Rain's Writing Archive

you open your hearts up so quickly (it scares me)

Originally posted to Ao3 on 8/8/2023. Last Updated on 2/4/2024.

A/N: i was going to finish writing this whole fic before posting any of it, but this chapter has been sitting finished in my google docs for months now, and i think it deserves to see the light of day

Chapter 1: how do you all make it look so easy?

A/N:

Tommy sat in the passenger seat of his social worker's car, head leaning against the window. His social worker, Sam, tried his best to talk with him, but Tommy's diligence in ignoring him made it difficult.

God, he wished he was eighteen so he didn't have to deal with this shit anymore.

"This house will be different," he told him, eyes focused on the road ahead of them, "Phil's a good guy."

'That's what you say about every house,' Tommy didn't say, not willing to give him the satisfaction of knowing he was listening.

They were driving through a nicer neighbourhood, where all the upper-middle class people tended to live. Why one of these families would want to foster a street rat like Tommy was beyond him.

A stray crack in the road sent him jostling in his seat. He bumped his broken arm against the door, and he hissed in pain. 

Just because it was held in place by a sling and cast, didn't mean it didn't hurt to bump it into anything.

He grumbled angrily to himself, cussing out whatever government official decided to put tax money into stupid shit and not the goddamned cracks in the roads.

A few minutes later, they pulled into a driveway.

The house it belonged to was painted a deep forest green, looked to be about two stories tall, and had a white door, in stark contrast to the darker colour of the walls around it. Another car was already sitting in the driveway ahead of them, such a dark blue that it could be mistaken for black.

Sam shut off the car and pulled the key out of the ignition, motioning for Tommy to follow.

Groaning loudly, Tommy opened his door with his good hand and stepped out, manoeuvring a crutch out with him so he didn't put weight on his twisted ankle. He slammed the door shut behind him, just to be annoying.

Sam only rolled his eyes and led the way to the front door of the house. Tommy hobbled after him, struggling to keep up.

By the time Tommy got to the door, Sam had already knocked and the door was swinging open.

A man stood on the other side, smiling brightly once he saw who was outside. He was slightly on the shorter side, with blond hair pulled back in a ponytail, stubble on his chin, and wearing a deep green hoodie that nearly matched the colour of the house.

Oh yeah, and the man had wings. Whole ass fucking wings on his back, with feathers and everything.

Tommy had to admit, that was pretty poggers.

"You must be Sam and Tommy, right?" The man opened the door wider, stepping aside to allow them into the house. "I'm Phil. C'mon in, would either of you like anything to drink?"

Sam shook his head. "I'll only be here long enough to finalise some paperwork and give you Tommy's meds, then I'll be out of your hair."

"That's fine," Phil said, "Do you want anything, Tommy?"

"No, 'm alright," he mumbled in reply, standing a little awkwardly off to the side while Sam and Phil sat down on the couch. He was still leaning heavily on the crutch.

"If you're sure." Tommy nodded. "I'll have Wilbur show you around, okay?" He nodded again, and Phil called up the stairs for whoever this "Wilbur" fellow was.

Tommy didn't flinch the second Phil raised his voice. He didn't.

A second later, loud footsteps were pounding down the staircase, and a man -- a teen, really -- appeared in the stairwell. He wore a yellow sweater, and had a loose beanie over his brown hair that nearly covered his eyes, which sat behind round wire-frame glasses. And he was tall as fuck, like, even taller than Tommy, and Tommy was quite tall himself.

"Yeah, Phil?" He asked, and Tommy noted that his voice was actually quite nice to listen to, for all the two words he'd heard him speak.

"Could you show Tommy around the house for me while Sam and I talk?"

"Yeah, sure," Wilbur said, and he gestured for Tommy to follow him, "C'mon, follow me."

Wilbur led the way into the kitchen, Tommy hobbling after him. He pointed out where all the different utensils were, as well as where all the food was stored. Not that Tommy would be getting into their food without permission, but he supposed it wouldn't hurt to know.

They glossed over the dining room a bit, Wilbur only really pointing out where he, Phil, and some other guy called "Techno" sat.

Who named their kid Techno, anyway?

Then came the hard part; getting up the stairs with a broken arm and a twisted ankle.

"Are you sure -"

"For the last time, I do not need help," he spat out the last word as though it were poison on his tongue. He planted his good foot on the step in front of him, followed by his crutch and his bad foot a second later. Tommy wobbled, slightly lightheaded, and Wilbur placed a hand on his shoulder to steady him. He shrugged Wilbur's hand off, maybe a little aggressively, but he didn't care. He didn't need help, and he wasn't just going to accept it.

He climbed up the last few steps quicker than the ones previously, trying to get Wilbur to see that he was fine on his own, and he didn't want or need his stupid hands on his shoulders to keep him steady.

When Tommy finally got to the top of the landing, he internally sighed in relief. No more stupid stairs meant no more convincing Wilbur he didn't need his stupid help. Hopefully, anyway.

He glanced over to Wilbur, trying to gauge his reaction, but only found thinly-veiled worry on his face.

Stupid prick.

"So, uh, this is the second floor," Wilbur began stiltedly, "Uh, my room is the closest on the right, and Techno's is the farthest. There's a bathroom in-between. And on the left is Phil's room, his office, and then your room is at the end."

They walked toward the room at the end of the hall on the left that had been, apparently, set aside for him. The fact that he was getting his own room at all kind of astounded him. Like, seriously, what on earth is he meant to do with all the space in a room to himself?

Wilbur opened the door, and Tommy gaped.

The room was painted a light beige, an ugly colour if you asked Tommy, but whatever, and there was a large window on the farthest wall from the door. The floors were a dark hardwood, and there was a closet next to the doorway he was standing in.

But none of that was what caught Tommy's attention.

On the far end of the room sat a -- Tommy assumed -- queen sized bed with white sheets, a comforter, and an absurd amount of pillows. (Five. There were five pillows. Absurd.) The bed had a nightstand on the right side of it, an analogue alarm clock stood on it. On the left side of the room, there was a dresser with a lamp on top, casting a warm light throughout the room, and on the right there was a desk and chair. Tommy could see that there were notebooks and pencils sitting out from where he stood.

This was so pog.

"All this…" Tommy whispered, almost reverently, "for me…?"

"Well… it was a guest room before, but it works well enough, right?" Wilbur asked, fiddling with the hems of his sweater sleeves.

