.

And for one humiliating, dizzying moment, Wilbur realized he couldn’t stay on his feet.
“Fuck—” he breathed, barely audible, and the ground tilted away from him.

The last thing he saw clearly was Techno’s face: a flicker of something—alarm?—breaking through that iron-cast mask.

Then everything fell, fast and hot and spinning.
Tommy yelped, small arms tightening around Wilbur’s neck like a rope, as Wilbur’s legs buckled.

But Techno caught him before the floor could.
One strong arm hooked under Wilbur’s ribs, the other scooping Tommy up almost effortlessly. Wilbur, half-conscious, tried to push away, slurring out half-formed curses, but Techno barely flinched.

“You’re a pain in the ass, you know that?” Techno muttered, the words low, almost amused in a bone-tired sort of way. His grip stayed steady, unyielding.

Wilbur’s head lolled, cheek pressed against Techno’s collarbone, breath ragged. Spots exploded and pulsed in the corners of his vision, creeping in like spilled ink until there was almost nothing left.

And Techno—grumpily, smugly—picked up both brothers like they weighed nothing at all. His footsteps heavy, boots thudding against the linoleum, carrying them back the way they’d come.

But halfway down the corridor, Techno slowed.
Just ahead, around the bend, voices leaked out from a doorway—low, tense, carrying the edge of something darker.

“—doesn’t look good on you, Phil,” said a man’s voice—David, the nurse. The syllables hissed like steam. “You’ve already got two boys, now you take home another kid who walked in here alone after that accident. The state might need to get involved. Should have already.”

Phil’s voice followed—rougher, wearier than Wilbur had ever heard it. “He’s not a case, David. He’s a kid. They’re all kids.”

“I’m telling you, Phil,” David’s voice dropped, brittle as glass. “You need to be careful. You’re under watch whether you see it or not.”

Techno froze mid-step.
For the first time, raw, molten rage cracked across his face like a storm front rolling in. His jaw clenched so hard the tendons stood out in sharp relief. His grip around Wilbur and Tommy shifted, fingers digging in—not painfully, but with a force that said he might crush anything that got too close.

Wilbur, drifting in and out, half caught the words, half didn’t. But even through the syrupy haze of half-consciousness, he felt the change: the air thickening, Techno’s chest rising and falling faster, the quiet vibrating tension of a fuse lit.

Tommy stirred in Techno’s other arm, mumbling something confused and soft.
But Techno didn’t answer.
Didn’t look away from the voices echoing around the corner.

All that quiet rage, all that hurt buried deep, finally surfacing in the harsh lines of his face, sharp as broken porcelain.

And still, he held them.
Held them like he refused to let anyone else take them away.