Archive of Our Own ^beta

The pathetic truth is, Tommy isn’t new to letting Techno down.

At some point, he learned that it just comes with the territory of being the little brother that aged the older one.

With ten years in a small, one-bedroom flat — no parents, just Tommy and Techno and a burden so heavy, bearing down on them like a festering storm. With nothing to do but dance around that storm and pretend like it hadn’t hit the shores ages ago, that they weren’t sliding and stumbling over ruined sand and waterlogged beaches.

Hell, Tommy’s shortcomings practically cover every surface of their tiny flat:

The lumpy sofa that Techno always takes, because it isn’t enough that Tommy take Techno’s aspirations and dreams and the rest of his life away from him, he has to have the sole bedroom too—

The coat hook where Techno’s blue Enforcer jacket always hangs next to Tommy’s charity shop sweaters, because hunting vigilantes is the only way Techno can keep a roof over their heads and food on Tommy’s plate, because the police were the only ones who looked Techno’s way when Tommy was demoted from little brother to Techno’s sole responsibility (to the worst thing to ever happen to him.)

The shoebox under Tommy’s bed crammed with Tommy’s biggest secret, with his unforgivable betrayal, wrapped in red and black fabric and boots a size too small for him now.

Even the very walls carry echoes of Tommy’s failures: puncture holes in the drywall and scuff marks in the shape of Tommy’s clumsy elbows and fists, because it wasn’t enough that he had to develop superpowers behind Techno’s back: Tommy just had to fail to control them too.

So Tommy isn’t new to letting Techno down.

But as he stands (limps) haloed by silvery sheets of rain from the torrent of an actual storm, cloaked in blood and a ripped mask and a low-dawning horror and the accusatory beam of Techno’s police-grade flashlight—

Tommy’s heart threatens to give out.

He was never supposed to disappoint Techno like this.

—

Tommy doesn’t expect superpowers to come with better eyesight, and he’s almost sad to see his glasses go.

It’s his one tie to Techno: their mutually awful vision. One of his fondest memories is painted in the too-bright light of the eye clinic, his hands shoving the ugliest frames at Techno’s face and laughing when Techno’s face twisted in annoyance.

They’d settled on two plain frames — the only ones Techno could afford — and though Tommy wasn’t a fan of the glasses themselves, he liked being able to stand next to Techno in the mirror and think, Hi, big brother.

(It isn’t often Tommy can do that. Not when Techno’s hair is long and pink to his short and blonde, or his eyes warm and brown to Tommy’s glacial and blue, strong and sturdy to Tommy’s tall and lanky.)

(Kind and selfless to Tommy’s leech-some and needy.)

It’s with a prickling sense of solemness that Tommy starts leaving his glasses on his bedside table and stops picking them back up. He doesn’t expect Techno to notice so fast, as much of a whirlwind of chaos their mornings tend to be. A lot of moments are lost in the chaos of their conflicting schedules (patrol and school versus work and more work.) But—

“Hold on a sec, kid. Where’s your glasses?”

He taps Tommy’s nose. Tommy pauses in the doorway, a nervous laugh bubbling out of him. He grips his backpack harder. “Uh, actually, I think I’m done with them.”

Techno’s face flattens.

“...You are.” When Tommy nods hesitantly, Techno’s brows narrow. “Really?” Tommy nods again, swallowing. Techno finally steps back. “You know that’s not how that works, right?”

Tommy can’t give him the cipher that would let him understand why it actually does. Instead, he wets his lips and plays the role of selfish little brother and tries not to think about why Techno accepts that so quickly. It’s a role he always plays too well.

“Yeah, I– I lied about not being able to see and shit. My vision is fine.”

His gut instantly clenches at the lie. And at the minute ripple of shock that bursts across Techno’s face. “You know how much those cost me, right?”

It’s not a guilt trip. Techno is never guilt tripping him when he tells Tommy about all the expensive things of taking care of a kid in a way that brothers aren’t supposed to have to. It’s more like he’s a dam of tension leaking out after so long of containing, and Tommy is happy to field the damage.

Tommy turns his face to the side, wishing his skin wasn’t burning with shame. “Yeah, well. Now you’ll have more money, so.”

He doesn’t say: Which I’ll probably need for my bigger appetite, now. Or: which I’ll probably waste on all the clothes I tear up on patrols.

Instead, he leaves Techno before his answer can find him, and avoids any mirrors on his way out. He doesn’t want to see their faces next to each other with new evidence that they’re looking less and less like brothers every day.

—

He gets cocky.

It’s too easy to slip on his costume and slip out into the night when Techno works such long hours. It’s too tempting to leave the suffocating vice of their flat, the cold walls that only serve to amplify Tommy’s fears back at him.

You’re too much for him. You’re not enough for him.

When he’s Blade, he’s not Tommy. He’s not the little kid that put Techno’s life on hold. He’s not the reason Techno’s shoulders grow ever-wearier, his face ever-stonier. He’s not the root of all destruction.

He’s a vigilante, a halfway hero. He’s doing good. And there’s not an ounce of good in Tommy. Just Blade. Only Blade. It’s why he picked his name based on the best person he knows.

It’s freedom, and it’s a lot of lying. Mainly to Techno, but also to himself: Techno would be proud of me, if he knew.

Ultimately, it’s too euphoric to stop.

—

Sometimes Tommy thinks about the fact that his new role in Techno’s life has shifted to conflict of interest.

Sometimes, he’s extra quiet over dinner tables. It’s usually after days that Techno has made a big arrest, stopped a big small-time vigi, and how they eat a little better on those days — a small bonus for every (person like him) vigilante Techno puts behind bars.

On those nights, Techno fills the silence with low, rumbling stories of his shifts that Tommy thinks are meant to comfort him in a This is what I’ll do to keep dinner on our plates kind of way.

Sometimes, it works.

Sometimes, Tommy thinks about Blade and wonders how nice of a dinner his arrest could give Techno.

—

He thinks when he’s not at home, too. Patrols give him too much time for it — a good thing, probably, since more time to think equals less crime in the streets. But it doesn't feel like a good thing when the poison starts to creep into his head.

When he hangs over rooftops during hours of peace, when he wonders what Techno would do if he captured Blade — the only vigilante who’s consistently managed to give Techno’s department the slip. If he rushed home with Tommy’s favorite takeout in his hands and found the flat empty and barren.

Would he be horrified? Relieved? Would he be proud? Of Tommy or of himself?

That’s usually when Tommy stops thinking about that.

—

“Techno.”

The rain nearly swallows up the shaky rasp of his voice, but Tommy can tell Techno hears it. In painful clarity, only slightly blurred by the storm, Tommy watches Techno’s shoulders brace, hears his breath hitch. Like Tommy saying his name is breaking him. Like the confirmation that he’s not hallucinating Tommy’s existence is his destruction.

The flashlight beam, anchored over Tommy’s face, wavers with every disbelieving shake of Techno’s head.

“No.”

There’s a bullet hole the size of a golf ball in Tommy’s ribs. It hurts less than Techno’s reaction. Anything would.

“Not you,” Techno breathes, pleads to himself, face so heavy. “You don’t get to do this to me.”

If the rain hadn’t numbed him to the bone already, this would. Still, the conscious part of Tommy, the nerves that are able to register Techno just shot me, he didn’t know it was me but he shot me, he would've done it again— has him dropping down onto one knee, giving in to the agony shuddering over his hip.

Tommy hangs his head, breathing in hard. It doesn’t do him any good. He’s already taken off his mask. Techno has already appeared around the corner from out of nowhere. The gun has already gone off. Techno has already seen his face.

The damage is done. But Tommy’s always been too good at clinging to things he shouldn’t (like weary older brothers who probably just want a break.) Denial becomes his latest victim.

Tommy swallows and lifts his head. Faces his brother like the hero he’s supposed to be.

“I had to,” Tommy breathes, “I had— it’s about power, Techno—”

A whine of pain has him cutting off, head dropping down again. The hand not clutching his crumpled, torn mask spasms over his ribs, pressing shakily over the gunshot there. He’s trying to hold the blood in as much as his bleeding, weeping heart.

He’s saying it wrong, quoting it wrong; all the words are coming out in rapid, coppery bursts, all lopsided and clumsy. Tommy has to swallow. Rearrange his wavering heart into functioning pieces.