"Y-yeah, it's… it's fine…" Tommy said, still in shock. 

It was a lot more than just "fine", but excuse him for being lost for words in the face of the Minecrafts' kindness.

Wilbur brightened instantly.

"You can make yourself comfortable in here. Phil will probably call you down when your social worker leaves," Wilbur told him, slowly backing out of the room. The door started to creak shut, but seemed to hesitate. "It's great to have you here, Tommy."

The door shut fully before Tommy could formulate a response.

Sam left not even a half hour later, and Phil called him downstairs to say goodbye. His social worker left him with a slip of paper with his phone number on it, as if Tommy didn't already have it memorised.

He left quickly after that, and Phil had Tommy follow him into the kitchen so they could talk while Phil made dinner.

Apparently, it was easier to have important conversations when you weren't forced to sit still and be under constant scrutiny. At least, that's what Phil said. Tommy was just glad they weren't having a conversation while sitting in the living or dining room. That was where every family had important conversations. 

Those kinds of conversations never ended well for Tommy.

So, as Phil chopped up carrots and potatoes for dinner, he laid out the ground rules of his house.

"Rule number one," he said, holding up a single finger for emphasis, "We value privacy in this house, and that includes your own. All the doors to the bedrooms and bathrooms have locks on them, and you are welcome to use them if you wish. This is your house, too. Usually, though, all the rooms are unlocked, and all you have to do is knock if you want to come in. 'No' does mean no, though. If you're told no, do not go in. The same goes for us, we'll stay out of your room if you don't want us in there."

Tommy had doubts that Phil would keep his word with this rule. He kept his mouth firmly shut, though.

"The only exception is if you or someone else is hurting themself. I do have a key, but I only use it in emergencies," Phil finished, "You got that?"

Tommy nodded, ignoring the worry in the back of his mind that Phil would use that key even outside of emergencies.

"Okay, good job. Now, rule two is don't sneak out." Ah, a normal rule. For a minute there, Tommy thought all Phil's rules would be backwards from how they were supposed to be. "If you want to go out," he continued, ignorant to Tommy's inner monologue, "all you have to do is tell me. Chances are, as long as you are safe and with someone you trust, I'll let you go.

"And rule three, and this is very important," Phil abandoned the food on the stove, looking Tommy in the eyes with a serious look in his eye. "If you're hurt or in danger, please, tell me. Or Wilbur, or Techno. Even your teachers, or social worker, or your friends-" Tommy dutifully did not mention that he didn't have any friends. "-anyone who can help you. First and foremost, I want you to be safe here. I'll do everything in my power to keep it that way."

Tommy swallowed around the lump that had formed in his throat.

"Do those rules sound fair to you?" Phil asked, and Tommy nodded wordlessly. He ignored just how lenient those rules seemed to be. They were probably stricter than Phil was letting on. "Good. Dinner will be done in about twenty minutes, you can hang out here until then, if you'd like."

The abrupt topic change threw Tommy for a loop, but he agreed anyway, desperate to get out of the conversation. He migrated from the center of the kitchen, where Phil was cooking, over to an out-of-the-way corner where he could go relatively unnoticed.

Five minutes later, someone new entered the kitchen. It must've been Techno, there wasn't anyone else that had been mentioned to him in the time he'd been here.

Techno was a Piglin hybrid, that much was obvious. From the braided pink hair and red eyes, to the tusks and actually ludicrous amount of golden jewellery he adorned, all the way down to his hooves, he was Piglin for sure. He wore a poet's shirt and high-waisted black dress pants, and Tommy wouldn't have been surprised if there was also a cloak or cape of some kind that went with the rest of the ensemble.

Techno froze the minute he spotted Tommy, as though he were about to transform into a rabid raccoon and try to bite him.

"Uhhhhhh… hullo…" Techno said, and Tommy had a sudden and absurd realisation.

Techno was socially awkward, wasn't he?

"How do," Tommy responded, more of a statement than a question.

They stood there in silence for a bit longer before Phil cut in.

"How about you go and set the table, Techno?"

"Sure."

Techno then wordlessly ventured further into the kitchen and opened the cabinet and drawer that held the plates and silverware. He grabbed a stack of three plates, paused, added another plate to the stack, then grabbed a handful of silverware before making his way into the dining room.

Tommy watched through the doorway into the dining room as Techno set the table. He set the plates and silverware down in the spots Wilbur said they sat at when he was doing the tour. He looked a little confused about what to do with the last plate and set of silverware, but seemingly decided to set them down in the spot next to Wilbur's.

Once he was done, Techno dusted off his hands and left to go… somewhere. Tommy wasn't really sure.

Phil brought the food out to the table around ten minutes later. It was Japanese-style curry, or so he told him. He held the bowl of curry in one arm and the bowl of rice that had been made in the rice cooker in his other. It was impressive that nothing spilled.

He called Techno and Wilbur back into the dining room once the food was set out, and they both came running. Like, full-on sprinting through the house like they'd die if they didn't get to the dining room in a matter of seconds. While humorous, it was a little worrying that they came running so fast when Phil called, like something bad would happen if they didn't.

They didn't ask before piling rice and curry onto their plates. They acted like they'd been starved for days -- with how thin Wilbur looked under that sweater, he wouldn't be entirely surprised. Phil just chuckled and followed suit, putting rice on one side of the plate and curry on the other.

Phil set his plate down in his spot, then picked up Tommy's.

A noise of protest died in his throat before it escaped. Why was he taking Tommy's plate? Was he not allowed to eat? Usually foster families let him eat for the first week, at least-

Before he fell too deep into that spiral, Phil set his plate back down. It had curry and rice on it, now, too.

He blinked at Phil. Phil smiled back.

Rationing, then. He could work with rationing.

Tommy nodded, whispered a little "thank you" to Phil, and sat down, leaning his crutch against the table.

He waited until Phil had taken a bite before taking his own, ignoring the way Wilbur was practically inhaling his food and Techno took bites that barely fit in his mouth.

The curry was probably the best damn thing he'd ever eaten. Before he knew it, his plate was all but licked clean, and Tommy mourned the loss of the delicious food.

Phil seemed to sense Tommy's thoughts, because he said, "You can have seconds, if you want."

It was almost certainly a trap. Previous homes had pulled this trick so often it was basically a requirement; if he had seconds now, he wouldn't have dinner tomorrow, simple as that. He knew these games. It was familiar territory.

