Chapter Text
The golden haired boy looks at the wooden, ramshackle building in front of him, and wonders, not for the last time, if he’s truly lost his mind.
“The rents half-price,” The tavern owner scoffs beside him. “Can’t get anybody to rent it for mo’ than a few weeks. I won’t blame ‘ya if yer turn back now. Ain’t nobody in their right mind would take this piece of junk.”
And it is junk. The little building looks like it would have been nice, a few decades ago. It has dark oak trimmings, white walls, and a red tile roof. But it's anything but nice now. A strong breeze could probably knock it over. Even from the street, the boy can hear the wind whistle through the loose cracks of the windows and door. It's barren. Dilapidated. Run-Down. Empty.
And it's the greatest sight Tommy has ever seen. “I’ll take it.”
The older man obviously doesn’t expect him to be serious. But a few hours later after whittling down the already low price and negotiating rent, the boy stands in his very own apartment with nothing but a bag of clothes on his shoulders.
The biting cold of the wooden floors makes him grimace. Tommy isn’t used to the freezing temperatures of the Antarctic Empire. Much less being there at the cusp of Winter.
But it’s away from Dream. And the Esempi. And where everything went wrong-wrong-wrong. So fuck- if he has to deal with the cold, that’s just what he has to do.
He eyes the cob-web filled fireplace with a hungry gleam in his eye.
I’ve got a lot of work ahead of me.
He sets down his bag in the corner, turning and looking at the empty room.
Through the thin walls, a round of laughter is heard from the tavern, Ye Olde Pube, that lies across from the apartment. Wrapping his arms around himself he slides against the wall and closes his eyes.
Tomorrow he can get started on straightening up the apartment.
But for now- for the first time in a long time- Tommy rests.
. . .
The first time he meets Wilbur, he’s working a busy night at the tavern.
It’s rowdy. Drinks are overflowing. Cards are being played. And, there’s shouts coming from the tables in the corner.
Tommy has his hands full running food back and forth from the kitchens. The job is a lot easier than he thought it would be. Take an order here, take food there, refill drinks all around. It’s more busy work than anything.
(Compared to what he used to do, everything seems a little easier. )
(Tommy can breathe.)
He’s lucky the tavern owner even let him work in exchange for half his rent.
Tommy had thought he stole a large amount of money before leaving Esempi. But it turned out to still be a laughable sum in the real world. Definitely not enough to actually rent a place legally.
But, hey , how was he supposed to know how much money was worth? He never used it when he was with Dream. All he knew was that one-hundred was a big number. He couldn’t have imagined how much living actually cost.
Anyways, it’s good that the situation is a win-win scenario. Tommy immediately lands a job. The tavern owner doesn’t have to hire new hands. Everybody’s happy.
Well- almost everyone.
“I didn’t expect to see a child serving my drink today.” A man with curly brown hair taunts as Tommy pours him his wine.
The man’s leaned back in a small wooden booth, a deep heavy brown coat over his shoulders and a yellow turtleneck poking out from underneath. Other patrons seem to always keep a weary eye on him. And there a nervous energy in the air that is way too familiar to be comfortable.
And I didn’t expect to see a bitch today, but here we are.
Tommy ever-so-smartly decides to not speak what's on his mind, instead putting on a service voice and smiling politely. “Haha, I get that all the time. I’m older than I look.”
Really, they should give him a prize. His brain-mouth filter is amazing. He hasn’t cussed out a single customer yet! Well, he’s gotten close a few times (several times) but thankfully most of the customers at the tavern were poggers and didn’t mind.
“If you aren’t going to order any food sir, I’ll be on my way.”
Tommy takes this to be the end of the conversation. But before he can move onto the next customer, the man stops him with a raised finger. The man pauses with a tilt of his head. “Actually, I’d think I’ll like to order after all.”
“Okay then, what would you like?”
He expects an immediate answer, but instead bitch-man just stares at him. His dark brown eyes growing in intensity.
“Your name, first of all,” Tommy freezes. Immediately he wants to punch that smirk off his face. Who just says that kinda stuff? Oh my god. Was he going to report Tommy to a manager, and he just needs to know his name to do that? Tommy can’t get fired! Not on his first day at least. Most of all, by some trench-coat wearing Karen.
Words spill out of his lips before he can stop it. “Didn’t anyone ever teach you it’s rude to ask someone's name before giving your own?”
R.I.P Tommy Innit. Killed by his own mouth.
The air around the two grows tense. A silence stretching between them.
“You…you don’t know my name?” The stranger is incredulous. Eyebrows raised in surprise and mouth slightly gaping. Like that’s the first time someone’s ever asked him that question. Like Tommy should know him.
