Archive of Our Own

It’s early morning — or at least Tommy thinks it is, there’s no windows underground to tell him the time — when he decides that enough was enough. It’s been a week since they were kicked out of L’Manberg, the knowledge of that still leaves a bitter taste in his mouth, and he and Wilbur have started living in Pogtopia. He’d hoped that Wilbur’s declaration at the beginning had been merely something said out of hurt and anger, but as he watched his brother, hunched over a crafting table in that awful trench jacket he wore, muttering damn near inaudibly to himself, Tommy realizes that this was far, far more than he thought. 

He’s not certain that Wilbur’s left their underground ravine since they found it; already his skin has lost its healthy glow and he looked far too pale. At this rate, he would turn more into a spectre than a man. It was scaring Tommy. Wilbur was quickly turning into someone he couldn’t recognize. 

It’s only been a week. 

There’s a lingering sense of despair creeping up on Tommy; vines made of dread that he can feel to his very soul climbing up his spine and reaching and curling over his ribs, choking flora twining around his lungs and heart like a cobra and squeezing him until he thinks he can’t breathe and black spots swarm his vision. 

This will only end in disaster, Tommy knows it. Knows it to the marrow of his bones, and he thinks, just for a moment, that he might be Cassandra of Troy; seeing what's to come, incapable of stopping it. The despair tightens its snake-grip around his heart, threatening to burst it. 

He’s heard of people dying over a broken heart, the thought of himself doing the same distantly pings around the back of his mind, sluggishly pulling through the haze in his mind to center stage. Something hardens inside him. 

No, he thinks over the buzz of his mind, a hot knife slicing through the vines around his ribs. Not like this.

Tommy refused for it to end like this. Not like this, he repeated in his head, a lump forming in his throat that he furiously swallowed down. Wilbur was deteriorating right before his very eyes, walls being built up around him until Tommy was certain that it would divide them. Tommy would lose Wilbur, was losing him. Slowly and steadily. 

If there was one thing to know about Tommy Soot, it was that he hated losing. 

Not like this, he thought again, and marched forward, his mind settling on one thing and one thing only. Wilbur doesn’t notice his approach, too lost in his own mind undoubtedly swirling with betrayal and pain and revenge to pick up his little brother approaching him with a look in his eyes that was as unmoving as a mountain. 

He didn’t notice, until Tommy’s fingers were curling around his ear, knuckles digging tightly into the cartilage, and yanking him back. Wilbur yelped in surprise and pain, not even given the chance to react before Tommy was tugging on him forcefully, unusually strong and pulling him towards the stairs.

“Tommy! What are you—”

“Come on, up you get. Let’s go.” Tommy’s voice was colder than Wilbur had ever heard it before, cold and unwavering; unmovable. He is still pulling Wilbur towards the stairs by the ear. Wilbur twisted and moved his legs, stumbling over himself in order to keep up with Tommy. The grip on his ear was painful, incredibly so, and Wilbur was half-certain that Tommy was trying to rip it off.

His hands lifted, fingers curling around Tommy’s wrist to tug him off, they were already at the stairs and Tommy’s leg was on the first step. “Let go of me—”

Wilbur’s jaw snapped shut when Tommy whirled on him, a truly scathing glare on his face that sharply pinged the back of Wilbur’s mind, something that had only been done by Phil when Wilbur was truly in trouble. It had him freezing in his tracks, stiffening up as soulfire pinned him to the ground. 

“You,” Tommy hissed, his voice nearly dropping to a whisper with how venomous he sounded, “haven’t been outside in a week. You’re not fucking eating or sleeping and don’t think I haven’t noticed, Wilbur. We’re going outside, and you are going to sit down.” His voice left a lack of room for any arguments; stubborn and firm, as unshakeable as the tallest mountain. Just as dangerous. 

Now, Wilbur knew how to pick his battles. He knew when to surrender and when to plant his feet into the mud and say, ‘no, you move’.

He swallowed dryly, and nodded without complaint. 

Tommy’s eyes narrowed, dripping with warning and molten fire. Ice pikes jutting out of the ocean like towering monuments so cold that it burned to touch, wide and unbending and threatening to spear Wilbur through and rip him apart. Seconds felt like hours under Tommy’s gaze, until finally, he turned away and unfurled his fingers from Wilbur’s ear, wrapping them around his wrist instead.

A sigh of relief heaved out of Wilbur once Tommy’s back was turned, and then they were going up the stairs, Wilbur nearly stumbling a few times as Tommy pulled them up with a harried pace. They were across the walkways, up the spiral, and out of the tiny dirt hovel that hid the entrance to their ravine within a matter of seconds. 

He was instantly blinded upon stepping out into the sun, his eyes snapping shut as light bombarded him painfully. Then he breathed, and Wilbur couldn’t help but blink them open, surprised as fresh air flooded his lungs instead of the damp, musky air of the ravine. Light blinded him again immediately, forcing him to squint instead of closing. He could barely see past his nose.

“Is this it? Some fresh air?” he quipped sarcastically, ignoring how nice it felt to have air untampered with cave gasses swirling in his lungs, momentarily forgetting the burning-freezing-ice-hot look Tommy had sent him not even a few minutes ago. He felt, more than saw, the annoyed look sent his way. 

“No.” Tommy replied shortly, and then Wilbur was being dragged along again, “I found a field a few days ago while I was collecting supplies, very scenic and shit, I thought you’d like it. You can fuckin’— fuckin’ smell the trees and hug the flowers; touch some grass.” He didn't say anything else after that. 

Wilbur huffed, not as annoyed as he could have been and mostly amused, “Can’t you wait until I can actually see before running me into a tree?” Despite his complaining, his eyes were already starting to adjust to the light, which had grown dimmer under the leaves blanketing the sky above them, leaving spots and blobs of light to dot the grass beneath them. A quick glance up told him it was roughly midday.   

“You’re not gonna run into a tree.” Tommy said firmly, steady and confident, then shot him a look again, one much softer than the soulfire he had trapped Wilbur under in the ravine. “Trust me, please?” 

Such simple words shouldn’t have struck such a strong chord in Wilbur. It was like a sledgehammer slamming against the walls he had built up (and walls he didn’t even realized he’d built up) so meticulously and crashing them down from the inside out until nothing but chunks and dust remained to reveal something faintly raw and fragile underneath. An unpleasant realization hitting him; he hasn’t been trusting Tommy as he should have been, has he? 

Something wrong and nasty settled like a bad taste in Wilbur’s mouth at the realization. His eyes flickering down to meet Tommy’s, Tommy’s, whose eyes had softened into something pleading and hopeful. Why hadn’t Wilbur been trusting his little brother? His little brother who, despite everything, remained firmly glued to his side, through thick and through thin. Even when he didn’t care about Wilbur’s country, even when he was dragged into a war he was too young to be in by Wilbur. Tommy’s hands weren’t meant for war. 

Even when he lost two of his lives in a war he never should have gotten to see. Even when his skin was marred with burns and scars he never should have been given, a scar over his heart from an arrow that should have never pierced his skin. Even when he had been tossed out of his home, just as Wilbur had, and forced to live underground. 

Tommy had given up everything to be with Wilbur, to help him.

Guilt swelled in Wilbur’s chest, pricking his eyes and squeezing his lungs. One of these days, he would have to get on his knees and beg for Tommy’s forgiveness. 

He swallowed the lump made of cobweb in his throat and forced back the tears from his eyes, his wrist twisting slowly until his fingers were twining with Tommy’s and he could squeeze his brother’s hand softly. “Okay,” he whispered, voice too raw to do anything but shake. “I trust you, sunrise.”  

Wilbur was a man with a glass heart. A fragile, cracked glass heart that needed walls to protect it from shattering to pieces. But not from Tommy, never from Tommy. 

His little brother slumped, a smile, hopeful and relieved and possibly the first one in a while that didn’t feel forced, stretching shyly across his face, making him look as young as he was. Wilbur’s glass heart cracked some more. 

Tommy pulled him along again, their hands tangled together as he pulled him under branches and through bushes, no words being spoken between them. Wilbur focused on the sounds of the forest, their soft footfalls, the singing birds, the rustling leaves. It was… it was nice. It soothed Wilbur’s mind, calming down the frenzy of thoughts that plagued him constantly.

They reached the clearing a few minutes later, Wilbur slightly out of breath from the constant walking. Tommy’s hand slipped from his, and Wilbur tried not to notice the quiet mourning pang his heart sent him as the warmth of Tommy’s hand left his. Tommy shot him an excited smile over his shoulder, one that Wilbur couldn’t help but return, before turning back and pushing open a rather thick bush and stepping forward. Wilbur followed after. 

“Ta-da!” Tommy exclaimed happily, twisting on his heel with his arms thrown out as he walked backwards, a wide grin on his face. Wilbur hardly noticed, his jaw dropping as his eyes roved around the meadow he had found himself in. 

The small clearing was beautiful, the grass reaching his mid-calf and wildflowers dotting around him in an array of colors. Reds, purples, yellows, oranges, pinks, and blues, chaotic beauty at its finest. He saw small bees floating between them, quiet and buzzing as they collected pollen from the centers. 

Thick foliage surrounded them on all sides, trees towering above them with leaves stretching out across the sky, canopying over them and casting a hazy, ethereal glow throughout the small glade. The brush created natural walls around them, keeping the outside world from peering in. A feeling of security cast over Wilbur, and another lump formed in his throat.

Tommy thought of him when he saw this? 

A nervous chuckle pulled him towards Tommy, his little brother was staring at him anxiously, fingers picking at his nails out of habit. “Do you like it?” Tommy asked, shoulders slightly tense and eyes looking at him expectantly.

“It’s beautiful, Tommy,” Wilbur croaked, ducking his head and clearing his throat immediately after, before looking up and smiling at Tommy. “It’s— it’s wonderful.”  

Tommy beamed at him, truly beamed at him, the expression lighting up the entire area like a star. A breeze swept through the meadow, bending the flowers and rustling the leaves. Wilbur quietly thought that the flowers were bowing to Tommy, reaching towards him like he was the sun. He was Wilbur’s, after all.

Wilbur distracted himself by the too-many emotions flooding his heart and throat by looking around the clearing again, allowing himself the quiet peace of the flora surrounding him and heading to the center of the glade. His legs folded beneath him, lowering him to the ground before crossing over themself. 

He doesn’t know how much time he spends, not in his head, but simply soaking up the sun and trees and sounds, but he doesn’t notice Tommy moving around him, quietly picking the flowers until they’re almost spilling out of his arms. He snaps back to awareness, however, when those flowers are dumped on his head, tangling in his hair and spilling over his shoulders, landing into his lap. 

There’s laughter; joyful and bright and inexplicably Tommy’s that it forces Wilbur to blink out of his surprise and twist around to see Tommy laughing at him. It takes Wilbur a few seconds to realize he had a startled expression on his face, and shakes it away to grin incredulously.

“What was that for?!” he asked, using his arms to pull him around fully towards Tommy, who climbs down from his fit of cheer to grin cheekily at him. 

“You stink, big man! I thought the flowers might help cover it up,” Tommy replied, then leaned forward to smell the air, before twisting his expression into one of dramatized disgust, “I don’t think it worked.” 

Wilbur spluttered, “I don’t smell,” he forced himself to frown instead of grin as he crossed his arms over his chest. He refrained from checking, already knowing that Tommy was right. He felt as gross as he likely smelled.

“You do! You’re a stinky crime boy,” Tommy exclaimed, his grin still on his face while his hands were planted on his hips. “You’re old and stinky, I’ll push you into a creek and wash away the wrinkles.” 

A scoff, and then Wilbur was launching himself at Tommy, knocking him down and pinning him to the ground and crushing the grass underneath. His fingers dug into Tommy’s side, and Tommy shrieked before bursting into laughter again, squirming and kicking at Wilbur between bouts of giggles. A mischievous grin stretched over his face. “Take it back!” Wilbur shouted over Tommy’s laughter. 

“Never!” Tommy gasped, shaking his head with a wide smile, “You’re older than Philza Minecraft, Wilbur! You’re already balding!” Another shriek spilled from Tommy as Wilbur jabbed him again. Wilbur laughed too. 

It was fun, Wilbur felt like a little kid again living in the cottage at Sleepy Hollow, wrestling with Tommy outside while Techno and Phil were away at the nearest village. It was a time when all he had to worry about was the mobs outside, instead of worrying about what they were going to eat.

Minutes passed before Wilbur finally freed Tommy from his laughter-prison, his face hurt from how wide and how long he’d been smiling. He collapsed onto his back, panting slightly and out of breath, right beside Tommy, their shoulders nearly touching. Tommy was a limp pile of limbs, trying to catch his breath as tiny bouts of giggles escaped him every few seconds, until it ceased completely.  

There’s a small kick at Wilbur’s boots, and he turns his head to stare at Tommy, who was glaring at him half-heartedly, his face flushed red and his eyes alight with mirth. “You’re such a fucking dick,” Tommy said breathlessly, a grin betraying his sentiments. “I really mean it when I say I’ll push you into a creek, you fucking stink bad.”

Wilbur snorted. Like this, on his back, he could feel a week’s (perhaps more than) worth of exhaustion pressing down on him like a weighted blanket, he resisted the urge to yawn. “Sure you will, Tomcat,” he muttered fondly, looking up to the green-splattered canopy of leaves above them. He shifted one arm to rest his head on, his other arm folded over his stomach as he propped a leg up.  

“I will! I’ll do it when you least expect it, there’s a stream nearby that I’ll shove you into. I bet you’d turn the water brown.” 

Wilbur hummed distractedly, his eyelids slowly beginning to drift shut. Tommy chattered in his ear, his voice slowly lulling Wilbur to sleep. He tried focusing on it, but his mind was already turning his thoughts muddy, creating a familiar, fog-like haze over him and tugging him deeper into rest. The sun, or what could reach through this quiet slice of paradise, was warm, the grass was soft, and Tommy’s soft murmuring felt like a lullaby meant to sing Wilbur to sleep. 

He was asleep before he even realized it. 

When Wilbur falls asleep, a wave of relief crashes over Tommy like a turbulent wave. He felt guilty thinking about it, but he was thankful for Wilbur’s shitty sleeping habits this past week. It made everything so much easier.

Regretfully, he slowly pulled himself off the ground, watching Wilbur like a hawk for any indication of his brother rousing from his much-needed rest. The both of them were light sleepers; they had to be during the war. He swallowed slowly, throat bobbing, and took a careful step back, wincing under the quiet crush of the grass below his feet. 

Quiet as a dormouse, he thought to himself, quicker than wind. His eyes never leaving Wilbur’s sleeping form as he backed towards the treeline in the direction of Pogtopia. He didn’t want to leave his brother vulnerable out in this meadow, but if he was quick, then Wilbur wouldn’t be vulnerable for long. 

He reached the treeline and felt dread pool in his chest as he realized that he would have to pull his way through the thick underbrush. He licked his lips anxiously, and with one last glance at Wilbur, reached out his hands and slowly, slowly, started pushing his way through, freezing at every little sound he deemed too loud before looking back at Wilbur again.

Wilbur did not stir. 