“I had the powers, so it was my responsibility to use them for good.”

It occurs to him, belatedly, through his slowing, pain-addled thoughts, that maybe the reason he can’t give Techno a good reason is because he doesn’t have one. Tommy just wanted to be someone else. Someone who could make Techno proud for once.

Techno laughs.

It’s not— it’s not his usual laugh. The one shared on long, exhausted nights over the dinner table, after Tommy stayed up to make sure that Techno got home okay, even if it meant his food went cold ages ago. It’s not high pitched and free and warm. It’s not the kind of laugh that makes Tommy’s heart swell with pride: I made him laugh. Maybe I’m okay at this little-brother thing.

It’s choked, and ragged, and with those wild, unfocused eyes of his, like he’s crumbling apart at the seams—

It’s the kind of laugh that makes Tommy feel dead.

“Responsibilities?” Techno laughs, voice rough with derision. Choked, even. “Oh, that’s rich, kid, comin’ from you.”

Tommy inches back, shoulders curling. Techno’s flashlight, riveted on his face, his exposed face, doesn’t let him slink into the shadows. Every part of him is on full display, every stupid, broken fragment.

“Techno—”

Techno drifts forward, the rain steaming as it clashes with the fire practically radiating off of his stiff posture. “You think I don’t know about responsibilities? What do you think my life is, huh?” He shakes his head, scoffing to himself. “Because let me tell you, I don’t take care of you for fun.”

“Techno,” Tommy wobbles, “please, I…”

He doesn’t know what he’s begging for.

Hear me out, maybe, except that seems shallow to beg for when what his heart really wants is for Techno to stop altogether.

Don’t say it. Don’t make my fears real.

Techno shakes his head. He's breathing fast. Really, really fast.

“This isn’t a necessary evil, Tommy, this is— do you have any clue how dangerous this is?”

Tommy does. He does. There’s a bullet in his ribs to prove it.

Tommy bites his lip to contain his next words from spilling over, breaking that silent command. All he can taste is salt and metal and sour regret, but if Techno wants silence, he can give him that. He can give him that.

(And if Tommy’s too weak to obey, the gunshot wound sapping his strength and life will make sure he follows through.)

“All night, Tommy. I’m out here all night, every night, just tryin’ to make sure we have a warm place to live, prayin’ that I’m doin’ enough to keep you safe, and this entire time you’ve been— you’ve been…”

He wets his lips, exhaling another rotten laugh. It’s clear the derision is at himself this time, but it burns Tommy all the same.

Techno can’t make himself say it. Tommy can’t summon an excuse to his lips, not when it’ll probably just lead him to coughing up more blood, or worse, some other stupid plea that Techno doesn’t deserve to hear.

“I’m sorry, Techno. I’m so sorry.”

For this. For everything. For not being better and for trying to be better than he is.

Techno swallows. The shadows curl around them, draping everything in darkness except Tommy’s lighthouse of an older brother. Tommy can’t tell if the reason Techno is so distorted is from his tears or the rain or his dwindling energy or the shards of light splitting off from the million droplets of rain.

But it takes everything in him to keep his gaze ahead, his attention narrowed on him. He has to grit his teeth to stifle a wince, and more warm blood gushes between his shuddering fingertips.

Techno flinches. The hand holding his flashlight… falters.

Tommy’s lips tremble as he watches Techno’s shoulders fall, the same way he does when he gets home from work (from this) and flops down tiredly on the couch where Tommy can easily cling to him. Like all the pressure in the world is weighted there, but for a moment, he is light.

“Kid, I…”

Low. Gruff. Defeated.

Tommy’s most dangerous fantasy doesn’t seem so out of reach now.

Techno takes one staggering step forward. Then another. The crunching of his boots is the only thing Tommy can hear over the ringing of his heart and the jagged staccato of his breaths. He squeezes his eyes shut, spine locked and chest heaving.

Techno’s shadow closes around him like an embrace as Techno kneels in front of him.

Tommy opens his eyes. He can’t read the expression on Techno’s face. All the emotion is pulled back, shuttered away like it usually is, perfectly primed and empty so that Techno can face all of the bad things, the worst storms, and Tommy doesn’t have to bear any of it.

Tommy doesn’t shy away from him.

“Tommy,” he gruffs, low low low.

But… gentle?

Techno raises a hand. A voice in Tommy’s head tells him to flinch. He knows what Techno can do. He’s heard most of the stories, seen the hauntedness it leaves on Techno. But even with a hole in his side, aching and begging him to run, Tommy knows.

Techno would never hurt him. He might hurt Blade, might shoot without thinking, because that’s what he’s paid to do. But under the mask, Tommy is still his little brother. That means something.

Techno cups his face with hands that have only ever treated him gently, and Tommy breaks.

He loses the war on the sobs he’s holding back. They tumble out of him messily and childishly and without pause. Tommy lets them. It’s too much to be strong and to not cry while doing it. He’s still bleeding. He hurts.

Everything hurts so bad but Techno’s here, Techno is holding him, sort of, and everything will be okay.

Tommy leans into his steady grasp. Techno doesn’t move — not to embrace him, but not to reject him, and that’s enough. He can barely keep his eyes open anyway.

Maybe he shouldn’t.

But like it or not, Techno has always been Tommy’s anchor. That weight that keeps him in place, from drifting too far. Protected and safe under that endless storm. The crutch Tommy always goes to when things get so wrong.

(And I was his, Tommy thinks bitterly. His anchor. Except he only kept Techno in place, held down from calm seas and better things.)

“I’m sorry,” Tommy whispers through sobs. “I’m sorry.”

“Tommy.”

Tommy looks up. He’s just lucid enough to wonder how ruined he looks right now. What does Techno see?

The same tears he’s brushed away a million times? The same fears he’s crushed in the palm of his hand like they were nothing? The same little brother that really isn’t so different behind the mask?

Tommy will never know what Techno sees. Not because he’s too far gone, though that’s part of it. Not because Techno doesn’t show him.

But because Tommy only has one second to process as Techno pulls his hand away from his teary face—

And uses the other to click the handcuff around Tommy’s right wrist.

Tommy jerks back, fear sending sputtering bursts of energy into his aching limbs just enough to let him scramble back. He doesn’t make it far, Techno’s grip around the cuff chain holding him hostage— a restriction he could easily break away from if it wasn’t Techno holding him. That’s what keeps him stuck, stunned, suspended between two planes of existence.

That, and the crushing weight of horrific betrayal spiralling through Tommy’s chest.

“No, Techno, please—”

Techno doesn't look him in the eye.

“You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say—”

Tommy stops being able to hear after that. On some level, he registers Techno’s mouth moving. But all he can do is stare at the icy expression on Techno’s face and wonder how he ever could’ve confused that for love.

“Don’t do this,” Tommy begs, as Techno grabs for his other wrist, still leveled over his wound. “Techno, don’t.”

Techno falters over the words for just one moment, anything you say can and will be— but that disconnected determination seals off whatever regret might attempt to form there. Tommy’s heart is a chunk of ice in his chest. Oil squirms into his stomach, turning his blood to liquid dread.

He’s going to throw up.

He should’ve listened to the gunshot wound.

“Just come quietly, Tommy,” come the first words of Techno’s that make it through the haze consuming Tommy’s head. “Make it easy.”

Make it easy.

The already-splintered parts of Tommy are quickly ground to dust. At least he feels it.

Tommy grits his teeth and rips away with one handcuff dangling from his wrist. Techno’s eyes widen, hand floating to his side, where the gun is holstered—

Tommy doesn’t think.

He can’t afford to think. There’s a roaring in his ears, a ringing and a rushing, a torrent, and all Tommy is is a living amalgamation of pain and instincts and grief. He wrenches to his feet, limping backwards out of Techno’s reach.

The dark alleyway whirls and swirls around him, becoming more distorted by the second. The ephemeral warmth of safety has vanished, leaving him panicked and chilled to the bone. He needs to leave. Tommy needs to get away, and he needs to find another way to stitch up the aching wound in him (not his heart, the other one), and he needs to learn what safety means when it’s not just Techno.

Techno grits his jaw, and lunges.

