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Phil doesn’t have many memories from the start of his life.
He only vaguely remembers his youth. His time on the streets comes back in hazed whisps, as if they were dreams. And, if Phil has ever had a family, he can’t recall them.
No, Phil’s memory begins with Tommy.
Something had pulled Phil towards Tommy’s house that day. It’s the one day that Phil can remember in perfect clarity.
It hadn’t made sense—it was a beautiful day. Sun beamed onto dark pavements, warmth seeping through the ground. Just across the street, vendors were selling grilled chicken on sticks, spells boosting the smells to waft down the bustling roads. Magic had been drifting and spinning along people’s heels, light and playful in the crisp autumn air.
What a perfect day, for a cat like Phil. Or, it would have been, if Phil had stayed.
Yet, he didn’t. He couldn’t, maybe—not with the way his whiskers twitched, or the strange tugging at his chest that pulled him forward, forward.
Phil thinks of those warm patches of pavement and lets his ears flick in disappointment. What he wouldn’t give to have those now.
The cold air brushes his whiskers and bites at his nose. At least he’s got thick, blond fur, a natural sort of coat against the frigid elements, but the tiny hand gripping his tail is getting colder by the minute. Tommy is getting colder by the minute. Phil’s got to make this trip to the river fast.
It’s not easy, caring for a toddler on the streets. Sometimes, Phil wonders if running away with him was the wrong choice. Oftentimes, Phil wishes Tommy could have run away with anyone else—someone capable, someone useful, someone human, even. Someone who could lift Tommy up into warm arms. Someone who could hold Tommy’s cold palms in theirs.
But no amount of wishing will make it so. They’re both on the streets, and Phil is the best thing Tommy has got, so Phil flicks his tail and meows for Tommy’s attention.
Tommy’s already got a grip on Phil’s tail—Phil makes sure of it, every time they go out, gods forbid that he lose the kid—and it tightens in attentiveness as Tommy draws his eyes away from a shop’s window.
Phil chirps out a meow—come on, he says with it, come here—and Tommy obediently toddles away from the glass.
It’s a familiar route, to the river. They take it once or twice a day: across the town, into the woods, and through the trees, to the sound of bubbling, rushing water. Phil will lead the way, and Tommy will step and stumble behind him, holding onto his tail with a tight fist.
Phil almost winces as they reach the water today. He dunks a quick paw in. It’s getting colder. The fall is starting to give way into winter, slowly and dragging, but surely.
Phil meows, and Tommy kneels down next to the running water.
Tommy’s only two, so Phil makes sure to grip the back of his coat with his teeth. It’s hard to keep pulling Tommy back—one of Phil’s back legs is fucked up, so he can’t exactly lean on it—but he uses his three good legs to keep holding Tommy back.
Carefully, Tommy leans forward and dunks his mouth towards the water. He tries to lap it up with his tongue, like he’s the cat in this situation, but eventually, his thirst takes over his want of fun, and he finally takes proper sips.
Tommy sniffles when he finally finishes, propping himself upward and shuffling backward. “It’s cold, Phil,” Tommy whines, but he’s giggling slightly. His tiny hands reach out towards Phil, damp fingers clenching and unclenching in the thick of Phil’s fur. “It’s cold!”
The giggles are bittersweet in Phil’s ears.
It’s cold. It’s only getting colder. He’s glad that Tommy can still laugh about it, for now. He’s glad that the cold water is still soothing to Tommy’s throat, rather than frigid and frozen.
Phil mews, pushing his body against Tommy’s to move him further away from the water. Alright, alright, he meows. Away from the water, now.
Phil only lets himself get a few sips before he’s rising back up again. He doesn’t like having his back to Tommy for too long—especially not by the river. It would only take two seconds for Tommy to decide to lie right next to Phil, tumbling into the water and being rushed away. So Phil only takes one second to drink, lapping up as much water as he’s willing to risk.
It’s already late into the evening, but the sun hasn’t gone down, and Tommy still has energy, so Phil lets him play.
He does his best to play too. He skirts along Tommy’s heels and chirps until Tommy chases after him. There are old, dried leaves along the ground, which Phil will obediently bring to Tommy as he makes a small pile of leaves on the ground. Then, he’ll pick up as many as his small arms can carry before throwing them into the air with a squeal. He’s a little too small for it—sometimes, his throw gets too eager, and he’ll tumble to the ground with the motion of his arms. It’s never without a laugh or a giggle. Phil never worries too hard about it. He’ll brush against Tommy’s arms—Up, up, out of the dirt—and Tommy will rise and go back to playing.
They play until the sky goes golden. Phil will hold onto Tommy at the river for one final drink (and slip a sip for himself), before leading Tommy back through the woods.
As expected, a little hand reaches out to grasp at Phil’s tail. He lets it flick playfully, but keeps his eyes forward.
The gold has turned purple by the time Phil and Tommy are back to the cobblestone town. Street lamps have begun to glow a warm yellow. There’s still a few people amongst the streets, chatting with friends in long fur jackets or silk-lined winter caps.
From underneath their gazes, Phil and Tommy walk. They walk until they reach the thin alley between The Singing Spells and Bake-A-Kiss Bakery, where the fireplaces and ovens alongside their walls converge and warm up the alley in the early hours of night.
It’s been a long day of playing for Tommy. He’s just about worn himself out, and he crawls into their large cardboard home with silence, lest for the yawn that escapes him.
Phil climbs in after him. He mews, once, twice, before grasping at a ragged blanket with his teeth and shifting it around Tommy’s frame. Even with his jacket, it’s still not enough to block out the oncoming chill of a new winter—but for now, it’s going to have to be. Until Phil can find him something better. Somewhere better. Someone better.
Phil winces as his back leg presses against the cardboard box. He tries to shift it different, but the pain doesn’t soothe until Tommy reaches out and pulls Phil towards him. Cold fingers tuck into the fur on Phil’s belly. Tommy’s head tucks down lean against Phil’s chest, and Phil wraps as much as he can around Tommy’s ears.
There’s some new dirt on Tommy’s cheeks from playing. Phil leans down and does his best to lick it all off. He cleans off Tommy’s cheeks and along his nose, trailing his eyebrows and eventually pulling at his curls.
Tommy is too sleepy to do anything but sigh into it. The breath seeps into the fur of Phil’s tummy.
“G’night, Phil,” Tommy breathes when Phil finally settles. Tommy isn’t clean, really—still grimy, still a little greasy—but there’s not much else Phil can do. “G’night. G’night, g’night. Love you. Love you, Phil.”
Phil chirps—Goodnight, Tommy —and purrs— I love you, love you, love you too.
Phil purrs and purrs until Tommy finally drifts to sleep. It’s the closest thing he has to a lullaby. And once Tommy drifts, Phil lets his breaths lull him to sleep, too, the best thing he has at all.
Tommy’s parents had been the one to spot Phil first.
The tugging in Phil’s chest had brought him to the outskirts of town, to a dirt driveway and a small wooden house. There had been a man and a woman both in the driveway; both with suitcases, and both with arms bundled with bags and backpacks.
Irate eyes had shot towards Phil as he walked along the driveway’s edge, and he couldn’t do anything but freeze as the woman dropped her bags and marched towards him. In a single moment, she had picked him up by his middle, marching back towards the house. And, in just another moment, he had been thrusted into the arms of a small toddler.
“There, Tommy,” she had huffed, taking a step back to scowl down at the boy. “Now stop crying.”
It only took a few minutes after that for both Tommy’s mother and father to leave the driveway. To leave their little boy behind, alone in a house.
It broke Phil’s heart, in the way only Tommy has ever seemed to. Even through hiccuping tears, Tommy had known to toddle to the door and lock it. It had taken Tommy a long while to leave the door. He had simply sat on the floor and cried, and cried, even as Phil cooed circles around him, eventually lying across his lap and tucking underneath his chin. It’s okay , Phil had tried to purr, tried to tuck from his neck to Tommy’s, I’ve got you. I’ve got you now, it’s alright.
It took Tommy exhausting himself for him to finally stop. His baby blue eyes were wet and droopy. His little nose burned red in upset. Slowly—and with Phil’s pushing encouragement—Tommy had picked himself off of the ground.
He made two stops: one, to the kitchen, grabbing a low box of cheerios and eating a handful, and two, to his bedroom.
The poor baby hadn’t even changed out of his day clothes. He was missing a sock, somewhere. That didn’t seem to bother Tommy as he crawled into bed anyway, collapsing onto his mattress with a weary sigh.
Phil had jumped into bed alongside him. Tommy had no reason to trust him—to like him, even—but the boy had still reached out to pull Phil into his chest. Despite the way Phil’s long fur buried his face and shed along the bed, Tommy hadn’t minded. He had simply sniffled before drifting to a sad sleep.
Phil hadn’t slept. Phil had laid with this boy he’d never met before, and Phil thought about warm patches of pavement, and dancing magics, and the joyful ambiance of a moving crowd. And Phil thought about a lonely home, with a lonely boy, with small, reaching fingers.
Tommy had no one to take care of him.
Well. That had only meant that Phil would have to be the one to take up the mantle.
Phil had taken that oath very seriously. And he still does—he still takes care of Tommy as they both wander the streets, one stumbling along with a bad leg, and the other waddling along in a puffy coat.
The season is slipping on by. Phil knows it, because even though it hasn’t yet snowed, there are plenty of luscious garlands being draped with wisps of magic, and strings of tinsel that float along rooftops as they’re hung with wands. The townsquare bustles with families, shoppers, and tourists alike. The smells drifting from nearby shops and bakeries have turned from pumpkin to apple, all laced with cinnamon and ginger.
The sight of it all laces Phil’s own heart with a sort of dread. This means that the first snow is getting closer and closer. Not that Phil didn’t already feel it, in the flicker of his ears in the mornings, or the ache in his whiskers at night, but now everyone else knows it’s coming too. It makes it more real. Every flash of holly or glimmer of red ribbon drills it in that they’re on the cusp of winter. Phil hates it. He fears it.
“Phil! Phil! The lights, look! Look at the lights!”
But at least someone likes it.
Phil’s tail has been tugged, pulled, and clenched at least six times today, but Phil doesn’t have it in him to chirp in scorn. Not when every time he turns, Tommy’s eyes are just as bright as the lights placed throughout the town.
Tommy loves all of the Snowtide festivities (aside from maybe the new smells from the bakery. Tommy always wakes up with a grumbling stomach, and he whimpers about how he wants some of their treats. Phil swears, one morning, he will sit outside their door and meow and meow until they finally let him in. And once he was in, he’d force them to bag up everything for his hungry boy. If only he could pay. If only he were human. If only he could do more for his boy. If only, if only).
Tommy squeals in shock as he pokes his hand at a prickly garland of pine. He giggles and gasps at the baubles and embellishments that drop from wreaths and low branches of trees. However, none of that joy—none of it—comes close to his love for the lights.
Tommy hardly speaks, standing next to one of the lampposts, strung up in multicolored gleams. Mostly, he just stares, eyes wide as he reaches out tiny hands. His fingers run gently along the bulbs. Occasionally, he reaches out to grab one, simply holding it in his palm for a minute. Then he’ll giggle, and release the bulb before reaching for another one.
The glow illuminates Tommy just the way he deserves to be: in light, in warmth. Tommy fits right in. The shine trails down his nose, cups his face, and sparkles like diamonds in the depths of Tommy’s bright blue eyes. They reflect in each twisted curl of his hair. Tommy cusps the lights in his palms, and it looks as though it’s erupting right from his tiny hands.
He belongs in the lights. Like he could shrink down and nestle right between the bulbs. Or maybe, he just belongs underneath them—not on the cold pavement of the street, but tucked underneath someone’s tall pine tree, the branches tucked over him like a blanket, gifts piled amongst his feet.
