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Tommy never really knew how it happened.
One day he had woken up and Thomas Simons had been erased from existence, he had disappeared sometime in the middle of the night. His family called him unsociable when he missed a few phone calls, and then he was missing, and then after a while they called him dead. There was a funeral and a memorial, and he had never seen his mother cry so hard.
“Would you like me to wrap that for you?”
Tommy finds himself lurking around the record store a lot, recently. He likes the smell, it’s earthy and woody and just a little bit moldy, like all the other antique corner shops. Vinyl N’ Verse has a homely feel that nothing else can compete with, and it’s Tommy’s favorite place to go when the world feels just a little too big for him. It narrows him down to four walls and stacks of books and a different record playing each day he walks in.
And he likes bugging his favorite cashier, too.
“Ah, no thank you.”
The cashier smiles politely, gently putting a record and two CD’s into a brown paper bag. “Have a good day, then.”
“I’ll try!”
The cashier laughs like he always does, that small, cultivated chuckle that satiates any shopper who’s trying to be funny. Tommy watches the customer walk out of the store, brown paper bag with one record and two CD’s in hand. The tinny bell rings above them as they walk away, and the door shuts with a soft click. It’s a slow day at Vinyl N’ Verse today, and Tommy yawns as he reclines further in one of the three plush loveseats that decorate the floor of the shop. The cashier sighs and drums his fingers on the counter before going over to the record player and switching to another song.
This is Tommy’s favorite part of being invisible, the observing. He can watch absolutely anyone go about their day completely unbothered by him. It used to upset him more, but now he finds some kind of peace in seeing how every single person is different in what they do and what they say. The normal, everyday life is so interesting. Sometimes he wishes he was still a part of it.
Most. Most of the time.
Tommy stays in the record store for the rest of the day. It’s a quiet day, and he goes to the back corner where no one ever really wanders, in between two bookshelves, and takes a nap. Occasionally he’ll wake up to the bell ringing or the record switching out, but for the most part he stays contentedly sleeping.
He only really wakes up when the lights above him go out, and he realizes that if he doesn’t follow the cashier out of the store, he’ll have to stay the whole night, and he’d really prefer to eat some food before that happens. As he stands and stretches, he hears the cashier– Technoblade, Tommy saw his name written on the inside of a book once– laughing, and when Tommy rounds the corner to the front of the store, he sees him on the phone, his face lit up and his eyes bright.
“You’re always welcome at my house, okay?” Technoblade says, slinging a coat over his shoulders and grabbing a weathered bookbag from behind the counter. If Tommy closes his eyes, he can almost pretend that the man is saying it to him instead. Technoblade fishes a ring of keys from his pocket and starts walking towards the door, so Tommy follows him. When the door opens he squeezes through right before Technoblade does, squinting up at the pink and purple bruised sky. “Yeah, just come by after work tomorrow! I get off at five, so- oh! And bring some wine, would you? I’ll make dinner.”
The person on the other line says something to make Technoblade laugh again, his head tucked into his shoulder as he locks the door to the shop and spins the ‘Open’ sign around. “I know, I’m so generous.”
Tommy leans against the wall of the building as Technoblade turns and walks away down the street, his coat flapping behind him and his laughter ringing around the lampposts as he goes.
Maybe Tommy will visit the coffee shop tomorrow. Maybe it’ll be less lonely.
— —
He doesn’t see Technoblade for another two days. It’s funny, because he can’t even see Tommy, but Tommy finds himself wandering past the record store even though it’s out of his way, and he looks for a brown coat and a leather bookbag whenever he’s outside.
He’s at a coffee shop, one he visits frequently because it always smells like fresh espresso grounds and he always manages to steal a hot pastry off of the cooling rack when no one is in the kitchen. He’s sitting on the far end of the counter, next to the trash can, and Technoblade walks through the door, a soft look on his face.
He orders a large coffee with cream and an extra shot of espresso, and he tips the barista three dollars on his four dollar order. He gets his drink and walks over to the sugars and stir-sticks, adding three packets of sweetener and stirring it an obsessive number of times. Then he’s walking again, walking towards Tommy, walking right past him.
Tommy stares as Technoblade passes him with perfect ease, throwing his three empty sugar packets and his coffee stained stir-stick away. He stops there and takes a sip of his coffee, humming when he swallows like it’s the best warm drink he’s had in a while, the perfect cure to the early autumn weather. He’s so close, Tommy could reach out an arm and brush his sleeve or put a hand on his shoulder. He’s right there, and Technoblade can’t see him.
Tommy stays sitting, cross-legged on top of the counter in a practiced silence, and Technoblade walks out of the coffee shop, unaware that anyone was looking at him at all.
— —
There are some perks that come with being invisible. He can’t pass through walls or touch people without them feeling it, (that one was the hardest to come to terms with,) but his clothes are invisible too, and he doesn’t have to pay for food. He can pick things up like normal, and he can go anywhere he wants without any consequences. It was fun, like, really fun, at first. There was no one to tell him what to do, he could sneak into places like movie theatres and museums, he could prank people by whispering in their ear or tapping their shoulder in an empty room, and he could wear whatever he wanted.
It wasn’t so fun when he realized that he couldn’t control it, and no one ever told him how lonely he would be. No one prepared him for this. There was no easy way to realize that he could never be heard or held again. He could never be loved again.
No one loves a ghost.
That being said, he’s having an awful lot of fun following Technobloade this Friday– maybe it’s Saturday– night. He’s in shambles, and Tommy is trying so hard not to laugh. He’s stumbling over his own feet, one sleeve of his coat over his arm and the other twisted around his waist. His bookbag is hanging precariously off of one hand as he tries to detangle himself, and he’s been dropping the three books in his hand every ten feet when he loses his balance. He’s a mess, and Tommy thinks he’s late for something because he keeps checking his watch. He’s been cursing under his breath the whole way, and both of his shoes are untied. Tommy is really, really trying not to laugh.
“Stupid fucking- oh my god-” Technoblade mutters bitterly as he drops the books again, right on cue. One of the books opens, and a messily scrawled paragraph sits on the inside cover, written in big, loopy letters. At the very bottom sits a signature with a deformed drawn heart, and Tommy pauses to lean over it while Technoblade finally wrestles the other jacket sleeve over his other arm.