Tommy did in fact not know him. He's is pretty sure he'd remember a wierdo in a trench coat.
The man leans back with his lips parted in a small o-shape. Then a small smile spreads. “How interesting. You really don’t, do you?”
“Wouldn’t say otherwise if I didn’t know, shithead-” He’s already been rude now, might as well dig the hole even bigger.
Yeah, Tommy’s probably going to lose his job.
“You’re a gremlin, has anyone told you that?” Instead of looking pissed like Tommy expects, he has the gall to look pleased. Like having a teenager be rude to him was the highlight of this man’s week. “My name’s Wilbur. Now that I’ve given my name, is it still rude to ask yours?”
If it gets him to order quicker, Tommy will oblige him just once. He’s got no time to play whatever game Wilbur wants to play. There’s still tables waiting on him. “It’s Tommy.”
“How old are you, Tommy?”
The boy stills. He wasn’t expecting so many questions. And for a second he’s worried Wilbur is from the Esempi. And Dream sent somebody to find me- What is the best course of action- Where’s the nearest exit-
Then, he takes a deep breath.
The likelihood that he’s been found out is small, and Dream, despite his many flaws, was the type of person who did his dirty work himself. The only other two people that would be out looking for him was Sapnap and George, and Tommy knew what they looked like by heart.
A slight shiver crawls up his spine.
He’s fine. Really. “Eighteen. Are you done interrogating me now? People are waiting for their drinks.”
“Okay feral child, you can go back to working.” Wilbur grins with a wave of his hand. Tommy nods then goes back to work. Halfway in step though he pauses and turns back around.
“-Oi! I’m not a child!”
“You are.”
“Am not-!”
Tommy’s first impression of Wilbur is that he’s a total bitch.
. . .
Wilbur comes back.
Almost. Every. Single. Day.
The only difference is that he comes earlier. Right after lunch when Tommy shift just starts. It’s a lull period at the tavern, and sometimes Wilbur is the only customer there.
It’s way too early to start drinking. And the man only orders light foods. If Tommy didn’t know better it was like the man was only there to bother him.
Which makes no fucking sense.
Look- it’s not even like Tommy is trying to be nice anymore. Hell, it’s practically his customary greeting to call Wilbur, “Bitch,” as soon as he walks through the door. Which should not make Wilbur happy . It should make Wilbur want to run far away from him. To get away from the feral teenager who is way more bark than he is bite.
Except the man soaks it all up. Beaming at the insult and responding back with a almost-fond, “Gremlin.”
That’s…that’s…Tommy isn’t even sure how he’s supposed to respond. People aren’t supposed to like him.
Tommy knows fully well what he’s like. He’s loud. Energetic. Abrasive. Doesn’t know when to shut his mouth and stay quiet.
Even through all his years with Dream, he never really learned how to quit talking.
Yet surprisingly, Wilbur comes back again, and again, and again.
Even more surprisingly, Tommy finds he actually doesn’t mind.
It’s kinda nice when Wilbur comes around.
Despite his first impression of him, the dude isn’t the absolute worst. He tells him stories about how he first learned guitar, with the promise of showing Tommy one day.
(And isn’t that startling? That there was a one day. That he would come back.)
However, Wilbur’s favorite thing to talk about is his family. The man could go on for hours about them.
He rants about his brother and his brother’s strange obsession with potatoes, of all things . He talks about how his dad collects anything shiny from bottle caps to golden jewelry. And Tommy finds himself listening to every single detail with rapt attention.
Tommy has never met either of them, but through Wilbur, he vicariously gets to know them.
One day out of the blue, Wilbur offers to take him home to introduce them to each other. But Tommy declines. It isn’t that he doesn’t trust Wilbur-
Well, he takes that back.
He doesn’t.
But not for the reason most would think. Wilbur is- strange to say the least.
Nobody should look at Tommy the way Wilbur does.
Nobody should stare with soft eyes and even gentler words. Nobody should tell him to sit down next to them on slow days, and talk to him for hours. Nobody should ask about his wellbeing each day and buy him a warm drink on bad ones.
But Wilbur does. He keeps doing those things and he doesn’t stop. Doesn’t pull away when he’s been way too loud. Doesn’t lash out.
He keeps wondering when the other shoe is going to drop. When the man is going to demand something from him. There’s no way this affection is for free. It was never free with Dream.
Wilbur certainly can’t think sitting down with some random teen is fun enough to warrant doing it almost every day.
There has to be a catch somewhere.