There, he would be warm. There, amongst the lights, the only stars he’d be able to see above his head was the one glittering at the top of the tree—sparkling, golden, just like him.
It’s hard to parent, as a cat.
Especially a cat like Phil. He hadn’t had any time to prepare—any time to make plans.
But Tommy had needed him then and there—so Phil had been there.
Phil quickly learned how to jump onto counters and open drawers with his paws. He still couldn’t quite open jars, but biting at their sides usually opened them well-enough (the only problem was Tommy’s “peanut-butter” hands he’d end up getting after handling the jar, promptly handled as Tommy stuck his entire fist in his mouth). Phil was quick to meow if Tommy stepped a little too close to the stairs, and fast to bat at Tommy’s peanut-butter hands if he got a little too wild with the sandwich knife.
They grew into a quick little routine. It wasn’t…good. Phil couldn’t read him any stories. He couldn’t wrap plasters around Tommy’s bumps as he ran into furniture. He couldn’t wash Tommy’s clothes, save dragging them into the tub and batting the hot water on.
It wasn’t good. But it was…better, than what Tommy had before. Tommy never seemed too displeased with the routine. And never did he seem displeased at the end of the night, when he would crawl onto the sofa and reach for the television remote.
Phil would jump up alongside him. With one hand, Tommy would pull Phil into him, hugging him tightly to his body. With the other hand, he’d power on the television, already spelled to his favorite cartoon: Hardcore.
The series followed a legendary adventurer, one who explored the darkest of caves, slayed the most wicked of monsters, and built the grandest of edifices.
At least, Phil thinks that’s what the show is about. It’s hard to tell, when his face is pressed against Tommy’s neck, and when tiny hands keep coming up to rub at Phil’s ears.
The show is also where Phil received his own namesake—Phil. Phil had been confused, the first time Tommy had called for him. Phil! Tommy had called, in the middle of the day. The television hadn’t been on. Phil’s head had tilted, just slightly, but Tommy had only looked at him and smiled. “Phil! Phil!” Tommy had called him, as if Phil the cat was the same Phil on the television screen. The same Phil going out to explore, to learn, to fight.
“Phil…”
Phil, the cat, couldn’t do most of those.
“Phil!”
But right now? Phil was fucking fighting. Phil arches with his fangs bared into a hiss, because like hell is he letting this fucking dog get to Tommy. It’s bigger than him—bigger than Tommy, even, and most importantly. Its fangs are bared, too. His eyes are white and hungry.
Phil fucking earned the slice of ham in Tommy’s small fists. If this mangy mutt thinks he can wrap his rotting teeth around it—wrap his teeth around Tommy—
Phil lets out a low yowl, teetering out into a sharp hiss. Tommy lets out another uncertain whimper from behind him. Tommy’s pressed against the back wall of the alley, but Phil dutifully stands guard in front of him.
This dog will not get to Tommy. Like hell. Like hell.
Despite how much it fucking tries.
The dog lunges forward, and Phil jumps towards it just the same. It’s hard, with his one bad leg, but he’s got three to make good use out of.
It’s a battle of pure fight, desperation, will. Phil doesn’t know up from down—only knows that Tommy is screaming from behind him, and he flexes his claws a little sharper, a little deeper. Teeth slash across Phil’s snout and he howls, the burning of razored flesh burning between his eyes. A paw comes swiping down at Phil’s back leg—it hurts, the fucker, a yowl jumps it’s way out of Phil’s throat. Still—blood oozing down into his nose, making it hard to breathe—Phil scrambles upward and bites his own fangs down, biting at a chunk of chest and sending vicious swipes towards its maw.
It’s with a final low yip and angry growl that the dog turns heel, scampering out of the alley with one last glare.
Phil spits at him for good measure. Take that. Try to mess with his kid.
His kid, who is currently wailing behind him.
His fur is still standing upward in spikes, but Phil does his best to press it down as he turns towards Tommy. Tommy doesn’t need to see the fear in Phil’s slitted eyes, the anger in the puff of his tail, the threat in the draw of his ears. Phil tries to soothe himself to look peaceful, calm. He tries to be what Tommy needs him to be.
“Phil!”
As always, Phil fails. It’s by design.
There’s nothing Phil can do to hide the blood dripping down his face. Nothing he can do to mask the limp of his walk. Nothing he can do to stop the way Tommy cries and cries above him.
“Phil…Phil, Phil, Phil,” Tommy says, over and over again, sad and wobbly and small. “Phil, Phil…”
Sobs wrack his tiny chest. He can hardly breathe, not when his small fingers reach forward and touch at Phil’s snout, feeling for his cut.
Phil jerks his head back. No, he chirps, in both pain and alarm. Tommy’s fingers are covered in blood now. It’s too late to go to the river, tonight—it’s already dark. Tommy will have nowhere to wash up.
Phil’s meowing isn’t enough to stop him. It’s not like Tommy can even understand him. He can’t understand Phil’s trills of Stop, Tommy, stop, as he rubs at Phil’s bloody face with the bottom of his shirt (jerking back had only made Tommy more scared). He can’t understand Phil’s mews of Breathe, breathe, breathe, as he continues to sob and shake around Phil’s body. He can’t understand Phil’s purrs of It’s okay, it’s okay, I’m alright, Tommy, despite how desperately Phil presses his vibrating throat against Tommy’s shoulder.
It takes a long night for Tommy to finally exhaust himself, to finally drift off in the midst of his tears. It takes a long night of failing Tommy again, and again, and again.
Phil hadn’t been prepared.
Tommy’s parents had been gone for two weeks.
Trust them to come home at just the wrong moment.
The bowl had slipped from Tommy’s hand and shattered against the ground.
And just two seconds later, the front door opened.
Phil and Tommy both froze from their spot on the counter. Tommy’s too small to reach the cupboards, but he’s big enough to go from a stool, to the counter, to reach up to the cupboards.
He’s not big enough to keep a good grasp. So they had both learned.
Learned with not enough time left.
A bowl was shattered.
Tommy’s parents were walking into the kitchen.
Hatred had immediately begun to boil in the depths of Phil’s chest. How dare they just walk through the door like normal? How dare they come back at all?
The anger within Phil had been expected.
The stunned fear from Tommy had not been.
Maybe it should have been. Maybe Phil should have paid more attention.
Maybe he should have been more prepared.
Tommy’s father walked through the door and froze. His eyes, before they ever landed on his son, flickered to porcelain mess on the ground.
His eyes lit up. The fur on Phil’s back rose.
“Tommy,” the man scowled, and the tone drew Phil’s ears back. “I cannot believe—”
The man slammed his bags to the table. Tommy jumped at the sound. He almost teetered off his place at the counter. His father didn’t even seem to notice.
“—is irresponsible of you, Tommy! You little—”
The man took a single step forward.
It was heavy. It was determined.
Not as determined as Phil.
In a single moment, Phil had pounced. He leapt off of the counter, claws unsheathed and fangs bared. It only took a single yowling second to land on his target. His teeth pierced through skin. His claws sliced through fabric, as he growled and scrambled and fought—
“—goddamn—cat!”
Large hands gripped Phil tightly by his neck. His bite was rendered useless, but still, he kicked and thrashed his angry nails—
Through his fight, Phil hadn’t heard the front door open. But there was no choice but to finally notice when Phil was thrown to the ground outside. He hit the hard pavement with a bam, and with a spit of pain as his leg folded unnaturally underneath him.
Phil was outside. And Tommy—his poor, small, Tommy—was stuck in. Where Phil couldn’t reach him.
Phil had trilled and yowled in pain, yearning, desperation. That was his boy, inside. That was his boy.
The door had never reopened.
But Phil couldn’t have given up. Not without his Tommy. So Phil had begun to make a plan.
He could hardly walk straight. He wasn’t used to only having three good legs—he limped more than he ran, threw himself more than he jumped, but it would all have to do.
Just as it still has to do now. More than ever, because Phil…
Phil blinks with a cringe as a small speck of white flies into his eyes.
The sky flutters with tiny parcels of crystal and cold.
Snow. It’s snowing.
The town is bustling with excitement. Crowds of children run into the streets with a scream, palms risen towards the sky. Bards and performers alike hum and sing, the magic dripping within the carols warm as they brush the ears of those who hear. The rush of feet is more busy than ever, the market square alive with shoppers.
It’s all so…loud. Disorienting.
Phil’s been feeling…woozy. Just—just because of the traffic, he knows it. That has to be it. The confusion is because of all the bustle, and the nauseous swirling of his stomach is surely because of the concoction of smells twirling down the streets.
With a pit in his stomach, Phil tries to tough through it all. He has no choice. Not with Tommy here.
Stumbling on three legs, Phil takes Tommy on his walk through town.
It takes two tugs on Phil’s tail for him to stop. It’s just—well, he didn’t really notice the first one. His mind…well, the cold is making him feel a bit fuzzy…
Phil slows to a stop as Tommy plays with a string of lights.
It’s cold. Tommy must be cold—he hasn’t got any gloves. He doesn’t have a scarf, either. His nose is red. Red as the ribbons strung along town. Red as the light in his hand.
Phil will have to…Phil has to—
“Phil?”
Phil’s whisker twitches. Mind just a little clearer at the call, he realizes that Tommy is looking expectantly down at him. His hand is wrapped around his tail once more.
“Let’s go,” Tommy calls. “Let’s go, let’s go, Phil. I wanna see more!”
Right. Right, right. He’s got to keep on top of it. He’s got to pay attention.
Except for paying attention gets harder and harder. Phil’s head hurts. The recent scar above his nose stings in the frigid wind. Snowflakes keep falling into Phil’s eyes.
It’s why it takes a long while for Phil to finally realize there are two men staring at them.
Phil’s eyes focus across the street and freeze. A striking moment of clarity cracks into his frozen skull.
One of the men looks younger. He’s got round eyes and even rounder spectacles, framed and draped by brunette curls. He’s got a wand in his fidgeting hands, though it’s not being used. It twists loosely in his fingers as he leans into his compatriot with a quick whisper.
The other man looks older. Not old, but any sort of youthfulness to his eyes has gone to something much more solemn, thoughtful. The man is big and bearded, scars splitting his brow and nicking underneath one of his eyes. Teeth bump from over the man’s upper-lip— tusks, Phil realizes, because they’re large and rounded into a point.
The younger man seems almost frantic. He huddles into his companion’s side and whispers over and over again, while the other man just…stares. Stares down at Tommy and Phil.
The fur along Phil’s neck begins to rise.
Fuck. Who knows how long they’ve been observing Tommy—who knows why they’ve been observing him. It’s a complete toss-up on whether they’re worried about a young toddler with no mittens, or if they’re looking for an easy target, and Phil doesn’t like it.
It’s unnerving. It’s uncertain.
Shivering slightly, Phil meows, trills, chirps. Come on, he says, Come on, Tommy. Let’s go.
Phil begins to walk the moment Tommy’s frozen fingers wrap around his tail.
Phil feels bad cutting Tommy’s walk short, but he’s…gods, he’s weak. It almost burns him to admit, but Phil can’t cut corners around the truth. Not when it comes to Tommy’s wellbeing.
He couldn’t fend off two different people if they wanted to do wrong by Tommy. So Phil won’t even risk it. He walks until they’re back to their alley, and he meows and trills until Tommy has curled up into their box.
“I’m not tired,” Tommy complains into Phil’s fur, but Phil isn’t having it. He simply purrs in apology and licks the tangles out of Tommy’s curls.
It’s silent long enough that Phil finally starts to give into the haze of sleep.
Then, “It’s cold, Phil.”
It is. It is cold.
Phil prays his own fever is enough to keep Tommy warm through the night.
The day he and Tommy left comes back to Phil in both his dreams and nightmares.
Tommy’s parents had left again that night. Phil had heard them shuffle through the door, from where he had hid against the side of the house.
