Archive of Our Own

Tommy would like to say his reputation precedes him on the best of things. His handsomeness, the way he gets women, his overall cool and suave and awesome behavior.

Wilbur would say that his reputation is not that. But Wilbur says a lot of things, because he’s fucking stupid. And mean. And a bitch.

Like how Wilbur says that Tommy stays out too late, or gets too poor of grades.

Which is rubbish, obviously. Tommy is the best! Sure, he might stay too long at Tubbo or Ranboo’s, but so what? Wilbur doesn’t get home from work until late, anyway.

And Tommy tries to get good grades—really, he does! It’s just…hard. Hard to focus, hard to learn, hard to take tests and write essays and do projects.

That’s what Tommy says back.

Usually, that’s enough.

Not yesterday. Tommy doesn’t know why yesterday had ended so different. Why bickering had turned into arguing had turned into screaming.

Maybe Tommy should have expected it. The air had been thick and humid with the storm outside. Almost suffocating, even before Wilbur had spotted him.

It had been dark, only made darker by the ashen storm clouds rolling and twisting over their small flat. The rain had beaten and poured and whipped as Tommy had ran home from Tubbo’s house.

Maybe it was because Tommy had gotten home past curfew again. Maybe it was because Tommy had slammed the door just a bit too loud on his way in.

Maybe it was just because Tommy had tracked puddles into the house.

Whatever the reason, everything had exploded in a burst of static and hurt.

I do everything for you, Tommy! Wilbur had yelled, somewhere in the midst of everything else. I work so hard for you!

The air had been absolutely suffocating. Thick and hot like the rising storm outside, an energy that made Tommy’s hair stand on end, so he had yelled back, I never asked you to!

But Wilbur always strikes back harder than Tommy ever could. Sharp and loud like thunder, eyes alight with static and lightning and a sick sort of vitriol as he struck and screamed, I didn’t have a choice, did I, Tommy?

Tommy had stormed away before they could continue to yell. Before they continued to fight. Before they continued to verbally tear each other apart the way they never did when they were kids.

But that was a long time ago. Before Wilbur finally made it out of the house, buying a flat close enough that he could still come home and visit. Not that he ever did.

Before their parents died in an accident. Before Wilbur took him in, rather than let him into foster care. Before Wilbur dropped out of college to work full-time to support his kid brother.

Before Tommy became a burden. A strain on Wilbur’s life, health, finances.

(Because Wilbur did have a choice, really. He didn’t have to take Tommy in. Which means he still has a choice now—at any moment, he could decide to drop Tommy off into a system. With his face cloudy and soul alight and eyes flashing, he could decide to rid Tommy from his life forever. It scares Tommy like a thunderstorm—making him want to hide underneath his bed frame, curled up and arms covering his head, as if the thunder can’t touch him where he hides. It terrifies him. Like booming thunder and threats of a house fire, it terrifies him).

So when Tommy woke up the next day, head aching and nose running, he swore he wouldn’t let Wilbur know.

If Tommy is such a burden, then fine. He could handle himself. He didn’t need Wilbur’s help, or time, or cool, soothing hands. Wilbur could go to work, and Tommy will go to school, and he’ll come home and ignore Wilbur until the day he dies.

“Jesus, Tommy, you look like you’re about to drop dead.”

A day which, apparently , may be coming sooner than Tommy thought.

So Tommy’s reputation might include being cool, getting women, and being the most humorous big-man around—but it also, maybe, includes getting sick easily.

Easy and bad.

Sitting at the school desk, Tommy thinks he might die right here. Everything hurts. It’s too hot. He’s sweating as he shakes in his seat, breathing past the pressure in his chest.

Tubbo leans into Tommy’s desk space. “Seriously. You look awful. I’m surprised Wilbur let you out of the flat this morning.”

Through the overwhelming haze of sickness, Tommy manages a grimace. “Fuck Wilbur,” he says, then immediately closes his mouth before sick threatens to pour out of it.

“Tommy,” Tubbo reprimands. “You should definitely call him. I genuinely think you might pass out, right here. I’m not catching you if you do, by the way.”

“I’m not,” Tommy breathes, ignoring the way his teeth chatter around the words. “I’m fine.”

Tubbo maybe keeps talking—Tommy doesn’t hear any of it. His brain feels overwhelmed with fog, and the only thing he can really focus on is keeping the sick down.

The school day stretches on like thick taffy. Tommy doesn’t have any other classes with Tubbo, and, despite his earlier words, Tommy knows that Tubbo would be the only one to catch him if he did fall. It means he’s completely on his own as he struggles to stay upright in class, as he stumbles through the halls, as he pants and gags and squeezes his eyes shut as tight as he can.

It means he’s completely on his own as he walks home from school.

“ Please , Tommy, just call Wilbur,” Tubbo begs, hanging off of Tommy’s arm. “You look even worse than this morning.”

Tommy shakes his head, ignoring the way his nausea twists and rises in his throat.

“It’s raining!” Tubbo cries, throwing his hands out towards the pouring sky. “You’re going to get soaked!”