Tommy’s head spins as he lurches back. He shoves Techno away as gently as he can manage in his scattered state, but his super strength still puts several meters between them. Tommy heaves as he wracks his brain for an idea.

He’s not real. This isn’t real. It can’t be.

It is.

The fight from there is sloppy and barely a fight at all. It’s a messy dance between two broken people trying to see who bends first. Tommy drifts through it, acting only on instinct. He counts each second by the pulse of his racing heart in his ears, making sure to note the rapid decline of his strength.

Techno doesn’t go for his gun again. Tommy doesn’t know whether to be relieved or terrified. Because Techno doesn’t go for a gun, but he still uses every ounce of his training to robotically herd Tommy to the edge of the alleyway.

(Each time Tommy tries to glance in his eyes, to convince himself that this is the same Techno who holds him through each nightmare and every scrape, all he sees is unfeeling brown. No affection. No anger. Nothing at all.)

And then—

It’s an accident. He’s just trying to nudge him away, but Tommy’s clumsy hand knocks Techno's radio from his holster. The wired earpiece, snaked behind Techno’s ear, goes with it, popping out of the device with a click. Voices fill the night in a crackly, staticky rhythm.

“We’re almost there, Techno. Just keep him occupied.”

Tommy freezes. Even Techno stills, eyes flashing with the first emotion Tommy has seen since the world ended: something like bitter regret.

“Tommy,” Techno breathes, “Tommy, wait—”

It’s then that Tommy remembers:

Techno may have caught him by surprise, but Enforcers don’t travel alone.

Tommy rips himself free of his mental constraints. Whatever thin bridge he thought he and Techno still had shatters. This time, from Tommy’s hand.

It’s dirty.

Months ago, a vigilante put Techno in the hospital. Tommy doesn’t remember most of that night because of how damn scared he’d been. Techno’s coworkers, fellow Enforcers, could only offer him tense smiles and lame pity as he was ushered, disconsolate, to the hospital room.

It was Techno who ended up having to comfort him.

Techno in a hospital room, leg wrapped up in a neat cast from his calf to his upper thigh. Even injured, Techno pushed aside his own horror and pain to pull Tommy out of his own head where he’d fallen, scared and mute and just like a little kid.

“They just got the jump on me,” he assured him, pulling Tommy into the bed with him, no doubt breaking a million rules. Techno only grimaced a little as Tommy jostled his leg. “But it’ll heal. Don’t shed any tears for me, kid.”

Tommy would only glean pieces of the full story later, after weeks of physical therapy and Techno’s refusal to take the fucking bed, Techno, your leg needs it (“I’m well aware of what I need and don’t need, Tommy—”) and a newfound weight whenever Techno picked his Enforcer jacket up.

A vigilante had been the one to hurt him. Techno was quicker, and what could’ve been a deathblow turned into a nasty stab into the back of his knee— a world of pain and a universe of damage to his muscles but at least, a mercy.

But something did die that day: the already waning sympathy Techno had for vigilantes. For people like Tommy.

And if Tommy’s betrayal is a knife to Techno’s back, then what he does next twists it.

Tommy kicks Techno’s bad knee out from under him.

The grunt that rips out of his brother is wounded and guttural, one that reverberates from the deepest crevices of his chest. Techno slams down to one knee as Tommy scrambles back, face twisting from betrayal to pain before he is finished falling.

Tommy’s lungs really stop working.

Each breath he manages is shallow, and he’s so dizzy that there’s no way oxygen can be reaching his brain right now, but he did it. He bought his escape. And Tommy only sacrificed everything to do it.

He stumbles toward the wall of darkness behind him on legs he’s not convinced are still attached to his body.

“I’m sorry.”

Tommy makes sure he’s gone — curled up on a lonesome rooftop to lick his wounds and grieve his losses — before Techno can turn that horrible, haunting look of betrayal onto him.

That’s his second mistake, but the millionth in a long list of neverending failures:

Thinking that betrayal wouldn’t follow him anyway.

—

He survives on that rooftop, his powers slowly patching that bullet wound together and the icy rain numbing the sting. He wishes his advanced healing could heal the internal wounds, too.

He survives on that rooftop and stays there until the storm trickles to a drizzle to an end, and the sound of the Enforcers (Techno) fades off with it.

He survives on that rooftop, cold and curled up and alone, and it just feels like another betrayal.

—

There’s a lot to do now that he doesn’t have a home.

For all the secrets he packed away from Techno, Tommy hadn’t thought to pack any clothes away with it. Clothes, or food enough for his advanced metabolism, or even a pair of shoes that aren’t soaked through.

The first few days are the roughest, and it’s a blessing and curse that he’s too preoccupied with surviving to think. He has nowhere to go, no guy in his corner, no lighthouse to his dark sea: just decrepit corners of damp alleyways to hide away in, and more rooftops to waste the nights away on.

Tommy bends his rules.

No using his powers for evil? A noble venture when he had things. Food, a home, a roof. When he had—

(Techno. That’s all he’s ever had and all he’s ever wanted.

And Tommy lost him.)

Tommy forces the name out of his mind where it can’t sting him. Thinking of Techno is like swallowing glass. Tommy has to ball his fists and bite his cheek and count down (Techno’s) breathing exercises and wait for the nausea to recede.

—it’s pointless.

His half-baked dream at heroism was never worth the cost. That night just proved it. He might not be able to get back what he lost, but the least he can do is stop. So he steals. Only what he needs, only what it takes to keep him alive for one more day, one more week. There’s no cure for the void in his chest, but he can get a new jacket. He can get a blanket. He can get a can of soup, and a lighter to heat it.

Tommy makes a new rule: Don’t think about him.

He breaks that one too. Because with every petty theft he commits, all Tommy can do is spiral over what Techno must think of Blade now.

The Enforcers are probably choking in vitriol by now, all their suspicions about Blade undoubtedly confirmed. He’s seen snippets of his name deep in the columns of the same newspapers he uses to pad his shelters. By now, his reputation must be as tarnished and stomped on as he is.

“You were right, Techno,” he mutters to the sky one night, arms propped behind his head. “I’m no hero.”

If he pretends hard enough, it almost feels like his old bed. He wonders if Techno is using it now. If the couch sits lonely and untouched. He wonders if Techno is grateful. He wonders how his knee is doing.

He wonders how he ever thought he could’ve kept this up. He wonders how he ever thought Techno would still want him after he knew.

—

The pathetic truth is, when everything changes, one thing stays the same.

Tommy just can’t break the habit of chasing things that are bad for him.

(Or maybe he’s just not used to Techno being the thing that’s bad for him.)

Tommy manages to keep a wide berth around the apartment for the first two weeks. By the third, the void in his chest has metastasized into a black hole: aching and bleeding at him. Tommy was never meant to be a lot of things — a hero, Techno’s responsibility, a good brother — but above all, he was never meant to be alone. That eats at him almost more than the still-panging, now-scabbing hole in his side. He’s weakest to it during the nights, when the city is quiet and his thoughts anything but.

That’s how Tommy finds himself on the fire escape outside his— Techno’s flat, peering vacantly through the window. He watches Techno eat soup. Canned soup. Nothing near the home cooked dinners Techno would lose sleep to stay up and make for him. Tommy stole the same can from a convenience store within a day of being alone, and threw up out of guilt.

His tongue itches to try that soup again, a sudden, insatiable craving. Without thinking, his fingertips edge toward the windowsill, nails scraping the wood, preparing to lift—

Tommy comes back to himself.

The weight he’s worn since that night folds over him like familiar, crumpled steel. He shrinks back into the fire escape and watches Techno swallow another bite of soup before pushing the bowl away. Tommy traces each line of his face until the image is burned into his retina.

If this is the only way I can have my brother back, I will take it.

Techno buries his face in his hands. Tommy swallows, sagging against the cold metal railing behind him. Just a little longer, he convinces himself. Just a little longer, then I’ll leave.

He stays there until his eyes start drooping.

Techno never leaves, a lonesome figure in the muted yellow kitchen light. He stays there for a long, long time. He stays there until Tommy has run out of excuses to linger, and in the dying light of the moon, Tommy can’t help but think:

They’ve never looked more like brothers than now.

The fire escape creaks as he pushes to his numb feet. From the corner of his eye, he catches Techno whip his head up. Tommy freezes, breath catching in his throat. His heart is a jackrabbit in the cage of his ribs.