Phil had waited seventeen minutes. Seventeen minutes until he finally risked moving towards Tommy’s open window.
It was getting a bit too cold to keep Tommy’s window open at night. Phil had never found a way to close it. Tommy’s parents hadn’t cared enough to.
They were pieces of shit for it, but for once, Phil was grateful.
It took him three tries to finally jump correctly. His back leg kept failing him. Finally, though, he managed to catch the windowsill, scrambling to pull himself through.
With a bit of tumble, Phil had landed on Tommy’s bed. The soft thump had alerted Tommy, who turned wet, sad eyes towards Phil—eyes that immediately widened in shock.
“Phil!” Tommy had whispered, before his face slowly drooped. “Phil,” he had whispered again, but this time accompanied with a soft cry as he took Phil into his arms.
Phil let himself be pulled forward. Gently, he rubbed his forehead against Tommy’s dark cheek.
The youthful red of Tommy’s cheek was no longer. It smidged with hues of purple, yellow.
Phil could have killed someone. He considered it—considered climbing right back through that window on his three good legs and hunting Tommy’s parents down, but…
Tommy sniffled into Phil’s fur.
Tommy had needed him. And Phil had to get him out of there.
And Phil had. He’d carefully shifted out of Tommy’s grasp and meowed by the closet until Tommy had grabbed his jacket.
Then the two of them had left. Away from the empty home and harsh hands. Out, together, into the open streets.
“It’s cold, Phil.”
Sometimes, together, into the wooded forest.
Tommy whines from his spot at the river. He’s shivering. His fingers are wet from where he dipped them into the rushing waters.
Phil stumbles slightly from his spot beside Tommy. Tommy says something else, but Phil just meows, unrelenting.
Tommy has to drink. He needs water—even if it’s cold water. Even if it’ll ache against his baby teeth and freeze on the way down his throat. He needs it. He needs…and Phil just…
Tommy seems uncertain, but in the end, thirst wins out over comfort.
Phil fumbles to bite into the edge of Tommy’s coat. His jaw hardly tightens over the fabric. Phil’s legs shake in effort. Gods, his back leg hurts. It takes every ounce of strength that Phil still has in him, but—
But it’s not enough. Not now. Not ever, because Tommy slips.
Phil’s too sick to do anything but topple in after him.
Any sort of fuzz in his brain immediately dissipates as his head dunks underneath the freezing water. Adrenaline shoots through his frigid blood as the reality shatters over his head like ice.
Fuck. Fuck, fuck, Tommy—
Phil manages to get his head above the rushing water as he slips and tumbles down the river bed. Tommy just happens to be up too—he screams, loud and panicked, and Phil tries to swim closer but his leg hits a rock and he spins out, back under the water.
Phil can’t tell which way is up. His whiskers are twisted and the water keeps rushing, rushing, rushing around him, and he can hear Tommy screaming from above the water, and Tommy, Tommy, Tommy—
The screaming becomes crystal clear as Phil’s head emerges from the waters once more. Then, his whole body.
Tommy? Phil mews, thrashing his legs. Tommy, Tommy, Tommy—
“He’s okay,” a deep voice rumbles from above. Phil blinks, and it’s the first time his new situation clicks in his mind. Thick hands are wrapped around his soggy, shivering middle.
Fuck, Phil can hardly see. His vision is blurred with cold river water, with tears, with sickness. The figures in front of him are blurry—there’s a tall, lean figure, arms wrapped around a smaller, screaming figure.
Phil can’t see him—not really—but damnit, he would recognize Tommy anywhere. Tommy, his Tommy, they’ve got his Tommy—
“He’s fine,” the man holding him rumbles again as Phil meows. “We’ve got him. We’ve got you both. He’s fine…”
Phil tries as hard as he can to get to Tommy. He makes a weak attempt at thrashing, kicking his paws as though he’s still swimming, blinking to clear up his vision, but nothing works. And Phil—failing, failing, failing—can do nothing but sag as his vision slowly fades to black.
Phil’s senses come back slowly.
The smell is…unfamiliar. It is no longer the crisp of winter, nor the sharp of cinnamon. There’s far more earthy tones—the prick of pine and the burn of firewood.
Then Phil can hear it—the burning firewood. It crackles and dances from…somewhere.
It must be why Phil feels so warm. Any residual, aching chill has been thoroughly seeped from his bones. He feels like a puddle. A warm, cushioned puddle.
Not for a second does Phil enjoy it.
His eyes are still bleary, but he fights to open them. Tommy? He calls, even though the meow is hardly louder than a breath. Panicked, Phil tries again. Tommy? Tommy?
“Hey. He’s fine. Don’t work yourself up again.”
Phil flinches at the low, rumbling tone. He flinches again as a large hand lies gently on his flank. He pulls his lips back into a hiss.
“See, you’re doin’ it. You’re workin’ yourself up. You’re fine. I just want to make sure you don’t hurt yourself more.”
Fuck if Phil hurts himself. What about Tommy? Where is he? Tommy? Tommy?
“Yeah, yeah,” the man murmurs with a sigh. With a grunt, he shifts in his seat, towards a tall wooden door. “Wil?”
There’s a light sound of scuffling from behind the wood. When the dark oak finally shifts open, a young man peeks his head through—the same young man from the market square. “Oh!” He exclaims quietly, looking down at Phil. “He’s awake! Good, good, that’s—Tommy! Come here, bub!”
Tommy.
Phil is almost too scared to move. Too scared to do hope as the door shifts open, and the young gentleman moves away, and—
And there he is. His little Tommy.
For the first time in ages, he’s not wearing his ragged shirt or thick jacket. He’s got on a tiny sweater (yet still a bit big for him), his corduroy trousers dragging a bit by his socked feet.
Tommy! Phil mews, eager for Tommy to come to him. Gods, he had been so worried, but here he is, dressed and warm, and—
“Phil!” Tommy calls with a happy smile, stumbling over uncoordinated feet until he reaches Phil’s side by the sofa. Immediately, Phil is tugged into tiny arms.
Tommy no longer smells like dirt, or the street. He smells faintly of clementines and chocolates, of cinnamon bread and warm lemon tea.
“Phil,” Tommy says again happily, squeezing the cat tighter in his arms.
“Alright. Ease up, kid,” the tusked-man rumbles. “Wilbur, you want to come over?”
“Right,” the tall man says—Wilbur, as he comes over to the call. As Tommy takes a step back, Wilbur takes his place, kneeling down to face Phil on the sofa. “Hello,” he says with a smile. “I’m Wilbur—this is Techno, my familiar.” He waves at his larger companion. “It’s nice to have met you. Or, well—maybe not. You were rather drowning when we found you.”
Phil lets an ear slowly flick backward. Techno seems to notice, grunting. “Wil.”
Wilbur clears his throat. “Right. Sorry. Anyhow. You were proper fucked, though. We’ve given you some medicine while you were resting, which should have helped the sickness, but your leg…” Wilbur winces. “Well, you must have been walking on it for quite a while.” With a sheepish grin, he holds up a small jar of paste. “I’ve been working on this, though. I’m an apothecary, see, so I make all sorts of—potions and pastes. So, if you don’t mind, I’ll just—”
A small wooden spoon is used to scoop out a bit of the paste. Wilbur leans forward, the spoon brushing at Phil’s leg. Instinctually, Phil flinches back, his muscles rippling with pain.
“Phil,” Tommy calls, voice wobbly as Phil’s ears flick back.
“He’s alright,” Techno rumbles. “It’s just medicine.” Then, Phil watches as Techno picks Tommy right up. He places Tommy on his knee, close enough that he can still see what’s happening to Phil, but…tucked away. Tommy leans against Techno’s chest with a worried huff.
The…surprise of it all, maybe, distracts Phil from any pain at all. He doesn’t want to worry Tommy with flinches, or painful keens. Not when he looks…safe. Warm. Right…right where he belongs. In the arms of someone who can actually help him.
Wilbur continues to rub the salve over Phil’s fur until it slathers over his entire leg. With nimble fingers, he reaches into a jar of dried herbs, taking a pinch and sprinkling it over the sea of salvent. “Alright,” Wilbur finally says, bringing out a roll of bandages. “We’ve got to make sure your leg is wrapped tight. You really shouldn’t be using it. This might, uh…” Wilbur falters as his eyes flicker to Tommy.
Techno seems to pick up some sort of clue. He gently lifts Tommy from his knee, placing him onto the floor. “I’ve got it, Wilbur. Say goodbye to Phil, Tommy.”
“You’re sure?” Wilbur asks with a frown, in the same moment that Tommy whines, “Why?”
“I’m sure,” Techno rumbles, before turning to Tommy. “He’s got to rest. Like before. Say goodnight.”
With a pout of his lips and a little huff, Tommy turns to Phil once more, taking him in his arms. “Goodnight, Phil,” Tommy mumbles, rubbing his cheek along Phil’s own.
Phil still isn’t certain about all of this—he doesn’t even know where they are, and he certainly doesn’t know about these people—but he dutifully rubs his whiskered cheeks along Tommy’s in a soothing motion. Tommy doesn’t need to know if Phil is on guard.
Except for then, Wilbur and Tommy leave the room, and the large oak door is shut behind them.
Anxiety immediately begins tugging at Phil’s heart as he remembers again: he doesn’t know where they are. He doesn’t know who these people are. He hasn’t been away from Tommy in a long, long time, they don’t know how to take care of him. Fuck it, Phil’s got to get up, he’s got to get out there—
“Hey.”
The low tone snaps Phil’s focus forward.
Techno stares down at him, eyes low in contemplation. He’s got the bandages held in one hand. “It might hurt,” Techno rumbles. “That’s what Wilbur was goin’ to say. But you need it.”
Phil’s ear flicks. He keeps one ear pointed towards Techno. The other faces sideways, towards the door, trying to hear Tommy and Wilbur through it.
Techno seems to notice the motion of Phil’s ear. He stares for another moment, before silently opening the door.
It’s much easier to hear Tommy like this. He sounds…happy. He babbles and rambles on about nothing, and he can hear Wilbur’s occasional responses of “Wow,” and, “Really?” He can hear the crackle of a low burning fireplace, and the sound of pots and bowls being clinked around in a presumed kitchen.
“Is that better?”
Phil looks back to Techno.
There’s a moment of weighted, warm silence. Then Techno steps closer once more.
“I’ve got to do the bandages now.”
Phil holds back some low croons and quick spits as Techno’s fingers maneuver Phil’s bad leg. It’s not as bad as it had felt earlier, though—the paste must already be doing something.
Finally, leg bandaged-up, Techno leans back. He wipes swipes of paste onto the apron tied around his waist, bits that had stuck to his finger as he had worked around Phil’s leg.
“It’s…better,” Techno says. “You shouldn’t have been walking on it. It’s done a lot of damage.”
Yeah, right. I didn’t have a choice, Phil thinks bitterly, but he doesn’t meow in response, despite the way Techno is silent. He seems to be waiting for some sort of response.
Without one, Techno rises. He brings over a chair from the corner of the room—this seems to be some sort of study. There’s a large mahogany desk, and books line the walls and pile against the floor.
With a grunt, Techno sits in the chair, now seated across from Phil. “I don’t know if it’ll go back to normal. Might be too late for that. We’ll have to get you a cane, if it still ends up giving you issues.”
Phil can’t help the way his whiskers twitch. A cane? What is this man talking about?
Techno is…odd. Strange, because he once again pauses, as if giving Phil room to speak. He doesn’t. He can’t. For just a moment, Phil begins to wonder if he and Tommy have ended up in the house of someone insane. Or, if not insane, then at least…odd. Peculiar.
Then Techno leans back. “I’ve never seen a familiar with someone so young. Is it just you and Tommy?”
Now that is fucking odd. Phil shakes his head quickly, letting the twitch of his whiskers out. A familiar?
“No? There’s more of you?”