"No thanks, I'm fine," Tommy said, ducking his head.

"If you're sure." Phil sounded upset. Maybe it was a test, to see if he would take more food than he was allowed if it was offered. Maybe he was hoping he could punish Tommy if he had, and was disappointed that he didn't.

Tommy shifted in his seat, suddenly even more nervous than before.

It seemed like Techno and Wilbur didn't have the same qualms as Tommy did about seconds. Once their plates were empty, they almost instantly went back for more. Tommy could relate, he'd been starved half to death in the past, and he'd also taken as much food as was offered, regardless of the future consequences.

Tommy hoped Phil wouldn't be too hard on them while he was still new to the house. Most foster parents acted nice around new fosters for the first couple weeks.

Tommy wondered how long it had been since Phil acted nice around these two?

While Tommy had been wrapped up in his own head, the other three had begun talking. Even though everyone had finished eating by that point, they all still sat around the table and talked like families did in movies.

What a fucking stereotype.

Tommy desperately wanted out of this situation. He wanted to run back to his borrowed room and sleep for a year. He wanted out of the weird limbo he was in inside this house. He wanted to run away.

But he couldn't. Not yet, at least. He wouldn't make it very far if he tried to outrun Phil with a broken arm and a fucked-up ankle. And even if he did, he'd have a rough time out in the streets in the state he was in.

So instead, he sat still and silent while Phil, Techno, and Wilbur talked.

It could've been minutes or hours that Tommy sat there, stone still and breathing shallowly, before the others stood from their seats, plates in hand. Tommy went to stand up as well, but his weak leg decided to give out on him, and he dropped back down roughly.

Wilbur, with a soft smile that Tommy found annoyingly comforting, picked up Tommy's plate and stacked it on top of his own.

"I've got it, don't worry. You can head back up to your room now, if you want." Wilbur walked past, ghosting a hand through Tommy's curls as he went. 

Tommy sat in his seat for a few seconds more, watching Wilbur make his way into the kitchen with both their plates. He was, confusingly, glad that he wasn't being touched anymore while also missing the feeling.

Ugh, emotions.

Grabbing his crutch, Tommy hauled himself up and headed back up to his room. He might as well make the most of these nice accommodations while they last, right?

A/N: i will be posting a new chapter every two weeks (hopefully) so keep an eye out for that!

Chapter 2: why can't you be a dick? why must you be so nice?

Summary
Phil invites Tommy to go out shopping with him.

A/N:

The days after that went similarly. Tommy would wake up, eat whatever he was offered for breakfast, hide away in his room and die of boredom, eat what Phil made for lunch, hide in his room some more, eat dinner, and then go to bed. The monotony was slowly eating him from the inside out.

And that was why he didn't hesitate to say yes when Phil asked him to go shopping with him.

Though, the healthy fear he had of the man was certainly a factor in his answer.

But he digressed. Tommy and Phil were out shopping now, and Tommy had no clue what they were even here for. So, he followed close behind Phil as he wove through the isles like he knew the place better than the wings on his back.

Before long, he stopped in an aisle with sheets and bedding in the home goods section, and Tommy narrowly avoided colliding with him.

Phil turned and looked at him expectantly.

"...what?" Tommy asked after a long period of uncomfortable silence.

"Go ahead and pick what sheets you want," Phil instructed, "The ones on your bed right now are just the cheap sheets we used for guests. I want you to have your own, that you pick."

Tommy turned to the aisle of sheets in front of him. There were rows upon rows of the things, way too many to choose from, in his opinion. Too many different colours and fits and sizes. It was overwhelming.

Lost, Tommy pointed the first thing he saw out to Phil, staring at his shoes.

Phil gently – way, way too gently – asked, "Are you sure about that one? You barely even glanced at it."

A whine crawled out of his throat despite his best efforts to keep it down. His vision was getting blurry. He stared harder at his shoes, willing the tears to leave his eyes. He didn't even know what he was crying about, nothing even happened!

But the fluorescent lights high above his head were buzzing and shining way too bright, and the sounds of trolley wheels and trainers against the tile floor grated against his ears, and his left arm was itchy inside the cast, and- and- and-

And he was being pulled into someone's chest, arms wrapping around his shoulders.

Without thinking, he leaned into the hug – because that's what it was, a hug – and clutched onto the front of the person's shirt. His skin was on fire at every point of contact, and it hurt, and he wanted to pull away, but it also felt so so good. Against his better judgement, he leaned even more of his weight into the other.

Tommy sniffled and choked on sobs and wheezed into the person's chest. They ran a hand up and down his spine, which only caused him to cry harder. He barely noticed when they sank down to the floor, and he certainly didn't notice the way his crutch clattered to the floor with them.

And then, he was encased in a bubble of darkness and warmth, and the noises all became muffled.

Even so, it took a while for Tommy to come back to himself.

He could feel the rise and fall of the person's chest against his forehead. The fabric of their shirt was growing damp from snot and tears.

Something – a hand, Tommy thought – ran through his hair, gently untangling knots he hadn't had the time to work out himself. Another hand continued to rub in soothing circles on his back.

He was encased in warm darkness on all sides. It was calming, and Tommy could feel his heart slowing down to a more normal pace by the second.

Finally, his brain saw fit to let him think clearly again, and he immediately wiggled away from the person – Phil, the person was Phil, fuck – and wiped at his face with his sleeve. Phil, seeing him moving again, pulled his wings away from where they'd been protectively curled around him.

"Hey, mate," he said in that stupid, soft voice of his, "You back with me?"

Tommy only offered a rough grunt. His throat was absolutely wrecked after that, damn. He grabbed his crutch and used it to push himself back to his feet, glaring at Phil as he also stood up, a lot easier than Tommy had. Weren't old people supposed to have bad joints or something? Phil should have a harder time standing up from the ground than Tommy.

Only then, after he stood, did Tommy see the dark, wet patch on Phil's hoodie. A tight knot of dread made its home in his stomach – he did that, he ruined Phil's hoodie. Phil was going to kill him-!

"Tommy? What- Ooh," Phil finally noticed the spot, and panic speared straight through his chest. Fuck fuck fuck, he was gonna die- "It's okay, mate, it'll wash out no problem."

…what…?

Why wasn't he mad?

He should be mad… but he wasn't?

…why?

Phil turned back to the sheets, picked up one set, and showed them to Tommy.