Enjoy this, kid. Don’t work too hard. Love, Phil.
He can’t read anything else before Technoblade gently picks the book up and blows the dust off of the cover. When Tommy looks at him his coat is readjusted, his bookbag is safely hanging over his shoulder, and his shoes have been tied in a way that tells Tommy they’ll come undone again in about two minutes.
Technoblade sighs, and Tommy stands up straight to face him. They’re almost face to face. He’s never really ventured this close to people before, but something about Technoblade just draws him in like a fly to a glue trap. He’s too delicate to be drawn to flame.
But Technoblade can’t see him, and he never will, so he keeps walking, tucking the books into his bag this time.
Tommy continues to follow him out of pure boredom, keeping his footfalls silent and staying far enough away that Technoblade won’t hear him breathing. He follows him through short alleyways and across streets, flicking a man’s hat off of his head at one point and tripping a running kid at another. Technoblade is walking fast and every couple of minutes his phone will chime and he’ll check his watch.
They’re at a crosswalk when his phone chimes for the fourth time in ten minutes and he finally groans and fumbles it out of his pocket. The lights turn red and the crosswalk sign changes, and Technoblade starts marching across the street with his head down and his eyes on his text messages.
They’re halfway across when a car comes hurtling around the corner, right towards them. If Technoblade keeps walking he’ll be right in line of the car’s path, and his head is still down, look up, idiot!
Tommy’s mouth parts as he stumbles. He can’t just grab Technoblade and yank him back, and he certainly can’t wave down the driver to get him to stop. The car keeps going, Technoblade keeps walking, and Tommy really can’t watch a car accident happen right now, goddamnit Techno, st-
“Stop!”
Technoblade jerks his head up, his eyes beelining to the car and jumping out of the way just as the car barrels past him, horn blaring.
He stopped. He stopped because- because Tommy told him to.
Tommy hasn’t used his voice in a year in a half, used to the easy silence that his invisibility chains him to. No one talks to him, no one knows him, there’s nothing to talk to but the sky and the stars that watch him. His voice is hoarse, and the word was weakly cracked out but loud enough for Technoblade to hear, he’s not supposed to talk, no one is supposed to know.
Technoblade’s head swivels around, his eyes frighteningly wide, and Tommy takes a flinching step backwards. Technoblade’s eyes dart around the empty street before landing right on Tommy.
Technoblade is- he’s looking at him. Like he can see him.
Tommy dares himself to hope, just for a second. He shakes as he stares right back into Technoblade’s scotch brown eyes, and tells himself not to hope. Hoping is pointless, and it’s never gotten him anywhere, and he knows it’s pointless now because even as he raises a useless hand and waves, Technoblade’s eyes slowly move off of him, and they don’t come back.
Technoblade still can’t see him. Tommy is still invisible.
He is still alone.
— —
Tommy knows he’s taken it too far when he finds himself in the middle of Technoblade’s kitchen, watching him make dinner.
He doesn’t really know why, but when Technoblade closed up the store and started walking home, Tommy just- followed him.
It’s always been his number one rule that he can’t enter peoples’ homes. It’s way too easy, and it’s invasive and unmoral and a million other adjectives that reinstates that he should not be here right now.
Maybe it’s because Technoblade made him speak for the first time in a while, or maybe it’s because Tommy feels like nothing bad could ever really reach him by Technoblade’s side, but he had started following him and hadn’t stopped. And now he’s watching the man look up instructions on how to correctly boil pasta.
“Add salt?”
Technoblade whispers to himself, squinting at the tiny words on his phone as the water boils on the stove in front of him. A generic storebought can of red pasta sauce is slowly heating on the other burner, and a half-eaten box of rigatoni pasta noodles sits on the counter. Technoblade had changed into pajamas when he got home, giving Tommy time to look around and map out his apartment. It’s a one bedroom with a tiny kitchen and an even tinier bathroom, a living room with one beaten up sofa and a tattered rug, and three bookshelves that are all filled with different books. It’s nice, and disgustingly Technoblade, and so, so comfortable.
“This is supposed to be easy.”
Tommy laughs silently and sits down on one of the chairs at the counter, putting his chin in his hand and watching Technoblade unceremoniously pour the uncooked pasta into the water.
In the end, the pasta turns out fine and Technoblade goes and eats his successful dinner on his couch, watching something on his phone. Tommy stands and walks around the kitchen a little more, peeking at what he can without touching anything.
He backs up against the counter and sighs quietly, but as soon as his back hits the granite something clatters to the floor. The wooden spoon Technoblade had been using to stir the pasta was sitting on the edge of the counter, right where Tommy bumped into it. And now it’s on the ground.
And now Technoblade is staring at him again
Technoblade narrows his eyes and looks at the spoon, which is laying inconspicuously on the floor in a small puddle of pasta water. Tommy doesn’t breathe.
He’ll know, he knows, he knows that there is something in his house and Tommy will have to leave and his only meek source of comfort will be torn away like every other thing in his life.
But Technoblade doesn’t get up. He doesn’t walk towards Tommy or speak or attempt to clean up the spoon and the pasta water or tell him to leave. He shrugs and goes back to eating and watching his phone.
Tommy breathes.
He should leave.
But when Technoblade gets up and puts his dishes in the sink, he doesn’t walk out of the door. When Technoblade goes into the bathroom and brush his teeth, Tommy sits down on the couch. When Technoblade turns the lights off and closes his bedroom door behind him, Tommy lays down and rests his head on the pillow Technoblade has been leaning against. It smells like the record store and peppermint and Tommy closes his eyes, soaking up the intimacy that Technoblade unknowingly left behind.
He’ll just stay for a little while, and when he’s sure Technoblade is asleep, he’ll open the door and slip outside, and everything will continue like normal.
He’ll stay, just for a bit. He deserves that much.
—- —-
Tommy wakes up to music.
It’s a soft song, and he’s pretty sure he’s heard it before somewhere, and that’s weird because Tommy doesn’t have anything to play music with at his makeshift home. It’s also weird because he hears dishes clattering and he smells something cooking. Tommy doesn’t cook. He opens his eyes.