"Tommy?"

Techno stands, lips parted. His eyes are wild again, almost glassy, and his grip on the table is crushing. Tommy can’t breathe.

His mind is split in two, torn violently between catch me catch me catch me and please let me get away from you unseen.

"Tommy, is that you?"

Tommy bows his head, fists clenching so hard his palms sting.

“Kid?”

Techno’s hands shake and Tommy’s mind whites out. By the time Techno makes it around the edge of the table to get a closer look—

Tommy is gone.

—

He goes back. Again and again and again.

Tommy lives through Techno’s routine. There’s a lot of new things to learn about his brother.

Mostly, how little he does when he’s not hunting Tommy. Because Techno roams the streets every night with his fellow Enforcers. Sometimes, the jeers reach him from where he lurks, and though Tommy never hears Techno’s voice rise to join the choir of those crucifying Blade, his brother never sticks up for him either.

Why would he? You’re not his responsibility anymore.

Tommy’s heart is a prune in his chest. It can’t get any more shriveled and dead than this.

Worse than what he learns are the things he has to guess himself.

Has Techno always had that weight on his shoulders? That haunted street-dog ferocity? Has he always spent his every night at the kitchen table, head in his hands, shoulders hunched? The questions scare him more than the answers. He becomes Techno’s shadow in a meaningless way, trailing him and trailing him.

Even now, even in secret, even in exile, Techno can’t escape his dumb, clingy little brother. The knowledge would probably irritate him to no end.

Every night, after his body and mind are exhausted from feeding them with everything but what it wants, Tommy goes back to the flat. Just to observe — never indulging, only looking.

Tommy always goes back to the flat.

Ultimately, that’s what dooms him. Because when Tommy is lucid, the idea of Techno’s hatred is enough to tame even the most volatile of Tommy’s instincts, urging him to break everything again and go inside. But when he’s hurt…

Well. The control wavers. Shreds.

And Tommy always goes back to the flat.

—

Tommy’s too busy looking for signs of Techno to pay attention to his surroundings.

When the Enforcers corner him, it’s after two days without food and a sickness set deep in his bones. Tommy’s chest rattles with contained coughs as a wall of black batons and blue jackets prods him awake. Fever turns everything staticky and blurred.

Tommy blinks heavily, eyes rolling around, sifting through the faces with a desperation bigger than his bones. There: brown eyes. Not Techno’s. There: a sneer. Not Techno’s. His anger is much quieter, surgically made. Tommy needs something easier. Pink hair. Pink hair. None of them have pink hair.

“Techno?” he murmurs, not a sound coming out. “Tech—”

The first baton gets him in the stomach. The second comes down on his head. The Enforcers rain blows down on him, and all Tommy can be is distantly, disjointedly grateful.

Techno isn’t here.

In a miserable way, that is a relief.

—

When Tommy gets away, he is crawling.

Instinct guides him, because his bruised limbs barely can. There’s a pull in his chest that pervades even the most tattered fragments of his mind. A bone-deep knot of want, a longing that dwarfs all common sense, a void that eclipses every weeping nerve in his body.

Tommy wants his brother. He’ll take a jail cell to get it.

There, turn there. He forces his broken body to obey.

Down this street. There we go. He can barely keep his eyes open, but what he sees is tinted with old memories the closer he gets.

One more block. Two. He’s crawled up this fire escape every night for the last month. It’s almost easier to do it now, when he’s too battered to ignore all the red flags telling him to turn back, this is a bad idea, his rejection is only going to hurt more. And it’s only a little more effort to get to the bedroom window instead of the kitchen one, muscles operating on autopilot.

Here. His bloody hand lunges for his— the windowsill, Techno’s windowsill, this is Techno’s room now. Only distantly does he register that it’s already cracked— a stupid lack of foresight on Techno’s part, letting all the chilly night air in like this. Tommy’s spent enough time sleeping under overpasses to know how easily the wind can slip past blankets, and skin, into bones.

Tommy’s still obsessing over that as the window wrenches up and he goes tumbling inside.

A grunt pushes out of his mouth at the impact. He hadn’t even tried to catch himself. Couldn’t, probably, even if he had.

Tommy rolls onto his side, marvelling at the blast of warmth that washes over him. For all the times he’d complained about their loud, rickety heater, Tommy cherishes it now. He has to stop and lie for a bit, eyes cast blankly at the carpet.

He’s home. Tommy can hardly remember what his room looked like, but it comes back to him now in an overwhelming rush. The carpet. He’s missed even the carpet, and sleep tugs heavily on his eyelids. Maybe he can take a nap right here.

The tension begins to bleed out of him, along with a heavy sigh. Maybe he should.

A clatter from behind the closed bedroom door disrupts his descent into a peaceful sea of black. Tommy cracks his eyes open, shifting restlessly on the floor, and—

Life rushes back into his limbs.

In an instant, he remembers where he is. Whose apartment he’s in. Tommy’s heart soars to attention. His arms weakly attempt to push him upward— to hide? To run? Away or toward? A wave of dull aches threatens to topple him all over again.

Tommy grits his teeth.

There’s a hush of rushed footsteps, a whine as the door is shoved open without regard, and a gasp that shatters the silence like a gunshot. Light floods over Tommy’s eyes, who hopelessly lifts a hand to shield himself.

Between the doorway and the shadow of his arm, Techno’s silhouette is radiant.

“Tommy.”

Tommy slumps back to the ground. Some part of him is sated, eternally sated, by Techno’s presence alone. It’s not the part that still rears like a startled street dog, but it’s— it’s most of him. It’s enough.

It’s only the thread of disbelief in Techno’s wavering voice that keeps him tethered to reality. It’s almost nonsensical. Did Techno really think Tommy could bear to stay away? Even if it saved him?

But it’s Tommy’s turn to be surprised, delicately surprised, as strong hands slide under his head, carpeting his descent. Tommy groans and melts into Techno’s frantic arms, arms that attempt to pile Tommy against his steady chest.

Tommy lets out a wounded shout, curling over himself.

It’s an accident; that he knows by the recoil of Techno against him, fingers spasming helplessly into Tommy’s damp hoodie. Tommy swallows his next reaction instantly, turning and burying his face into Techno’s stomach.

It’s better this way, anyway. Insurance. If he can’t see Techno’s face, then what might be there won’t hurt him.

That realization undoes something in him. Suddenly, the slanted pieces of his mind click together. He remembers now, dazedly, why he’d come.

“I’m sorry, Tech,” Tommy shakes out, holding tight. “I’m so fucking sorry.”

It’s almost funny. I’m sorry — the last words Tommy’d said to his brother, and the first words that felt right to say when they reunited.

Whatever comes after, Tommy squeezes his eyes shut tighter and accepts.

The warmth of Techno’s comfort, the lukewarm tide of his neutrality, the blaze of his anger. He’ll take any of it, all of it. Even his bruises stop stinging a little to wait.

Techno flinches.

“You’re here,” Techno breathes, rocking him a little. “Don’t apologize, kid. You’re here.”

Tommy tangles his fists into Techno’s sweater. “I didn’t know where else to go.”

You are my home. I haven’t lived since that night.

“You did good. You did comin’ here.” He clutches Tommy tighter, nails scraping gently against his scalp. “You did so good, kid.”

Techno strokes a thumb over Tommy’s bruised cheekbone. Blood flecks away from his skin, causing Techno to wince. The hands holding Tommy go very still.

Tommy braces. Is this it? The handcuff, the slip of the radio? Is that how it happens this time? If Techno wants to arrest him, Tommy will let him. He’s long embraced that risk.

Instead, Techno’s voice grows impossibly softer, raspier.

“Did we do this to you?”

Tommy’s body pangs at the reminder. Images flood into his mind. Batons, jackets, flashlights.

Pink hair. There hadn’t been any of that.

“You weren’t there,” he settles on, because that’s easier for his bruised throat. “Not you.”

“No,” Techno agrees. “Not me.”

Silence threatens to trail after those words. Tommy’s mind convulses. The room is growing spottier in his vision, and it’s up to his waning memory to fill up the gaps. It’s hard, when his brain is also occupied with latching onto each trinket he’d forgotten until he’s never at risk of forgetting it again.