It took too long for him to get to the other side, and he crept as silently as he could manage (and despite what many people might think of him, he knew how to be quiet, to be undetectable) pass the trees. When he glanced back one last time, a fair distance away from the thicket underbrush entrance, he broke out into a sprint. 

Tommy was a fast runner, faster than both of his brothers and only capable of being caught by their father. He’s lost count of how many times Wilbur would laugh at him and call him a jackrabbit, when Techno would brush his knuckles against Tommy’s chin and fondly call him Hermes, when Phil would gather him in his arms and say that one day, he’d outrun even him. (That was before Phil and Techno disappeared from their lives.)

Back then, he thought it was impossible, nobody could be faster than Phil’s grand wings. 

Today, he thinks it might be true. 

He doesn’t know how long it took him to get back to Pogtopia, just that it was faster than it should have been. He’s flying down the stairs in a blur, and when he reaches the cavern, he nearly slips and falls to the bottom. It didn’t matter.

His feet lift off the ground at the last two steps and he leapt to the floor, his breath harsh and feet pounding and echoing off the horrid stone walls. He raced to the chests and pulled out the only bags they have, and then he’s off again, throwing open the other chests they have and pulling out anything that could be useful.

Which wasn’t a lot.

He had an iron sword and a stone sword. He thinks there might be a second one, but he couldn't spend the time looking for it. An iron axe, and blankets that he and Wilbur somehow managed to get their hands on when they snuck into Manberg earlier in the week. He had a lighter, he thinks it might be Wilbur’s, and it’s shoved into his pocket instead of the bags. He had one bag dedicated to the very few non-perishable foods they have, and he hated how light it felt on his shoulder, with a pair of metal canteens stuffed inside it as well.

Tubbo crossed his mind, and Tommy’s heart ached to race to Manberg and convince him to come. But he didn’t have the time to put in the effort to sneak into Manberg, find Tubbo, and spend who knows how long convincing him to leave with him and Wilbur.

If he did that, he risked Wilbur waking up and thinking Tommy abandoned him. He thinks his heart would break and kill him from that alone if that happened. He had to leave Tubbo behind. It’s hard, but then his mind flashes to Wilbur back down in Pogtopia, muttering to himself and scrawling nonsense like a mad prophet into his books; trapping himself in his own head and pushing Tommy away.

Leaving Tubbo hurt Tommy, but watching Wilbur lose himself will kill him. 

When they’re safe, when he and Wilbur are far, far away from the Dream SMP, where no wars or betrayals or deaths can reach them, he’ll write and explain.

For now, he leaves behind an empty ravine with nothing but a ghost of two people in its wake. 

Tommy’s making daisy chains when Wilbur wakes up. He’s exactly where he was when Wilbur fell asleep, anxiety that Wilbur didn’t even notice was there washed away. Tommy’s hunched over, his tongue peeking out of the corner of his mouth, and his legs are crossed over themselves while Tommy meticulously braids another flower into the chain, muttering hushed curses under his breath.  

It’s such a ridiculously familiar sight that fondness filled Wilbur’s chest like an old friend, he lets out an amused huff, startling Tommy into dropping the chain and whirling to him, blue eyes wide. “I don’t think cursing at the flowers is gonna do much for you, Toms.” He told him, a smile quirking at the corner of his lips. 

Tommy scoffed, unfurling a leg to lightly kick at Wilbur’s thigh, “Maybe not for you, bitch, but I’m the best and flowers know to listen to a great big man like me.” He snarked, his own grin curling his mouth upwards. 

Wilbur rolled his eyes, and propped himself up on his elbows, blinking away the lingering sleep. He frowns when he notices the light filtering through the leaves seems… darker. He looked up to the trees, and hissed under his breath at the golden-tinted sky. He scrambled to his feet. “Shit! Why didn’t you wake me up sooner?! It’s almost nightfall!” 

Tommy merely shrugged with one shoulder, “You look like you needed the sleep,” He said, but made no move to get up. In fact, Tommy merely picked up his daisy chain and started braiding it again. Completely content to stay in their little meadow without a care in the world. 

It’s odd, and a frown marrs Wilbur’s face at Tommy’s blasé attitude. “Well, come on then, we need to get back to Pogtopia.” 

Here, Tommy’s fingers stilled, his entire body stilled, for a moment Wilbur thinks he’s looking at a statue. Then Tommy’s lifting his head, a startled look on his face, as if the thought of returning to Pogtopia didn’t even occur to him. Wilbur would almost believe it, but he grew up with Tommy, practically raised him, he knows his tells, knows he’s trying to hide his nervousness behind something akin to apathy. 

“Oh,” Tommy said simply, “we’re not going back to Pogtopia.” 

…What?

A startled laugh escaped Wilbur, “Not- not going back to Pogtopia?” He repeated, head tilting to the side, a confused smile on his face. “Of course we are, don’t be ridiculous—”

“No , no we’re not.” Tommy said, tone slightly sharper, Wilbur’s reminded of a few hours ago when Tommy looked at him with ice-fire-burning-freezing-hot-cold in his eyes. Tommy dropped the daisy chain into his lap, only for it to fall to the ground when Tommy lifted himself to his feet. “We’re leaving actually,” he added, as if that’s the most natural thing in the world, as if Wilbur’s world hadn’t been tilted two degrees on its axis and he’s stumbling to right himself.

Wilbur blinked, once, twice, then frowned again. Eyes following Tommy as he headed over to the treeline, ducking down and pulling out a few of their satchels, a stone sword, an iron sword, and an iron axe. Wilbur trailed after him, still frowning. “We have to, Tommy. Manberg—”

Tommy whirled on him, “You’re killing yourself, Wilbur.” He hissed, forcing Wilbur to take a few steps back from the sheer venom dripping from his voice. Wilbur stiffened, and he found himself once again pinned under dripping soulfire, mouth quickly running dry. 

Tommy doesn’t give him the second to speak. “You’re fucking deteriorating right before my very eyes!” He jabbed a finger at Wilbur, accusing and venomous and freezing and burning all at once. “I can’t— I can’t fucking stay here while you’re destroying yourself from the inside-out! It’s killing me, Wilbur.” 

There’s conviction and tried-and-true belief in Tommy’s words, a firm certainty that whatever is happening to Wilbur (he’s a slow-burning fuse ready to blow) will kill Tommy himself with the outcome. Wilbur found himself believing it too, and it scared him. 

Tears are gathering in Tommy’s burning-freezing-hot-cold soulfire eyes, tainting them red with frustration and fear. Wilbur loathed himself for being the reason why. But Manberg— his traitorous thoughts whispered, only to be cut off by Tommy once again. 

“We’ll fucking— I don’t know, we’ll leave and find somewhere to stay, start a fucking farm somewhere, like when we were younger and- and shit. I could write to Techno and ask for farming tips because Prime knows he knows it better than I do—” A bitter laugh escaped Tommy and he dragged a hand through his hair. Tears cascade down his face, his voice shaking and breaking. “But I can’t fucking do this anymore, and I know it’s weak of me to want to leave so soon but—”

No, Wilbur wants to say, you could never be weak, Tommy. Never you. He doesn’t say it, choking on words and tears that stream down his face.

“I’m suffocating down there and I can’t stand back and watch you lose yourself, I can’t.”  

Their little paradise of flowers and sunglade feels strangling, a pretty lie wrapped in ugly truths that Wilbur didn’t want to acknowledge. He knows it bright as day; he’s breaking his little brother’s heart. 

“We can forget Schlatt, and— and fucking L’Manberg, and Dream, and fucking discs.” Tommy is still talking, words spilling from his mouth in a waterfall instead of a river like his tears are. “We can start somewhere new, without fucking— fucking exiles and governments and wars. Just- just a farm, together.” 

Together. 

That… that sounded nice. 

“So I need you to decide, Wilbur,” Tommy continued, and somehow he has the strength to wipe away his tears and rid the shake from his voice. He picks himself up and rose to his full height, he will always be bigger than Wilbur could ever be. The burning-freezing-ice-hot-cold look is back in his eyes, a mountain in front of a man. “What’s more important; me, or Manberg?” 

You, Wilbur’s mind wailed instantly. Prime, how could he even think of choosing anything else? Tommy is a sun, Wilbur is suddenly reminded of. He is sunlight reaching through black clouds, a beacon through darkness that Wilbur had shrouded himself in. Wilbur was such a fool.  

“You,” He croaked, a sort of sob building in his chest. “Always you.” 

Tommy slumped, “Then come with me, please,” he whispered, pleaded, begged. Wilbur’s words caught in his throat, so he nodded instead. Of course, he thinks, anything for you. The sun, the sky, the stars, the cosmos, I would steal it all for you, and then before he can even think about it, his arms are extending outwards and drawing Tommy forwards, tucking him under his chin with one hand carding through his hair, while the other rubbed Tommy’s back. 

There’s still so much they have to do, still so much fog in front of their noses that they have to pass through, but now they had a light to guide each other out. 

The sun is setting on the horizon when they finally let go of each other, too late in the evening to really start traveling. They set up a camp instead in their little meadow, Tommy clings to Wilbur’s side as they collect rocks from the nearby creek to make a firepit. Wilbur appreciated it, but part of him knows that Tommy was still worried over him returning to Pogtopia when his back was turned. 

It’s fine, somewhat, Wilbur gets to spend time with Tommy, ribbing and joking around with him like they used to as they dunked their hands into the cold stream to collect rocks. Tommy doesn’t shove Wilbur in, but he’s certain that he will at some point. 

Wilbur finds, through the fading gold light, river quartz in the creek. When Tommy isn’t looking, he picks it out of the water and shoves it into the pocket of his jeans, he thinks he might be able to do something with it. 

They collect wood afterwards, breaking off sticks from the trees, Tommy chops down a few small trees away from their meadow, and they’re building a campfire in the center of the meadow, the grass pat down around it to prevent a fire from spreading. The blankets Tommy grabbed are laid out a few feet away from the fire, their bags nearby. 

Mobs amble through the woods around them, unaware of their existence through the thicket surrounding them. Wilbur and Tommy curl up on the makeshift bed, using their arms as pillows and facing each other. It’s quiet, neither of them needing or wanting to talk. Wilbur gently cards his fingers through Tommy’s hair, staring silently at his little brother. 

Wilbur’s been told he’s a genius, many people have told him that ever since he was small. He was capable of incredible things, bigger and better and more beautiful than the last. It’s his greatest asset, he’s been told, and his greatest curse. He plans, and plans, and overthinks. 

When one plan isn’t good enough, he creates a backup, and then another if the first fails. An endless cycle of Sisyphus pushing that stupid rock uphill. His mind whirled, spinning into a frenzy and only picking up speed. It’s dizzying, and he squeezes his eyes shut to block it out. He wants to stay with Tommy, he didn’t want to go back to Pogtopia.

‘Me, or Manberg?’

‘You, always you,’  

Someone is grabbing his hand, Wilbur peeks open an eye and finds Tommy tangling the hand petting his hair together with his. Quietly, he shifted until Wilbur could practically tuck him under his chin again. Wilbur sighs quietly, pressing closer until his hand is pulling away from Tommy’s and wrapping around his back. “I love you,” he whispered, trying to ignore the pang in his heart that came with the realization that he hasn’t said that to Tommy in so long.

He can feel Tommy’s breath hitch, there was silence, and then Tommy’s burying his face into his chest with a muffled ‘I love you too’ against his shirt. Wilbur’s heart swelled, made of glass and blown out until it’s molten and hot, dripping magma into his bloodstream and warming him and his soul until he’s burning nearly as hot as lava, chasing away a bone-deep cold. 

Wilbur presses his nose against Tommy’s hair, breathing in the damp air of the ravine clinging to him, but beneath it, dirt and fernwood and forest. He breathed in deeply, then exhaled slowly, his limbs gradually begin to grow heavy, his mind filling with sleep-fog, and Wilbur let his eyes slide shut. 

He rests well for the first time since the war started. 

Tommy’s awake before Wilbur is, and once upon a lifetime ago, he would have found it odd. It was always Wilbur who would be up with the sun and dragging his little brother kicking and screaming out of bed, but that was far before they came to the Dream SMP, far before they even considered leaving the little cottage they called home. Wilbur wakes up to quiet rustling and Tommy’s humming as he packed away the few stuff they pulled from their bags.

He looks like he hadn’t slept, or at least hadn’t slept long, and Wilbur automatically frowns, sitting up from their little blanket nest and holding back a yawn. The blankets slide down into his lap. Tommy glanced at him briefly, and then looked at him again, the humming stopped. “Good morning, Wilbur,” he said, purposefully elongating the second syllable of Wilbur’s name with a cheeky grin. “I thought I was gonna have to wake your ass up, bitch boy.”

Wilbur rolled his eyes, but smiles nonetheless, “Good morning, Tommy,” he greeted back mockingly, his smile widening when Tommy scrunched his face up. He pulls the blankets off of his legs and stood up, arms automatically rising above his head as he leaned back to stretch. “You’re up unusually early.” A series of cracks rolled up Wilbur’s back, and he sighed contently, dropping his arms and straightening up.

Tommy made a face at him, Wilbur stuck his tongue out in return. “Fuck you, you’re just grouchy that I, a bigger man than you, was able to wake up before noon.” Tommy said with a scowl that was more for show than anything else, before turning away and checking over their bags again. 

A quick glance upward through the trees proved that it was not, actually, past noon, but rather early in the morning. Early enough that the sun hadn’t risen yet, but still brightening the sky and casting enough light that the forest wouldn’t be shrouded in pitch black. 

Wilbur hums, then yawned, “I’ll pack up the blankets,” he offered, and gets a distracted mumble for his efforts. Huffing softly, fondness filling his chest, he kneeled down and began rolling up the blankets, pausing only to reach over and drag one of the bags closer to him to stuff them inside. 

The awakening forest and Tommy’s soft humming floated around Wilbur as they packed up. Wilbur hoists the bag over his shoulder, and stands while turning toward Tommy. “Ready to go?” he asked, one hand curled over the bag’s strap as he watched Tommy sheath a stone sword to his hip, and an iron axe over his back. 

It felt odd to say. Part of Wilbur shrivels away at the thought of leaving, and not just from abandoning his plan against Manberg. He and Tommy arrived in the SMP nearly three years ago, Tommy was thirteen at the time. Tiny and loud and the only scars he had were ones he got from childhood foolishness; from climbing up trees and subsequently falling out of them; from roughhousing with Wilbur and Techno and hitting the corner of the furniture too hard (Wilbur could still find the tiny scar Tommy had on the top of his head from when he hit it too hard against the corner of a cabinet); from training with wooden swords and trying to wield Techno’s iron ones. Tiny little scratches marked permanently on his skin.

Back then, Tommy’s hair wasn’t nearly as long as it was now; short and curly as he liked it and out of the way. Then the revolution started, and Wilbur tried to keep it short, tried to give him consistent haircuts, but war got in the way, and Tommy quickly reassured him that he could always pull it back. He wanted Wilbur to focus on winning instead of him. Wilbur back then didn’t know how to say that he was doing all of this for him. 

He cut it after the revolution when his vice presidency started, but not nearly as short as he once had it. Cut to keep off his neck and curling around the tips of his ears, it was a little longer now, and likely to only grow more during their travels. Wilbur resisted the urge to reach out and run his hand through it from behind. Now wasn’t the time. 