“Fuck.” He whispers to himself, then clamps his mouth shut as soon as he says it, fear lancing through his chest as he realizes that he is on Technoblade’s couch, he’s still in the apartment.
He fell asleep, he wasn’t supposed to fall asleep.
Fuck.
Luckily, the sound of the microwave beeping covers Tommy’s voice, and when he shoots up and off the couch, Technoblade’s back is turned to him in the kitchen as he pours coffee in a thermos.
This is okay, this is fine, he’ll just slip out when Technoblade goes to work, and he’ll never know.
Technoblade is humming as he grabs his microwaved breakfast sandwich and dumps a socially unacceptable amount of cream in his coffee and tops it off with two heaping spoonfuls of sugar. Tommy tiptoes around the counter, his heart racing for no reason. Technoblade doesn’t know he’s here. He doesn’t know that an invisible teenage boy is sneaking around his apartment like some creep.
He watches Technoblade go through his morning routine, his ribs groaning to accommodate the new, aching feeling that’s growing in his chest. He thinks somewhere, in another life, he could do this too. He could be a part of this, the domesticity and the simpleness. He smiles bitterly at the thought.
He’s too distracted, thinking of his unattainable dream, to realize that Technoblade has set his thermos right in front of Tommy in the middle of the counter. Tommy closes his eyes and stretches his arms out, closing his eyes as his joints pop with the stretch, and knocks Technoblade’s thermos over.
Fuck, this is why he doesn’t break into people’s homes.
The thermos slams onto the counter with a horrifying clang, coffee leaking out of the top and creating a pool of liquid on the previously white counter. One day out of his routine, and he’s already sending himself to the gallows. Technoblade freezes, his mouth open and his voice stuck somewhere in the air, eyes wide.
Tommy stays absolutely still, his limbs locked. Maybe he could just run away.
Technoblade audibly swallows and walks very slowly to the counter. “There’s no way.” He whispers, and his voice is only slightly shaking.
The indescribable urge to say sorry almost doubles Tommy over, and he grinds his teeth together to prevent himself from doing so. He takes a step back as Technoblade takes one forwards.
“Hello?” Technoblade whispers, gently picking the thermos up and setting it upright. “Is anyone there?”
Tommy only stares, dumbfounded.
But Technoblade just keeps talking. “If it’s- if you’re a ghost, then- hello.” Tommy almost laughs, and he allows himself a cautious step forwards. “If- if there is someone there, could you do something else so that I know I’m not losing my mind?”
No. No way. Absolutely not, it’s too risky. He can’t give himself away, he can’t let this one encounter ruin everything.
Ruin what? A small voice asks him in the back of his head. It sounds an awful lot like himself.
As if being controlled, Tommy reaches out and knocks the thermos over again. He jumps back as soon as he does it like the cup had burned him, breathing quickly. Technoblade laughs hysterically, his eyes growing impossible wider and his lips curling into a disbelieving smile.
“No way.” He whispers, picking up the coffee cup with less hesitation this time. “Do it again.”
Tommy bites his lip and shyly reaches his hand out again, tipping the thermos back onto it’s side. Technoblade laughs more surely this time, his eyes wandering around the apartment. The fear is slowly being replaced with adrenaline, and his panic is ebbing. It should be a bad thing, he should be getting the hell out of this apartment, but he wants to keep doing it. He wants to keep being seen. Technoblade isn’t scared or angry, he looks excited, and Tommy suddenly feels like he could do anything.
He walks around the counter and goes to the sink, not even caring if his footsteps are making sound. He stops in front of the sink and firmly pushes the faucet handle up, turning on the water. Technoblade jumps around and stares wildly at the running water, and when Tommy turns the water off, he holds a hand to his forehead and laughs again.
“I have a ghost. Are you a ghost?” He asks, enthusiastic in a way Tommy never thought anybody could be when realizing that you have something unidentifiable in your house.
He shrugs even though Technoblade can’t see him and flicks the water back on. He can be a ghost.
“Y- yes? Is that a yes?” Tommy turns the water back off, and Technoblade scoffs incredulously. “I’m taking that as a yes.” Technoblade hurridely grabs a kitchen towel and wipes up the coffee spill on the counter, picking up the thermos and his breakfast sandwich. “I have to go to work, but- god, I feel like I’m talking to myself- but you can stay here or- can you follow me? Doesn’t matter. I have to go. Uhm- bye.”
And then Technoblade is running like the Devil himself is on his heels, opening the door, speeding through, and shutting it in less than two seconds.
Tommy stands, struck dumb, in the middle of Technoblade’s kitchen, too-sweet coffee on his fingers and the press of something gentle on his heart. He puts his hand over his chest and closes his eyes, smiling just for himself, just for this. He sighs softly, curling his fingers in the fabric of his shirt.
He wasn’t quite seen, but Technoblade’s given him the next best thing.
— —
Tommy doesn’t leave Technoblade’s apartment.
Now that he has a place to stay– with permission, no less– other than the record store, he finds himself sinking into Technoblade’s shitty thrift store sofa and dozing like a lazy housecat for the rest of the day. The windows in the living room face the sun, so Tommy spends a good portion of his time sunbathing in the golden rays on the rug, a smile permanently etched into his face.
Technoblade comes back after work and asks him if he’s still there, and Tommy flicks on the water and Technoblade makes dinner and turns on his TV so Tommy can watch something too. It doesn’t bother him that Technoblade just thinks he’s a ghost. He’s being noticed. The feeling sinks under his skin and grasps his bones, sort of fuzzy in a way that sets his nerves on fire. He’s not being seen, but he has attention, which he hasn’t had in, well- since the incident.
One day turns into two. Two days turn into a week, and soon enough Tommy has been unofficially living with Technoblade as his ghost-roomate for two whole weeks. Sometimes Tommy will follow him to the store and knock books off the shelves for fun, or he’ll skip the song on the record to one he likes. Technoblade just sighs and chuckles each time, not scared, and Tommy’s hope swells a little bit more each day.
“I should really give you a name.” Techno– Tommy has been calling him Techno, his name is too long in his head– ponders one night as he’s eating dinner. Tommy has still been stealing food from the coffee shop and the occasional grocery store, but sometimes during the night he’ll eat food that Techno won’t notice is missing. A bruised apple in the bottom of the fruit bowl, an almost empty box of cereal in the back of the cabinet. It works out. Tommy’s never been so happy.