Except Tommy can’t think of one. The boy has nothing to give. He doesn’t have money, power or any influence. And there’s no way Wilbur can know about Dream. So it can’t be leverage against him-
Look, Tommy doesn’t do friends.
But he can’t help but wonder if this what it’s like to have one.
. . .
It’s not always perfect.
Some days are worse than others.
Sometimes Tommy wakes up with a pleaseDreamdon’thurtmeI’llbegood screaming from his lips. Sometimes he doesn’t have firewood because he likes to keep his apartment a furnace and uses it up too quickly. Sometimes it takes hours to move because he’ll be lost in his mind, behind cold iron bars and a chain around his ankle.
Sometimes work is hell.
Not everybody is like Wilbur. People yell when they don’t get their drinks fast enough. Other grumble about their food. Thankfully, one of the bar keeps, Quackity, puts a stop to the nonsense before it begins.
(After closing with him one particularly nasty night, the man gets jokingly dubbed Big Q by Tommy. And funnily enough, the name sticks. Even regulars at the tavern taking to calling him that. Quackity wears the name like a badge of honor. If it makes something warm settle in Tommy’s stomach well- then that’s for him to know and for nobody else to find out.)
Big Q doesn’t work every night. Drunk brawls happen- And Tommy is the unlucky schmuck who has to break them up and tell them to take it outside.
It’s one of those nights when someone’s punch misses and instead of their opponent getting a black eye- it’s Tommy.
He’s had much, much worse before. It hardly stings. He jokes about it the rest of the night.
It’s kinda hilarious in hindsight.
Wilbur doesn’t find it as funny as he does.
“Oh my god,” He says scrambling up from his seat. He holds Tommy’s face in his hands turning his head back and forth like he’s accessing the damage. “What the hell happened?”
Wilbur’s hands burn against his skin. It’s…it’s been such a long time since someone’s touched him. And it had never been as gentle as this. He wants to tell him to stop. -He wants to tell him to never let go.-
“Work hazards,” Tommy says with a shrug. His skin blazes alight when Wilbur runs his thumb right under the bruise. For a second, his brain short circuits.
No, Tommy didn’t lean into the older’s man hand. It didn’t happen . Big man Tommyinnit didn’t need anyone’s physical affection- thank you very much.
Wilburs face scrunches up in discomfort. His mouth opens and closes, like he wants to say something but is holding himself back. Brown eyes swim in something all too dark and all too familiar.
Dream used to look at him that way too-
Possessive looks that screamed, “Mine, mine, mine.”
Eyes that would wrap around his soul and brand it with eyes and a loopy smile.
The darkness doesn’t stay with Wilbur like it did Dream. Tommy can pretend he doesn’t see it when the glimmer fades away into something more tired. Finally, Wilbur’s eyes slide closed, and the man gives a sigh.
“Please tell me you at least won.”
The grin Tommy gives says it all.
“Feral child,” The man boops his nose and Tommy squawks. All too quickly, he lets go, and Tommy tries to hold back the disappointment that grows in his chest. Then just as sudden, two arms encircle around his shoulders and gently pulls him close. The boy freezes. His entire body turning rigid. Wilbur’s- Wilbur’s hugging him.
(It’s warm. And right. And Tommy feels whole.)
Tommy shouldn’t be greedy. He shouldn’t. But he finds himself leaning into his hold anyways, resting his head against his shoulder and taking a shaky breath. Wilbur’s arms feel like a safe place to stay. Like nobody would be able to touch him as long as he stayed in his gentle hug.
The man draws him even closer and something sparks underneath his skin. He can feel Wilbur draw down and place his chin on the top of his head, completely enveloping him.
It’s nice. It’s so, so nice. Tommy almost wants to cry.
Nobody has ever held Tommy like this. It’s enough to almost completely fall apart in his arms. He doesn’t even realize when he starts shaking. Wilbur runs a hand across his shoulder blades back and forth. A slight hum building in his throat as Tommy presses even further into him, trying to grasp onto the physical contact forever.
But he can’t be greedy. He’ll want too much. Too fast. And Wilbur will leave and never give him a hug again-
Dream always compared him to a fire. That he burned everything he touched by the sheer intensity that Tommy desired. He could never have enough-
Tommy doesn’t want Wilbur to leave.
And it’s a sickening realization
Tommy feels vulnerable.
He feels exposed.
He feels safe.
“There you go,” Wilbur says with a smile in his voice. “Nobody can hurt you when you’re with me sunshine. I’ve got you.”
I’ve got you. The words fill in the hollow space in his chest.
