Chapter Text
Tommy isn’t fond of the new kid.
He’s supposed to be the kid! Philza said so! He’s a kid and that… matters. For some reason he doesn’t quite understand. But it matters to Philza and Techno, and if that keeps him one step firmer from getting kicked out when someone gets pissed off at him, he’ll take what he can fucking get.
Even if it’s a little fucking annoying to be the kid. Shit that Techno used to be completely fine dragging Tommy along with for Pogtopia isn’t quite on the table any more, and they care if he dips out for too long.
(And they took his alcohol. Pricks.)
At least they know better than to treat him like a gods damned baby. And it’s nice, sometimes, when they’re a little more careful with him, alright? It’s nice when they ask if he sleeps okay, or if he had enough to eat. The last person who’d done that was Wilbur, and, well…
…President Soot stopped having time to care much about things outside the presidency. And that stuck with him for the rest of his life.
The point being, Orpheus has been stuck in this house for so long that Techno’s gone and fucking named him. Used to just call him Orphan as a placeholder until someone else picked him up, but that never happened.
And now this bullshit.
“Horrible news, everyone, I have an apprentice.” Techno claps the small kid on the shoulders. “Orphan’s got nowhere else to stay unless we try and ship him out of state-”
“Just do that, then,” Tommy mutters under his breath.
“-so for now I’ll, uh- I’ll be keeping him around. Teachin’ him some skills. He’s got sharp eyes, I think I could get some alchemy in him.” Techno’s eyes flick briefly to Philza. “It’s not- we’re not adopting him or anything. We know what happened the last time-”
Philza laughs nervously, talons twirling the front edges of his wing shawl.
“-it’s just- it’s an apprenticeship. That’s still a thing, right? He’s about the right age, anyways.”
“That makes sense,” Hubert concludes. “Hello again, Orpheus.”
Orpheus waves shyly. “Hi.”
This is the worst. It’s the fucking worst.
Orpheus is all tiny. And scrimbly! Look at him, he can barely even hold a sword!
And Tommy says as much.
…to Chekhov, a good while later, in his and Philza’s side house when Techno’s not around.
“Tommy, be nice,” Chekhov lightly scolds, the way Wilbur used to when Tommy was little. “You can’t expect him to just man up like you, he’s only eight.”
“He’s already eight,” Tommy grumbles. “I was five.”
Chekhov’s eye twitches, even as the smile stays firm on his greying face. Wilbur’s lively, pale bronze tones have been washed out by the blue blood saturating what is now Chekhov’s body, and his wine red eyes seem to get cloudier by the day.
“Don’t say things like that,” Chekhov whispers, fingers fidgeting the way Wilbur’s used to when he was craving a smoke. “It’s sad.”
(And Tommy knows, more likely than not, that fidget means Chekhov’s going to forget this conversation by dinner.)
“Yeah, well, maybe I want to say things like that,” Tommy challenges. “Maybe I want to talk about this shit, what then?”
“Well, I-” Chekhov frowns nervously. “-I don’t think that’s a good idea. We’re just going to upset ourselves-”
“I’m already upset!” Tommy snaps. “Alright? Ever since you died, everyone else is tryin’ to pretend it’s all fine and DANDY!” He mockingly rocks back and forth. “All the bootlickers are makin’ a fuckin martyr off your bones, and everyone else who actually bothered to act like they gave a shit about you are just going oh, it’s so fucking great that psycho Mr. Soot’s FINALLY GONE AND CARKED IT!”
Chekhov shakes in his seat, hugging his arms together with a frozen look on his face. “Please stop.”
“And what are you gonna do about it?” Tommy presses. “If you actually gave a damn, you wouldn’t just make yourself forget it every time anyone tried to have a real conversation with you!” Tommy sneers when he sees Chekhov tense. “I’m not a fucking idiot. All that shit about forgetting bad memories is a fucking lie. I’ve seen you hold onto plenty of petty shit when you felt like it. You don’t care about being upset, you just care about never having any consequences for anything that happens to you!”
“And who actually wants to talk to me?” Chekhov tearfully screeches back. “Anyone who wants to talk to me for real just wants to talk about Wilbur! Why do I have to answer for him?”
“You ARE him, dickhead!” Tommy points out. “If you want to walk around in his body, with his clothes, tryin’ to- tryin’ to be him! If you wanna walk in my brother’s shoes, FUCKING ACT LIKE IT!”
