Chapter Text
Tommy is supposed to be dead.
It had only been a beat of a moment since Wilbur’s arm draped over his shoulder, pulling him close with a baring of teeth and the scent of ash clogging up his throat with the exhalation of a cigarette seeping through the cracks of his brother’s smile.
But instead, air startles cold down his throat to expanding lungs, body aching, cracks glowing dull golden where he’d been sealed together, leaving only dried blood and dark bruises as he jerks, eyes opening wide as he sucks down another breath, nails scraping against cold pavement-
And.
It’s wrong.
The wetness that seeps cold and sticky into thick fabric, eyes on the moon high up in the sky above him, round and bright, so different from the glow of the lava in the cell where he’d died, brokenly pleading for his once family, desperate as he clawed up Dream’s arms as the man’s hands wrapped red and bloody around his throat-
He blinks.
The moon doesn’t disappear.
His head tips at the sound of stumbling steps, something numb seeping through him at the masked stranger who halts, hand wrapped tight around the handle of something metallic that levels down against him.
A yellow sweater.
“Don’t move.”
Tommy knows that sweater.
The wings makes less sense, expanding wide and dark blue, feathers torn, dull and ill-taken care of, lacking the sheen of Phil’s that, even after the destruction of L’Manberg, had remained gleaming from the preening Techno nudged their dad into with a rumbling chuff when Tommy had been hiding out in their cabin after escaping exile.
Out of sight, one palm pressed hard over his mouth, muffling the desperate noise that ached to crawl up his throat, something like a whine, his instincts crying desperately for the arms of his former flock, sounder, pack.
Words that had come to mean nothing, their family torn and broken in the aftermath of Wilbur’s death, Tommy all too aware he had no right for the desperate aching want that flooded his chest when Techno would keep out of his reach, eyes wary and guarded, dismissive and baring his tusks when Tommy would get too close, sending him scuttling back with a curl of his tail and flattening of his ears.
“Wilbur,” he breathes the name without understanding, because it doesn’t make sense for his brother to be here, alive, his sweater stained dark red at the shoulder where a palm is pressing hard against the fabric.
The upper portion of his face is hidden behind a mask of a crow, feathers expanding out, lips visible beneath it and twisting into something cruel and bitter.
“Don’t you fucking call me that,” not-Wilbur snaps out at him and Tommy’s chokes on a startled wet laugh because-
At least some things remain familiar, the anger an all too bitter reminder of the dusty walls of Pogtopia.
“Then what,” Tommy pants out, “do you want me to call you?”
Not-Wilbur regards him with brown eyes that flicks periodically up to the top of Tommy’s head, to the round white-tipped raccoon ears, pale blond, his tail a matching thing ringed with brown fur and pinned uncomfortably beneath him.
“You think you’re being funny, huh?” not-Wilbur scoffs, stepping closer, caution in the slow approach which Tommy thinks is entirely undeserved considering the state he’s in. “What did you do?” not-Wilbur demands, the metal levelled between his eyes, and Tommy stares blankly into the dark barrel of it. “You were glowing and now you have those.” The hand is removed from the wound bleeding dark and wet to gesture towards the top of his head.
Tommy is supposed to be dead.
He doesn’t know who this not-Wilbur is, doesn’t know why he’s not in the cell, doesn’t understand the circumstances that has brought him to this very moment, shivering with an ache that burrows bone deep as he slowly rolls himself over, palm pressing into a pool of dark wet blood beneath him which makes him freeze.
He breathes in, out, swallows as he pushes himself into a sitting position, tail curling with a weak flick to press against the side of his leg as he raises his head up.
He meets brown eyes and the press of metal between his eyes, the outstretched arm rippling with tense muscles.
“Look- I don’t fucking know what’s going on,” Tommy huffs, slumping his shoulders, skin crawling, everything too sensitive, and he focuses desperately on the man in front of him. “I don’t know where we are or who you are because Wilbur is dead so you can’t be him but you sound like him, so you can fuck right off.”
Not-Wilbur stands tense and silent, lips pressed thin and white.