“Clingy,” Tommy laughs. It’s an almost-wet aching thing. Slowly, Tommy draws back and Wilbur reluctantly lets go, his hands slowly dropping to his sides. The man in front of him smiles, and for this moment everything is okay.
Everything is okay.
. . .
The walk to the butchers isn’t a refreshing one. It’s halfway across town, mostly uphill, and you have to wind down multiple streets to reach the shop. The snow piles up near the alleyway its tucked behind, so it’s a sure bet that you’ll leave with wet shoes. And if that wasn’t the worst of it- the butcher (a flamboyant man that goes by H-Bomb) is very talkative. You don’t walk into one of H-Bombs shifts and expect to leave in a timely manner.
Tommy hates going there. Quackity hates going there. Every worker in the tavern hates going there.
They pull straws every few days to see who has to go.
However, Tommy thinks Big Q might be cheating, because the teenager has been stuck with the chore three times in a row now. Big Q says he’s perfectly innocent. But Tommy has seen that man win against dozens of customers in cards without losing once.
Needless to say, it didn’t inspire great feelings in the teen.
Sadly, it was Tommy’s turn to take the trip again. And he curses everybody in the tavern under his breath as he trudges through the shin deep snow.
He borrowed some snow boots before he left, because Prime knows he wasn’t making the journey in his worn-down sneakers. The tavern owner gladly gave him the boots and a giant list of things they needed and sent the boy off with a jaunty wave.
He’s almost to the butcher shop now. The alleyway he needs to turn in is just a few feet ahead. His breathes come out in little white clouds as he brings his shaking hands up to his mouth, trying to warm them. Huffing, he turns the corner and almost trips over someone. Curses almost immediately start flinging towards the stranger, but Tommy holds back when he sees the person in front of him shaking violently.
Sitting in the alley, on a thin blanket sits a teenager. He’s looks to be a head taller than Tommy, with shaggy hair that’s half white and half black. A big black scarf around his neck.
His clothes are rattier than Tommy’s, and that’s saying something.
Tommy was still living out the same three sets of clothes he brought from Esempi. It’s been a while now, and they were starting to appear tattered. He should buy some new ones soon. He had the money to do so. It wasn’t like he was doing too terribly with his work at the tavern.
But he’s very hesitant to spend his money just yet.
This place isn’t permanent, he has to remind himself. It’s still possible he’ll have to flee at any given moment. And more supplies just means a bigger hindrance when the inevitable happens.
(All the money he makes from tips is stashed away under the floorboards of his apartment. It accumulates in his backpack, easy to grab in case he needs to run .)
No matter how bad he wants to stay. He’s not naive enough to think he’ll always be welcome here.
The teenager sitting in front of him is proof enough.
Hybrid.
It’s so obvious this boy holds some type of monster blood in him. The dual-toned hair is a dead giveaway. And if they hair wasn’t a glaring enough sign already, his heritage becomes even more apparent when the boy looks up with mix-matched green and red eyes.
A small vwoop sound leaves the boy’s lips as he continues to shake.
Tommy isn’t a golden-hearted person. He’s selfish, and crude, and is often found wanting. But- he knows what it’s like to be cold. He’s been there in iron bars and cold concrete. To be shaking and freezing and craving any type of warmth.
His jacket is off and flung at the boys face before he can even process his actions.
“Look, I’m just letting you borrow it alright?” Tommy says as he feels heat travel up the back of his neck. “So you can piss off with your pitiful looks and even sadder noises- and no- don’t look at me like that-”
The other boy had successfully untangled his face from the article of clothing, looking up at Tommy like he had never seen a person before.
A tiny muffled “Thank you,” is heard.
“Well, it’s cold, innit?” Tommy asks before turning back to the butcher shop and going back to his duties. He did his good deed of the year, but if he didn’t get the tavern’s order than he’d have more pressing issues than just losing his jacket.
He walks into the shop unknowing of the eyes following him and the scratching noise of somebody writing in a notebook.
. . .
Quackity shines one of the beer glasses in front of him, watching his reflection in its tall glass. Smiling at his work, he puts it down just as the door to the tavern opens. “Welcome in-”
He looks up mid-greeting and instantly lets out a laugh. “Oh my god-! What is that?”
The boy in front of him is covered in feathers and snow, making a weird picture of white. His jacket is missing. Which was odd. Quackity specifically remembers making him put one on before he left- However, the best part of the boy in front of him was that in his arms is a very small, white chicken. “I went to H-Bombs.”
“Tommy, you know when we usually send people’s to the butchers, we expect the animals usually not alive?” The owner calls out with a smile from behind the bar.
“You can’t kill her!” Tommy exclaims holding the chicken even closer to his chest. It lets out a very loud ‘ cluck.’ “She’s my child-!”