But silence. That’s dangerous. Tommy doesn’t want to think. Doesn’t want Techno to think. He just wants to be. Be here.

Tommy doesn’t realize his breathing has picked up until gentle hands are patting down his ribcage.

“Easy, kid,” Techno soothes — and had Tommy slipped into his flat, or his dreams? It could be either. “Breathe. Do I need to get you to a hospital?”

Tommy finds it in himself to shake his head, baring his face so Techno can see he means it, even if his expression tries to betray his words. “It’ll heal.”

His health is so secondary to this. Even having to say the words sends an icepick hurling between Tommy’s ribs. It’ll heal — because Techno doesn’t know enough about him to know that. To know that the bullet he’d sent through Tommy’s torso is now only an ugly white scar. To know that these bruises, this fever, while stealing his consciousness, will fade before long.

How else could Tommy have kept this secret for so long?

But there’s another scar worming across his soul. One not even a hospital could diagnose.

Techno cups his face, drawing him close. His fingers pat over Tommy’s every bruise, soothing and stinging in equal measure. Every tremble of Techo’s hands seems to pass into Tommy’s skin.

“What do you need from me, kid? What can I do? I don’t—” Techno hisses through his teeth, a strangled breath forced into composure. “Anything. Whatever you need, I’m here, I’m here this time.”

“Lie to me, Techno,” Tommy begs into the night. Wind still rushes in from the window. It’s cold. “Lie.”

Techno stills, voice wavering uneasily. “...kid?”

A sigh eases out of his chest, heavy and dim. Tommy rolls over, blinking drowsily at the swirling ceiling. He can see a pale smear in the corner that must be Techno’s face, peering down at him, and that hair. Pink hair. His brother’s stupid pink hair.

“Lie to me,” Tommy whispers. “Tell me you don’t hate me.”

Everything is going so quickly now. Sand through an hourglass, through fingers, through time.

“Tommy, I don’t… I don’t…”

A tear slicks down Tommy’s cheekbone, gathering by his jaw. His eyelashes flutter. Pearls race down his skin, raindrops on glass. Teardrops on a little brother who knows no strength besides his older one.

“Please.”

Techno catches the teardrops with the side of his thumb.

Tommy leans into his hand, black closing over his vision. He doesn’t have it in him to keep begging, hurry hurry hurry. He wants to conclude this dream before he sleeps and his mind invents a worse one.

“I don’t hate you, kid. I don’t… I don’t think I’d have it in me if I wanted to.”

It’s pretty. A really, really pretty lie.

“Thanks,” Tommy wheezes, hand clumsily clasping over Techno’s. “Thanks.”

He’s at home.

He lets go.

—

It takes a good few minutes of staring at the ANGEL OF DEATH poster on the wall for Tommy to realize where he is.

His old bedroom. His old flat.

Home, sings a voice in his head, and there’s not a strong enough bone in Tommy’s body to deny it. He’s home.

Awareness fights to escape him, but Tommy manages to crack open his eyes. A wave of dull heat throbs and ebbs down his body, clustering by his torso. Tommy hugs his stomach as he sweeps wide eyes around the room.

He’s in his bed.

Old blankets, softened by years of washing, swaddle him on all sides. Tommy rubs the fabric between two fingers, trying to stave off the swelling dizziness rising up from his gut. He doesn’t remember getting to his bed.

Only remembers toppling in through the window, mind addled and unreliable, instincts messy and narrowing towards one thing—

Dryness prickles against the back of his throat. Someone must’ve carried him up here.

…Techno must have.

Fresh bandages rub and whisper as he sits up. Bandages. Tommy wiggles his fingers in front of him, momentarily mesmerized by the sterile white. Techno bandaged him?

The realization comes as swift and surgical as the Enforcers had pounced on his hiding spot:

Tommy shouldn’t be here.

He doesn’t give himself enough time to talk himself out of it. Tommy kicks his sore legs over the side of the bed, wobbling desperately toward the window. It’s not cracked anymore — Techno finally learned how to keep the cold out.

Or him out. Maybe he realized that leaving it open meant that unwanted things besides wind, like little brothers, could creep in too.

He staggers the minute he’s upright. It’s an awful idea to push himself this hard, this fast. But if Tommy can survive getting shot and fleeing to a rooftop, he can survive undoing his mistake. He hopes Techno will forgive him for giving in to his heart. For coming back. He hopes that with all the mistakes he’s ever made, the burdens he’s ever borne onto Techno, Techno can look at this one with the most grace.

Abandoning the room is like abandoning a limb. Pain tears at his chest as he fumbles to unlatch the window, hands shaking so violently he has to grapple at the sill multiple times.

“Come on,” he mutters, shifting impatiently. He needs to go now, now, now, “Come on—”

“Don’t leave.”

Tommy whips around. A gasp blooms and dies in his throat. He hadn’t heard the door open, but Techno is unmistakeable in the doorway. Time momentarily suspended, their gazes become instantly gridlocked. Magnetized.

Techno looks, horrifically, like he’s been crying.

Techno only breaks the gridlock to stare at the window. Tommy hides his hands behind his back, but what he was about to do is obvious. Techno shudders.

It’s then that Tommy notices how… ruined his big brother looks. Techno has shouldered the burden of a million skies, but his shoulders have never seemed so hunched. Defeat lines every weary crease of his face. Techno stands lamely in the doorway — three meters and a world apart.

He’s in pajamas. The sky outside is a comfortable, dusky blue. It’s much too early for pajamas. But if Techno had bothered to dress after dealing with Tommy and… moving him to the bed(?), it doesn’t show.

He carries a plastic bowl, hands curled placatingly around it. Steam wafts from the top. The smell of soup tickles Tommy’s nose. Tommy’s lips part minutely, tongue immediately salivating. He swallows, but his tongue doesn’t forget. When was the last time he’d managed to eat something?

“Please,” Techno adds belatedly. “I won’t make you, kid, I won’t— I won’t chase you. I’ll let you go if that’s what you want.” His fingers spasm around the bowl the same way his throat spasms around the words. “But please. Stay.”

Tommy hesitates. He can’t tell if the magnets connecting them are repelling or pulling. Either way, Tommy feels caught between two immovable objects.

What he should do—

And what his dumb, stupid heart really really wants to do.

“Why?” Tommy croaks: one last, fluttering defensive measure.

(The last time Tommy was in this position, Techno shot him.)

Techno swallows, accepting the question for the accusation it is. Tommy’s ribs twinge phantomly. If he doesn’t focus, he’s sure to propel straight into a memory. That gun, aiming and firing on command. That bullet, tearing through him. Techno’s gun, Techno’s bullet.

Techno tries to smile. It’s more of a very wide grimace.

“Because I messed up.”

Tommy presses his lips together. He wills his heart not to leap for joy just yet. It could be another lie. An even prettier one. This could all just be one big, massive, fuck-you prank to Tommy.

But Techno holds his gaze steadily, only faltering when his uncertain eyes happen to snag on Tommy’s injuries. And the words don’t stop coming.

“Because I have spent hours rehearsin’ what I’d say to you so you’d hear me out, and all I could come up with was soup.”

Techno raises the bowl pointedly. Lamely. It’s the lamest thing Tommy has ever seen, far too pathetic to ever follow up shooting Tommy, but it’s so Techno that it calms the tide in Tommy’s head.

Tommy’s eyes flick down to the bowl. Hunger lashes fiercely in his stomach.

In the end, there’s only one answer he ever could give. Pretending otherwise would be a waste of energy.

“Okay,” Tommy whispers. “Okay I can… do that.”

Techno nods. Quick, very quick. Like Tommy is a mirage that will dissipate if he so much as turns away. Surrender bleeds off him in waves.

Tommy steps away from the window.

—

“Stop.”

Techno straightens. Tommy swallows down a warm mouthful of broth, spoon flicking out.

“What?” Techno breathes. “What did I do?”

Tommy clenches his spoon tight. “I’m not goin’ anywhere, Techno. You don’t have to watch me.”

Techno blinks at him. Maybe he hadn’t realized he was doing it: staring at Tommy so pointedly, anxiously, with every mouthful of soup Tommy got down, but Tommy noticed. He’d felt cagey the entire time, like if he was a dog, his fur would be all spiked and shit.