“Fuck.” Tommy rubs back of his hand over his eyes, turning his head away from the brown eyes of not-Wilbur and-
Strange buildings tower up in the distance, away from the open space of a dock, boats so very different from the wooden ones he’s used too, gleaming white where they bob in the water, the concrete black beneath him. Metal containers pile up, large warehouses cast in shadows-
The metal is slowly removed from his skin and Tommy flinches, jerking back as not-Wilbur sinks down on his knees in front of him, eyes wide on the man as long elegant fingers frames the feathered mask on his face, removing it in a single smooth motion.
And-
That’s Wilbur’s face, unmistakable, pale with dark shadows beneath his eyes, staring back at him, and it doesn’t make sense-
“You called me Wilbur.”
Tommy swallows. “Yeah, because it’s- it’s your name, dickhead.”
“You haven’t called me Wilbur in years.” The voice is unreadable, tense, and Tommy shrinks back, not sure what to make of the look in the eyes of not-Wilbur.
Because he can’t be his Wilbur. Nothing about the situation makes sense.
He wonders if he’s still dead.
If this is some new sort of personal hell.
“If this is a new game-“ not-Wilbur warns and Tommy sucks a sharp breath, frozen in place as fingers brushes slow and hesitant over the side of his face, pressing down and framing his jaw with surprising softness as a thumb brushes over the golden cracks still glowing dully where the split skin from his death had sealed up.
The other brushes over ears that twitches back, flattening down to avoid the touch, the pain it’s sure to promise-
Only, nothing like that happens, fingers brushing warm and soft over one, and it’s a reminder of old times, such an aching recall to a childhood of curling up in Wilbur’s lap, purring as his brother cooed, his long fingers and blunt nails perfect to reach all the little spots that made his tail thump against the couch.
Pack. Family.
“They’re real.” Bemusement, something lost, not-Wilbur’s eyes unreadable as his face is studied, hand sliding down, his face framed in both palms.
“You look different-“ Hesitation. “Younger.” Not-Wilbur lets out a shuddering breath before abruptly releasing him and Tommy swallows, drawing his arms tight over his chest.
“I could say the same,” he snarks, unsure what to say, what to do, ill-ease curling sharp in his gut.
They sit, two different reflections of the people they were supposed to be to each other, the wind brushing cold over them both.
“I guess it’s okay you call me Wilbur, for now” his not-brother says after a long moment and Tommy hesitates before giving a jerky nod. “I don’t know what you’re playing at, or what’s going on, but I’m taking you in.”
Wilbur’s words are firm.
Tommy doesn’t miss the tremble or the clenching of the other’s jaw when a simple metal bracelet is fumbled out from his coat pocket.
“Don’t fight me,” Wilbur warns and Tommy’s wrist is grabbed, the metal slipped over scarred fingers after only a beat of hesitation, and he stares as it glows before shrinking down, settling tight against his skin.
Wilbur breathes out roughly, something like satisfaction, perhaps relief, in the curl of his smile.
Tommy flinches when a hand pats down on top of his head, giving his hair an uncertain little ruffle that brushes up against his ears.
“Good boy.”
-
Tommy stands with his forehead pressed flat against the cold window, staring out down at the busy streets, more people than he’s even seen in his life crowding together, moving with purpose, the strange metal contraptions that Wilbur had called cars waiting patiently at a red light that had flickered on, barely visible.
It’s easier than looking at those behind him, shoulders drawing towards his ears at the sound of wood breaking, something heavy hitting the ground.
“I don’t care,” Techno’s voice in a ringing thing, rough, familiar in a way that makes his fluffy ears twitch. “He’s done this before, Wilbur! Playing pretend. Lying. That’s what he does.”
“He let me put the bracelet on him!” Wilbur’s voice is tense, defensive, loud in the way it whips sharp through the air in response. “Split would never let himself be put in such a compromising position! Not willingly! And- how fucking else do you explain the ears? The tail!? Because I touched them, Tech, and they’re very much real.”
Silence, leaden and thick.
“I watched him die, Techno. And then he was glowing! And now he looks like that. Look at him, truly fucking look at him, and tell me that he’s the same person we’ve been chasing for years now!” There’s something feverish and desperate creeping into Wilbur’s voice and it makes the hair on the back of Tommy’s neck rise. “He’s acting nothing like, Split, Tech.” Softer, coaxing. “You know I’m right.”