“I am so confused,” The owner says with a twitch in his eye. “Do you have the actual dead meat?”
“Oh yeah, I got that too,” Tommy nods his head. In his other hand, he holds up a sack. As he walks by the owner he throws it onto the bar, making a large thud. Immediately he makes his way to Quackity. “Big Q! Look at her, isn’t she beautiful?”
“She’s very beautiful Tommy,” Quackity says with a smile. Gosh, this kid was insane. Not that Quackity would have him any other way. Ever since he appeared in the tavern, Tommy has been a whirlwind. It was the breath of life this old dump needed, if you asked for Big Q’s personal opinion.
“She’s my daughter now ya know?” Tommy says with a very sagely look. “I named her Hetta.”
“Hetta?” Quackity asks as Tommy holds the chicken closer. Cradling her to his chest like she’s the most precious thing he’s ever seen.
“I saved her from H-Bomb. He was going to kill her, ya know? And she’s not big like the other chickens. She wouldn’t make a good meal. So I said to myself, she looks much more like a house chicken to me. ”
“You ain’t keepin’ that thing at the apartment.” The tavern owner scoffs from around the corner.
“Awwwwwwww, come on,” Tommy whines. “I’ll feed her, water her, and take her for walks-”
“She ain’t a dog.” The tavern owner responds, coming around to finally face the boy. He points a spoon at his face. “You can’t keep a chicken, and that’s final!”
“Oh alrighty then, I guess there’s room here-”
“You ain’t keepin’ her at the tavern either!”
“Then where am I supposed to keep her? I can’t keep her outside in the cold!”
“Shoulda thought about tha’ when you chicken-napped her then huh?” The owner said leaving the conversation.
Tommy becomes crestfallen. It’s the saddest Quackity has ever seen him. His big blue eyes are wide, his lips twist up into a small pout, and then the boy turns directly towards him. Oh no, those puppy-dog eyes aren’t going to work on me.
He knew exactly what Tommy was doing, and he didn’t like it one bit!
“No, absolutely not!” Quackity says. If anything, Tommy’s eyes get even wider.
“Big Q, biggest of all men, the only man ever!” Tommy says holding Hetta up eye level, and Quackity has to admit, it is a very cute chicken. It’s eyes seem to mimic Tommy’s sadness as it stares into Quackity’s soul. Quietly, it lets out a small miserable, pathetic warble.
Fuck, his willpower is crumbling.
“No means no Tommy!” Tommy tilts his head to the side. Pity crawls up Big Q’s spine. No, don’t feel sorry for them! They know what they’re doing! They’re schemers!
“What would I even feed her?” Quackity thinks out loud. That was a mistake. Tommy lights up almost immediately.
“She eats only the finest grass seed. Come on Big Q! I’ll give you a part of my paycheck to buy her food.” Hetta flutters her wings in Tommy’s hold.
“There is no way in hell I’m bringing a chicken home-”
. . .
Karl’s sitting at home reading a book when he hears a knock on the door. He sighs as pulls a blanket over his shoulders, wrapping it around himself like a robe. He drags his feet as he goes to open up the door.
Immediately his reluctance turns to laughter.
His boyfriend stands in the snow with a scarf around his neck and a small chicken in his arms. “Oh my-” Laughter ensues, “Oh my god, what’s with the chicken?”
“I’m weak Karl-” The man in front of him sounds more broken than Karl’s ever heard him. “I’m weak!”
. . .
Time passes faster than the teenager can notice.
A few days turn into a few weeks. And sure enough Tommy has been in the Antarctic Empire for almost three months.
It’s kind of hard to believe he didn’t always live here. Last winter he lived in a completely different world. And world where he didn’t know everyone at the tavern. Where he didn’t talk long hours with Wilbur or spend the nights after close with Big Q.
He didn’t know how he managed to survive it. (He couldn’t go back. Not now. Not ever.)
But at the same time, along with the freedom came fear.
This can all be taken away. One day he can wake up to a knock on the door. Could open it to see his worst nightmare dressed in a green hoodie and a smiling mask. Dream made Tommy break when he thought about running before. He hadn’t been able to move for days. Now that he’s actually done it, Tommy would be brought to shatter.
When he lays in bed at night Tommy whispers to himself. He has no clue that I’ve even left the Esempi. Much less that I moved countries. I didn’t even use my real name on the lease agreement- Dream can’t find me. Dream can’t find me. Dream can’t find me.
The fear doesn’t dwindle.
On his off days, he works to make his apartment a little more livable.