It’s true—still, Tommy shakes his head. He’s made it this far; surely, he can make it a measly ten minutes home.

Even if it’s raining, and cold, and Tommy didn’t bring a proper coat.

On any other day, Tubbo would have stubbornly followed Tommy home, marching him to Wilbur’s flat while scolding him the entire way there. Today, though, Tubbo has an after school club. That means it’s just Tommy.

“Tommy,” Tubbo scorns, and it’s the exact tone that means I’m going to argue until you do what I want.

“Fine,” Tommy says, because at this point it’s easier to just lie than to argue. “I’ll call.”

Tommy won’t. And Tubbo must know it, too, because he squints his eyes and leans into Tommy’s space.

“Call him then. Right now.”

Tommy can’t tell if the sweat dripping off of his forehead is from fever or nerves. “Tubbo—”

“Tubbo!”

Tommy could practically collapse with relief (his knees certainly feel weak enough for it). Across the way, one of Tubbo’s friends waves from a far door. “Come on!” The friend calls, his distant figure waving his arm back and forth. “We’re late!”

With a scowl, Tubbo turns back to Tommy. “Promise,” Tubbo demands, shoving a finger into Tommy’s face.

“Yeah, yeah. Promise,” Tommy lies.

“If you’re lying I’ll kill you—”

“Oh my god, fuckin’ go ,” Tommy whines, putting forth all of his effort into pushing Tubbo forward. With the last remaining strength, he puts on a smile, hoping that Tubbo can’t see the strain behind it. “Leave before I kick your ass.”

It’s pathetic, and Tommy’s knees still knobble underneath him, but Tubbo relents.

Tubbo relents, and now, in the pouring rain, accompanied with the booming sound of thunder, Tommy begins to walk home, ignoring the aching feeling that the rain could wash him away at any moment.

But Tommy is not weak. He is strong, and brave, and not a burden, and he will get home and spite Wilbur if it kills him.

Technoblade’s day has not been going great.

He forgot a math assignment at home, two new essays had been introduced in his literature class, and he had lost in a few too many fencing rounds.

Then, before Techno could even gather his supplies at the end of class, a loud crack of thunder sounded from outside. With it, the immediate noise of harsh, pelting rain.

Rain that Techno would have to walk through to get home.

As Techno had gripped his bag and stepped out into pouring wetness, he had thought: Can’t get worse than this.

That was before Techno found the body slumped next to a park bench.

From far away, Techno hadn’t even been able to tell what it was. A lump of bright red in the distance—maybe someone’s lost jacket, or an old backpack.

Then Techno had gotten a bit closer, and the lost-jacket-theory didn’t seem too far off.

Then Techno had gotten even closer. And—because with Techno’s luck, why wouldn’t there be—there is a body in the jacket.

A body curled up into the mud, slowly sinking into the muck as the rain continues to pelt his body and completely soak his clothes.

Leaning over the body, Techno can’t even tell if he’s alive.

“Um. Hello?” Techno calls, a good few feet away from the body.

The boy doesn’t answer. This might really be a corpse.

“Hello?” Techno tries again, stepping closer to the body.

The boy is pale, young. His blond hair is plastered to his forehead, wet with rain, yet, washed with relief, Techno can finally see the slight rise and fall of his chest.

“Hey. Get up.” Techno reaches out his foot and nudges the boy. The body moves against his foot, but otherwise stays curled into the muck.

“Kid. Hey.”

This time, the boy’s eyelids flutter. He lets out a whine, high pitched and keening.

“You alive down there?”

The kid whines again, but this time brings a hand up to rub at his face. Mud smudges from his palm to his cheek. “Wha’?”

“Are you okay?” Techno asks again. “Thought you might have died.”

Absently, the kid squints up at him. His lashes flutter over his flushed cheeks. “Huh?”

Techno raises an eyebrow. “Is any of what I’m saying even getting to you?”

The boy keeps squinting. The rain is falling into his eyes, and he’s blinking at Techno more than he is staring at him. Then his eyebrows scrunch. He turns his hazed gaze towards the park. “Where am I?”

“A park.”

The boy’s nose scrunches alongside his eyebrows. It might have brought a bit of pink to his face, if not for the fact that his cheeks and nose are already red from the cold. His soaked zip-up clings to his skin and creates a frigid mold against his lanky frame. The wind blows hard enough that even Techno shivers—the kid shakes so hard the next breeze might knock him over.

Techno waits for him to get up. Waits for him to explain himself, or to make excuses, or to laugh off his misfortune and get home.

The kid doesn’t even move. His blinking eyes keep sweeping across the park, but they move in an uncertain haze. Techno isn’t sure he’s really comprehending much of anything at all.

The boy blinks another slow, pained blink, and all Techno can do is sigh. “Are you sick down there?”

The kid shakes his head no and Techno can’t help the single, short bark of laughter that escapes him. “Nah. I’m pretty sure you are.”

Techno’s met with a glassy stare.

“What’s your name?” Techno asks, leaning forward.

He receives no answer. Instead, the boy lies his head back on the wet grass and mud, closing his eyes.