“I don’t care.” Techno’s words shouldn’t surprise him, shouldn’t hurt, because it’s not even his Techno, is it?
Not his Wilbur.
Not his-
“You do care,” Wilbur’s voice is sharp, dangerous and knowing. “He was your little brother just as much as he was mine-“
“Alright, everyone needs to take a step back and a deep breath,” Philza’s voice is the calm in the brewing storm, and Tommy dares to turn his head just enough to peak at the other, at the two whole wings that sit gleaming and proud on his back, feathers impossibly soft looking.
Flock, flock, flock. That’s what he’d been to Philza. Once.
It feels like a lifetime ago when his father would hoist him up, spinning him around with hiccuped laughter, squirming as a raspberry was blown on his belly, small fingers tangling in pale blond hair and brushing over the black feathers that sprouted around the ear holes of the avian with an amused little flaring of them.
But if this Wilbur and Philza share an eerie similarity to his then Techno is an otherly.
Tommy is used to seeing Techno switch between his human form, almost delicate with his fine features and long pink hair, and piglin form, broad with tusks and snout, fur down his arms and legs and hooves clacking with familiarity against the wooden flooring of the cabin.
But this Techno- he looks like something like a mix of them. Floppy ears, jutting tusks, gleaming sharply and circled with gold, his hair long and pulled back into a loose top knot. His muscles are clearly defined in the white shirt, broad, almost as tall as Wilbur, lacking the crown that Tommy had rarely seen him without, golden and gleaming with its rubies and emeralds set in the metal.
His skin is still pink, a short beard outlining his jaw, just an inch thicker on his chin and-
Tommy doesn’t know what to make of him.
So he stares resolutely out the window, arms wrapped around his chest, pretending that he’s fine, that he’s not breaking and fracturing, unable to wrap his head around the situation he’s in because everything is wrongwrongwrong and what the fuck did you do, Dream-
“Split.” That’s new as well, the name they keep calling him, not Tommy, his teeth sinking into his bottom lip before he reluctantly peers towards Wilbur who stands tense, his back ramrod straight, the opposite of Techno who is back to sitting on one of the couches on the open floor, table broken between them.
He blinks, realizing he must have zoned out again, because there’s a teapot on a small folded out table with three cups around it.
Three. Not four.
“What?” he asks warily, eyes flickering between the three of them before swallowing as he turned himself slowly so lean his back flat against the window.
His body is exhausted, a bone deep thing that won’t go away, sleep evading him in the hours he’d spent stuck in a tiny room before Wilbur had brought him out here.
Wherever the hell here was supposed to be.
The covers on the bed had been too much on his skin, everything uncomfortable, a hypersensitivity, as if he’d gone and grown allergic to being alive between dying and waking up.
If he was even awake.
It’s debatable.
“Why don’t you come over here, mate,” Philza says when Wilbur keeps staring at him, lips in a thin line. “We’ve been a bit rude, haven’t we?” It’s coaxing words, Tommy’s ears twitching and tail curling unsurely at the end. “Wilbur said you were a bit confused about things so sit down and we’ll see if we can help you figure out what’s going on.”
He doesn’t want to move.
There’s safety in the distance between them, these familiar strangers.
“I don’t see why we should indulge this very clear lie,” Techno says shortly as Tommy remains in place. “Look at him!” A broad hand gesturing towards him. “I’m supposed to believe he’s suddenly changed because he has a tail and those ridiculous ears?”
“Techno,” Philza warns but-
“I didn’t ask to be here!” the words are snarled out even as his ears flattens tight against his head. “I’m not- I’m not supposed to be here!”
“No,” Techno agrees, eyes crimson, dark and glowering at him. “You aren’t.”
Tommy flinches, shrinking on himself, tail curling around his thigh, nails digging into his arms and a whimper of I’m sorry I’m sorry pack forgive me forgive me gets choked somewhere in the depth of his throat, tasting like acid and ash.
The silence stretches between them and Tommy aches to hide, to disappear, to become nothing where he stands, Dream’s violence painted on his body with golden lines that won’t disappear. A botched attempt at putting him together again.
Techno let’s out a huff.