Tommy rolls his eyes and shoves a pillow off of the couch. He has a name, not that Techno could know that.
“Hey, what was that for?” Techno scoffs as he leans down and picks the pillow up. “I can’t just keep calling you ghost.”Tommy tilts his head, considering. It wouldn’t hurt to tell Techno his name, he thinks. It’s not like he would look Tommy up or know him just from his first name. There are lots of Tommy’s in the world.
No, no it wouldn’t hurt.
He decidedly stands up from the floor and walks over to the hallway, stomping his foot. Techno’s head snaps to him and he frowns, setting his bowl of soup down when Tommy stomps his foot again.
“What?” Technoblade asks, wiping his mouth. Tommy takes two steps down the hall and stomps again, louder. “You want me to follow you?” Tommy stomps twice, and Technoblade gets up and walks towards him.
Tommy walks into the bathroom and stomps until Technoblade walks inside too. Tommy waits until Techno is fully inside the room before he carefully walks around him and gently shuts the door. Techno doesn’t jump.
Sighing quietly, Tommy reaches into the bathtub and turns on the faucet, setting the water as hot as it goes. He pulls the shower valve and quickly pulls away as scalding water shoots out of the showerhead above them.
When he turns around Technoblade is smiling, but he’s got that wide-eyed-curious-almost scared-amazed look that Tommy always rolls his eyes at. He’s such a dork.
And then Techno starts to laugh. He snickers and covers his mouth for a second, and Tommy crosses his arms and stares at him unamusedly. “Are you-” He gasps out between laughs, “are you gonna write me a message in the foggy mirror, like a horror movie?”
Tommy closes his eyes and sighs. Such a dork.
“You will die tonight.” Technoblade whispers in his best horror movie voice– which is not that good– and cracks himself up again. He lowers his voice even further and growls out, “Red rum, red rum.”
Tommy throws his toothbrush at him.
Once Technoblade has stopped laughing and the bathroom is full of steam, successfully fogging up the mirror, Tommy leans against the sink. He carefully bends forwards and drags his finger across the mirror, spelling out his name.
Technoblade watches with rapt attention, squinting as Tommy’s name forms in the reflection.
“Tom- Tommy? That’s your name?” Techno asks, raising an eyebrow. “Huh.” Tommy furrows his eyebrows. “I just- I expected something different.”
Like what? Tommy is a perfectly good name, thank you.
And then Technoblade is laughing again, eyes crinkling. “Jack the possessed boy.”
The next thing that hits Technoblade’s chest is his toothpaste.
— —
As it turns out, telling Technoblade his name did have a consequence.
Tommy’s walking into the living room when he sees Technoblade, curled up on the sofa with his computer in his lap. When Tommy gently taps the side table to tell Technoblade he’s there, the man looks up, and Tommy’s skin starts to crawl when he sees tears catching on Techno’s eyelashes.
Slowly, too slowly, Tehcnoblade turns his computer around to where he thinks Tommy is and shows him the screen.
“Is this you?”
Tommy reads the headline and feels all the blood in his veins turn to ice.
Tragedy Strikes a Small Town When 12 Year Old Thomas Simons Is Pronounced Dead.
Dead. That’s right. Tommy doesn’t exist anymore. He hasn’t for almost two years.
There’s a picture of him under the headline, smiling in between his parents in a family photo. He remembers taking it, because his parents had just gotten home from their three day work trip and they wanted to take him somewhere special. They ended up going to an amusement park, and his mom had asked a stranger to take a picture of the three of them together, unscarred from a cataclysm that was his disappearance. In this photo, his parents hadn’t known what it was like to call the police station every night asking for updates, and they certainly hadn’t known what it was like to stand over an empty casket, a meteor-sized hole where there heart once was.
In this photo, Tommy is alive.
He taps the table again. Technoblade stifles a cry.
“I’m so sorry.” He breathes around his sorrow, and Tommy blinks back tears of his own. “You were so young.”
Technoblade keeps the lamp on in the living room when he goes to bed that night, and Tommy falls asleep with the comfort of his kindness shining beside him.
— —
Tommy has officially become Technoblade’s roommate. He still thinks he’s a ghost, so he doesn’t eat around him, but he goes everywhere with the man. In the morning, Tommy wakes up before Techno and brushes his teeth with a toothbrush he brought from his now-abandoned hideout, eats his breakfast, then turns on the TV and waits for the other to stumble into the kitchen. He goes to work with Techno, goes to the coffee shop, goes on walks with him, and does just about everything else. He sleeps on the couch, and somedays he’ll stay at the apartment and relax in the sun. He and Techno worked out a yes and no question system where Tommy will stomp once for yes and two times for no.
Sometimes Technoblade will come home from work and complain about the customers or his coworkers, and Tommy listens intently, smiling all the while. Some days Tommy will spill Techno’s coffee on purpose or hide his clothes, and Techno will yell at him through the house and come up with outrageous insults that leaves them both laughing. Tommy’s still invisible, but he’s never felt so apparent. It’s like having a friend again.
It’s like having a family again.
Which is maybe why he gets so upset when his peace is theatened so harshly.
“Here, you pick the channel.” Techno says around a mouthful of soggy cornflakes– yuck– and tosses the remote in what he thinks is Tommy’s general direction. Tommy leans over and starts clicking through channels on the TV, trying to find something funny.
It’s Techno’s day off, so they’re both relaxing in the midday sun. Technoblade still has his pajamas on, he’s eating cereal at two in the afternoon, and life has never felt more perfect.
The doorbell rings.
Technoblade never gets visitors. He’s always the one running out and meeting a friend, no one has ever come over to the apartment the whole duration of Tommy’s stay. Needless to say, they’re both confused.
Technoblade frowns and sets his bowl down on the side table, wiping his mouth and uncurling from his position on the sofa. “Who the fuck is knocking on my door on my day off…” He mumbles as he walks to the door, and Tommy frowns with him.
Techno looks through the peephole and gasps, then hurried to unlock and open the door. Tommy stands up slowly, hackles raised.
And then the scariest man Tommy has ever seen walks through the door and into the apartment.