Before they were kicked out (the thing that’s been boiling in him since that awful day and kept him going through Pogtopia reared its ugly head at the reminder, burning him with the urge to destroy it all. He ignored it for once; Manberg wasn’t his priority anymore) Wilbur would walk along the paths and reminisce, able to almost see Tommy running past with laughter ringing in his ears as Wilbur chased after him. Leaving meant leaving that behind, he wouldn’t be able to do that anymore. 

Not like he could now anyways. 

Leaving also meant leaving behind Niki, his best friend, his sister in all but blood, and Tommy’s too. It meant leaving Fundy, his son, who Wilbur loved dearly, despite Fundy’s disownment of him. It meant leaving behind Jack and Tubbo.

Tubbo… 

Wilbur turned to Tommy, brows furrowing into a frown. “Toms,” he said, Tommy hummed at him, dropped into a crouch as he picked at the burned-out fire with a stick. “Toms, why didn’t you bring Tubbo? Isn’t he your best friend? You two are inseparable.” 

Tommy stilled. His knuckles tightened around the stick, slowly going white as his throat bobbed and his expression crumpled. “Ah… um, yeah, he is. We are, but…” he paused, then turned his head away. “I didn’t think I had the time to really get him from Manberg when you were sleeping, I was kinda in a rush.” A small chuckle bubbled out of Tommy despite his sad grimace. 

“We can go get him now if you’d like,” Wilbur offered, even if part of him loathed the idea of sneaking back into Manberg. He thinks that his urge to blow it all to smithereens would return with a vengeance, and he didn’t trust himself to not want to return to Pogtopia. And call him selfish, but he didn’t want Tubbo to join them, didn’t want the kid to steal away Tommy’s attention and leave Wilbur alone. 

Except Tommy shook his head, then dropped the stick and brushed his hands against his pants, his fingers curling around the handle of another bag at his feet before sliding an arm through and over his shoulder, over the axe while the second strap slid through the other arm. “I already left a note for him in Pogtopia,” he said, “I’ll write to him later when we’re safer, he’ll understand.” 

Relief cooled in Wilbur’s chest, only to be immediately followed by guilt. Wilbur wasn’t the only one leaving people behind, and he knew how much Tommy cared about Tubbo, he knew that this must be hurting him deep inside. He said nothing, simply nodded, and reached down to pluck their last bag off the ground and hoist it over his shoulder with the other. “After you then,” he said, gesturing behind Tommy to the treeline. 

A smile quirked at his lips when Tommy scoffed quietly and rolled his eyes, already beginning to turn on his heel as he muttered something under his breath, before stopping, and whirling back around. “Oh! Before I forget, here,” Tommy shoved the iron sword his way, “you’re shit at fighting but a sword is better than no sword, so don’t fucking lose it.”

Wilbur’s smile immediately fell, “You’re objectively the better fighter than the both of us, you take the iron sword.” Wilbur argued, pushing the sword back, his mind briefly flashing to the hours Tommy would spend outside, attacking the dummy with a wooden sword with such vicious fervor that there were times the wooden sword would snap in half. Attacking for so long his hands calloused and bled and Wilbur had to drag him back inside to wrap his fingers and scold him. 

‘You can’t keep doing this, sunrise.’

Tommy’s excuse was always the same; 

‘I have to protect you.’ 

It got worse during the war. Wilbur would sometimes wake up to Tommy already training, his hands already blistering. Tommy wasn’t built for fighting, but he was determined to make sure he was. He was even better with a bow. (After his duel with Dream, Tommy vowed to Wilbur to never miss a shot ever again. He’s made due on that promise, Wilbur wondered if Tommy could shoot a bullseye on the back of a moving horse. Maybe not yet, Wilbur never mentioned the idea to him, he knows Tommy would take it as a challenge. Stubborn child.) 

Tommy scoffed again, “Which is why I’m taking the stone sword and you’re taking the iron one, Wilbur,” he said, “I can handle a few mobs with stone, you’ll get yourself shot when I’m not looking.” 

“More like you’ll take on more than you can chew and I’ll have to come in and save you,” Wilbur retorted, sending Tommy a look. It happened too often when they were younger and Tommy slightly more reckless, back when respawns were infinite and they didn’t have to worry about their next death being their last.  

“Just take the damn sword, Wilbur,” There was a look in Tommy’s eyes that said he wouldn’t be budging on his stance, and they didn’t have time to spend hours squabbling over who used what sword. Not when traveling would take them hours already. The more ground covered, the better, and Tommy knew that. 

Damn him, Wilbur thought, shooting Tommy a disgruntled glare as he reached out and took the hilt of the sword. Tommy raised an eyebrow in response, looking vaguely smug. He learned that from me. Despite that, pride warmed his chest. 

“Now we can go,” Tommy said, turning on his heel and walking towards the treeline. Wilbur huffed, but followed after him, hopping over the firepit and taking up the spot to Tommy’s right, knocking his elbow with Tommy’s lightly, who returned it with a slightly sharper jab. Wilbur jabbed him again. 

“Fuck off!” Tommy exclaimed, the tension over the sword easily melting away like snow in the spring. Wilbur laughed in response. “Oi, oi! Fuck you! I’ll fucking step on your shoes!” 

Wilbur simply laughed harder.  

They traveled until sunset. Wilbur doesn’t know how far they are, just that they’re still in the SMP, his life count of hearts still tattooed to his wrist, two of them broken down the center and shriveled to black, while the last one pulsed poppy red and in tempo to his heartbeat. 

When they finally stop, they’re somewhere in a birch forest setting up camp in a shallow cave, protected by a thick curtain of vines that hang down low over the entrance. There’s a small pond in front of the cave. While Wilbur sets everything up, Tommy fashioned a spear out of a long stick he found and stood on the rocks at the edge, peering down below into the water, weapon at the ready.

He manages to catch two fish by the time Wilbur gets a fire started, and he boasts proudly about it. 

“Alright fish boy, come sit down and help descale it then. You’re the one with a knife.” Wilbur said amusedly, a smile at the corner of his lips. Tommy made a face at him, but walked over with little more than a quiet grumble. When he sat down, Wilbur reached over and ruffled his hair, barking out a short laugh when Tommy swatted half-heartedly at his hand, whining loudly. 

The fire crackled and popped while they ate, and Wilbur showed Tommy how to properly gut and cook a fish. Despite his insistence that he knew what he was doing, Tommy listened quietly, following along to a tee at Wilbur’s soft instructions. They eat some of the carrots Tommy managed to farm underground (and Wilbur will always be impressed and proud of his brother for being able to manage with what little they had), and the night is filled with banter as Mobs wander outside. 

Wilbur falls asleep first, and Tommy wakes up first. They’re once again leaving before sunrise, nearly halfway packed when Wilbur gets up. Tommy hands him cooked fish as they’re walking, and when Wilbur asks where he got it, Tommy replies that he caught some before Wilbur woke up. 

‘Have you already eaten?’ Wilbur asked as their feet padded quietly against the wet grass, he could hear the distant sound of mobs burning under the sunlight as the sun peeked over the horizon beyond the birch forest. Wilbur watched as the sky went from pale blue to red and orange and yellow and pink. 

‘Sure have,’ Tommy answered, and Wilbur left it at that. 

At noon they stop to eat, finishing off the last of the carrots, and spend an hour or two foraging. Tommy rambles about how to identify which roots and berries and mushrooms were edible, and which weren’t. Wilbur listens quietly, a small smile on his face as Tommy excitedly chatted his ear off. At one point they collect nuts, Wilbur calls Tommy a squirrel, and Tommy screams at him. 

They come across their first village three days later. People bustle around the village plaza, bartering and trading with fellow villagers at the booths, arguing over prices and quality and trade. An iron golem stares the two of them down as they walk in, patrolling the border of the village and streets. 

Villagers stare at him and Tommy as they weave through the busy street. Wilbur didn’t blame them, the place was small, and he doubted they got many visitors. Especially ones looking like the both of them did. 

Wilbur met the eyes of one of the booth owners, and, reaching over to grab Tommy’s hand, tugged him over to the man. Tommy makes a noise of surprise, and falls silent when he sees where Wilbur is taking him. Wilbur smiled charmingly as he stepped up to the table, the man eyed the both of them, lingering on the iron sword at Wilbur’s hip for a moment or two longer before looking up at him. 

“Afternoon,” Wilbur greeted pleasantly, “you wouldn’t happen to know a place where me and my brother could stay for the night, would you?” 

The man stared at him and Tommy for a few long, silent seconds, then nodded. “We have a tavern inn over by the blacksmith,” he said, jerking his head briefly to the south, “their rooms are pricey, but their beds are damn soft.” 

Wilbur withheld a grimace. Money, he forgot. Dammit. “Right,” he said slowly, feeling as Tommy squeezed his hand, and then started backing away. “Thank you, then,” he added awkwardly with a dip of his head, the man waved a hand at him in return, and Wilbur turned away and dragged Tommy deeper into the village.

“That could have gone better,” Tommy muttered sarcastically once they were a farther distance away, Wilbur scoffed and rolled his eyes. “Now what?”

“Now,” he said, “we do as we’ve been doing and find a cave or clearing to stay in, maybe we can go mining and get iron.” They’d have to make pickaxes for it, but Tommy still had his axe so it shouldn’t be too difficult. 

Tommy hummed, but said nothing else as they ventured through the village. They passed by a gated field filled with horses, with a farmer filling the water basin with a bucket. Tommy’s eyes glued onto two of the horses; a grand, muscular one with a sleek, spruce-colored coat and black hair, with a white diamond on its forehead, and an ashy brown one with similar markings. Wilbur knew what Tommy was thinking, and patted him on the shoulder.

“We can’t afford them,” he murmured lowly into his ear, holding back a wince when Tommy huffed, turning his head away with arms crossing over his torso as a disappointed frown stretched across his face.

“I know,” he whispered back, and that was the end of that conversation.

Eventually their exploration (not that there was much of one) came to an end and they disappeared into the forest, settling down near a small creek (Tommy still had not shoved Wilbur into one despite claiming to do so) a few minutes away. While Wilbur set up their camp, Tommy gathered firewood and went hunting with his spear. Somehow, much to Wilbur’s amazement and surprise, Tommy managed to catch a wild chicken, and then another. They preserved what they didn’t eat. 

A few days passed before they left, Tommy went out hunting (something of which Wilbur felt guilty about, he knew that Tommy loved animals, and yet still let Tommy hunt them) while Wilbur mined for resources to trade or make weapons with. They both had shiny new iron swords, an iron pickaxe and new axe, and Wilbur got Tommy a bow and a few arrows, much to his almost child-like delight. Tommy’s expression when Wilbur handed it to him over firelight would be etched into his mind forever. 

Wilbur tried finding a jeweler, hopeful that maybe they could do something with the small river quartz he had found, maybe a necklace or ring or bracelet he could give to Tommy, only to find none. He’d have to wait until the next village, or give the rock to Tommy in the raw state that it was in. 

They also had two new sleeping bags, their bags were traded in for satchels, and a small tent that could fit them both. (Technically, it was only meant for one person, but Wilbur and Tommy refused to fall asleep without the other in their arms, so there was plenty of room to fit the two of them.) As well as a few other goodies that would help them in the long run. 

On their last day in the village, Wilbur woke up, just as he learned to expect these last few days, to Tommy packing away their stuff. He grimaced as he blinked away the sleep from his eyes and sat up, however, instead of continuing to pack up their things, Tommy perked up when he saw him awake, and grinned.

“Wilbur! Glad you’re up, very good, can you finish packing everything? I need to grab something from the village,” Tommy said, pulling away from the bag he had in his hands as he straightened up, tugging fingers through his grimy hair (they both were in desperate need of a bath, Tommy’s hair almost looked brown) before shaking it out. 

Wilbur squints at him, suspicion bubbling in his chest. There were dark bags under Tommy’s eyes and his skin was pale, and for the last few days since they arrived he’s been sluggish and tired. Wilbur has tried asking about it, but Tommy simply brushes it off with a scoff and a mild insult about his eyesight. 

“Are you sure?” Wilbur asked, pushing the blankets off to stand. “I could grab it for you, Toms. You look tired—”

“I’m not, I’m fine,” Tommy interrupted, he did not look fine, he looked like he wanted nothing more than to pass out, but there was a stubborn tone in his voice that Wilbur’s learned to not argue with since they left. “It won’t take me more than a few minutes, honest.”

Wilbur narrowed his eyes further. He wanted to argue, to say that if he had to develop (or re-develop) a healthy sleeping habit, then Tommy couldn’t throw away his. He didn’t do that, but he should have. Instead he purses his lips in displeasure, and reluctantly nodded.

Tommy grins at him, barely getting out a ‘thanks’ before he was sprinting away in the direction of the village. Wilbur stared after him for a few long seconds, then sighed and stood up, checking the fire to make sure that it wouldn’t reignite once they’d left, before washing his hands in the creek and going through the familiar motions of packing up their stuff. 

Their stuff was packed and ready to go by the time Tommy came back. Wilbur’s ears perked up when he heard Tommy’s quiet footsteps cracking over a branch, and with a grin and a rib on the tip of his tongue, he turned around, hands shoved into his pockets.

…Only for it to die in his mouth when he saw Tommy walk through the clearing with two fucking horses, the very same ones that they saw on their first day, with both of the reins in his hand and a bag at the spruce one’s side already. Tommy grins impishly at Wilbur, and it took him a moment to realize he dropped his jaw to the floor. Wilbur quickly snaps it up, swallowing nothing for a moment before looking at Tommy, the horse, and then back to Tommy. 

“Wha-” He croaked, “What the fuck, Tommy,” he said, slowly walking forward and reaching forward to run his hand over the ash-colored horse’s nose. Tommy looked exceptionally pleased with himself, chin tilted up proudly as he practically preened like a damn bird. “Where— how—” Wilbur pulled his hand away to face him. 

“A ton of hunting,” Tommy answered smugly, still wildly grinning as he handed Wilbur both reins and walked around him. The ash horse snorted unhappily and pressed its nose against Wilbur demandingly, Wilbur raised his hand and began petting it again. 

“When the fuck did you have the time to gather enough stuff to buy a horse? Not only that, but also all the things to go with it?” Wilbur said incredulously, turning around fully towards Tommy while running a hand along the horse’s flank, a bewildered look on his face. “There’s not enough hours in the day!”

Their bags were slung over Tommy’s shoulder, who suddenly looked a little sheepish. “There’s not.” He agreed with a little nod of his head, walking back over to hook their stuff to the spruce horse’s side, and then the ash one. “But there’s enough hours in the night and day, and I didn’t say I was just hunting animals.” 

Wilbur stared at Tommy, aghast, “You went mob-hunting, alone?” he said, expression twisted as something cold and unpleasant coiled in his chest, “You could have been hurt! You could have died!”  

“But I didn’t!” Tommy replied, almost cheerily. Wilbur was gonna strangle him, he was. Some sort of choked noise emitted from his throat that he couldn’t identify even if someone put a crossbow to his head and demanded he did.