"How about these ones?"

They were mostly white sheets, but they also had bright red accents that, admittedly, Tommy did quite like.

Did he know Tommy's favourite colour was red, or was it just a lucky guess?

"I- yeah, I- I like 'em."

He would've said he did even if he hated them. No need to upset Phil any further.

Phil smiled at him. His eyes crinkled in the corners when he did that. Tommy wasn't sure why he hadn't noticed that before.

"Alright, let's check out and go back home." Phil started heading for the checkout, and Tommy walked with him, side-by-side.

Maybe… maybe Phil wasn't such a bad guy…

Tommy shook the thought from his head as quickly as it had appeared. That was exactly what Phil wanted him to think, it's exactly what all the other houses had manipulated him into thinking. He just kept touching the hot stove and not expecting to get burned.

Well, he wasn't going to get burned again.

If he acted standoffish during the car ride back to the Minecrafts' house, Phil was graceful enough to not confront him about it.

A/N: shorter chapter this time, but i hope it was a good read regardless!

Chapter 3: why not be a little more friendly?

Summary
Tommy's first day at his new school does not go to plan.

A/N: basically tommy meeting some new friends and warming up to one of the minecrafts

Tommy was so screwed.

It was the first day of being back in school, and he was lost.

He frantically took another left, ending up in the sixth dead-end hallway in the past half-hour. He really wanted to fucking scream. Why was this school so fucking confusing!?

All he wanted to do was find room 302, but since he found 301, 303, and 203, with no sign of 302 anywhere, he was beginning to think that the damn room just didn't exist. He wouldn't be surprised if his schedule was printed out wrong; it would be just his luck.

At least he didn't need that stupid crutch anymore, if he did, he might've actually lost his mind wandering every single hallway like he was.

Tommy grumbled, staring at his shoes as he walked. He really couldn't catch a break, could he?

Out of nowhere, someone slammed face-first into him, and they both went tumbling down onto the hard tile floor. Tommy's broken arm was trapped between him and the bastard that ran into him, and it fucking hurt.

The bastard had blond hair, small horns just barely peeking out from their fringe, which nearly covered their eyes completely. They also had animal ears, possibly goat or sheep. That was about all Tommy could see, but he'd bet they had hooves as well.

He also noticed that they were touching him. As in physical contact. And that was bad and Tommy hated it.

He shoved them off with his good arm, the broken one protesting after he tried to use that one, too.

"Get off me, you fucking bitch!"

"Well, if you were looking where you were fucking going-!" The other kid, a boy, Tommy thought now that he heard his voice, shouted.

"Oh, yeah, I need to watch where I'm going- You ran into me!" Tommy yelled back, scrambling to his feet and facing the kid head-on.

The first thing Tommy noticed was that he was fucking short.

Like, he was short enough that he didn't even reach Tommy's shoulder height, and yeah, sure, Tommy was tall as fuck, a whole one-hundred and eighty-five centimeters, but most short people reached his chin height, or his shoulder height at least.

But then there was this rude little fuck that ran into him and then told Tommy to watch where he was going. And the top of his head only reached about halfway up Tommy's bicep.

"Yeah, I did run into you, because you didn't get outta my way !" The short hybrid yelled, seemingly making an attempt to get up in Tommy's face. It wasn't working very well with the height difference between the two.

"I shouldn't've had to get out of your way, you dickhead, you should've looked where you were going!" Tommy leaned down, and his attempt to get into the other's face was a lot more successful. The other kid leaned forward even more, butting their heads together roughly. His horns dug painfully into Tommy's forehead, and he would really rather not be touching, but he refused to back down like a pussy.

"Blah blah blah, semantics or whatever- I don't give a shit. You were in my way because you weren't looking where you were going-"

"Oh, that's fucking it-" Tommy reared back, curled his hand into a fist, and clarted that motherfucker in his stupid face.

The punch connected, landing on the guy's cheekbone and severely injuring Tommy's knuckles. They'd be all bruised later, he could already tell. The kid staggered back a few steps, tracing the new red mark on his face with his fingertips.

"You dick!" The kid screeched, and then he rounded on Tommy, glaring so hard it would've been fitting for Tommy's head to explode from the sheer amount of fury behind it.

He launched at Tommy, sending them both to the ground.

They wrestled on the school's tiled hallway floor, punching, kicking, slapping, even scratching and biting. Tommy's broken arm was all but forgotten in the chaos and adrenaline of the fight, Tommy using the cast around it as a blunt-force weapon to bash the bitch boy in the face.

If it weren't for the fact that you had to touch someone to fight them, Tommy might get into fights more often. Aside from the awful feeling of contact, it was exhilarating.

They caused so much of a ruckus, shouting insults and profanities at each other in equal quantities, that several teachers in the nearby rooms came out into the hallway to separate them.

After that, though, all Tommy got out of the encounter was several cuts on his face, a black eye, an even more injured arm, and a lunch detention.

Wonderful.

Hopefully they wouldn't call Phil…

Who was he kidding, of course they would call Phil. He just had to hope that Phil wouldn't try to kill him when he got back to the house.

Tommy managed to get to the rest of his classes with little issue after that, ahem, minor mishap in the morning. Lunch rolled around at about noon, and Tommy headed to room 108 which was, allegedly, the room detentions were held in.

With his styrofoam lunch tray in hand, Tommy entered the mostly deserted disciplinary room.

It was only mostly deserted because the bastard that ran into him was also there.

The kid perked up as he spotted him. He waved at Tommy, grinning widely. Tommy only scowled back, sitting in one of the farthest desks away from him. That didn't stop him, though, he just got up and plopped himself down at the desk next to Tommy's.

"Hi! We never really got the chance to introduce ourselves before, I'm Tubbo!" the kid, Tubbo, introduced himself. The disciplinarian at the front of the classroom glared, but Tubbo didn't seem to notice.

"Tommy," he introduced, "and I don't like you."

"Why not?" said Tubbo, looking genuinely confused.

"Be-because we fought? Like, an actual fistfight literally not even three hours ago."

Tubbo rolled his eyes (or at least Tommy thought he did. It was hard to tell with the fringe in the way, and all). "That was forever ago, you've gotta move on with your life, man. Don't let the past control you."

Tommy could feel a grin creeping up on his face. He kinda liked this kid.

"Anyway," Tubbo said suddenly, raising a sharpie to eye-level, "can I sign your cast?"