“Fine, come here.” It’s a half-growl, impatience all too clear, but Tommy takes a jerky step forward at the command before he can catch himself, arms tightening as he falters, shame darkening his cheeks in a flush that crawls spreads warm down his neck.
But he’s moving and he forces one step after the other, feeling rather like he was walking to his own doom, like the decision that had led him foolishly to seek some sort of resolution in the heat of Dream’s cell.
He lingers unsurely before sinking down on the same couch as Techno, at the other end, pressing close enough to the armrest that there’s more than one cushion left between them before drawing his feet up and wrapping his arms around his knees, hiding his mouth against the fabric of the sweats Wilbur had given him.
They’re navy blue and they don’t feel horrible against his skin, too long and pooling awkwardly, the sweater strange with letters he doesn’t recognize the shape of.
“Thank you,” Philza says with a sigh. “Why don’t you take it from the beginning, Wil?”
“I’ve already-“ Wilbur cuts himself off and Tommy doesn’t have to look up to see the look Philza must have levelled towards him, a rough breath and a tense shift of feet that Tommy watches from the corner of his eyes. “I finally managed to corner him and- he we all agreed that we were going to stop him, that we couldn’t continue to allow him to-“
Silence, Wilbur swallowing thickly before he backed to sink down on the other couch opposite them.
There’s a rustle of wings before Philza copies him and Tommy peers up, just enough to watch the navy blue and black feathers side-by-side, black brushing gently over blue in an encouragement to continue.
“I shot him,” Wilbur says bluntly and Tommy- Tommy doesn’t remember seeing any bow or crossbow, just that strange metallic thing his not-brother had clutched with white knuckles. “He died and then he started to glow and he just-“ A helplessly frustrated noise, hand gesturing towards him. “Now there’s him.”
“Split.”
“No,” Wilbur snaps, temper flaring, and Tommy curls tighter on himself. “I mean- it is but last time I checked he’d tested negative for any kind of hybrid blood and- he looks younger and if you’d actually look at him you’d see that the scars are… odd.” Something unsure creeps into Wilbur’s voice. “It’s like it’s him and not. Another version or- I don’t know. This is all Phil’s territory, not mine.”
“Tommy.” He jerks, head snapping up to meet the blue of Philza, his father, and yet not, the clothes different, his wing lacking the patch of torn feathers where they’d spread out in a helpless attempt to protect his son’s body after Wilbur had pushed the button.
Wilbur had enjoyed telling him about it, narrating it in great detail with broad gestures and gleam of mania in his eye, left alone for years in a train that never stops.
Philza’s head tips curiously. “Why don’t you tell me your point of view?”
A part of Tommy bristles because he doesn’t owe them anything. Not after L’Manberg. After Pogtopia. After Doomsday.
Not after dying, alone, left at the hands of his abuser with no one to help him.
His throat is dry, despite the water that he’d chugged desperately from the strange pipe in the bathroom Wilbur had guided him through the use of when Tommy had stared into it with confusion.
His black nails scrape with small tugs of his pants.
“I died,” he forces out grudgingly, anxiousness wiring through him, nails digging harder. “And then I woke up here.”
“And where were you before?” Philza pries.
“… In a cell.”
“I told you-“
“Why?” Wilbur cuts Techno’s bristling anger off and Tommy looks desperately to him because-
Even if it isn’t his Wilbur the familiar steadying look is something he hungers and craves, even in death, smoke wrapping thick around him, desperate to be close to his big brother, changed as he was after too many years alone.
He swallows and-
What is he supposed to say?
His and Dream’s history is a messy one, violent and unhinged, months of starvation and loneliness in exile, doomsday, and then- that final desperate win.
And it hadn’t been enough.
He’d won and it still hadn’t been enough.
Because Wilbur was still gone.
His family was still broken fractures of what it had once been.
And Tommy-
Tommy hardly knows who he is anymore.
Dream might be a bastard but for a long time he had been his only friend, only he hadn’t been a friend, but still there when he was struggling in the aftermath of Wilbur’s death.
And with nowhere to turn he’d sought Dream out, one last botched attempt at making sense of what his life had become, and he’d paid for it.
“Who was he?” Tommy asks instead of answering. “The one I’m- Split, or whatever.”