“Hey. No. You’ve got to get up. You’re gonna get worse if you keep sleepin’ out in the rain.”

With a single shaking hand, the kid flips Techno off.

Techno lifts a single dry eyebrow, even though the kid can’t see.

Another instance, maybe, Techno would have laughed. The kid has spite, for certain—an evident stubbornness despite the odds.

A different day, Techno might have respected it.

This day, however, Techno doesn’t have the patience for it.

This day has not been great. Forgotten assignments. Essays. Numerous losses and shameful walks home. A sickly kid, wasting away in mud.

If the kid wants to be stubborn, Techno will just leave him here. It’s not Techno’s job to stop him if he decides he wants to die sick and sad in the rain. Besides, he won’t actually die. Probably. Even though he’s already soaked through and trembling.

Just as Techno thinks that, the kid barks out a hoarse cough.

Yeesh.

“Alright. Come on,” Techno says, and he leans down and wraps his hands around the kid’s middle. With a grunt, he lifts him upward. “Up.”

The boy whines. He shakes his head, before his face immediately scrunches up, as if he’s made himself dizzy just from the small action.

Fantastic. Just what Techno wanted today: A soaking wet, sick kid who couldn’t even walk by himself.

“Where do you live?” Techno asks. The weight of the boy on his side increases as the kid leans into him unsteadily.

“Huh?”

“Where. Do you live.” Techno grits, readjusting his grip.

Eyebrows scrunch in as the boy seems to think. He opens his mouth, and for a single second Techno thinks he might finally be cooperating. Then his eyes start to water, and his bottom lip trembles.

“Whoa, hey. No. No, stop,” Techno says harshly, readjusting the kid in his grip. “We’re not doin’ that. Just tell me where to drop you off, kid.”

Except the kid doesn’t answer, because of course he doesn’t. He lets out another keen and sags in Techno’s arms.

He’s panting. His lashes flutter desperately.

“Alright,” Techno grumbles, readjusting the kid so he’s leaning his weight against Techno’s body. “Alright.”

The kid won’t answer, and Techno really only has one place to bring him.

So Techno, supporting the weight of this child, drags him home.

Techno’s major has nothing to do with anything medical.

He’s an English major. He studies prose and poems and writes ten page essays on the brilliance of metaphor and meter.

The extent of his medical knowledge ends at “if you take Tylenol, pain stops.”

Techno doesn’t know what to do with the kid in front of him. Techno had laid him on the sofa where he now stays, red-faced and panting. Water drips from his forehead. Techno can’t tell if it’s sweat or rain.

“Kid?” Techno leans forward. “You still with me?”

The kid just whines.

So no. He’s not.

Water drips from the boy’s frame and seeps into the cushions. He shakes and trembles, and his eyelashes flutter frantically, as if he’s fighting some sort of imaginary threat. Limbs shaking in exertion, eyes seeking a way out, even in sleep.

It’s uncomfortable to watch, so Techno looks away.

Techno tries to remember what he knows about sick people. He knows they eat soup, but his roommate, Skeppy, had eaten the last of it after catching the flu.

Characters sick in novels and movies typically have washcloths on their foreheads—to bring down fever. Techno could do that. Probably.

Except that the kid is already soaked and shivering. Would that make a warm cloth better? Sure, the kid would be less cold, but what if it irritated his fever?

The door opens as Techno begins to pull out his phone. Too late to message for soup, then.

Also too late to notify Skeppy about the kid, Techno realizes, as Skeppy enters the room and immediately freezes.

“Techno?” Skeppy says incredulously, eyes locked on the sick boy.

“Kid’s sick. Found him outside, brought him in.” Techno explains before Skeppy can get into it. Easier to skip pleasantries. “Got any ideas?”

Skeppy’s wide gaze flicks from the kid to Techno. “Dude, what?”

 “He’s sick,” Techno grumbles, internally hoping that for once, Skeppy lets something go without the usual twenty-minutes of dramatics. “Don’t know who he is. Can’t take him home. Now figure out what we should be doing.”

Skeppy’s face twists, now looking at Techno in disbelief. “‘Figure out what we should be doing?’” Skeppy echoes. “Dude, I don’t know! Why would I know that?”

“You have a friend learning medicine,” Techno grunts. “Ask him.”

“Ask—” Skeppy sputters. “That’s—Techno.”

Techno raises an eyebrow.

“You can’t be serious.”

Techno is wordless, which Skeppy has learned by now is his answer.

For a moment, Skeppy just continues to stare, hands twitching uselessly at his sides, and Techno thinks he’ll have to deal with twenty minutes of freak-out after all.

But then Skeppy’s gaze flicks to the kid, half-dead on the sofa already, and he hides his face in his hands and makes several frustrated noises. “Fine!” Skeppy yells, dragging his phone out of his pocket with a dramatic huffing. “Fine, dude. But Bad’s going to ask what happened, and I’m going to have to deal with him freaking out—”

“Then don’t tell him.”

“Techno—Bad!” It’s almost comical how quickly Skeppy’s tone changes as the phone is picked up. Instead of the prior irritation and exasperation, Skeppy is now upbeat and cheery. “Hey!”