Tommy blinked, not expecting the question. He thought that was something they only did in movies. Regardless, he nodded presented his casted arm to Tubbo, careful to rest it on the desk so he wouldn't try to hold it steady for him.

Turned out, Tubbo's handwriting was atrocious, and the one word he wrote took up the entire length of Tommy's cast. Tubbo also did a very crude drawing of a dick, which managed to startle a laugh out of Tommy when he saw it.

The lunch detention went by quickly with Tubbo there, and the disciplinarian's glare as they left the classroom felt a lot less important than he thought it should have.

As it turned out, Tommy and Tubbo had all of their last three classes together, those being english, maths, and band.

The first two were boring as fuck, but band was pretty fun. Tubbo mostly played the piano in the corner instead of the clarinet he was meant to be playing. After getting bored of whatever music theory bullshit the director was going on about, Tommy abandoned the borrowed school trumpet he'd been using to join Tubbo at the piano.

They both got written up for insubordination.

After the final bell rang, Tubbo all but dragged Tommy out of the band room and all the way to his locker.

"Ranboo!" Tubbo called out, waving wildly at someone.

That "someone" turned out to be possibly the tallest motherfucker Tommy had ever laid eyes on. They were easily taller than Wilbur, and that was saying something because Wilbur was fucking tall . They easily stood out amid the crowd. Their skin was two different colours, white on one side and black on the other, their hair matching that same theme. Their eyes were also two different colours, red on the white side and green on the black. They had horns poking out from their hair, and they had their tail wrapped around one leg. They looked to be half-enderman, but Tommy had no clue what their other half could be. They were also wearing a black cloth mask that covered their mouth and nose.

"Tubbo!" Ranboo called back, easily catching the shorter boy as he barrelled into them. "Who's this?" They nodded, looking Tommy over.

"Oh, that's Tommy! We got into a fight in the hallway during second hour-"

"You what?"

"-and we're friends now!"

Tommy blinked. Was it really that easy to make friends? Get into fistfights with people and then hang out with them for a few hours? He's pretty sure that wasn't how it normally worked.

Ranboo looked sceptical, as well.

"Are you… sure?"

"Positive, bossman. Right, Tommy?"

"Yeah!" said Tommy with a grin, "These bruises are a marker of our epic friendship." He pointed at the not insignificant amount of bruises on his face.

"Ohhh-kayyy…" Ranboo trailed off, glancing up at a clock on the wall. "Oh, crap! Tubbo, the buses are about to leave, you've gotta go."

"Oh fuck, you're right!" Tubbo opened his locker – which didn't have a lock – and swung his backpack over his shoulder before slamming it shut again. He bolted for the doors, sending them a wave over his shoulder. "Bye Ranboo! Bye Tommy!"

"Bye!" Tommy and Ranboo called back in sync.

Now alone, the two of them stood in awkward silence next to Tubbo's locker.

"I'll uh… see you later, I guess? Um- bye." 

Tommy left Ranboo where they were and headed for his own locker. Techno and Wilbur were probably already in the car, and Tommy did not want to have to walk all the way back to the Minecrafts' house because they got bored of waiting for him.

Wilbur noticed the cuts and bruises as soon as Tommy got in the car, and Tommy was not prepared for all the fussing that came after.

"Holy shit, Tommy, what the fuck happened to your face?" Wilbur said as he turned halfway around in the passenger's seat to look at him. Techno, steadfastly ignoring both of them, started the car and drove them out of the parking lot.

"I don't know what you're talking about." Tommy said defiantly.

Wilbur rolled his eyes, and unbuckled his seatbelt to climb into the backseat with him, ignorant to both Tommy and Techno's protests. As soon as he sat down, Wilbur reached for Tommy's face, but didn't manage to touch before Tommy flinched away violently. Wilbur, eyes wide with surprise at the sudden movement, let his hands fall back into his lap.

"Tommy, seriously," Wilbur said, voice cracking ever so slightly, "who did this to you?"

Goddamnit, how did this guy manage to sound so sincere? Like it pained him to see Tommy battered and bruised. It made him want to spill his guts, even against his better judgement.

"It's nothing, some guy just ran into me."

Wilbur wasn't convinced. "Some guy running into you gave you cuts all over your face?"

Tommy could tell him. He could tell Wilbur exactly what happened. It wasn't like he could really do anything about it now, and Tommy and Tubbo were friends now, so it didn't matter anymore, right?

"Okay, fine," Tommy finally admitted, "I might have punched the guy and started a fight-"

"Tommy!"

"But it's fine!" he finished, "We're cool now!"

Wilbur buried his face in his hands, groaning dramatically. "I can't believe you got into a fight on the first day…" Tommy could only roll his eyes. "Techno, is the first aid kit still in the glove box?"

"What- I don't need first aid-"

"It is," Techno said, steamrolling right over Tommy protests.

"Fantastic." Wilbur reached around the passenger's seat to open the glove box and get out a small box that was, presumably, the first aid kit. Once he was sat back down, he opened it and began sorting through the contents.

"Okay, we've got a cold pack for that black eye, and hydrogen peroxide, wipes, and plasters for those cuts. Better to get them disinfected a little late rather than never do it."

Tommy scoffed. "I don't need first aid."

And he didn't. The cuts would heal on their own and, while a cold pack would be nice, he wouldn't die without it. He was a big man, he didn't need first aid.

"Yeah, you say that now, but in two days when you have an infection, you'll be wishing you had disinfected those cuts," Wilbur told him seriously, "Believe me, I've done that."

"He sure has," Techno chimed in from the front seat. "Wouldn't stop complaining about it for a week."

"It sucked, Techno!" Wilbur whined. Techno huffed in response, returning his attention to the road. "Well, anyway, do you want to do it, or should I? Because it really needs to get done."

This bastard seriously thinks he can tell Tommy what to do? Oh, he's got another thing coming-

"I don't-!"

"-need first aid? Yeah, you've said," Wilbur interrupted. Tommy scowled at him, snapping his mouth shut with a clack of teeth. "You're not built different, Tommy. Please, just let me help and then I'll leave you alone."

Wilbur'll leave him alone if he just uses the kit? Seemed like a win-win, he gets a cold pack and Wilbur shuts up. Quite possibly too good to be true, but Tommy was getting sick and tired of his nagging. If this was what got him to leave him alone, then so be it.

"Fine." Tommy held out his hand, gesturing for the kit. "Give it."