It takes pressure off of his thoughts. He can get lost in the mundane routine of cleaning. Instead of thinking about other things. He can think of future plans and his to-do list that only gets longer no matter how much he finishes.
The cracks in the window had been filled in a few weeks ago, the fireplace is stocked with firewood and through trading he finally managed to acquire a mattress on the floor and a small coffee table near the corner.
For the first time ever Tommy finally has something resembling a home.
“It’s not permanent,” He stops and whispers to himself. Because this can’t be home.
Tommy is used to cold stone, iron bars, and too narrow windows.
Dream used to say he’d never be able to survive on his own. When Tommy was too bruised and battered to move, the man would sit down and run his hand through Tommy’s greasy hair. He would hum a song as Tommy withered away silently.
“You can’t live without me, remember that.”
. . .
A little drop of polish and cold water can only go so far, but Tommy’s manages to get most of the floorboards to a slight sheen. The back of his brain trills when he sees his reflection staring back at him on one good floorboard. He throws the rag into the bucket and grimaces at his wrinkly, pruned fingers. Ew.
He looks the window and notices the sun is only halfway through the sky. He’d need to hurry if he wanted to stop by the market.
The days are a lot shorter here than the Esempi. There it’s almost always long summer days with much shorter, luke-warm winters.
Here time seems to pass with a blink.
I don’t want to have to go outside, the boy internally groans.
Tommy doesn’t leave his apartment much. Cold temperatures and him have been enemies since the day he was born. Staying inside next to the fire sounded rather poggers. He could lay in his blankets, surrounded by things that are soft, and cozy, and most importantly warm.
Sadly though that won’t restock his empty pantry-
He grimaces at the threadbare boots by the door. He needs to get actual winter gear. His clothes might have made it in the Esempi, but they weren’t prepared for trekking through the snow. Tommy daydreams of boots that can withstand feet of ice without soaking through the sole and a jacket that won’t let every winter wind blow through it.
Maybe soon, but not today.
He’s sure he can manage with what he has.
A lil’ cold never killed anyone right?
. . .
Tommy was wrong.
He was so, so wrong. This had never been a time that Big Man Tommy Innit had been more wrong than he is now.
The cold could definitely kill him.
Actually, he was pretty sure he was already on his way to dying.
He stumbles into his apartment from the snow. The sun long gone and the wind trying to blow the door open even as he slams it. There’s snow in his hair, in his shoes, in every part of his clothing. Suddenly it’s too much. All too much. Flinging his shoes off, he pull his shirt over his head and hobbles closer to his hearth. Curses spill through his lips as he realizes that he didn’t put any wood in before he left. He should have thought of that! Why didn’t he think of that?!
His body shakes as he fumbles and shuffles enough logs for a decent enough fire. Grabbing the matches, he picks one up and tries to strike it against the side. It falls through his fingers instantly, clattering to the floor.
Okay, fuck it, he’ll try another one.
He grabs another match and strikes it to the side, this one breaks in half. Tears prick in the corner of his eyes.
The third try doesn’t break but it just. Won’t. Light.
Please light.
Please.
Please.
Finally a small flame kindles at the end of his match, and Tommy’s whole body slumps with relief.
Carefully, the most careful he’s ever been, he sets the kindling on fire. It takes an eternity for the small spark to spread to the rest of the logs. By the time he has a roaring fire, Tommy is pretty sure his skin is stuck to the cold flooring below him.
Tommy shivers next to his fireplace, keeping his hands as close to the flames as he can. The freezing temperatures had infiltrated bone-deep under his skin. Tremors run through his entire body, and Tommy tries to grit his teeth to keep them from chattering.
Why did he think going out into the cold was a good idea?
“You don’t think Tommy!” Dream hissed, slamming the iron bars open as he stormed inside Tommy’s cell. “That’s always been you’re problem! You don’t think-!”
A small warble comes out of his throat. Turning, he looks around the apartment. There’s nobody here. Like the day since he moved in, he’s alone. Surely, no one would see him if he just-
Critically eyeing the fireplace, he bites his lip. He couldn’t-
But he could.
Dream isn’t here to stop him. Not anymore.
A sigh passes his lips as he feels his willpower crumble. Looking back into the fireplace, he reaches forward and sticks his hands directly in the flames. The fire licks at his fingers, crawling up his arm, greeting him like an old friend.
And he’s home.
. . .
Wilbur Soot almost skips as he heads down the main street of the city. He hums underneath his breath, pulling his scarf a little higher up his chin. Silently hoping nobody recognizes him before he can get to the tavern to see his sunshine.
His little golden-haired boy.