Phil shakes his head again, his ears tilting back.
“It’s just you and Tommy.”
Yes, but that’s not what Phil meant. Frustrated, he narrows his eyes, staring up at Techno and hoping he understands.
Techno stares for a long moment. Then, he raises a dry eyebrow. “What are you all upset about, huh? You’re starin’ at me funny.”
Phil’s tail flicks back and forth. He finally lets out a meow, a two-croaked thing that sounds vaguely like, mil-ar . Familiar, Phil tries to say, familiar, familiar.
Both of Techno’s brows raise now. “That’s what’s got you tangled up? I called you a familiar?”
Yes, for gods’ sake. Finally. It took Techno long enough. Satisfied, Phil lets himself vaguely settle, keeping his eyes still pinned to Techno’s gaze.
Techno shifts in his seat. “You understand what I’m sayin’ to you?”
Of course Phil does. He gives a short nod, a little offended.
“And you know what’s goin’ on? What’s been happenin’ with Tommy, what we did to help your leg?”
It’d be hard not to know. Phil nods again, eyes narrowed.
“Great. You’re not a cat.”
Phil hardly has time to bristle before Techno is continuing.
“I can sense the magic in you. A normal cat wouldn’t have been able to do what you do.” At that, Techno almost looks…sad. Back to contemplative, again. “You’ve been looking after Tommy on your own. Tommy told us.”
This…isn’t making any fucking sense. Phil is just…a cat. A cat doing his damn best, that’s for sure, but a familiar? He’s not like Techno, with his two hands, and his human legs. Phil had wished and wished he was, but that’s…it’s not…
Techno’s sigh is small, low. “You felt drawn to Tommy, didn’t you? He didn’t find you. You found him. Without ever having known him before.”
It’s true. But how would Techno know? Why is he speaking like he understands?
“That’s how it was with me and Wilbur,” Techno rumbles. “Like you just can’t walk the other way.”
Phil can’t do anything but blink. His heart is starting to thump in his chest. A familiar. A familiar…but then, Phil can’t be. He can’t. Because that would mean…
“Give shifting another day or two. Your leg isn’t well enough for it.”
That would mean Phil could have been “human” all along. That would mean that Phil had the ability to actually help —to hold Tommy in real arms, to carry him, to soothe him, to feed him—and Phil just. Didn’t.
Phil imagines a tiny palm in his. He imagines Tommy curled into a tall, warm frame. He imagines his hands catching Tommy’s middle before he could ever fall into the rushing river.
Phil didn’t. Phil is a familiar, and most of all, he is a failure like never before.
Oh, I’m shifting right fucking now, Phil mews angrily, but Techno only gives him a dry look.
“Later,” Techno says lowly, sternly. “You’re still sick.”
In the rush of…news, Phil had almost managed to forget. He doesn’t feel as bad as before—it’s manageable, he knows it, the weird stuffing between his ears and the way his limbs feel weighted and heavy—he’s certain he could shift and be just fine. Even if he’s never done it before.
But there’s a small cry of, “Phil!” before Tommy is toddling into the room again.
“Leave him,” Techno rumbles as Tommy begins to pick Phil up. “He’s still tired, Tommy.”
I’m not, Phil meows defiantly, but Tommy is already dropping him back to the cushion.
“Okay,” Tommy says simply, and then he’s climbing his way onto the sofa. Techno makes a single grunt in concern, but this is a move they’ve both practiced again and again. Tommy curls around Phil’s front, his hands reaching out to bury itself into Phil’s fur, even though his hands are surely warm enough in the house.
Phil isn’t in the practice to reject Tommy. He wants to keep hissing at Techno, wants to meow and demand that Techno teach him to shift right now, but…
Well. If his boy is sleeping.
Phil lets his tail lazily flick and drape over Tommy’s middle. A low purr kicks up from his throat. The sound of it makes Tommy sigh, a small, sleepy thing.
Maybe it’s the sickness. Maybe it’s the soft huffs of breath from Tommy above him.
There’s a lot to do—a lot to worry about—but the weight on Phil’s bones reaches out to his eyelids, and he sleeps alongside his Tommy.
It takes two days before Techno finally brings up shifting again.
Phil had been pissed. He swatted at Techno’s hands angrily and prowled circles around Wilbur’s feet—when Tommy was napping, anyway.
When Tommy was awake, Phil tried to keep it civil. Because, for as much as they were withholding shifting from Phil, they were…
Nice. They were nice to Tommy. Phil watched as Wilbur would peel a small clementine, parting the slices and popping them into Tommy’s hands. Phil watched as Techno would bring a wet washcloth, wiping away the juice from Tommy’s mouth, where he ate a bit too eagerly, and from his hands, where he squeezed the slices just a bit too hard.
Phil watched as Wilbur would sit with Tommy on the ground and play. He watched as Wilbur took out his wand, using simple spells to produce swirling displays of color and light. He watched as Tommy clapped his hands and screamed his delight. He watched as Techno would enter after plucking at the leaves of herbs or checking the soil. He watched as Techno would grunt, low and animalistic, and Tommy would burst into laughter and giggles every time.
Phil watched as Wilbur would put Tommy to bed. He watched as Techno would fetch a small book and begin to read. He’d watched as Wilbur would murmur soothing songs until Tommy’s eyes finally fluttered close.
Tommy was…happy. He was happy. Phil was there too, of course—constantly trailing by Tommy’s feet, flicking his tail at him as he played, curling up into his arms as he lied down in bed—but he wasn’t doing what Techno and Wilbur were. He never had. He couldn’t.
Until now, as Techno sits in a chair next to Phil. Tommy had just been put down for a nap. So the room was quiet, Phil sitting against the sofa, Techno at his chair, and Wilbur, flicking his wand against his knee.
“You seem better,” Wilbur says. “Not sick anymore.”
Phil blinks in a slow agreement. Wilbur had continued to feed him slips of herbs and rub oils around his neck, the kind that would make Phil sneeze afterward. But it had worked—Phil’s head had cleared, and his muscles, for the most part, were fine. He still limped around his back leg. The paste had soothed some of the ache, but in terms of usage…
Wilbur leans closer from his own chair. “If you wanted, we could try to get you to shift. I’m not sure how well it’ll go, but—”
Phil stumbles upward so fast he almost careens off of the sofa. Yes, Phil meows, eager and demanding. Yes, yes, let’s do it already—
Techno snorts lowly. “Alright. It’ll work better if you’re calmed down.”
The meows falter in Phil’s mouth with a flick of his tail.
He can’t help it. This is what he wants—this is what he’s needed all along. To be human. To have a body, to have hands. So he can be the one to peel Tommy’s oranges. So he can be the one to praise him, soothe him, love him.
Techno and Wilbur both kneel on the floor next to Phil.
“It’s going to feel strange,” Techno rumbles.
Wilbur shifts right next to him. “We’ll be using our own magic to try to…draw yours out, I suppose. So you’ll feel it, in your core. Once you feel it, you’ve just got to—grab on. Like you’re yanking it out, or something.”
“Not yanking,” Techno corrects. “Just…pulling. Imagine it enveloping you. Spreading across your form.”
“And then you should just—” Wilbur makes a small expanding motion with his hands.
Phil nods with a flick of his ear. Anticipation is all he can feel in his core, now. Anxiety. Apprehension.
Wilbur and Techno take it as a sign to get started. Wilbur takes his wand and slowly runs it along the length of Phil’s body. Techno places a large hand over Wilbur’s shoulder.
Phil shudders as he feels the magic seep through his skin. It’s not cold, really—it feels like damp soil, like the run of smooth bark, like the sway of a willow tree. It feels like the roots of a large tree, reaching further and further down until Phil feels something else.
He feels…something warm. Not like a fire—like the beaming sun on a stretch of pavement. It steps and flares in his stomach. It feels weighted—not like a stone, or heavy chains. It feels weighted like a thick blanket, or like Tommy’s head pressed against Phil’s side.
Phil imagines reaching for it. He imagines lying in the sunlight. He imagines tugging at a duvet with his teeth. He imagines reaching hands—not paws—towards Tommy’s golden curls.
The feeling expands from his stomach to his chest. From his chest to his paws, to his tail, to his head—
Wait, Phil almost starts to mew, the pressure rushing through his bloodstream, the magic pounding in his head. He feels like he’s going to explode—he feels like the magic is going to overtake him until he burns up—
Phil squeezes his eyes shut. He imagines that magic would be pouring out from his eyes like tears, otherwise.
Stop, Phil almost wants to call out, but any time the sounds start in his throat, he thinks of blue eyes, of baby cheeks, of tiny fingers and soft ringlets of hair. So instead of stopping, Phil just keeps his eyes shut, ears low as the magic ripples over his frame.
Please, please, Phil begs in his mind. And then, For Tommy.
And that’s enough.
Phil feels it before he understands what’s happening. The rush of magic feels like it’s taking Phil out—like a wind so fast he’s being swept away with it, or a wave so tall it threatens to bring Phil down as it crashes around him.
Then—finally—the magic recedes.
Phil takes a gasping—breath.
A breath. A gasp, and Phil flinches back—flinches with his human body.
“Oh, good,” Wilbur says cheerily. “We did it!”
Phil looks upward for only a moment. He can feel the hair that drapes along his face. Gods, his face. He has a face—a human one. And when he looks down, he has hands—hands, and legs, and arms, and a chest. He’s clothed, wrapped in some sort of dark robe.
“Holy shit,” Phil murmurs hoarsely, and he almost jumps back at his own voice.
“You alright?” Techno rumbles lowly.
Phil takes a breath. Another. It expands in his chest.
“Tommy,” he breathes, and he tries to lift himself up on weak arms. It doesn’t quite work—he’s not used to these new limbs yet.
“Whoa, hey,” Wilbur says, raising his hands. “You’re not going to have the hang of it right away, man. Just chill out for a moment—”
Phil places his hands beneath his chest, lifting himself up once more. His arms shake with uncertainty, but at least he’s sitting up now.
“Hey.” Techno’s voice is a deep grunt. Still, Phil does nothing but furrow his brow, ignoring Techno’s warning.
He’s waited long enough. He did this for Tommy, so he’s going to see Tommy. Even if his boy is sleeping. But now, Phil will reach out and adjust Tommy’s blanket all on his own. He’ll shift Tommy away from the edge of the mattress. He’ll use gentle fingers and brush the hair away from Tommy’s face.
Phil takes a large breath. He’s just got to…
Phil pushes himself off of the sofa and into a standing position. He sways precariously for a moment.
“Phil,” Wilbur says exasperatedly. “Seriously, you can’t just wait a moment—?”
Alright. He’s got the hang of standing. Now he just has to step.
Phil swings one foot forward and crumples immediately. “Fuck,” Phil cries, pain immediately shocking through his leg. Only Techno’s hands keep Phil from falling to the floor.
“That’s your bad leg,” Techno grumbles. “That’s why we told you to sit.”
There’s really no other choice but to be pushed to the sofa again. But godsdamnit, Phil isn’t going to give up like that. “Tommy,” he says again, raising a weak glare towards Techno. “I’m trying to see Tommy.”
“Tommy’s not even awake,” Techno grunts. “Just—”
There’s a light thump of noise down the hall. All three men go still.
Techno’s face draws in exasperation. Phil’s heart flits in his chest.
The noise came from Tommy’s room. He must have gotten out of bed. He must—he must be awake.
“Wilbur,” Techno drawls, voice monotone but face stoic, “Tommy’s awake.”
“Got it,” Wilbur says, standing from his spot on the floor. “Should I bring him in?”
“Not yet,” Techno says, at the same time Phil says, “Yes.”
Phil and Techno’s eyes flick to each other.
“You’re not keeping me away from him, mate,” Phil says, and it drips with a threat, even though, really, what could Phil do in such a state? He can hardly stand. He can’t walk. If Techno decides to make Phil wait, Phil won’t be able to do anything, just as he hasn’t been able to do anything all along.