“Hey, what're you doing here?” Technoblade asks, and the smile is so obvious in his voice, and Tommy frowns more aggressively.
The man is fucking massive, well over six foot with hulking muscles that give away a past of hard work and training. A litany of scars cover his arms, his fingers, and some are peppered over his face, like the bridge of his nose and across his cheek. He’s wearing a dumb white t-shirt and a dumb pair of dark blue cargo pants, and there’s what looks like oil or grease stains on the hem of the shirt. He’s got sleek, gossamer bubblegum pink hair that falls just below his shoulder blades and a gold piercing through his eyebrow and another through the left side of his bottom lip.
“I brought you some pastries, Sapnap and Karl had a ton leftover from their charity event, and I already gave some to Phil.” The man says, his voice incredulously gruff and loud.
The name strikes Tommy dumb for a second. Phil, Phil, where has he heard that name before?
“Jesus Christ, there are like- a dozen in here.” Technoblade snorts as the stranger hands him a huge brown paper bag.
The man shrugs, an easy smile gracing him. Tommy hates that it suits him. He hates that the sun flickering off of his piercings looks cool and he hates that his hair looks so soft. He hates him. He doesn’t quite know why yet, but he’ll find a good reason soon enough.
“They always bake more than they need to. I figured you’d want some.”
Technoblade chuckles again and Tommy can hear his smile even with his back turned to him. “Well, I appreciate it, although I don’t really have anyone to share them with.”
Me, Tommy thinks, me, you have me, please look at me, please see me-
“Eh, you can put them out at the record store if they’re too much.” The stranger offers, stuffing his hands in his pockets and holy shit, those are tattoos-
Technoblade sighs contentedly, walking into the kitchen and setting the bag of pastries on the counter. “Are you staying? Do you want a drink or some food?”
It’s like Technoblade completely forgot about him with this stupid guy in their apartment, all of the previous attention that Tommy soaked up like a sponge being swung off of him and onto someone else. For the first time in a while, Tommy feels truly invisible again, like he wasn’t even there to begin with. “Nah, I’m meeting Phil later for coffee.”
Phil, Phil, Phil…
Technoblade smiles. “How is the old man holding up, I haven’t seen him in a bit.”
Enjoy this, kid. Don’t work too hard. Love, Phil.
The book, that’s where Tommy knows the name from. The book had obviously been a gift from Phil, and if he addressed Technoblade as his kid, then-
They must be brothers.
That's dumb, they look nothing alike.
The stranger shrugs and walks further into the apartment, shutting the door behind him. The door clicks and it sounds like a death toll.
“Just about the same, I can barely get him away from his desk.”
Technoblade laughs and rubs his eyes, sighing out loud. “Oh, man, he spends way too much time at that desk. He should’ve known that teaching an AP class would bury him in essays and whatever else he’s making those poor kids do.”
The stranger laughs too and sits down in one of the chairs at the counter, and that’s Tommy’s chair, he always sits in that chair.
“You know he loves the work, he just likes complaining.”
The man nods and grins softly, his lip piercing clinking against his teeth.
Tommy’s been silently fuming in the corner the whole time they’ve been talking, but now he dares to step forwards, teeth gritted.
If Techno wants to forget about him, that’s fine. He’ll make him remember that he’s here.
Tommy confidently walks up to the counter and locks his eyes on an innocent plastic cup that’s sitting on the counter. No amount of coincidence could make that cup fall over on its own. He’s about to scare this stranger right out of this apartment.
He smiles bitterly and carelessly waves a hand at the cup, flicking it over.
It clatters sideways with a loud clunk, and the stranger's eyes immediately snap towards it, and Tommy feels satisfaction curling up in his gut like a feral animal when the man’s expression turns from content to panicked.
“Did that cup just fall over on its own?” He whispers, and Tommy smirks. Technoblade can’t ignore him now.
But Technoblade just laughs nervously and rights the cup, scratching his neck. “The window is open, probably just a- a strong wind.”
The stranger’s eyes don’t move from the cup. “I didn’t feel any wind.”
Technoblade just laughs again, clearing his throat nervously. Why is he avoiding him? It’s like he’s ashamed.
With that new thought in mind, Tommy reaches out and hits the cup as hard as he can. The plastic goes flying and ends up all the way on the carpet on the other side of the room.
Wind can’t do that, take that, idiot.
Techno’s brother leaps to his feet in an instant, the chair almost falling over in his commotion. “What the fuck?”
Technoblade looks panicked, and his head whips around like he’s trying to find Tommy. “Tom-” He murmurs, frustrated, but his head turns back and focuses on his brother, who looks like he’s about to start hyperventilating. “Tech, it’s fine, it’s just-”
Tech?
“Wilbur, your apartment is haunted, that cup just flew across the fucking room.” The stranger breathes.
Tommy’s eyebrows draw in close, his heart skipping a beat. Wilbur?
“It’s just- he just might be upset-”
Oh, Tommy’s a bit more than upset.
“He?” The stranger shouts, breathing heavy and standing defensively, like he’s ready to put Tommy in a headlock and throw him on the floor.
Tommy grins maniacally, grabbing the silverware drawer handle and yanking it open, rattling the silverware inside before slamming it shut. The bang! reverberates through the room, making both of them jump.
“Tommy-” Technoblade says pleadingly, holding his hands out placatingly like Tommy’s a wild animal he’s trying to get in a cage.
“You named it?” The stranger shrieks. “Wilbur, we need to fucking leave, I am not getting murdered in your fucking apartment!”
Why does he keep calling Technoblade Wilbur, why is this stranger ruining everything he’s been building up for weeks, why won’t Technoblade look at me-
“Tommy, stop!” Technoblade yells, jumping when Tommy opens and slams a cabinet door open.
Leave, leave, leave, he has to leave, he’s ruining everything-
He overturns the fruit basket, sending apples rolling onto the floor. He marches to the TV and turns it on, turning the volume all the way up and flicking through channels as fast as he can. He doesn’t even care that they can see the TV remote floating, he just wants him gone.