“You could have!” The thought alone was enough to dump ice cold water onto Wilbur’s head and drench his soul. He knew Tommy was smart, knew he was resilient and clever and everything Wilbur couldn’t be, but mob-hunting without armor, without food, without anything but your wits and a weapon was dangerous and stupid. So, so unbelievably stupid.

Like trying to fight a war with words? a traitorous part of his mind whispered mockingly.

“But I didn’t.” Tommy repeated, tone firm as he shot Wilbur a look while tucking their pickaxe into the satchel. “I’m perfectly fine, I’m alive, and you can feel my pulse if you don’t believe it.” As if to make a point, he stepped away from the spruce horse and angled himself towards Wilbur, palms facing outwards with arms slightly extended.

Wilbur stared for a few seconds, mouth running dry for a moment, and then he was stepping forward, dropping the reins as he reached out his hand. He curled his fingers until only two were pointing out, and then they were pressing against the soft part of Tommy’s throat just below his jaw. His skin felt cold against Tommy’s neck, and it didn’t take even a second before he could feel the familiar jumping of Tommy’s heartbeat against his throat, against the padding of his calloused fingers.

He slumped, unwarranted relief flooding through his veins at the feeling of Tommy’s life pulsing under his touch. He dropped forward until he was almost leaning against Tommy, hesitating for a long second, and startling when Tommy pressed his head against Wilbur’s chest. “I’m alive, Wilbs.” Tommy said into his shirt, his voice muffled. “Promise.” 

A breath heaved out of Wilbur’s chest, tears stinging the corner of his eyes. He hadn’t realized how much the thought of Tommy dying affected him, he was too young, only a kid. He was supposed to outlive Wilbur, not the other way around. (He could have, he could, if he still had all three of his lives instead of being down to one. It was Wilbur’s fault for dragging him into war and killing him.) 

Wilbur purses his lips together tightly, inhaled shakily, and then heaved out another breath, pressing his face against Tommy’s hair as two tears slid out of his eyes. The arm that wasn’t held up to press his fingers against Tommy’s pulse snaked around Tommy’s back and gripped the back of his shirt tightly. 

“Please don’t do that again.” he whispered after a too-long silence. Tommy smelled like grime and dirty clothes, but the scent of the ravine was nowhere to be found. Wilbur found himself drooping in subconscious relief. 

There was a muffled snort, and then Tommy was pulling away, much to Wilbur’s dislike, to grin at him tiredly. “Oh never,” Tommy said, head tilting slightly up at him, “I’m fucking exhausted, that farmer bitch wanted so much before he handed over the damn horses. He was trying to scam me, Wil, I swear on it.” 

There was a playfulness in the way Tommy said it, his way of trying to defuse and lighten the situation. Warmth curled in Wilbur’s chest, smothering out the cold and leaving nothing but fondness for his little brother. He huffed, a grin forming at the corner of his mouth before he reluctantly dropped his arms and pulled away. “Sure he was, gremlin,” he teased, their moment of vulnerability forgotten. “You just don’t like working.” 

Which was a lie, Tommy worked so hard once he put his mind to something, worked until the point of exhaustion, and Wilbur had the memories to prove it. But it was fun to see Tommy puff up like an owl and squawk indignantly at him, spewing out curses like a second language while he played off the image of a tough, unfazed, big man who could do anything. He laughed and ruffled Tommy’s hair as Tommy shot insult after insult at him, dancing away from Tommy’s dull claws when he swatted at him.

“Fuck you! I’ll make you walk!”

Wilbur laughed again, eyes dancing with mirth. He angled away from Tommy to face the two horses again, who hadn’t moved from its spot after Wilbur let go of their reins. Smart horses, he thought, reaching out to pet the ash one’s neck. “What are you naming them?” he asked, cutting off Tommy’s tirade while his fingers ran over the mane. 

“That one is Clementine.” Tommy answered immediately, temper tantrum forgotten entirely as he gestured to the spruce horse. “And that one is Clara.” Wilbur nodded, humming quietly, before shooting Tommy a smile. 

“They’re nice names.” He told him, smile turning into a grin when Tommy beamed at him. 

They were back on the road a few minutes later, Tommy on Clementine while Wilbur was on Clara. Wilbur held onto Clementine’s reins, stating that he didn’t trust Tommy not to steer himself into a ditch. Tommy complained loudly that he could drive just fine, and Wilbur immediately replied that he didn’t trust Tommy to not pass out in the middle of the ride. Tommy scoffed at him, but said nothing else. 

A few minutes later Wilbur stood correct as Tommy started dozing off in his saddle, a smile quirking at his lips when Tommy would snap his head up after drooping, only to do the same thing a few seconds later. It didn’t take long for Tommy to fall asleep, leaning against Clementine’s neck, who didn’t seem particularly bothered by her rider’s position. 

He woke up a few hours later when Wilbur stopped for a break, leading Clementine and Clara over to a stream for them to drink from while he rifled through their bag for food. Tommy lizard blinked his eyes open, and when Wilbur lifted his head, he met Tommy’s squinty, sleepy blue eyes. Wilbur grinned playfully at Tommy. 

“Afternoon, sleeping beauty,” he greeted, pulling out an apple from their bag, it was yellow in color with streaks of red through it. Wilbur faintly recalled it being called something like honeycrisp?

Tommy groaned at him, eyes flicking up and down at Wilbur scrutinizingly. “We’re burning your jacket when we make camp,” he muttered, turning his head away to press against Clementine’s neck, eyes squeezing shut. 

Wilbur raised an amused eyebrow. “We are?” he asked. Tommy hummed at him.

“Mhm,” he said, “it’s fucking ugly, Wilbur. Butt-ugly. Smells like that stupid ravine too, I hate it.” Wilbur, who was just about to take a bit of the apple in his hand, stopped. His eyes widened slightly and lips parted into a silent ‘oh’. He glanced down at his jacket, fingers curling around the edge and pulling it back slightly to look at the inside, and then lifting it to sniff it. He cringed, underneath the stink, he could still smell the damp musk of Pogtopia clinging to it like cigarette smoke, which also clung to the fabric like a parasite. 

He remembered how relieved he was when Tommy no longer smelt like the ravine just that morning, he couldn’t imagine what it must be like for Tommy. He let go of the jacket and it fell back into place, swishing at his side and taking the smell with it. Wilbur cleared his throat quietly, “I need my jacket to stay warm, sunshine.” he said, trying to sound teasing and falling short. Tommy didn’t seem to notice, as tired as he was, and hummed again. 

“Bought you one at the village.” he muttered, face squished against Clementine before he shifted, seemingly trying to get comfortable. “‘S in the bag that I brought into camp, w’s gonna be a surprise.”

“The one that was already attached to Clementine?” Wilbur asked, trying to keep a sudden shake out of his voice as his throat swelled with something emotional swirling in his chest and around his bleeding raw heart. Tommy hummed again and nodded. 

Wilbur’s eyes drifted to said bag, his fingers twitching with the urge to look inside and see what the jacket Tommy had bought him looked like. He quickly stomped it down, Tommy said it was supposed to be a surprise, and Wilbur didn’t want to ruin it. 

He swallowed the lump in his throat, “Okay,” he said, voice trembling, “we’ll burn it when we get to camp.” He didn’t feel as upset as he thought he would when he said those words. 

Tommy made a sleepy, happy noise, one that would have had Wilbur cooing if it weren’t for the emotion stifling him, and slipped back to sleep. Wilbur put the apple back into the bag, his appetite forgotten. When Tommy woke up a few hours later, he didn’t remember the conversation.

That night when camp was set up and a fire was crackling and lighting up the area in soft oranges, Tommy grinned at Wilbur and said he had a surprise for him. 

“Oh?” Wilbur said, an eyebrow raising as he feigned interest and avoided the ball in his chest that wanted to climb up his throat. He curled a grin at Tommy as the blond scrambled to his feet and hurried over to Clementine, who was tied loosely to the ground alongside Clara. “What kind?”

“I can’t tell you, or it wouldn’t be a surprise!” Tommy told him, his back facing Wilbur as he rifled through the bag that was hitched to Clementine. He shot a look over his shoulder at Wilbur, “Close your eyes!”

“If you dump water on me, I’ll throw you into a lake,” Wilbur warned, but closed his eyes anyways, apprehension rising in his chest as the rustling of cloth seemed to amplify now that he was missing one of his senses. He resisted the urge to fidget. 

Tommy scoffed at him, “Don’t be ridiculous,” his voice shifted and grew clearer, and it took Wilbur a moment to realize that he’d turned around. There was the quiet crushing sound of grass being trampled underfoot, and then a muffled thump of someone sitting down. “Shoving you into a pond is my thing.” 

Wilbur couldn’t help but roll his eyes, only to let out a tiny shriek as he jerked in surprise a moment later, a finger jabbing into his side. “Oi! Don’t fucking roll your eyes at me, bitch,” Tommy snarked, his voice remarkably close to Wilbur’s ear. “And even after I fucking got you a gift. So ungrateful.”

There was that lump again, Wilbur stretched a shaky grin across his face and tilted his head to the side, his eyes still squeezed shut. “Are you going to let me see this ‘supposed’ gift?” he asked, hiding the tremor in his voice. “Or am I supposed to just imagine what it is?” 

“Yeah, yeah, whatever, you can open your fucking eyes now, dickhead.” Tommy retorted, in an instant Wilbur’s eyes were flying open and he twisted slightly to his left where Tommy was seated. His eyes immediately locked onto the jacket in Tommy’s hands, his mouth quickly running dry as his mind screeched to a halt. 

The jacket was… well, it was a jacket. But it was much nicer-looking than the one Wilbur had now, and looked much more comfortable. The entire thing was a brownish color made of soft-looking leather and deep pockets along the side, hitched shut with matte grey buttons. Thick, tan fluff lined the collar and folded over the shoulders, as well as dipped down into the interior of the jacket, insulating the inside. There was the same thick fluff at the hem and at the sleeves. 

It… wasn’t what Wilbur was expecting in the best way possible. He slowly reached forward, part of him almost afraid that he’d ruin the jacket by his corrupting touch alone, and dipped his fingers beneath the shoulders of the jacket, lifting it out of Tommy’s lap and into Wilbur’s. It hung limply in his arms and Wilbur pulled one hand away to run over the fluff of the jacket, it was too soft for words and that overwhelming emotion that Wilbur suddenly remembered as love grew in his lungs and up his throat until it was choking him. 

He glanced up at Tommy with wide, stinging eyes. Tommy wasn’t looking at him, instead he was looking anywhere but him, his nails picking at his hands nervously while a faint blush dusted over his nose. Tommy looked like was trying stubbornly to not seem nervous and was only mostly succeeding. 

“You don’t have to wear it if- if you don’t want to,” Tommy stammered once he noticed Wilbur was staring at him, gesticulating wildly before forcibly dropping them into his lap and hunching over slightly. “I just- ah, thought a new jacket would be warmer than the shitty one you’re wearing now—”

“I love it.” Wilbur whispered, tugging the coat closer to him and pressing it against his chest.

“But if you— what?”  

“I love it.” Wilbur repeated, a grin stretching across his face, glancing up to send Tommy a grateful look. “It’s wonderful, Toms, thank you.” he momentarily let go of the aviator, dropping it into his lap as he started pulling off the trench coat he was still wearing. Tommy slumped in relief from his peripherals, a tiny smile curling on his lips.

Taking off his trench coat felt, oddly enough, like taking off chains that were bound around his wrists. Wilbur felt lighter without it on, like the weight of Pogtopia and Manberg and revenge wasn’t crushing down on him as heavily as it used to. He didn’t feel like Atlas carrying the sky anymore. 

The jacket was just as warm as it looked, Wilbur snuggled into it, trying to pull it tighter to himself as the fluff lining the interior pressed against him, damn near threatening to send him to sleep where he sat with its softness. He hunkered down closer to it, eyes shutting while he hummed happily, the tannish fur warming his neck. 

He opened his eyes to grin widely at Tommy, love coiling his heart like the flames of the campfire licking at the sky, raging and warm and wild. There was a faint look of shy relief on Tommy’s face, who rubbed his arm sheepishly, a faint blush still on his face. 

“Good,” Tommy said with a short nod, his smile widening into a more confident grin, “because we’re burning the other one.” 

The thought of keeping the trench coat for Tommy to wear didn’t even cross Wilbur’s mind, and frankly, if it did, he’d immediately refuse the idea. Something about Tommy wearing the thing settling wrongly in his mind and heart, Pogtopia and cigarette smoke leeched to the damn thing like vines that could swallow entire forests whole. The thought of Tommy smelling like it had Wilbur’s insides recoiling violently. 

He laughed, joyfully and loud, and reached forward to pull Tommy to his chest, ignoring his squawk of surprise as Wilbur wrapped his arms around Tommy’s shoulders and pressed him close to his chest, chin resting on the top of his head as he rocked them slowly side-to-side. 

“Oi! What the fuck’s with the sudden clinginess?!” Tommy demanded, hands pushing against Wilbur weakly, “It’s just a jacket!” Despite Tommy’s claim, Wilbur could hear the fragility in his voice. It was not just a jacket. Or it was, but it felt so much more to Wilbur than it being a simple gift. 

Tommy’s proven to him over and over and over again that in the end, he would always be by Wilbur’s side, he would always choose him, again and again and again without fail. The aviator was another example of that; Tommy chose him, chose him, chose to follow him into war over a country he didn’t even care about, chose to duel Dream and risk the loss of his discs just so Wilbur could have his nation, chose to stick with Wilbur through the election, and chose to stay with him in Pogtopia. He chose to drag Wilbur out of the ravine, chose to risk his safety and stay up late through the nights to gather enough resources to buy Wilbur a new jacket as a gift. 

“I love you,” Wilbur murmured into Tommy’s hair, swaying them from left to right, the fire crackled and popped and warmed his side, igniting Tommy’s curls into an orangey-golden glow, a fiery sunrise woven into the strands of Tommy’s hair. “I love you, I love you, I love you.” Tommy stilled in his arms, his surprise almost palpable that Wilbur could nearly taste it on his tongue. His heart twanged with guilt, reminding him again to tell Tommy that he loved him more often. 

“I love you too,” Tommy whispered back after a moment of silence, his voice muffled by Wilbur’s shirt. There was another, much shorter pause, and then Tommy’s arms circled around Wilbur’s middle, fingers curling around the back of his jacket and scrunching it. Wilbur hummed softly, and raised a hand to pet the hair at the nape of Tommy’s neck, blunt nails scraping gently against the skin. 

Tommy shifted in his arms, adjusting himself to fit more comfortably under Wilbur’s chin, his cheek pressed against his collarbone. Wilbur moved as well, carefully tugging Tommy closer and rearranging his limbs until Tommy was sitting between his legs and Wilbur could cradle him like he used to when Tommy was smaller, when they were both younger and tinier and Wilbur could show Tommy the world from the safety of their cottage glade and his arms.

Wilbur hummed a quiet little melody he made up years ago, when Tommy was three and he was nine and Tommy would sneak into his room after a nightmare to clamber under the blankets with him. Wilbur would pull him close to his chest and hum softly to him, a sweet lullaby of silver stars and night-dripping feathers as he pet Tommy’s hair. He swiped his thumb over the hairline of Tommy’s nape and pressed a quick kiss to blond hair.  