Looks are exchanged, Techno letting out a rough rumbling noise, Wilbur’s face twisting into something pained, something that makes Tommy want to reach out, the hair on his neck rising as Philza’s mouth draws into a thin line.
Not good then. Tommy’s hands twists in his shirt. Suppose we have that in common.
“What are you going to do with me?” he asks when there’s no answer to be had, tail curling.
-
Out of all answers, Tommy doesn’t expect the one he gets.
You will stay here.
He lies awake in bed, staring up at the ceiling above him, the bags beneath his eyes dark.
-
Not even his own family had wanted him to stay.
-
The world he finds himself in is strange but Tommy finds himself learning more about it, puzzling together things between what it said and not.
Heroes and Villains- it’s an odd thing to consider.
“Are we the Villains in this story?”
“You wanna be a Hero, Tommy?”
Tommy had never wanted to either of those things but whatever Tommy he had replaced- he’d been a Hero once. Part of a family that loved him.
It’s written in the desperate looks Wilbur throws him, his muscles bunching tight, as if preventing himself from reaching out to him.
It’s written in the anger so stark in Techno’s eyes, red and tracking him whenever he dared to enter the communal flooring, the betrayal carving wounds deep.
It’s written in the lingering looks he catches from Philza who is the one to greet him when he finally drags himself out of bed, giving up on any idea of sleep after another nightmare, a cup of tea placed down before him with the perfect amount of sugar and milk.
“Morning,” Tommy offers quietly, drowning in another shirt that cannot be anyone’s but Wilbur’s, the knitted dark blue fabric reminding him of Friend, of Ghostbur.
It hangs low at his collar, scars visible, warning blows and burns from an explosion he’d gotten too close too, a looping scar on the side of his neck that curved to end beneath his ear when Dream had threatened to silence him forever.
The sealed cracks from his death glows dully in a web of gold.
He rubs sweaters paws against his eyes, trying to rid of some of the grit, and there’s a soft noise that makes him peer up.
Philza’s eyes meet his and Tommy can’t place the look, dark wings flaring before settling with a small rustle.
“Good morning, Tommy.” Philza is also the only one who will call him by his name, something Tommy clings to. “Slept well?”
He pulls his feet up on the chair and drops his chin on top of them.
Philza’s face twists with something complicated before his not-dad let’s out a sigh, rising from the table.
“Pancakes alright?” Tommy furrow his brows. “I know there’s cereal-“
Cereal, boxes with little flavourful things inside of them.
The food of this world is decidedly strange, different from the carrots and wheat he grew himself, and he’d thrown up the first time he got his hands on the sweet colourful ones.
“-but it’s Saturday and that means a bit more effort.”
“Oh.” One ear flattens unsurely. “Sure?”
Philza offers him a half-smile, opening the cold box that they referred to as a fridge.
Tommy’s head aches from all the new words around him and he’d nearly had a heart attack the first time he saw the tiny people on what Wilbur called a TV, scrambling back in terror because the fuck.
He’d ended up in his bedroom, refusing to leave for a solid two hours, finally coaxed out by Wilbur who had watched him strangely when he’d reached out instinctively to grasp his sweater only to let his hand fall awkwardly instead.
He still regards it with great suspicion. Nothing about tiny people on a screen is normal and Tommy doesn’t trust it.
He finds himself relaxing as Philza mixes the ingredients, flour and milk and a pinch of salt, eggs added last.
It’s something Philza had made for them when they were younger, before he and Techno had disappeared away on longer and longer adventures, Wilbur and Tommy all alone until they’d finally left the cabin behind as well.
He has no idea of what had become of it. Has no idea if Techno and Philza had ever returned back to see the letter Wilbur had written, heavily splotched and shoved beneath a small pig figuring Techno had carved many years earlier.
“You’re very different from him,” Philza muses and Tommy’s ears flicks up. “Not just in how you look, but you’re…” There’s a pause, whisking paused, black wings folding tighter on his back. “He wasn’t always bad,” he says finally. “He used to be such a bright boy but his powers…”
Powers. Superpowers. Another thing about this world.
In his- magic had been rare. Thought if it was magic or… whatever, he doesn’t know but, it sounds like magic. The things they could do. The tiny people on the television flashing bright and eye-catching.