“Wilbur, what the fuck is happening?!” The man shouts again. Why is he still calling him Wilbur, what’s going on, why won’t he stop, why won’t he leave-
“Techno, he’s just a kid-”
Another plastic cup goes flying. The spoon from Wilbur’s forgotten cereal is thrown onto the hardwood, milk clinging to the edge. Someone screams as a pillow hurtles through the air.
“We have to get out of here!” The stranger, the intruder, says, and Tommy’s vision whites out.
He’s taking Techno, he’s taking him away from Tommy, he can’t do that.
“Enough!” Tommy stops. The second pillow drops from his raised hand. He stops. The red spots in his vision finally recede, and he’s standing over a ruined living room, his chest heaving. He blinks back against stinging eyes and is horrified to feel teardrops collecting there.
When he looks up, Technoblade and– and Wilbur?– are huddled in the corner by the door, pressed tightly against each other.
“Enough, Tommy, please.” Techno, no, Wilbur– but it’s Techno, it’s always been Techno to him– pleads, his trembling hands raised defensively.
Like he thought Tommy might hurt him.
The fight leaves him all at once, and it doesn’t return. His limbs slacken, and his spine curls as he caves in on himself. He looks down and sees spilled milk on the floor, tinted red from the strawberries Wilbur– Techno, no, Wilbur– had cut up and put in the cereal. There are paper napkins littered on the floor, a stray apple is still rolling around by Wilbur’s feet, and the water is still running from the sink faucet. He hadn’t even realized he’d turned it on.
Oh. Oh God. What did he do?
“I- I’m leaving.” Wilbur whispers and fumbles for the doorknob, his skin pale. “I’ll be back.”
And then he’s gone, taking his brother with him, and Tommy is left in the aftermath of a hurricane he caused. He’s standing in the mess of his destruction, and he’s never felt worse.
Maybe the universe, or whatever fucked up higher power that decided to do this to him, did it for a reason. Maybe Tommy really wasn’t meant for this or to be a part of it.
Maybe he never deserved it at all.
— —
It takes an hour to clean everything up.
He starts with the milk and the water first so Wilbur’s hardwood won’t damage, then tackles the things that were thrown on the floor. He organizes the napkins and puts them in a neat stack on the counter, and the pillows return to their separate ends of the sofa. The TV is turned down and turned off, and he places the remote on the side table before taking Wilbur’s mushy cereal to the sink and dumping it out. He washes the bowl and the spoon and dries them, then returns them to their rightful spot in the dish cabinet and the silverware drawer.
The apples are picked up and meticulously positioned in the fruit bowl, and he wipes down the counter for good measure. Once he’s done that it still doesn’t feel like enough, so he finds Wilbur’s cleaning supplies.
He sweeps the floor, scrubs the sink, and throws away expired things in the fridge. In the end he finds pen and paper and writes Wilbur a small apology, carefully setting it on the counter and scribbling a couple small hearts in the corner. It’s not enough, it’ll never be enough to apologize for the extent of what he did, how he acted, but- it’ll have to do.
Then he just- waits.
And waits.
And waits.
Finally, around seven, Wilbur– it’s Wilbur, not Technoblade– walks through the door. He doesn’t say anything as he reads the note on the counter. He smiles when his eyes skim over the terrible handwriting, and the unbearable tightness that had been making a home in his ribs retreats a little. Wilbur walks towards the living room, looking around.
“Did you clean in here?” He asks softly, looking around, like he’s looking for Tommy.
Tommy gently taps his foot once on the ground, loud enough to be heard, but quiet enough to match the tender tension that’s still looping the room in bright red ribbon. He doesn’t want to break this.
He can’t lose this.
Wilbur nods, then sighs. He runs a hand through his hair and slumps onto the sofa, his footsteps weighted with a thousand pounds.
“I’m sorry.” Wilbur says after a few moments, looking utterly defeated.
Tommy’s head snaps up from where he was resting it on his curled up knees, his face hot. Why in the world is Wilbur apologizing to him? Tommy should be the one groveling at his feet, begging for a shred of forgiveness. He acted out, he acted like a child, but here Wilbur is, scooping the blame into his hands and dumping it on his own shoulders.
He taps his foot twice. Wilbur snorts.
“No, really, I- I shouldn’t have yelled.” He whispers, shaking his head. Tommy almost can’t believe it. Wilbur shouldn’t be saying anything, much less a concession. “I think you were just scared.” Wilbur continues, his face scrunching like he’s deciding how to say his next words. “You were just scared. You’re a kid, Tommy, it’s okay to be afraid. I should’ve told you about Technoblade. He can be a lot, sometimes.”
More like fucking terrifying. Seriously, it looks like the guy fights lions.
Tommy unsticks his dry tongue from the roof of his mouth. There’s so much he wants to say, needs to say. He can’t do it just by tapping his foot.
Tommy takes a breath. He decides to be brave, for once.
“You’re Technoblade.” He whispers ever so quietly, lowering his voice to sound more ghost-like.
Wilbur flinches at the sound of Tommy’s voice, but he relaxes after a second. His eyes narrow, and he tilts his head. “What?” When Tommy doesn’t respond, he tries again. “Why would you think that?”
Sighing, Tommy unfurls and stands up, walking to the bookshelf and picking up a book he knows has Technoblade’s name on the inside. He sets it on the floor and flips it open to the inside cover, tapping the words scrawled there.
Property of Technoblade.
Wilbur snorts. He shakes his head and grins, scoffing amusedly. “That’s- okay, I can see how you thought that.” He inhales slowly. “Techno lets me borrow his books sometimes. I never thought that you’d be reading over my shoulder, to be fair.
I wanted to know your name, Tommy doesn’t say. I wanted to know you, so I didn’t lose you. I can’t lose you, I haven’t held something like this in so, so long.
Tommy looks at Wilbur, looks at the person he has grown more attached to than any of his past friends, the person he, for some reason, trusts with all his heart.
Suddenly, out of nowhere, (but maybe it really isn’t out of nowhere, because this has been growing for a year and a half) Tommy almost falls over with the urge to hug Wilbur.
Once the notion is in his head he can’t stop replaying it, what it would be like to rush forward and throw his arms around Wilbur and curl his wretched fingers into the fabric of his shirt and never let go. He imagines Wilbur raising his arms and wrapping them around Tommy so, so carefully, like how you hold a delicate piece of china or a kid. Just a kid.