There was a little fox hollow in the center of Wilbur’s heart fitted perfectly for Tommy, tucked close betwixt heartlove and heartstrings and lyric notes; a cozy hovel cupped in Wilbur’s hands made for a small ball of light that pulsed with laughter and chubby fingers tugging harshly at his hair, determined to put tiny braids into brown locks. Chubby fingers that slowly melted away to quick and nimble ones that could create intricate braids of the like that Wilbur could only hope to replicate. 

Like most nights, Wilbur finds himself falling asleep with sunrise in his arms and sunlight in his heart. 

Wilbur knew they were out of the SMP when, one day, as he and Tommy traversed through a seemingly endless plains, there was this sudden feeling of strings being cut; a weight they hadn’t noticed wrapped around their very soul lifting as if it was never there at all, a bond being stretched so thin it nearly caused Wilbur to recoil when it snapped. His wrist, where the tattoo of his lives were, began to tingle as if it had fallen asleep, and Wilbur watched with utter fascination as the tattoo turned a stony grey, before cracking and crumbling into ash off his skin like it had never been there in the first place. 

He ran his thumb over the spot, amazed and awed and half-convinced it was some kind of hallucination where a single swipe of his finger would shimmer it back into existence. He did it again when the first attempt garnered no results, and then a second and a third time. A quick tug and glance at Tommy’s wrist proved the same thing; there was nothing there, they were out of the server. 

It felt, strangely enough, like being freed. 

“We can respawn however many times we want now,” Tommy said to him, giddy and excited like a little kid, and despite Wilbur’s feeling of being underwater, of his feeling of not quite believing what he was seeing, he couldn’t help but match Tommy’s excitement. 

“That doesn’t mean you can go off and get yourself killed whenever you want,” Wilbur warned fondly, a tiny smile on his face as he brushed a hand through Tommy’s hair while their horses trotted along beside each other. 

Tommy scrunched his nose up, “I’m not stupid, Wilbur,” he said, making an odd, squawk-like spluttering sound that Wilbur couldn’t really identify other than it being a Tommy Noise when Wilbur hummed in uncertainty, face twisting slightly as he made an ‘ehh’ gesture with his hand. 

“Fuck off! I’ll shove you off your stupid horse!” Tommy exclaimed, reaching over to swat at him, only for Wilbur to jerk out of range just in time for Tommy to flail and right himself. He snickered under his breath as Tommy shot him a dirty look that had about as much heat behind it as an ice cube. 

“Like how you’ll shove me into a creek, which you still haven’t done?” Wilbur said with a curl of a smile on his lips and a raised eyebrow. Tommy made another spluttering Tommy Noise and flushed a cherry red. 

“Hey, hey, hey! I’ll fucking do it, I will! I just need to find a good fucking- fucking creek for it. You’ll never know when to expect it!” 

Wilbur chuckled under his breath, “Sure I won’t,” he drawled, barking out a laugh when Tommy swiped at him again and Wilbur ducked under his arm, tapping his feet against Clara’s side to urge her into a canter, laughing even more when Tommy shouted after him with a cuss and an insult. 

They came across another village a few hours later. It was a quaint little thing, as most villages are, with a blacksmith and a church and a large tree in the center plaza. Wilbur hummed thoughtfully, glancing around as he and Tommy approached, “We’re out of the SMP now, it’s safe enough for us to finally settle down.” Winter was approaching them too, frost blanketed the ground in the early mornings when they woke up and melted by sunrise. Wilbur was certain they’d survive it, but it didn’t mean it wouldn’t make it any less unpleasant. 

There was no response. Wilbur glanced at Tommy, eyebrows raising slightly when he saw his brother’s mouth drawn into a thin line that curled into a frown at the edges, his brows furrowed together in deep thought while his eyes searched the village. “Tommy?” Wilbur said, head tilting slightly, he frowned as well. “Earth-to-gremlin?”

Tommy blinked, then quickly shook his head. “I’m gonna ask around,” he announced, and quickly dismounted from Clementine, grabbing her reins to tug her along before hurriedly walking over to the nearest villager. 

Wilbur stared after Tommy, bewildered by his sudden change in behavior, and urged Clara to follow after him. “What the hell—” 

“Hullo!” Tommy greeted cheerfully, sending off a two-fingered salute at the farmer when they turned around. He came to a stop at the edge of the farm, hands folding behind him and fingers hooking together as he rocked on his heels. “Sorry to bother you, but you wouldn’t mind if I asked you about the village, right?” 

The farmer stood up and wiped an arm over their forehead, pushing their hat back from the action before readjusting it. A hoe was gripped tightly in one hand as they slowly approached Wilbur and Tommy, the farmer eyed the both of them warily, then sighed. 

“Sure,” they said with a heavy accent, “what’d you need to know?” 

A glint that Wilbur could have described as manic if he were a lesser man (and he was a lesser man) entered Tommy’s eye and he leaned forward, his smile stretching into something that almost bordered a grin. “What’s the weather here like? The seasons? How’s your winter?” 

Wilbur eyed Tommy suspiciously, only to flick his focus back onto the farmer when they spoke again. “As good as you can get in the Plains, lad,” they said, “we get flash floods in the summer and the ground freezes in the winter, if you’re thinkin’ of settling here though, then the seasons are the least of your worries when it comes to the pillagers.” 

That caught Wilbur’s attention, his eyes narrowing while Tommy tilted his head in a way reminiscent of a bird of prey. “You guys get pillagers?” he asked, voice deceptively light and curious.

The farmer nodded, a scowl stretching across their face. “Damn bastards come in every fall to steal the harvest or kill the livestocks, can’t do any work of their own so they steal from the real workers. We barely have enough to last through to next spring.” they said, digging their hoe into the ground and leaning their elbow against the handle. 

Tommy hummed sympathetically, brows furrowed together even while a thoughtful look glinted in his eye, “That sounds awful, big man,” he said, and Wilbur knew with how big of a heart Tommy had, that his sympathy was wholly genuine. “What about trades, how’s that?”

Nearly an hour and one conversation (interrogation) later, Tommy is mounting Clementine and bidding the farmer a pleasant goodbye.

“What was that?” Wilbur said incredulously as they left the village, glancing back behind him every few seconds, in disbelief by what he saw. 

“I refuse to settle down somewhere that has poor farming weather and gets attacked by pillagers,” Tommy replied simply, keeping his eyes trained forward as they traveled further away from the village. 

Wilbur stared at him. “Are you going to do that in every village?” he asked.

Tommy shot him a look as if thought he was stupid, Wilbur was going to smack him. “Of course,” he sounded distinctly indignant as he said it, and almost vaguely offended. Wilbur stared at him silently. Then sighed, trying and failing to keep a smile from curling at the corner of his mouth. 

After that, Wilbur witnessed what he was quickly coming to call ‘Picky Tommy Mode’ whenever they passed through a village. Sometimes Wilbur stuck around to watch as Tommy slipped into Picky Mode and began grilling one or more villagers about the state of the village, sometimes though he’d go around and trade. He bought them both heavy winter clothes and when he met up with Tommy, handed over a thick jacket to him.

They’d stay for a few days, or for a few hours, and then they were off again. Every time, Wilbur would ask what was wrong with the village. 

‘Too hot.’

‘Too cold.’

‘Too much rain.’

‘Not enough rain.’

‘Too many caves.’

‘Too little caves.’

‘Bad soil.’

‘Too many pillager attacks.’

There was always something wrong. Some of them obvious, some so small that Wilbur had to wonder if it was just Tommy being nitpicky. But winter was upon them, and he quietly urged for Tommy to settle for something, if only for the winter. 

It was when they stumbled across a quaint little village settled snugly in a dark oak and oak forest, with an abandoned little cottage in a clearing nearby, that Tommy finally seemed satisfied. It was the first time Wilbur saw Tommy genuinely interested in staying in one of the villages. 

Tommy asked around, of course, it was practically customary at this point, and Wilbur followed after him. He glanced briefly at the bell in the center of their plaza, and saw it shining as if new, neither dull nor dented nor scratched, a lack of use meant a lack of pillagers. Their iron golem looked nearly untouched, with just a few, miniscule scratches that Wilbur recognized as mob scratches.

He barely paid much attention to the conversation, deciding instead to let his eyes roam and explore the village as they walked slowly through it. The village was lovely, beautiful even, and the trees surrounding them cast a sense of security and safety behind the eyes of the world. It reminded him of the glade Tommy first showed him all those weeks back when they first got exiled. 

Wilbur blinked owlishly, surprising himself at the reminder of exile. He hasn’t thought of it, it or Pogtopia or Manberg, for that matter, since the first village. They hadn’t ended up burning his old jacket, but Tommy washed it and they sold it at the next village over, using what they got from it to get Tommy a jacket as well, and some more things. 

The election felt like a lifetime ago, and glancing over at Tommy, whose hair was grown out again and nearly covering his ears, Wilbur felt like it was. He huffed quietly, a hand dipping into his pocket to rub a thumb over the quartz still in his possession and still uncut and unused. 

A few minutes later, Tommy was bidding a village woman goodbye and turning towards Wilbur with a grin, his eyes sparkling in a way it hadn’t done in any of their past villages. Hope bloomed in Wilbur’s chest and he straightened up, leaning forward expectantly.

“It’s perfect!” Tommy exclaimed, “The little cottage nearby used to be home to a farmer that moved away last summer and the lady said we can use it! She even gave me the key!” He turned Clementine around and began trotting towards the direction of the cottage, Wilbur followed after. 

“We’ll have to clean it out first and we won’t be able to really do anything with the farm itself until Spring, but I’ll pen Techno in the meantime and ask for farming stuff,” he rambled, glancing at Wilbur quickly as his grin widened. 

Tommy had a better green thumb than Wilbur did, and once claimed that Wilbur could kill a succulent if he even so much as watered it. Wilbur was inclined to agree. Plants seemed to flourish under Tommy’s touch, back in Sleepy Hollow he kept a small vegetable garden at the side of the house, vines climbed the lattice fences.

It would be different here, Tommy wouldn’t be growing a small vegetable garden meant for a household of four-turned-two, there was enough land at the cottage to grow enough food for the village and for themselves comfortably, and Wilbur didn’t doubt that Tommy would. A heart of gold, that child, and it’d be helpful to have good relations with the village since they’re letting them stay here.  

Wilbur smiled, “I’m glad you’re excited,” he said sincerely, smile widening when Tommy flushed brightly and scowled at him, suddenly flipping a switch on his personality and turning away. Fondness filled his chest, as it often did when he was with Tommy, and he reached over to ruffle his hair. He didn’t get much of a result out of the action other than an indignant squawk and swatting hands. 

“I love you, sunrise,” it rolled off Wilbur’s tongue easily, his eyes shone and smile stretched into a grin when Tommy’s blush darkened and he hunched slightly, a shy smile curling at the corner of his lips. He pulled his hand away, snickering softly when Tommy’s hair stuck up in odd angles instead of fluffing like it would have if it was clean.

“I love you too,” Tommy muttered back. 

They spent the rest of the day cleaning out the cottage and getting a fire ready in the fireplace. It was a cozy little thing, the kitchen and living room were connected at the front of the house and dipped into a hallway at the back that had two bedrooms, a bathroom, and a study room. There was a closet at the end of the hall, and to the right of the first bedroom was a staircase leading down to a basement.  

The cottage had been left relatively untouched, requiring a deep clean of the floors and walls and some of the furniture that had been left behind would need to be repaired or replaced, and the walls needed repainting, but there were worse conditions for it to be in. A stable would also need to be built for Clementine and Clara (Tommy demanded that it be heated for the winters), but that could be saved for a later date. 

It was… it was fun, cleaning with Tommy. The closet they found still had a broom in it, along with a few rags and towels, they’d need to buy better cleaning supplies later in the week so they could get it properly cleaned, but for just that day, they swept the floors and dusted out the cobwebs and washed the windows. 

When night fell and the fireplace raged behind an iron gate, illuminating the small cottage with a soft orange glow, and the first sight of snow glittered and fell, Wilbur and Tommy pulled out their blankets and sleeping bags and rolled it out in front of the fire. Wind whistled softly outside, pushing against the cottage walls and tapping against the windows.   

Nights were quiet, as they had come to be since they left Pogtopia and started their journey across the SMP, and eventually, out of it. Wilbur faced Tommy as he always did, and Tommy faced him.  

Wilbur hummed softly, a finger delicately tracing Tommy’s temple and brushing away the hair falling over his face. Tommy stared silently at him, eyes half-lidded and sleepy while his back faced the fire, casting a halo of fire behind him. Wilbur’s heart swelled. He smiled, a tiny, little thing, and pressed his forehead against Tommy’s. 

The silence continues, Wilbur trails his finger down his temple, creating invisible designs over Tommy’s skin. His touch dips and tracks under his eye, eliciting a muzzy hum before following down over his cheek, to his jaw, and then back up to swirl circles over his forehead. He repeats the pattern again. Emotions that Wilbur didn’t know what to do with raged wild and intense, a hurricane that reached down with a fury to his very soul. He breathed in slowly, shifting carefully and tucking Tommy under his chin. 

“I love you,” he whispered, tugging Tommy closer and pressing his nose against his curls. His chest shuddered, a soft huff of beloved laughter falling from him with all the gentleness of an unfurling flower. “I love you, and I would choose you, again and again. In this life, in the next, and in a hundred lives, I’d choose you.” 

“I’d choose you too,” Tommy whispered back. Wilbur hid his smile and his tears in Tommy’s hair. 

Tommy sat at the small, wooden table made of oak in the kitchen, early morning sun spilling through the uncurtained windows. A feather pen twirled languidly between his fingers as the edges nicked at his skin with inked tips. His brows furrowed closely together, his bottom lip tucked between his incisors as he chewed thoughtfully. He hunched over a sheet of paper, one leg tucked under him to add unneeded leverage to his height and allow him to be nearly curled over the table. 

A week has since passed from when they first moved in, cleaning was finished and all that was left was to paint the walls and get new furniture. A carpenter in town offered to make their stuff and gave them a table and two chairs they had made already, in return Tommy offered him iron for new tools.

There was running water in the house now too, the plumbing fixed before they even finished cleaning. Tommy took his first bath in months and stayed in the tub until he was wrinkly and the water was no longer warm and clean. Wilbur teased him for taking so long, only to take just as much time as Tommy did.

His mind drifted with his eyes over to the living room, trying to visualize just where he and Wilbur would put the new furniture before thinking of wall colors. Perhaps a marigold yellow? Or a dull olive green… he quickly shook his head with a small grunt, a frown turning his lips downwards as he forced himself to refocus on writing.

Footsteps approached him from behind, soon followed after by cold fingers running up the back of his neck and into his hairline before pulling away. “I thought you were going to write to Techno. That doesn’t look like writing, that looks like trying to set the paper on fire,” Wilbur teased lightly, playfulness dripping from his voice as fingers returned to brush against the nape of his neck. 

A shiver ran through Tommy’s spine and he whacked at Wilbur’s hand as if he were a particularly annoying fly. “Your hands are cold, dickhead,” he complained, leaning back in his chair to hang his head back and glare half-heartedly up at Wilbur, who stared down at him with an equal amount of fondness that had Tommy’s throat closing up and his heart warming.  