Techno stares, for a long, silent moment. Then—with a slight air of regret—he sighs. “Bring him,” he tells Wilbur.
Wilbur nods, and with a reassuring smile sent towards Phil, he slips through the door.
There’s a second where Techno continues to stare at where Wilbur has left. Then, he sighs again, turning to Phil. On the side of the sofa that Phil isn’t occupying, Techno sits down.
“The shift went alright?” Techno rumbles. “You’re not hurtin’ at all?”
Phil takes an awkward breath. “It was…gods, mate, it was so weird.”
Techno chuckles lowly. “You get used to it.”
“I hope so. For a moment, I didn’t think…”
Phil trails off, but Techno seems to understand. He nods with a grunt.
“Do you have a name?”
Phil’s brow flickers lower. “Phil,” he says hoarsely, a bit of confusion slipping into his tone.
Techno hums. His eyes look knowing. “Did you have one before that?”
Before. Before Tommy.
“Not one that mattered,” Phil says, because it’s true.
Techno doesn’t even blink. Maybe he understands. Maybe it’s true for him, too.
Phil doesn’t get the opportunity to ask—not before a light knock rings out on the door. Without answer, the door slips open.
Phil’s heart completely stops beating. He swears it. He can feel it, large and still, in the juncture between his throat and his chest.
Wilbur steps in first. He’s got a smile on his face.
And then—oh, so much smaller than Phil could have ever imagined—is Tommy.
It’s almost heartbreaking seeing him from this angle. Phil had always known he was small, but there’s a difference between knowing it and seeing it; seeing the difference between not looking up much higher, and looking far, far down.
Tommy looks sleepy. He’s just woken from his nap, after all. He brings tiny fists to his eyes, rubbing at his lashes and cheeks, before—finally—he seems to notice Phil staring at him.
Tommy startles, then stills.
Phil can feel the magic dancing and celebrating within his ribcage, right alongside his heart. He wonders if Tommy feels that same magic—wonders if, like Techno, he can push his magic outward. He wonders if he can wrap Tommy up in it all.
For a moment, Tommy just stares with his wide blue eyes.
“Tommy…”
Then Tommy…shifts. He steps back, closer to Wilbur. One of his small hands comes to tug at Wilbur’s trousers.
The magic sparks and sizzles and dies. Phil can feel the embers and ash drift lower and lower as Tommy looks uncertainly up at Wilbur.
“Walk in, Tommy,” Wilbur instructs gently. With a gentle hand, he guides Tommy further into the room.
Fuck. Phil tries not to be immediately discouraged as Tommy eyes him warily.
“Alright, Tommy,” Wilbur says cheerfully. “This is Phil!” He sweeps a hand in Phil’s direction.
Tommy…stares. Then his gaze goes across the room, like he’s looking for something.
“Him, Tommy,” Techno corrects.
Tommy’s eyes go back to Phil. He stares for another second, and Phil tries to give him a reassuring smile.
There has to be something here—a bond, a sign. Phil keeps Tommy’s gaze steadily, hoping somehow, somehow…
Tommy’s brows slowly furrow. He turns his stare to Techno, then to Wilbur, looking at them like they’re rather stupid.
“He’s your familiar, Tommy,” Wilbur explains patiently. “He’s magic.”
Tommy’s look doesn’t budge from anything but skeptical. “Nuh-uh.”
“Yuh-huh,” Wilbur says teasingly back. “Look, go say hi.”
That looks like the last thing Tommy wants to do. Still, with a final, criticizing glance at Wilbur, Tommy steps closer to Phil.
It’s almost painful, the way Phil’s heart squeezes. This isn’t…how he imagined it. This isn’t how he thought it. “Hello, Tommy,” he says gently. “I know—I know I don’t look it, but I’m Phil—your Phil—I promise.”
Tommy stares up at Phil with an uncertain pout. “Hi,” he finally says, shy. Then—just like that—he turns, toddling quickly past Wilbur out of the room.
The ashes of Phil’s excitement finish sinking all the way to his feet. They’re no longer warm. Just cold and crumbling.
“Hey, it’s alright, man,” Wilbur soothes, seeing the way Phil’s face falls. “He’s just not used to you yet. You’re practically a brand new person.”
A brand new person. Yet still, someone who disappointed Tommy again and again. “Yeah.”
Techno looks at Phil for a long moment. Then, he rises. “Wilbur. Go play with Tommy. I’ll get Phil settled.”
Techno does just that. He hands Phil a large, tall stick—a cane, of sorts, Techno says they’ll get him a better one later—and guides him to the bathroom. He leaves and comes back with a pile of clothes and a towel. To bathe with, Techno explains, if he feels as though he can handle it.
Phil is in the bathroom for a long time. Not bathing, not getting changed. He simply stares at his reflection in the mirror. He stares at his blond hair and his blue eyes—so, so similar to Tommy’s. Like they could be related. Maybe in another life, where Phil was enough. Maybe in another life, where Phil hadn’t let Tommy down with paws and claws.
There’s a large scar across the span of his nose. From that dog—apparently, those sort of marks carry over. It’s gnarled and ugly. Phil can only imagine what it looks like on his much smaller snout.
Under the warm water of the spout, Phil closes his eyes, and pretends that the water washes it all away—his scars, his magic, his disappointments. He imagines that at the end, he can truly come out a new person, one that can start all over with Tommy. One that has never done wrong by him.
Phil turns off the spout, and he struggles to put on the new clothes, and he is the same man he’s always been.
Phil had thought that being human would make things…better.
Fuck it, wouldn’t that have solved all of his problems? It was supposed to.
Yet, it’s becoming harder and harder to ignore the truth.
Tommy doesn’t like him.
At least, not this form of him.
Phil tries to get Tommy ready in the mornings, but Tommy is always a bit too wary. He stumbles over to Wilbur instead, lifting up hands to be placed on Wilbur’s hip.
His body is too new to know how to use it correctly. Phil sits on the floor to play with Tommy, but he doesn’t know…how. He can’t exactly weave alongside Tommy’s feet, still. He no longer has a tail to flick and tease near Tommy’s hands. Techno takes over instead, letting Tommy crawl all over him and wrestle with his fingers.
At night, Phil tries to put Tommy to bed. This is his Tommy, and this is their routine. It should be easy.
Tommy…struggles.
“Where’s Phil?” Tommy asks uncertainly, refusing to lie down once he’s in bed. He had crawled in on his own—he had refused Phil’s offer to help him.
The smile on Phil’s face is supposed to be confident, reassuring. He’s sure it just looks pitiful. “I’m Phil, remember? I promise.”
Tommy’s brow furrows almost comically. He takes a large breath before huffing it all out. He’s obviously agitated, but he says nothing more about it, letting his fists come down to squeeze at his blankets instead.
“Why don’t you lie down, Tommy?” Phil tries gently. “I know you’re tired. All that fighting against Techno must have taken it out of you.”
Tommy’s lip pouts. “Where’s Wilbur ‘nd Techno?”
Phil’s heart falters in his chest.
Gods, he should be good at this. This is what he knows—his boy. His sleepy, weary boy. Why is this all so much harder? Why is Phil still just…
“Down the hall,” Phil soothes. “Do you…want me to get them?”
Tommy huffs once more and nods.
Phil’s ribcage cracks, just slightly. It feels like it. “Do you want me to stay after? I can—I can stay with you, if you want.”
Tommy…goes silent. He stares up at Phil with wide, blue eyes. His hands grasp emptily at his covers.
For a moment, Phil thinks he might say yes.
Then Tommy’s eyes slip to the large scar on the bridge of Phil’s nose, and he only looks uncomfortable. Silently, he shakes his head.
The crack in his ribcage finally breaks all the way through. The bone shards slip right into his heart.
“…Are you sure?” Phil asks weakly, gently, because if Tommy doesn’t want him, then he will…leave. If that’s what makes Tommy happy. If that’s what he needs.
Again, Tommy silently nods.
“Right,” Phil breathes. He clears his throat. “Right. I’ll, uh—I’ll go get them.” A pause. “Goodnight, Tommy.”
I love you, Phil almost says, but it ends in his throat with a pitiful rumble.
Tommy doesn’t say anything back. So Phil, with a weak smile, exits through the wooden door.
Secretly, Phil sits outside the door as Wilbur and Techno enter.
It sounds peaceful inside. Happy. There’s the warmth of Techno’s low voice, the melody of Wilbur’s songs, the miracle of Tommy’s laugh.
It’s perfect. Perfect for Tommy—everything he’s ever deserved. Phil clenches his fingers into a desperate fist, takes a breath, and then forces himself to uncurl them. His head aches. His heart clenches. It clenches even worse as, muffled through the door, he hears, “Where’s Phil?”
Phil goes still.
“You just saw him, remember?” Wilbur says. “He’s probably outside, I can—”
“No,” Tommy says back, starting to sound a bit frustrated. “Phil. Where’s Phil?”
“Outside,” Techno rumbles. “He sent for us—”
“No!” Tommy says again, and the frustration is bubbling over in his tone. “Phil. I want—I want Phil.”
Tommy wants Phil.
The Phil who can’t do shit for him—the Phil that almost let him be rushed away with the river water—but that’s…an issue for Phil to think about after.
Phil knows what Tommy wants.
Shifting forms can’t be that hard on his own. Phil closes his eyes and focuses on the pit in his stomach, the foaming and fumbling core of warmth and weight.
Without the guidance of Wilbur and Techno’s magic, Phil has to yank the magic around himself. It hurts, and Phil hisses, but it’s only in a moment that the hiss stops coming from his lips and starts coming out from between fangs.
Phil has to take a second to pant for air. Ouch. His muscles ache and complain, unfamiliar with shifting forms just yet, but…
He can hear Tommy starting to whine from the bedroom. So Phil, low to the ground once more, slips through the open crack.
Tommy, he meows, and instantly, Tommy’s frustrated cries stop.
“Phil!” He calls, and he holds out his arms over the bed.
“Phil,” Techno rumbles at the same time, and he sounds disappointed.
Fuck Techno’s disappointment, though. He doesn’t care about that. Not when he hops into Tommy’s bed, and finally, Tommy is happy again. The routine, as Phil is small and a cat once more, goes better than it has any of these past few days of Phil being human.
Finally, Tommy settles into bed. He crawls underneath his blankets and drags Phil with him.
In only a matter of moments, Tommy drifts off to sleep. Wilbur and Techno stay silent all the while, watching until Tommy’s breath finally evens out.
“Phil,” Wilbur finally murmurs. His tone is tight. “You shouldn’t have shifted on your own like that. For only your second time, that—that’s dangerous, man.”
Phil doesn’t bother responding. Not with a meow, nor a hiss. He simply flicks his ear back in disinterest.
Techno, characteristically, is silent. Phil can feel his eyes on the back of his neck.
“I’m just saying,” Wilbur mumbles. “You’re going to get hurt like that. Tommy would have been fine, he just—he needs to get to know you, you’re going to make it worse—”
“Wilbur.”
Wilbur falters as Techno’s low voice rumbles across the room.
They must do something—Phil’s back is to them, he can’t quite see—because Wilbur huffs, a short, anxious puff of air, before leaving the room.
The silence stretches across the room. It’s silent enough that Phil would think it were just him and Tommy, if not for the looming stare of Techno’s eyes.
“You can’t hide from him forever,” Techno finally says. “It doesn’t work like that.”
Phil’s ear flicks back. He lets a haughty breath huff through his nose.
Still, he doesn’t grace Techno with a response. He simply lies, small in Tommy’s arms, until Techno leaves.
Sleep doesn’t come easy. It hardly comes at all. But tucked against Tommy’s chest, it’s really not a surprise when the darkness, finally, overtakes him.