“Split- he discovered early that he could copy cellular patterns and that he could use it to heal people.”
“That doesn’t sound bad.” It’s hard to resist the curiosity, about this world’s Tommy, this Split that had left his family behind rather than the reverse.
“No,” Philza agrees, glancing over his shoulder with a lingering look before focusing back on the task, the stove turned on with the turn of a dial. “I don’t know if we’ve truly explained what we are but- we were Heroes, once.” Tension creeps into Philza’s shoulders, visible in the way his feathers rustles. “Split- he wasn’t allowed out in the field, something he sulked about, but- his powers were never meant to be used on the offensive.” A breath. “He’d wait at home for us to return, all alone, and-“
Philza straightens his back.
“He was targeted, kidnapped, and when we finally found him, after almost a year, he-“ Pain, guilt – Tommy chokes back a whurr of comfort, ears pinning tight against his skull. “Instead of healing he’d used his powers to split the skin of his kidnapper, tearing him apart in bloody chunks, and he never- he was never the same after that.” It’s said in a rush, the silence heavy before pancake mix is poured into the pan. “We lost him, that’s on us, and we swore to try and bring him home. But after he nearly killed Wilbur we knew that, there was very little of him left.”
“I killed him.” That’s what this Wilbur had said.
Just like his Phil had killed his Wilbur to stop him, this Wilbur had killed this world’s Tommy, and now- now there’s just him.
“I’m sorry,” he says, because what else is there to say.
I’m sorry he didn’t stay.
I’m sorry I’m here.
I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry-
“Thank you,” Philza says, the first pancake served on a plate that’s placed in front of him, and Tommy flinches as a hand brushes over his hair, a soft little ruffle of his blond curls that lingers, warm. “You’re a good kid.”
“You barely know me,” Tommy frowns at him but Philza mere grins as Tommy’s ears perks up when a jar of sweetberry jam is placed down in front of him.
He hasn’t had sweetberry jam in years.
“I think,” Philza offers and Tommy can’t quite place the look in his eyes, “I know you better than you think.”
-
For all that Tommy struggles to come to terms with the new things around him there’s a strange kind of comfort in the routines he fall easily into.
There’s clothes that get left on the end of his bed each morning, most of them Wilbur’s, once a button-up that could only be Techno’s, and then a high-collared black shirt of Philza’s paired with an impossibly soft cardigan that he wears for three days straight before it disappears.
There’s no shoes or socks but the floors are all carpet, the room temperatures always comfortable, and he doesn’t dare question it.
Tommy indulges himself in warm showers each morning and night, a marvel of invention, scrubbing himself down until he can almost pretend his body feels like his own, skin red from the heat.
He still sleeps badly, waking after only a few hours, sometimes even less, heart hammering inside his chest and Dream’s green eyes burned into his mind.
But he’s discovered that, if he shuffles the covers around him into a make-shift nest to curl up inside, he can usually catch a quick nap without feeling like wanting to claw his skin off.
He doesn’t know what to make of the people he live in, and he thinks that, maybe they don’t quite know what to make of him either.
He rubs the sweater paw of the morning sweater, white this time, as he pads into the kitchen, water dripping down his neck from a half-hearted attempts at drying his hair with the towel.
Eats his cereals in silence, spoon clinking against the bowl, rinses it as quietly as he can before slipping it into the machine that would make it clean and nudging it shut.
Pauses in his turn towards the kitchen entrance to whip back around to the fridge door, pinned with papers and photos that Tommy had barely paid any attention to but-
He knows that hair.
He reaches out, brushing the bottom part of a hanging page away to reveal the photo forgotten behind it, grabbing it carefully to pull it off and he stares mutely at the four people in the photo.
Techno, broad-shouldered with a fond curl of his lips in the middle, Philza leaning against him with his arms folded and bucket-hat on his head.
In front of them Wilbur is seated crisscross on a chair, arms wrapped around and chin tucked on top of the head of Tommy only-
It’s not him.
The hair is shorter, curls styled into a deliberate kind of fluffy mess, eyes blue and bright and lips parted in protest, photo taken midturn towards Wilbur who grins wide and proud.