Wilbur tugged gently at a lock of Tommy’s hair, a half-smile curled amusedly at the corner of his mouth. “You didn’t answer my question,” he said, his smile twisting slightly into something that could easily turn into a smirk. “I thought you were writing to Techno?”

“I am,” Tommy huffed, then sat up and rolled his neck. Wilbur hummed, suddenly leaning against Tommy’s back as he leaned over him to look at the empty letter, arms looping over his chest while his elbows dug softly into his shoulders. Tommy’s arms crossed over his chest indignantly, the tip of the pen digging softly into his skin. “I just… don’t know what to say.” he mumbled. 

He could feel Wilbur frown, one of his fingers tapped against his chest. “You just need to ask about farming,” he said logically, “Techno loves farming.”

“I know that,” Tommy retorted, irritation bubbling behind his ribcage and between his lungs before fizzling out just as quickly, leaving only a small, insecure little thing in its wake. “I just- what the fuck am I supposed to say? Tell him that we got exiled from our own fucking country and have been moving around for nearly four months in search of a new home?” 

Frustration welled in his lungs, helpless and tired and entirely unlike the type he felt back in Pogtopia. Back then at least he knew he could do something. Tears pricked at the corner of his eyes as the stress of- of everything came tumbling down from behind the walls he kept them shoved behind. 

An annoyed sound escaped him that sounded something like a whine and a huff, it rattled his breath and forced it to tremble like a branch being shoved by wind. “We haven’t talked in years,” he whispered, because it was either to whisper or to yell to hide the break in his voice. “He’s like a complete stranger to me.” 

Techno disappeared from their lives when Tommy was six and Wilbur was twelve. He and Phil both fled like phantoms into the night in order to search for something bigger than the tiny little home they settled in. Phil left to cure his unending wanderlust, taking fourteen year old Techno with him and leaving behind his other children to fend for themselves. At least that’s what Tommy always assumed, they never really gave them a reason why.

Tommy cried for days, convinced it was his fault that half of their small family abandoned him and Wilbur. Wilbur desperately tried to reassure him that it wasn’t his fault, it took years for Tommy to finally believe him. 

The next time Tommy saw Techno, it was two years later on a hypixel tournament screen. Tommy almost didn’t recognize him, hadn’t recognized him until his name popped up in the corner. Wilbur quickly hurried him home after that, trying to hide his hurt and anger over the fact that Techno left them to chase glory upon a silver screen.  

It wasn’t until Tommy lost his first life in a dark little room underground that he realized the faint taste of hurt he always felt whenever he thought too much about the past; about red eyes and black wings in the late of moonless night, the hurt that lingered like a bad taste in his mouth and left a scar on his heart, was betrayal. 

He tried writing to Techno once, once when he was younger and unscarred and still hopeful of a relationship between his older brother. He sent Techno letters, talking about nothing or about something Wilbur had shown him. He sent letters asking for him to visit, for birthdays, for holidays, for no reason at all. He was lucky if he got a response back, he never did.

(Will you tell me about your tournaments?)

(Wilbur taught me how to play piano today! You know violin, right? You could play with us!)

(I hope we talk soon! ~ Tommyinnit)

(Wilbur’s really good at taking photos, I want to get him a better camera as a surprise!)

(It’s my ninth birthday today, will you come visit?)

(I started a garden!)

(Wilbur misses you, he likes to pretend he doesn’t, but he always looks sad whenever he sees a photo of you and dad. I miss you too.)

(I hope you visit soon! ~ Tommy Craft.)

(It’s my eleventh birthday today.)

(I’m learning to crochet and knit, I made Wilbur a sweater because he always wears his yellow one but I don’t think it turned out that good.)

(Why won’t you respond? Did I do something wrong?)

(If I get good at fighting, will you come see me?)

(Me and Wilbur have been thinking of moving, the house is too quiet without you and Phil there.) 

(Respond when you can. ~ Tommy.)

By the time they left for the DSMP, Tommy stopped writing to him at all. 

Now, three years later, he was writing to him again, and Tommy found that unlike before, he had nothing to say. Or, he did, he just didn’t know how to say it. 

“How do I know that he won’t just throw it away?” he whispered quietly, hating the quiet crack in his voice. 

Wilbur tensed behind him, heavy silence dawning between the two of them, suffocating and thick. Tommy resisted the urge to fidget, immediately regretting saying anything and trying to ignore the quiet by steadying his breathing. 

Finally, Wilbur spoke. “Then we forget him.” He said quietly, voice filled with something unidentifiable. Tommy glanced up and saw Wilbur staring at the door, his mouth curled into a frown and his brows threaded together in cold resolve. “We forget him, and order books that tell us what to do. If he- if he doesn’t want anything to do with us, then we’ll stop reaching out.”

Tommy swallowed dryly, seeing Wilbur’s words for what they were; one last olive branch. A part of his heart, one that was still naïve and waiting with a Techno-shaped hole in it, shriveled and protested at the idea. “Okay,” he rasped, stomping the tiny voice down. “I’ll uh, do that.”

He dropped his gaze down and back to the paper, arms raising to rest his elbows against the table and tap the pen against the wood, paused in thought for a few seconds. Wilbur’s arms pulled away from him and fingers brushed against the nape of his neck again, they dropped away and Wilbur retreated to the counter. 

A few more seconds passed as Tommy’s thoughts swirled in his head, his lips pursing, before he let out a sigh and straightened up, batting away his twisting mind and focusing on simply writing. 

‘Hey Techno,

It’s Tommy, but you probably already know that if you bother to open the letter. —’

Tommy cringed at how bitter he sounded, but couldn’t find it in himself to scratch it out.

‘— I know it’s been a few years since I last wrote to you, I was… thirteen? Almost thirteen, last time. I’m sixteen now, seventeen in four months. I think in the last letter I sent you, I told you that me and Wilbur were thinking of moving? Well, we moved to a place called the Dream SMP. Do you know Dream? I think you fought against him that one time, congrats on kicking his ass by the way.

Long story short, we’re no longer living there. We’re actually living outside of it somewhere, and I was wondering if you had any advice on how to start a farm? We’re living in a village now and it’d be great if we could trade with them through farming.

Let me know as soon as you can when you see this, or not. 

~ Thomas Soot.’

Tommy leaned back and ran a critical eye over the letter, the feathery end of his pen tickling his bottom lip. It sounded… formal. Very formal. It was completely unlike all his past letters, which held a semblance of familiarity and friendliness up until the few months before they moved. Wherein it slowly began to dwindle until the last one (the last one he thought he’d ever send) sounded defeated, clinging to the rags of hope that were dragged through the wringer and torn to shreds.

Back then, he always signed his name in a dramatic, messy flourish, as if trying to remind Techno that he existed, that he was real. It slowly grew neater and slightly more legible as he grew older, Tommy taking up an interest in calligraphy after watching Wilbur write in silky, cursive swoops. 

It showed. If Tommy compared this letter to the last one he sent, he didn’t doubt that it would look like it was made by a completely different person. From the way he wrote his signature (smaller, neater, the letters dipped in a way that made Tommy think of dew-dropped spiderwebs) to the way he dotted his i’s and crossed his t’s. 

His writing changed with Tommy, matured in a way, and he wondered, just for a moment, if Techno would notice. He clicked his tongue as a loud part of him told him he wouldn’t, dropping the pen onto the table, the legs of the chair scraped against the floor as he pushed back and stood up. The ink would need time to dry before Tommy could fold it up and send it. Once upon a time he couldn’t wait long enough to send a letter to Techno, now, he almost dreaded it.

“I’m going to go check on Clem and Clara,” he told Wilbur as he stretched his arms above his head, his shirt hiking up to reveal his stomach for only a few seconds before he dropped his arms back down with a satisfied sigh. 

Wilbur hummed in acknowledgement, his back to Tommy as he puttered around the kitchen. Tommy didn’t quite know why, they barely had anything to mess with, but he let a smile curl at his lips anyways. “Be safe, and be back before lunch,” Wilbur said, pausing for a moment to glance over his shoulder and send Tommy a wry, teasing look. “Stay out of trouble, gremlin.”

Tommy made a face, all dull edges as he scrunched up his nose and grumbled under his breath. “I’m not a fucking gremlin,” he muttered, walking over to the door and trying to keep the smile off his face. He slipped on his shoes - a new pair of boots the cobbler gave them as a housewarming gift that were much more comfortable than his worn and dirty converse - and his jacket. 

“Love you!” he threw over his shoulder as his fingers curled around the doorknob and pulled the door open, the chill bit at his ears and nose instantly, the ground covered in a gentle layer of snow. He took one step out and the snow crunched under his feet.

“Love you too!” Wilbur shouted back just before the door closed, Tommy hid a grin just in time as the door clicked shut. 

It felt so easy to just say ‘I love you’ to one another. Wilbur would say it and Tommy’s heart would warm him from his fingertips all the way down to his toes, a smile stretching across his face so wide it hurt after just a few minutes. 

Tommy barely even noticed the chill as he headed to the stables where the horses were kept, humming that sounded like Wilbur in his head and a whistle song caught between his teeth.

Three weeks passed after Tommy’s letter was sent, a brown paper package appeared at their door, along with two boxes, one smaller than the other. It was thicker than Tommy’s hand was wide and the length of Tommy’s hand from the tip of his middle finger to his wrist, it was heavy as hell too. Tommy shared an incredulous look with Wilbur as he lifted the thing and the two boxes off the ground. 

He craned his neck to squint at the small stamp that had the sender’s name on it, and nearly dropped the packages when he saw Techno’s signature. His head snapped up and he turned towards Wilbur, who also tilted his neck to read the stamp. Tommy watched as his brother’s eyes grew comically wide and met his gaze.

“No way,” Wilbur breathed, the two of them glanced at the stamp again, then hurried over to the table. Tommy nearly dropped the packages onto it, wincing at the thud before unstacking the two other boxes from the top and putting them next to each other.

“Why now!?” Tommy exclaimed, the small part of his heart where he used to keep Techno soared with an old, childlike glee. And yet, despite that, he couldn’t help the faint trail of bitterness that followed it. Why now? He thought. 

“I don’t know, do you think I know what Technoblade does?” Wilbur said, rushing over to their feeble silverware drawer and pulling it open to yank out a knife. Tommy rolled his eyes and turned to the paper package with beige string wrapped around it.

“No, but you fucking knew him longer so I thought you might have an idea,” he snarked, tugging at the string in an attempt to loosen it, only for the knot to get tighter and the string to stretch out. Good enough, he thought, and started pulling the string sideways and off the corner. It had some effect, but mostly just wrinkled the paper. 

The familiar sound of tape being ripped into and cut loudly filled the room as Wilbur sliced open the small package, soon followed by a clattering as Wilbur dropped the knife and started tearing open the flaps of the box. Tommy quickly snatched the knife and cut the string, then began picking at the brown paper. 

He glanced over, however, when he heard Wilbur inhale sharply through his teeth. Tommy paused completely when he saw Wilbur’s wide-eyed expression. “What? What’s wrong?” he asked, brows furrowing into a frown. “If that bitch upset you I’ll fight him—”

Wilbur hushed him without ever taking his eyes off whatever was in the box, Tommy was about to curse him out for it when Wilbur suddenly raised his hands, his hands that were trembling, and dipped them into the box. “How did he..?” Wilbur whispered, and pulled out a polaroid camera, Tommy’s mouth ran dry at the sight. 

‘Wilbur’s really good at taking photos, I want to get him a better camera as a surprise!’

Techno had read..? 

“Did he leave a note?” Tommy found himself asking, leaning over to look into the box, his body suddenly feeling nauseatingly light. Wilbur was in teary-eyed shock, his jaw slightly agape as he stared uncomprehendingly at the camera in his hands. 

His head snapped to the side at Tommy’s question, he pressed the camera close to his chest and peered inside the box with Tommy. A noise Tommy didn’t really know how to identify other than ‘it exists’ emitted from Wilbur’s throat and he detached one hand from the camera to reach inside the box and pull out an envelope. 

An envelope that had Techno’s name on it in large, almost-cursive writing, addressed to Wilbur. 

“Is this hell?” It took a few seconds for Tommy to realize that he had said it out loud. His eyes drifted to the last two packages waiting innocently and unopened on the table. “Did I die last night and this is just some weird limbo?” 

Wilbur shot him a sharp, teary look that Tommy ignored as he pressed two fingers against the pulse in his wrist. His lips purse together when he feels it thrumming under his skin in a steady tempo, “Nope, still alive.” he muttered, turning his gaze back to the two remaining packages — gifts? 

With a tentative hand, he picked up the knife again and pulled the last box towards him, ignoring the brown paper package that he’d just been trying to open before Wilbur saw the polaroid. His heart flutters nervously, shoulders tensing up slightly when he pressed the tip of the knife to one end and pierced the tape, before pulling it through with another loud ripping sound. 

With the flaps freed, Tommy wetted his lips (which he knew he was going to regret later when they got chapped) and pulled them back, bending the cardboard corners slightly and feeling his head spin when he saw what was inside. 

Yarn. Techno had gotten him yarn, cashmere yarn from the looks of it. They were all one solid color, Tommy’s signature red, and settled on top of it was a letter to him, a pair of knitting needles, and a crochet hook. Oh, Tommy thought faintly, pulling the needles and hook out with both hands, Techno read my letters.

How else would he have known? 

It hadn’t really registered at first, but now that it was it was like Tommy had been hit with a bat in the center of his chest.

He remembered too, his mind added, a traitorous little thing. Tommy’s throat closes up and he blinked back the sting in his eyes. He placed the two objects down, and began pulling out the yarn. His attempt at not crying was almost immediately thwarted when he saw what was underneath.

Techno hadn’t just gotten him yarn. Folded neatly underneath was a pair of denim overalls, along with a pair of heavy work boots and a red bandana. That fucker, Tommy thought thickly, huffing softly as he delicately lifted the bandana out of the box. He wipes the back of his hand over his eyes and tilted his head up to the ceiling. He pressed the cloth close to his chest and tried to hide a grin, he failed miserably. 

“I didn’t think he read them,” he rasped, squeezing his eyes shut before glancing at Wilbur with a watery grin. “He never responded so I- I thought that he just threw them away.” Another huff of laughter, disbelieving and cracking, escaped him. “I told him- I told him years ago that you liked taking photos. I told him I wanted to get you a better camera as a surprise.” 

Wilbur’s mouth parted in a small ‘oh’, a tear slipped from Tommy’s eye and he resisted the urge to curl into a ball on the floor and sob. His world was tilted on its axis; flipped upside down with Tommy being the only one to figure out which way was up. A small whine caught in his throat that he waved away with more shaky laughter. 

There was one last package waiting to be opened, the brown paper one. Tommy was almost terrified to open it, certain that whatever was in it would have Tommy bursting into the tears he’s been trying to keep at bay. He bit his lip and reluctantly put the bandana he’d been clutching like a lifeline onto the table with the rest of the- the gifts.  

His hands shook as he stepped forward and pinched the edge of the paper, his nails digging into the material before he slowly began to peel it back. The house was deathly silent, anticipation thrumming like the smell of ozone heralding a storm, like the charge before lightning scars the ground. 