And once he’s done imagining he just stands there, and the tear that collapses onto his cheek feels like a confession and a curse. He’s cold. He’s so, terribly, sickeningly sick of being cold.
“Well,” Wilbur says decisively, slapping his hands on his knees like he’s a sixty year old father with three kids, “what a night. Talk to you in the morning?”
Tommy’s eyes snap open– when did he close them?– and he trips over himself, abruptly frenzied. He wants to scream, he wants to pull Wilbur back by his arm. Wilbur is walking away from him, decidedly done with the conversation, with the foot taps and the borrowed books and with him, and he’s walking away and Tommy thinks that he’ll never be able to do this again if he doesn’t do it now.
“Wilbur.” He breathes as quietly as he dares, but it sounds like a gunshot. Wilbur stops. He turns around, his shoulders tensed. “Wilbur, please.”
“Uh,” Wilbur says eloquently, mouth parted. “What-”
“I can’t- just stay for a second.” He chokes out, his throat wrapped in bruises of his regrets. “Please, just stay.”
Wilbur’s eyes dilate, but this time it’s not in amazement or excitement. It’s fear. And Tommy’s the cause of it.
Wilbur’s throat bobs. “You’re not- can ghosts talk?”
Tommy shakes his head, screwing his eyes shut as his shoulders capsize towards his bleeding heart and the chill that holds it hostage. “I’m not.”
Wilbur exhales sharply. “You’re not what? Tommy?”
His throat is burning with saltwater and his teeth are a cage. “I’m not a ghost.”
There it is.
There is the thing that will break him. His biggest secret, his greatest condemnation. Tommy is a living bruise, and Wilbur is the sun, and Tommy does not deserve this.
“I’m not just a ghost, I’m-” Tommy sobs. “I’m more than that.” Then just for himself, something that he isn’t supposed to say and doesn’t want Wilbur to hear but he needs to confirm it anyway. “I have to be more than that.”
I have to be more than a shadow, living on the edge of a million different possibilities, he thinks.
He hears Wilbur breathe before he speaks. “What?”
Tommy is standing close to him now, just a few feet away. He opens his eyes and blinks away his tears, shuddering an inhale. And before he can rip himself away and before Wilbur does it himself, Tommy extends a hand and gently rests it on Wilbur’s shoulder.
There’s silence, then there is the sound of Tommy’s heart stitching itself back together in a pool of blood. There’s a wildfire that’s consuming his hand, starting with his fingertips and rushing all the way up to his elbow, and he stumbles over the force of it.
Wilbur is so warm, sweltering compared to Tommy’s frigid and icy veins. It almost bowls him over right there, and his relieved sigh is audible throughout the room.
“What,” Wilbur murmurs, completely bewildered, “the fuck.”
“I’m not a ghost, Wilbur.” Tommy sobs and whines as quietly as he can. Wilbur doesn’t need his tears along with his tangibility. He doesn’t deserve that. “I swear I’m not. Please stay.”
“How- how are you touching me right now?” Wilbur shakes his head, and he slowly starts to move away.
He pulls away, and he starts to rip Tommy’s heart out when he goes. Tommy doesn’t want to tighten his grip, he doesn’t want to frighten him any more, but he’s leaving. He wasn’t supposed to leave. No one ever taught him how to mourn.
“I’m real, I’m here, I’m here, I’ve always been here.” Tommy cries out, and when his hand finally falls away from Wilbur’s shoulder he pulls it back against his chest as if he could keep his ribs from cracking open and splitting him apart completely. As if he could stop the hurt. “Please.” He cries out. “I’m here.”
Tommy closes his eyes. Wilbur was right. He is just a kid. He stays like that for what feels like hours, curled in on himself and clutching his burning hand to his stomach. When his tears drop on his fingers he expects to hear them evaporate, scorched by the leftover heat of Wilbur’s touch.
He expects Wilbur to leave. He expects him to run away and lock the door to his room and tell Tommy to leave. He does not expect the embrace.
Unexpectedly, there are hands on his shoulders, grappling. The hands move from his shoulders to his arms, then to his shoulders again, and then they slide down and envelop the empty space on his back, winding around him and holding him there. They encase him in an indescribable warmth, and when Tommy gasps and keeps on gasping, a head comes down and rests on top of his own, pressing a gentle cheek into his hair.
Wilbur is hugging him.
“You’re really real.” Wilbur whispers into Tommy’s temple, and his warmth makes Tommy shiver from head to toe. His brain short-circuits on him, and he chokes as the wind is knocked out of his lungs and leaves him swaying. “I’ve got you.”
Tommy fractures. Wholly, utterly, completely.
He collapses in jagged fragments, knees buckling and his bones liquidating under his skin. He falls into Wilbur’s chest and crumples to the floor, and when he sinks, Wilbur goes with him this time.
They steadily lower to the floor, entwined in each other so completely that he doesn’t know where he begins and Wilbur ends. Wilbur ends up on his knees with Tommy halfway in his lap, his head pressed against his chest, his ear to his heartbeat.
It pounds in a steady rhythm, a chant of preservation and flawless intimacy.
I’m here, I’m here, I’m here, it says. He can do nothing but listen and pray to God that it’s true.
“I’ve got you.” Wilbur says, and Tommy cries a little bit harder into his sweater. “I promise.”
Tommy believes him.
He doesn’t know how long they stay like that. It could’ve been just mere minutes, or it could’ve been an hour. It could’ve been the whole night. Wilbur sways them back and forth, moving his hand in circles between Tommy’s shoulder blades.
Eventually Wilbur pulls back. Not away, just back. Tommy feels him lift his head and sniffle like he’d been crying too, and he shoves into Wilbur’s warmth a little bit more, trying to drink in as much of it as he can. He doesn’t know how long it’ll last him.
He doesn’t register Wilbur’s undignified gasp that slices through the fog in his head until several moments after, and by then Wilbur is already speaking.
“Tom- Tommy. Look.” Wilbur mutters, his hands moving away from Tommy too. “Tommy, look.”
Tommy, begrudgingly, opens his eyes.
And finds his fingers right in front of his eyes, his nails chipped and his skin fully materialized and real and there, right in front of him.