They’re all wearing light blue and black, clothes adjusted for their individual styles, but clearly uniform, and he- Split- he can’t be older than fifteen or sixteen, jacket zipped up and pants tighter than anything Tommy had ever worn in his life, but his face a near exact replica of what Tommy’s had been before L’Manberg.
His eyes flicks to the hand holding the photo, heavily scarred, and then back to Split who looks like he’s never nicked a finger in his life.
There’s no ears, no tail, no black claws, no brown marking around the eyes and-
Envy isn’t an unfamiliar thing, heavy and leaden inside his chest, bitter on his tongue as his mouth twists because how was this fair?
Split- he had a family who loved him and he’d chosen to abandon them and Tommy-
Tommy has no-one. No matter how he’d struggled and clawed for them they’d all left him and it fucking hurts because why hadn’t Tommy been good enough, why hadn’t his-
An arm drapes around his shoulder, pulling him close, and Tommy’s breath hitches, freezing guiltily. “You’re cuter than him, you know?” his not-brother muses, draped over him, wings expanding to fold around them, feathers brushing against his arms, and in their shadow the glow of the cracks in his skin casts light upon the dark blue feathers. “It’s the ears and tails,” Wilbur shares in conspiring whisper into a twitching ear, warm, so fucking warm where Tommy presses against him.
Tommy swallows. “I’m sorry.” His skin, still too sensitive, leaves him hypersensitive to the touch and- how long has it been since his Wilbur had been this close to him? “I didn’t mean to- I was just saw it and-“
“You got curious,” Wilbur finishes for him with a low hum, chin pressing down between Tommy’s ears that flicks nervously, an arm curling around him something that might generously be called a hug, his arms pinned in place, tail twitching. “Naughty little gremlin. You’re lucky I’m the one who caught you and not Techno.”
Tommy shivers, a part of him aching to sink back into the arms around him, to nudge at Wilbur with a whimper of I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry, to beg to get into his good graces but-
This isn’t his Wilbur.
The man reaches out, hand framing Tommy’s, his fingers longer, folding around his, bringing the picture closer.
“We took this after he was first made part of the team.” It’s impossible to read Wilbur’s tone, his face out of view, but Tommy can feel the rise and fall of the man’s chest against his back, calm and steady alongside the beating of his heart. “He was too young to be an official Hero but he begged his way into it, the brat. Got his license and everything to be allowed to use his powers.” A beat. “Baby’s first costume.”
The arm around his chest tightens, chin pressing down against his head, tucking him tighter against the man.
“Don’t go digging into Split, Tommy.” It’s the first time Wilbur has deigned to use his name since his arrival and it sends a shiver down his back. “You won’t like what you find.”
Tommy had always been Wilbur’s. His Tommy. His Toms. His sunshine. His little brother in every way that mattered.
Tommy had sworn to follow Wilbur and he had.
All the way into death.
“Okay,” Tommy gets out, a tremble running through him as Wilbur hums, squeezing him one last time before letting him go, long limbs straightening out.
His brown hair messy from sleep, the collar of a white button-up folded over the same green sweater Tommy had worn just the day before, something that make his chest strangely warm as he looks at this not-stranger.
Wilbur pulls a colourful bag out from one of the top cupboards, snagging a bowl with a low hummed melody that makes Tommy’s heart ache because he recognizes it.
“Are you-“ Tommy cuts himself off, teeth sinking into his lip as Wilbur turns inquisitive eyes towards him. “Can I-“ The words dies in his mouth and Wilbur’s brown eyes watches him carefully as his ears folds flat, tail curling around his leg, frustration bubbling up. “It’s nothi-“
“I’m watching a movie,” Wilbur interrupts him. “Why don’t you join me?”
His ears flattens unsurely because he wants to spend time with Wilbur but the tiny people on the television-
“We can watch something animated,” Wilbur says, as if reading his mind, tucking the bowl under his arm. “It’s- think of it like,“ his brow furrows, “moving drawings, I suppose,” he settles on finally. “There’s a few good ones with music I imagine you’d like, if you're anything like him.”
A hand stretches out towards him and Tommy, Wilbur’s man through and through, reaches back instinctively, feeling warm fingers folding around his with a squeeze.
And- it's not his Wilbur, he knows that.
But he grasps tight, mindful of his claws, and for just a moment he allows himself to pretend.