He’d even been grateful for the fact that there was only one bedroom in this flat, because the first thing he’d done since waking is catastrophize, and all he could imagine was blinking and a bunch of Enforcers flooding out of the room.

Stupid. Techno could’ve just called for them while Tommy was unconscious in the flat he’d sworn to never go back to. But he hadn’t. And that means something.

Techno immediately averts his gaze, jaw clenching. “Oh. Uh, I didn’t mean to.”

Techno clears his throat like he’s not done, clenching his fists deliberately. Tommy notices because Techno has kept his hands purposely on display, perched on the tabletop, since they’d sat down. He doesn’t know what to feel about that. Only that a knot appeared in his stomach since he sat down, waiting for Tommy to figure it out.

Tommy expects another apology. It’s all Techno has offered him since he’d helped Tommy away from the window, out of the room to their rickety little kitchen table, built for two.

(And if Tommy pretended to be a little achier than he was so he had a reason to lean on Techno— to cherish this, sure, but also because it reminded him of those days where he’d fall asleep on the couch so that Techno could carry him back to the bed, tucking him in—

Well. Nobody needs to know.)

Techno blows out a harsh breath. Loose strands of pink hair flutter with the force of it, fallen free from a messy braid.

Tommy would flinch if it wasn’t so obvious that Techno looks angry at himself, the way he always does (did? Does Tommy still have the right to assume those things about him?) after a bad shift, a complaint from his boss, some of a hundred things he considered a personal failure.

But he must make some sort of reaction, because Techno immediately schools his expression. He levels Tommy with that weird, observant stare again: dark eyes brimming with a mess of emotion that is unreadable but so damn potent.

“You have no idea how long I’ve waited to see you at this kitchen table again, Tommy.”

Tommy freezes, spoon hand stuck in mid-air. Techno stares off into anything, fingertips tapping a rhythmless dance against the tabletop.

“I stayed up every night. I looked for you, I waited for you.” Techno finally lifts his slitted gaze. His eyes are red again. Bloodshot. “And I– heh. I even left the damn window open, in case you needed blankets or food, or— me.”

Tommy’s heart trembles, soup forgotten. Is it too early to say, I always needed you?

“Long story short,” Techno continues, scrubbing a hand through his hair. “I wanted whatever you would give me, kid.” He huffs out a bitter laugh. Shakes his head. “At least if you were yellin’ at me, you were alive to do it.”

I know, Tommy almost says. I was there. For once, voicing this is an impulse he doesn’t act on. He cannot interrupt this. Hell, Tommy can’t speak.

Techno’s smile is wry and wobbly and watery, and just then, Tommy gets the dizzying sensation that he is staring directly into Techno’s heart. His big brother’s mindless finger-tapping picks up speed. Tommy’s vision blurs, narrowed in on Techno’s hand.

He can hardly see through his tears when he manages, “I don’t get it.” Tommy wets his lips, all of him aching. “We– we fought.”

You hated me.

Techno winces. His head hangs low.

“I, uh,” Techno clears his throat, shuddering out another breath, “Yeah. We did.”

Tommy nods, pretending that the knot in his stomach isn’t becoming a boulder. He sets his spoon down on the table now, and the clink of the metal seems to awaken something in Techno.

Techno has always been good with his words. That isn’t to say that he is wordy — Tommy is the loud one between them. The talker, the big mouth. In a ramble the length of a novel, maybe ten percent of Tommy’s words would be meaningful.

But Techno? He chooses his words deliberately, always. If he jokes, it’s with missile precision to make someone laugh. If he jeers, it’s with surgical accuracy to tear his opponent open at their most vulnerable seams.

‘Let me tell you, I don’t take care of you for fun.’

Tommy shivers. Because Techno is not good with his words now. Techno is as close to a mess as Techno can be: fumbling and faltering and stuttering. It’s close to the most terrifying thing Tommy has ever seen. Almost more than…

Techno grimaces. In a heartbeat, Tommy knows. They may both be at the kitchen table, but their souls are elsewhere, together. Stuck neck-deep in that night.

“I was spirallin’, kid, I’ll be honest. I mean— that night, I— I realized the second after you… left—” He chooses that word carefully at least, but more in the way that he feels it cut his tongue as he says it, and carefully switches route, “—that I messed up. That I shouldn’t have—”

His tone goes low and grumbly like a gravel road. Rough. Techno folds his hands in front of himself, an attempt at composure. Nothing can rid the weight from his shoulders, one so different than before.

It’s strange. Tommy always thought his presence was what crushed Techno so thoroughly. Who knew that burden would pale in comparison to his absence?

“I shouldn’t have tried to arrest you, Tommy. It was a mistake,” he drags the word out like it pains him. His breaths become sharp and ragged, like Tommy’s when he was crawling away from the Enforcers. Wounded. “All of it. I was just thinkin’ of how badly I failed to keep you out of danger. I operated on autopilot, and I pushed you away, and at least if you were in my custody you were safe and—”

Techno’s complexion shimmers, becoming a pallid grey. His throat bobs, a muscle in his chin ticking. Tommy’s eyes widen, struck out of his shock by a sudden instinct to reach for a bowl or something, in case Techno throws up, or explodes or some shit—

His hand closes around Techno’s. Techno’s breath catches in a too-fragile way. Tommy manages a dim smile, a plaster over the fear coursing through him. It’s a pitiful attempt, probably made worse by the damage coloring his face, but it does something.

Techno squeezes his eyes shut, and when he opens them, his voice is raw, but he is back.

“You could’ve been dead,” he finishes deliberately. “I shot you, and scared you into runnin’ away. You had nowhere to go, and I didn’t even know if you would survive the night.” Techno scoffs, laughing the way that knives clash against each other. His eyes shine with a self-deprecating mirth that cuts Tommy to the bone. “Forget responsibilities, Tommy. Because if you died, that would’ve been on me. And that’s a responsibility I couldn’t take.”

Tommy can’t take it anymore. Watching Techno break is something he’s never seen before. Seeing it breaks him in return.

He squeezes Techno’s hand so hard his own knuckles go white. Techno must feel the way Tommy’s very being tremors with each word he speaks, because he listens raptly.

“You didn’t mean to,” Tommy breathes. “You didn’t know.”

Because whether or not he believed it before, he knows it now. If Tommy could press it into his skin, he would. He tries.

But Techno just shakes his head. He doesn’t move to grab Tommy’s hand back.

“Yes, I did.” Tommy’s breath hitches. “Maybe I didn’t know it was you, but I– I meant to hurt you, Tommy. Or– who I thought you were.”

Tommy’s throat burns. “That’s not fair to yourself.”

“None of that was fair.”

Tommy doesn’t know what to say to that. He can’t disagree. Holding Techno’s hand feels like falling off the edge of a cliff, fingers dug into loose rock. He can only hope he can hold on before they both plummet.

Techno sighs, and it’s not much, but the silence doesn’t seem so constricting. His very voice pushes the shadows creeping over Tommy’s mind away.

“I’m goin’ to fix this, Tommy. I’ve already started.”

“What do you mean?”

The way Techno says it… Tommy almost doesn’t want him to finish. But just like all these weeks, Tommy doesn’t attempt to flee from this collision. Moths and flame, right?

“I’m quitting the Enforcers, Tommy. I’m done.”

Tommy jerks upright. His spoon goes skidding across the table, their entwined hands coming apart without him meaning to. Techno only observes passively as he jolts from his seat, ignoring the ache of his bruises.

“What?”

“I’m done,” Techno repeats, like that– like that could possibly not mean something. Everything. When Tommy sputters, Techno’s expression only grows more resolute. “I called while you were asleep. I’ll be turning in my badge and jacket tomorrow.”

Tommy must be dizzy because of his injuries. Either that, or he’s going insane. There’s no way Techno can just say this and stay steady.

“Techno,” he pleads, mind spiralling like a cut spool. “You can’t.”

Techno’s eyes narrow. “Why not?”

It’s a challenge. And Techno doesn’t play games he knows he won’t win. Still, Tommy meets it head on. All he can think is, Not this. Not this too. I just got back. I can’t take something else away from you—

Tommy clenches his hands into trembling fists. “I know how much it means to you,” is what he goes with. He doesn't trust himself to get more eloquent than that. “You can’t just go.”