Tommy saw the edge of paper, of an envelope, or more envelopes, and the air heaved out of him. He yanked the packaging back harshly, forgoing his reluctance and tearing the paper down the middle in jagged, soft edges. Envelopes spilled onto the table, all of them addressed to Tommy, all of them in varying handwriting, all of them dated over the years. Many of them faintly yellowed with age.  

A cry ripped itself out of Tommy forcibly; a hook latching onto his ribs and yanking with all the force of an anchor shoved into deep water, abruptly pulling out another loud sob as tears flooded his eyes and streamed down his face. He almost didn’t notice the thick, leather book bound with twined beige string and so obviously handmade beneath all of the letters and beyond his blurring vision. 

Arms wrapped tightly around him, tightening over his shoulders and tugging him close. Cold fingers brush against his neck, before burying into his hair. Tommy’s mind briefly flashed of Wilbur before he pressed his face against his shoulder and curled his hands around the front of Wilbur’s shirt, muffling his cries against the fabric. 

After all this time, Techno hadn’t just read his letters, but he had replied. Had taken the time to sit down and truly write a response to Tommy, had cared enough to respond. The realization hit Tommy with all the force of an arrow, striking his chest and forcing more sobs from his lungs. 

Wilbur said nothing as Tommy ruined his shirt with salty tears, he remained silent and grounding and reassuring, his head tilting until his chin pressed against the side of Tommy’s head while he swayed from side to side. In return, Tommy pretended not to notice as tears hit his hair. 

Let it be known that Tommy hated crying, hated the vulnerability, the fragility that came with it.

No— no that wasn’t right. 

He hated crying in front of strangers, in front of friends he didn’t quite consider family yet. In front of enemies.  

It was belittling; his entire being shriveling up, his soul crunching into a wrinkled paper ball and then imploding, tearing down his pride in the form of blurry eyes and splotchy skin, tears sticking uncomfortably to his face and dripping off his chin. His heart, tucked safely behind his ribs and lungs, ripped out, bleeding and raw for all to see.

Look at this, his tears would whisper, look, and see just how human I can be.

With Wilbur, crying wasn’t a burden placed to insult Tommy, to tear him apart piece by piece by piece and put him on display for the world to witness and gawk. With Wilbur, Tommy could cry a river and fill an ocean and never once feel like he was a bug under a magnifying glass. He could put his raw heart and crumpled soul in Wilbur’s hands and whisper for him to be gentle, and know that he would. 

So when Tommy finally detached himself from Wilbur, his face damp and sticky and his eyes heavy; lashes wet and weighed, he didn’t feel embarrassed or ashamed. He didn’t need to hide away and cut his hands until they bled, dripping red and red and red while he pieced the glass dust of his pride back together again. 

He didn’t need to do any of that, knowing that with Wilbur, he’d put Tommy’s ruined heart and exhausted soul back into his chest with a song note stitched into any open wounds he might have found, as well as a soft brush of his lips over his forehead. So when Tommy finally pulled away, he gently knocked his forehead against Wilbur’s jaw, a smile curling at the edges of his mouth when Wilbur responded with a fond little huff, before bumping his nose against Tommy’s hairline. 

Tommy’s mouth felt heavy, his lungs sore, and he wiped his face with his palms, pressing hard enough against his eyes that spots of white dotted his black vision. “I got your shirt all wet,” he rasped apologetically, sniffling uncomfortably and licking his lips, tasting salt on his tongue. 

Wilbur merely smiled, a small little thing, soft and loving. Dickhead will make me cry again, Tommy thought, averting his gaze from Wilbur’s face. He turned back to the table, his throat closing up at the pile of old letters spilled over the table and nearly falling off the edge. He ignored them, because if he didn’t, he didn’t trust himself not to cry again. 

Instead he turned his focus to the leatherbound book. Tommy carefully pushed away the letters covering it, inhaling sharply and choking back a huffy laugh when the title read ‘Everything You Need to Know About Farming’ in Techno’s handwriting. Asshole, he thought fondly, he’s going to ruin his wrist like that.  

His fingers brushed lightly over the cover, half-convinced that the book would crumble into ash and Tommy would wake up and realize that the entire day had been a dream. The leather was soft; a deep brown, nearly black color with a dull tan cord binding it all together. Written in black ink on the first page, Techno wrote: To Tommy (and Wilbur), From Techno.  

The next page was an index sorted alphabetically. 

“Fucker!” Tommy exclaimed with a wet laugh, “He wrote a fucking encylopedia!” No wonder it took so long.  

Wilbur spluttered out a disbelieving laugh and suddenly he was peering over Tommy’s shoulder, “He what?” he said incredulously. Tommy nodded and glanced at him, a bewildered grin was stretched across Wilbur’s face, his eyebrows climbed to his forehead.

“Look at this!” Tommy dragged his finger slowly down the page, Techno’s handwriting filled the entire space, completed with page numbers and chapter titles. “This will take me fucking ages to get through!” Despite the complaint, his heart fluttered warmly. 

“Let me see,” Wilbur said, Tommy stepped aside for him and turned his eyes to the letters, reaching out to scoop them up and sift through them. There were responses dating all the way back to Tommy’s very first letter when he was eight and found Techno’s skyblock address. He pressed his lips together in a thin line to stave away the tears once again building in his eyes. He sniffled and wiped his eyes with his arm, stacking the letters together to sort later. 

There was one in a pristine white envelope that caught Tommy’s attention, written in Techno’s current handwriting and dated recently. Tommy placed the old letters down and picked up the white one, staring at it for a few seconds before flipping it around. With trembling fingers, he carefully opened it and unfolded the letter inside.

‘Hermes,’

Immediately, Tommy has to pull away to blink past the blurring vision at the old nickname. A few more seconds passed as he tried to recompose himself before deciding to simply see past the tears in his eyes.

‘I would like to start off this letter by apologizing. One for never replying to your letters, or at least, never sending my response, and for leaving you and Wilbur behind. I never told you or Wilbur this, but back then voices had started manifesting in my head. It was only a small handful at the time, less than a dozen of them, and I thought I could handle it. Then the voices started multiplying rapidly and it got harder and harder to block out. 

The voices — I call them Chat nowadays — demanded the most awful of things. Blood, destruction, pain. It didn’t care whose blood I had to spill, it just had to happen. It got to the point where I would lose time, I didn’t know where I was. I was lucky that I hadn’t attacked you or Wilbur. I attacked Phil once, when you and Wilbur were out playing. Phil managed to snap me out of it before I could do any physical damage, but by then I’d realized I was too dangerous to be around you or Wilbur. 

It was Phil’s idea for me to leave, and in hindsight, I wish I had told you and Wilbur why . I regret every day that I didn’t. I am so, so sorry for putting you and Will through the pain of growing up alone. I am so, so, so sorry.

When I got your first letter, I was surprised. Back then I wasn’t really well-known, I was some random kid on Hypixel, so I didn’t get much mail other than the news. I have it saved, I have all of your letters saved, and I read them whenever the voices get bad. I still do, it helps ground me. I miss you too. I don’t have an excuse for never responding, but the best thing I can give you was that I was ashamed of myself for never writing to you or Wilbur to explain my absence. I was afraid to mess up.’ 

Idiot, Tommy thought with a sniff, rapidly blinking back tears. Fucking idiot. You’d only mess up if you never replied.  

‘I soon realized after you stopped writing that it was because I never wrote back that I messed up.—’ 

Tommy huffed out a scoff, a small, exasperated smile toying at his lips. Told you, he mouthed silently, ignoring Wilbur’s curious stare.

‘But, moving on from this, I saw your question about farming, and enclosed I’ve left a journal for you to read that has everything you need to know about it. If I remember correctly, you said that Wilbur took photos? I, uh… don’t know if he still does that, it's been so long, but I bought him a camera in case he ever wants to scrapbook. He seemed like the sorta nerd who’d do that kinda thing. I also remember you saying that you crochet/knit? Again, I don’t know if you still do that, but I left you some yarn and got you some new knitting needles and a crochet hook just in case. (As well as some clothes to help with farming.)

Yeah, I’ve fought Dream, and I’ve heard about his SMP and am… I’m concerned, Tommy. I heard that there was a war there? A revolution. Are you and Orpheus okay? Neither of you could have come out of that unscarred. I asked around too, I hope you don’t mind, and heard about an election where the previous president and VP were exiled. You and Wilbur aren’t living in the SMP anymore and correlation doesn’t equal causation, but I can’t help but worry. If you want me to do something about it, don’t be afraid to ask, and I’ll blow the place to smithereens. And what’s this about there only being three lives in the server? It’s not registered as hardcore. 

I’ve said enough already and I’m running out of space to write, update me when you can?

~ Techno.’  

Tommy barked out a laugh, a few tears slipping down his face as he set down the letter and quickly wiped the tears away with his arm. “He’s such a dickhead,” he half-laughed, half-cried, taking in a shuddering breath only to release another watery laugh. “He’s such a fucking dickhead, I hate him.” No, he didn’t. 

Wilbur huffed softly. When Tommy glanced at him, he saw Wilbur’s mouth curled upwards in amusement. His own letter was unfurled and held delicately in his hands, Wilbur’s eyes were rimmed with red and shimmered as if he was about to cry. Tommy wouldn’t put it past him if he did. “He is,” Wilbur agreed with a tiny nod, his lips pursing together for a second to hide a watery smile. 

“Do you think we could convince him to buy us more furniture?” Tommy asked, half-teasing. The carpenter in the village was a godsend, their home had a few more additions decorating it, but furnishing a house for two all by yourself was tough work and they were only one person with higher priorities on their list. He and Wilbur still slept next to the fireplace under their sleeping bags.

“Maybe,” Wilbur said, humming conspiratorially as mischief glinted in his eye, his smile toying up at the corners into the beginnings of a smirk. Tommy felt himself returning the grin with a smaller one of his own. “I bet we could get him to buy us new blankets and pillows too.” 

“It’s only fair,” Tommy added on, an air of faux-innocence dancing around him. “We’ll be doing him a favor, using all that money he has gathering dust in Hypixel.” He wandered over to the counter and picked up a quill while blank paper suddenly materialized in Wilbur’s hands.

(In the end Tommy doesn’t end up asking Techno to buy them furniture, but he does thank him for the gifts — because what else could they have been? — as well as yell at him for being such an idiot for never replying.)  

Morning spring air nipped at Techno’s skin pleasantly, the sun rising steadily behind the trees as he pulled Carl through the forest. His feet padded against the dirt road, creating a quiet, melodic sound as he tread deeper into the forest. He was grateful for it, since it led to the village where Tommy and Wilbur lived. 

Anxiety and apprehension curled in his chest like heavy smoke, unpleasant and choking. It’s been ten years, ten years, since Techno last laid eyes upon his brothers, and he mourned that fact every single day. He regretted never keeping in contact with Tommy before the three year silence, and he knew that if it weren’t for the fact that Tommy had needed something from him, then he would have never written to him again. 

His heart jumps with the sort of fear he hasn’t felt in years at the reminder. It would have been deserved, it had been deserved. Techno abandoned him, abandoned him and Wilbur both and never so much as gave a reason why. When Tommy reached out to him, young and tiny and missing his brother, Techno had basically done the equivalent of turning his nose at him and pretended he didn’t exist. 

When he first saw Tommy’s letter, the first one he’s had in years, he went numb with shock; his mind fizzling out into a blank nothing as he stared at the writing on the envelope. Part of him didn’t believe it to be real, that somehow he was dreaming an incredibly realistic, naive dream where Tommy was writing to him again and at any moment he was going to wake up and face the harsh reality. 

Then the Chat picked up into a screaming frenzy; a dizzying plethora of voices demanding for him to open it, to respond. Techno snapped out of his daze with a headache and fumbling fingers as he flipped the envelope over and shakily peeled open the back. He let it drift to the ground as he unfolded the letter and greedily scanned through its contents.

Which didn’t take long, the letter was short, incredibly so and shorter than Tommy’s ever sent him before. It didn’t tell Techno anything about what he’d been doing in the last few years, and logically Techno knew that Tommy had no obligation to, but he couldn’t help but hope. The letter asked for help about farming, but the thing that really caught his attention was how… formal it sounded. How unTommy-like and bitter it felt. The opening sentence — ‘if you bother to open the lett’ — felt like a harsh slap across the face, hurt striking Techno like a rugged dagger. 

Tommy had every right to believe that Techno never opened his letters, and the realization of that hurt more than any injury Techno’s had. 

Everything else happened in a blur following that, from Techno gathering every single reply he never sent together into one package, to writing everything he knew about farming into a single detailed journal that looked more like a dictionary than a journal, to the camera and yarn and needles. It took him too many weeks and many long nights before he finally sent a reply and waited. 

A week later, Tommy's response came back.

Ever since then, they’d been in constant correspondence. Techno got a letter every week, and sent a letter back in the same day. It was hard at first; Tommy kept him at arm’s length even through ink and paper, but Techno was nothing if not stubborn. Slowly, he got to know his little brother again. 

Tommy never talked about his time in Dream’s SMP, or if he did, it was vague and short, barely even a paragraph before he was changing the subject and talking about something else that he’d done in the week it took for him to get Techno’s letter. It confirmed what Techno had been worried about; he and Wilbur both were in that three-year revolution. He’d naively hoped they weren’t. 

Winter melted to Spring, and now Techno was taking the journey to Wilbur and Tommy’s cottage in a surprise visit for Tommy’s seventeenth birthday. (His throat still closed up at the reminder. Gods, he’s missed so much of Tommy and- and Wilbur’s life. Both of them grew up when Techno wasn’t looking and he didn’t even know what they looked like.) 

Tension drew his shoulders taut as the village came into view, and he veered around it. Tommy mentioned that the cottage was slightly outside of the village and he wanted to avoid the undue attention of a stranger coming into such a remote place. He didn’t know if the people here would recognize him as the infamous Technoblade of Hypixel, but he didn’t want to risk it. 

Speaking of which… he glanced down at himself, the heavy, red cape pooling over his shoulders, a golden clasp fastened under his neck and settled over his collarbone. Gold thread sprawled down the edges of the cape in swirling, elegant designs, shimmering at every ripple of the fabric. His gaze drifted to his boots, expensive and steel-toed, then to his shirt, snowy white and made of linen. His crown felt heavy on his head, glittering and beautiful and worn with the battle of swords and age. It almost felt as heavy as his mask, swirling designs carved deep into the bone and depicting an elegance Techno’s fighting style was told to have. 

This… the Chat murmured softly in the back of his mind. He swallowed dryly.

If Techno showed up at his brothers’ doors like this, he would be nothing more than the Blade they saw on the Hypixel battlescreens. A man who seemed more god than mortal with ichor running through his veins rather than the common blood, who cut through enemies with nary a glance and the clean shing of his axe. 

He didn’t— he didn’t want to be the Blade amongst people who were supposed to be family, he wanted to be just Techno. Just Techno, the boy who, once upon a time, played with his brothers and read stories for the fun of it, who gave them nicknames just as nicknames and nothing else. Who learned to garden because he loved it and not for any other reason. When the biggest worry in the world was hiding whatever trouble they got into from dad. 

Techno was the boy who walked away from Wilbur and Tommy, Techno should be the man that returned. 