Phil was right: Tommy looks right at home beside warm lights—beside a tall pine tree and glistening ornaments.
It should be a cozy scene: Tommy doing his best to hang decorations with his small fingers, ornaments passed down from Techno’s hands to Tommy’s. Tommy’s body lifted by Wilbur as he reaches for the top branches. Tommy is certainly happy enough—he smiles and laughs and jumps around like Phil has never seen before.
The sight brings a glow to Phil’s heart. The sight brings a terrible clenching of his chest.
Phil ignores the tight feeling, at first. Lying on the wooden floor, Phil watches, still and quiet as Tommy does his best to decorate. Tommy’s doing well enough with Techno and Wilbur’s help. Even if he doesn’t want Phil’s help. Even if Phil can’t help, like this.
The thoughts keep brisking past Phil’s mind like bitter wind. They whirl like a snowstorm Phil can’t find his way out of. They make his whiskers twitch. They make his muscles ache, his head burn, his muscles…
In a moment, Phil scrambles to his paws, because fuck. Fuck. Phil has only felt this twice, but it’s impossible to not recognize the feeling of his magic stretching from his core to his skin.
Phil scampers to run out of the room. Tommy’s never seen his transition before, and he’s not about to test that shit now, so Phil continues to run until he collapses in the nearby bathroom.
That collapse is all it takes for the magic to finally pull over him. It hurts, like a rubber band stretched and threatening to break, or a flame just close enough to feel the burn of. It hurts, it hurts, and then—
“Fuck,” Phil gasps, the magic finally settling back into his core.
The pain is gone, but fucking hell, he’s a human again. This isn’t what he needs, and it isn’t what Tommy wants. So Phil tries to shift back.
He curls his body inward and ignores the way his new limbs scream against the cold tile. His eyes pinch shut as he tries to focus inward. His stupid magic should be somewhere, somewhere within him, he just needs to find it, just needs to force it out—
Phil muffles a scream as pain erupts from his core. He lets go of his magic like it’s a burning stone, dripping with heat and magma. Just like that, any chance of shifting sinks back behind Phil’s ribcage.
Fuck. Fucking shit, that hurt. In this form, it’s so much easier for painful tears to well up in Phil’s eyes. He’s untrained in keeping them at bay, so he drops his head into his hands. Still curled in pain—from his magic, his body, his heart—Phil presses his palms against his burning eyes.
“Told you there was not point in hidin’ it.”
Phil almost flinches back as Techno’s voice rumbles from above.
Fucking hell. In the midst of his pain, he hadn’t even heard Techno enter the room.
(It causes a bit of shame to leak into his heart like dark oil. He can only be grateful that Tommy is inside, safe, instead of out on the streets, with Phil continuously slipping like this).
Phil rolls his eyes, just slightly. It’s odd, in this body—there are no ears to pin back in dissatisfaction. No hiss that builds in his throat; it’s words, instead, that come out as, “Alright, mate. Just tell me how to shift back.”
Techno gives a single, short shake of his head. “No.”
The words hit like a harsh blow of wind. “No?”
“No.” Techno is fully in the bathroom, now. He leans against the sink, mindful of where Phil lies on the ground. “Your magic wouldn’t let you.”
“Lend me some of yours, then,” Phil says hoarsely. “Like the first time.”
Again, Techno shakes his head. “If your magic shifted you back, that’s what it wants. I’m not forcin’ it down just so you can keep avoidin’ Tommy.”
A short, startled huff escapes Phil’s lips. “Avoid?” He says, voice high and tone warning. “I am not avoiding Tommy—”
“You are.”
“Shut. I’m not. I’m there. I’m always there.”
Techno raises a dry eyebrow. “As what? A cat?”
Oh, how Phil wishes he were in his familiar form. He’d be hissing and spitting a storm by now.
“It’s what Tommy wants,” Phil mutters bitterly. His voice is almost like gravel, from disuse—the sort that would press against his paws and stick within his toes. The sort he was always afraid Tommy would trip on.
“He’s not used to it,” Techno replies lowly. His tone would leave no room for argument, if he were speaking with anyone but Phil. But Phil isn’t one to be scared away by deep tones or stoic speech. “You’re actin’ like your human-form is somethin’ awful.”
“It is,” Phil bites back. He hopes the words pierce like fangs—he hopes the words leave behind undeniable, bloody, marred marks. “It is. I’ve already failed, Techno—my boy lived on the streets. I let Tommy be cold. I couldn’t keep him from going hungry. I let him fall in that river—if I had known about this form, I could have saved him, but I didn’t. I didn’t know, and I didn’t save him, and I am a failure.”
Phil takes a breath. It tastes of frigid winds and rushing water and the bottom of Tommy’s coat. “And now I’m allowed to be this, but it isn’t—I’m not—” The words make Phil grimace. “I’m not what Tommy wants. Nor what he needs. I was too late, Techno. This form was too fucking late. What am I meant to do? What am I meant to do when I am a failure, no matter which form I’m in?”
Techno takes the words in with silence. His face is unchanging. It stays pensive as Phil tries to bare his fangs and just bares his soul instead. Even after Phil is done, he continues to just stare. Then—after a long moment—Techno reaches down his hand.
Phil huffs as the hand comes closer. Techno’s palm is up, his fingers lazily curled. Phil imagines, if he were a cat, he’d be tempted to bite it.
Techno, again, raises an eyebrow. “You goin’ to get off the floor?”
Reason wins out over pride. Phil takes Techno’s hand.
The quick-shift makes Phil’s body feel weak. He makes the mistake of trying to balance himself on both feet, quickly wincing when his bad leg twinges in pain. He has to lean against the counter just to stay upright.
Techno hums once Phil is finally standing. “Familiars are special,” Techno begins, voice a low rumble. “It’s not luck that pulls us towards our witch. We’re…matched. From the moment the stars were created. From the second the universe settled.” He pauses for a moment, staring at Phil, but Phil does nothing but stare pensively back. “We’re drawn to them in their greatest time of need,” Techno says.
The bathroom is silent. Techno draws his eyes away from Phil, instead looking outward. There’s nothing to look at in the bathroom—certainly not for someone who has lived there awhile—but still, Techno turns his gaze towards the pale ceramic of the tub. “It’s a shame Tommy’s time of need was so soon,” he finally grunts, “when he was so young.”
“It’s a shame he got me,” Phil mutters, heat barely simmering in his tone. He wants to be angry—wants to be defiant—but mostly, he’s just guilty, ashamed.
Techno’s brow furrows minutely. His eyes stay trained outward, but he takes a breath that makes his visibly rise and fall. “We’re magic, not miracles,” he drawls monotonously. It’s tinged with a hint of a joke, but Phil only lets out a bitter scoff. Techno, in turn, sobers. “You’re goin’ to fail, Phil,” Techno says, and the words shatter over Phil’s heart like sharp shards of ice. Techno continues, “We all do. We all will. Even I. Even you.”
The words settle oddly over the two. Techno’s face does not break, but it does shift. He almost looks mournful. He almost looks regretful. It almost pulls words out of Phil’s own throat—to ask how, how has he failed, and how has he moved on?—but he doesn’t. They sit in the base of his throat like an uncomfortable rumble, the kind that could come out as a purr or a hiss.
Silently, Techno steps out of the bathroom. For a moment, Phil almost curses himself with another failure. But then, Techno returns, holding out a wooden cane.
“Stay,” Techno rumbles. “He’ll get used to you.”
Cowardly—a cat cornered—Phil almost feels too weak to walk out. He doesn’t want to see Tommy disappointed. He can’t bear to face the evidence of his own shortcomings.
But unlike being cornered by a dog—ready to face the sharp tearing of claws and teeth—Techno’s palm is gentle as it touches Phil’s shoulder. “Out,” he grunts, and it is nothing like the growl of an angry dog. More like the rumble of a low purr, or the persistent vibration of a warm car engine.
So Phil goes out.
Both Wilbur and Tommy both look up as the pair return to the sitting room.
“Oh!” Wilbur says. “Sorry, just shocked me a bit. Hi, Phil.”
Tommy—suddenly shy—doesn’t say anything. Still holding an ornament in his hand, he tucks closer to Wilbur’s leg, staring up at Phil uncertainly.
Wilbur nudges his leg against Tommy’s body. “Say hi, Tommy,” he murmurs.
Tommy huffs a short breath. “Hi,” he says quietly.
A weak smile flitters on Phil’s face. “Hello, Tommy,” he says back, only just louder than Tommy’s own greeting was.
It takes a few minutes for the awkward air to settle, but eventually, everything starts moving again. Phil sits on the sofa, right where he sat before. He takes up more room this time, but not enough that Techno can’t settle comfortably on the other side of the long sofa. Tommy and Wilbur stay at the tree, continuing their decorating.
At one point, Wilbur leans down, murmuring something into Tommy’s ear. Tommy blinks, then nods, then begins to search through the decorations bin in earnest. After an eager minute of searching, Tommy finally finds what he wants.
On small, stumbling feet, Tommy makes his way to Techno, leaning against the familiar’s legs. “I got you shit!” Tommy crows proudly, holding out a small, sparkling bauble.
Techno snorts, taking the ornament in his hand. “Thanks. For the tree?”
Tommy’s face twists up in insult. “Nuh-uh. For you,” he says, like it’s been obvious all along, and Techno is rather stupid.
Then—a lot slower than he had gone to Techno—Tommy makes his way to Phil. “Yours,” he says nervously, holding out his hand once more. He’s much more shy than when he had passed off Techno’s gift. He won’t even look up at Phil, keeping his eyes downward instead.
It tugs at Phil’s chest, but this is…more than what Phil thought might happen. He hadn’t even expected he’d be a part of this.
“For me?” Phil asks gently, just to be sure, and Tommy glares up at Phil with a scowl, a look that says, Fucking obviously.
“I just said,” Tommy bites, but Phil knows his boy well-enough to know that it is not angry or mean, just exasperated, and maybe a little scared.
Phil stretches out his fingers and cradles the bauble in his hands. It’s pale blue and sparkling, just like his Tommy’s eyes. Just like his own, really. “Thank you, mate,” Phil murmurs, because if he said it any louder, he fears how his own voice may crack and waver. “I love it. It’s just like you.”
And for a precious, quiet moment, Tommy continues to stare up at him. His lips are still pouting, his small brows are still furrowed, and he is perfect. Phil’s perfect boy, silhouetted with warmth from the lights.
Then Tommy’s eyes flicker across his face, and suddenly, he’s shy again. Quickly, he runs back to Wilbur, colliding with his leg.
“Good job,” Wilbur says proudly, ruffling Tommy’s hair.
Tommy doesn’t do much to interact with Phil for the rest of the evening. At night, Phil observes the way his ornament shimmers and gleams in the candlelight. He hopes that one day, Tommy’s eyes will gleam like that at him again.
That time is not tonight. Phil falls to sleep alone, dreaming of pale skies and rushing waves, all a familiar shade of blue.
Tommy hardly looks at him anymore.
They’ve improved, in the sense that Tommy doesn’t seem uncomfortable anytime Phil walks into a room. He’s fine with Phil sitting on nearby sofas, or putting together Tommy’s lunch. Every once in a while, he’ll even talk to Phil, even if it’s never much—just the occasional, “Tell Wilbur he’s a bitch,” or, “I want cheese on my sandwich!”.
It’s more than Phil probably deserves, but so much less than what he wants. Jealousy crawls over his skin like fleas as Tommy reaches his hands upward for Wilbur to pick him up. Shame bites into him like a dog’s maw as Tommy runs circles around Techno, rushing between his legs and slamming into his knees, giggling the entire time.
Phil is grateful—more grateful than he could ever put into words, or purrs, or actions—towards Wilbur and Techno. Because gods, this is what Tommy deserves: a life warm and safe, in the small house of a witch and his familiar; large meals served three times a day; hands that can hold him and wash him.