“Hi, Skeppy!” Bad’s voice crackles through the speaker. “Is everything alright? You didn’t forget anything, did you?”

“No, no,” Skeppy breathes. “No, listen. I just had a fun…hypothetical! And I thought that maybe you could answer?”

“Hm. Well, I can try,” Bad answers, light enough that Techno knows he hasn’t quite caught on yet. “What’s the hypothetical?”

“Well,” Skeppy draws, hesitation laced through his tone. “Hypothetically, if we had…a friend, who’s sick—like, super sick—but we don’t know how or with what, how would we help him?”

There’s a beat of silence over the phone.

“Skeppy, who’s sick?”

“No one!” Skeppy is quick to say, “No one!”

“Skeppy,” Bad scorns, voice low with warning.

“No one,” Skeppy says again, but the tone has obviously cracked his resolve. “Just…just a kid?”

“A kid ?”

“A kid no one knows?” Skeppy strains, putting on a weak smile even though Bad isn’t there to see it.

There’s only a beat of silence before Bad’s voice erupts over the phone.

So much for avoiding dramatics.

Even though Skeppy is lectured for half an hour, they end up with a pretty comprehensive list on what to do about the kid.

The clothes are the first thing to go. In a team effort, Skeppy and Techno strip the boy from his soaked jacket and jeans. Skeppy raids his closet for a loose shirt and some old pajama bottoms, which they use to replace the old clothes.

The kid is given a warm blanket over his body and a cold cloth on his forehead. The fever is one of the main issues, according to Bad, but they aren’t allowed to give him any medicine. He could be allergic.

All they can do is cool his forehead and hope for the best.

If the kid gets worse, Bad says, they’ll have to bring him to a hospital. Techno hopes it doesn’t come down to that.

The next morning, Techno decides to stay home from school.

The kid is still passed out on the couch, shivering and sweating and occasionally gagging, in which Techno picks him up with a grimace and leans him over a bucket.

It’s disgusting work, one that Techno is completely unqualified for. It’s worse than when Skeppy comes home drunk after a party—and that’s saying something. Worse than when Skeppy whines and complains about his hangover the next day, because at least then Techno can throw a pillow at him and leave him to take care of himself.

Techno’s pretty sure if he left the kid, he’d waste away right on the sofa.

So instead of leaving, or going to class, or staying holed up in his room, Techno brings his computer to where the kid is. He starts his essays and scribbles down notes and ignores the whimpers and keens of the feverish kid behind him.

Once in a while, Techno will take the cloth from the kid’s forehead and run it under cold water. Then he’ll squeeze out the excess, come back, and lie it back where it belongs.

It’s a routine, even if it’s a terrible one. Watch a lecture, cool the kid’s cloth. Take notes, ignore the sick whimpers from behind him. Finish typing a paragraph, wet the cloth once more.

Techno does it three times, four. Five.

The sixth time, once Techno has wet the cloth and squeezed the excess and made sure that the fabric was still cool, the kid is awake.

Techno almost flinches as he leans over the kid and sees his eyes fluttering.

“Kid?” Techno tries, awkwardly clenching the cloth in his hands. A droplet of water begins to drip down his wrist.

The boy breathes in a large, wheezy breath. His eyes dart uncertainly underneath his fluttering eyelids. “Wil?”

“Huh?” Techno blinks, leaning a bit closer. “Will, what? What are you askin’, kid?”

The brows on the boy furrow deeply, wrinkling the small area between his brows.

“Wil? Wilb’r?” The boy breathes, hands twitching at his side as though desperate to reach for something. Or someone.

“Oh. Nope.” Techno leans into the kid’s line of sight. “Not…Wilbur. If that’s what you’re sayin’.”

It’s good, obviously, that the kid has finally woken up.

It’s impossible to feel that relief when his lip starts trembling, eyes beginning to shine and water as he pouts. “Where is he?”

God. Techno can’t do this. He doesn’t know how to comfort a crying kid. He can’t even comfort Skeppy, and he’s known him for years.

“I don’t know,” Techno tries, and his voice is stilted and low as he tries not to set the kid off. “Why don’t you tell me and I can take you to him?”

It’s the best response Techno can come up with—honest, and asking exactly what he needs to know: who and where he can hand the kid off to before never thinking about this again.

But the kid just blinks at him, eyes hazy and brow furrowed.

Then he keens, and when his eyes squeeze shut tears slip down his reddened cheeks. “ Wil ,” he cries out, weak and shaky, calling as if “Wil” is just in the other room.

“Kid,” Techno says, trying to keep the exasperation out of his tone, “he’s not here. Why don’t you—”

“He left,” the kid breathes, and the feverish agony of it makes Techno pause. The words slip from the kid’s lips as if something terrible has happened. As if in mourning. “He left,” he says again, and his entire face twists as he curls in on himself. “Wilbur,” he cries again, and this time the tears leak from his face endlessly. “ Wilbur. He left me, he left…”

It’s anguished and wet and devastated. It’s worse than the whines and the whimpers and the gags from before. It’s the cries of a puppy kicked onto the street, of a bird screeching to be heard after it fell from the nest. Of a baby abandoned in a bassinet.