Wilbur handed over the kit, looking smug. Tommy internally seethed. He wanted to punch that stupid look right off his stupid face. Too bad Phil would almost certainly kill him if he laid hands on his son.

Tommy cleaned out the cuts with the hydrogen peroxide and wipes, sloppily putting plasters on afterwards. After he'd cleaned the last of the cuts, he took a cold pack and followed the instructions to activate it and held it on his swollen eye.

Wilbur took the first aid kit back once Tommy set it aside, and he returned it to the glove box. As though on cue, they pulled into the driveway seconds later.

"Phil's gonna want to talk to you once you get inside, I bet."

"'Course…" Tommy grumbled, slouching in his seat. Techno, once again ignoring them, shut off the car, got out, and left them alone in the backseat.

Wilbur hummed to himself.

"I could distract Phil long enough for you to get to your room if you don't want to talk to him yet."

Tommy's head snapped up, eyes searching Wilbur's face with disbelief.

"You're kidding."

"I'm not. I'll just tell him you're tired or something," Wilbur's voice was sincere, no lies in sight, and Tommy was excellent at spotting lies.

But he would have to trust Wilbur to distract Phil, and not give him away.

Could Tommy trust Wilbur?

…

He didn't know.

But Wilbur did seem to care about him for some reason. He might as well give trusting him a shot.

"That would- yeah. Yeah, can you… do that?"

Wilbur's lips quirked upward, eyes softening.

"Of course I can, Toms."

Maybe Wilbur wasn't such a bad guy after all.

A/N: this is the last fully written chapter that i have as i'm typing this, so it might be a bit before the next chapter is posted. i'll try to stay somewhat on schedule tho!

Chapter 4: it's 3:45 (am)

Summary
Tommy has a nightmare.

A/N:

Tommy's eyes snapped open, only able to take in the overwhelming darkness of the room for a second before he fell directly onto the hardwood floor. His heart hammered away in his chest, the blood rushing in his ears drowning out all coherent thought. His hair was drenched in sweat and plastered to his forehead. His panicked breaths were the only sound in the deafening silence of the room. He shifted around a bit, but found that he couldn't sit up; something – maybe fabric? – was wrapped around him and entangled with his limbs, and wiggling did nothing to help free himself.

Tommy thrashed around in whatever he was trapped in some more, only getting more tangled at first, but eventually managing to escape. He sat up shakily, pushing the fabric off. As he looked at it, he realised it was the sheet from off the bed.

He'd been trapped in a fucking bed sheet. Of course.

A shaky exhale rushed out of his lungs. It was just a bed sheet. No one restrained him. It was okay.

Tommy was fine.

He was fine. He wasn't there anymore. It was… well, it wasn't safe, but at least he wasn't back there.

It was just a dream. A nightmare.

The reassurances didn't help.

His heart, uncaring of his desperate attempts to calm down, continued to beat against his ribcage in a frantic pattern. Breathing wasn't coming easy, either. Every inhale stuttered and his exhales came out wobbly.

His black eye abruptly decided to make its presence known, throbbing in time with his heart. It felt like he got punched in the face all over again.

He was shaking, he realised as he wrapped his arms around his middle. He was shaking and his vision was beginning to blur and everything was too much.

He wanted-

…What did he want?

Comfort, he thought, safety.

Wilbur.

Wilbur helped him when he was hurt. Wilbur wanted to help him.

No one ever wanted to help him before.

Tommy barely noticed himself standing up, or opening his door, or walking across the hall. And then he was at Wilbur's door, fist balled up and halfway raised to knock.

But his brain chose the worst possible moment to become coherent again, and he hesitated.

Would Wilbur even want to see him? It was the middle of the night, he was probably asleep. No one liked having their sleep interrupted. Tommy should just leave now and spare Wilbur the effort of having to deal with him-

The door swung open.

"Oh, Tommy," Wilbur said, surprise evident in his voice, "It's 3:45 AM, what are you doing up?"

Wilbur's glasses were crooked, and his hair was mussed up in that way that only happens when you run your fingers through it a few too many times. His usual eye bags were a lot worse than normal, on top of that.

So Tommy wasn't the only person not able to sleep, huh?

"I- ah…" He tried to swallow down his nerves, "Well, I- nightmare? But it's fine I'll just go back to bed sorry for bothering you-"

He turned back around, about to rush back to the semi-safety of his room, but Wilbur stopped him.

"Toms, wait-" he said, and Tommy froze in his tracks. He turned back around to face Wilbur, but his eyes stayed locked firmly on the floor. "You aren't bothering me. Truth is, I can't sleep either."

Tommy chanced a glance upward. Wilbur was still standing in the doorway, same as he was before. His face held no trace of deceit, just concern.

"Insomnia, y'know?" Wilbur continued, "Can't sleep at night very often."

"Sounds shitty," Tommy mumbled, and immediately regretted it. He didn't know how Wilbur reacted to comments like that, he should've kept his big, stupid mouth shut-

Wilbur chuckled, "Yeah, it sucks shit. Gives me an excuse to stay up and write songs, though."

That can't be healthy, though Tommy is definitely a hypocrite for thinking that.

"If you come in, I can play some for you? Only if you want."

Tommy wouldn't lie, the idea was enticing.

"That won't wake anyone up?" Tommy asked. If there was even a chance that Phil, or even Techno, would wake up and barge in, he didn't want any part of it.

"Nah, I play at night all the time. It's fine," he assured, "You've never woken up to my playing, have you?"

"You've played while I've been here?"

"Exactly." Wilbur stepped back further into his room, pushing the door open more and gesturing Tommy to follow him inside.

Wilbur's room was painted a dark blue, and there were band posters covering nearly every inch of the walls. His bed was in the far corner, a nightstand next to it. A computer sat on a desk against the opposite wall. Papers, notebooks, and clothes were scattered across the floor, only leaving a small path from the door to the bed and to the desk.

Once Tommy was inside, Wilbur shut the door and picked up an acoustic guitar that was leaning against the desk.

"Here, come sit on the bed," he coaxed, brushing past Tommy and sitting on the bed himself, up near the pillows. Tommy followed him, sitting criss-cross at the foot of the bed, as reasonably far from Wilbur as possible.

Wilbur strummed a few chords, humming to himself.