And if he were a lesser man, a weaker one, he would blame his shortcomings on his voices, on his enemies, on anyone under the sun and beneath that too. Blame them for turning his ties that used to stand as solid as rock into nothing but dust crumbled at his feet. But Techno was not a lesser man, and he knew that it was no one’s fault but his own that ruined his relationships.

So with a breath loosed from his chest that was shakier than it ought to be, he tugged loose the clasp at his collarbone, the warmth of his cloak sliding off his shoulders and allowing the morning chill to nip through his shirt and down to his bones as he folded the fabric over his arm and shoved it into the bag at his horse’s side. The mask pulled from his face, and the crown plucked from his head, left, but not forgotten, in the bag hitched to Carl. 

He felt vulnerable without his cloak and his crown and his mask, small and piddling in a forest that could swallow him whole. And yet, he had never felt lighter. He was Techno, just… Techno. 

A tentative smile curled at the corners of his lips. Hello Techno, he thought to himself, his footsteps creaking against the forest floor. It’s been a while, hasn’t it?   

Maybe Tommy and Wilbur weren’t the only people he needed to get to know again.

The journey to the cottage had both quickened and slowed, but soon enough Techno found himself back on the path to the house and now he stood before it. His heart was beating in his chest, jackrabbiting against his lungs and pounding and pulling against his ribcage with closed, calloused fists. His mind swirled with doubt and anxieties he knew like a terrible old friend, twisting his breath and catching his throat in a squeeze so tight he almost forgot how to breathe. 

Laughter came from behind the door, bright and muffled and nearly smothered by the shouting of a young voice that reminded Techno of the notes of a clarinet, a flurry of upwards rising notes that felt like stomping feet striking harshly against the floor, but never reaching a shriek. His heart twisted. 

A second voice followed, deeper and smoother with the strings of a guitar flashing behind Techno’s eyelids, dripping with fondness so thick that Techno could feel it to the roots of his heart. It strummed sweetly, playful and loving as it kept in time with the tune of the clarinet, creating a duet that felt, strangely, like coming home. 

Techno tried to keep the sting in his throat from reaching his eyes. 

There was a clatter from inside, the laughter hiccuping with words that Techno couldn’t parse out in his current state of mind, followed by more shouting from the younger voice — Tommy’s voice — drawing closer to the door. It swung open with a bang and Techno’s heart stopped as Tommy stepped out, his head twisted over his shoulder and his brows threaded together as he snarled something into the house. He was blushing, deep red coating over his face and arching over his nose. 

He’d gotten so big, he’d gotten so big. The last time Techno had seen him, he was this wiry, stringy little thing with messy and short blond hair. He was still blond, but he was taller, stronger, there was no sight of the little boy Techno had left behind all those years ago.

His hair was fluffier, longer, like he hadn’t heard of a haircut in the last few months, and it nearly spilled over his shoulders in waves and gentle coils. He still had his freckles, and they were darker, his skin tanner. Techno wasn’t surprised, Tommy was always one outside, he loved it. They all did. 

There was one thing that caught his attention the most, and those were the scars. Burn marks covered Tommy’s arms in small patches, and smaller scars, the nick of a sword or the missed shot of an arrow, sliced over the skin in thin and thick lines. There were faint scars crossing over his face, cutting over his jaw, over his nose, under his eye. He had so many scars, and the eyes of a soldier. 

Tommy turned, and when he saw Techno, his expression fell slack in shock. His voice dying off like a candle without oxygen and taking whatever insult he had with it. He stared silently at Techno, his eyes wide and jaw dropped, his fingers, scarred and calloused, were curled over the doorknob, preventing it from swinging shut behind him.

The world was balancing on a blade’s edge, its breath held. At least Techno’s world was. His heart thundered as loud as drums in his ears, pinned in place like a bug by his brother’s wide-eyed gaze. Seconds ticked by that felt like hours, and the chill nipped through Techno’s shirt. 

“Tommy?” Wilbur called, voice laced with concern. Footsteps treaded softly to the door, and Wilbur appeared over Tommy’s shoulder. Techno’s eyes flicked to him and as he did Tommy, he soaked in the sight of him. Brown hair, dark eyes, scars, the world has not been kind to his brothers. Neither has Techno.

Wilbur’s gaze snapped up and met Techno’s, and he too stilled into a statue. Techno’s heart twisted, the edges of his mouth flicked upwards into a small, tentative smile. “Mornin’,” he greeted quietly, turning to meet Tommy’s still wide-eyed face, “I heard it was your birthday?” Carl huffed beside him, if he wasn’t a horse Techno would almost think he was rolling his eyes.  

His mouth felt dry and his hands clammy, his fear returning with such force that he nearly felt ill from it; hot flashes rushed through his body and made him feel uncomfortably warm despite the spring weather. Would they turn him away? It was nothing less than he deserved— 

A weight barreled into him, knocking the air out of his chest with a forced ‘umph’ as he took a step back to prevent himself from landing flat onto the ground. A pair of slim arms wrapped around his torso and Techno looked down to a mop of blond hair pressed to his chest. Tommy squeezed him. His shoulders lifted, then slowly lowered with a shudder.

“You’re here.”

The world loosed a soft sigh. Techno could breathe again. 

Doubts and anxiety crumble like sand from his shoulders and he relaxed, tension melting from his muscles as he readjusted his hold on Tommy and hoisted him into a better hug. A hand rests on the top of his head, fingers curled to gently scrape against his skull and bury themselves into coiled locks. “Yeah,” he said quietly, “I’m here. I’m sorry it took me so long.” 

Tommy doesn’t answer, just hugs him tighter. Techno breathed in slowly, trying to prevent the way it stumbled slightly, akin to tripping over a rock. It wobbled, and he exhaled. His hand shifted to rest against Tommy’s nape, and he pressed his forehead against the top of Tommy’s head. Tears sting his eyes, and he lets them fall. 

His heart swelled to impossible sizes; threatening to burst and kill him where he stood. Flooding his bloodstream and lungs and veins, spilling into the empty cup of his soul, joy and grief and regret swirled in his chest. 

There was something wet growing on the front of his shirt, and Techno blinks as he realizes that fact. Tears, his mind supplied, it’s Tommy’s. His breath hitched again, more tears swelled his eyes that he allowed to slip. He pressed his face into Tommy’s hair again, unable to procure any words as he listened to Tommy’s slow, shuddering breaths. Slow inhales, the shaky balance on a fallen log over a creek, then jerky exhales; stop-go-stop that, in another situation, could have been laughter. 

Quiet huffs escaped Tommy in time with his exhales, Techno felt his heart squeeze and throat tighten at the realization that Tommy was trying to muffle himself. He squeezed him gently and a wounded noise escaped Tommy. 

Light footsteps drew close to them and Techno looked up over Tommy’s head to see Wilbur’s tentative approach, his shoulders taut and his fingers fiddling with each other as he walked towards them. His eyes were a suspicious red, a watery film gathering at his bottom lashes and threatening to spill over. He approached them with all the intents and purposes of a nervous animal. 

Techno swallowed dryly, his throat heavy with his grief as he stared at his second little brother. Wilbur was just as precious as Tommy; if Tommy was the sun, Wilbur was the moon, and by the gods did Techno love them both. 

He didn’t trust his voice not to collapse on him, so he didn’t use it at all. Silently, one arm unwound from Tommy and opened up for Wilbur, just as hesitant as Wilbur. Wilbur’s eyes flicked down to his hand, worn and calloused from the years of wielding weapons and tools alike. Techno hoped that he would take it, hoped that Wilbur would, just for a moment, forgive him long enough to give him this. 

Wilbur’s throat bobbed and he looked back at Techno. Techno stared back, hoping beyond hope so much that it nearly hurt; a phantom weight against his chest and stifling the air in his lungs. A second ticked by, and Wilbur stepped forward, and the weight lifted to return his joy. Wilbur drew close enough that Techno could hook his hand around the back of his neck and gently pull him close. 

He pressed his forehead against Wilbur’s, a common greeting in piglin culture among sounder members. Wilbur huffed out a quiet, harsh breath that would have been a sob if it had been given a voice. Techno’s vision blurred and he chuffed softly. Another harsh breath puffed from Wilbur, his lower lip wobbled, and Techno felt the corner of his mouth twitch shyly upwards. 

Techno used to chuff at Wilbur and Tommy before he left, it was his way of trying to extend comfort to them when he couldn’t come up with the words to do so. To this day, he still considers it his most effective weapon. 

When he pulled back, Wilbur collapsed into his arms, hunching over slightly as he tucked his face into Techno’s shoulder. Techno tilted his head back slightly to give him the space, the ends of his hair tickled his neck unpleasantly and Techno ignored the sensation. His chin brushed against Wilbur’s temples before Techno planted a quick kiss on his head. Techno chuffed again, and followed the sound up with a deep, rumbly purr.

In the quiet morning, it was just the three of them, and Techno wouldn’t have it any other way. 

Tommy sang softly to himself, a small smile curled at the edges of his mouth as sunlight filtered through the canopy of leaves over his head. Rushing water filled his ears and his boots sunk into the muddy bank of the small creek he was walking along. Wind brushed past him, rustling the leaves over his head as it raced after itself through the branches, an invisible game of tag that filled the air with a sound that Tommy regularly associated with peace. 

It was midsummer, and Tommy couldn’t help but marvel at how quickly time seemed to go by; months chasing the heels of each other like a particularly stubborn suitor. It was hard to believe that over half a year ago he and Wilbur had been exiled from L’Manberg. Life had gotten better since they left the SMP.

The farm was flourishing, he and Wilbur had a steady trading relationship with the village they lived in, and sometime in spring Tommy created a flower garden next to the house. Oak wood trellises walled the garden from the outside and vines and flowers crawled up the sides, creating a little haven of beauty for Tommy and Wilbur to relax in. 

Additionally to the flower garden, he started a bee sanctuary. It was a small thing, and the hives were kept near the treelines instead of a big, dome-like building. He and Wilbur got plenty of honey and Tommy traded it in at the trading plaza for other goods that he couldn’t get or make himself.    

He was writing to Tubbo again; had sent his first letter a month ago. It was nothing too complicated, just telling him that he was alive, he was safe, and explaining why he left and apologizing for not taking him with. Tubbo had been incredibly understanding in his response a few days later, and Tommy was reminded as to why Tubbo was his best friend in the first place. 

The relief he had felt knowing that Tubbo wasn’t mad at him nearly matched the relief he felt when Wilbur agreed to leave with him. 

Similarly Wilbur was writing to Niki, and Tommy nearly glowed with pride when Wilbur first told him. Niki was sending Wilbur baking recipes and Tommy was always the first to taste his attempts, whether they be good or bad. 

Him and Wilbur both wrote to Techno weekly, and the knowledge that Tommy had him back in his life nearly tickled his throat with glee, leaving him all bubbly and light with giggles threatening to spill from his mouth. Techno visited them constantly, setting aside the last week of the month to come stay with them, and every month without fail, Techno would return with the braid Tommy gave him during his last visit still in, but could hardly be considered still intact. 

Tommy quickly learned that Techno just… never took the braid out when he left, and went through the whole month with it slowly becoming a mess. And every time without fail, Tommy would emerge from the cottage with insults loud enough to scare the birds on the other side of the forest on his tongue, before dragging Techno inside and forcing him to shower before they did anything else.

There was a piano in the house, and at Christmas Tommy gave Wilbur a guitar. It wasn’t his old one that was worn and weathered and loved with age, and instead of Wilbur’s fluid cursive that marked the guitar as his, it was Tommy’s spider-like scrawl. Wilbur looked like he was going to cry anyways. Him and Wilbur did duets sometimes, Tommy loved it.  

Joy that was as light as the wings of a butterfly fluttered in his chest and Tommy lifted his head, his smile curling wider as he rolled his neck and loosed a relieved sigh at the series of pops that came from it. His singing dwindled into a hum as he swiveled his head left and right and spotted Wilbur downstream from him, his head still bowed as he searched the waters for any quartz he might find. 

The cord of soft leather wrapped around Tommy’s wrist felt slightly heavier at the thought and he glanced down at it to see the small, unpolished quartz that was twined to it. Wilbur had apparently found the rock all the way back in the SMP when they were gathering rocks for the firepit just before they left. He’d kept it on him all the way through the trip, and had been searching for a jeweler to make it into something to give to Tommy.

Apparently, Wilbur hadn’t been pleased with any of the ones he found, and the amount of time it would have taken to get something made would have been far too long and take precious time out of their traveling. So he made it himself when they finally settled down and gifted it to him on his birthday. Tommy wore it everyday. 

He started to make his way over to Wilbur, his eyes sliding over the familiar sight of the trees around him as he reminisced fondly about the past. Wilbur didn’t notice his approach, and suddenly a thought struck him. 

His smile slowly curled into a grin as his humming quieted to nothing, mischief flittering lightly against his ribcage that reminded him of tiptoeing quickly across a hardwood floor. His movements now slow and careful, he crept towards Wilbur, laughter already beginning to bubble in his chest. 

Wilbur remained oblivious to Tommy, his brows furrowed and his mouth turned downwards into a frown as his eyes flicked over the rushing water, his knees slightly bent as he hovered over the water. It wasn’t until Tommy was directly behind him that he noticed how silent it got. His frown deepened and he began to straighten up. “Tommy, did you leave—?”

Tommy’s hands shot out and pressed against Wilbur’s back, using as much force as he could, Tommy shoved Wilbur into the creek, watching in almost slow motion as Wilbur’s eyes widened in surprise and he stumbled forward, a strangled yell escaping him. His arms began to pinwheel to make up for the sudden momentum, but it was all for naught as he went tumbling into the water. 

Laughter burst deep from Tommy’s belly, wracking his body with violent shakes as his laugh echoed loudly through the forest. Even the woods startled as his laughter shook through the trees, scaring the birds into flight and slicing through the once quiet peace.

“I told you!” he crowed when he finally had enough air to speak, his cheeks hurting from the force of his grin. He squinted open an eye that had closed in the middle of his laughing to peer at Wilbur mirthfully, “I told you that I’d push you into a creek!” 

Wilbur glared at him, soaked to the bone from the cold creek and his curls dripping with water. He looked ridiculous, and the sight sent Tommy spiraling into laughter again. “Haha,” Wilbur said dryly when Tommy finally quieted again, the corners of his mouth twitching upwards betraying his annoyance. “You got me.”

Tommy beamed at him, eyes gleaming with delight, his chest all floaty and burning from laughing. “You didn’t believe me!” he sang happily, certain that his face was all red, his chest heaving slightly. “You didn’t believe me when I told you, and then I fucking got you!” 

Wilbur huffed, his mouth turning up further until he was smiling in fond exasperation. With a roll of his eyes, he splashed some of the water at Tommy. “The water’s nice, Toms,” he said, “you should join me.”  

“Not a fucking chance,” Tommy replied, and that was his first mistake as Wilbur’s own brand of mischief flashed across his face. His second mistake was not immediately distancing himself the moment he said it. Before he could blink, Wilbur was lunging forward and dragging him into the creek with him. 

Shouting and laughter filled the forest, echoing above the trees and ringing through the air.   

Oh yes, life was much better since Tommy and Wilbur left the SMP.