Chekhov hisses shrilly, wings rattling like a storm under his shell. “Like who, Tommy? A shit person, a shit brother, an even shittier dad? If anyone’s taking after Wilbur, it’s you! You- you’re being absolutely horrible right now!”
“Better than you, you son of a bitch! All you do is think about yourself!” Tommy’s dark eyebrows twist with rage over his pale eyes. “Wilbur might have been a right bastard, but at least he wouldn’t have just stood there and forgot about it while Hunter ruined my fucking life! You just stood there and watched!”
And yeah, maybe Tommy is acting like Wilbur right now. Maybe he is being horrible, and awful, and all the shitty things people have decided Wilbur is now that he’s no longer around to answer for it.
But Wilbur taught Tommy everything he ever had, and he had a lot more than drugs under his belt. He knew how to make a fucking point.
And he knew how to make it hurt.
“Not that anybody’s worth remembering to you,” Tommy growls. “After what you let happen to Phil, I don’t know why I’m fucking surprised anymore.”
The rattling of Chekhov’s wings pauses.
“...What are you talking about?”
“Do you even remember why Philza lives here?” Tommy asks. “Why he jumps every time somebody knocks on the door? Or did you think those fucking scars on his ankles came out of nowhere?”
Tommy looms over Chekhov’s seat.
“You watched him, every day, while he was in fucking chains. And you forgot about it. You make a big fucking talk about being better than Wilbur, but you’re a shittier flock than he ever was.”
“Th-that’s not true,” Chekhov stammers. “And- and even if it was, what was I supposed to do about it? It’s already over, anyways! I didn’t do anything wrong!”
“You didn’t do anything at all, Chekhov! You never do, you just…” Tommy trails off. “...smile and wave.”
“Tommy.”
“Just forget about it.” Tommy drops his hands and walks to the door. “That’s all you know how to do, anyways.”
-<>♥<>-
When Chekhov says hello to him at the dinner table, saying he hasn’t seen Tommy all day, Tommy can’t even bring himself to feel disappointed.
Chekhov just… did what he always did.
And then later that evening- calm and quiet, the fallen snow drowning out the sounds of the ever-encroaching forest- Tommy hears a sound he hasn’t heard since before Wilbur died.
He hears a guitar.
“I am not calm through the pain,” a haunting voice floats along the rafters. “I am not soothed by the rain. I am not brave like others would believe- I just know how to smile and wave.”
Tommy hesitantly opens the cellar door to the outside. Chekhov’s sitting on the roof, leaning against the chimney of Philza’s house while he strums Wilbur’s old guitar.
“Oh, the man who’s taken everything from me.” A harsh strum. “Oh, the puppet master ties me up in strings! Oh, this world is coming to an end, and it will be by my own two hands.”
The music quiets.
“The mad king’s gone and lost his head,” Chekhov whispers. “The mad king’s gone and lost his head. With a sword in hand, he will reclaim his land, and raze the flag in his own name.”
“You said you didn’t like guitars,” Tommy says.
Chekhov stops and blinks. “That doesn’t mean I don’t know how to play it. Besides, there’s- there’s not really room to set up a piano around here.”
Tommy leans against the wall by the bridge stairs. “Smile and wave, eh? Sounds familiar. Here I was thinking you forgot about this mornin’.”
“I did,” Chekhov gently corrects. “But I… wrote it down.” His talons curl uneasily around the neck of his guitar. “Before.”
Tommy raises an eyebrow. “What’s the bloody point in forgettin’, then?”
“Wilbur’s sadness destroyed him, Tommy. I won’t let it destroy me.” Chekhov looks down at Tommy from the rooftop, moonlight striking across his glasses. (It doesn’t hide the cloudy haze in his eyes. He’s still a walking corpse, no matter how sweetly he trills.) “But maybe you’re still right, y’know? Maybe it’s important to keep the bad things. Even if I forget, everyone else still has to live with it. So… it still matters. So I’ll keep it, even if it’s not in my head.”
He knocks against his guitar, the hollow sound vanishing into the night.
“I’m gonna be a good person. Or at least a better one. And maybe- maybe it’s alright if I’m a little more like Wilbur every once in a while.” Chekhov tilts his head, a new sadness in his smile. “It’s a start, at least. That’s not so bad, right?”
Tommy’s eyes soften. “I’ll hold you to it, mate.”