"I have a few songs that I've written out fully, but I think this one is my favourite…"

He plucked the strings expertly in a sad, quiet tune. Music filled the room, pleasantly filling Tommy's ears. His tense muscles relaxed more with every note that was strummed out of the guitar.

"Wasting your time…" Wilbur sang, "You're wasting mine…"

Wilbur's voice was even nicer to listen to while he was singing, Tommy decided. Which was saying something, because Wilbur's voice was already the best voice he'd ever had the pleasure of listening to (not that he'd ever tell Wilbur that).

"I hate to see you leaving, a fate worse than dying…

"Your city gave me asthma, so that's why I'm fucking leaving… And your water gave me cancer… And the pavement hurt my feelings…"

What had Wilbur been through that made him write such a sad song? He seemed so happy all the time, but was this what was really going on in his head?

"Shout at the wall… 'cause the walls don't fucking love you… Shout at the wall… 'cause the walls don't fucking love you -"

His strumming got faster, more vigorous. He rocked back and forth in time with the notes, before leaning back and thumping the back of his head against the wall behind him.

"There's a reason that London puts barriers on the tubeline. There's a reason that London puts barriers on the rails…

"There's a reason that London puts barriers on the tubeline," Wilbur's singing slowed, and he quieted down, a stark contrast from the almost aggressive way he was singing moments before. "There's a reason…" He strummed one last time, eyes slipping shut as he seemed to lose himself in the final line of his song, "They fail…"

The last chord faded out into silence.

"That was sick!" Tommy exclaimed, hands flapping excitedly. Wilbur chuckled, opening his eyes, he set the guitar down next to him on the bed.

"It was nothing, really-"

"Shut up, Wilbur, that was fucking cool , man!"

Wilbur sighed, smiling softly.

"Thanks, Tommy."

A knock came from the door, three sharp taps against the wood. Tommy froze, his blood turned to ice in his veins.

"Are you alright in there, Wil? You were playing louder than you normally do."

Phil.

Of fucking course it was Phil.

Wilbur said no one would wake up, but obviously that wasn't true because Phil was outside the fucking door! Awake! And asking about Wilbur's playing!

"I'm alright Phil, just insomnia again," Wilbur said, not untruthfully. Tommy's heart was pounding in his ears, going a mile a minute. If it got any louder, he was certain Phil would hear it.

"Do you want me to come in?"

No no no no nonono- Phil was gonna see him there's nowhere to hide Tommy's so dead-

"Nah, I'll be alright on my own tonight."

…Huh…?

"Are you sure- "

"Yes, Dadza, I'll be fine, I promise," Wilbur interrupted, not necessarily annoyed, more exasperated.

"Okay, if you say so," Phil said calmly (why would he be calm? Wilbur just told him no and interrupted him and he wasn't mad about it? What was going on??), "Goodnight, Wil."

"Night."

Neither Tommy nor Wilbur made a sound until they were certain Phil was out of hearing range. Tommy waited a few seconds after Phil's footsteps had faded into silence, just to be safe, but then he rounded on Wilbur, a confusing swirl of confusion, betrayal, and relief sitting heavy in his chest.

"You said no one would wake up," Tommy accused. Wilbur raised his hands in mock surrender.

"I said that I play at night all the time, and me playing won't wake anyone up. Phil must've still been awake – he stays up late sometimes. I didn't know he was up tonight, I swear."

On one hand, Tommy oh so desperately wanted to believe him. Wilbur was one of the very few people who'd ever given a shit about him. He needed someone in his corner.

But then again, who was to say that he wasn't being led into a false sense of security?

It was risky to trust someone, to allow himself to get close and open up. It never went well before…

Why should this time be any different?

But then Tommy looked at Wilbur, saw the worry lines etched into his face, and really examined the way his eyes kept locking onto Tommy before hurriedly averting his gaze.

He wasn't lying, something deep in Tommy's gut told him, he's telling the truth.

I can trust him.

"Okay," Tommy says, relaxing.

"Okay?"

"Yeah."

"Uh, good, that's… good."

They sat in not-quite-comfortable-but-not-quite-tense silence for a while. Tommy's head was whirling, second guessing himself. What if he'd made a mistake? What if he falls victim to his own foolish trust again?

But then Wilbur stood up, and walked over to his closet and began rummaging through the stuff inside. Tommy, curious, tried to see what he was up to, leaning this way and that to see over his shoulder, but to no avail. He must've made a noise, because Wilbur turned his head to look at him, lips quirked up at the corners.

"Give me a second, I'm just grabbing something."

Tommy huffed, indignant, but sat still and waited all the same.

Wilbur, after a few more seconds of digging around, made a sort of "aha!" sound before turning around triumphantly, holding a stuffed cow in his hands.

He walked back over to the bed, hopping up onto it and holding the cow out to Tommy.

Tommy, unsure what exactly he wanted, held out his hands apprehensively. Wilbur smiled, and set the toy down in his hands.

The cow was old, that much was obvious. Its fur was matted down, its head was a little lopsided. There was a seam connecting one of the legs to the torso that had been messily sewn back together with blue thread.

"His name is Henry. Phil got him for me when I first came here, so he's really special to me," Wilbur explained. Tommy held it even more gently. If it was special to Wilbur, he didn't want to ruin it.

"That's… cool? Uh, why are you showing it to me?"

"Well, he kind of just sits on a shelf, now. I'd rather he be with someone who'd care for him," Wilbur said, "So, I'm giving him to you."

Tommy's brain buffered for a moment, trying to decipher what exactly Wilbur had just said.

He wanted Tommy to have the stuffed cow that was apparently very special to him? Why? It would only get ruined with him, everything he touched got ruined eventually.

"But… why?" Tommy pleaded. He didn't want to ruin Henry. He belonged to Wilbur, and Tommy liked Wilbur. He didn't want to ruin his things.

"Consider it… a welcome home gift."

Tommy looked down at Henry, still held in his hands. The lopsided face smiled up at him, practically begging him to keep him.

"...thanks…"

Wilbur just smiled.

A/N: i just finished this chapter yesterday so dont count on next chapter being on time lol

Chapter 5: another hypoglycemic reaction

Summary
Techno takes Tommy to the library.

A/N: lol sorry for the long delay, ive been up to devious scoundrel activities

Tommy wasn't quite sure what to make of Techno.

He stayed in his room a lot, so he and Tommy didn't interact often. The only times they were really around each other was when Techno was driving them to school or when they were all sitting at the table for dinner. Even then, they didn't talk.