Nevermind the money it brings. Nevermind the flat. Nevermind anything.

“It means nothing,” Techno practically snarls, startling him back. “Not compared to you. It never did.”

Tommy blinks. He doesn’t realize he’s crying, again, just a little, a few rebel tears, until he tastes salt. Techno’s shoulders sag into the impression of something softer, warmer.

“Why now?” Tommy wobbles. “Why– I don’t—”

I don’t understand.

Because the Enforcers gave Techno freedom that Tommy could never give him. It gave him friends and opportunities Tommy never could. A break from Tommy, the flat that only drained him. But Techno's firm frown dares him to disagree. So he doesn't.

He plants his hands on the table, breathing hard.

“I saw you,” Tommy bites out with the last of his energy. “Every day. After what happened. With them.”

He saw him. Every day while he was gone, and Blade declared Public Enemy Number One of Enforcers everywhere. Techno was with them, he was hunting—

Needing the reminder, Tommy frantically whips his head around towards the coat hooks, needing to see. But the jacket he expects to be there (padded blue and black, the grey of Techno’s badge pinned to the chest) is gone. There’s just an awkward gap between Tommy’s untouched hoodies and Techno’s rain jacket.

It’s grounding, somehow. It clears the ringing in his ears enough for Tommy to hear, just as low as before—

“You’re right,” Techno admits. “I was.” To Tommy’s surprise, Techno is mimicking a smile now. Something twisted and sharp. “Because I needed them to find you. I needed to make sure that nobody found you unless I was there to protect you. So that they couldn’t get a proper warrant out on you— or hurt you.” He balls his hands up, knuckles threatening to crack. “They would’ve had to go through me.”

Tommy… sinks back down into his chair. “Oh.”

“Oh,” Techno echoes, that touch of dryness somewhat comforting. Until he’s back to wringing his hands and flexing his jaw, warring against something that Tommy cannot see. “But it was for nothing, wasn’t it?”

He’s looking at the bruises now. As balefully and bitterly as if they were on his skin instead. Tommy resists the urge to hug himself, chin tucking down.

“Why weren’t you there?”

He doesn't want to ask it. It’s what a child would ask. The stupider version of Tommy would ask, the burdensome one whose image he is constantly perfecting in his mind. His voice is quiet, betraying how badly he doesn’t want to but can’t stop himself.

They’d woken him up out of a dead sleep. The only thing worse than that, than what followed, would’ve been Techno joining in. But he wasn’t. It’s just another puzzle to collect dust in his mind.

“Tonight was my one day off,” Techno admits, rough. “Probably could’ve picked a better time, hm?”

Against all odds, a laugh threatens to build in Tommy’s throat.

“Maybe,” he chokes out deliriously, rubbing his arm. “Probably.”

It falls silent again. This time, Tommy doesn’t flinch away from it. A yawn teases at his jawbone, and Tommy grits his teeth. He doesn’t want Techno to know how tired he is. Most of all, he doesn’t want this to end.

Half of Tommy is still convinced this is a dream. He understands why Techno keeps sneaking long glances at him, that mirage–wonder. He’s doing the exact same thing.

Tommy’s thinking so hard about not yawning that a yawn escapes him anyway. He only has a second to cringe before—

“I saw that,” Techno accuses, reaching over the table. “Back to bed, gremlin.”

Gremlin. If Techno wants to wake him up, the warmth that blazes through Tommy’s heart manages just fine. He could preen.

…if he wasn’t so busy dodging away from Techno’s outstretched hands. His body is tired, but his steps are light as air.

“No way. I wanna stay up.”

Techno’s lips dance into a dangerous grin. The blaze of warmth becomes an inferno. They circle each other around the table (Tommy pretending that Techno definitely isn’t going easy, since he’s having trouble keeping his balance) just like old times. Just like brothers.

“Too bad. You’re fevered, you’re hurt, and I’m not losin’ you again.”

“You’re not,” Tommy counters instantly, heart only hiccuping a little bit. “You’re never gettin’ rid of me.”

Not again.

“That's not the threat you think it is.”

Tommy barks out a hoarse laugh. He lets Techno chase him back toward the couch, until he has no choice but to surrender. In other words, he flops down onto the sofa in defeat, laughing all the way. Even his injuries don’t hurt so badly now.

It’s not until his head hits a pillow does the euphoria making his head all floaty recede a bit. Tommy sits up, nearly butting his head into Techno’s — who has to recoil quickly, abandoning his effort to wrestle Tommy into submission.

(Just like before. Just like old times— a mantra playing on a loop in Tommy’s head. An indulgence just for him.)

Tommy clutches the pillow in his hand, confused. Techno crosses his arms, watching Tommy’s brain work. He’s always said he could see Tommy thinking, but he must really mean it now. The air goes somber again without Tommy saying a word. Yet.

“Did you…” Tommy tries to restore moisture to his mouth. Fails. “Did you sleep on the couch? While I was gone?”

He looks up, almost not believing his own conclusion. Not believing the pillow in his arms or the blankets rumpled beneath him, obviously worn from use.

Techno shifts from foot to foot, silent. Then,

“It’s your room. It always has been.”

Tommy wavers. He clutches the pillow against him like a teddy bear or something equally as manly, not sure how to process that.

And what comes out of his mouth is… well. A direct failure of his ability to process it.

“I’m sorry about kicking your knee.”

Distractions. Meaningless filler words. His best weapons.

Techno sighs. Tommy’s heart flutters and slows, beating thick, cloying oil through his veins instead of blood.

“Your apologies are killin’ me, you know.”

“Still.”

Techno hutches forward. Tommy momentarily is lost for breath, wondering if he’s imagining the severity of the limp—

Before Techno drops down onto the opposite end of the sofa, right near Tommy’s feet. Tommy tries to pull his legs back, but Techno just flops them onto his lap. He leans back, head craned up to the ceiling.

It’s strange.

Until he didn’t have it, Tommy never realized how… gentle Techno always is with him. He adjusts Tommy’s legs to make him more comfortable without a second thought, as naturally as breathing. And now, with Techno being even more cautious…

It makes him feel unsteady, in a good way, maybe. Unsteady, because his body doesn’t know how to go from cold, lonely overpasses to this.

“Kid, don’t take this the wrong way, but I think we’re even.”

Tommy laughs. “Yeah,” he agrees, that levity sticking around in his tone. “Maybe a little bit.”

He waits for his ribs to pang. They don’t. It feels a little bit like healing.

Now that he’s sitting, with Techno so close to him, that grounding weight, Tommy’s body grows heavier. Exhaustion blooms in his every scrape and laceration but sinks roots deeper, down into each nerve and every pocket of bone marrow.

Techno absentmindedly rubs at his calf, burying Tommy further into a cottony haze. He has to concentrate really hard to keep his eyelids apart.

So much has changed. But so much is the same — a building torn down, and a palace built onto the existing foundations. If Tommy weren’t so exhausted, maybe he’d spend some more time crying. Really let loose. Ramp the guilt up and take advantage of every free ounce of affection Techno will give him.

Because eventually, he thinks drowsily, time will sand down these jagged edges.

They’ll find a new normal, the same way they did when Tommy became Techno’s responsibility in the first place. They’ll adjust, and they won’t have a reason to cling. The thought fills him up with sorrow.

“I’m glad you’re here, kid.”

Techno’s voice cuts through the darkness. Tommy looks over.

"Seeing you crawl through that window last night was the best and worst thing to happen to me. Because that meant I didn't kill you before, but it meant that I might do it anyway. That I might—” Techno holds his breath. Releases it. "That I might lose you all over again. Before I could say sorry."

“Techno…”

In the dim light, Techno’s smile is barely visible. But it’s there. It’s enough to quiet Tommy.

“Let me say this, Tommy. Let me be honest." He fiddles with a loose string on Tommy’s sweats. “...I've rehearsed this for weeks.”

Techno sits up. Tommy frowns, trying to join him. But something in Techno’s gaze pins him back down. When he speaks, Tommy knows. Every word, every syllable, is crafted just for him.

A line of sutures, surgically placed. Techno faces him intently, and the world goes quiet to listen too.