But Phil can’t help the traces of sorrow that wind around his core as Tommy looks to him shyly. He can’t help the withering woe as Tommy immediately looks away, rushing to the safety of Techno’s palms, or the heat of Wilbur’s chest.
Even now, as all four of them sit on the sofa to watch Hardcore, Tommy does not move to sit with Phil.
“Do you want to sit by me, mate?” Phil asks anyway, patting the spot next to him. It’s their routine. And sure, it’ll be different now—Phil will be the one holding Tommy this time, rather than the other way around. But Phil is fine with that. More than fine with that.
Tommy, on the other hand, isn’t. He glances at Phil warily before shaking his head. Instead, he crawls upward towards Techno, resting in the nook of his arm.
Right. Right. That’s…
That’s fine. Truly, it’s fine. Techno is a good man. He can’t blame Tommy for wanting Techno, not when the man is so good at protecting, at keeping him safe. He can’t blame Tommy for wanting Wilbur, who is so much better at wrapping him up and making him laugh.
He can’t blame Tommy for not wanting him.
Still—everything becomes just…too much. Watching Hardcore without Tommy’s warmth leaning against him—knowing that Tommy is just out of reach, and there’s nothing he can do to bridge the gap—
Phil can’t take it anymore. He’s polite about it—subtle about it. Silently, with a quick, weary smile to Techno and Wilbur, Phil rushes towards his bedroom.
It’s probably better that way, anyway. More room on the sofa, and all that.
It’s dark in the bedroom. Phil doesn’t bother turning on a light. Instead, he sits on the edge of his bed and focuses on the way his chest rises and falls with each breath.
It still feels a bit unnatural. Phil still isn’t used to this body.
Hm. Phil’s teeth tug at his bottom lip.
Hesitantly, Phil closes his eyes. He focuses inward, allowing himself to feel for his magic once more. A small gasp slips as he feels the magic brush against his soul—faintly, like the tips of wavering grass, or the edges of his own fur.
Great. All Phil needs to do is…
“Here you are.”
Phil flinches as he looks up towards Wilbur. The man is poking his head into the room, but enters with a smile as Phil looks up at him. “I was wondering where you had gone off too. During Hardcore, Phil, how dare you,” he says lightly.
Phil tries to smile back. He’s not sure it works, judging on how Wilbur frowns back at him.
“Hey. Seriously, man, why’d you leave? Did something happen?”
Phil shrugs. “No, nothing. It’s fine, mate.”
Wilbur raises an unbelieving eyebrow. “Yeah, fine. That’s why you’re sitting here in the dark, all by yourself.”
It’s a joke again, but Phil doesn’t have it in him to smile this time.
“What’s wrong?” Wilbur asks, stepping further into the room. “It’s not your leg, is it? I still have that salvent, if it’s bothering you—”
“No,” Phil interrupts. “No, it’s—fine. It’s fine, Wil. I just…” He takes a breath. “I didn’t think Tommy would be too bothered, if I left.”
It’s a nice way of putting it. He wouldn’t be bothered, rather than, He wouldn’t care.
It’s a pointless change. Wilbur seems to realize what he meant anyway.
“That’s not true,” Wilbur says with a frown. “He kept looking down the hall, when you left. It’s the most I’ve ever seen that boy look away from Hardcore, I swear, you’d think it was hypnotizing him—”
“Wilbur.”
Wilbur stops short as Phil stares at him. “Right. Sorry. But you get my point.”
Phil scoffs, looking away. “Sure. It just—it doesn’t matter. He’ll be fine, he’s got you two.”
Wilbur’s brow furrows. “He’s got you too, Phil.”
“Yeah, but he doesn’t…he doesn’t care about that. Which is fine.”
“Gods,” Wilbur breathes, “of course he cares, Phil! Fuck, you’ve been the one looking out for him, this whole time. Why wouldn’t he care about that? Why wouldn’t he care about you?”
“I hardly did a good job.” Fuck, Phil is tired of explaining this. It’s its own form of punishment, to talk about his shortcomings over and over again. “For gods’ sake, Wilbur, if you two hadn’t been there when Tommy fell into the river…”
Wilbur scoffs. “That was hardly your fault, Phil. You were sick, it was cold, it’s not like you let him fall in on purpose—”
“But he still did,” Phil says hoarsely. He’s almost desperate for Wilbur to understand. “Because I got sick. Because I took him out to the streets, and I failed to save him, and I couldn’t even—save him from his shit parents in time! He shouldn’t—” the words catch in his throat. They’re painful, but Phil has to get them out. “He shouldn’t care. Not when I failed him time and time again.”
For a moment, Wilbur just stares. Then, breathlessly, he chuckles. “Shit, Phil. Come on. You did damn more than his parents ever did, it sounds like, that’s for fucking sure. It’s not your fault that they were pieces of shit. Tommy could have…well, it would have been a lot worse if you weren’t there.” Wilbur leans forward, poking at Phil’s forehead with a finger. “But you were there. And you helped Tommy out of there. You didn’t fail, Phil, you were doing everything you could.”
The words sound undeserving for Phil. He keeps his eyes low, his lips drawn.
Wilbur removes the finger from Phil’s forehead and leans back. “Just look at you, Phil. Phil. Tommy named you that, didn’t he.”
It’s not a question. They all already know. Phil nods anyway.
“Okay, great,” Wilbur says lightheartedly. “Of course he did.” Wilbur leans down, curling his own lanky frame until he can look Phil in the eyes. “He named you after his favorite person ever, you know how much he loves Hardcore. He named you after his hero, Phil.” Wilbur smiles. “You are his hero. You saved him, yeah?”
Phil laughs airily. The words are like a cool breeze. Phil doesn’t know if it’s lifting him off of his feet, or shoving him off of an edge. “I was only doing what should have been done the entire time. And even then, I still—I couldn’t do it. Not how he deserved. Not how he needed.”
The bed dips as Wilbur finally sits beside him. “No, man. You did great.”
“He still struggled. He still suffered.”
“Yeah, but that—” Wilbur pauses. Then, with a shaky breath and fidgeting fingers, he keeps going. “When Techno met me, I wasn’t…well. I was rather sick, really, just uh…mentally. I guess he was drawn to me to make me better.” Wilburs fingers move to the edge of the blanket. “And he did. He does. Techno is sturdy like that, you know? And he doesn’t—he’s too no-nonsense. He doesn’t let me spiral, or start to overthink, because he’s always just so…blunt. You know?”
Phil does know. He’s witnessed it himself, and so he nods.
Wilbur nods too. “Right. That’s how it is, with familiars and witches. We’re perfect pairs. It’s just how the universe made it.” Suddenly, Wilbur’s face sombers a little. “And I’m…I’m not better all the time. It’s just—this isn’t the sort of thing that goes away. You can make it better, and maybe less often, but I still…struggle. I have bad days.” Wilbur’s eyes turn downcast. “I’m sure Techno feels like maybe, he’s failing then, too.”
Oh. The sorrow seeps out from Wilbur like the tides of the sea—like saltwater slowly sinking into the sand. Then it pulls back—just slightly—and Wilbur looks up with a small smile. “But he’s not failing me. I would never expect him to solve all of my problems. I would never expect him to do anything for me, honestly. But he does. He does what he can. And I love him for it. That’s all that matters, yeah?”
Phil gives a weak smile back. It’s all a nice sentiment. A nice thought. Phil wants to believe it, wants to let these reassurances sink in, but it all just feels…
“Tommy doesn’t like looking at me,” Phil says wearily. “Or speaking with me. I don’t know if I’d say he loves me, mate. Maybe…maybe he did, back—back then, but…”
Dismissively, Wilbur waves his hand. “Oh, Phil. He still does, promise. He’s a kid, man, he’s just shy.”
“Not around you two.”
“We aren’t his cat that can suddenly transform into a human,” Wilbur scolds lightly. “Seriously. I’ll talk to him tonight or something.”
“Don’t,” Phil says, but Wilbur just grins back.
That night, as he does every night, Phil sits outside of Tommy’s bedroom door as Techno and Wilbur bid him goodnight. Techno, as usual, just gives Phil a nod as he slips out of the room.
Unlike usual, Wilbur stays behind.
Phil tries to listen in, but Tommy and Wilbur speak in quiet murmurs. The words are too muffled as they come through the closed door.
Damn. For a second, Phil tugs experimentally at his magic, but a quick wave of pain makes him pull away again.
Well, there’s no way to sneak, he supposes. He’ll just have to wait.
He waits impatiently until Wilbur finally cracks open the door and slips out. He seems almost shocked to see Phil sitting there, but it quickly soothes into something more neutral.
Well? Phil wants to ask, but trepidation keeps the words behind his teeth.
Wilbur stares down at Phil for a long moment. It’s almost as if he’s observing him. Then, “You never told us that your scar was from a dog attack,” and Phil guesses that Wilbur really was observing him all along.
Shifting uncomfortably, Phil shrugs. “I don’t know why I would have brought it up.”
Wilbur hums. His face rests pensively.
“We talked about it,” Wilbur says lightly, as if the words mean nothing to Phil. “He’ll come around.”
When? Phil thinks bitterly, but he lets the thought simmer out before it ever reaches his vocal chords.
If Wilbur is…right, then that’s fine with Phil. Phil will wait as long as he has to. He’ll be by Tommy’s side for as long as he needs.
When comes so much sooner than Phil thought it would.
It’s only the next morning. Just last night, Phil had sat upon the wooden floor and tried to listen in on how he could possibly make it better for Tommy; tried to listen in on what could possibly be wrong.
It means that, during breakfast, Phil almost feels dead on his feet. He had hardly slept last night. Techno, already awake and in the kitchen, pushes a ceramic mug of coffee towards Phil.
It makes him feel slightly more awake. Awake enough that when Wilbur and Tommy finally enter the kitchen, Phil immediately notices the way they’re both acting strange.
Tommy is shuffling his feet, nervously bouncing on the tips of his toes. Wilbur crouches down to his level, a smile on his face. “Are you ready?” He hears Wilbur murmur excitedly. Tommy nods, and Wilbur lifts him up onto his hip.
“Tommy wants to see you,” Wilbur says proudly.
Phil’s heart skips a beat as Wilbur turns not to Techno, but to him.
“Oh,” Phil breathes as Wilbur brings him closer. It’s the closest he’s truly been to Tommy in a long time. And this time, Tommy is looking at him. His sweet, blue eyes are squinted in determination, and Phil is frozen completely still as Tommy reaches both of his hands out to grasp at Phil’s face.
“Gentle,” Phil thinks he hears Wilbur mutter, but he can’t be certain. Not when all of his focus is on the way Tommy leans forward and—carefully—places a kiss against the gnarled scar on his nose.
It’s as soft as a singular snowflake. But Tommy leans back, and the beaming smile on his face is as warm as the sun. “All better!” Tommy cheers. “It doesn’t hurt anymore?”
“It—” It hasn’t hurt in a while. But Phil looks up at Wilbur, who’s smiling down at him in reassurance. “Yeah, Tommy,” Phil says weakly. Gods, this kid. The things he does to his heart. “It’s all better.”
Tommy laughs, and his eyes squint joyfully. It’s the most beautiful thing Phil has ever seen.
Tommy seems to be alright with Phil, now that he knows he isn’t hurting.
It’s still a bit awkward. He still runs to Wilbur and Techno before he ever runs to Phil. But it’s not all bad. He’ll sit next to Phil, now. He’ll laugh at him and include him in his rambling conversations.
That doesn’t mean Phil knows what to do the morning Wilbur doesn’t get up, though.
Tommy is technically the first to notice. Tommy pushes his way into Phil’s room after he wakes up, a tension in his brow and a pout on his lips.