And he was a boy. No way in hell was he over eighteen like he claimed. The oldest Wilbur would guess is sixteen at the highest.
He shouldn’t even be working! Wilbur seethes internally. Much less at a bar.
But in a way, he should be thankful. If the shitty tavern owner didn’t illegally hire him, Wilbur would have never met Tommy. And the thought of that makes Wilbur’s mood crumble slightly.
When he first started talking to Tommy it was just out of curiosity.
There was a desire to know more about the boy who had no clue who Wilbur was. He spoke with an Esempi accent and was brash and loud. Anybody would be slightly curious.
But then he was funny. He laughed at Wilbur’s joke, and Wilbur laughed at his. He was charming in the abrasive, little brother type of way. Wilbur and Tommy just clicked. The boy captured a place in Wilbur’s heart. And before Wilbur even knew what happened Tommy was his.
The day Wilbur saw that bruise adorning his gremlin’s eye. Red clouded his vision. ( Who dared to hurt him? Who thought they could touch something of his and not pay?) He almost stole the boy right there. He would feel so much better once he had gotten his sunshine in somewhere warm and soft and safe.
But no- patience.
He couldn't spirit him away yet. Not when it would only scare him. Wilbur has been waiting almost three months to take Tommy home. He could wait a few more.
There’s a reason he hadn’t told Phil yet. Afraid the man will just snatch the boy immediately and ruin all of Wilbur’s progress.
He just had gotten Tommy to the point where he could touch him without him flinching. (And wasn’t that a terrible thought, to know somebody must have hurt him previously.) If Phil snatched him up, his little sunshine might grow to resent him.
And well- he couldn’t have his father undoing all his hard work, now could he?
If he just wanted to spend more time with Tommy alone. Well, nobody needed to know that.
It was getting harder to keep him a secret though. For the past few months he had been missing meetings (nonessential ones if you asked him) and wasn’t in the nest as much as he should be. He now even had Technoblade, of all people, asking him where he was going each day.
But it’s not like he could just tell them.
Piglins and avians were both notoriously protective of who they allowed in their sounders and flocks respectively. And even though Wilbur was absolutely smitten with Tommy being his new baby brother, he wasn’t quite sure how Phil or Techno would take to the idea quite yet.
He needed an idea to get them close enough to Tommy to warm up to him. It had to be a cautious approach. They wouldn’t want to encroach too quickly on his boundaries. But it still had to be familiar enough that the two parties would slowly get to know each other.
It was the tightrope act of the decade. But, Wilbur had hope it would work out.
(Even if he had to force all three of the into a locked room and throw away the key.)
Wilbur brightens when the sign for the “Ye Olde Pube” comes in sight. The bell above the door chimes as he walks in. Instantly the heat of the tavern warms his cold cheeks and he smiles as he scans the inside for his future little brother.
Except his sunshine isn’t there.
Huh. Wilbur looks at the clock against the far wall. Is Wilbur too early? He sits in his usual booth anyways. The tavern around him is filled with noise. It’s unusually busy for a morning, with breakfast being served all around. It looks like Quackity is the only waiter, but the man doesn’t even look stressed.
In fact, he appears in his element, flashing smiles, bringing water, and delivering food. Wilbur realizes that he hasn’t seen Big Q serving since Tommy came here, he had always been stuck in the kitchen or the bar.
When he finally arrives, Wilbur tries not to be annoyed. Don’t get him wrong, he likes Quackity. They had been friends for a while, even before he started coming to the tavern. What he didn’t like was how close he and his future little brother were getting. But then again, he had always been a jealous man.
“Big Q,” Wilbur acknowledges. “Is it the gremlin’s day off?”
Please say it is. His stomach churns thinking about otherwise.
The duck hybrid in front of him sighs. “It sure as hell isn’t! Figures the day he sleeps in is the day we’re absolutely slammed. I would go check up on him, but as you can see, I have my hands full.”
Wilbur humms. “Does he live close to the tavern?”
“Oh, you didn’t know? He lives in the apartment behind here.” Quackity sounds slightly surprised. “Kid’s got the easiest commute in the world.”
Wilbur pauses. He doesn’t remember seeing an apartment behind the tavern. There’s only the storage shed and an alleyway that cuts out to the main street. “Behind the tavern?”
“Yeah, you can’t miss it.” Quackity confirms, then after a seconds pause, gains a concerned look. “Can you do me a favor and check up on him? The kid’s never missed a shift before. He’s never even be late.”
“Yeah sure, I was thinking about going anyways.” Wilbur gets up. There’s no point in ordering food if a blonde teenager isn’t delivering it anyways. He gives a two finger wave to Quackity while leaving.