Crying for someone to reach him.

He left. He left me.

Someone that, apparently, never will.

It could be delusions. Sick thoughts through the heat of fever.

The kid cries. He pleads, he mourns.

Techno doesn’t know.

“Alright,” Techno grimaces, placing the wet cloth on his forehead. Anything to calm him down, to cool the fit he’s worked himself up to. “You’re fine, you’re fine.”

The kid doesn’t take it. He still chokes through sobs with twitching fingers and foggy eyes.

“You’re fine,” Techno says, desperate to make the kid stop almost pushing the words out as a demand. “It’s fine. Go back to sleep.”

“ Wilbur, ” the kid cries out in response. “ Wilbur… ”

It takes ten minutes for the fever to overtake him again. The sobs eventually die off into sniffles that die into the same sick keens from before. The kind produced from fever and sick, rather than sobs of sorrow.

Shaky, Techno sits back down at the table.

The computer and notes are left untouched.

The cloth is already warm again.

After all the commotion, Techno crashes hard. The minute Skeppy gets home, Techno trades places, heading straight to bed as Skeppy takes his chair next to the kid.

Techno falls asleep instantly—a sleep which, of course, is interrupted by a banging on his door.

Techno is wrenched out of sleep almost cruelly. The last slips of sleep cling to his mind desperately, and in the dark of the room Techno knows he has not gotten enough sleep for this. “What?” He growls, already knowing who’s on the other side.

At Techno’s voice, the door is shoved open as Skeppy scrambles inside. “ Techno, ” Skeppy hisses. The room is completely dark, aside from the bright light shining from Skeppy’s phone. The phone that is quickly shoved two inches away from Techno’s face. “ Look!”

The harsh light burns Techno’s eyes, and he hits Skeppy’s hand away. “What time is it?”

“Techno, just look. ”

“Skeppy—”

“Dude, I’m being serious!” Skeppy shouts, agitation rumbling in his tone. “Look at the phone!”

The question on time isn’t answered, but Techno knows it’s early. Too early. Too early to be looking at whatever junk Skeppy wants him to look at. A text from Bad, or a funny meme, or…

Or an Instagram post with the kid’s face plastered on it.

There’s multiple photos, set as a sort of collage. It’s an unnerving testament to how sick the kid really is. In the photos, his eyes are bright, and he smiles at the camera wide and unabashed. His eyebrows aren’t knotted. There’s no twist to his lip.

“It’s his brother,” Skeppy says, and for a second Techno is confused. Then he looks at the pictures once more, and he takes notice of the man next to the kid in some of the photos. Tall and lanky, similar curls tossed over his eyes and temple. In some of the photos, he’s obviously the one holding up the phone for a selfie. In others, it seems someone else took the photo, as he leans against the kid with an arm wrapped around his shoulder.

My brother Tommy is missing , the caption says. He never came home last night. If you’ve seen or heard from him, please DM me. He likes to visit the market, the park…

The post goes on. Listing where the kid—Tommy—likes to go, who he might be with, what he was last seen wearing.

A chill crawls underneath Techno’s skin.

Techno knows what Tommy was last seen wearing. Those very clothes are draped over the back of his kitchen chair at this very moment.

The caption ends with more pleads. Begs to please, please bring my brother home.

“We figured it out, dude,” Skeppy says, almost breathless. With Techno done reading the post, he’s turned the phone back to himself. Techno watches as he flips through the different pictures. “Holy shit.”

Techno swallows roughly. “Have you messaged him yet?”

“Oh,” Skeppy breathes. “Shit, yeah. I’ll just—”

“Don’t,” Techno says quickly. His voice is still hoarse from sleep—his tone serious, low.

It’s enough to make Skeppy freeze in place. The blue light illuminates Skeppy’s features from below, making his look of surprise almost comical. “What?”

“Don’t. Don’t message him yet.”

Skeppy stares from his spotlight. Techno stares back.

“Dude, are you serious?”

“Don’t,” Techno says again, just for good measure. Skeppy is like a dog—he needs firm instruction. Several times. “The kid…do you know his brother?”

“Wilbur? I mean…I’ve met him before. Puffy was throwing a party, and she invited Quackity, and I guess Quackity invited some people he knows—”

Techno raises a silencing hand before Skeppy rambles into oblivion. “So you don’t know him.”

“I know of him.”

“Not the same,” Techno grumbles.

Techno doesn’t know Wilbur. Neither does Skeppy. Only the kid knows, feverish and sickly on their couch. Head shaking, lips trembling, eyes teary at the mention of his brother.

“Somethin’ is…wrong,” Techno grits. “Until the kid can tell me what it is, I don’t want to jump into action.”

Skeppy’s face twists as Techno keeps talking. “So what, we’re just planning on kidnapping him?”

It’s said incredulously, yet Techno doesn’t really have an answer yet.