“You are my responsibility, Tommy,” Techno says. “But that doesn’t mean you’re not the greatest thing that’s ever happened to me, okay? I don’t— I can’t lose you again. I can’t do it, kid. I need you around. Botherin’ me, annoyin’ me, even riskin’ your life if that’s– if that’s what you want to do. But I just need you here.”

“I need you too,” Tommy whispers. “I always did.”

Techno nods. Keeps nodding. Almost deliriously. “Good. Good. I’m glad.”

Tommy breaks. He kicks his legs off Techno’s lap and, before Techno can protest, shifts completely so he’s curled against Techno’s side. He tucks his socked feet by Techno’s leg and leans his head on his shoulder.

Techno, built to care for him apparently, only seems to breathe when Tommy is settled. Now Tommy is the one with the free reign to fiddle with Techno’s sweater sleeve, tugging and no doubt undoing all his threads.

This is the part where Techno complains at him for ruining all of his good knitwear.

Tommy can’t wait until they get there again. He knows, in new clarity:

It’s only a matter of time. And time — they have so much of it.

There’s one more thing Tommy has to say before he drops again. One more fleck of debris in the wound between them. One more bridge to cross.

“I took your nickname.”

Techno peers down at him, hand finding purchase against the crown of Tommy’s hair. Threading, carding. Tommy stretches, melting further into him. Maybe he’s glad they’re still being so cautious with each other.

But if Techno compares him to a clingy cat one more fucking time—

“Hm? Oh. Yeah. I noticed.” Techno huffs, fond as ever. "In hindsight, I should’ve known it was you. Always terrorizin' the squadron. And with my own nickname—”

Tommy grins, tucking his face against his big brother’s arm, because he can do that again, and damn it, he doesn’t understand how he survived more than a day on those streets without this.

“I based it off of you," Tommy confesses quietly. "You know, coming up with a vigilante name is harder than it sounds. But then I thought, who are my heroes? And– and I know I have a million comics and posters but— it's you, Techno. It was always you."

Techno’s arm curls around him impossibly tighter. “I like it,” he says. “It suits you, kid.”

I love you, reads the words in between, because this is how they say that. It’s always been.

“I know.”

I love you too.

Tommy yawns, and doesn’t try to hide it this time. His stomach is full and warm from that soup. The flat is cozy and real. Techno is soft and here. This is all a human could ever need.

Love.

“I just wanted to make you proud,” he whispers as he falls.

Techno never falters. “You do, kid. And you never needed me to tell you that.”

Tommy’s heart seizes. “I have super strength, you know. I could crush you like a bug for being this sappy.”

“Eh,” Techno says. “Worth it.”

“Fuck off.”

“Tommy?”

“Hm?”

“Last time, before you fell asleep, I wasn’t lyin’.”

Tommy’s throat burns. He leans his head on Techno’s shoulder.

Techno who really needs to stop talking, actually. His chest rumbles with each time he opens his mouth, and it’s really disturbing Tommy’s attempt at sleep. That’s the only issue. He definitely hasn’t cracked Tommy’s heart open or anything, revealing some gushy, candy core beneath a fractured, tough shell. Definitely not.

Tommy takes a few seconds to just listen to Techno breathe. They’re both tired, Tommy can tell. Tired and trying to hide it.

Damn. Tommy’s bad habits are not as acceptable on Techno.

“Techno?”

“Mhm?”

“Can we share the bed tonight?” It’s the only peace offering he can offer. It dwarfs in comparison to anything Techno has said.

Good with his words. That’s Techno, not Tommy. But Tommy has always spoken better through actions anyway.

“And can you carry me?” he blurts, pushing his luck, because tonight is a night of miracles, and if Tommy can have his big brother back, he can have anything. “Like when I was a kid?”

“You’re still a kid,” Techno grumbles.

It’s not an insult. Not a regret.

And Tommy may be the vigilante between them, may have the super strength and the incredible IQ and way better qualities in general—

But Techno picks Tommy up anyway.

The embrace feels like home.

—

The truth is, Tommy isn’t afraid of change anymore.

In fact, the next time he sees it, Tommy is grinning.

“I think you’re gonna have to lose the tie,” Tommy says, saying what neither of them have had the courage to say. But Techno’s interview draws ever closer, and he doesn’t have time to pull punches. “Let’s be honest, man,” he drawls. “Neither of us know how to tie this shit.”

Techno eyes him before his shoulders slump in reluctant agreement. He lets out the closest thing he ever gets to swearing — “dang,” dang, he says, like an old man — and grumpily unfurls the blue tie from around his neck.

Tommy snatches it out of the air and marvels at the silky fabric — picked out by his truly at a charity shop. Techno wanted him to be the one to pick it out, to open their “new chapter.” Tommy just called him an idiot and threw the tie at his face.

“Who invented this tie shit anyway?” Tommy breathes, twisting it in his hands. “It’s propaganda, all of it.”

Techno huffs: what might’ve been a full-fledged laugh cut short by anxiety. Tommy pats him sarcastically on the shoulder, and the glare he earns warms him inside out.

“Phil seemed chill,” Techno says, a reassurance to Tommy as much as himself. “He probably won’t care if I don’t have one.”

Tommy nods, crumpling the tie up. “If he does, he’s a bitch.” Tommy glances at the microwave clock, and lets out a proper swear. “Holy balls, Techno! You gotta go.”

Techno follows his gaze, and blanches. He almost trips over himself trying to get his dress shoes on on the way out the door. Tommy follows right on his heels, stifling laughter. For all of Techno’s anxious bullshit—

“You’re gonna do fine, Tech.”

Techno casts him a sideways look. Buried under it, where Tommy never used to have access to, is a thin thread of doubt. “I know,” he eventually says, locking the door behind them. “It’s just…”

Oooh. A continuation. This is big. Tommy dampens down his annoyance-shaped comfort to really listen. Techno’s been a lot better at talking with him, heart to heart, but still. Tommy can still appreciate the baby steps, the same way Techno appreciates his hourly check-ins during his patrols.

“This is good money,” Techno breathes, swiping a fallen strand of braid out of his face. “Better than I was ever paid before. It’d be really good for us.”

Tommy cracks a grin. “Worst case scenario, you can be their brute. Do all their grunt work, you know?”

And worst-worst case scenario: I'll go beat up Phil's son.

Techno scowls at him. Tommy holds his hands out innocently.

“What? That’s not a bad thing!”

Techno just shakes his head, muttering incoherent insults under his breath. Tommy does him the decency of not reminding him that Tommy can still hear those words with his epic super-hearing.

They make it to the lobby, throwing insults between each other and bumping shoulders with jovial ease. Tommy does his work well: by the time they’re emerging onto the sidewalk, Techno’s shoulders are looser, his steps confident.

As much as Tommy would like to call him a loser, he just can’t. His big brother looks too cool for that.

(Not that Tommy would ever admit it.)

Techno grinds to a harsh halt once they’re at the street corner where everything splits. He grabs Tommy’s shoulders, startling a yelp out of him.

“Be back in time for dinner, kid,” Techno all but demands, gaze firm. “I still have my radio. If your name comes up on the police scanner, I’ll know.”

Tommy swallows the definitely-not-real lump of nervousness in his throat. “What if it’s for a really cool reason, though?”

Tommy wiggles his eyebrows. Techno glowers, and Tommy is suddenly very aware that Techno would cancel this interview just to keep Tommy from causing chaos.

Or, “endangerin’ himself,” as Techno likes to put it. Whatever.

He coughs.

“Kidding!” He laughs, turning away from Techno’s scrutiny. Tommy swats his hands away. “Go save us from homelessness, idiot.”

Techno’s lips slide to the side. “I’ll try.”

Close enough.

“Love ya, Techno.”

“Love ya more, kid— and if you argue, you’re grounded.”

“That’s not—!” Tommy shouts, when Techno is too far gone to hear. “...fair.” He shakes his head, kicking at the concrete with the toe of his scruffy sneaker. “Bastard.”

Tommy’s insults are torn away by the wind as Techno turns one way, leaving Tommy to turn the other. Two different paths, with one converging destination. For once, Tommy isn’t afraid as Techno leaves to go take on the world (otherwise known as his, his potential new boss.)

And he isn’t afraid as he goes on to take on his own piece of the world. They’ll always come back to each other, beneath the mask and above it, like brothers do.

The truth is, that’s enough.