Immediately his bones ache for the warmth of the tavern, but he had more pressing issues. His steps are hurried as he walks behind the building looking for the apartment Big Q is talking about. But he doesn’t see one. All he see is a storage shed-
And that is a storage shed…right?
No, it can’t possibly be where Tommy lives. There’s no way he could live in something so small and run-down-
But there aren’t any other buildings behind the tavern.
Wilbur's veins turn to ice.
Has the gremlin been living here for the past three months?!
This was barely good enough for a pet, much less a teenager. There was no lawn to spread his legs, no room to run around. Wilbur tries to imagine the lanky teenager walking here after work each night. His heart shatters.
Fuck patience.
The gremlin was coming home with him tonight.
There was no way Wilbur was going to let his sunshine stay in this dump for a day longer.
Striding up to the door, Wilbur pauses before he knocks. Tommy had never invited him over before. He didn’t even know Wilbur was coming. An inch of nervousness crawls into his stomach. Would his sunshine be happy he’s over? Would he mind?
His face screws up into a thoughtful look, before he whispers, “Fuck it,” and knocks anyways.
No response.
Maybe Wilbur was right and this is a storage shed, and he’s just here knocking on an empty building. How embarrassing would that be?
He knocks again.
Silence. Wilbur turns on his heel to leave but as he takes a step- he hears it.
A slight murmur comes from inside the door. Instantly Wilbur is back where he was.
“Tommy? Are you there?” Wilbur asks wishing nothing more than just barge in. “It’s me Wilbur.”
Another murmur is heard. Wilbur can’t quite make it out, but he could be saying “Come in,” right? After all, if Wilbur didn’t understand him then that isn’t really his fault when he waltzed in- Really if anything Tommy should be more clear.
“I’m coming in,” Wilbur announces, turning the door knob. It’s surprising that it’s unlocked but Wilbur is thankful nonetheless.
Striding in, Wilbur’s eyes scan the apartment, taking note of everything with displeasure. His heart clenches when he sees the bare mattress lying on the floor. Thankfully the kid had two decent blankets but Wilbur couldn’t see a pillow in sight. The only other furniture in the room was a small kitchenette and a coffee table pushed into the corner. He looks at the fireplace by the far wall-
Then his world stops.
“Tommy!” He yells running over and dropping to his knees.
Slumped against the wall, the boy lies completely still. Immediately Wilbur checks his pulse. Placing his fingers against his throat, he lets out a sigh of relief. Oh thank god, there’s a pulse!
When he places a hand against his forehead, he hisses. “You’re burning up!”
There is no way someone should be running this high right? Wilbur feels like he almost burned his hand just touching his skin! Crouching onto his knees, Wilbur puts one arms under Tommy’s knees and the other under his shoulders.
It isn’t an effortless carry.
There’s a lot of shifting and moving him around. Half-way to carrying him to his bed he nearly drops the kid. Thankfully his training is good for one thing though, because he finally lays the kid on his mattress across the room. He draws the blankets up to his chin.
By this time, he’s jostled the teen enough to wake him up.
He cracks open his blue eyes and lets out a small whine. “Wilby?”
Wilbur’s heart squeezes.
“Yeah it’s me. It’s your big brother. It’s Wilby.” He brushes the hair out of his sunshine’s face. “How are you feeling?”
“Like I’ve been run over by a cart-” Tommy says and then breaks out into a series of coughs. He turns onto his side, hacking into his elbow. Wilbur helplessly rubs circles along his back.
“Being sick tends to feel like that,” Wilbur grimaces at the boy’s nasally breaths.
“I didn’t mean to- I’m sorry,” Tommy says and Wilbur instantly shushes him.
“Oh sundrop, there’s no need ot be sorry. You can’t help these things.” Who told this kid he had to be sorry for being sick?
Not for the first time, Wilbur wants to find out who did this to Tommy. The knife hidden in his boot feels heavy, aching for his hand. Whoever made him like this wasn’t going to forget it. Yes, Wilbur was going to make that person pay dearly.
Nobody hurts his sunshine and gets away with it. Once he had Techno onboard too, he could make a hunt out of it. His brother was very fond of summoning withers. Perhaps putting Tommy’s abuser in a pit with one and seeing his body slowly decay would help him learn to keep his hands to himself.
He runs a hand over his sunshine’s forehead once more and gives a small smile.
For now, he has to protect and take care of his little brother.
But Wilbur is good at patience. Like how he waited for months to take Tommy home, he knows how to play the long game. He knows when it was time to pick his battles and when it's time prepare. Yes, he has a plan.
All he had to do is wait.