Having the kid live with them is…unsustainable. Expensive. Annoying. He looks young enough to still be in school, and Techno certainly can’t raise a teenager.

Neither can Skeppy, for that matter. The thought of Skeppy trying to play guardian is almost enough to make Techno grimace.

But what are the other options?

There’s always foster care. Sure, Techno would feel like a dick pushing the kid into such a system, but it’s not like Techno or Skeppy could do much better. And if this Wilbur really is abusive or neglectful, surely anything would be better than that…

The thick silence is interrupted. “Oh fuck, are we really going to kidnap him?”

“No,” Techno grumbles, waving a hand. “We’ll just…” Techno trails off. He still doesn’t know.

With a huff, Techno shakes his head. “Just wait until Tommy is better. We’ll figure it out from there.”

Skeppy huffs, a strange mix between a sigh and a scoff. “Techno.”

“Skeppy.”

Silence. Techno can see the way Skeppy’s fingers clutch at his phone, but Techno makes no move to take back what he said.

“You’re insane,” Skeppy finally says. His eyes draw back the phone screen. “This post looks like an ad from the Humane Society, man. There’s no way.”

A sharp twinge of tension tugs between them.

Techno doesn’t want to send Tommy back if his home isn’t safe for him.

But Skeppy obviously doesn’t think there’s anything wrong in the first place.

Besides, Skeppy is horrible at keeping secrets anyway. Skeppy seeing this post has practically made this situation a ticking time bomb—more than it already was before.

“A day,” Techno tries, voice tense. “Wait a day.”

Skeppy stares back, just as tense. It’s another harsh staring contest; one that Skeppy breaks first.

“Fine,” Skeppy finally mutters. “But I’m serious, dude, we’ve got to do something about this soon—”

“I know, I know,” Techno grumbles. And he does know. The knowledge settles uncomfortably thick in his stomach.

It’s early enough in the morning that when Skeppy leaves, Techno lies back down in an attempt to salvage his sleep.

He can’t. The rain from outside beats against his window, and the thunder roars and rumbles over his roof.

His dreams are haunted by a blonde child, and a brunette man yelling for his brother.

The next day, Techno skips classes again.

Tommy is still sick. He wakes up two times, today—though he’s not particularly coherent either time. Techno’s not sure if he’s grateful for it or not.

Techno rinses sick out of the bucket and changes cloths and stares at Tommy to see if he can decipher if Tommy has been abandoned. To see if his twisted face can somehow tell him why his brother would be looking for him. To see if Techno can imagine Tommy’s face on a missing poster.

Everything is conflicted, confusing. Techno hates being confused.

So he goes over the facts. Lists them in his head, then lists them again. Tries to put the pieces together as though analyzing a novel, or a tricky poem.

Techno found the kid sick, lying in the mud while it rained. Techno took him home. Techno laid him down and changed his clothes and tried to figure out how serious it was. Techno decided not to take him to the hospital. Techno listened as the kid cried about being left behind.

It’s a long day of thick silence. A steady drone of sick whimpers, the consistent beating of rain on the window panes.

The quiet means that when Skeppy gets home, Techno knows about it immediately. It’s with a flurry of footsteps and a banging of books and bags.

It’s immediately evident that Skeppy is upset. He marches into the room with his arms crossed, face set in exaggerated exasperation. When he stops, it’s right in front of Technos, hands clenched and eyes practically bulging out of his skull.

Techno raises an eyebrow.

“Ugh— dude, ” Skeppy cries, yells out from gritted teeth. He takes several quick paces around the room before landing back in front of Techno. “Wilbur was at the college today,” he finally gets out, and Techno can feel his heart pause in his chest.

“And?” Techno prompts, even though Skeppy looks as if he’s about to explode anyway.

“I couldn’t, dude, I couldn’t ,” Skeppy whines, a confession all on its own. “He looked awful! And he kept asking everyone if anyone had seen Tommy, and to call him if we did, and—” he brings his hands up to his hair, clenching it. “And I just couldn’t not say anything.”

“You told him.”

“No! No,” Skeppy quickly corrects, pointing a finger at Techno harshly. “I didn’t tell him he was here. I just…told him you knew something about it.”

“Me?” Techno can already feel the uncomfortable pressure starting to weigh on his chest.

“I didn’t know what you wanted me to say!” Skeppy yells in defense. “Look, I told him that you could meet him tonight to talk about it.” The anger must show in Techno’s eyes because Skeppy quickly adds, “He looked terrible, Techno, I couldn’t—dude, we’ve kidnapped his brother!”

The thought of meeting Wilbur is discomforting. Techno’s never met him before, and it’s not as if these are ideal circumstances.

But.

This is Techno’s chance to finally understand what’s happening. To see why Tommy is so sick. To see how he was able to collapse into mud in the first place.

To see why Tommy mourns as though an old cat in an abandoned house, crying out for those who left him behind.

Techno gets to the diner before Wilbur does.

He gets a table and awkwardly waves away the nice waitress that offers water. He’s not planning on staying long. Just long enough to see. Just long enough to understand.

Techno doesn’t wait long for Wilbur.