He pushes away from Wilbur, hope swelling in him so brightly he struggles to breathe around it.
His arms are next, his skin filling with color and veins and blood and bone, and then his black t-shirt, and then his torso, and then his legs with his grey sweatpants, and then his feet and his neck and his head and then and then and then-
And then he’s whole again.
He looks up. He looks up and he looks at Wilbur, and Wilbur looks at him right back, staring directly into Tommy’s eyes. Tommy’s not breathing. He can’t be.
Wilbur looks like his breath has been snared somewhere in his throat as well, and his lips ever so slowly tilt upwards in a smile.
“Your eyes are blue.” He breathes out.
Tommy is visible. He’s there. Wilbur can see him.
His jagged edges smooth themselves out and fit together, so perfectly. His eyes are blue.
“Yeah.” Tommy breathes right back in the space they’ve created in between them.
Wilbur smiles.
“I see you.”
— —
“Are you eating my fucking PopTarts?”
Tommy swallows his mouthful of cherry PopTart. “No.”
Wilbur just sighs and walks into the kitchen, rubbing his eyes and yawning. He’s wearing a sweater that Tommy saw him wear yesterday, his jeans are wrinkled, and he’s wearing two different socks. And his shoes are untied.
“Your shoes are untied.” Tommy says dumbly, PopTart crumbs flying out of his mouth.
Wilbur grimaces. “Please don’t talk with food in your mouth.”
“You’re just jealous because you wanted to eat the PopTart.”
“Actually, yeah, I did want to eat that PopTart,” Wilbur rolls his eyes, walking to the fridge and pulling out a container of yogurt, “but some idiot decided to steal it.”
Tommy sticks his tongue out. “I steal your food all the time.” He grins. “And I don’t even pay for the groceries. It’s a sick deal, the thing we have going right now.”
Wilbur sighs loudly and presses his lips together, shaking his head as he peels the foil back from his yogurt. “Just eat your PopTart.”
Tommy lifts himself up onto the counter, crossing his legs under him as he perches on the granite. He looks at his fingers, his visible fingers, and finds himself staring, just a little.
He’s still not quite used to seeing himself– he still won’t look in the mirror in the bathroom– but it’s not bad. It’s good, actually. It’s really, really good.
It’s been about three months since he told Wilbur, and Wilbur didn’t kick him out or look at him any different. He simply fell asleep with Tommy in the living room, and when Tommy woke up Wilbur brought him a cup of tea and a piece of buttered toast.
Nothing changed, not really.
He’s still Tommy, the invisible boy, and he still loves the record store and Wilbur’s sunspotted apartment and the fact that he can now wake up and have Wilbur look straight at him, not through him.
The door bangs open.
It’s much harsher than it should be, the doorknob slamming and bouncing off the wall. Tommy and Wilbur both shout, and Tommy drops his second PopTart.
“Je- sus!” He yelps, putting a hand over his chest. “Fucking hell, ever heard of knocking?” He yells at Technoblade, who’s just entered the apartment with an overflowing bag of something.
Technoblade kicks the door closed with his foot and squints his eyes, looking around the room. “Where are you?”
Tommy frowns, but then he looks down at himself and sees nothing, and he sighs. He closes his eyes for a second and concentrates, trying to imagine his body gaining tangibility again. He knows he’s done it when Technoblade whispers a quiet ‘Oh.’ and sets the bag down on the counter.
Since Wilbur found out about him, he’s been trying to help Tommy control his ability a little better. He thought that he could never turn invisible again, but then the next day Tommy got a little too excited about a movie he was watching and promptly lost embodiment. He thinks it happens whenever he feels something really strongly, which is terrible for him, because he’s constantly having ‘Big Feelings’ as Wilbur calls them. But now, he can almost do it on command.
“Why’re you sitting on the counter?” Technoblade asks as Wilbur starts rifling through the grocery bag, pulling out a couple things.
Tommy shrugs. “Habit.”
Technoblade looks at him and raises an eyebrow. “You have crumbs on your shirt.”
Tommy’s face grows hot, and he hurriedly swipes away the pastry crumbs off of himself. “Shut up.”
Wilbur ends up pouring a cup of coffee for Technoblade too, who leaves the apartment after giving Wilbur a hug and ruffling his hand through Tommy’s hair. He bats his hand away, but he secretly loves it. He never thought he’d be able to get it.
Wilbur goes to work and Tommy follows him. He stays behind the counter and helps the customers when they’re looking for something, and he hides peoples’ things when they set stuff down.
He’s living. He’s really, truly living.
One night, when it’s dark and Wilbur’s lamp is draping their faces in warm yellow light, Wilbur smiles and leans over like he’s about to tell a secret.
“You know, I kind of knew you were following me.”
Tommy stares at him for two seconds before laughing. “No you did not.”
Wilbur smiles. “I did, I swear I did. Obviously I didn’t know you were you, but-” He falters, trying to organize his thoughts. “You know when you can feel someone staring at you? It was like that. But it wasn’t bad, it was like…protective. Like someone was watching over me.”
Tommy’s grin falls, but his expression doesn’t change. His heart beats a little bit louder. “I was. I always was.” He murmurs.
Wilbur just lays an arm around his shoulders and pulls him in close. “I know.”
“You had a habit of looking at me even though you couldn’t see me. It was weird.” Tommy says after a moment, and Wilbur tilts his head at him.
“Maybe I just knew you were worth looking for.” He mumbles gently, and Tommy ducks his head and smiles to himself. The sentence fills him with more happiness than Wilbur could ever know. “Even if you were stalking me.”
Tommy’s head shoots up, affronted. “I was not stalking you-”
“You followed me into my house and watched me!” Wilbur defends, and Tommy grabs a pillow from behind him and throws it at Wilbur’s big, dumb head.
“I wasn’t stalking, I was observing.”
Wilbur shakes his head firmly. “Nope. That sounds even worse.”
“God, you’re so annoying-”
“Okay, Invisi-Boy.”
“I told you to stop calling me that!”
It ends well.
This ends well, Tommy knows it does.
He knows he’s meant to be a part of it, this time. This time, he’s making his own path, and he has Wilbur right by his side to help him.
It’s perfect. Tommy smiles, and the universe does too.