“What’s wrong, Tommy?” Phil asks gently, prepared to hear that he lost his favorite stuffy, or that Techno, cooking down the hall, wasn’t finished with breakfast yet.
Instead, Tommy frowns. “Wilbur is sick,” he says bluntly. Concern laces through his tone. “He said so.”
Phil frowns. “He said so, huh?”
It’s probably nothing. It’s maybe nothing. Still, he sends Tommy out to Techno, telling him to wait for breakfast as he checks on Wilbur.
Tommy, thankfully, had never gotten sick in Phil’s care. Maybe near the end, after the river, but Phil hadn’t been awake for that. He’d been too busy fighting off his own illness to be conscious for any of it.
It can’t be too hard to tell, though. Phil knows to check for warm foreheads and signs of sniffling.
As Phil slips into Wilbur’s bedroom, Wilbur doesn’t even move. He stares blankly up at the ceiling.
“Wilbur?” Phil tries. “Mate, are you alright?”
Wilbur doesn’t answer past a furrowing of the brow. His eyes flicker further away from Phil.
Phil slips in with gentle footsteps. “Are you sick?” Phil tries again. “Tommy said you were.”
Wilbur scoffs quietly. That’s as much of an answer as Phil is going to get.
It’s unsettling, seeing Wilbur like this. He’s usually so…cheery. Everything he does is with an overexaggerated smile, with a loud laugh.
“Alright, Wil,” Phil says gently, because maybe this is what Wilbur meant. “I’ll send Techno up. Let me know if you need anything from me.”
Techno glances upward as Phil enters the kitchen.
“Wilbur isn’t doing well,” Phil murmurs, once he’s close enough that only Techno will hear.
The statement is vague; it’s all Techno needs to hear.
A solemn understanding washes over Techno’s face. Silently, he nods, and begins to put a kettle of water over the stove. He pours two cups of mint tea and toasts a single slice of bread. “You’ll have to watch Tommy today,” Techno grunts once his hands are full.
Phil hasn’t watched Tommy on his own in a while now—and certainly not in human form—but he nods anyway. Wilbur needs Techno today. And Phil knows, from experience, that there is nothing that could stop Techno from stepping up.
The day with Tommy goes well. The kid is obviously a bit distracted, asking a few times when he’ll be able to spend time with Wilbur and Techno again, but he never gets too upset. They watch Hardcore until noon, and then Phil makes Tommy lunch. They play with wooden toys on the floor and make up stories about dinosaurs. Just before the evening hits, Phil decides it would do Tommy some good to get fresh air. He bundles Tommy up with his cloak and his jacket, sliding on the boy’s small winter boots. It’s not snowing at the moment, but the previous snow still rests over the ground.
Except, Phil pauses when he opens the front door. Techno and Wilbur are both seated on the front porch, wrapped in blankets and leaning against one another. “Oh,” Phil says. “Sorry, I didn’t know—we can go back inside.”
“But I wanna go out,” Tommy pouts, tugging at Phil’s pant leg.
“Tommy—”
“It’s fine,” Wilbur says. His voice sounds a bit hoarse, like he hasn’t talked all day, even though dinner will be in just an hour or two. “You two can come out.”
Techno and Wilbur stay on the porch as Tommy plays out in the garden. Wilbur mostly just stares outward. His hands wrap loosely around a steaming mug of tea. Techno sits silently next to him, settled close enough that their sides touch.
During dinner, Techno places a bowl of broth in front of Wilbur. Wilbur doesn’t eat all of it, but he does manage some, which seems to be good enough for Techno. Then the two disappear down the hall, leaving Phil alone with Tommy once more.
Phil doesn’t see Techno again until after he puts Tommy to bed. They both enter into the hall at the same time—Techno from Wilbur’s room, and Phil from Tommy’s. They pause when they see each other.
“Hey,” Phil mutters, not willing to raise his voice in this moment of tentative understanding. “How’s Wilbur?”
Techno’s eyes flicker to the floor. He shrugs. “He’ll be alright. Tomorrow.” A beat. “Or the day after.”
Phil nods. “Right.”
For a moment, it is silent. Techno seems to take it as his sign to leave as he begins to go down the hall.
“You did well,” Phil says quickly.
Techno stills. He had already passed Phil by this point, so his back is the only thing Phil can see, but he doesn’t turn around.
“I know—I know it might not feel like you did,” Phil breathes, “but Wilbur really appreciates you doing all this. You’re doing more than you know. Just in case you thought—well.”
There’s another moment where Techno doesn’t move, doesn’t respond. Shit. Maybe Phil shouldn’t have said anything. Maybe he pushed himself over an unsaid boundary.
Then, Techno turns. He eyes Phil with a tired grin. “Says you,” Techno rumbles, and the tension is broken. “I never hear you sayin’ that about yourself.”
Phil huffs wearily. “Just thought I’d return the favor. You’ve told me enough times. Thought it was time for you to hear it yourself.”
Techno hums. “Tommy good for you, today?”
“He was fine. Missed you and Wil, though.”
“But he liked spending time with you?”
Phil huffs again, a small smile overtaking his face. “He was fine.”
Again, Techno smiles back. It’s nothing big—nothing like Tommy’s wide, toothy grins, or Wilbur’s mischievous smirks. It’s small, and it’s subtle, but it’s there. “See? I told you. He’s just like Wilbur.” He brings down a hand to clasp at Phil’s shoulder. “He just needed some time.”
When Wilbur and Techno make a trip to the village, they insist that Phil and Tommy stay home. Something about a surprise, apparently, though neither of them had said any more than that.
It leaves Phil and Tommy alone in the house.
Things have gotten better between the two. It’s still not the way it was before, but Phil can be alright with that. Phil can be alright letting go of how close he and Tommy used to be. He’s fine taking this on Tommy’s terms—whatever Tommy wants, Phil will be alright with.
Besides, it’s for the best that things aren’t the same as before. There’s no more hunger, no more pain. No more—
Yelling.
Phil looks up frantically as Tommy begins to scream outside. He had let Tommy out by himself, with the promise that he’d stay in view of the window, and fuck, is he glad for that, because he can hardly rush out fast enough as Tommy thrashes about and shouts.
“Stop!” Tommy is screaming as several birds flutter and squawk around him. “Stop it! Stop! Stop!”
None of the birds are attacking him, thank the gods—Phil feels a weight drop off of his chest. They’re just getting a bit too close. They’re just scaring him.
“Alright, alright,” Phil grumbles, getting closer to shoo the birds away. “Get out of here! Go, scram! Find someone else to bother!”
The dark birds caw in defiance, but with enough flapping of his hand, all of them flutter back to the line of trees.
“Prime,” Phil breathes. “What annoying birds, huh, Tommy?” Phil looks down, ready to laugh off the situation, but Tommy stares back up, eyes wide and lips parted.
Then his bottom lip starts to wobble. His eyes become crystalline with tears.
“Oh—oh, Tommy,” Phil says, desperate to soothe. “It’s alright, mate. It’s—”
Phil is interrupted as Tommy reaches his hands upward.
Tommy…wants to be picked up. Picked up by Phil.
Gods, he doesn’t…How does he do this? He hasn’t had any practice at all. He’s unfamiliar, he’s uncertain, he’s—
He’s picking up Tommy like he’s done it a thousand times before. He’s tucking him to his chest on complete instinct. It feels as though everything has slotted into place. The sun meets the sky, and the grass dances for the soil, and Phil holds Tommy in his arms.
“It’s alright,” Phil says, and the words come out of him easily, because they’re the words Phil has imagined a thousand times. It’s what Phil wanted to say every single day, taking care of Tommy in that empty house. It’s what he wanted to say every night, huddled in the cold of the street. “It’s alright. It’s okay.”
Slowly, Phil starts gently bouncing, trying to soothe Tommy with the gentle motions. “Those mean birds scared you, huh?”
Tommy sniffles loudly before tucking his head against Phil’s neck. His nose is absolutely freezing against Phil’s skin.
“Let’s go inside. I’ve got you, Tommy, it’s okay. They can’t get you from inside.”
Tommy doesn’t let Phil put him down, even after he’s settled down from the birds. He stays against Phil’s chest for so long that he’s still there when Wilbur and Techno come home, piling in with arms full of bags.
“He had quite the scare,” Phil explains as Wilbur coos to Tommy. “There were a few curious birds outside. They just got a bit too close.”
Wilbur smiles, all-knowing and mischievous. “And you saved him.” Wilbur’s grin grows even wider. Tommy snuggles closer to Phil’s chest. “His hero.”
That night, Techno and Wilbur disappear somewhere down the hall. They bring all of the bags with them, and they make Tommy promise not to come in while they’re working on the surprise.
To keep curiosity from pulling Tommy away, Phil turns Hardcore onto the television. Tommy has left his chest now, eager to grab a grilled cheese for dinner, so the two simply sit next to each other on the sofa.
The night has long turned dark. The room is illuminated in the warm lights of the tree and the flickering glow of the television.
Phil only half-watches the screen. Mostly, he stares outward and listens to Tommy’s soft breaths. He’s sitting closer than he usually does.
Tommy must realize it too, because at some point, he lifts his head upward and stares at Phil’s chin.
Phil tilts his head downward to stare back. “What?” He eventually asks as Tommy continues to do nothing but stare.
Tommy’s wide eyes stay trained on his. “Phil?”
“What?”
Tommy reaches his hand up and takes Phil’s face in his palms. “Phil?”
Phil huffs a smile. “Yeah, what, Tommy?”
Tommy blinks. Then, he huffs his own breath, before pushing Phil’s face downward and into a hug.
“Oh—”
The placement is extremely awkward. Phil’s back screams as he bends forward uncomfortably, and he can hardly see the screen between Tommy’s arms anymore. But one of Tommy’s hands rises up to brush at Phil’s hair, and it only takes him a moment to realize.
It’s not exactly the same. Phil isn’t a cat at the moment—he’s too big to curl underneath Tommy’s chin.
Yet, Tommy still holds him. Still runs a hand along his head as he sleepily watches his show.
It’s not exactly the same. It’s better.
Because this time, Phil repositions himself to hug Tommy back. This time, Phil is doing enough, and he realizes that maybe—in Tommy’s mind—he was doing enough all along.
This time, Phil can say, "I love you," and it sounds exactly as it should.
Turns out, the surprises were a multitude of Snowtide gifts.
Tommy is absolutely thrilled upon seeing them all. Some of the gifts are even for Phil—a knitted sweater made with sheep’s wool, and a circular cat bed (Wilbur laughs as Phil opens the second one).
They leave Tommy to play with his new toys as they get breakfast ready. It’s a quaint sort of meal—slices of cinnamon toast with homemade jam, eggs with sprinkled pepper, and sliced fruits.
Tommy will love it, Phil already knows. In fact, he’s a little surprised that Tommy hasn’t already tumbled in, drawn forward by the sweet smell of candied strawberries and sugar.
“Tommy?” Phil calls as he steps into the sitting room. “Tommy, food is—”
The words falter on Phil’s tongue, but for once, it’s not because of something bitter.
It’s sweet. The sweetest thing Phil has ever seen—sweeter than cinnamon toast, than homemade jam, than fruit.
Tommy sleeps peacefully underneath the Snowtide tree. The lights cast a gentle blanket over him. They tuck Tommy in right where he belongs: in the warmth, in the peace, in the gentle glow of the golden lights.
Well. Phil supposes it’ll be alright if the two are late for breakfast.
In a fluid motion, Phil tugs on the magic in his core, letting it rush over him. He’s small in an instant, on four paws instead of two feet. It doesn’t hurt like before. It only feels cozy as Phil curls against Tommy’s frame.
Tiny hands reach out, instinctually, and grab the fluff of Phil’s stomach.
For once, the motion isn’t bittersweet. Tommy isn’t freezing. Phil isn’t failing.
The two are safe.
The two are right next to each other.
The two are exactly where they are meant to be.