Like Skeppy, Wilbur enters through the door in a whirlwind. The bell hanging above the door rings out harshly as Wilbur stumbles in.

He looks different than the photos Techno had looked at the night before. The man in front of him is not straight and smiling, with crinkled eyes and styled hair. This Wilbur is askew, shoulders curled in and hair unkempt. There’s a deep, worn wrinkle between his brows as they pinch and furrow. He looks as though he could drop any second, but when his eyes latch onto Techno’s, he trips over himself in his haste to get over.

“Techno?” Wilbur tries before he’s even finished moving.

Techno nods. He tries to hide the grimace that pulls at his jaw.

“Right,” Wilbur breathes, waving a hand around, “sorry to skip—formalities, and such. But Skeppy said you knew something about—about Tommy.” With shaking hands, Wilbur reaches into his coat pocket. He almost drops his phone two different times before finally getting it open. Then the phone is being turned, and Techno is met with the same social media post he saw before.

Multiple photos of a bright, smiling kid. Occasional photos with a smiling man. A caption filled with starved pleads, desperate and vulnerable and all-too raw.

The photos blur with how hard Wilbur’s hand trembles.

“He’s my brother, see,” Wilbur says shakily, gesturing towards the phone as if Techno hadn’t already seen. “And he’s been missing for a few days, so if you know something, that—that would be great. Please.”

The truth sits thick in Techno’s throat. “I…I saw him,” he gets out—a half-truth.

It’s enough to visibly shake Wilbur, who gasps a quivering breath and grips his phone so tightly his knuckles turn white. “Where?” He asks quickly, leaning further into Techno. “Where, when?”

The truth is heavy.

The bags under Wilbur’s eyes are deep, dark.

Dark like the mud that Tommy had been lying in, curled up and trembling. Sick with a fever that surely hadn’t started just then.

“At the park.” The words are jagged, deformed as they drop from Techno’s mouth. “Three days ago.”

Wilbur pants heavily. His fingers fidget nervously with the phone. His eyebrows furrow further, and his lashes flutter as he blinks. “That’s…” His mouth opens, closes. “The park?”

Techno gives a short nod.

“Was he okay? Was anything weird, was there anyone else with him?”

Techno’s shoulders feel as though they carry the world. He manages to shrug them despite the weight. “I didn’t see.”

In front of him, Techno watches as Wilbur seems to take in the situation.

His fingers are restless. His weight shifts from foot to foot, as if his body knows he has to go somewhere but just doesn’t know where.

Doesn’t know where because he doesn’t know where Tommy is. Doesn’t know where because he doesn’t know where to find his brother.

“Okay,” Wilbur eventually breathes, and even that single syllable cracks and breaks over Wilbur’s tongue. “Alright. Thank you. Thank you for letting me know.”

There’s no more decorum after that. In the same mess he entered with, Wilbur turns and leaves. He stumbles over himself as he goes.

Stumbles, as his body fights against itself.

Wilbur’s body knows it has to keep going. It doesn’t know where to go.

His body is restless, shaking and shuffling even though his brother isn’t here.

Like Tommy, eyes flickering beneath closed eyelids.

Looking for threats that aren’t there.

He left. He left me.

A kid abandoned.

A kid waiting to be found.

“Damn it,” Techno mutters, rising from his seat to go after Wilbur.

The rain is coming down in harsh sleets as Techno exits the diner. Still, he can see Wilbur in the distance, huddled under the overhang of a store.

“—shit,” Wilbur is saying as Techno gets closer. “God—”

In one shaking hand, a cigarette. It doesn’t look as though it’s survived the rain—the paper crinkles in its damp state.

In the other shaking hand, a lighter.

It’s a losing game. The paper is too damp to light, and Wilbur can’t hold his hand steady enough to centralize the flame.

“ Shit !” Wilbur hisses as the lighter hand jerks, briefly running the flame over the fingers holding the cigarette. It’s only a second, but it’s enough to make Wilbur drop the cigarette to the ground.

“Shit,” Wilbur mutters, breath heavy as he stands over the fallen cigarette. “ Shit ,” Wilbur whines, and it is wet and cracked and Wilbur falls just as easily as the cigarette did.

He does not fall as silently. When Wilbur falls, it is with a sob, and he leans into himself and gives a frustrated scream.

It is loud and sharp.

Wilbur screams. Thunder booms. The rain comes down so hard that even underneath the overhang, puddles pool around Wilbur’s knees where he falls and kneels as everything pours over.

Guilt passes over Techno’s heart like a swipe of flame from a shaky lighter. The flame is quick. The pain lingers heavily. “Wilbur.”

Wilbur gives another short scream.

“Wilbur—”

“I’ve checked the park!” Wilbur finally cries, gripping his coat with tight fists. “I’ve checked! I’ve checked his school, and his friends’ houses, and every damn building in this whole town! And he’s just not—” His voice breaks off harshly. When Wilbur finally speaks, it is a pitiful whine, as he finally lifts his face to meet Techno’s, “He’s just not there . I can’t find him. I don’t know where to find him.”