So when Tommy got a knock on his door, he expected Wilbur, who Tommy had been hanging out a lot more with recently, or even Phil, as much as Tommy didn't want to see him.

But when he opened the door, it was Techno that stood just beyond the threshold.

Tommy had the impulse to slam the door in his face, but he resisted. He wanted to know why Techno , of all people, was knocking on his door, and he couldn't find out very easily when the door was shut.

"...hullo," Techno said, after a long period of silence.

"What do you want."

Internally, Tommy winced at the harsh tone. He didn't mean to sound rude, but he didn't exactly know how to interact with Techno.

"I uh… was wonderin' if you'd wanna tag along with me? To the library," he clarified hastily. "Wilbur and Phil are busy."

Tommy wasn't sure why he couldn't just go alone – seemed like the most straightforward solution – but… it was getting dull only ever being at the house or at school. And the library actually sounded quite nice.

"Sure."

"Uh, good- good."

God, this was so awkward.

Tommy followed Techno downstairs and outside to his car. Techno hopped in the driver's seat, and Tommy started to get in the backseat.

"You can sit shotgun if you want, y'know." Techno told him as he was halfway in the car.

"I can?" He can sit in the front seat? No other foster house had allowed that, even when he was the only other one in the car.

"Yeah, 'course. It's just you and me."

Ah, just them. Not anyone else; Phil wouldn't approve.

Just one more secret to keep, he supposed.

Tommy got out of the backseat and got in the front instead, feeling a little giddy. He's never sat in the front seat before!

Techno nodded at him (approvingly?), and started the car.

They drove for about fifteen minutes to get to the library, during which Techno grabbed the aux cord from the centre console, plugged it into his phone, and handed it over to Tommy. He told him to "play something good", and Spotify was open on his phone.

Problem was, he had no idea what music Techno thought was "good".

He settled on playing one of Techno's playlists and calling it a day.

When they got to the library, Techno strode in like he owned the place, and Tommy followed hesitantly behind.

Techno dropped a book in a slot labelled "book return", and then made a beeline for the fantasy section. Tommy had to jog to keep up.

Tommy, once again, wondered why Techno didn't choose to come alone. Tommy certainly wasn't contributing much by being here.

Techno roamed the shelves, eventually zeroing in on the romance novels. With an ease that was clearly practised, he ran his hands over the spines of the books until he came across one with a bright blue cover. He pulled it off the shelf, looking significantly less pissed off than he usually did – which is to say, he was practically beaming.

The cover boldly read The Princess Bride.

Huh. Tommy didn't know Techno was into that stuff.

Techno flipped open the front cover and lifted out the borrowing card, which Tommy snuck a peek at, just out of curiosity.

The last five or six names were all the same, written in intricate cursive, and were also very familiar.

Technoblade Minecraft.

Techno's full name was Technoblade? If Tommy was being honest, that was sick as hell.

With a little nod to himself, Techno – Techno blade , Techno blade… The Blade , he mentally rolled the name around on his tongue, getting a feel for it – slipped the card back in the sleeve and shut the cover.

Techno promptly turned and left the section, leaving Tommy to scramble and follow after him.

Techno led the way through the labyrinth that was the library (Seriously, who made this layout? Getting lost was a serious concern). After several minutes of walking – Tommy internally cursed the designer of this maze-library – they came upon a couple bean bag chairs and a couch nestled into one of the corners of the mythology section. The couch was under a large window, sitting beside a shelf helpfully labelled "Greek Mythology". Despite being in what must be the most remote corner of the library, the books weren't dusty.

Techno flopped down on the couch with no hesitation.

What was Tommy supposed to do now? Techno hadn't acknowledged him since he left the car, and he honestly had no idea what to do.

So, Tommy simply stood and waited.

A few minutes passed. Techno intermittently flipped pages. Tommy's legs were starting to cramp from standing so still.

"You can sit down, y'know." Tommy's eyes zeroed in on Techno's, which seemed to be staring into his very soul. The urge to run was singing in his veins, an ancient fight-or-flight instinct screaming he was in mortal danger, and to run for his life.

Tommy sat down on a beanbag chair, shoulders and back rigid.

Techno huffed and went back to his book.

It was alright for a while. He could sit still and be quiet for a bit, no big deal!

…But as each second seemed to take hours to tick by, Tommy got a bit antsy. He started tapping his foot against the floor, just to have something to do.

Techno glared at him over his book, and Tommy froze.

Techno sighed, slipped a bookmark – where did that come from – in between the pages he was reading, and stood up. Tommy mimicked after Techno tilted his head in the direction the exit (probably) was. He led the way through the shelf-maze, and Tommy followed a few steps behind.

He twisted his fingers together, bending and flexing them in an attempt to relieve the anxiety twisted up in his chest.

Techno looked back at him, one eyebrow raised. Tommy hastily shoved both hands in his jeans pockets. No one liked it when he did that, always said he'd fuck up his hands, always said it was distracting .

Techno slipped a hand in his jacket pocket and pulled something out of it.

"Here, catch," he said. Tommy caught whatever Techno had thrown, grateful that he'd at least given him enough time to pull his hands out of his pockets before he'd thrown it.

He looked down at the thing in his hands.

It looked like some kind of infinite-loop toy. It was made of red, blue, and yellow plastic, and it was tangled up into something resembling a ball.

"What is it?" Tommy got the guts to ask.

"It's a Tangle," Techno replied, not turning to look back at him, "For fidgeting with."

'I'm not a kid,' Tommy wanted to grumble, but as he pulled the tangle from its balled up shape, he forgot he was supposed to act as grown-up as possible, completely entranced by how nice it was to fidget with. A lot better than twisting his fingers together.

Before he knew it, he and Techno were already back in the car.

For once, the car ride didn't feel like an eternity. With the tangle in his hands, and plenty of things to look at out the window, the car ride almost felt too short.

They pulled into the driveway, and as they walked up to the front door, Tommy held the tangle out for Techno to take back.

"Keep it. I've got others."

"Oh," Tommy whispered, "Thanks."

Techno grunted in acknowledgement.

Tommy retreated into his room the moment he got the chance, tangle twisted in his hands, and a small smile on his face.

A/N: i dunno when the next chapter will be out this is all ive got lmao

A/N: thanks for reading! pls comment i will give u a littol kiss on the forehead. also, u can check out either of the series below for more mcyt stuff!