There is a sick sort of resemblance present. More than the photos, more than curls and noses and stature.

Wet hair plastered to Wilbur’s forehead, eyes marked with an exhausted shadow. Keens of someone left behind. Sick, trembling, desperate.

It’s enough. It’s enough for Techno.

The truth finally dislodges from his throat. “I know where Tommy is.”

Wilbur blinks up at him from the ground. Blinks like a sickly teenager, uncomprehending, misunderstanding. Blinks as though he hasn’t quite heard. “What?”

“I know where Tommy is,” Techno says again, voice low and careful. “I have him. He was sick. I brought him home.”

For a long moment, Wilbur just stares. Lightning flashes in the distance, and seconds later thunder booms behind it, yet Wilbur doesn’t budge.

Then his face flickers. When he rises, his eyes flash. He steps forward like a dark, oncoming cloud. “What have you done to him?”

The question catches Techno off guard. He hardly has time to take a step back before Wilbur is taking several steps forward, lip curled into a snarl. “What did you do? What the fuck have you been doing with my brother—”

“He was sick,” Techno growls, his own defense rising as a simmering anger against Wilbur. “He was lyin’ in the mud, half-dead. Thought he was a corpse.”

That seems to catch Wilbur. He takes a step back, two, and suddenly the anger trickles away like rainwater, replaced with an overwhelming, overpowering look of guilt. “Take me,” Wilbur demands. “Take me to him.”

Tommy wakes up in an absolute daze.

His vision is blurry, foggy, nondescript shapes and colors melding before his eyes.

It scares Tommy. He tries to move his arms, tries to stand up to figure out what the fuck is going on, but he can’t. His arms are too heavy.

The fear that overtakes Tommy shoots up his throat so fast he almost gags.

He’s scared. “Wil?” Tommy tries, and he’s not even sure the name gets off of his tongue. But Tommy tries, tries to scream it, because he doesn’t know where he is or what’s happening and he is so scared.

“Wil?” Tommy tries again, desperate to make even a single sound, desperate for someone to help, desperate for Wilbur—

“Hey—hey, hey Tommy. Hi.”

And Wilbur comes. Tommy’s vision is blurry, his body unresponsive, but he could recognize Wilbur anywhere, in any conditions. Blurred and bleary, it is certainly Wilbur above him. Tommy recognizes his voice. Tommy recognizes the cool hands soothing his hair off of his forehead.

Then—belatedly, slow and oncoming like dark funeral clouds—Tommy recognizes what it means that Wilbur is here. That Wilbur is here, and he cannot move. He cannot even see.

It’s too much. It’s all too much.

A whine rips out of Tommy’s throat before he can stop it.

It is a pathetic sort of sound—Tommy knows it. The sort of sound that screams just how useless he is, just how much trouble he causes. He wants to stop, wants to stand up and wipe himself off, wants to use every last drop of energy in his body to prove to Wilbur that he can take care of himself but he can’t.

He can’t. Tommy is useless, and a burden, and he whines and whimpers as if to prove it.

Wilbur shifts above him, surely to push him away, to walk away, to leave—

“Oh, Toms. You’re alright, you’re okay. I’ve got you, I’m here. I’m here now.”

Wilbur’s hands—cool, soothing, familiar and comforting—don’t drop Tommy. They grab him instead, shifting him closer and onto Wilbur’s lap.

“Wilbur,” Tommy breathes, his voice breaking as he finally, finally gets his hand to move.

Scared, lost, Tommy’s hand grips onto Wilbur’s shirt as tight as he can. Tight enough that Wilbur can’t shake him off, no matter what. “ Wilbur. ”

“I’m here, I’m here, Tommy. Oh my god. Oh my god, I’m here.” Wilbur’s whole body wraps around him now, which means Tommy can feel as Wilbur’s chest hitches beneath him. “You,” Wilbur begins, and when he laughs it is loud and wet and confusing, “are in so much trouble. Oh my god.”

Trouble. Tommy’s in trouble, he knew it.

Tommy’s not well enough to prove himself. He’s sick enough to beg.

“Please,” Tommy breathes, gripping onto Wilbur’s shirt even tighter. “Don’t leave. Don’t leave, please, please—” The words slur with the fervor that Tommy tries to speak them. “Wil, please—”

“ Never . Never, Tommy,” Wilbur strikes back, but this time it does not hurt. These words are not alight with static, they do not hold the booming fear of flame and ruin and hurt. These words are gentle, calming, like the mist draped over a growing garden. Something to heal, something to nurture. “I searched for you,” Wilbur breathes, and the storm settles and soothes and dissipates from over Tommy’s home and head and heart. “I looked for you. I never stopped, I would never stop. Not until you were home with me.”

The words are a dazed dawning—the sort of pastel haze that blankets the sky in absence of the acid rain.

The words are a soft and subtle painted sky, framing a flat, a life, a pair of brothers, in the light left behind after the storm.

When Wilbur brings Tommy home, there is no argument, no yelling, no threat of flame or fire. There is only care, and music, and gentle promises whispered underneath the hum of a dawning petrichor.